Unwritten Destinies

She could hardly breathe; each ragged inhale was drowned out by the relentless thudding of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears with a terrifying rhythm that made her chest feel tight and suffocating. Her vision swam, yet her gaze was locked, unwilling and unyielding, on the lifeless body of her best friend. Her best friend, who had thrown himself into the abyss to save them all.

He’s not dead.

The words rose in her mind like a fragile shield, a mantra she clung to with the desperation of someone grasping at straws in a raging sea. She told herself over and over again, trying to drown out the hollow ache in her chest. But her resolve wavered as she noticed the unnatural sway of Harry’s head, hanging limply from Hagrid’s cradling arms. His glasses sat askew on his pale face, and his limbs dangled in eerie stillness. Hermione stared, searching desperately for any sign of movement—anything at all—a twitch of a finger, the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Nothing.

“Harry!” The cry ripped itself from her throat, though she hadn’t meant to speak. Her voice trembled, breaking on the single word, but the sound felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.

Ron’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, his touch heavy and tentative, but she recoiled. The kiss they had shared just moments before felt like a distant, meaningless memory now, drowned in the tidal wave of her grief. The tentative understanding they had built evaporated like mist under the cruel glare of reality. She pulled away from him sharply, unwilling to let go of her connection to the lifeless figure ahead.

“I can’t—don’t,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking as she shrugged off his touch.

Ron hesitated, his hand hovering awkwardly before dropping to his side. The pain etched across his face was unmistakable, but Hermione couldn’t bring herself to care. All she could see, all she could feel, was Harry.

Around her, chaos erupted as the others realized what Hagrid was carrying. The air filled with cries of anguish and disbelief.

“No! Harry!”

“You bastard!”

“Harry Potter is dead!”

The words sliced through her like jagged glass, their sharpness carving out pieces of her heart. She flinched, her breath hitching as Voldemort’s high-pitched laugh echoed through the courtyard. The sound made her stomach churn, her hands curling into fists at her sides. He gestured with wild glee toward Harry’s crumpled form, silencing the horrified murmurs of the crowd with his proclamation.

Hagrid’s broken sobs filled the silence that followed, raw and heart-wrenching. His immense shoulders shook as he cradled Harry closer to his chest, his face wet with tears. The tragic poetry of the moment wasn’t lost on Hermione. The same man who had carried the baby boy away from the ruins of his family’s home now bore the weight of that boy’s lifeless body.

Ron tried again, his voice soft and pleading. “Hermione…”

She finally tore her gaze away, meeting his watery blue eyes. Pain radiated from them, a mirror of the grief she felt in her own heart. She saw Fred’s face flash in her mind, remembered the way Ron had collapsed beside his brother’s lifeless body only hours before. He had lost so much already.

But the thought didn’t soften her.

Losing me won’t make much of a difference at this point.

“I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. Her voice was trembling, but her resolve was not. “I can’t do this.”

Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks as she turned on her heel and bolted, her feet carrying her blindly back into the castle. She ran as if she could outrun the pain clawing at her chest, her sobs growing louder with each step. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories—Harry’s crooked smile, the warmth of his hand in hers as they faced danger together, the way he had danced with her that night in the tent, twirling her in a moment of solace amidst the chaos.

When her legs could carry her no further, she collapsed. The cold, unyielding stone of the castle floor met her knees with a harsh jolt, but she barely felt it.

“Harry’s not dead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The denial cracked under the weight of her grief.

“But he is,” she choked out, her voice rising into a wail. “They’re all dead! Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Snape—they’re all gone!”

Her fists struck the floor with a dull thud, her body trembling as sobs wracked her frame. Her grief spilled out in waves, unrelenting and all-consuming.

“I can’t do this without you, Harry!” she screamed into the void, her voice echoing down the empty corridors. Her hands tangled in her hair, pulling at the strands in frustration and despair. “I can’t—I need you!”

The silence that followed was deafening. She crumpled onto the floor, her forehead pressing against the cold stone. Her body felt heavy, weighted by the enormity of her loss. For a long moment, she allowed herself to surrender to the grief, to let it consume her completely.

In the stillness that followed, her sobs softened into quiet, hiccupping breaths. Her mind felt hollow, her thoughts a distant murmur. She lay there, broken and trembling, surrounded by the empty, echoing halls of the castle—a reflection of the emptiness she felt within.

And still, a fragile whisper clung to her consciousness.

Harry’s not dead. The world will not be right if Harry is dead.

Had Hermione been in the right frame of mind, she might have noticed the shift in the air—the way it grew dense and charged, as though a storm were brewing within the very walls of the castle. A faint, electrifying tingle would have brushed against her skin, a silent herald of magic awakening, threading itself through the ancient stones, seeping from the cracks in the mortar, and spiraling into her very core.

But her grief drowned out all reason, her mind locked in a looping torment.

I need a world where Harry is not dead.

The thought repeated, louder now, insistent and deafening, as if willing itself into reality.

Had she not been consumed by despair, Hermione might have noticed her surroundings. She might have realized that her knees had buckled just in front of the torn tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and his ridiculous troupe of dancing trolls. The faded threads hung limp and forgotten against the wall, tattered as her own spirit. But her tears blurred her vision, and her heart, heavy with loss, could focus only on one thought:

Harry must survive. I need to save him.

The words ignited something in the air—a response, like an unspoken pact.

Before she could even process it, a violent surge of energy threw her backward. A gasp tore from her lips as her body slammed against the shredded tapestry. The wall beyond it seemed alive, trembling with an otherworldly hum. She coughed, the acrid scent of smoke filling her lungs, and turned her head just in time to see the adjacent wall—the one that had housed the Room of Requirement—blackened and smoldering.

The devastation was unmistakable, the fiendfyre’s unholy destruction still etched into the very fabric of the room. Charms that once concealed its mysteries hung ragged and broken, fraying at the seams of reality. For a moment, Hermione froze, her breath hitching as she stared at the ruined surface.

Then, impossibly, the wall began to shimmer.

The cracks and holes seemed to stitch themselves together, the scorched stone regaining its former solidity. Smoke dissipated into the ether as the damage rewound itself in defiance of all logic. Hermione’s heart hammered as she watched the wall restore itself, its surface becoming as pristine as the day it was first built.

And then the door appeared.

She blinked, her breath catching in her throat. A shiver ran through her spine, her tears forgotten in the face of this impossibility. The door materialized out of nothing, rising from the stone as though it had always been there, waiting.

“Impossible,” she whispered, the word barely audible. Her voice trembled, her grief momentarily eclipsed by sheer disbelief. Slowly, shakily, she pushed herself to her feet, her wide eyes never leaving the doorway.

The air thrummed with anticipation, an invisible force tugging at her, urging her forward. But dread churned in her stomach, her instincts screaming that this was no ordinary door. She took a tentative step toward it, her breaths shallow, her flight instinct warring with the lure of discovery.

Her mind raced, fragments of memory piecing together. She had seen the Room of Requirement destroyed. She had witnessed the fiery devastation that tore through its magic, breaking its centuries-old enchantments. There was no way it could have reformed itself—not after that.

Yet here it was.

She reached out a trembling hand, her fingers brushing against the wood. It was unlike any door she had seen in Hogwarts before. The polished wood gleamed as though freshly carved, its surface smooth to the touch. Gold filigree traced intricate patterns along the edges, weaving itself into the joints and spiraling around the ornate handle. The craftsmanship was mesmerizing, almost hypnotic, but there was something unnerving about it too—something ancient and foreboding.

Hermione’s hand hovered over the handle, her pulse racing. She hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like a physical force. Everything about this felt wrong, yet some unshakable instinct urged her onward.

This door, this impossibility, seemed to call to her—to the desperate part of her that refused to accept the reality she had been handed.

“I need a world where Harry is not dead,” she whispered again, her voice cracking as she finally closed her fingers around the handle.

The metal was cold under her touch, a chill that seemed to seep into her very bones. With a deep, trembling breath, she turned the handle and stepped through.