Title: Holding Up A Mirror To Your Soul
Author: TardisIsTheOnlyWaytoTravel
Story Summary: Hermione isn't who she always thought she was, and enlists Harry's help in her search for the truth. Meanwhile the two of them have been experiencing strange incidents that are only increasing in frequency.
Sixty years later the world is still feeling the consequences of the actions of the Dark Lord Grindelwald, and one Albus Dumbledore…
AU, but references all seven books. Takes place
Author notes:
This will not be that long a story; maybe five chapters or so? I have plans for it. The initial idea – re: Hermione's identity – was inspired by the fantastic Once Might Have Been by Willow-Bee The Cat, although that goes in quite a different direction.
At some point I might rewrite this, but it's fine for now. It's a bit different to my usual stuff; I'm experimenting.
HOLDING UP A MIRROR TO YOUR SOUL
CHAPTER ONE
Dark winged things, moving in the dark… limbs rasping, the tapping of clawed feet, scraping on stone… and two jade eyes, luminous and glowing sickly green…
Hermione woke sharply, and felt the urge to curse as she realised she'd just had another one of the dreams.
The 'Incidents,' as she and Harry called them, were happening more frequently the older that they got. The dreams were only the latest manifestation. Try as she might, Hermione had never been able to discover a clue as to what the Incidents meant, or why eavh experienced them.
Sighing, Hermione did her best to fall back to sleep.
o0o o0o o0o
Hermione had always liked the attic.
There was a skylight in the ceiling , as well as a ceiling light, so that the little room was always well-lit. As a child Hermione had spent many hours, crammed in between boxes sitting on the dusty floorboards, reading.
This summer she had finally convinced her parents to allow her to convert one corner of the attic to a makeshift study. Her room was too crowded these days, and she planned to move her desk up there and one of her bookcases.
As Hermione moved boxes, stacking them on top of each other, she paused at the sight of something she'd never seen before.
It was a small wooden chest, covered in years worth of dust. Curiously, Hermione opened it.
Sitting on top of everything else was a death certificate.
In the name of one Hermione Jean Granger.
Hermione's heart stopped. With trembling hands, she lifted it out, for a closer look.
Under date and location of death it said simply, Twenty-fifth August 1981, St Thomas' Hospital London. Hermione's gaze moved further down. Date of birth, 19 September 1979 – the date Hermione had always known as hers.
Cause of Death: Respiratory illness.
The death certificate fluttered to the floor.
Hermione couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't feel; it was as though everything had gone numb.
Most of the box was filled with photo envelopes. With shaking hands Hermione picked up one of the ones on top and opened it, pulling out a stack of photographs.
They were of a very small girl, only a toddler. Her hair was thick and bushy and her eyes were the same shade of brown as Hermione's, but she had a snub nose and a little pointed face like a small pixie.
Her father's nose and her mother's facial structure, Hermione thought, looking through the photos.
Small girl holding a ball towards the camera. Having a bath. Holding a fluffy bear nearly as big as she was. Fast asleep, curled up in a cot. Sitting on her smiling mother's lap, their physical similarities apparent.
Photo after photo of the girl that wasn't her.
The rest of the chest held medical records, childish scribbles that barely counted as drawings, and right at the bottom, a baby book. The sum of a life, cut short almost before it began.
Hermione carefully packed it all back into the chest and shut the lid.
She sank to the dusty floorboards, taking deep breaths. She didn't feel upset, didn't feel angry, just… empty. I'm in shock, part of her mind noted clinically, but the rest of her was dizzy with the image of the little girl that wasn't her.
After an eternity Hermione drew herself up and went downstairs.
Her mother was in her study, catching up on paperwork.
"Mum?" Hermione asked, managing to keep her voice steady.
"Hmm?"
"Was I sick, when I was small? Sick enough to go to hospital?"
Her mother went still.
"Because there's a death certificate with my name on it in the attic."
Hermione moved closer.
"Mum?"
Emmeline Granger's eyes had gone oddly blank.
As Hermione watched, her mother blinked, her eyes cleared, and she went back to the paperwork.
"Mum?"
Emmeline jumped in shock and spun to face her daughter.
"Hermione? Goodness love, you gave me a fright! I didn't hear you come in."
The dread in the pit of Hermione's stomach deepened.
o0o o0o o0o
If there was one thing Hermione knew she was fantastically good at, it was research. Harry had once told her that when she was in the middle of a research project everyone else avoided walking too close to her lest her gravitational pull prove too great and pull them into the black hole of research as well, while Ron nodded vigorously in agreement. She smacked them both for that, but there was probably a certain amount of truth in it. Because when Hermione was in research mode, she could get things done that no one else could.
One of her first actions was to head to the British Library in London. She spent several hours going through newspaper records, looking through the obituaries and death notices. She found the death notice fairly quickly, but couldn't find any other information. Time to move on.
Her next stop was the church where the little funeral had been held. The minister was as helpful as he could be, but he'd only been there for the last five years, so he wasn't sure whether his help could be of any value.
"Don't you keep any kinds of records about these things?" Hermione asked desperately, looking despondent.
The minister frowned in thought.
"It's possible that my predecessor kept some," he said slowly. "The best person to ask would be Mrs Westley. I can give her a call and see if she's free, if you like."
"That would be excellent," Hermione said gratefully.
The minister shot her a sideways look.
"If you don't mind my asking, why is it that you are searching for this particular burial site?"
Hermione gave him a hard stare, but he simply looked curious, and he looked like someone she could confide in.
She decided to tell him the truth. It had been a sharp burning pain in her chest ever since she'd discovered the other Hermione's things, but there'd been no one she could tell.
"I found a chest, in the attic," she began painfully, "of things belonging to a little girl with my exact name, but the photos weren't of me, and there was a death certificate in there as well. I was used as a replacement for her, and I don't know who I really am or where I came from. I want to find out."
The minister looked shocked and appalled.
"You should notify the police," he said gently.
Hermione shook her head.
"Not until I know what's going on. I'm sure it's deeper than it looks, so – the first step is to find the real Hermione Granger," she said resolutely.
The minister's eyes were full of sympathy.
"I'll give Mrs Westley a ring. I'm sure she'll be happy to come down and help you." He laid a hand on her shoulder for a moment. "If you need any advice on his, or someone to talk to, you are welcome to come down here, or give me a call."
He went off to ring Mrs Westley.
She turned out to be a middle-aged cheerful woman who seemed to know about everything in the village. The minister explained the situation – not why Hermione was looking for the girl's grave, but the fact that she was hoping there was some record somewhere – and the woman turned warm, beady eyes on her.
"I think there should be some in the old hall." Mrs Westley's eyes reminded Hermione of a chicken's. "That's where most of the records are kept. It used to belong to the old lord, but when he died without heirs it was left to the village. Come on, then, lovey."
Sure enough, at the hall, after a lot of searching, they found the boxes that held the previous minister's things.
"He was minister here for thirty years," Mrs Westley explained, as she dumped another box on the table with the others. "When he died we found he had no family but us, poor soul. His things have been sitting in here for the past five years now, gathering dust. Ah well," he manner turned brisk, as she put the sorrow of the old minister's death behind her, "feel free to have a look through all these, just put them all back in the boxes and give me a yell when you're done."
She bustled away.
Hermione sat down, and began to go through the sad, pitifully small summary of a human life. For being there thirty years, the minister hadn't accumulated very much in the way of belongings.
The first couple of boxes were personal possessions; photographs, letters, items of sentimental value, books. Hermione's fingers itched at the sight of the old, cloth-bound books, but she put them aside instead of looking through them like she wanted to. The later boxes all proved to be records, of the minster's time at the parish. He'd clearly been a well-organised, somewhat anal-retentive person. For every wedding, baptism, funeral, last rites, that he had administered, he had carefully written down all the relevant details, from the parties involved to any details that might be considered relevant.
His notes were scrupulously thorough, and Hermione was impressed. She remembered what Mrs Westley had said, though, and wondered if his dedication was an attempt to fill in the absence of family.
Whether it was or not, she could respect his efforts.
Hermione went through the pile until she found the 1981 deaths book. Like the others, it contained details of funerals and other death-related duties. She flipped through it, squinting at the spidery handwriting, deciphering dates and names.
31st August 1981 Funeral Hermione Jean Granger
Hermione's stomach knotted. She continued to read carefully, not letting her emotions disturb her veneer of calm. She fished out her notebook, wrote down the relevant details. Then she packed the books away, and went to ring the number Mrs Westley had given her.
o0o o0o o0o
Hermione decided to leave visiting the grave until tomorrow. She told herself that it was because she'd done enough today already, but in truth she couldn't bear to bring herself to do so yet. With every extra piece of evidence of the other Hermione's death, and thus life, it felt like pieces of her were being pulled painfully from her and falling away, leaving her unsure of who she was anymore.
That night she tried in vain to get to sleep, but found herself tossing and turning and staring unseeingly at the ceiling instead.
The discovery of the existence of Other Hermione had filled her with doubts – not only about herself, and her life, but about everything. Ordinarily Hermione knew everything's place in the world, but somehow she'd been shaken loose, and everything else with her.
Who am I? Hermione wondered. Where did I come from? Why was I placed with Mum and Dad, why was it necessary? Was I being cared for, or abandoned?
Who am I really?
o0o o0o o0o
The next day Hermione caught the Knight Bus again, this time to Brompton Cemetery.
It was beautiful, in its own, eerie way, and strangely peaceful. Plant life grew everywhere, while the stone monuments in the older sections spoke of peace, and of judgement, and an austere love that was uncommon these days. The expression on each statue was different, individual; one, of a young woman, sat staring into the distance with an expression of yearning, waiting.
Hermione found the place, eventually. A small cross marked the grave, engraved with an inscription. Hermione crouched down to read it.
Our beloved, Hermione Jean Granger, it read. 19th September 1979 – 25th August 1981.
Underneath it read,
She will be in our hearts always.
Hermione couldn't help it. The tears spilled over.
A moment later a wave of absolute rage and fury surged forward, and she stood and began to pace because she had to do something.
Until now she'd mostly been looking at herself as the victim, but Other Hermione and her parents were victims just as much as she was. Her parents had loved their daughter dearly, it was clear, yet someone had messed with their memories and the real Hermione Granger lay here, forgotten.
Unmissed, unmourned.
It was appalling.
She was furious.
Hermione turned to the grave marker and waved her wand fiercely, before striding from the cemetery.
Behind her a new line had been added to the inscription in a spiky, angry script.
She will not be forgotten. Justice will be found.
o0o o0o o0o
Hermione's parents frowned as she lugged her bags downstairs.
She saw their expressions, and sighed.
"This is my world," she said, brushing errant strands of hair out of her face, in a voice that was unusually patient. "There are things going on that I need to sort out. I know I spend less and less time with you each summer, but I have to go. I'm sorry."
She wanted to tell them everything would be all right later on when it was all over, that she'd come home and stay there, but she couldn't. They weren't really her parents, and she didn't know what she'd find. Besides, there was a war on, and her best friend was on the front lines. It was possible she could get killed.
Strangely, it didn't worry her that much.
"I love you," she told the people who thought they were her parents, because that much was true, and walked outside to catch the Knight Bus.
o0o o0o o0o
Despite Sirius' death, things at Grimmauld Place weren't that different from last summer.
"Hermione!" Ron greeted her with a big grin.
"Hello Ron," she greeted him, along with a hug. The tips of his ears turned pink as she hugged him.
"You have no idea how relieved I am to see you," Ginny spoke up. "I've been here for a week with only this lump for company. It'll be nice to have another girl around."
"Oi," Ron said.
"Any idea when Harry gets here?" Hermione asked matter-of-factly.
"Tomorrow, I think," Ron said, frowning. "Moody and some of the others are going to pick him up."
"Good," Hermione said. She smiled at them. Her smile was too bright, but she had to find something else to think about. "What's been going on so far?"
Ron shrugged.
"Not much."
o0o o0o o0o
Harry arrived that night.
Hermione was in the kitchen, telling Ron to clean up because his Mum nearly had dinner ready, when there was a familiar presence, green and dark.
Hermione whirled, to see Harry standing with his crooked smile.
"'Lo, Hermione, Ron."
"Harry!"
Hermione flew to him and threw her arms around his neck and clung, while Harry pulled her close so that she was pressed against his chest. Hermione simply stood and absorbed as much comfort as she could from his familiar feeling of dark and green and soothing dank stillness.
Harry didn't move or let go, just stood holding her, reassuring and calming. Despite the mercurial quality of his surface emotions, deep down his aura reminded her of a dark cave, serene but not undangerous. Harry was like that; he was safe, more or less, but could cause peril for the unwary.
Ron coughed loudly.
Hermione stepped back reluctantly. Ron had a scowl on his face, and Hermione sighed a little. Ron's jealousy issues got in the way of everything. She fancied him a bit, sure, but she wasn't interested if this was how he acted.
Hermione glanced up at Harry, her eyes serious. He quirked an eyebrow, and nodded slightly. He understood she had something serious she needed to talk to him about when he got the chance.
The two of them always had understood each other strangely well. They just felt… right to each other.
"Nice to see you too, Hermione," he grinned. He turned to Ron. "Hey, mate."
Ron's expression lightened a little as he clapped Harry on the back, although he still looked a little suspicious.
Hermione sighed in relief. Harry was here. She'd finally have someone else who could help her figure out what was going on.
END CHAPTER