Hermione's POV

I always thought that, when the time came, my heart would know. Deep down, I thought that my heart would be wise enough to understand what had just occurred, and would tell me.

I thought wrong.

I was stupid. I should have known that He would find them. I should have known that, soon enough, my enchantments would wear off and they would realise who they were. Soon enough. The problem is I did know, however I was naïve enough to think that He would just let them go. Ha. Stupid. He didn't have mercy.

My Dad made a wooden swing for me that hung limply over the long, sturdy branch that protruded from the tall, wide oak tree in the back garden when I was five years old. I vividly remember the creaking sound it made when I applied weight to the seat. But it never faltered. Always swinging, always creaking. I sat on it every day from the day it was made. When I came to Hogwarts, I used my magic to create an identical swing in my common room that only I could see, that only I could hear. It was never the same. As much as I loved Hogwarts, I was always excited to come home for Summer and Christmas, just to sit on it again, and feel the breeze rush through my bushy long hair like I had never left.

I was a lonely child. My closest friends were my books, and I was always happy for their company. I remember one day in particular, sitting on the swing as it made its casual creaking noise. I had just been on my very first trip to Diagon Alley, and had one of my pristine new books sitting on my lap, eager for me to open the front cover and explore its contents. I was just as eager, so I hurriedly, yet gently, opened the cover to reveal the front page.

Wizards And Witches Of Our Century

By Jemima Liskwing

I flipped over to the letter H and put the book flat on my lap. I closed my eyes and imagined my own name there. I imagined Miss Liskwing scrawling my successes and achievements down as if her life depended on it. This was the type of childhood that I led. I lived on hope, and my hope lived on knowledge, books and exams. When I finally opened my eyes and arrived back to reality, the first name I saw inscribed on the crisp page struck me.

Harry James Potter (commonly known as 'The Boy Who Lived')

Funny, I remember thinking, but not in a laugh out loud kind of way. Funny, as in, curious. I read the page about how his parents died in Godric's Hollow ten years ago. About how He Who Must Not Be Named tried to kill him too. About how he now lived with his Aunt and Uncle. About how he had an iconic lightening bolt scar etched into his forehead. On the following page there was a picture. I read the caption below it.

Mr Potter doing muggle chores, unaware of his true identity as a wizard. He resides in Number 4, Privet Drive, Surrey.

Suddenly, a noise above me said, "Book-worming, again Granger?" I didn't need to look up to know who it was. Shelby Crailsby. Before I could reply, I was looking down at an empty pair of hands. My eyes widened.

"Crailsby you give that back!" I yelled, standing up, flailing my arms around in vain in an attempt to get the book back. She ignored me, laughing.

"Oooh, who's Harry Potter, your girlfriend?" she said, laughing hysterically. This distracted her, giving me an opportunity to grab the book out of her arms, and shut it tight behind my back. I began to walk away.

"You should know better Granger! I bet you'll never even have a friend let alone meet this Harry Potter person. Dream. On!" she yelled before walking away. I stood still, petrified yet shaking violently. I brought the book round to my middle and opened it up. I placed my arms below it with my hands at the top, lightly pressing the bottom of it into my stomach. I looked at his picture. Green eyes, messy black hair, round glasses. I knew I'd never meet him, but, in my heart, I had hope.

Then, a week or two later, I found myself face to face with him on the Hogwarts express. I knew they'd all been wrong about me. Especially Shelby Crailsby.

I knew that, after the Battle of Hogwarts, I should find them. Bring them home. Unwind the spell and hold them as if they never left. I thought back to the day I did it. I knew I had to. I knew I was doing the right thing. I remembered the day I told Harry what I'd done.

"I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced they're really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move to Australia, which they have now done. That's to make it more difficult for Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me - or you, because unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you. Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and lift the enchantment. If I don't - well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to keep them safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know that they've got a daughter, you see."

It was a week after the Battle of Hogwarts that I discovered their fate. I'd told Kingsley, who was the new Minister of Magic after Pius had died and Voldemort had been defeated, about what I'd done to protect my Mum and Dad, and subsequently he promised to do everything in his power to find them. He kept his word. Five days after I'd come to him, he had come to me at the Burrow (where I was temporarily staying until I planned to be reunited with my parents) and he told me he had some information, and so we apparated to their house in Australia. What awaited my eyes wasn't a house, it was the remains of a house. For the life of me I couldn't remember where I'd seen the likes of it before. But it hit me eventually. It was in the same state as an identical house in Godric's Hollow. The Potter's house. Kingsley didn't have to say anything after that. It was literally staring at me in the face and I knew what had happened.

When we returned to the Burrow, Kingsley explained when the event happened to all of us; Harry, Ron, Ginny, George, Mr and Mrs Weasley, and me. They didn't know what had happened, but they knew it was the same night Harry and I visited Godric's Hollow, the graveyard, and were confronted with Nagini disguised as Bathilda Bagshot. And they knew it was Voldemort. We sat there, listening, with Ron's arm wrapped around me and my head leaning on his shoulder. It was at that moment I knew that I had an amazing friend in him, but it was the first time since the kiss in the Chamber of Secrets that I realised I didn't love him as much as I thought it did. I felt awful of course, but I knew he would always remain one of my best friends. And of course, there was Harry.

But the one person who truly helped me through it all is someone who I thought I would always hate. But, in the words of Oscar Wilde, hatred is blind, almost as blind as love. I learned that the hard way. Returning to Hogwarts the year after the battle was definitely emotional and a hard choice to make, but I loved school so much that I couldn't bare the thought of not completing my 7 years there. But without returning, I wouldn't be who I am now, and this story would have no meaning. Because I wouldn't be here.

I wouldn't have grown to love the one person who could help me if I hadn't gone back. Without the one person who helped me to recover from the war, to change my life around and to make me a better person, I would have died. So I suppose I have to thank my parents. Everything happens for a reason, and as one door closes, another must open. Their sacrifice was what kept me living. But I can't help thinking I should have stopped it. I really thought that they would live to see their grandchildren laugh, but instead my children hear stories about their Grandma and Grandpa who gave themselves up for my happiness.

I thought that, on the 24th of December of one of the darkest years of my life, I would know. I thought that on the worst day of my life, I would have a small inkling that something wasn't right.

I thought that, on the day that Monica and Wendell Wilkins - my Mum and Dad - were face to face with Voldemort, I would be there to save them.

Ha. Stupid.