Sorry it's been so long!!! I've just been so busy and haven't had any time. Biology is the devil's work. Here you are, if any of you were waiting.
Without any consciousness to what she was doing, her eyes folded closed, her breathing slowed, and her mind went back to her nighttime visitations.
Pain radiated through her bones. It was torture beyond imagination; the ultimate physical human suffering. Waves of searing heat, fire that could melt rock flowed like lava over her skin, her flesh, her blood, her muscles. She saw naught but red; red flames over her eyes, reveling in her pain. The extreme hotness she felt was mixed with the pulsing, nauseating chill of the shrieking of the evil, heartless woman.
"We found it- we found it- please!" Another wave pain swept over her body.
"Tell the truth, you filthy Mudblood! You've been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth!"
Heat and knives were ripping her to pieces.
"Please!"
"HERMIONE! HERMIONE!" She could hear the distant calls of distress. She could take no more. Her body was on fire, her head was bound to explode any moment. Every flash of red drew her closer to death.
"Tell the truth!"
"PLEASE!"
Her burning skin had faded to a shade akin to a fresh piece of parchment; her stiff limbs combined with the trembling gave her the appearance of having a fit, and had she seen herself she would most likely had been sick. But she was not with Albus Dumbledore in his office; no, she was fading into another memory, painful, but softer. Her arms, clamped tightly on her chair, slackened, and her violent shaking became a mere shiver. She now delved into the emotional pain of her friend.
That same sad woman had reappeared in her mind's eye. The letter, written on frayed parchment and spattered with fresh sorrowful tears and running, watery ink was fresh in her mind once more. And even more painful, but written with obvious love and comforting spirit were the words that now appeared untidily splashed across the paper:
Dear Hermione,
I was very sorry to hear about your dad. I'm coming over tonight, and Ron and Ginny are coming with me. I know how horrible you feel. I've gone through this so many times in my life. The pain of losing a loved one hurts worse than any curse. I know it's different for you in a way though. I know you weren't able to restore your father's memory before he died. Just know in your heart though, he loved you whether he knew it or not. He loved you and was proud of-
Rose's eyes snapped open. Her arms quivered with the overwhelming shock her body was now experiencing.
"The first memory I had was a letter. I saw it from the woman's point of view. Her father had died, but he didn't know her. It seems that his memory was taken away from him by someone, and she wasn't able to give it back to him. Her name was Hermione. I lived with her."
Professor Dumbledore's eyes seemed to pierce her.
"Did you remember living with Hermione?"
"No," she blurted.
"No, but I feel it. I have some connection with her. And with Harry, and Ron, and Ginny. I used to know them."
He gazed upon her pensively.
"And your second dream?" he coaxed quietly. Rose flinched.
"My second dream was considerably worse than my first. I saw it from Hermione's vantage point as well. Although, I did a lot more feeling than seeing." She cast her eyes downward, trying to shake off the tingles that still haunted her.
"What did you feel?"
"The Cruciatus Curse, Professor. Hermione was being tortured."
Very abruptly, Dumbledore stood, and walked to a cabinet. He removed a large stone bowl, although, it could be called a basin more than a bowl. It was not completely smooth, it was slightly rough, but what caught the attention of whoever saw it was the substance inside. A silver mist swirled around inside it's arcane depths. It was hard to discern whether it was a gas or a liquid; the lighting would change your thoughts at every glance.
"What is it, Professor?" she asked softly.
"This is a Pensieve, Miss Bennet. It is used to store and view memories," he explained, watching her carefully for her reaction.
"What would you like for me to do?" she asked slowly, comprehension furrowed in her brow.
"I wish to see your memories. I believe it would be very helpful in unearthing your past." He now placed two glass vials onto the table before her.
"I want to study them. Would you mind leaving them with me?" he asked her kindly.
"Of course," she stuttered in assent. "But- how?"
"You simply touch," he mimed this with his own wand, "your wand to your temple, and place it into the vial."
She reached for one, and self-consciously raised the rod to her own head. A warm smile spread over his face.
"You must relax, Miss Bennet. Let your emotions connected with the present fade away."
She relieved the tension that had gripped her muscles unknowingly, and relaxed back into her seat. Still feeling awkward, she forced her thoughts on things besides sitting across from the Headmaster and placing a stick to her temple. Without deliberation, a silver thread of light began to form at the tip of her wand. Sensing the strand withdrawing from her mind, she eased it away slowly, the illumination elongating, until finally she placed it into the small flask. This process she repeated, and when she finally opened her eyes, she felt lighter and more at peace than when she had first stepped into the Professor's office.
"Thank you, Miss Bennet. I'm sure that I will be able to help you more than ever now that you have been so kind as to grant me your visions."
"It's me that should do the thanking," she replied shyly, a blush tinting her cheeks, and her hands folded modestly on her lap. She now rose from her seat, and bidding goodnight to Professor Dumbledore, she left the office and shut the door behind her. She skipped down one, two, three steps before halting, and pivoting. She hopped up the steps and knocked again, and then entered the room.
"Professor, I had forgotten. I brought you this," she explained, withdrawing from her robes the mysterious device she had with her when she was discovered. The glass was ice cold, but the scorch marks made you afraid to lay a hand to it for fear of being burnt. The chain, fine and made of brilliant gold was clasped at the end, and the sands within the hourglass were delicate and refined as they always had been.
"I thought that even if you couldn't figure out what it was, that it was interesting enough. I don't have any use for it, except to stare at it and try to figure out what it is." Rose placed it carefully on the desk, and the old man smiled at her.
"Thank you. I shall indeed study it. It is as you say, interesting enough."
That night, Rose arrived at the common room exhausted. Though she was incredibly happy, she felt that she really could not stay for another game of exploding snap, and really she must go to bed, (despite the profuse protests of the Marauders). Lily let her go without a fuss, only she gave her a warm hug and told her to sleep well. The following moment was strange; unintentionally, she faced Sirius, and their eyes locked for a single second. She knew he was asking her, Will you sleep well tonight? She gave him an unintelligible and brisk nod of the head, before quickly escaping to bed.
That night she dreamed of a picnic. A boy with red hair, a speckled face, and a pair of fun, obnoxious, lovable impossible blue eyes, (or was that just because she knew that they were?) sat on her left eating a sandwich stuffed with everything imaginable.
"You know what Mum's been saying of course," he said with his mouth full of beef. She slapped his wrist.
"Ronald, chew, swallow, and then talk," she scolded.
"Well, she's been saying that too," he mumbled to himself, and a great laugh came from her other side. She turned to face him, and found a familiar person there. James! she thought, but her mind instantly rejected it. Silly. That's Harry! James had hazel eyes. Harry's were a beautiful green. As soon as he saw her turn to him, he suppressed his laughter, and contained it in a grin that might as well have been his previous sniggering.
"What's your mum been saying?" she asked, trying to keep the conversation on track.
"That Rita Skeeter's nothing but a busybody, vile scarlet woman."
"Well, that's true enough. But how could she write something that atrocious! Even after all that he did for the good of the magical community!"
"You know you can't convince her of that. She doesn't care who the news is about if it's interesting, as long as her own dirty secret doesn't get out," Harry input in the conversation. He reached for a sandwich of his own, and ate vigorously, if more politely than Ron.
"We should give up the goods on her; put 'er out of business for good," Ron exclaimed. She eyed him darkly again, because bacon was now flying from his mouth.
"That would be descending to her level and you know it. Besides, what goes around comes around. The world will only put up with her so long before it bites back."
"But if we really are the only ones who know her secret, and the only ones to get it back to her!" Ron argued.
"Ronald, you are such a git," she said, rolling her eyes and taking up her own sandwich.
When Rose woke up, she was not fiercely terrified, saddened, or in pain, but a new feeling that she had not experienced now overwhelmed her. She hugged her pillow tight th oher chest, and cried small tears. Homesickness.