Mirror Image

Hermione sat in the library, Ron’s last words to her echoing in her mind. It was the end of term - Sirius had gotten away safely on Buckbeak’s back, they had passed all their exams, and even though Remus had lost his position, he had promised to stay in touch with Harry, Ron, and Hermione. By all rights, it had been a good year. Another wild adventure, another terrifying, almost-deadly experience. But it had been a good year.

And Hermione was in the library.

She had books to return, others to take out for the summer hols. Madam Pince didn’t normally let students take books over the summer, but Hermione had proven herself to be trustworthy with them, and Pince made an exception.

When Hermione had told her friends she was coming down to the library the day before the train home, they had all laughed good-naturedly, but Ron had said something that was still echoing in Hermione’s mind nearly an hour after he’d said it.

“It’s the last day, ‘Moine. Could you try any harder to be such an insufferable swot?”

Harry and Ginny had both laughed, thinking it was a joke. Poking fun at the way others in the school tended to think of Hermione as some kind of swotty monstrosity. But in truth, it hurt. Because he hadn’t said it for the laugh, he had meant it.

So Hermione was sitting in the library, a book open in front of her, and thinking. It was the kind of thinking she did when she was trying to puzzle out an impossible problem, the kind that always came up empty when it came to solutions. It circled in her mind - insufferable swot - and Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if that was how her friends had felt this whole time. After the troll in first year, she thought they’d changed their minds about her. But maybe they’d simply decided her help was worth the annoyance? It was one thing to know the school hated you, it was another to have proof shoved in your face that your own friends felt that same way. It was as though she’d just been doused with a strong aguamenti . It was as though her feet had fallen right through the trick step on the stairs, only she’d fallen much further a distance.

Did the professors think this, too? Snape had always hated her for being a know-it-all, but did McGonagall feel this way? Did they all think she was insufferable? What a terrible thing to be, impossible to suffer through. Did Dumbledore feel this way? Did her cousins back home? Did her parents?

When Hermione had first met Ron on the train, she’d been swotty then, too. She’d pushed him to show her magic, obviously some kind of joke by the twins on their ignorant, child-brother, and when it had gone awry, Hermione had pointed to the dirt on his nose without another word. She hadn’t been very nice, but she’d been isolated as a child. Uncertain and unaccustomed to talking to her peers, Hermione hadn’t known how bizarre her introduction to the boys had been. And yet, even in her confusion, she’d noticed Ron. Freckles framing his face, a long nose and a lopsided smile. He was cute. Very cute.

And now they were older, teenagers with feelings and thoughts on the topic of romance, Hermione had found Ron… mean. Unthinking and uncaring. Thoughtless, not to mention a terrible student.

Hermione’s thoughts were spiraling, never a good thing, and she felt a sudden headrush coming on. Like she was too hot and a little dizzy, and she shrugged off her sweater. Maybe she should abandon the idea of magical books over the summer and simply pick up some new Muggle fiction stories when she got home. The library was feeling stuffy, confusing, and all Hermione wanted to do was forget about this rotten day.

She pushed herself out of her chair and grabbed her bag, her sweater, and the short stack of books she’d considered taking out. She’d just put them back now.

Rounding the corner of one of the shelves, she nearly toppled into someone. She dropped the books, throwing up her hands to try and steady herself as she collided with a thin chest, but before she could touch the person, strong fingers wrapped around her wrists.

“Watch it, Mudblood.” It was Malfoy, sneering at her as his grip got impossibly tighter, but he wasn’t looking at her. Not really. He didn’t give her the time of day, turning to leave the library even as his hands were still on her arms. He pushed her away roughly, rocking her back on her heels, but Hermione just swung her hair out of her face and returned Malfoy’s nasty sneer with one of her own.

Maybe it was the way she was feeling, or maybe it was simply that Hermione was done being nice to those who didn’t deserve it. “Wow, Malfoy. Did you use your whole brain to come up with that one again?”

Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut, surprise dancing across his face as he turned back to look at her properly. Hermione liked feeling like the winner. Her sneer turned soft, a little smile. “It’s okay,” she said. “You and I both know I don’t really have dirty blood, but only one of us is big enough to admit it. When you beat me to the top of the class next year, I’ll be the first to let you say it to my face.”

She didn’t bother to bend down to pick up her books even though it killed her to leave them there. It seemed like the kind of thing that would ruin her comeback if she did, so she just turned and stepped back around the shelf, pausing as soon as she was out of sight to catch her breath.

From beyond the books and wood, she heard Malfoy’s little scoff. “It doesn’t mean dirty blood.”

Hermione spoke before she could think better of it. “What?”

“You heard me,” Malfoy said, a little louder. “It doesn’t mean dirty blood.”

How odd. It seemed impossible, that he was being serious. But just as soon as she thought about leaving, her one foot lifting off the floor, she thought about what she could possibly have to learn from Malfoy. Maybe she was an insufferable swot, because she wanted to learn. She wanted to hear whatever explanation Malfoy had to tell her. Hermione worried a bit of dry skin on her lip, pulling on it painfully with her teeth before she poked her head back around the corner of the aisle and found herself eye-to-eye with Draco Malfoy. She’d never seen him actually look at her like this, like he was her equal. Like eye contact was something normal between them. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed his eyes were so grey, they almost looked like ice. Crystal-esque, clear and unclouded.

“What could it possibly mean besides ‘dirty blood’?” Hermione asked, popping an eyebrow up at the suggestion. “That seems to be a fairly literal interpretation of the name.”

Malfoy shook his head. “That’s the problem with modern language, everyone thinks it’s so literal. Mudblood refers to the creation myths favored by early people.”

“What?” Hermione asked dumbly. She didn’t like not knowing things, and what Malfoy was saying made no sense whatsoever.

Malfoy rolled his eyes, but it wasn’t mean like when Ronald did it. It was exacerbated, yes, but not mean. “You don’t know anything about ancient mythology, do you?”

“I do,” Hermione defended. “I know of the Greeks, the Romans, all of them. I don’t remember any blood purity nonsense in the original myths.”

“Of course not,” Malfoy said. “But take the creation myth in Greek tradition. Prometheus made the first man from clay, and it was Athena who breathed life into his lungs. Chinese and Korean myths show man being molded out of clay, though they differ on the color of the clay itself. The Egyptians thought babies were molded of clay before being placed in the womb by the Gods. It’s even mentioned in modern Christian beliefs, about man being created of dust.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mythologies from around the world, Granger. I thought you were the smartest witch in the class?”

“I am,” Hermione defended instantly. “I’m simply confused as to what this has to do with your use of a rather foul slur.”

Again, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Mudblood is just a leftover phrase from the early centuries. Slang. If you need to be specific about it, you can consider witches and wizards as sort of… pagan enthusiasts, I suppose. If man was made of clay, their blood would literally be muddied.”

“You’re a man,” Hermione argued. “Aren’t you, too, made of clay?”

Malfoy shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Magic’s not really a typical thing given to people in those stories, is it though?”

Hermione actually laughed. “What, witches and wizards used to think they were different from Muggles all together simply because they had magic?”

“Well, I can tell you we didn’t think we were just inherently better people.” Malfoy scoffed a little, and Hermione wondered if all these years she’d been mistaking his laughing as dismissive scoffing. “For a long time, early writings from wizards and witches actually suggested we weren’t people at all. If the Gods made man from mud, and they kept their magic and their power to themselves, then we must have been something else all together. Something not as powerful as the Gods, but something inhuman.”

Hermione shook her head. “No, that doesn’t make any sense. If that were really how witches and wizards felt, why hasn’t anyone written about it? Why didn’t this come up in History of Magic classes?”

“Because those stories died out with a lot of the Pureblood families. See, if you don’t actually think you’re a person, it’s a little hard to justify marrying one. But eventually, wizards started marrying Muggle women because it was easier than trying to find someone who wasn’t their cousin. Bloodlines got mixed. How do you think we came up with the term half-blood?”

“I never thought about it,” Hermione confessed.

“Because it didn’t seem as mean,” Malfoy said. “Granger, I don’t call you a Mudblood because I think you have dirty blood, or because I think you’re inferior. Clearly you have magic in you, so somewhere in your family tree, there had to have been a witch or wizard. I call you a Mudblood because you’re a human being. And I don’t think I am.”

Hermione stared at him. “You don’t believe you’re a human being?”

“Not really,” Malfoy said with an uncharacteristic shrug. “At least, not one like the rest of the people in here.”

“That sounds incredibly sad,” Hermione said. “To not be a human being.”

Malfoy shrugged again, and Hermione didn’t know why it was so sad. It just was. “Has anyone ever thought they might be Mudbloods, too? That maybe they were clay just like everyone else, but somewhere, someone deemed you worthy of the magic you possess?”

“You mean that our Gods looked down on clay men and women and thought some of them were special enough to get magic?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Because I’d like to think I’m a human being. I’m just a human being with magic. Sometimes I can do magic better than the Purebloods here, and you know that. Maybe that’s why I got my magic and others didn’t, because I would know what to do with it.”

Malfoy looked at her closer, like he was trying to figure something out just by staring into her face. Just by studying the curve of her mouth, the frizz at her temples where she pulled on her curls. Hermione had always been a little jealous of those girls with straight, manageable hair; bright, colorful eyes; and slight, sharp cheekbones. She had a round face with full cheeks, eyes the color of dishwater, and hair that no matter what always seemed a little too short, a little too big.

Malfoy seemed to find what he was looking for. “Have you ever wanted to be a Pureblood?”

Hermione paused, unsure of her own answer. In short, yes. She’d thought about it those first weeks after she first came to Hogwarts. Everything had been different from her life back home - the clothing, the way people talked, the food - and for a while there, she’d felt hopelessly lost. Even with Hogwarts: A History at her side, she’d been in a world she didn’t recognize. She’d been playing catch-up for months, for years. Running a sprint just to get to the starting line of a marathon.

She loved her parents. She loved Muggle pizza parlors, and the way Muggle jeans fit snug-but-not-too-snug. She loved her primary school, and the easy way they taught math and the way you always knew to trust what you were seeing in the Muggle world.

Or at least she had.

Since knowing this world, that had changed. Going home, she didn’t trust anything. People’s faces could change, their actions could be someone else’s will. Even inanimate objects weren’t unchanging - flowers into books into toys into cups into her mother’s old hair iron. Magic had robbed Hermione of her security and her safety in the world she thought she knew, and thrown her into a new world she couldn’t begin to truly understand.

Perhaps she had too much mud in her blood to be a witch, too much magic to be a human being.

She’d been robbed of both worlds - the one she was supposed to call home, and the one she was supposed to belong in.

That didn’t seem like something she could tell Malfoy, though. Not now, not when they didn’t know each other. Not when they were standing here, debating the meaning behind ‘Mudblood’. So instead, Hermione just looked at Malfoy. She looked at him like he had looked at her. She’d always held a small, flickering torch for the boy, ever since she’d seen him in the Great Hall the first day of first year. His chin was sharp and pointed, his nose was long and aristocratic. It was more sharp than Ron’s, more straight. His hair was loose this year, nothing like the gelled style he had preferred in years before, and it hung over his forehead just above his eyes. He looked like one of the boy-band singers Hermione favored from the Muggle world, all careless beauty and grace. His hair almost glowed in the light, so fine and so blonde it caught the candles in a way Hermione had never seen before. And his eyes - just as grey-clear as Hermione had noted before - but with a ring around the outside of the iris that was dark, like clouds on the horizon. He’d been so confident all his life, but it was wavering in recent months. He was taller, his arms and legs longer. He was awkward. He wasn’t quite the same boy he’d been, and he was trying to find himself again.

“Have you ever wanted to be a Muggle?”

Malfoy tilted his head with another huff of laughter. “Sometimes. When I was younger, I thought about it, but I’ve thought about it more over the years. I think it would be nice to go to one of those schools where you go home at the end of lessons. But I love my mother and father, Granger. I love that our world is full of possibility, that I can change the world around me with a wave of my hand or a few hours of concentrated work over a cauldron. And I like my friends. I don’t think I could change my whole world so late in my life.”

Hermione hummed. Maybe that was her problem - she’d changed worlds too late in life, but she was trying to straddle them. She hadn’t jumped from one to another, she was suspended between them.

“It was nice talking to you, Granger.”

Malfoy left her there. She was still thinking about his question, the question she’d pointedly dodged. The library was dead at this time of night, even more so on the last day of term, and Hermione wondered what had brought Malfoy here to begin with. Before Hermione could think about it too much, though, there was a noise behind her and she turned. Ron and Harry were there, trying to right a shelf they had knocked into, and looking at Hermione sheepishly.

“Hey,” Harry said, picking up some books that had fallen to the ground. “We came to look for you.”

For a moment, Hermione felt something warm in her chest, but Harry wasn’t finished.

“We needed your help with a last minute extra credit project McGonagall gave up. She said if we can get it in before the train leaves tomorrow, she’ll consider it as a 10% bump.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, it’ll be super easy for you.”

“You go ahead,” Hermione said, finding her voice after a second of stunned silence. “I’ll meet you in the common room.”

The boys left, and Hermione took a breath before she stooped down to pick up her books from before. With no one to witness it, she felt like it wasn’t so silly to crawl on the floor, collecting books up in her arms. She reshelved them quickly, having memorized the library layout and system back in her first year. Without Malfoy there to distract her, or the boys to ask her questions, Hermione’s mind fell back to what Ron had said before, and how he and Harry had never once apologized for the way they treated her.

And then it jumped, landing back on the way Malfoy had looked at her with such intensity. On the way she’d thought he was cute, even though she really shouldn’t have. On the way she wanted him to look at her again.