Mirror Image

The idea of breaking into the Ministry was daunting, but Hermione felt like it was fine. Mostly fine. Probably not fine, but fine enough.

It was actually going to be dangerous and full of trouble and probably end in disaster. But Hermione was trying to stay positive because if she didn’t, Ron would drag Harry down into that dark, pitiful hole in the ground and the two of them would be swallowed up in their sadness together. She wouldn’t have minded if the two of them fell apart together, but it would mean she would need to do everything on her own, and she was even less interested in that than she was in keeping everyone’s spirits up.

The plan was almost comically stupid - Polyjuice Potion wasn’t exactly rocket science, and it exposed them to more danger when they had to steal the ingredients for it. Knocking out and dragging two wizards and a witch off of Muggle London streets was insane. Masquerading as those same people and sneaking into the Ministry to steal the locket off Umbridge’s own neck was asking for punishments.

Sprinting away from the chaos of the Ministry, disapperating with fucking Dolohov on her elbow, kicking him off them at Grimmauld Place and dumping them all into the woods… Hermione thought things could have gone much worse.

~~~

“Rowle,” Tom Riddle hissed, his voice all gravel and shadows. “Come with me.”

The man in question followed, head bowed and respectful of their Dark Lord. The cloak that Voldemort wore was dark and long, and it covered his face at all time. Clearly some kind of charm that kept him from being seen. It was odd, and this new man was unrecognizable from the man they followed nearly three decades ago when the war began, but Thorfinn was… not loyal. He was scared. And he was pretty sure that he’d be safer with Voldemort in control than if he was stuck back in Azkaban.

They weaved through the halls of Dolohov Mansion, and then Thorfinn felt the familiar yank of his solid form leaving the ground. They spun, black bleeding into grey bleeding into the blue of the late-summer sun. Travel by smoke was always disorientating, but with the Dark Lord at his side specifically, it was somehow easier to stomach.

They landed and Thorfinn’s body slammed into his consciousness a second later, like waking up a split second before you could move your body.

Thorfinn was in a sitting room. It was brighter than he might have expected, decorated in green and blue. There was a set of couches and chairs near a fireplace, and tea setting on the small table to their left. One wall was entirely covered in book shelves from floor to ceiling - Muggle and wizarding titles mixed together - and on the other, above the mantle of the fireplace, was a traditional Pureblood wedding portrait. It was tasteful, set in a garden of some kind, and there were clearly two grooms alongside one bride. They were painted from behind, one head of near-white locks, and two of brunette curls.

“Where are we, my Lord?”

“In the sitting room of one Draco Malfoy,” Toma announced, and Thorfinn noted his voice was clearer. Like the whispering, hissing, strained thing they had all grown accustomed to was nothing more than an act. “He and his husband will be joining us in a moment. And in time, if you prove yourself, their wife.”

The Malfoy Manor was a familiar place to Thorfinn - young Draco Malfoy had hosted the Death Eaters here a couple times during the summer months, but no one had ever been invited to his private suites.

“I had heard he was married,” Thorfinn confessed. “But he has been cautious about the identity of his wife.”

“For good reason,” Toma said. “As I have not always been forthcoming with you about the nature of my return.”

“Was it not Wormtail, then?”

Toma regarded the man in front of him carefully. Then he sat in one of Draco’s more plush chairs and the teacups beside them began to fill. Toma conjured one closer with a wave of his hand. “Sit.”

Thorfinn sat.

“Do you remember what I told you twenty years ago?”

Thorfinn paused, a teacup of his own frozen between his saucer and his lips.

“When you brought your pregnant wife to me, a toddler clutching her skirts?”

Thorfinn’s face paled. “My Lord. I presented my family to you, and you said it was better to lead by example than excuse poor behavior from within the halls of change,” Thorfinn whispered.

“You do not have to mince words with me,” Toma said, but his face was kind and open when he said it. “Please, speak freely here. I killed the child, your son, first. And then your wife. You were not allowed to hold either while they died, and afterwards, I denied them burial.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Because she was a Muggle, yes?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Toma hummed. “Two years after that display, Thoros Nott took a Muggle teenager as a hostage in his own mansion. She bore him a son, and by rights of ritual magic and more archaic binds, the boy is magically recognized today as the Pureblooded son of Thoros Nott. Thoros killed the Muggle child who birthed Theodore, and his Pureblooded wife killed herself. Thoros Nott, for all the things he did to get that boy, has never once treated him with respect or dignity, and instead uses tortuous curses on the boy. So he found refuge here, in Malfoy Manor.”

“Why do you tell me these things, my Lord?”

Toma set his tea down and leaned forward. “Because I wish to right a very old wrong I have done to you,” he said. “Do you know what I mean when I say that I was, at one time, a walking, living man without a soul?”

Thorfinn had heard old stories, more nightmare than reality, of men who had lost their souls. The magic was ill-defined in the stories, always cut off with a warning look and a comment about it being ‘dark’ as if that meant anything to someone like Thorfinn who earned his reputation as an expert researcher of intuitive ward magic. His work was now classified as study of Dark Arts, an ill-fitting damnation if he ever heard one.

“I have. Am I to understand that was who you were twenty years ago?”

“It was,” Toma confirmed.

“But no longer?” Thorfinn asked. “I wasn’t aware of any way to reverse the… effects… of such magic.”

Toma laughed, and Thorfinn fought the way his body wanted to jerk in surprise. “Nor was I. It was Draco’s wife who found a way to reverse my magical misdeeds, and I appear before you today as a man with much of his soul returned and intact.”

“So you feel the urge to apologize?”

“Not precisely,” Toma admitted. “I do feel bad for what I have done to you. I do wish to apologize to you. But most of all, I wish to tell you the truth.”

Thorfinn waited patiently, his gaze respectful but interested. Not too eager. He did not want to appear as though he was hungry for the Dark Lord’s secrets. In a moment, Toma’s thin, pale hand reached up and pulled back the hood of his cloak. The charm that protected his face shimmered, and then fell as the hood did.

Where there was a bald, smooth, pale head years ago, now there were coiffed, light brown curls. There was clearly some evidence of dye growing out at the root, but it wasn’t noticeable out of the direct light.

Where there was once a nose-less, drawn face of a demon, there was not the supple cheek of a teenager, still pale but not at all gaunt, with a smattering of gentle freckles. At his cheeks, the light caught onyx-stone earrings.

His eyes had been red before. Now they were honey.

His lips had been stone-grey, near non-existent, and now they were pink and full, like a child’s lips.

Lord Voldemort sat before Thorfinn a teenager, a young man with a full and unhindered soul.

“In this iteration, I am not Lord Voldemort and I am not Tom Riddle. I have adopted a new name. Toma Grozdanov, a student fleeing Durstrang in the wake of Karkarov’s exposed allegiance. My cousin is the aforementioned son of Thoros Nott. My adopted sister has married the Messors Malfoy. I am half-blood, both in reality and in my new identity. I am leading the Death Eaters, yes, but I am doing so with the intention of bringing the group down from the inside.”

Thorfinn’s mind was spinning. This man they were following was their leader, there was no mistaking the magical signature of this man. But he was changed, fundamentally made better simply by the asset of a soul. He was ordering hits for the Death Eaters, and yet, had just confessed to hoping their side of the war lost. It made no sense, none whatsoever. It was a dream, an impossible hope. But Toma Grozdanov was a familiar name - he wrote with Hermione Granger on changing the social and political work of wizarding Britain. He was considered a smart moderate by both sides, someone who could address the fear from decades ago in a smart way. He and Granger were creating a whole new ideal for policy.

“Why are you telling me this?”

The Dark Lord - Toma - smiled. “Because I owe you a son.”

It was then that someone knocked on the door, and a moment later, Draco stuck his head in. “Toma,” he intoned. “And Thorfinn! You’re here!”

As he strode through the doors, there was the sound of something behind him crashing into the wall, and then a smiling brunette followed Draco in. There was no mistaking the way his nose sort of bumped in the middle nor the shape of the eyes - this was Thoros’s son.

“Draco.” Thorfinn nodded in greeting. “And I imagine this is your husband?”

“Theodore Malfoy,” the man said, holding out a hand for Thorfinn to shake. “I hear you might be helping us.”

The implication was clear. They were all in on it together somehow - Toma, Draco, and Theodore here were trying to organize the war, plan it out in advance, somehow orchestrate a win for themselves, not for any one side or the other. This wasn’t about the Death Eaters and the Order. This was bigger than that.

“I need you all to tell me exactly what you need me to do,” Thorfinn said. “So I can serve your needs.”

~~~

Hermione and the boys were stuck with the stupid fucking locket. Harry and Ron complained about it constantly - it made them irritable. In the middle of the woods, their little tent warded every way Hermione could, they were trapped in close quarters with the Horcrux.

When Harry wore it, he was angry and short with his companions. He had nightmares that he screamed through, thrashing against Hermione and Ron’s hands when they tried to wake him up carefully.

For all that Harry was difficult and mean and violent with the Horcrux on his neck, he was always apologetic for it. He’d spent his life with Voldemort on the other side of his scar, and he was no beginner when it came to the feeling of Dark Magic in his head. It didn’t make his actions hurt any less, but it was easier to forgive when he was so forthcoming with his apologies.

Ron became vitriolic in a different way. He was cruel - years-old Slytherin nicknames for Harry and Hermione became much more common, including beaver teeth and potty - and he would spend hours tuning into the Potterwatch radio broadcast, listening on repeat to the announcement of the dead. He was nearly useless. He couldn’t cast magic or take watch for more than a couple hours before he started growing restless and snappish.

But Hermione struggled for a different reason. The Horcrux felt warm against her chest, and when she wore it, there was a near-constant scent of charcoal to her magic, even when she used a wand. Like Toma's soul was pushing its way through Hermione's magic. Her dreams were softer, hazy things that usually featured Toma and the boys at her side. They were in the library or the gardens, there were occasional appearances by Narcissa and Lucius, they were happily engaged in conversation and games. Chess and books and music. Toma sitting at the dining table, and fresh pumpkin ale, and-

Hermione preferred to skip the dreams where she was liable to wake up with a smile on her face, and instead wear the locket in the day. It was a comforting presence around her neck, something that reminded her of home. Something that kept her warm through the turn of autumn and winter.

They didn’t have a sword to destroy the thing with, and Hermione was grateful every day for their lack of momentum. They had no resources - the Order couldn’t know where they were or they would risk family and friends being killed. They couldn’t seek out any kind of reference materials - the cities and towns and villages were overrun with Death Eaters.

It was a blessing Hermione couldn’t have organized any better.

And then Ron left. He left without a word, and Harry was more betrayed than heartbroken, but whatever Ron had told Harry about his and Hermione’s relationship left Harry feeling like he couldn’t leave Hermione alone. Like he had to keep her company, keep her safe, keep her from spiraling out.

At first, it was a welcome distraction from the fact that they were in the middle of nowhere, with no possible leads on a next move or action. Hermione was overwhelmed with a sense of frustration - she certainly didn’t want to be any closer to destroying a piece of Toma’s soul, but every day they sat there in the woods was another day the war dragged on. Every day without even an idea of something to try, Hermione was a day further from being with her family.

Having Ron leave was an unexpectedly difficult turn of events. Harry put on a brave face, but he was upset. They were splitting watch shifts evenly, meaning they hardly spent any time together. Hermione was lonely, Harry was exhausted.

The welcome distraction became a nightmare.

Harry let his beard grow out. Hermione shaved it off for him every few days.

They changed camping spots. Days turned into weeks turned into a month. They changed spots again.

Every time they got further from their first campsite, they were further from Ron ever returning. Hermione didn’t care much for Ron’s return specifically, but she ached for some kind of progress. She didn’t do well spinning her wheels in one place. She didn’t do well trapped in a singular situation. Potterwatch reported higher than usual dead counts, and Hermione listened for any boastful reports of the Order striking down Draco Malfoy.

Harry wanted to kill the locket around his neck. He wanted to destroy it, break it into pieces, eviscerate it wholly. He wanted to rip it off of Hermione’s neck. He wanted to swallow it and let it dissolve in his stomach acid.

Hermione wanted to sleep with the locket against her heart, hold it close to her chest, keep it within an arms-reach every day. She wanted to keep it out of Harry's hands. She wanted to take on Toma's soul and unite it with her own.

Every day they waited. And waited. And waited.

~~~

“Will I meet your wife before the war ends?” Thorfinn asked. Theo looked up from his work and smiled at the hulking man sat at the little desk with him.

“I think so,” he said. “She’s usually busy, though. Drake and I hardly get to check in with her, let alone actually see her. Toma usually tracks her pretty closely.”

“Toma does. Not you?”

Theo looked up at Thorfinn with a smile. “Toma does anything that might get traced some way or another,” Theo explained. "Draco is prominently part of the inner Death Eaters, our wife is a member of the Order. We have to be cautious. Toma has more advanced capabilities when it comes to cloaking his magical signature while tracking her.”

"Because they are siblings?"

Theo smiled. "So you're the adopted father-in-law to the Dark Lord's adopted sister."

"Not yet," Thorfinn said.

Theo's magic was going to be stronger than ever. With Thoros, his magic was being constantly drained, constantly withered. Through his research, he'd discovered why - adopted families, even ones where the magic was, for all intents and purposes, recognized as the same family line needed to be nurtured from both sides. Theo might have nurtured his father's magical core as a son who loved his dad, but Thoros never nurtured Theo in return.

Was going to be stronger, when they cracked the code of how to make half-blood and muggleborn kids Purebloods.

Theo pushed his paper across the desk and rubbed his eyes.

“Now read this for me. Does this work?”

The two of them worked in silence for the rest of the afternoon. Theodore had been craving parental support for as long as he could remember, and while Narcissa and Lucius were wonderful, loving, attentive parents, there was something special about having Thorfinn to himself. Like he was there for Theo and Theo alone. Like Theo meant something to him. Like Theo was as special to Thorfinn as he knew Draco was to his own parents.

Like Thorfinn would go to bat for Theo, even against Draco or the Malfoys or Toma.

Thorfinn had been missing a jagged piece of his life for twenty years - the piece of his very being that was good at explaining things to kids and that loved to spend a day doing whatever it was that they wanted to do. Theodore was excitable, full of rambling thoughts and a mind that bounced from idea to idea that entertained as much as it distracted. He was brilliant, funny and smart and eager, and parts of him reminded Thorfinn of himself. Or maybe he was just looking for similarities, trying to find ways that this new boy could be his.

Toma found them working. Theo was trying to recreate the concept of blood bonds to create Pureblood-recognized offspring out of Muggleborn and Half-blood children. It was based in the book Toma had given Theo before, for his birthday, but with Thorfinn’s help, Theo was expanding on the concept. Creating something new altogether. Creating what would become the basis for Toma and Hermione's future policy to include Mudbloods into their world much, much earlier.

“Are you in a good place to take a break?” Toma asked, pushing his head into the Library. Theo turned his smile to Toma.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Draco’s upstairs. We’re waiting for your wife to join us. Thorfinn, shall you join us?”

Theo was out of his seat in a split-second, gathering up his research and books in his arms and then bolting for the door. Toma gave Thorfinn an exacerbated look and rolled his eyes. “The both of them get so worked up to see her.”

Thorfinn followed Toma out of the Library and through the house. Inside the Library, where the thick curtains were drawn, it was impossible to see how dark it was outside. But in the main part of the house, it was clearly very late at night, closer to dawn than to dusk.

“How late is it?” Thorfinn asked. He and Theo got lost in their work sometimes.

“Nearly three in the morning,” Toma said.

They continued upstairs, to the suit of rooms where Theo and Draco were waiting next to an open window. It was freezing outside. Despite the chill, the window was wide open and though both of the boys were shivering, they didn’t move to close it. Thorfinn had a sudden thought that perhaps, the Mrs. Malfoy could travel via smoke the same way Toma and Draco and Thorfinn could. Did that mean she was marked with a Dark Mark? Or was this because of the adopted bond between herself and Toma?

He didn’t get to think on the possibility too long - a blast of dark smoke burst into the room and Thorfinn flinched backwards. The fog condensed, swirled together, and then came a solid form. Dressed in Muggle jeans and a sweater, hair brushing her shoulders as it whipped around her head with the last of the smoke, was the familiar sight of Miss Hermione Granger. No, Mrs. Hermione Malfoy.

“Mya,” Draco breathed, and then he pulled her close and kissed her. Theo folded over her back, boxing her in their embrace and peppering her neck with kisses. She laughed between kissing Draco back, and the joy in her tone was clear. Then Toma cleared his throat pointedly and the boys stepped back, only for Hermione to launch herself into Toma’s arms for a hug.

“Oh, how I missed you all!” she cried. “Draco and Theo most of all, but you too, Toma.”

“Betrayal,” Toma deadpanned, and the boys behind them gave a laugh.

It was then that Hermione looked over Toma’s shoulder and saw Thorfinn. He expected her to be upset, perhaps scared given their last interaction. But instead, she smiled widely and her cheeks sort of pushed up into her eyes until they were little half-moons and she stuck out a hand.

“Hermione Malfoy,” she said. “Pleasure to meet you. Theodore says you’re wonderful, and anyone who makes Theo so happy is a treasure.”

Thorfinn was stuck silent for a moment before his brain stuttered to life and he took Hermione’s hand. This was the Golden Girl, Gryffindor friend to Harry Potter, rumored lover of Ron Weasley. She was a missing member of the Order, believed to be chasing some kind of mystical weapon to use against their Dark Lord. She wrote papers in the Prophet years ago that blurred the lines between blood purity and blood traitor.

This was also the woman that Theo and Draco said mastered Blood Magic at 14. She was the Dark Lord’s adopted sister. She had revived Voldemort, renounced her heritage, bound herself to some of the most ancient and Pure bloodlines of all wizardkind.

She was kind and cunning and ambitious. She and Toma were going to take over the Ministry, going to forge a new government full of new policy.

“Thorfinn,” he said finally, taking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Malfoy.”

The women regarded Thorfinn carefully, her eyes staring so deep into his that he felt she was seeing his life. Every secret, every contradictory thought, every lie, every failure, every dream, every joy. Thorfinn felt she saw it all. It was terrifying, something about being wholly known by this slip of a girl. What would happen if she decided that he was nothing, was worth nothing, was someone who could not be trusted?

But his fears were for nothing. After a moment, she blinked, and the feeling of being watched and known dissipated. “So,” Hermione said. “We have two hours before Harry Potter notices I am missing. What can you tell me about the Sword of Gryffindor?”