Mirrored Mind Shifts

Her lips were parted, and her eyes struggled to keep focus as she wrote. Her customarily neat and rounded handwriting was markedly less neat and rounded as she drew a wavering line through ‘Ravenclaw/Gryffindor artefact’ and penned ‘Ravenclaw’s jewellery box’ next to it. ‘Slytherin’s locket – R.A.B.’ received an amendment to its line: ‘Regulus Arcturus Black’.

She set the quill down and pulled a sheaf of pages closer, gathering the hastily scrawled notes together and tapping them on the surface of the desk before laying them next to her list and quill. Her fingertips were inked-stained and ached now, but she did not register the slight discomfort.

Her mind still meandered dazedly through its paradigm shift, struggling to synchronise itself with her new awareness. She was exhausted, although it was scarcely midday—a warm, bright strip of sunlight on the worn floorboards behind her told her that it was a perfect day outside.

She ran her hand over the intricately detailed notes—in places the ink was blotchy where she’d written furiously—and marvelled at the beauty of the complex magic. The heading at the top of the page read, ‘A spell to destroy a Horcrux’. It was amazing work, she realised, from an amazing mind. She’d always known that Severus Snape was brilliant. Number matrices and runic permutations littered the pages; it would have taken her years to figure that level and complexity of magic out, no matter how highly she thought of herself. He was a Master Arithmancer, too, in addition to his other skills.

She pushed her chair back and stood, swaying slightly on her feet now. She gazed at the washed-out background of the portrait, but neither its sarcastic inhabitant nor the shimmer of a portrait-to-portrait communication portal was evident. It was just that—a blank, faded painting now.

I can’t believe that I believe him, she thought dazedly as she walked towards the door, reaching her hand out to almost touch the surface of the painting, her eyes faraway, her mind’s wild oscillations slowing in amplitude, slowly adjusting.

As she stepped from the doorway into the passage, she missed the hint of a blur of paint at the edge of the portrait. If she’d looked closely, she might have seen a patrician nose and a smirking set of lips.

She walked down the passage, trailing her fingers along the banister on one side and the panelled wall on the other. The house was eerily quiet. Harry and Ron had probably stayed at the Burrow for dinner or perhaps a drinking binge with the older Weasley men. There was a lot of that these days. Some said that the alcohol numbed the harsh reality that they faced. Hermione had tried it once. The hangover had been more torturous than the drudgery of her research.

She flicked the switch of the bathroom light. She caught sight of herself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet above the hand basin and gasped, reaching a hand to her hair. It curled and tangled wildly, caught in a half-up, half-down style with her wand. I can’t believe that he saw me like this, she thought.

With that thought her mind settled, and the cold reality of her situation clinked into place. Severus Snape was her ally now. She was the only person on the side of the Light that knew the truth, the truth that would help them to defeat Voldemort.

His lips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes were sharply focussed as he wrote. He slashed a decisive line through ‘Hufflepuff’s Cup’. His spiky, angular handwriting amended the line, ‘Slytherin’s artefact’, with a scrawled, ‘Gold locket – Regulus’.

He set the quill down and pulled the thick notebook closer. He flicked through the pages of notes all written in his same distinctive scrawl. He set the book aside and pulled another piece of parchment closer--one covered with detailed notes, the ink still glistening damp. His fingertips were inked-stained and his throat ached now, but he did not register the slight discomfort.

His mind was clear, but he was still trapped in suspended disbelief of certain facts. He was struggling to reconcile the truth with his own searing sense of guilt. He was tired, but he did not know what time it was. His secret study let no outside light in, and the dim lights provided no indication of the passage of time. Glancing at the clock he was surprised to note that it was close to midday.

He ran his hand over the text of the notes. In places, the writing was cramped, and he had to lean closer to make out what was written. He marvelled at the complexity of Muggle Chemistry and Biology. The heading at the top of the page: ‘Ideas for killing off some comrades’. It was amazing that even though he’d attended Muggle school before Hogwarts, he’d never bothered to continue studying Chemistry. He’d been too awed by the magic, too enthralled by the promise of power.

He’d always known that Hermione Granger was intelligent. Chemical symbols and balanced equations spelt out untraceable ways to improve the odds of victory on the Light side—seemingly natural deaths, she’d said. Voldemort knew the tracers for his supposedly untraceable poisons, unfortunately.

He pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his arms upwards for a brief moment. He gazed at the washed-out background of the portrait, but neither its delightfully sardonic inhabitant, nor the shimmer of a portrait-to-portrait communication portal was evident. It was just that—a blank, faded painting now.

I can’t believe that she believes me, he thought dazedly as he walked towards the door, reaching his hand out to almost touch the surface of the painting. He would never have allowed his mind to dare hope, to dare imagine.

As it was, he would have never approached her alone, would never have spoken with her had it not been for the interference of the missing portrait inhabitant. As he stepped from the doorway into the living room, he missed the hint of a blur of paint at the edge of the portrait. If he’d looked closely, he might have seen a patrician nose and a smirking set of lips.

He walked upstairs after opening the hidden staircase behind the bookshelves. The house was blissfully quiet. Pettigrew and Draco had probably stayed at the Lestranges for dinner or perhaps a drinking binge with the older Lestrange men. There was a lot of that these days. Draco said that the alcohol numbed his inhibitions, made the punishments from their Lord easier to bear. Severus did not dare try it—there were too many secrets in his mind to protect.

He flicked the bathroom light switch on. He caught sight of himself in the faded, cracked mirror above the hand basin and grimaced, sneering at himself through thick, oily curtains of black, shoulder-length hair. What does she see when she looks at me? he thought.

With that thought realisation clicked, and he realised that he truly cared what another person thought of him. But no matter her personal feelings about him she believed him anyway. Hermione Granger was his ally now. She was the only person on the side of the Light that knew the truth, the truth that would help them to defeat Voldemort.