The Destiny of the Calling
Hermione turned in bed more times than she would like. There was no sound outside, only inside her head. Ronald Weasley’s arm was draped over her, his breathing slow and steady — peaceful. She envied that peace, envied the man she loved, or tried to love. She wasn’t sure anymore. She hadn’t been sure of many things since her home was destroyed. But she knew this: he could sleep, and she couldn’t.
It had been 115 days since the extermination of Earth. Few survived, and there was no life left there, only memories growing more distant with each passing day. The Order of the Phoenix had done everything they could to shelter those who couldn’t fight for themselves, and now, the planet they inhabited was still under construction. It would take time before it felt like home. But the war hadn’t ended. They had lost — temporarily. Now they were a resistance against the First Order, followers of Tom Riddle. Many of whom she once knew, once called friends.
As long as Harry Potter was alive — hidden somewhere in an unknown galaxy — there was still hope. And that mattered.
Careful not to wake the man she shared her bed and meals with, Hermione slipped out of his grasp, silently gathered her clothes, and left the main base’s dormitory.
She wore light yet durable fabric, fluid in movement, pale in color with white and crimson accents along the edges. Her wand hung from a black belt, where small vials of potions and tools for battle were also secured. Extra protection was a necessity. Too many lives depended on her.
As she entered the control room, pushing aside her thoughts, she was greeted by an eager BB-8. The small spherical droid, marked in orange and white with silver and black detailing, rolled toward her, beeping excitedly.
"Good morning, BB-8," Hermione said with a soft smile. The droid had a way of understanding her expressions, even the ones she tried to hide. It was comforting. And at the same time, it wasn’t — because once, Harry had been the one who understood her that well.
“Hermione, come see this,” Sirius called from an adjacent room, motioning for her to follow.
His hair had grown long again, but he never left it loose. Each braid held meaning— one for every life lost, for every soul he couldn’t save. There were many braids. Hermione took a steadying breath and stepped inside.
Seated around the table were familiar faces— George, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, and Remus Lupin. Their expressions were grim.
“We found another piece of the map,” George said.
Hermione should have felt relief, excitement even. But there was no trace of joy in his voice.
“You don’t sound happy about it,” she observed, taking her usual seat. The one beside her was empty. Another reminder that Harry was gone.
“That’s because we’re not,” Sirius admitted as he took his place at the table.
“This piece revealed more than we expected,” Minerva said, murmuring an incantation. A projection lit up the space before them, revealing months of gathered information. “We thought Harry disappeared for a reason.”
“And he did,” Hermione interrupted. “He was buying us time. The First Order would have tracked him too quickly if he stayed.”
“It wasn’t just that,” Kingsley added. “Minerva, go on.”
“Harry had a vision the night he left,” she said.
Hermione frowned. Harry always shared his visions with her. Always.
“A prophecy.”
“A prophecy of what?” Hermione asked, her voice tight with anxiety.
Sirius exhaled. “He saw you, Hermione. Standing with the Sith.”
Her lungs burned as the weight of those words sank in. Suddenly, everything felt thick, suffocating. It had to be a mistake. It had to be. She would never betray them. Never betray him.
She shook her head in denial, grasping for logic, for reason, for anything that would make sense of this. There had to be a flaw in the vision. There had to be.
But when her eyes met Minerva’s, she saw only truth.
They were lost.
Far from there, in another galaxy, Draco Malfoy’s eyes snapped open.
The frozen winds no longer chilled him. Few things did. The cold was insignificant, barely an irritation. His robes were dark, with sharp, structured edges. The heavy fabric draped over his form but didn’t restrict movement — it was designed for someone who thrived in the shadows. The front hung open, exposing part of his chest, where faded scars told stories no one would ever hear.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as the discomfort in his mind lingered.
It wasn’t a premonition. It wasn’t just a feeling.
It was an echo within the Arcane Force.
And he knew exactly where it came from.
Granger.