Summer at Hogwarts was unlike anything Hermione had experienced. She couldn't remember a time when so many students had been present outside of term. The grounds were alive with games and leisure, and the students in the corridors wore light summer clothes instead of school robes. Hermione had arrived at the Great Hall on the fourth day, stunned, to find the four tables gone. Instead, dozens of smaller, round tables filled out the floor. Hermione had found Harry and Neville at one, chatting about defensive charms, and sat herself beside them. It became their table by default, always available for them, and always served their favourite foods. Across the Great Hall, similar claims were made, and the school settled into an unprecedented wartime routine.

For the first few days, Hermione occupied herself by wandering the grounds, or reading whatever she could get her hands on in the library that seemed like it might identify the elusive R.A.B. Harry and Ron spent hours on the Quidditch pitch, flying, or trying to start matches with other like-minded students, which Hermione was grateful for. It seemed to help Harry come back to himself.

She was in the library, reading a bland treatise on charm-making when Dobby appeared beside her.

"Headmistress would like you in her office now!" he cried, leaving Hermione no choice but to leave her book on the table and hurry to the second floor. There, she found Harry and Ron excitedly hovering by the gargoyle.

"Took you long enough!"

Before Hermione could tell Ron off for being impatient, the gargoyle admitted them entrance. It was crowded with the three of them on the staircase, and Hermione was reminded of the Invisibility Cloak. There was no way they'd all fit under it now. The thought was surprisingly sad.

Hermione's first thought when the door opened was that the headmaster's office looked exactly the same as the only other time she'd seen it. Her second thought was that none of the last few weeks mattered, because there was a portrait of Dumbledore, so he had never really left at all.

Headmistress McGonagall must have thought so, too, because the first thing she said to them, eyes severe, was, "He is still gone."

Harry's eyes were bright. "But —"

"A portrait is an echo, Mr Potter, an imprecise imitation."

Harry was still staring at the sleeping painting of Dumbledore with a kind of furious desperation.

"Albus Dumbledore is gone and will never return. Believe me, I would rather not have to invite you in here so soon, but there are certain matters which simply cannot be delayed."

"Is it the Order?" asked Ron eagerly.

"Not quite, Mr Weasley. Employ a little patience, please. No, I have brought you here to deal with the late headmaster's will."

His will? Like the funeral, Hermione hadn't even thought of so pedestrian a thing as a will for the great Albus Dumbledore.

Harry echoed her thoughts. "Dumbledore had a will?"

"He did, and you three are explicitly named in it."

The thought made Hermione's head swim. Named? In Dumbledore's will? She couldn't imagine what she could have done to deserve that, or what he could possibly want to leave in her name. Weren't there dozens of other people he'd met in his long, illustrious life, who were more important?

"As it happens, it seems Albus was in the process of altering his will when he passed away." Hermione heard weeks of exhaustion and irritation in McGonagall's voice. This was not a version of herself the headmistress made visible to the rest of the student body. "The current version is… unclear, and unrecognised by the Ministry. However, I believe his last wishes should be honoured, regardless of which signatures it is missing."

"Can't you just ask him" — Ron nodded at the portrait — "to explain what he wants?"

"A portrait is an echo, Mr Weasley, and has no legal autonomy," repeated McGonagall. "But if it makes you feel better, he hasn't woken up since he appeared. Perhaps he knows it would be too difficult, yet. The emotions are still fresh for all of us. As it is, we are on our own, and so we must decipher this ourselves."

She invited them to approach the large desk, upon which many scrolls of parchment were laid out. Some looked much older than others, and the penmanship was slightly different. Hermione wondered how long ago Dumbledore had begun to put together his final wishes, the kind of man he'd been back then.

"Most of it, thankfully, is notarised and quite straightforward. But the parts concerning you three…" She gently swept aside most of the parchment except for some smaller, fresher pieces. Hermione leaned over the desk to read the writing there and quickly understood the headmistress' frustration.

The handwriting was difficult to read, probably owing to Dumbledore's frailty and difficulty with his hand in the last year of his life. Parts were crossed out entirely, contradicting itself, and there were references to things Hermione had never heard of and could not understand.

"We understand, here, that he bestowed the Sword of Gryffindor to you, Mr Potter." McGonagall lightly traced Dumbledore's words, these ones clear and stark on the parchment. "However, unless you find yourself in desperate need to carry one of the world's most valuable relics with you every day, I hope you'll allow it to be housed here, in my office?"

Harry smiled, matching McGonagall's dry humour. "That should be fine, thanks."

"The Ministry," the headmistress scoffed, "insists that it wasn't his to give, however I see no issue in allowing you to use it if you need. I won't pretend to know all the understandings you had with Professor Dumbledore, Mr Potter, but I won't stand in your way. You are a Gryffindor and have as much right to that sword as any other."

Hermione scanned the rest of the parchment fragments. There were descriptions of Snitches, an illuminator of some sort, and beside her name, the simple word "Beedle" underlined. Below it were the words "Stone," "Severus," and "Aberforth," all crossed out, next to the recognisable icon of the Deathly Hallows, drawn haphazardly, the lines not quite straight.

Then, at an odd angle, like an afterthought, was the sentence, We mustn't give in to temptation, old friend.

Hermione followed the slant of his writing to another fragment, a few inches down. Only in life can we hope to repair what we have lost in Death.

Then, smaller, May she forgive us both.

The musings of a madman.

"I was surprised to find your name there, Miss Granger," said McGonagall quietly, nodding at the parchment scrap Hermione was tracing over and over again with her index finger. "Severus has already reviewed the will and hasn't the faintest idea what any of this might mean. Have you?"

Hermione couldn't pull her eyes away from the haunting words; something cold graced her spine. "No," she answered honestly. Other than the triangular symbol, she had no idea what Dumbledore was talking about, or what he wanted her or Professor Snape or anybody else to glean from it.

The headmistress hummed thoughtfully and Hermione had the uncomfortable feeling that she was holding her tongue.

"Professor? What does this mean?" Harry pointed at a larger scrap of parchment with heavy writing across it.

"Ah, this is in reference to that." McGonagall pointed and they turned to look at the large glass cabinet filled with bits and pieces of shiny, whirring things. "The top shelf, I believe, is entirely yours."

Harry went to open the ornate glass door with excitement. "The top shelf — these are all memories!"

Hermione recognised, then, the familiar pearly sheen inside the little bottles.

"He's labelled some of them," reported Harry as he rifled through the clinking bottles. "I know some of these — this is the one I got from Slughorn, and these are the ones he showed me of when he met Riddle before…" Harry picked through a few more. "Some of these have Snape's name on them…"

"Perhaps we should inform Severus, then, before we go gallivanting through the pensieve?"

Harry bashfully put back the bottles and shut the cabinet with reluctance.

Headmistress McGonagall let them go through the scraps of Dumbledore's will for the better part of an hour, but they still could not say for certain what the late headmaster intended, beyond the obvious bequeathing of the sword and memory cabinet. She did leave them, however, with an open invitation to return to continue the puzzle and eventually explore the contents of the mysterious glass cabinet. Harry was itching to get in the pensieve; Hermione thought it was a wonder he was keeping still at all.

They were collecting themselves to leave when the headmistress cleared her throat. "Just a moment, Miss Granger, if you will?"

Hermione faltered while Harry and Ron continued past her to the door, avoiding her eyes. Before Hermione could wonder why she had so suddenly been singled out, she was alone with the headmistress.

"Miss Granger, I take no pleasure in this, but I'm afraid it must be done. You may sit, if you wish."

Hermione ignored the referenced chair, everything in her suddenly going very cold. What had she done? She imagined she must have looked very defiant, because McGonagall's gaze suddenly sharpened.

"Very well." The headmistress' posture straightened, and Hermione realised she was now playing the role of pupil again. "You have known about the Order of the Phoenix for many years now, Miss Granger. I am sure you know of its origin, some of its members over the course of its existence, and I daresay you have been privy to a few more details of its operations than you were supposed to. You, Mr Potter, and Mr Weasley, however, do seem to understand the importance such a group holds, particularly now, as the factions of this war begin to make themselves known."

Hermione didn't bother nodding; none of these questions were truly in want of an answer. Was this some sort of test? Would she not be inducted unless she could prove her knowledge?

"You did not experience the First War, Miss Granger, and so I am not sure if you truly grasp the nature of what we are living, though I will not insult you by suggesting you do not appreciate what is at stake. To fight a war is to place your life into the care of your comrades, over and over again, and with absolute conviction. It is a trust more sacred than marriage vows. That is why the Order exists, how it exists. Without that trust, we have nothing, and we lose."

McGonagall, who had until now been pacing thoughtfully, turned to Hermione with so much coldness in her eyes that it left her winded. "So, Miss Granger, I ask you: Why should we place our lives into the care of someone who knew, for months, that there was a Marked Death Eater residing in the castle, and told no-one?"

Hermione was cornered, pinned by McGonagall's glare, and she couldn't even find it within her to breathe, let alone to answer.

How did McGonagall know? Was Draco in trouble? Was he to be expelled? Her first instinct was to deny it all, but that was pointless.

The headmistress continued to watch her patiently, until Hermione helplessly spluttered, "I knew he wouldn't hurt anyone."

"You knew he wouldn't hurt anyone…" McGonagall said it slowly, as though for the benefit of someone very stupid, and Hermione's temper flared.

"He didn't want the Mark," Hermione insisted. "He wasn't going to do anything! He wasn't a threat! And if I'd told someone — if Harry had found out, even — he would have been expelled, or Harry would have attacked him — and —"

"And you did not see fit to allow us to come to that conclusion ourselves, Miss Granger? Did you think we were not intelligent enough?"

"No — of course not —!"

"Then why did you withhold it? Why could you not allow the rest of us — to trust us, as Mr Malfoy so clearly trusted you?"

"Because — it was to protect him —"

"He is well protected now, Miss Granger. In case you haven't noticed, the Order has not thrown him out on his ear, despite the Mark on his arm."

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again.

McGonagall took pity on her. "Severus has vouched for Mr Malfoy's character. The Order, in return, is prepared to offer its protection as long as he remains within Hogwarts' walls and does not betray us. In doing so, we also protect ourselves from any compromising intelligence which may be unwittingly revealed if Mr Malfoy were to be in the presence of Voldemort, seeing as he was witness to Dumbledore's death. Severus has indicated to me that there is more to his situation that I cannot understand but, you see, I trust Severus Snape.

"But at the moment, Miss Granger, I do not trust you. And unless you can persuade me as to why I should, I'm afraid you cannot be inducted to the Order of the Phoenix at present —"

"No!"

"Then explain, Miss Granger! Why should we put our lives in your hands when we cannot trust you to tell the truth? What if you had been wrong? Have you thought of that? What if he had taken advantage of you — betrayed you — and you were responsible for the destruction he caused? He bears the Dark Mark, Hermione! Regardless of what he told you, of why, for all you knew, he could have been waiting to kill you. There are Death Eaters younger than him who have done worse to girls like you. You are a Muggle-born! I cannot fathom how you, of all people, were the one to make such a mistake."

Hermione didn't know when it had started, but she was crying. "Please," she gasped, ugly sobs breaking her voice, "I promise — I promise that I —"

"That you what? That you won't do it again?"

"That my judgement is sound!" They were both shouting at each other now. "I would have told you if I thought Draco was a threat! Don't you see — I can be trusted — my decisions are logical — and I know what I'm doing —"

"I see selfishness —"

"He didn't hurt anyone! He didn't do anything — in fact, he helped, when Harry called us to Hogsmeade — you saw him there! And you can ask Harry, too — he thanked Draco afterwards and —"

"ENOUGH!"

Hermione's mouth closed audibly.

"Enough, Miss Granger."

Hermione pressed her lips together hard enough to hurt to try and stop the embarrassing, blubbering noises she was making. Behind her desk, McGonagall looked tired and old and the profound disappointment in her eyes felt like physical pain upon Hermione's body.

"You have disappointed me immensely. I had hoped you would provide me with an alternative, but I'm afraid you will not be inducted. I will, however, withhold the reason from the rest of the Order, to give you the opportunity to repair the damage, shall we say, without permanently impairing your reputation."

"'Repair the damage?'" Hermione croaked.

"I am not unreasonable, Miss Granger. You may join the Order when you have sufficiently proven yourself to be worthy of it."

"How do I —"

"Trust, Miss Granger. Prove to me that you can be trusted and, when the time is right, you will be invited back."

"How long —"

"As long as it takes." McGonagall waved her hand in Hermione's direction and returned her attention to the heavy desk in front of her. "Now, kindly leave, Miss Granger."

Hermione had never felt so insulted in her life, or by someone whose opinion she valued so much. Her mouth was open in pained horror, but McGonagall didn't even see it. Crying, she turned and stormed from the office with as much noise as she could muster.

Hot tears still blurred her vision as she stumbled blindly down the second-floor corridor, but her blood burned with indignant, righteous fury. She didn't care what McGonagall thought she knew; Hermione stood by her decision, and she would make them see that. She would prove to them all that she was the most trustworthy, intelligent asset they could possibly want.

She was the person who had known Draco Malfoy had a Dark Mark and hadn't told anyone.

That gut-wrenching feeling she'd felt when she'd pushed his sleeve up, before Christmas, and all the times she'd caught flashes of that writhing thing on his arm… The feeling of him falling apart in her arms, sobbing, afraid…

Would it really have been so much better if she'd told someone his secret?

She would never know.

But would she do it again, if she had to?

Absolutely.