For the next several days, Hermione did her best to keep a discreet eye on Harry, ready to intervene should he show signs of withdrawing into his grief — or whatever he was feeling, exactly. He was obviously confused about his aunt and uncle's death and, whilst Hermione was perfectly happy to let him sort through his feelings on his own, she would not tolerate a return to the volatile dejection Harry was prone to.
Yet whilst he was moody and glum, the support of the Order seemed to keep him afloat enough to avoid real depression. Hermione had become painfully aware of those long hours when Harry and Ron would disappear and then return, no evidence of Quidditch in sight, suddenly more alert and serious than before. It made her glad to scamper off to the dungeons, where she could remind herself of her own usefulness.
In fact, the brewing of the Wolfsbane became all the more significant when the second week of August brought the unexpected and very public arrival of Professor Remus Lupin, whose title had been restored with the full and explicit support of the headmistress. He was to teach elementary Transfiguration up to year four, when Professor McGonagall would take over in order to ensure adequate preparation for O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, assuming official exams were still happening at all. Despite McGonagall's new duties as Dumbledore's replacement in both the school and the Order, Hermione was not surprised that the headmistress would not relinquish the advanced courses. There simply weren't many other wizards who were as knowledgeable in Transfiguration, and now was hardly the ideal time to find a new candidate.
Plus, Hogwarts was the safest place for Remus. He was unlikely to find anything but particularly viscous hostility and rejection — if not outright violence — in current society and, if something happened which jeopardised the Order's ability to deliver his potion on time, all Hermione and Draco's work would be moot; he would be defenceless against a brutal, untamed transformation. Now, he would be guaranteed employment, housing, and the potion he needed.
And anyone who took issue with him would simply have to put up with it, as the headmistress made very clear the evening of his arrival. For several days, Hermione waited to overhear the inevitable jokes or snide comments about having a werewolf living in the castle, but very few came, and those who bothered to try were swiftly and harshly reprimanded for their prejudice.
Besides, as Remus himself pointed out, his condition meant that his students would get an extra day off each month to catch up on work. It almost made Hermione long to be an O.W.L. student again. She'd adored him as a teacher and was very pleased that the headmistress had devised a way to keep him safe and useful, as opposed to how Sirius had been unfairly locked away for his own protection. To see Remus at meals, or walking the grounds, made Hogwarts feel just a little bit safer.
If only Remus' presence could also make it feel more normal. Since she was eleven years old, she'd imagined her final year at Hogwarts: Head Girl, top of the class, O's on every single N.E.W.T. course she could fit in her schedule (and even the ones she couldn't). That final trip to Diagon Alley for their school things would have been so bittersweet; all her friends buying clean new quills; heavy, pristine books; and ice cream at Fortescue's whilst watching the younger students shop with nostalgic fondness.
Instead, she was perusing the pool of textbooks for the least-abused copy of A History of Hags, having already surrendered her own books to the community for the benefit of a rising sixth year. She bitterly hoped they appreciated her marginalia; she was still regretting not arguing to keep her copies for the sake of revising. But no-one could leave to go shopping, and the post could not be trusted, so there was nothing to be done.
This became increasingly evident when Harry came to her and Ron, looking a bit frantic. "Help, Madame Pince is going to kill me."
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"She wants the Prince's book. The records show I checked out a copy of Advanced Potion Making and never handed it back in, and they need it for the sixth years!"
Hermione paled; Ron swore. "Well, where is it?" she asked.
"We buried it at the Burrow," explained Harry. "Figured it was too dangerous to leave at Hogwarts in case someone else found it by accident. Like the diary in second year."
It was clever, Hermione conceded, though unfortunately inconvenient. She agreed they couldn't risk letting the Half-Blood Prince's book circulate in the student body. "Can't you just tell her you lost it?"
"I — er — I told her the truth, that I replaced it, actually," admitted Harry guiltily, "and gave her the new copy I bought at Easter. I thought that would be enough! But now she knows there's another book out there that belongs to the school and wants it back."
Had it been Draco, he would have known to lie and hand in the newer copy without explanation, perhaps with a few charms to make it look well-used. Hermione took a moment to regret Harry's typically straightforward approach, then resolved herself to the task of problem solving.
Surprisingly, Ron beat her to it, and with a happy shrug. "Ask dad to bring it next time he comes for a meeting. We'll tell him where to find it, and then we can make sure Ginny's the sixth year who gets it. She'll know not to try any of the stuff in there."
Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. "Ron, that's perfect."
Ron shrugged again and leaned back on the sofa. "You're welcome. Oh — by the way, Hermione, McGonagall says we can go check out the pensieve tomorrow, assuming there's no more surprise murders —"
Hermione swatted him hard on the shoulder. He recoiled and cried out in outrage, but Harry intervened before he could retaliate.
"It's fine, guys. Really." He cocked his head in the direction of the portrait hole. "Go brew, Hermione. Don't worry about me."
Hermione bristled at the rejection, however well-meant it was. She wanted to argue, to point out that if they needed to discuss classified Order business, they could just say so, but she really did need to leave.
"Fine." She stood. "But I'll see you in the headmistress' office tomorrow? Shall we say four o'clock? I can't do much later than that."
Harry and Ron eyed each other. "Er… can we do after breakfast, then?"
That bitter, resentful creature stirred within her. "Fine." She tried not to imagine whatever Order event must be scheduled then and failed miserably. "See you then, then. Have a nice night."
And she left before she could embarrass herself any further.
The next day, Hermione stared at the disorganised cabinet feeling distinctly overwhelmed. How on Earth were they to know where to start? What was Dumbledore's purpose in leaving his memories for them in the first place, and why had he hurried to change his will so soon before his death?
Harry pulled a thin crystal vial from the top shelf. "This one is the oldest, I think. July of 1895…"
Hermione nearly yelped. She'd known Dumbledore was old, but this felt very different than reading a birth date in a book.
"Well, come on. Let's get the pensieve."
From behind her desk, Headmistress McGonagall eyed them before resuming her work, her quill scratching across parchment.
Hermione lingered awkwardly as the pensieve was procured. Harry handled it like a master and suddenly she could see it so clearly: he and Dumbledore, together in this office, puzzling over the mystery of Horace Slughorn and his pupil of generations ago. It made her feel strangely lost.
The liquid in the penseive was still even as the basin wobbled, settling on its pedestal. Harry uncorked the vial and upended it. Century-old silvery threads tumbled free, settling on the liquid's metallic surface.
"Do take care, Potter," called McGonagall dryly.
"Will do, headmistress." He turned to Ron and Hermione, eagerness making his eyes sparkle. "Shall we?"
Hermione resisted the urge to hold one of their hands and leaned forwards over the basin, the non-liquid enveloping her face until she was falling endlessly, like letting go of a Portkey with no destination.
And then it stopped. The disorientation lingered and it was several seconds before she realised Harry and Ron were on either side of her, and they were in a small house, or even a cottage.
It was the most bizarre thing Hermione had ever experienced. The furniture, the curtains, the clothes, even the air itself felt so out of place, so distinctly from another era. She felt as though she'd stepped into a period production, but there was still something about it she couldn't place, that felt so unnervingly real.
"Blimey," muttered Ron.
"You get used to it." Harry was turning in a circle, searching the room for a sign from Dumbledore, perhaps. Hermione didn't blame him; this wasn't what she'd expected.
The house was very small. The sitting room barely held three armchairs, but the sunlight coming through the thin curtains made the space feel airy.
In the armchair directly in front of them sat a young man on the brink of adulthood. Hermione could only see him from the side; his hair was wavy and auburn, and he was wearing an evergreen waistcoat. His legs were crossed, but Hermione could see him tapping his wand against his thigh. Restless.
"Who's that?" Harry wasn't talking about the man, though. He was pointing at the little girl in the corner, dressed in antiquated pale robes, curled up on the floor. She was holding her knees to her chest and staring at the man with a kind of vacant curiosity that told Hermione something was very wrong here.
Suddenly, in a wordless flourish of magic, a wilting bouquet of wildflowers in a ceramic vase sprang to life. The girl's eyes widened and she made a delighted sound, though she didn't move from her foetal position on the hard floor.
"Liked that, did you?" murmured the man thoughtfully. His voice was deeper than Hermione had expected and full of a gravity that seemed older than his years.
He waved his wand at the curtains and they turned from cream to ruby red, fluttering in the aftermath of the charm. The girl's eyes were huge as she watched the fabric move in awe and, Hermione suspected, fear. The man chuckled to himself.
"Are you daft?"
The trio jumped at the sharp voice and found another young man behind them. The wizard in the chair just rolled his eyes.
"You know what it does to her! Are you truly so foolish, or are you unfeeling enough to deliberately wish harm upon your family?"
"I see no harm," answered the wizard with a dismissive gesture. "In fact, I see a neglected girl who has been denied her birthright for far too long. Do you see how she reacts to magic, brother?"
"I see her suffering and instability —"
"Then please, show me! Because I see a girl desperate for magic. Has it even occurred to you that maybe if she were allowed to practise a little, she might recover? That maybe this has done just as much damage as —"
"ENOUGH!"
On the ground, the girl had begun to tremble, her eyes darting wildly between the shouting men. She was making small gasping sounds and it was very clear her distress was only mounting exponentially. The younger wizard hurried to her and knelt on the ground.
"Shh, darling, it's alright, it's alright. Shall we go milk the goats? You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Behind Hermione, the older wizard, who was now standing, made a noise of disgust and left the room.
As soon as he was gone, their world disintegrated into mist and Hermione's senses were awash in the nothingness until she found herself breathless in the headmistress' office, the pensieve sitting innocuously before them.
On either side of her stood Ron and Harry, both looking as pale and disturbed as she felt. There was a clearing of a throat and Hermione turned to find Headmistress McGonagall still sitting at her desk, quill frozen halfway across the parchment, eyebrow raised. "Well?" she asked, eyeing each of them for a long second. "Did you find what you need?"
Hermione swallowed and found her mouth dry. When McGonagall realised she wouldn't get an answer from any of them, she frowned, the heavy truth settling across all of them.
No, we didn't. Not even close.