Hermione's head pounded. She said her goodbyes to the Weasleys and Harry outside the courtroom and wandered somewhere on the upper levels of the Ministry. There were quite a few floors completely closed off and under construction, causing her to get a little lost. It seemed that now that Voldemort was gone, the Ministry had began to funnel some of its resources into renovations for the first time in over a generation. Near the lobby, she passed by a notice on the wall twice her size that said WARNING: DOXY INFESTATION ON FLOOR 9. ALL INTER-OFFICE MEMOS WILL BE REDIRECTED.

Being in the Ministry was not unlike visiting the other common rooms in Hogwarts—something that had suddenly become much more normal in the past year. The Ministry was a familiar space, but not too familiar. There were glimpses of the building she remembered from last year.

Today, she couldn't shake the image of Lucius Malfoy with his wand up, nor the one of Ron crumpled on the floor of the Great Hall. Together, they made up a diptych of scenes she could have never predicted. Worst of all, when she closed her eyes, Draco Malfoy's voice was the one that rang in her ears.

I repay my debts, no matter who they're owed to.

"'Scuse," a gruff voice came from somewhere near her knees. A grumpy looking house elf appeared with a custodial uniform on—so he was paid, at least, Hermione surmised—and his finger pointed at the end of the hall. "Locking up this area for the night if you're not authorized personnel."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I'll get out of your hair."

The house elf's face crinkled. "Don't 'ave any hair."

She ducked out of the way to the end of the hall, figuring that the only thing to do now was to go back to Harry's for the night. The only people who were still at the Ministry were late-night Aurors, the people in the evening weather department, and lackeys who had stacks of paperwork to get through.

So she was surprised when she passed an open door leading to a room with all the lights on and something glowing in the corner. The walls were dark and paneled, and there were a few small tables strewn throughout the room. The strange gleam caught her eye and she poked her head in. Nobody was inside. "Hello?" she said, just in case.

The little gold placard outside the door frame simply had a room number on it. Down the hall, there was a sign that said "Archives."

She approached the glowing thing, which looked, at first glance, like a small basin atop a pillar that came to about half her height. Peering over it, she recognized it as a Pensieve. Upon closer inspection of the walls, she realized the dark panels were actually long, skinny compartments with sliding coverings that glided over them. If she pushed one aside, she could see the rows and rows of tiny white vials with miniscule labels wrapped around the glass. The shelves went deep into the walls.

Hermione glanced behind her. They weren't locked, after all, so what would the harm be? These were most likely inconsequential memories that were only kept for the Ministry's records. The important memories, she assumed, would be held under higher security.

She plucked a vial from the shelf and quietly slid the compartment shut. The worn label had a few numbers on it with a slew of letters after it. She realized the numbers were a year: 1804. Her eyes widened. It would be interesting to see what wizarding life was like so long ago. Gingerly, she attempted to unscrew the top. It didn't work. She pulled. That didn't work either. Frowning, she put the vial back and tried another. The same thing happened, no matter what she chose—she couldn't get a single memory open.

She glanced at her watch. It had been a long day. It had started with going to the hospital to visit Ron, then hurrying to the Ministry, watching Harry's memory, then avoiding reporters and then she had run into Malfoy, of all people. He was the last person she wanted to see, second only, perhaps, to Voldemort himself. She wished, desperately, that she could talk to Ron. He would be the antidote to all that had happened today.

The glimmering Pensieve, its surface as beautiful as polished marble, caught her eye again. She had never tried to produce a memory before, although Harry had talked about it before. Pensieves were expensive, so she had only ever heard of the one in Dumbledore's offices. As a witness, she knew she would have to produce one for the trial. Tentatively, she reached her hand out to hover over the pale, silvery surface. It felt like nothing, not even water. Something lighter.

She raised her wand to her temple and closed her eyes. She felt a little silly, willing an old memory to come up again, to resurface at the front of her mind.

How did this memory start? She was still young, she knew, but it had been many years now. Find the beginning, she thought to herself. Warm springtime. The hush of the lake under a bright sun. She could feel something electric forming between her wand and her skin.

The memory crystallized, her wand catching it. She guided it to the Pensieve and hesitated before leaning forward to touch the strange liquid. This would be peculiar, she decided. But was it any more odd than the other things she had done? She had once broken into Gringotts. She had faced a three-headed dog. Couldn't she do this?

She broke the surface.

A spinning wheel of color and sound. Shapes morphed into figures. She gasped. There she was. Much younger, with chubby cheeks and a mane of bushy hair. She watched as the little Hermione pressed her own fingers into her neck. She remembered now. Her muscles had been sore for weeks after coming out of her petrified state.

They had gone out to the lakeshore to enjoy the sun. She remembered it well because it had been the first time she had spent any time outside in many months.

"Oi!" Ron waved at a distant figure across the lawn. Harry zoomed about the grass with his broomstick, dipping low and high in the open field.

Ron smirked. His nose was a bright and flaky red. "And he said he'd let me have a go half an hour ago."

"Oh, let him fly," Hermione chastised, though a grin widened on her face, "he'll be cooped up all summer."

"You're right," Ron conceded. "Y'know, Harry might come over during the summer," he glanced at her. "You should come too, of course. My parents probably wouldn't even notice an extra kid."

"I'm not sure if I can. My parents want to go on holiday."

"Oh. Well, maybe next summer," he said, looking disappointed. "Third year will be cool. Hogsmeade's supposed to be the best."

"We get to take so many more interesting classes, too!"

"Only you would be excited about that."

"Ron, my muggle friends are learning algebra in school. Let me have this."

Ron smirked. "Do you think next year will be normal, for once?"

Hermione from the memory considered this, a thoughtful look on her face. This made the real Hermione laugh out loud.

"I imagine it can't get much stranger than this." Ron swiveled to her suddenly, a meaningful look on his face. "People keep saying we're brave, you know. For going down to the Chamber."

"But you are," she said automatically, then added quickly, "you and Harry both."

"The thing is, though," he picked at a tuft of grass near his feet. "It didn't feel that way. I was scared, but I didn't really feel like I had a choice. I couldn't let Ginny, y'know…" he trailed off.

Hermione squinted at Harry, who was making figure eights above them. "If jumping down a secret chamber to an evil monster to save someone's life is second nature to you, then we should bottle it up and sell it," then she began to sing, her voice high and clear, "You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell—"

"—the brave at fart!"

They erupted into laughter.

The clouds dissolved into blue, the blue of the sky shifting into the green of the grass, everything fading away until only the wood of the room she was in remained, dim light returning.

Hermione sniffed, letting out a sigh. She was crying. She wiped at her face, glancing at her watch. It was already late in the evening. What difference would it make, to see another memory?

She closed her eyes and lifted her wand to her temple once more. She could smell the memory she wanted. A strange tightness coiled in her chest like a knotted wire, and she paused. It kept her from remembering for a moment. Then it solidified in her mind. The castle full of the scent of firewood and the cold wet smell of the dungeons every time she went to Potions.

The colors and shapes of the now gone Room of Requirement came up all around her. At first, she thought she had found herself facing an entryway, but it was only a mirror. She had no reflection.

They were both sprawled out on the floor. She stood over her younger self. Ron, stringy with his ankles poking out of the bottom of his trousers, her with her hair splayed out under her skull like a wide fan. Ron's eyes were squeezed shut, his school tie flipped up and next to his head, his wand somewhere near his knees.

That day, she and Ron had decided to practice stunning charms on their own. After a few successful rounds of spells, they had taken a break on the floor to wait for the dizziness to pass.

She reached out and her palm hovered over his cheek, even though she knew that she wouldn't be able to feel his skin. It was funny to think about now, as this was once her fear. That she would try and touch him only for her to feel nothing at all.

Just as she was about to graze the freckles under his eye, the Hermione from the memory spoke. "That one was brutal, sorry."

"Next time, aim for a limb," Ron grunted. Her spell had hit him right in the chest, increasing its potency.

"I ought to work on my Patronus anyway."

"We haven't even learned that yet."

"A Dementor wouldn't even care if it found us right now. We're miserable."

"Can you imagine?

Hermione affected a posh, whiny accent. "'Begging your pardon, just here to suck out your souls, thanks—oh, I can come back another time.'"

"Thursday's perfect. Ta!"

They laughed hard, clutching at their sides. Hermione snorted.

"We should get back to the Common Room," Hermione said, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. "Harry will wonder where we are."

"You're right. I don't like leaving him alone," Ron said, the mood darkening immediately. Many of their conversations that fall had been about Harry. They were quarreling more frequently, but when it came to Harry, they were at least on the same page.

"Me neither," Hermione said. She hoisted herself up, fingers tapping. There had been an electricity going through her body for weeks after they had started Dumbledore's Army. Save for the useless Defense Against the Dark Arts classes they were taking, her other classes felt like distractions. A side effect of Voldemort's resurrection. She had itched for something more.

The D.A. made her useful. Her view on the entire world flipped around in her mind for the first time since she was eleven. Generally, she had always felt as though her ideas were common sense —t he idea of S.P.E.W. had emerged from that. But the other part of her knew that change would be slow precisely because it wasn't common sense at all.

She imagined her friends thought she liked to read Hogwarts, A History to know how many stones were used to build the castle (6,234,121) or the times in Hogwarts' history when the House Cup had been a dead four-way tie (1253, 1592, 1777, and 1970, for anyone wondering). But she most liked reading it for the insight she gathered on its previous student populations, which she could compare with the readings from muggle books that she usually relegated for the summer.

In the hot months away from Hogwarts she would thumb through books on women's suffrage in Britain, the protests that took place all over the globe in the late sixties, and the French Revolution. Until then, she had felt like she only ever stored this information in separate bins in her brain. There were the things that she used for her classes, then the things that she used to understand life that were informed by the entire world, not just wizarding history. But something had sparked when she heard Umbridge speak at the start of the school term. These were tactics she had seen before, in places and times she could only ever imagine.

In the memory, she and Ron were a good foot apart on the floor. This placement of deliberate distance had been noticeable in everything they had done together starting sometime in their fifth year. Ron seemed to do the same. She knew now that they had both been being very, very careful.

It was a shame, really. They could have had so much more time together. But she tried not to think this way.

Ron's eyes were still closed, and even though it was only a memory, the real Hermione could remember exactly what had gone through her head that morning in their fifth year. It was the most alone they had been in many months. She remembered how she had wanted to lean over his face at that moment and brush her mouth onto his, an act so impossible that she felt if she were to act upon it, it would be as calm and simple as turning a light on.

Instead, Ron hoisted himself up. "I know what you're thinking."

"You do?" Hermione said quickly, her body springing away from him like she had brushed against a flame.

Ron nodded, and the real Hermione watched with rapt attention. She couldn't remember this part of their conversation. As he opened his mouth to speak, something dribbled out of his mouth, dripping onto his shirt collar and down his front, dark and thick—blood.

She gasped, her stomach twisting as Ron's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, a gurgling noise coming from him.

Hermione was on her knees now, her heart racing. This didn't happen. "No!" she said to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut and grasped her wand. "F-finite Incantatem!"

She opened her eyes. The memory had dissipated. Her wand clattered to the floor. She stared at the Pensieve as if doing so would will it to produce a different result.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.