Mirror Image

The castle was quiet. Eerily, painfully quiet. Normally, on any other day, Hermione would be pleased to have the silence of the castle. She liked when she could get lost in a book, or when she could spend the day with her boys safe knowing that Harry and Ron were in the village or otherwise busy. She liked the peace of the grounds.

Tonight, she was anxious. The silence amplified every little noise, and Hermione found herself jumping to attention. Harry might have noticed if he was there, but he’d gone to his lesson with Dumbledore, leaving Hermione in the Common Room with Ron and Ginny.

She couldn’t leave. Tonight was the night.

“I think I’ll go to bed early,” Hermione announced, snapping her books closed and standing.

Ron and Ginny didn’t look up from their game of Exploding Snap, just waved her away.

Hermione cast a silencing charm as soon as she got to bed with a wave of her hand. Dressed in pajamas that Lucius had sent during the Ostara celebrations, she climbed into bed and pulled the curtains closed. She had to be still, to wait and see. She couldn’t call the boys - Theodore needed to be as far away from this fight as possible, and she couldn’t take Draco and Toma from their work tonight.

Hermione tried to close her eyes. She tried to force herself to sleep.

She gave up when she realized it would be fruitless to try. Instead, she sat back up and pulled a piece of parchment from her bedside table - a letter from Cissa.

My dear,

In preparation of upcoming celebrations in the summer, Lucius and I have been hard at work. The rose garden has been pruned and recolored to Draco’s vision, and the great hall in the Manor has been set for the reception. Theodore, while silent on matters of design and color, has been writing nearly twice a day on the topic of meals and tastes. I hope you will not mind the menu as it stands today - a roasted pear salad, cold apple gazpacho, roasted squash and hen, Thai curry, and something the Americans call ‘grits’. I am working to find a theme for this meal other than ‘whatever has caught Theo’s fancy’.

The cake, thankfully, is ordered. A tasteful three-tiers comprised vanilla, chocolate, and raspberry.

You, my dear, must pick a dress. I have an appointment for the two of us on June 22nd to visit a dear friend and seamstress of mine who will be creating your dress from scratch. Any ideas you have on such a piece should be forwarded to me, and I will make sure they reach her desk.

All my love,

Cissa

Hermione had never been one of those girls who dreamed of her wedding. As a child, she played pretend senator or make believe doctor. She laughed at the other girls with toilet paper shoved in their headbands like a veil, and she never ever doodles ideas for a dress on the edge of her notebook.

In a strange turn of events, Hermione had thought about her wedding the day she wiped her parents’ memories. Her parents had been married later in life, when they were nearly 35, and their wedding was a simple affair at the courthouse. Her mother had worn a sensible dress in cream, with sleeves and not one inch of lace or tulle or beading. Hermione had, as a child, told other children that even if she did get married, she would wear her mother’s sensible dress and there was no need to play princess about it.

But she’d pictured something else when she saw her memory fade from her father’s eyes. She had imagined him walking her down the aisle, and his leg getting eaten up by a big skirt, and her mother’s shining smile, and a veil that made the room sparkle around her.

Hermione dragged her quill down the page and began to sketch. She was by no means an artist, but she could better explain her vision with the use of poorly-proportioned scribbles.

It was a good distraction. Even after finished the confusing and winding image for her dress, Hermione’s mind took her to a letter for Lucius regarding Draco’s ring - Theodore had sent it to Lucius for safekeeping - and another for the Weasley’s letting them know she would like to stay with them for part of the summer.

It wasn’t until a bright, orange glow flickered through the window that Hermione realized she’d been writing for hours. She dropped the silencing charms and realized there was shouting down in the Common Room, echoing around the tower, through the castle, and across the grounds. She raced to the window where- she could- the fire-

Tears welled up in her eyes. She needed to find Theo and Draco now, she could trust that Toma had gotten himself out of trouble and away from danger.

Hermione flew through the dormitory. All around her, there were people crying and weeping, staring blankly at the wall, staring into Hermione’s eyes as she rushed through the room.

“Where is- Where-” Hermione gasped, and someone pointed to the portrait. She didn’t know who they thought she was looking for, but she ran.

She found Toma first, half-carrying a catatonic Draco through the halls. Hermione paused, pressing a frantic kiss to Toma’s cheek and then to Draco’s cold lips, and let them keep moving. It was better if Draco was in bed when the alarms were truly well and raised.

Harry next. He was crouched in the main hall, half-leaned against a pillar and half-slumped over his own chest. It didn’t look natural the way he was nearly crumpled, deflated in some terrible way. Hermione grabbed his shoulders and pulled him around.

“Harry! Harry!”

Green eyes found hers, but he wasn’t looking at her.

“Harry!” Hermione shook him. “What happened?”

Harry seemed to realize then she was there and- he gasped and- a hand came to grasp Hermione’s upper arm tightly.

“He’s dead,” Harry whispered. “Dumbledore is dead. Malfoy let the Death Eaters in, and Dumbledore is dead.”

“Was is Draco?” Hermione asked. She was too panicked to consider the repercussions of using Draco’s given name. Harry was too stunned, too distraught, to register the slip of the tongue.

“It was Snape,” Harry said.

Hermione’s mind stuttered to a stop. Snape had never been in their plan, not really. They had hoped it would be Dolohov, or Bellatrix. Snape’s only job was to get Draco’s out of the line of fire tonight, to step between Draco and- and- and it made sense.

Snape was smarter than any of them had given him credit for.

Hermione helped Harry up to his feet and only when they’d walked a few steps and his brain had kickstarted did he grab Hermione again, fingers digging into her arm and hand harshly.

“I told you so,” he hissed, and Hermione thought about dropping him to the floor again.

~~~

“There was no horcrux,” Harry yelled, slamming his fist down on the table. The note in the locket had been regrettable, but Hermione had privately celebrated the fake horcrux. It was a shame Dumbledore had died for it, and that Harry had been traumatized by it, but all the same, the fake horcux meant Toma was safe for now. “It was pointless!”

“It wasn’t, Harry,” Hermione said. “It means we can look for the real one, and we know exactly who to trust.”

“Snape’s a slimy, lying, bastard of a git,” Ron said, and Harry nodded hard. Hermione didn’t say anything on the topic of Severus Snape.

Severus Snape, who had found Hermione at nearly four in the morning after Dumbledore had died only to take her to Draco and Theo, huddled together in his suite of rooms. Severus Snape who had confided in them Dumbledore’s request that Severus be the one to kill him before the curse in his hand could finish him off painfully. Severus Snape who had told them he knew of Draco’s involvement in the Death Eaters, just as he knew about Hermione’s plans to pledge herself to the Order over the summer. Severus Snape who had told them if anyone could survive this war and pull a fractured society back together, it was the three of them and he would help in any way possible.

“We need to tell-” Harry stopped short. Without Dumbledore to lead the Order, there was no clear line of command. Who should they tell about the fake horcrux?

“We need to keep this a secret,” Hermione said. “No one can know. We don’t know who else we can trust right now, and Dumbledore told you for a reason, Harry. This is our mission, no one else’s.”

~~~

The wedding was fast approaching. Hermione was planning to spend the rest of June and July with the Malfoys and her boys, and then meet up with the Weasley’s on the first of August. Bill and Fluer were getting married, and Death Eaters were ramping up their attacks on Muggle and Wizarding London alike. In the wake of Dumbledore’s death, Toma had seen fit to reward Dolohov. He had never appeared to him in his current and true form, but he’d appeared to the Death Eaters in an enchanted cloak, one that hid his face. He’d praised Dolohov for his powerful leadership, and Draco for his thoughtful plan to utilize the vanishing cabinet. He had encouraged them to celebrate, to treat this as the blow to the Order it truly was. A step towards an end to this war.

And then he’d called a private meeting with Thorfinn Rowle, and he did not tell Hermione, Draco, or Theodore why.

~~~

“Mya,” Draco called from the bottom of the stairs. “Mya! For Gods’ sakes- Tilly! Tilly, go fetch Hermione.”

The House Eld disappeared as quickly as she had appeared in the hall and not a moment later, Hermione was drifting down the stairs. “I heard you the first time,” she said.

“You didn’t reply.”

“I chose not to yell and scream like a banshee,” Hermione corrected. “What do you need now?”

Draco, for all that he was taking on the wedding with his whole heart, was starting to drive Hermione a little bit crazy. He’d been popping in and out of her rooms at strange hours, even when she was taking baths or trying to change her clothes or writing letters or, once, when she was feeling particularly ill and laying in bed with a terrible headache. She’d thrown a damp cloth right at his head.

“I need to know how big your dress is,” Draco said. “If the train is significant, I won’t put flowers on the aisle, but if it’s smaller, I could get away with petals. Oh, or smaller bouquets tied to the pews.”

“I haven’t even seen my dress,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “Dray, I love you. I love you enough to tell you this with full honesty. I have no idea what the dress looks like and the only one who does, is Narcissa Malfoy.”

Draco’s mouth opened and closed before he furrowed his brow. “Mother!”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to make her way back upstairs. It was exhausting to deal with Draco in this mood - he was, by far, the biggest ‘bridezilla’ Hermione had ever encountered, and that included Fluer when she had demanded a swan’s feather dress.

“He’s going to drive me mad,” Theodore called when Hermione passed his room. She paused and gave him a look, and Theo raised his hands in surrender. “I love him, but he is entirely too focused on details I won’t remember an hour after the wedding.”

Hermione slipped into Theo’s room and fell into his waiting arms. He was sitting by his own fireplace, though it wasn’t lit, and on the table in front of him was a thinly bound copy of the Merchant of Venice. “I’m shocked to hear our wedding is expected to make sure a fleeting impression on you.” She teased, and smiled when Theo pressed his lips to her head.

“It’s not that our wedding doesn’t matter,” Theo said. “I just think the memories of Draco’s flower displays and the cake will be drwoned out.”

“Drowned out?”

“By all the memories we’ll make in the week after the wedding,” Theo explained. “All those nights in particular.”

Hermione let out a sharp bark of laughter, and then she sighed. Everything would change after the wedding and honeymoon. Draco would be engaged in bigger and more dangerous Death Eater missions. Toma would be leading the Death Eaters and playing a political game of chess. Theodore would be waiting for his spouses to return. And Hermione would be on the run herself - she was expected to run with Harry and Ron, find the horcruxes, and support the Order. She would be off-grid, untethered to her husbands, her brother, or her family. Alone, with two people who would never forgive her for the life she led now.

“You’ll have to remember what I look like all dressed up and pretty,” Hermione said quietly. “The next time I see you after the honeymoon, I’ll probably be all dirty and gross.”

Theo’s arms tightened around her. “You could never be gross to me,” he whispered. “My beautiful, smart, funny, brilliant Mya.”

~~~

The Art of the Family

A Collaboration by T. Grozdanov and H. Granger

Family is not those you are born with. If it were, there would be no bonding magic, no external pull between magical cores, and no need to safeguard family trees from inappropriate matches. Family and friends - the term used to denote the general sense of kin in the law, in medicine, and in academia - is thus a more appropriate and holistic way to denote those important to us.

Or at least it is for Muggles. For Muggles, there is no way to forge a bond deeper than skin between friends. But for magical witches and wizards, their closest friends become a recognizable extension of one’s self, sometimes even unconsciously. Both of us, despite the Muggle-influence in our early childhood, have felt that friend-turned-family pull to our closest confidants. It is a dangerous and frightening feeling to recognize your body trusts someone without your mind thinking about it.

Part of the attraction to the Death Eater cause is the promise to protect magical cores from those who can not nurture them. As more of our population is ultimately brough into this world from another, more of our tradition seems to die away. More of our understanding of magical cores and bonds dies. Neither of us understood, in those first years of being allowed into this world, the feelings that brewed inside of us. It put us at risk, our magical core was reaching out for anyone to lift them up even without a deeper bond. With no one to support our magic as children, we were desperate for support as teenagers.

And to the Order of the Phoenix’s credit, they have acknowledged we need to include those misunderstood Muggle-born children, and we need to change with the modern times. We’re no longer living in the age of witch-burnings, nor of child marriages.

Neither one of these approaches will help Muggleborns.

Let us preface the rest of this article with an understanding that we love our families. We love our parents with all of their flaws, and our Muggle education was secure. We were happy children, and we understood the reason for our lives being held in the Muggle world until we were of age to be educated by the Wizarding one.

The only way to help Muggleborn children is to establish a program by which they would be placed with a magical family at the moment their magic manifests.

If we had been placed with magical families at the time of our magical manifestation - two and four respective to the authors - we would have understood why we craved closeness that could not be sated by our parents. We would have understood who we were without the stigma of misunderstood outburst. We would have had friends, and we would have been able to control our magic instead of continuing to fight against something we didn’t understand.

Moreover, we would have not been emotional and physical burdens to our parents. Parents without magical ability - or parents who refuse to acknowledge it - are no good to a child with magical capabilities. We’re unruly, hard to understand. In some cases, like the late Grangers’ case, they believe magic to be a more sinister manifestation of Muggle religious forces. In others, like in the Grozdanov’s, parents are so frustrated with a child they cannot understand, they become violent.

In all cases, Muggle-born children with magical abilities are left largely on their own to fend for themselves. They never learn the rich traditions or heritage of Magic, nor do they comprehend their potential. They cannot partake in our world fully. We should not sacrifice our way of life to secure children who, arguably, never lived in this world.

Take the children and place them with magical families. Allow magical families to bring up magical children in the ways they know best, and give reprieve and safety to Muggle families.

Allow us to serve children - all magical children - with respect and care. Allow us to give children the families they deserve. Allow us to limit the burden of magic on Muggle. It’s time to make the right choice for Muggleborns - take it from us.

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