Mirror Image

Theodore broke the silence in the library first with a low, long whistle. “You weren’t kidding, Drake. She’s brilliant.”

“My reputation precedes me,” Hermione said with a smile, but Theodore just shook his head.

“Not that. I meant you. You’re brilliant, every part of you. I always assumed you were a good-two-shoes Gryffindor, but Blood magic, and you just said it like it was nothing. Sweet Circe.”

Malfoy chuckled. “Told you. I don’t think Miss Granger is the witch we thought she was.”

“And what kind of witch did you think I was?” Hermione asked, a hand on her hip. There was a strange kind of comradery here, an easy way of teasing one another that Hermione didn't have with Ron and Harry even on their best days.

Malfoy shot her a look. “Boring.”

The look he gave her was mundane, and had it been anyone else, she might have simply laughed and moved on from it. But something in his eyes danced when he said that, an equal mix of genuine surprise and teasing with seriousness, and it sent a shock of something up her spine. Before she could say anything though, Malfoy had taken the book to a table in the far corner of the library, leaving her standing there in shock and confusion of her own. Theodore seemed to take pity, and he gave her a smile. A genuine one this time, with warmth and kindness. “Draco says you’ve been quite helpful this summer. He’s been quite impressed.”

Hermione smiled at him, and they both joined Malfoy at the ornate desk where he was bent over the journal. It was still blank, even with the spells he was muttering, his wand dancing over the pages. Theodore bent over it and put his fingers to the page, feeling along the paper. Hermione watched with interest.

“Nothing in the paper,” Theodore announced. “No runes or material changes to hide it. Must be magic then.”

“It used to house a little piece of Voldemort,” Hermione said. This wasn’t the time to mention how she’d seen the journal glow and pulse. “It can’t be broken with regular magic, that wouldn’t make sense.”

Malfoy froze and stared up at Hermione in shock. “What? How do you know that?”

“Harry told me after he got back up to the hospital wing in second year,” Hermione said. “He said it was like he was in the room, but he was young. A teenager.”

“That’s impossible,” Malfoy said, but Theodore shook his head.

“It’s not,” he said. “I’ve read about it, it’s in a book back home. Called a Horcrux. It’s like a piece of the person’s soul is imprisoned in an object. It sounds like this was a Horcrux.”

“If that were true, he wouldn’t have died back when Potter was an infant,” Malfoy argued.

Hermione tuned them both out, focusing instead on the book in front of her. If what they were saying was true, had the glowing in her room been Voldemort’s soul? Had it somehow survived the venom of a Basilisk? Was it intact inside these pages, simmering under the surface? Perhaps Basilisk venom merely bound the magic that was preserving Voldemort's soul, encasing it in something believed to be unbreakable. But if no one had ever tried Blood Magic, they wouldn't know it was possible to separate the venom from the thing it was bound to. It was an unnerving thought, one Hermione didn’t want to dwell on right now, so she turned her focus to the immediate problem at hand. The hidden writing.

Voldemort was smart, even as a teenager, and he’d been good at staying under the radar of others. There wouldn’t be one spell concealing the entire book, that would be too easy. There would be multiple spells, protecting layers of the pages, obscuring specific words in specific places. Hermione looked to Malfoy. “Do you have any books on warding? Or on obscuring magic?”

Malfoy thought about it a second before he went to the ladder and pushed it across the room. The books on warding magic were kept on one of the higher shelves, then. The ladder bowed under Malfoy’s weight and shook as he climbed, but it held just fine. He whistled a bit, and Theodore seemed to understand what he needed, because he trotted over like a dog and waited as Malfoy searched through the books, picked a couple, and dropped them into Theodore’s waiting arms. Hermione almost gasped watching the old book fall through the air, imagining the worst possible outcome even as Theodore caught each one. Like they’d done this a hundred times before.

“Try the second one there,” Malfoy called down as he began to climb back down, and Theodore brought them back over to Hermione. She took the second book and flipped it open, but stopped short. It was written in Latin. Traditional Latin.

“Give it here,” Theodore said. He scanned the first few pages, flipping between them before he thumbed through the book as a whole. He stopped in the later half of the book and scanned the page, pointing with his finger and tapping a few times. “Here. We can try this one first. It’s not too difficult for either of us to try, Drake.”

“You can read Latin?” Hermione asked, impressed again.

Theodore shot her a smirk. “Of course I can. So can Drake. Arcane magic is almost always written in Latin.”

Again, a spark of something shot up Hermione’s spine. She’d always been enthralled by the ease with which some people could do incredible things. Her first celebrity crush at 10 had been on Indiana Jones simply because he was so- well- he was badass. He was smart, and courageous, and so athletic, and it was easy for him. And here was Theodore and Draco, smart and capable and reading Latin just to learn more about this strange book they’d found. It was like they’d been made for her in that one moment. For the first time in her life, a friend was teaching her something she didn't know, and Hermione welcomed it. It was a warm feeling in her stomach, rooted down deep, and she couldn't help but be enthralled with these two boys in front of her.

Hermione tried not to dwell on that.

“Don’t look so surprised, Granger. We all learned it as kids. Haven’t you noticed how many spells are literally Latin or use Latin roots?” Malfoy smirked good-naturedly, and then he bent over the book. He jerked his head a little towards Theodore at his side. “You’re right, it looks easy enough. You want to give it a go, and I can give you some boost? Or do you think this is a one man job?”

Theodore hummed. “Put your hands on me, please.”

Hermione was distracted from her own crisis of interest in the two boys in front of her by the fact they were apparently flirting. It was forward and said with more heat than she would have expected, especially from Theodore. She’d always assumed Purebloods would have been prim and proper, a little prude, conservative. And beyond that, beyond the way Theodore was just flirting like there was nothing embarrassing about it, he was flirting with Draco Malfoy. Purebloods being open about… about homosexuality was strange. Unexpected. Hermione had heard Ron make some comments, and even Harry had seemed a little uncomfortable about it whenever they saw Dean and Seamus getting chummy, so she just assumed it was still considered a taboo subject in the wizarding world.

Hermione had always been more accepting. She’d grown up with Muggle shows her whole life. Northern Exposure was a favorite of her parents, and the entire, fictional town was named for a lesbian woman. Her mother loved Hugh Grant, and Maurice was an incredibly moving love story that Hermione saw in the theaters with her mum after sneaking in, even though she could admit she’d been too little to fully understand that movie at the time. All her life, her parents had told her that love was never wrong, no matter who was doing it.

Hermione had just assumed the wizarding world was different. Ron had made his thoughts on the matter pretty clear, and he was a Pureblood wizard technically, even if his family was less than traditional. She’d assumed the wizarding world was behind the Muggle world on this particular topic, that she was more forward thinking because of her Muggle upbringing.

But here she was, talking to two Pureblood boys who were openly flirting, Theodore throwing out suggestive little winks to a blushing Malfoy. They seemed comfortable with the idea, Malfoy never once rebuffing the idea of being queer and merely embarrassed in that way that all people are embarrassed when being flirted with unashamedly.

The blushing got worse when Malfoy actually did put his hands on Theodore’s waist and closed his eyes, focusing so hard his eyebrows scrunched up. Theodore read over the passage in the book again and adjusted his grip on his wand a few times. He spoke a steady stream of Latin, his wand moving over the pages of the journal. His magic was so strong in the air, it gave off a scent like electricity and rain, like wet and hot, like steam from a summer's rain. He waved his wand a little harder, and the scent in the air took on a distinctly warm scent, like cinnamon. It must have been Malfoy’s magic coursing through Theodore’s body because Malfoy took a bracing step back, one foot kind of pushing his body up and the smell became even more intense.

And then words appeared. Just a few, here and there, but it was something to start on. Hermione squealed, and Theodore opened his eyes to smile at her. “Did we impress you?”

“You impressed me,” she confirmed with a wide, toothy smile.

Later that night, when she was in the sweet privacy of her own room, Hermione realized with a sinking, terrible feeling in her stomach, that Malfoy and Theodore clearly had feelings for one another. It didn't quite make sense why it was so devastating, so singularly monumental as to cause a cold sort of chill to run over her back, but it was. Hermione wondered, distantly, if they were allowed to be together openly in Pureblood society, and then she tried to put the whole thing out of her head.

The blushing, the flirting, the way Malfoy's hands had splayed over Theodore's waist, the scent of their magic in the air.

Despite her best efforts, she fell asleep to the memory of the scent of hot rain and cinnamon.

~~~

It took a few tries, and Hermione had to use a bit of her blood magic in the end to feel out the rest of the incantations, but she and the boys were making good progress on the journal. She kept coming back to Malfoy Manor day after day to work on their project until late at night, when she would leave again just before Malfoy's father got home. Her parents sometimes asked where she was disappearing to, but they were easily satisfied to hear she’d made some new friends. As a kid, in primary school, Hermione had never been very popular. She didn’t make friends like other kids did because of her proclivity to books and boring studying, and her magic only made that worse. Even going to Hogwarts, she’d only made two friends by accident and reluctantly. Hearing she’d made two more, and two more who continued to want to see her day after day, was a relief honestly. Her parents didn’t understand what Pureblood meant, not really, and they didn’t know the Malfoys’ reputation. They only knew they had been hosting Hermione graciously, willingly, and excitedly. They only knew how happy Hermione was when she returned home at night, new books tucked under her arm.

The journal wasn’t entirely cleared of its security charms, but there was enough material to actually get started with reading it. Hermione liked reading ahead of the boys - they were caught up in the notes he'd scribbled about things he’d learned in classes that weren’t documented in any of the textbooks. Things he'd documented on his own by doing his own research and his own experimentation.

His transfiguration notes were unbelievable, almost impossible, and Theodore and Malfoy had taken great pleasure in trying them out.

Hermione had turned her attention to the later passages, the ones that were still partially obscured by charms they couldn't puzzle out yet. The bits and pieces that were readable were fascinating. In particular, Hermione was caught on the last passage of the book. There were blank pages behind it, probably passages that were most heavily guarded, but this one. The one Hermione could see.

… Guant house… the name only my most close friends have… filthy Muggle name will not…

It wasn’t much. Fifteen words, with gaps between them that spanned inches of parchment. But Hermione couldn’t help but think about it. The noble house of Gaunt was well known for its connection to Salazar Slytherin, it was mentioned in their second year. But Voldemort’s actual name was Tom Riddle. He’d invented Voldemort for a reason, and he’d invented it back in school for some reason. Was it possible his name wasn’t as noble as everyone thought? Was it possible his own Pureblood followers didn’t know his true heritage?

Harry hadn't mentioned that to her. He'd told her that Voldemort was a made up name, he'd told her that he'd been the heir of Slytherin all along, but he didn't say anything about him being less than Pureblood. He didn't say anything about-

Hermione was too busy thinking about it, and the boys were too busy laughing at some charm they’d found scribbled in the margins to notice there was someone else in the library, watching them all, until they cleared their throat.

Such a small sound to spark such a resounding silence.

Theodore and Malfoy both froze, the smiles on their faces slipping off slowly and leaving pale, unhappy looks on their faces. Hermione, too, had frozen, but her fear was coursing through her, little tremors in her hands.

Lucius Malfoy stood in the library doors, looking stunned and angry and maybe a little disappointed, but Hermione didn’t know him well enough to know how to read his face. He strode through the library, right at Hermione, and both Theodore and Malfoy moved as if to get between them before thinking better of it. Hermione tried to straighten her back, tried to make herself seem more at ease and confident than she really felt, but she couldn’t help the little cringe when Lucius leaned into her space. Blonde hair wafted in the air, soft and gentle, and it didn’t match the sneer on the older man’s face.

“I did not know we were entertaining Mudbloods this summer,” he sneered. “If I had, I can assure you. The invitation would have expired long ago.”

His hands found the journal in Hermione’s, and he pulled it away.

“This is not for your eyes.”

It was then that Theodore found his voice and made a noise of protest. “Sir, she was the one who repaired it.”

It was as though the air in the library itself had gone still, everyone holding their breath. Malfoy Sr. broke the silence first and turned, staring at the boys with that same intensity he’d been giving Hermione. “Excuse me?”

“Hermione, she’s the one who figured out how to repair the journal,” Theodore said, shrugging off Draco’s hand on his shoulder and stepping towards Lucius. Brave, almost stupid Theodore. “She’s a brilliant witch, no matter who her parents are. She can do Blood Magic, she can do things I thought were impossible. She’s the one who helped us.”

The older man was staring at Theodore, who to his credit had yet to shrink away from the man’s critical gaze. His cold eyes slid from Theodore to his son, and Malfoy stood his ground even as Hermione could see he wanted to break the intense eye contact.

“Is this true?”

“Yes, Father,” Malfoy said. “She’s like us. She and I have been talking, sharing ideas on muggle-born inclusion in the wizarding world. She agrees with you, she acknowledges this system is broken. She’s like us.”

Malfoy’s father was mulling over his son’s words carefully, staring at the boys as they stood there, taking his scrutiny. Then, the tension went out of his shoulders and Malfoy Sr. straightened, finding his manners again. He swallowed once, twice, and then turned back to Hermione. The journal in his hands was flung out, to the side, towards the boys without a second look. “Take this. Go find Narcissa,” he said to the boys. “You can help her with planning the Lammas celebrations.”

The boys shot concerned, thoughtful looks at Hermione, but Hermione just shook her head, a silent signal she was fine. She’d faced worse than Lucius Malfoy, and she could defend herself. That was just what she kept telling herself. Her conversations with Malfoy over the summer had been proof enough, she wasn’t unlike the Purebloods in ideology, not really. Malfoy and Theodore took her word and left, shutting the library door behind them.

It was then that Malfoy Sr. gestured for the comfortable, leather armchairs by the fireplace, and Hermione took a seat. He settled himself across from her, his fingers steepling between where his elbows rested on the sides of the chair. He stared at Hermione, those same grey-crystal eyes as Malfoy had, and Hermione tried to imagine she was talking to a friend.

“Draco says you are the same as us,” Malfoy Sr. started. Hermione nodded once, hard. He hummed in return. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself, Miss Granger.”

Hermione smiled just a little. “You know who I am,” she said. “I don’t see what you would get from a conversation about my childhood you don’t already know.”

Lucius's lip twitched. “Your parents are Muggles, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”

Malfoy Sr. regarded her with a tilted head and the ghost of a smile. “How did they react to having a witch for a daughter?”

“As well as you could expect,” Hermione said. “They did not know what to do with me.”

“How do you mean?”

“If you were to have a child, sir, other than M- Draco,” Hermione said, catching herself on Malfoy’s name. Best to appear as a friend, she thought. A real friend. “And they turned out to be a squib, you would be surprised. Perhaps disappointed, even though you’d never say it out loud. However you felt about it, you would understand it in the barest of senses because you understand what Muggles are. You can fathom a world without magic. My parents were not allowed such luxuries. They had never witnessed real magic, sir. They had no idea there was another world just beyond their view. My first act of accidental magic resulted in their taking me to see a psychiatrist. They thought I was making stories up, that I was having delusions. When that was unsuccessful, they turned to other childhood specialists. My mother went so far as to speak to a Catholic priest. They treated me as strange, and for years, I was strange. I had no friends at school. I was not trusted to participate in after school activities. It wasn’t until Professor McGonagall came to the house to discuss my magic with them that my relationship with them changed. For nearly 7 years, my parents believed me to be a strange, unmanageable, unnatural child. Our relationship has improved since, but it has never been the same as it was before my magic came in. They don’t understand the world I live in 9 months of the year. They still stare when I use my wand at home. They still flinch when I take them through to Diagon Alley. When I return home for the summers, even though I am not of age, they trust me to mostly care for myself, and that is fine. I can care for myself. But my magic has robbed me of a relationship with them.”

Malfoy Sr. nodded, his eyes the only part of his face that betrayed any emotion. “That must have been hard growing up. I imagine it still is.”

“Yes,” she said. “More than you can know.”

“What do you imagine for means of making this easier?” he asked, and Hermione remembered her letters with Malfoy. 

“Without complete integration of our worlds, there must be entire segregation.” Hermione said it in one burst, one quick and fast statement she'd written down when it got stuck in her head.

Malfoy Sr. leaned back in his chair, looking more than a little interested in Hermione’s point. He nodded for her to continue, and Hermione obliged.

“My parents did not know the wizarding world existed at all. My existence as a witch goes against their natural, decades-long, lived experience of the world. If the wizarding world were to be completely unveiled to the Muggles, Muggle-born witches and wizards wouldn’t be forced to live in a world where they are strange. I imagine that is impossible, though. There will never be total integration of worlds, not in my lifetime or the next. So instead, we must find a way to more completely segregate the worlds. Muggle-born witches and wizards are known by the Ministry long before their 11th birthdays. They should be removed from the Muggle world before then, placed firmly in this world with both feet while they are still able to establish themselves.”

“You would advocate for your own orphaning?” Malfoy Sr. asked, raising an eyebrow. “When did you first show signs of magic?”

“At 4, sir.”

Malfoy Sr. huffed out a laugh not unlike his son’s scoff, and Hermione smiled. It was a laugh. “You were young. Even if you had been a Pureblood witch, that would have been remarkably early for such signs. You would have preferred if you were removed from your parents’ care at 4, then? Their memories of a child wiped, your family replaced by a magical one?”

Hermione stared at him, relaxing the muscles in her face. She needed him to see, she had thought of this. She understood what this meant, to ask for this. Only when she was sure she was still, calm, and confident, did she nod. “Yes, sir. If there is no magical parent involved in a child’s life, there should be alternative arrangements made.”

“What about half-bloods?” Malfoy Sr. asked.

“They are a different case,” Hermione argued. “The Ministry already tracks marriages between Muggles and witches and wizards. Those Muggles are asked to sign paperwork, swear oaths. They’re already being monitored. The statistics are staggering, most of those Muggles who marry into a wizarding line assimilate further into our world than wizards assimilate into theirs. There is a magical parent in a household to raise a magical child there. I don’t see half-bloods as being the problem.”

Malfoy Sr. hummed again, a noncommittal noise, and Hermione wondered if she had passed his test. After a moment, he leaned forward and extended a long-fingered hand for Hermione to shake.

“Miss Granger, I do believe you and I may become fast friends after all.”