No, she probably wasn’t.

         Hermione read the few lines of spiky, acid-green writing aloud.
         “ ‘Dear Bally, Thanks for your help. Here’s a copy of the book, hope you like it.
You said everything, even if you don’t remember it. Rita.’ I think it must have arrived
while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps she wasn’t in any fit state to read it?”
         “No, she probably wasn’t.”
         Harry looked down upon Dumbledore’s face and experienced a surge of savage
pleasure: Now he would know if all the things that Dumbledore had never thought it
worth telling him, whether Dumbledore wanted him to or not.
         “You’re still really angry at me, aren’t you?” said Hermione; he looked up to see
fresh tears leaking out of her eyes, and knew that his anger must have shown in his face.
         “No,” he said quietly. “No, Hermione, I know it was an accident. You were trying
to get us out of there alive, and you were incredible. I’d be dead if you hadn’t been there
to help me.”
         He tried to return her watery smile, then turned his attention to the book. Its spine
was stiff; it had clearly never been opened before. He riffled through the pages, looking
for photographs. He came across the one he sought almost at once, the young
Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with laughter at some long-forgotten
joke. Harry dropped his eyes to the caption.

                      Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother’s death,
                               With his friend Gellert Grindelwald.

         Harry gaped at the last word for several long moments. Grindelwald. His friend
Grindelwald. He looked sideways at Hermione, who was still contemplating the name as
though she could not believe her eyes. Slowly she looked up at Harry.
         “Grindelwald!”