I tried really hard in this chapter to try and imagine what it would feel like to lose my parents, and had to stop myself from writing before this got too long. I'd just like to say thank you to all my reviewers – you're reviews made me smile all day :)!

Disclaimer: See chapter one. It applies for the whole story.

It had all been a blur; the following minutes seemed to merge into each other until she felt as if she'd been hunched in that same spot her entire life, as if the only emotion she had ever felt was despair. And she knew exactly who the blame for it should fall on. Sitting numb from the shock, slumped against the wall besides the staircase, Hermione could finally say that she had experienced true agony. The phone was lying limp by her side, hanging from its cord, the familiar dial tone telling her that there was no signal, no one waiting on the other end of the line. She hadn't the strength or the will to reach out and return it to the hook, to seep the house in silence. The chilling sound reverberated across her body, ringing in her ears, telling her to not let go. She still felt the presence of her mum and dad on the other end, but now that 'other end' was death, and no phone call could reach them there.

Her mind was unable to process the meaning of what had just occurred, although instantly at the same time she became aware of what it was. She had been there with them, the lucky sole survivor of the brutality; the victim, the horror only imagined by her eyes as her ears were her only witness. The screams no longer branded her from the receiver, and she felt the loss deep from within, like a porcelain doll that had fallen from a shelf, something had been ripped away lying tattered on the floor and no one would pick it up for her. That was what they were supposed to do, that's what a parent did for their child.

She'd been sobbing quietly for the last hour, not even a little bit surprised that she was not crying hysterically as some would have believed. Hermione Granger was not a hysterical person, she followed procedure from a book; she was logical, careful. But no book could guide her now. Images kept replaying in her mind; it was if she really had been there beside them yet immune from their punishment. She remembered the silence, the confusion, the horror, the torture, the screams…

Another sob escaped her lips; she was floating lost in her confusion as her head fell back against the hard wall. What should I do, was the one thought that caused her the least anguish as she wondered who she was supposed to call. They never taught you what to do in these situations, only how to try and prevent them. She couldn't replace the house phone to the receiver, couldn't cut off what she knew was already gone. Her muscles ached as she reached out for her handbag that she had carelessly dumped on the floor besides the stairs when she had returned from work, a summer job she'd been overjoyed to be offered at a bookstore in the town centre. No doubt it had been arranged for her by her parents as a chance for some experience, and she relinquished it amongst the smell of crisp unturned pages filled with adventures and mystery. Fumbling through the cluttered mess of keys, purse and a burger wrapper from lunch, she wrapped a shaking hand around the cold slab of metal, pulling the mobile phone out.

Still she couldn't process who to contact first. Surely the Ministry had detected the dark magic and would be on their way to the scene of the murder momentarily, yet it wouldn't be much longer before the muggle police would have to investigate the scene, her parents were muggles after all and had lived in the muggle world.

And there she reached the source of her problem, and this time she didn't even try to stop herself crying and screaming out in muted misery. Her parents weren't even part of the wizarding community; they were ordinary, decent people who happened to have a slightly different child. She brought her hands to her face as the tears fell down one after the other, rocking herself backwards and forwards. It was her who was to blame for their murder, her and only her. She was the bridge between them and the magical community that was locked in a terrible war. She was the one who brought a connection between the two, and if it hadn't been for her, then there would have been no reason for her parents' deaths. The cold shoulder of blame, she knew, could only fall upon herself.

Effortlessly she pressed one key three times on her mobile and pulled it too her ear. She'd never dialled this number before, yet waited patiently as her call was connected. Still beside her side the telephone hung, and still she could not succumb to the idea that her parents were already gone. Hanging up the phone was no longer necessary.

The muggle police had arrived less than twenty minutes later. A team had already been called to the scene along a deserted country lane, tipped off by a local farmer who had seen a strange green light from his cottage across the other side of the forest, bewildered yet excited by his first hand experience in this mystery. The knocking on her front door brought Hermione back to her hallway and she realised that since she had ended the call she had been staring lifelessly at the wooden stairs in front of her, counting the lines in the bark to keep herself occupied and from thinking.

She hadn't the heart to tell them the door was unlocked, they'd figure it out themselves. It didn't take them long, seconds later it was open and they came swarming in like a pack of flies. They were armed, she noted, but then they would be considering the strange goings on that had occurred in recent months, muggles were not immune from the wizards' war. Two police officers hurried over to her as others processed through the house, apparently not trained to deal with the frightened- looking girl.

Hermione had explained calmly to the operator after she had dialled 999 that she was reporting an attack on her parents. She had been, as she had to repeat several times, on the phone to her mother, who was travelling to an awards dinner of some sort with her father, that she had her mother had told that her they were lost and heading home, when suddenly she heard screaming on the other end of the line and something that sounded like an explosion. She didn't tell them she already knew that her parents were dead, it only mattered that she was aware of that fact for the moment, they would tell her the cold truth soon enough. A part of her still hoped that maybe, just maybe, she was jumping to the wrong conclusion and that the officers of law and justice would tell her that her mum and dad were fine. Then she had hung up, the mobile falling deserted to place beside the telephone on the floor.

The female officer crouched down and caught her attention with her crystal blue eyes. 'I'm police officer Roberts, this is officer Matthews,' she said, indicating her head in the direction of her colleague standing behind her.

They looked at her expectedly, and she presumed they were waiting for her name. 'Hermione Granger,' she whispered hoarsely, so quietly they had to strain their ears to hear her.

'Were you the one to place the call?'

Hermione nodded wearily. Roberts regarded her solemnly for a moment, before sharing a quick look with the man behind her. 'Hermione,' she began, softly this time as she ringed her hands in a nervous gesture, suggesting she had bad news to give her, 'I'm afraid to tell you that your parents are dead.'

The silence fell upon her like a crushing blow. The words were so simply put that for a moment she just stared wide eyed at the pretty young woman in front of her, who only looked about five years older than herself. Then she swallowed and voices came flooding back as she nodded her head slightly, accepting what she already knew. She looked the other way, not wanting the sympathy and pity that lined their faces as they continued to watch her. Wordlessly she eased herself up from the floor, taking the telephone with her. Without another thought she hung it back on the receiver, and walked into the kitchen.

They followed her like puppy dogs, and began the slow proceedings that she was dreading to endure since the moment she had placed the call. She sat down hopelessly at the table, having thought that it would be a more ideal place for them to do what they must with their interrogation than the narrow hallway floor. Roberts had turned the kettle on, it hissed nosily. Hermione remembered that her dad had been meaning to fix that. Someone must have noticed that she had been shivering as they had retrieved a cashmere blanket from the lounge and had wrapped it around her shoulders. Matthews sat opposite her, setting up an audio tape. Above her she heard the movements and shuffling of feet as her house came under scrutiny, thankful at least that they would be unable to find any magical items that would make the situation, if possible, even worse for the Ministry to try and sort out.

Officer Roberts handed her a steaming mug of tea, and she accepted it politely but had no wish to drink it even though her mouth was screaming for the opposite. 'We have reason to believe,' she said as she sat down besides her, 'that your parents were murdered.'

So that was they handled things, Hermione thought. Blunt and straight to the point, no molly-coddling, no bandaged up half-truths, just the facts. For two hours she sat there, among countless interruptions and arrivals, of behalf of both Roberts and Matthews, who every fifteen minutes would disappear and return sometime later looking more the worse for wear than before. She let their voices wash over her, trying to ignore the discomfort that the wood of the chair was causing her as it jutted into her back. Her hands were still wrapped around the mug she had not drunk from, feeling the icy coldness. She kept her eyes in the direction of the window, not seeing anything in the darkness, hearing only the rain as it fell lightly on the windowsill outside. What was really on her mind was what she had planned tomorrow evening with her dad, yet now she had to come up with something to say to her boss, to tell her that she would never be coming in again, that her parents had been murdered, and that she had heard all of it. That she was very sorry to leave them in the lurch like this.

She had been pacing up and down her kitchen for several awkward, dragging minutes, absent minded as she picked at the end of the blanket she had wrapped around herself once more, chewing at her lower lip. Her eyes were large and puffy, smothered in washed out black from the mascara she'd worn to work that morning. She glanced over at PC Roberts, who was slumped in a chair talking angrily on her phone as she doodled on an official looking document. Every other word she would pause briefly as she looked up at Hermione, offering a small smile that meant nothing to her, before she turned away guiltily and shouted into her phone some more.

'What?' Something that Matthews was saying stuck out in her mind. Hermione jumped at the suddenness of hearing her own voice speak out for the first time, yet the words still only made it past her lips, her throat still cracked and hoarse from grief. She noticed for the first time that Matthews had returned from his absence, looking soaked to the bone and exhausted, with deep lines circling his eyes.

'They found a letter pinned to the remains of the car, besides the…bodies…' Hermione winced as her knuckles on the blanket turned white with strain, '…of your parents,' Matthews said quietly and quickly, as if that made the situation less severe. She only stared back at him, so he continued without hesitation. His voice was gentle, yet commanding. The type you'd always trust and feel safe with. 'It seems that your parents were invited –' Hermione cut him off.

'– to an awards dinner, I know. They showed me the letter.' She'd asked them earlier to tell them all that she knew, and they were obliging obediently. If she had been surprised at how quick they were gathering all this information, then she had forgotten about it; she needed the facts, she needed to know.

'Yes,' he said, struggling to get to the point, 'but we've checked with the hotel that this dinner was supposed to be held at and,' he gave her look that seemed to say he was sorry, 'the hotel in question does not exist. It was knocked down,' he glanced at the wet piece of paper stuck to the table in front of him, 'over a year ago.'

He let the words sink in, for her mind was slower now and it took her a moment to process this new twist. She sat, as before, unmoving, her chocolate eyes hollow and empty, staring into his own, as if she did not understand what he had just said. Then, under their scrutinising gaze, realisation dawned on her like the answer to a question she'd thought impossible to answer, and she felt sick to the stomach.

She jumped back from the table in a frenzy; dropping the cup on the floor, cold tea spraying everywhere as the mug smashed on the stone floor. Her hands covered her mouth in horror as she recoiled in shock, shaking her head desperately trying to control the heaving sobs that accompanied her tears. She felt like her mother had done, as if she was choking through her grief. She clenched her eyes shut as she fell back but the tears wouldn't stop their tirade, she was gasping for breath, she couldn't breathe. The chairs of the table screeched along the floor as they were forced back, but she didn't want their comfort or their arms. Unable to stop the sobs or the agony that burned in her chest she pushed past them; bent in half with arms wrapped tightly around her stomach as she rushed for the downstairs bathroom. It couldn't be, no, it just couldn't be, she kept trying to tell herself. Scuffling with the doorknob weakly she managed to heave the door open and thrown herself inside. She fell to the floor, tears streaking across her cheeks as she reached the toilet just in time before her stomach heaved and she threw up.

A moment later and a gentle hand was rubbing her back as she crouched there until her stomach was empty and the heaves only accompanied her reckless crying. Feeling worse than she had ever felt, she sat back and gratefully accepted the cold flannel that had been offered to wipe her mouth and burning face. After she was done, she turned and looked the policewoman directly in the eye.

'I want to go,' her voice was croaking against the strain, it sounded pitiful to even her own ears. 'I want to go there.'

She said it clearly and with all the strength she could possibly muster; staring at the woman with such conviction was the only thing that stopped her from breaking out into another wave of tearful agony.

The reply came almost instantly, with the tiniest hint of understanding. 'I'll see what I can do.'

It hadn't been as far away as Hermione had imagined it would be. They'd been speeding down the country lanes for nearly half an hour, and she'd spent most of it hunched up against the window, scanning the landscape with desperate need as she wondered every second if it would be just around the next corner.

The weather was in no mood to let up, the rain was falling faster and harder now and murky water from the road was often sent spraying into the overgrown hedges that looked devoid of any care. As she had asked, after much debate with the police psychiatrist who arrived at her house just past midnight, she was heading towards the one thing she had to see for herself, to prove it was real.

The man sat beside her would have made her laugh quietly in amusement at any other time in any other situation. His bristly white hair and prickly moustache reminded her of a picture of Albert Einstein she had seen in a book a few years ago. Doctor Thomas, as he was called, focused on her as much as she did on the road, and had been firm in his belief that she should be allowed no access at all to the scene of the murder. PC Roberts sat in the front of the car besides Matthews who was driving, every so often checking her rear view mirror to assure herself she was doing the right thing.

The car slowed gently and a voice spoke up on the radio issuing orders.

'Are you sure you're going to be able to cope with this?' Doctor Thomas asked her gently.

Hermione shrugged her shoulders, determined to keep her eyes on the road outside. She was more frightened than she had ever been in her life, still unable to explain to herself how she'd convinced herself to come this far, without yelling at them to turn the car around and take her as far away from this nightmare as humanly possible. She had already pinched her arm countless time that evening; it had become just one more pain to learn to cope with.

She'll be scarred for life, he thought solemnly. She had been through enough already, he could tell, huddled up like a child under the blanket, a vacant expression in her features; although he knew her thoughts would be far from silent. 'You only have to stay as long as you want to, Hermione. When you are ready too leave, just say.'

Pulling the blanket tighter around herself she nodded her head. In front of her Roberts turned around to face the backseat passengers.

'It's just up ahead,' she told them as Hermione glanced quickly as far up the road as she could, still curled up in ball on the seat. 'You'll be escorted at all times, Hermione. For all we know, the attack could have been meant for you as well. We won't take any chances.

A tear escaped at the thought, how she wished it had. She could see lights gleaming up ahead, and suddenly felt very lonely as the car pulled to a halt at the bottom of the rolling hill. Someone was heading towards the car under a large umbrella. Hermione found herself listening intently as Roberts rolled down the window.

The man outside held a badge up. 'I'm Detective Reginald Hocks,' he said sounding flustered as he bent down to look in the car. His eyes passed over Hermione's, and his gaze rested on her for a moment.

It was hard to ignore the distaste in Roberts' voice as she spoke. 'I'm PC Roberts, this is PC Matthews,' she replied. 'We called ahead earlier –'

'Yes, yes,' the man replied impatiently, and it was then that Hermione noticed that he was wearing a rather, er, strange uniform. 'If Miss Granger would like to step outside,' he inquired as he reached for the door she was led against. She sat up quickly, not too sure if she trusted this Reginald Hocks.

Roberts made a move that suggested she was leaving the car herself, as did Dr. Thomas. 'No, no,' he told them hastily as he waved his hand at them in annoyance. 'We still have investigations ongoing that must not be disturbed by you noisy lot; I will escort Miss Granger myself.'

The tension mounted into a crescendo full of protests. 'But-'

'It's ok.'

Silence fell as three pairs of concerned eyes turned to face her as she unbuckled her seatbelt. The door opened and she forced herself to step outside into the rain.

Roberts shook her dark head as she took out her radio. 'I'm not happy about this.'

Reginald smiled tolerantly as he closed the back door. 'I'm following orders I'm afraid, from your superior. Speak to him if you must, but I can assure you I shall take care of Miss Granger. You can watch us from the car with binoculars if you must, I wouldn't dare try anything.' He turned to the girl huddled beside him. 'Come, Miss Granger. If you'd follow me.'

He spoke sensitively to her, wrapping an arm around her shaking shoulders as he guided her under his oversized umbrella. She looked about set to trudge through the rain like a lost child. He had to admit, he had been slightly taken aback by this young girls bravery and courage. He glanced at her as they walked slowly up the hill, well aware he was being watched from behind. Hidden beneath the large blanket she held tightly around herself, she had composed herself remarkably well; shock of course was delaying her reactions. Her wavy hair looked soaked through, her eyes lost, her lower lip threatening to tremble. That it had been her idea to come had startled him most, they didn't expect to get the chance to talk to her until later that morning.

'It's a bit of a trek, I'm afraid,' Hocks said as they eased up the hill. He could feel her half reluctance and half determination in the tiny steps she was making. Then he leant his head closer to her ear as he whispered, 'we're with the Ministry of Magic, Hermione.'

She wasn't the least bit surprised; she wasn't the cleverest witch in her year for no reason. 'I thought you might have been,' she replied as she focused her eyes on her feet. She felt relieved.

He nodded expectantly. 'It's why I couldn't allow your muggle police up here with you yet, makes hard work.'

They were nearing the top of the hill now where a long patch of road stretched out before them before disappearing down again. Hermione refrained from looking up, not wanting to see it just yet. She could hear sounds of Ministry officials up ahead, and a tight knot formed in her empty stomach. She stopped dead in her tracks, head bent as low as possible so he couldn't see her crying. She wasn't sure if she wanted to go much further.

Hocks stopped as soon as she had, rubbing her shoulders tenderly. He reminded her of a grandfather. 'You're very brave, Hermione. If you wish to turn around and go back, you can. This won't be easy for you, I know.' There was an underlying hint of his own sadness as he spoke, and for a moment she wondered what had happened to him. Even he had been disturbed and mortified by the scene of devastation that had been left, it had been the worst case he had seen yet for a muggle killing.

He could clearly see the wreck ahead of them, and the remains. A few of his dispatch team had noticed their arrival, but he motioned for them to keep working.

Gritting her teeth, Hermione willed her feet to move forwards as she wiped her tears away hastily. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and she chose not to think about the horrid smell that was invading her nostrils.

'Almost there,' he told her, and the feeling of dread growing in her body became nearly unbearable, until it threatened to send her flying over the edge into a whirlwind of turmoil and pain.

She didn't want to see it then, not really. If she hadn't been on the phone to her mother when it happened, then she knew she would not have forced herself to come this far, to take this giant leap. But she needed to see it with her eyes; she had heard it with her ears and couldn't think of nothing else until the picture was complete. She had spent every minute of the car journey trying to prepare herself for what she was about to witness, again, yet now she had nothing. Less than ten metres in front of her, and still she resisted the urge to look up.