A few moments later and three bottles of fine rioja were next to Hermione on the table. She filled, and promptly drained, the first glass, before pouring the next a little more slowly, with shaking hands. Her mind wouldn't stay still. She refused to accept the truth that was now creeping perilously close to her conscious thoughts. She couldn't. It was too horrific to contemplate, to even begin to process the big question of what if. What would she do? How could she possibly start to think about what happens next.