Mirror Image

Harry and Ron thought something was up. Hermione had been quiet and reserved over the holidays, and she’d been dodging questions about home. It was something they didn’t notice right away, but every time they asked her about her parents, what they did, anything - Hermione would take a moment and then say the same few things. Reading. Spending time together. And rearranging the house. Those three things, always without any details, and always with a hazy look in her eye. She was wearing different things, too, something Ginny had to point out because neither of the boys knew what fine fabrics looked like. But on New Years eve, Ginny said she'd been wearing expensive silk and nice slacks that she'd never seen before. And for all that she was quiet and reserved, the times when she wasn't, she was incandescently happy. She laughed with the twins, and cracked jokes with Charlie and Ginny, and she was suspiciously better at chess.

Harry and Ron were going to talk to Hermione about it on the way back to school, but she’d been notably absent from their compartment. Ginny and Luna had been with her, apparently in a different car of the train, and it afforded them no chance to actually talk to her. And once they were back at school, things were no easier. She was oftentimes accompanied in the library by Krum, or hidden away in some alcove of the castle, and they only saw her consistently in classes or in the common room. Hermione was also routinely skipping meals, only dashing in to grab something from the serving dishes and then rushing back out as fast as she’d come. Like she had too much to do even with the tournament turning attention away from classes. She should have been more free, but instead, she was somehow busier.

Sometimes, they saw her scribbling a note furiously on some scrap of paper, but she never told them what it was. And while Ginny wasn’t in the same dorm room as her, she had heard from some of the other 4th year girls that Hermione stayed up to all hours of the night, reading and writing. Sometimes, she’d just barely make it back to her room before curfew, grass in her hair, or shivering like she’d just been outside in the chilly, pre-spring air.

And she never said anything to any of them.

It was actually quite infuriating.

But they got their answer two weeks into the new year. Hermione was actually joining her House for breakfast that morning in a strange change of pace, her nose in an ancient tomb and her hair pulled back into a high ponytail. With the daily post - a newspaper for Harry, a letter for Ron from his mother - came a golden owl with a note for Hermione. She recognized Hermes immediately and stood slightly, confused but hiding it well. It was incredibly unusual to see Narcissa and Lucius writing to her, least of all in the Great Hall where anyone could see.

Hermes dropped onto her offered arm, snapping at her fingers affectionately as she moved to untie the note on his leg. And then the owl was off, and Hermione watched him fly away with a sad kind of smile. He clearly wasn’t supposed to stick around, and that was good. It would be too strange if he had stuck around, but she missed her beautiful owl. Hermione missed Hermes perched at her desk back... back home.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“When did you get an owl?” Ron added, making the whole thing sound so much more absurd than a simple owl delivering a simple note. He was always dramatic, and this was exactly why Hermione wanted to keep her relationship with the Malfoys quiet. If Ron was going to have a fit about Hermione getting post, he was going to have an aneurysm about her getting close to Draco and Theodore.

Hermione shook her head. “I didn’t. It must be from my parents, I showed them how to send owl post from Diagon Alley this last summer.” The lie fell from her lips easily, too easily. Like it was second nature to lie. In the last few months, it’d become so. But then again, she had technically told her parents she was going into Diagon to send post, and Hermes had been a post owl, and Lucius and Narcissa were, sort of, her guardians now. So really, the post was from her parents and she did show them how to send post from Diagon Alley.

She opened the note, glancing as she did so across the hall, to where Draco and Theo were sitting together and watching her out of the corners of their eyes. It was something Hermione could only tell because she knew them. Neither of them gave anything away, so they clearly didn’t know why Narcissa and Lucius were writing. It was Narcissa’s handwriting, all swooping, neat cursive and slight embellishments from her quill, when Hermione tore open the letter.

“My parents,” Hermione murmured, scanning the note quickly. It was a cover story from Narcissa, something to tell Harry and Ron. Something to tell everyone. “They’re going away. My father’s sister in Australia has been in a quite serious accident and they’re going to go help with her rehabilitation. They’ll write again with updates, but they don’t know when they’ll be back.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Moine,” Harry said, giving her a sad and sympathetic smile. “I hope she’s alright.”

“Me, too,” Hermione whispered. For the first time in almost a month, she allowed tears to come to her eyes, and she cried. It wasn’t for this made up aunt, nor for the fact she was lying to her friends, but rather for her parents. They were gone, really gone, and the Malfoys were helping her cover it up. They were going to protect her and her secrets, they were going to create her cover story and help her execute it. Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if they thought she was a monster when they wrote the note, or if they’d thought that of themselves.

Maybe they hadn’t thought of anything other than protecting Hermione.

~~~

Harry and Ron weren’t conscious enough during the second task to notice Draco and Theo holding their breaths, out of their minds with worry until the moment Krum burst from the Black Lake with Hermione at his side. She spluttered and coughed, but by all accounts, she was okay. She was okay. She was gasping, and wet, and cold in the freezing air, but she was okay.

Draco and Theo burned with hatred for that man more and more with every day.

~~~

Hermione looked over the potion one more time. Draco and Theo had been thorough with their research and they had pieced together the most likely path the Death Eaters were taking to revive their Lord. “Explain it again.”

Theo rolled his eyes and collapsed backwards into his chair. They were in the library, hidden away in one of the strange rooms that dotted the walls beside the forbidden section. Draco gave him a look, something halfway between stop it and here we go again, and then turned his attention to Hermione.

“Potions like these aren’t real potions,” he said, keeping his voice low. “They’re more like mixed magics. Yes, there is a cauldron involved, and a list of ingredients, but it’s more than a Natural magic than anything else. It’s about feelings and intentions.”

“Are there others like this?” Hermione asked.

“A few. Not many.”

She hummed. “Could you… invent magic like this?”

Theo sat up and gave her a wary, sly look. “What are you thinking of doing, you barmy witch?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said honestly. Both Theo and Draco gave her disbelieving looks. “Really, I just want to understand the theory here. I’m rather interested in Natural magic.”

They explained it again, diving into how intentions molded Natural magic and how they could achieve different results using the same ingredients and different intentions. An idea formed in Hermione's head, something of an experimental nature, and she left that night with the intention to do her own trials with Natural, potions-based magic.

And trials she did. It was just the same as her Blood magic, it was about how she felt. Her instincts. She tried using the potion Theo and Draco had found with mice she'd seen around the castle. Crookshanks sometimes brought them to her hurt but still alive, and she could heal them using a bit of blood, a sprinkle of bone dust she’d collected, and a small bit of salamander skin.

Additional ingredients, paired with concentration and strong intention, returned the mice to states of infancy, or otherwise made them bigger, stronger, or even older. One time, she'd turned the mouse into a mole.

It was then Hermione remembered the time turner in her trunk from last year, squirreled away and forgotten for the most part. She wondered… Paired with the journal itself…

It wasn’t smart. It was actually the most dangerous thing Hermione could think of. And yet, it was the only idea she had that might kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. She was going to end the Death Eater’s rise, and she was going to change the world. She was going to do it alone - the boys still thought she wanted to foil the Death Eaters’ plan, to intercept it without it coming to fruition, but she was starting to think she had a better idea now. She knew what she needed to do.

~~~

Wormtail. Pettigrew.

I don’t want to write to you at all, and yet here we are. I require an audience with your Master. To entreat him on the matter, please extend to him my apologies his Death Eater at Hogwarts has been discovered and removed.

I hope this upcoming weekend will be satisfactory for a meeting.

H.G.

~~~

Three days after the challenge in the lake, Barty Crouch Sr. had interrupted dinner by slamming open the doors, rushing down the main aisle between Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and spluttering that he needed to see Dumbledore immediately. Dumbledore had left with Crouch, disappearing through the doors to the right of the staff table and out of sight. As soon as the door had shut behind them, the students had broken out into whispers. The whispers were redoubled when Dumbledore came back out to the Hall to collect Professors Snape, McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick, as well as the two Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.

Hermione just focused on her dinner, pushing her rice around on her plate. Harry and Ron beside her were whispering to one another furiously, and then Ginny joined in. They didn’t bother asking Hermione - they were too invested in discussing increasingly more and more outrageous theories between themselves. Hermione had done her role in tipping off the heads of the houses about the worrisome curriculum being covered in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes with short, anonymous notes written in blocked, unrecognizable lettering, and reaching out to Crouch Sr. about the missing potion ingredients Snape had mentioned to Harry.

It had been easier than expected to get the adults in the castle to put the pieces together for themselves, and none of them had any idea it had been Hermione all along. No, they were too smart. They’d discovered the plot, they’d made sense of the clues. They were all so much better than teenager Granger.

The news of Professor Moody - Barty Crouch Jr. in disguise - being dragged out of the castle in chains, screaming about the Dark Lord while the real Mad-Eye Moody watched on alongside Dumbledore and Crouch Sr. spread through the student body like wildfire. It was only a matter of time before the general press got the story, what with the press being stationed at the school anyways for the Tournament. The news of the Death Eater at Hogwarts broke to the public the following day and the post owls were flooded with concerned parents who had wanted to check in on their students. Hermione noticed Hermes was among the owls in the Great Hall, dropping off letters to both Draco and Theo, but not Hermione. That would have been suspicious, and as it already stood, they were all lucky no one had noticed the new Malfoy family owl was the same one Hermione claimed to be a post owl.

Both Draco and Theo had known her plan to have Barty Crouch Jr. dismissed and arrested, had let her inform the teachers as she wanted. They had every confidence she’d orchestrate Moody’s departure from the castle much easier than they ever could, because she held the trust of Dumbledore in her hands.

They'd both been so glad to see the Death Eaters' plan foiled and their little project done. They wanted to have their lion's attention back. And now that Death Eaters couldn't be at Hogwarts to accomplish their plan, they were all a little bit safer.

“Your parents aren’t worried?” Ginny asked, noticing when there was not one letter dropped in front of Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. “They don’t get magical news,” she said. “They wouldn’t have known to write.”

Ginny and Ron both shared concerned glances with one another, but left it alone. Hermione supposed it was best to keep up appearances as a Muggle-born witch with relatively uninvolved parents, and Narcissa and Lucius would have known that. Not to mention, they were supposed to be in Australia right now.

Harry, though, couldn’t leave it alone. He leaned over and slung an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “My family doesn’t write me either,” he joked with a smile, and Hermione hummed.

“That’s the problem with Muggles,” she said, unthinkingly as she scooped up her over-easy eggs. The table around her went a little quiet, and she looked up in alarm. Every eye was trained on Hermione, and a few looked more scandalous than others. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Seamus, Dean, and the Creevey brothers were all staring at her with disbelief and suddenly untrusting eyes. It was only Neville, still staring but more out of curiosity than anything, who gave her an uncertain smile. It took a moment to realize what she’d said, and Hermione flushed for a split second before she reigned it in. “I just meant, with my parents not being connected to the magical world, they aren’t very involved. When I told them I was going to the World Cup this last summer, they asked if it was planned to miss the real World Cup on purpose. They just don’t understand this world very well.”

Ron took the answer the easiest, and returned to his food only for Ginny and Harry to follow suit and strike up a conversation about Quidditch that stole Dean and Seamus’ attention back. The Creeveys were easily distracted, too, bending back over their parents’ letter.

But Neville scooted down the bench closer to Hermione and knocked their shoulders together.

“How is your aunt, Hermione?” he asked, low and kind and thoughtful. She nodded her head.

“Doing okay. My parents are still in Australia last I heard, I think they’re planning to stay through the Easter Hols at least. I’ll likely go visit my grandmother for break.”

“That’s nice,” Neville said. “I’ve got a meeting with my family’s solicitor over break.”

“What for?”

Neville looked at her with a curious expression. “To figure out who I’m related to. My parents were both Purebloods, and they come from a long line of arranged matches. Since I’m turning 15 next summer, my Gran wants a list of anyone closer related to me than a third cousin.”

“Your parents were Purebloods?”

“Oh, yeah!” Neville said, that familiar look of excitement crossing his face now they were on the topic of something he cared deeply for. “My dad’s family, they were part of the Sacred 28. My mum was a Pureblood, too, but not one of the main families.”

“So you need a list of people you’re related to. For an arranged match?” Hermione clarified, and again, Neville nodded his head enthusiastically.

“It’s not as barbaric as it seems,” he said. “Nothing like Muggle movies or whatever. Pureblood families, even if they’re really removed from the core families, they’re all related a little bit by now. My Gran is very forward thinking, she’s not going to force me into a relationship. She wants the list so I can make more friends here, start to look for a relationship. If everything goes well and I really like someone, then we’d talk about an official arrangement in a few years. And only after a year of that, with all the bond stuff and the fidelity stuff, then we might talk about getting engaged. It’s a really long process, actually.”

Hermione nodded, digesting the information. She hadn’t heard about arranged matches yet. And she was spending a lot of time around Purebloods. Why hadn’t anyone at the Manor told her? Was this what Narcissa meant before? Were Draco and Theo supposed to enter an arrangement together, and her inserting herself putting that in danger? Was there an agreement already in place? Hermione couldn’t ask any of those questions, so instead, she asked a simpler one. “Is it common to wait so long?”

Neville shrugged. “Before, when people were likely to leave school after their Owls in 5th year, people entered arrangements at 15, engagements at 16, and were married at 17. It was believed that love should be a factor in the arrangements, but it was more like-” he searched for the right word. “Like love was a choice. You would like someone enough to see them as a good match, and you would choose to love them through your formal arrangement. Acknowledging their more negative traits with an understanding that you still loved them, that sort of thing. Nowadays, people like to be in love before they enter a formal arrangement. Or at least, in like. You like someone enough to be in a formal relationship so you can love them.”

“What does a formal arrangement entail?”

“It’s a contract,” Neville said. “There’s dissolution clauses in a lot of them, in case someone cheats or acts cruelly to the other, or if the couple decides they just don’t want to spend forever with each other, but they just lay out an agreement between the families to start a relationship. Very above board, very clear. Usually it just says, you know, this person is going to actually try to be a good partner, and this person is responsible for some dates, and this person won’t push the other for- uh. Kisses.”

Neville’s face went a little red, and Hermione got the impression he didn’t mean kisses at all.

“If the relationship part of the agreement holds for a whole year,” he continued, still pink in the cheeks. “Most people start to talk about engagement. But in Pureblood society, any engagement less than a year is considered impolite. So after a year or so of a formal agreement, it’s customary to have a year long engagement. No one gets married in less than that, or they’re the talk of the town. More recently, people have been pushing that back, though. Lots of people want to finish their years at Hogwarts, or even their professional masteries before they consider getting married, and most people want longer engagements. Formal courtships and arrangements are trending towards almost 5 years now.”

“No shotgun weddings, then?” Hermione asked, dry and amused, and only a little bit stuck on the idea of marrying someone so young. On choosing to love them through hard times.

“I don’t know what that means.”

~~~

Hermione pulled her cloak around her tighter, staving off the chill of wind and rain. It was the middle of the day, Saturday, and she was walking down to Hogsmeade despite the foul, spring weather. It might have been April, but it was still cold out, still terrible weather most of the time. If there was one benefit to her long, wet trip, it was that no one else had wanted to brave the cold to visit the sleepy town.

Hermione was all alone. Not even Draco and Theo had wanted to joining her, but that was partially because she’d made it seem like the other Gryffindors would be going, too. What the boys didn’t know wouldn’t kill them. It might kill her, but it was a risk she was willing to take.

She felt it when she stepped through the wards of Hogwarts and into the town. She was unprotected now, but she was also now unwatched. Untrackable.

The letter from Wormtail, and the portkey he’d sent, was heavy in her pocket. She checked the time with a quick, wandless tempes. Her Natural magic had been growing, getting stronger with every day she practiced. With it, the unmistakable scent of her own magic. Both the boys had strong scents when they cast magic when Hermione met them - rain and recognizable cinnamon - but that was because their Natural magic was so well honed. Hermione hadn’t had a scent at all, just clean, scentless magic. Now, after months of work, she had a scent. Saltwater, like a breeze over a beach.

It was nearly half-twelve, the Portkey would activate in less than two minutes. Two minutes.

She ducked away from the main path to the town and through the hills, getting out of the way and out of sight. The hills around Hogsmeade were uneven, covered in trees and sparse wildflowers in the early spring. There was just enough cover to mean no one would see her if she just got far enough away. She turned on the spot, double checking none of the shops could see her and she was well-hidden as the Portkey in her pocket started getting hot, impatient.

Her fingers slipped inside the pocket, grazing the Portkey and clamping down hard, and the world fell away from under her feet.

When she landed, softer than she had at the World Cup, she was standing in a decrepit yard. The grass was overgrown, messy and stringy like unwashed hair. The roses, or rather the bushes that once had been roses, were knotted and snarled, thorns digging into the trunks of neighboring bushes and flowers that had lost their rosy shape in favor of spread-out, loosely petaled heads of wild, untamed flowers. And the gate, which might have been proud iron and stone at one point in its life, was falling apart now and the main gate was hanging from rusted, broken hinges barely held up against crumbling, failing stone walls. Where she might have found a house crest at the center of the gate, there was a stylized ‘G’.

Hermione knew this was the Gaunt house.

She tried to keep her breath steady and her hands from shaking. In the back of her head, she knew this was stupid. This was one of her worst ideas. She should have told the boys, should have done something more than just left a note for them to find if this went terribly wrong. She should have told Lucius, or Harry, or literally anyone. She should have left the issue alone, continued to sabotage the Death Eaters at every attempt to bring back their Lord, should have told Dumbledore. She needed them to know, to support her and-

But it was too late for that now. She was already here, at the doors of the house, pushing them open to find them unlocked.

There were candles in the foyer, welcoming her in.

The house was as bad if not worse than the yard. The stairs looked vaguely unstable, like they might collapse, and great vines of ivy had grown through the broken windows, through cracks in the walls themselves. The runner below Hermione’s feet, or what was left of it, was molded and rancid, a smell like wet laundry permeating the entire hall.

Hermione made her way upstairs, following the candle light. It was clear this wasn’t just lighting for her benefit, it was a trail, a way for her to find her way through the house.

At the top of the stairs, there was a room with the door cracked open. Hermione could just see inside, to where Voldemort was sitting in one of the armchairs, his form sickly, thin, all bones and skin like rotting fabric. He was strangely childlike, too, with a head that was disproportionate for his emaciated body, and a body that looked too small to be that of the most dangerous man in Wizarding history. Hermione paused at the edge of the door, watching. Listening. There was nothing but the dull, muted sounds of sickly, rasping breaths.

“The girl,” the body hissed suddenly, and Wormtail sprung into view. He beckoned her forward, and Hermione felt her body comply without her consent. This was to be an interrogation then. It was disconcerting, scary, and Hermione fought to keep herself calm. To keep herself composed. She felt her body sit, across from Voldemort, and she forced her chin up against whatever spell was on her body so she might look the famed Dark Lord in the eyes. It wasn’t easy, and it must have taken her own kind of magic, because all around her was the scent of the beach.

He let out a wheezing laugh. “Leave us.”

Wormtail vanished, the creaking of the stairs retreating as he did, and Hermione felt her body loosen. She was free here, to speak and do as she liked. And yet, with Voldemort so near, she didn’t dare do anything but focus on her breathing and stare.

“You wanted to see me,” Voldemort said after a minute. “I do not allow for people to see me this way.”

“You’ve been dead for 10 years,” Hermione said. Her words had a mind of their own, she didn’t think about the consequences before she spoke. It was fear, or stupidity, or naivete. She didn’t know this man like Theo did, or even like Draco did. She did not see him as the murderer of her parents. She did not see him as a blind, blood purist. “I imagined you would look worse. Don’t forget, I remember what you looked like 3 years ago, stuck to the back of an imbicile’s head.”

Again, Voldemort let out a hissing, airy laugh. “You dare say these things to me?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Hermione said. She didn’t know why she said it, or if it was true. It didn’t feel true, not when she could hear her heartbeat in her own ears. “You won’t kill me.”

“You think… I would hesitate to kill… a pathetic, magic-stealing Muggle like yourself? A Mudblood,” Voldemort sneered, and Hermione raised one eyebrow. It was as if his stilted, taunting insults were enough to make Hermione brave again.

“You and I both know I have stolen nothing,” she said. “Don’t we, Tom? Or did you steal your magic as well?”

Silence - eerie, uncomfortable, and dangerous - echoed in the room. This was Hermione’s trump card, this was her secret weapon. The boys may not have understood it at first, they might not have realized what the journal’s last entry meant, but Hermione did. Harry had all but confirmed it that day in the Hospital Wing after the Chamber had been closed, and even he didn’t understand what he knew. Harry was too focused on his heroic save of Ginny, of Dobby, to even think that Voldemort had actually confessed. Voldemort was a half-blood. Voldemort wasn't a Pureblood wizard, he understood better than he let on about what it was to belong in two worlds.

Voldemort... he could be reasoned with. He could be understanding.

“If you know my father was a Muggle, then you know he was a horrific man. A worthless man. He deserved to die.”

Hermione hummed. “I’m sure he did. Most of those fathers who deny their children and refuse to raise them with compassion do.”

“You mock me?” There was an electricity in the room, warning and loud in Hermione’s ears, but it wasn’t the acrid, chemical magic she was expecting. It was warmer than that. Still natural, but only just.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t mock you. You and I may have more in common than you think. I’m a Muggle-born witch, but I don’t believe all witches are created equally. You are a man born of a man who didn't want him, and you've known for a long time there are dangers to having these half-muggles in the wizarding world.”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, a strange look of cautious curiosity masking his face. It was strange, to see such emotion on such an inhumane, skeletal face. It looked wrong.

“You want to come back to full power,” Hermione said, leaning forward. “You want a second chance to change the wizarding world. I want to give it to you. Not your Death Eaters, not your bloodlust. Just me and you. I’ve already had your servant at Hogwarts dispatched, but I can perform the ceremony. I can bring you back. Frankly, I’m just about the only one who can. Unless you want Wormtail to try this kind of magic."

Voldemort stared, and as his eyes narrowed on her face, Hermione felt a warm, wet pin-prick of pain in her mind. Like someone was sliding a needle into her skin, but it didn’t quite hurt. It itched, maybe. Like a mosquito bite. And then it exploded, harsh and painful and a throbbing pain in her head. Like a headache. Like something was deeply wrong and Hermione wanted to scream. She bit down hard on her own tongue, iron in her mouth.

“You wish to give me my body back?” he hissed, and Hermione smiled.

“I wasn't lying when I said I wanted to do this with you,” she said. “I do.”