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When Ginny gives her a mirror - from Borgin & Burkes of all places - for her birthday, she’s not sure if she’s offended or flattered by the gift. On one hand, the mirror is a gorgeous, brassy antique, with vines curling at the edges and twisting into roses at the corners. Ginny tells her that she thought of her curls when searching through the merchandise and that softened the blow.
On the other hand, it's a mirror. A mirror. A materialistic piece to feed her vanity and ego. She’s not sure just exactly how she reminds people of a mirror. She’s not pretty, or self-absorbed, or put too much stock in how she looks, so the gift of a mirror is just—it’s confusing.
“Well, thanks Ginny,” Hermione smiles ruefully at her and accepts the gift despite Harry’s wary glance, “I’ll hang it up in my room.”
And that was the end of her birthday, really.
.
Hermione shuts the door to her bedroom with her left foot, huddles her mirror, and grunts as she grabs her wand from her spare pocket—inciting the featherlight charm. She exhales in relief, waves her wand once, and hangs her mirror in the corner of the room, the one closest to the door. Nodding her head in approval, she unwraps the ribbon from the edge of the mirror and walks towards her closet keen on slapping on her pajamas.
Sirius might trot up the stairs looking for company later, but it’s fine for now.
It's not like she's looking forward to seeing Sirius in the dark hours of the night nor listening to him prattle away about his friends, or rest her head on his chest and listen to his heart until she falls asleep.
Of course not.
But at first, ever since Harry married Ginny, he had re-taken Potter Manor, leaving Hermione to awkwardly stay at Grimmauld with Sirius. At first, the awkwardness turned into discomfort and weirdness, and almost immediately after Harry left, she began to search for apartments.
Sirius had taken that as a personal offense and grabbed the newspaper listing, then sat it on fire. Right in front of her. Ever since then, Sirius makes it a point - whether for spite or because he genuinely wants to be around her - to make time for her and just be around her. Her hesitation melted into fondness, because Sirius never does anything out of malicious intent or because he wants to get something out of it. It had taken her a while to realize that Sirius did care about her, which fed her infatuation with him to unreasonable heights.
And so, her birthday party-dinner thing had been Sirius’s idea and he planned the entire get-together. It was nice, a little exhausting having to deal with so many people at the same time, but nice nonetheless.
Almost as if looking for approval, Sirius had turned to her and smiled unsurely. As if he wasn’t sure if he crossed any lines or boundaries. Hermione had squeezed his hand from underneath the table because he's just so thoughtful after Ginny finished the bottle of wine.
Sirius brightened at the contact and refused to let go of her hand, even when they started eating.
Grabbing a sweater that was probably Sirius’s - what’s the point of living with boys if you can’t steal their clothes? - from his Hogwarts days and grunts when it catches on the edges of her curls. She trips a little when she slips into her leggings and walks in front of her new mirror to smoothen her hair.
Hermione glances at her reflection and frowns, “Maybe I should cut my hair?”
“Do you like making us look like a poodle?” Hermione in the mirror asks her with a raised brow.
Hermione - real Hermione - flinches at the comment and blinks slowly at her reflection. She knows that her hands aren’t on her hips and that her expression isn’t as irritated as the one in the mirror, slowly, she checks the side of the mirror and the Borgin and Burkes tag shimmers under the lights of her room wickedly.
“An enchanted mirror,” Hermione scoffs and decides to glare at her reflection, “Are you like the Mirror of Eden?”
Mirror Hermione looks considerate, “Not necessarily, this mirror’s purpose is to voice your true thoughts and emotions.”
“A conscience?”
“Don’t think consciences come in the form of a different form of self, the ego and the mind are psychological constructs of convenience; if not combined, mental destruction and disorder shall be the result,” Mirror Hermione responds clinically.
Hermione stares at the mirror blankly.
This, this is what she had hoped to sound like, intelligent, powerful, and an unyielding force. Disinterested and all-knowing, it’s a desire that she hid in the darkest places of her mind, never wanting to seem too shameless and ambitious. They were Slytherin traits, though, not very important now, after the war and everything.
“Are you saying that I compartmentalized too much?” she attempts to translate the cryptic words - she secretly loves - and puts the pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle.
“More than you were supposed to,” she corrects.
Hermione inclines her head and narrows her eyes at her reflection; she’s fine.
“You shouldn’t be too stubborn,” Mirror Hermione snorts, “You hate that you don’t know how to allow people to help you.”
“I do—”
“—hate coddling. You hate it because you seem weak. A weak, pathetic muggleborn, we are not, are we? Because no one can come out and say I survived Bellatrix Lestrange’s torture and win,” Mirror Hermione says bluntly, “You have people in your pocket that you don’t mind if they saw you weak, why are you hesitating? After all, what do you think Riddle’s true fear was?”
Hermione slams open her door and leaves her room without responding.
.
Hermione cannot—she cannot wrap her own brain around what mirror-Hermione had said. She compared her to Riddle. Muggleborn-hating, psychopathic, cold-blooded, snake-face murderer! She was nothing like him, absolutely nothing like—like him. He didn’t have a conscience, didn’t have empathy—a study was done on the psyche of serial killers and criminals that had a clinical take on the world. Most do not have empathy and Hermione had plenty of compassion to give.
“You know,” Sirius starts off as she jumps away from the kettle, “Usually on birthdays, the person whose birthday it is, is usually happy. Not...trying to dent the kettle.”
Hermione presses her lips together and pours herself a cup of tea.
“Darling, what’s wrong?” he asks, concerned when she doesn’t respond.
“Do you think I’m like Voldemort?” she blurts out without any real filter.
Sirius stays at her for a moment, poleaxed, and then, “What?”
“Do—” she pauses and swallows the fire that heats the back of her throat like a prickle, “Do I remind you of Riddle?”
“What in Merlin’s name did you hear that?” Sirius demands in disbelief.
Myself, is what she wants to say wryly.
Hermione shrugs instead, her tongue heavy and limp in her mouth.
Sirius is not sure how to respond to that question without any background knowledge. He rubs the side of his face and considers the inquiry slowly. “Of course not—you’re a muggleborn. How can you be anything like—”
“Because I’m closed off,” she cuts him off as if he’s never spoken in the first place. “Because I don’t let people take care of me, because I’m power-hungry, because I have no sense of authority, because I would never—”
“—that’s enough, Hermione,” Sirius stops her tirade with three quick words and four fingers tangled into the curly wisps of her mane. He glances at her fingers - twitching against her lap with anxiety the longer he keeps silent - and tugs her until the crown of her head rests underneath his chin. “First of all, no one likes to be vulnerable. It’s a normal fear. It means that you’re prone to getting hurt. Second of all, yeah, it gets frustrating when you don’t allow anyone to take care of you because you take care of everyone else. Some of us like taking care of you, kitten. Third of all, I, of all people, should know about having no sense of authority. I ran away from home, tatted half my body, and smoke and drink—I have no sense of authority. Fourthly—”
He pauses, already having lost track of the plot.
“Fourthly, you’re not power-hungry, you’re just a little swot,” Sirius finishes his speech with a teasing lilt and rakes his fingers down her scalp.
She rolls her eyes at the slight and peers upwards with a scowl. Sirius, who was not expecting the adorable display, fumbles with his words for a moment, and huffs defensively, “What?”
“I can’t decide if you’re insulting me or complimenting me,”
“As if I would ever insult you, kitten,” Sirius rolls his eyes and drops a kiss onto her nose. She goes cross-eyed at the gesture and his lips twitch at the adorable response, “Perish the thought.”
Hermione decides to tell him because she is not anything like Riddle and it’s Sirius. She would never—could never lie to him. Doesn’t need to lie to him because if there’s anyone that understands her, it’s him. “Remember that mirror Ginny got me?”
He nods his head, hand dropping from the honey-colored strands to press against her lower back, cradling her against him, and rocks her back and forth in the middle of the kitchen.
“She got it from Borgin & Burkes,” she admits.
He stills at that.
“It’s not cursed,” Hermione clarifies immediately, “And it’s not dark magic, but…”
“Grey?” Sirius asks uneasily.
“Not really,” she tilts her head and brushes his jawbone with her forehead in the process, “It’s annoying. It makes your true thoughts and emotions known. Kind of like a conscience, but one that forces you to acknowledge your thoughts? Does that make sense?”
He blinks at the explanation and says, “A mirror that acts likes veritaserum?”
Hermione nods.
.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything,” Hermione groans in displeasure and lets her head fall onto the wall next to her bedroom door with a silent thud; he’s a marauder through and through.
“Hey,” Sirius pulls her into his side and scolds her lightly, “No damaging that beautiful brain.”
Before she can open her mouth to shoot him a quip, he’s already opening the door and turning to face the mirror with a mischievous grin on his face. Hermione refuses to show her face to the mirror, instead, she hides behind the door and watches the marauder face his conscience.
“It’s time to retire the motorbike old man, your knees can’t take the swinging anymore, mate,” Mirror-Sirius finally speaks.
Hermione muffles a hysterical giggle with the back of her hand.
Sirius is both mortified and amused.
“She has a name,” Sirius scowls.
“Delilah won’t miss your old joints,” Mirror-Sirius drones.
Hermione swallows a laugh and whispers, “I told you.”
“And what about my little kitten?” Mirror-Sirius goes on when Sirius glances at Hermione behind the hidden door, “When are you going to pull the stick out of your arse and make her purr—”
“—OKAY,” Sirius panics high and shrill as he tries to muffle Mirror-Sirius with the sound of his voice, unfortunately, Hermione slips on the carpet and stumbles into the room where Mirror-Hermione appears.
“—pining for a man for over eight years is pathetic, Hermione! When are you going to stop this pity party and snog Sirius silly?”
Hermione grabs Sirius from her room and out the door. Her palms are sweaty and her heart is thudding her chest like a maddening thing. The silence that fills the hallway is excruciating and she says weakly, “Still think the mirror is a good idea?”
Sirius looks at her, not quite sure what to say, he laughs awkwardly before clearing his throat and observing her carefully. He grabs the back of her neck slowly, wanting to give her enough time to pull away, without any real finesse, he leans down and pecks her lightly on the lips.
He waits a few moments before pulling back, forehead resting against her’s gently and gauging her reaction cautiously.
Because he’s been dying to that for months and if—if what the mirror said was true then so did Hermione and if Hermione wanted it then who was he to question her?
But then Hermione grabs the back of his neck with her left palm – unsatisfied which is a word one does not associate Sirius Black with – and snogs him silly.