She had starting keeping a list in order to keep track of the memories as she made her way through them. Maybe if it was easier for her to string the snippets together mentally, she would be able to form a sort of timeline, tracking her previous life up until the moment her slate had been wiped clean. If she was lucky, she would be able to spot the change in her old self and glean some insight into how she had ended up owning a business and property in Hogsmeade and not running the handful of Departments in the Ministry that she would have gladly taken on as her own.
That had been the plan, after all.
Kingsley had been quite pleased with her pre-graduation acceptance of his offer to be his undersecretary, something he had been quite passionate about. It had almost nothing to do with her role in bringing down Voldemort, and everything to do with her drive to make the world a better place in every way she was able to, and he had said as much.
Hermione Granger had opinions on what was right and what was wrong, strong opinions. There were people who needed help, witches and wizards who needed proper representation in government. There were biased and hindering laws to amend, to wipe out, to improve, to overhaul. There were so many things she could think of to improve the living conditions of half-breeds and creatures across the country and her heart ached for every single one.
Being the Minister's Senior Undersecretary was a lofty place to start, and Hermione hadn't wanted to step on anyone's toes to get there. But if she could skip the "climbing the ranks" so to speak, the faster she could actually influence change to happen. Time was of the essence, before people started to forget the horrid details of the War and effects of Blood Prejudice.
And so her plan had been simple. Attend Eighth Year at Hogwarts, graduate with esteem, and use her name for more good than she could possibly imagine while still at Hogwarts.
Somehow, between now and then, she had changed her mind and become a bookshop owner.
"And you're positive there's not going to be anything bad in this one?" Hermione asked Daphne, yet again.
"Yes, good lord. I've told you, you two buried the hatchet a long time ago," the blonde rolled her eyes dramatically.
"It just seems odd…" Hermione pondered, turned the vial of silvery memory between her fingers, unsure.
"I can ask her what's in it, if you like. But I'm positive it's not going to start the next Wizarding War. You're being so dramatic."
Hermione scoffed at her friend's words. The delicate calligraphy would have been beautiful if it weren't for the sharp spikes of ink; she supposed it was still beautiful, in a way that suited the owner precisely.
"I can't imagine us ever having cause to settle anything," Hermione thought aloud.
"Well, you're both my friends. It would have made things a little odd at the wedding if you hadn't been on speaking terms, in the very least."
"Explain to me again how you managed to marry Percy Weasley?" Hermione laughed lightly.
She had been so skeptical of what had led to that arrangement but Daphne's eyes lit up when she looked at her husband, more than she had ever seen anyone's eyes brighten when looking at the studious Ministry worker. Once she had seen the same look in Percy's eyes when directed at her Slytherin friend, Hermione had consciously decided to accept that as one of the facts about 'the future' she might never understand. Regardless, she could still be happy for her friend.
"Well, doll, you hired me on in the Ministry as a consult on Ancient Pureblood traditions, customs, dark object manipulation. I'm not just a pretty face, you know," Daphne sat back on the sofa, large mug of tea in her hand. "And Percy was constantly in and out of your department for one thing or another and we got to chatting…" Daphne let her sentence trail off.
"And the rest is history?" Hermione prompted quizzically.
"As they say," Daphne nodded.
"History I can't remember," Hermione clarified, though her voice lacked any indication of self-pity for the moment, which Daphne seemed to approve of. "Alright, then."
"I'll wait here, shall I?" was the last thing Hermione heard before she tipped the contents of the delicate vial – from Pansy Parkinson, no less - into the pensieve. She submerged her face with as much grace as one could muster under the circumstances.
She didn't have much of an idea of what to expect. The last thing she could remember of Pansy Parkinson was her shout to grab Harry in the Great Hall, just after Voldemort had called for the students of Hogwarts to offer him up in a trade for their safety.
And she hadn't thought much of the girl since that moment. Until now.
The dungeons were quiet, eerily so, and for a moment Hermione had no idea what the point of this memory was. The hall extended out to her right and left, and there was no one in sight. She recognized it immediately one very near the girls lav on the first floor, not very far from the Slytherin Common Room.
She didn't know what time it was, or when it was, or why Pansy Parkinson had chosen this moment to show her.
So she waited.
This was perplexing. She had never seen a memory that didn't start with something obvious.
Just as she was shifting on her feet and extending her hand in order to touch her fingertips to the stone wall of the corridor – to see if it felt real or not, being a memory – there was a shuffle from down the other end.
After a few more quiet moments, she saw someone peek out from around the corner for a brief half-second before disappearing again.
Hissing and whispering that was just out of earshot began to make its way to her and she paid more attention to what followed.
Pansy Parkinson snuck out from behind the corner, looking back over her shoulder as more heads followed after her.
Quiet as they could be, younger children of other houses were following after Pansy in a staggered line.
"Prefect Parkinson -" a little Hufflepuff girl started and she was hastily shushed by the others around her before starting again much more quietly. "Prefect Parkinson, where are we going?" she whispered.
Pansy had stopped and crouched down to the little girl's level – she was no more than a second year, if that – and beckoned her closer.
"I'm taking you to where I think you'll be safest," she explained.
"I thought Hogwarts was safe," she answered back.
"It used to be," a Gryffindor boy commented. "It didn't used to be like this."
Like what? What was going on?
"He's right," another girl whispered. "This isn't Hogwarts." The Ravenclaw had tears in her eyes, and was holding a bandaged wrist close to her body.
"You'll have to stay there, where I'm taking you all. It's not like your House Quarters, but it had food and beds and friends to keep you company," Pansy explained. "To keep you safe. Some of the professors are mean to you -"
"Why though? I always do my homework," she pressed. "I never speak out in class. I'm good!"
"I know you are," Pansy whispered, and Hermione crept closer, her brow furrowed tightly in concentration. She didn't want to miss a clue. "It's hard to explain, but it isn't your fault. It's none of your faults. But we have to go, and quietly. I'll explain better after we get up there."
"Where is 'there'?" the Ravenclaw who had spoken earlier asked, eyes still sparkling.
"It's called the room of Requirement," Pansy answered. "And they'll keep you all safe there, because you're muggleborns and you're in more danger than the rest of us. Now shhh."
Hermione was dumbfounded.
This was the girl that had been prepared to give Harry up in the Final Battle.
The girl who sneered and jibed and smirked at Hermione's blood status for years before this.
She recognized immediately, as Pansy stood again and beckoned the other children to follow her down the hall again, that she was leading them to the Room of Requirement where Neville and Ginny and Dean and so many others had already taken shelter from the cruel tyranny of Voldemort that had taken over the school. At the very moment in time, Hermione herself was probably slogging through the English countryside with Harry and Ron, Ron unable to apparate just yet. Or scrounging for food for them so they wouldn't go hungry another night. Or pouring over her texts and trying to figure out what the remaining horcruxes were and how to destroy them.
As she watched the Seventh Year lead the other away from her spot again, Hermione's mind was frozen.
It was very hard for her analytical mind to reconcile this new image of Pansy Parkinson with the one that had teased her and laughed at her and made her feel like she was the sludge at the bottom of the compost bin.
This…
This young woman cared. This young woman had lines of worry etched into her brow and a tired, guarded slump to her shoulders. This young woman held her wand at the ready in one hand and the small hand of a muggleborn Hufflepuff in the other.