Hermione's Point of View


There is a hum in the air—palpable. It swarms around us all and has done for the past week. I'm nervous, as is everyone else. I can practically taste the fear. It's crisp and cold as Dumbledore enters the Great Hall. The tables feel oddly empty with just the sixth years here, but we still sit divided at our usual, segregated tables. Harry and Ron spent most of last night fumbling over it, wondering whether they'd be lucky enough to be picked—and who might be picked alongside them. Ron, of course, was in his usual"Harry gets picked for everything"mood, which I try to ignore.

As for me, I didn't bother with the fuss. Of course it crossed my mind—but not for long. I sat alone in the library all night, finishing an assignment due next week. I had already completed it, but it didn't hurt to look it over one more time. I also had to write out some"notes"for Harry and Ron to help with theirs, too.

When I was younger, my mother once visited a fortune teller. She spent quite a bit of money, but the woman didn't tell her much. My mum complained the entire car ride home, swearing it was a farce. Just a trick of the eye—or someone good at reading people. But that was before I got my Hogwarts letter. She hasn't mentioned it much since. I don't imagine this experience will be much like that.

Nevertheless, some of the girls in my dormitory were up all night crying, wondering what their futures might hold—what they'd do if they were shown something horrible. Whether they'd still be with the boy they're dating now. Lavender, unfortunately, daydreamed aloud about a happy future with Ron, boasting to Padma and Celia thatthiswas the year they'd finally get together. I felt a strange knot in my stomach. I'm not sure if it's because it's Lavender—who I don't always see eye-to-eye with—or because it's Ron. I try not to dwell on it.

Dumbledore steps up to quiet the chatter, arms extended theatrically.

"Settle, settle. I know you all must be anxious, and curious, and most of all—tired! We had quite a few sleepwalkers found early this morning in the strangest places," he laughs, letting his half-moon glasses slide down his nose before winking at Neville. I nudge Ron as a snigger escapes him. He hides behind his hand, blushing as Ginny glares.

"Ronald, behave," I whisper.

"Regardless, I hope you are excited. It's not often our school is granted such a great honour as to be chosen for the Fanques Future Award. It is an honour of the highest kind, I must say," Dumbledore says with a warm smile. Then his expression sobers slightly as he pushes his glasses up his nose.

"I must explain," he begins, his voice growing more serious as he scans the room full of eager, tense students. "The future a person is shown reflects what will happen—if they change nothing. If they continue on exactly the same path. But if they are shown something dreadful, they have the opportunity to alter it. Life is rarely black and white, but deep down, we often know the choices we are making as we make them."

He pauses, letting his words hang. A few girls huff, clearly unimpressed by how serious he's making this.

"In some cases, someone who may not be on a righteous path is chosen, and they will see a future theycouldhave—ifthey change. But such outcomes are rare. Regardless, this is a chance to reflect. Too often we live in the past, dwelling on mistakes and words left unsaid. Now is the time to look forward. To see whatyoumay become. It's all very exciting."

He finishes with a small smile. "Minerva, the bowl, please."

Professor McGonagall flicks her wand, transforming the large podium into a giant glass bowl shaped like a tree—likely to represent life and growth.

"Thank you," Dumbledore says with a slight bow.

"Now—two people from sixth year will be selected. One will be thereceiver. One will be thegiver."

The entire hall leans forward in anticipation.

"The Receiver will be granted the highest honour—a glimpse into their future. The Giver will be handed a tiny vial. They'll take it to the Pensieve, view the future, and then present it to the Receiver. Many lasting friendships have been formed this way. We all know the story of David and Thomas Sheen—two acclaimed wizards. Thomas saw David's death in a terrible war. He helped prevent it, and a bond was born. Great things can come from this experience. So, don't be so quick to gloat—and don't forget who gave you the news."

He nods. "Minerva, if you will."

McGonagall steps forward again, smoothing the crease on her robe. She gives us a half-hearted smile before reaching into the bowl.

Lavender, sitting across from me, practically vibrates with anticipation as she swoons over Ron. Everyone in the hall seems to inhale at once—a giant, collective breath.

In that moment of weakness, I let myself wonder. What would happen if I were chosen? Just for a second, I imagine my future. Would Ron be there? Harry? Ginny? Would Crookshanks live forever like my mum once promised when he got sick four years ago? Would I get married? Have children?

But most of all—when Professor McGonagall opens the slip and hands it to Dumbledore—I don't think about happiness, or love, or success.

I wonder… if it will show me who I'm supposed to be.

"Ah, let's see," Dumbledore says, adjusting his glasses to read the slip of parchment.

"The winner of the Fanques Future Receiver is… MissHermione Granger! Please, a big round of applause!"

I look around, waiting for the girl to stand up—but everywhere I turn, eyes are on me. Gleeful. Slightly amused.

"Hermione, get up!" Ron says, tugging at my elbow. His hand is big and warm. It reminds me of my father's grip.

"Hmm?" I blink.

"Hermione, now," Ron insists. "Before they change their mind and give it to someone else." He stands and pulls me up with him. A small ripple of laughter breaks out around the hall.

"Now, now. Come, Miss Granger. I know you must be a little shocked," Dumbledore says, smiling as he hushes the amused whispers.

It sinks in once I'm on my feet. Ron nudges me forward, followed by Harry—though Harry's push is firmer. My palms begin to sweat, and no amount of rubbing them on my skirt helps. I glance toward Lavender and see her cheeks are red as apples. She's furious. And the second I see her face, I almost want to give it back. Because no matter how excited Dumbledore looks, I'm the one who has to sleep in the same room as Lavender Brown tonight.

I step up to the front of the hall.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall says, placing her arm around my shoulder with a proud smile.

Dumbledore beams out at the crowd—always the optimist.

"Now, for theGiver," he continues, slipping a hand into his robe pocket to retrieve a small already has it?I think.

"This was gathered from you while you slept last night, Miss Granger," he says softly, noticing my confused expression. I nod, embarrassed that I was so obvious.

Once more, McGonagall steps up to the bowl, smiling faintly at the students who follow her every move with bated breath. I glance at Ron and Harry, both grinning proudly up at me, while Lavender seethes in the corner. For once, I think this might actually be a good thing. If Ron and Harry are happy for me, maybe I can be happy too.

"Draco Malfoy!" Dumbledore announces, opening the second slip.

My heart drops straight through the floor. I can hear a pin drop it's so quiet. In fact, I can hear pins dropping all over the world.

I turn to look at Dumbledore, hoping—desperately—that he's joking. That he'll say something ridiculous to prove this is a dream and I'm moments away from waking up in my underwear. But he doesn't.

"Pardon?" I say, staring across the Slytherin table.

Malfoy's pale face meets my gaze, impassive. His table erupts into laughter, everyone fully aware of the bitter tension between us.

I glance toward the teachers, hoping one of them will intervene. Suggest a redraw. It was just a bad roll of the dice. But no one says anything. Dumbledore raises his hand and the laughter dies down.

"Mr. Malfoy, please come forward."

McGonagall places her hand on my shoulder again. It's the closest thing to waking from a nightmare that I'm going to get.

I search for Harry and Ron's faces. They're watching me, their mouths drawn with sympathy.

Malfoy makes his way up the aisle, reluctantly. His classmates slap his back and jeer as he passes. My cheeks burn. He's going to see everything. What if I turn out to be awful? What if he tells everyone who I marry? What if he knows when I'll die—and doesn't tell me, just to punish me for my blood status?

With every ridiculous thought that flies through my head, I feel oddly... calm. Like I'm flying. I must be moments away from insanity.

"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore says, handing him the tiny green vial that contains my future.

Malfoy rolls it between his fingers, not meeting my eyes. Not looking at anyone, really. Just the floor. For once, I can't blame him.

"Let's get this over with already," he mutters.

The Slytherins cheer behind him, casting spells that fizzle into mocking fireworks. Dumbledore smiles patiently and gestures for the two of us to follow.

We walk down the center of the hall. As I pass Harry and Ron, they each reach out and I brush my fingers against theirs. That tiny bit of contact steadies me. Lavender smirks as I pass her. I ignore her.

Malfoy is silent the entire way to Dumbledore's office. He keeps rolling the vial between his fingers. Once or twice, he nearly drops it. I clench my fists. He's treating my entire life like it's some kind of toy.

When I glance at him, he's looking out the window at the hills beyond. Then back down at the vial.

I wonder what it feels like to hold it. If it has a weight.

We stop outside Dumbledore's office. He looks down at me the way my father used to, then gestures for me to wait in a nearby classroom.

Malfoy doesn't even glance at me as I leave. That worries me more than anything else.

McGonagall closes the door behind me, but not before I catch a glimpse of Dumbledore placing a hand on Malfoy's shoulder—gently, purposefully.

I pace the room.

I overthink every possibility—like I always do. What if he uses it against me? What did Dumbledore say to him? What if I never get married and end up with twenty cats? What if all my studying has been for nothing, and I amount to exactly what Malfoy always said I would?

Most of all, I wonder how much of this he'll tell the others.

It's been hyped for the past week. Everyone will want to know. My secrets will be painted across the castle walls by lunchtime.

"Miss Granger, are you alright?" McGonagall's voice jolts me. I forgot she was still here.

I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry.

"Yes," I croak. "Sorry, I'm just… a little worried, given the circumstances."

She nods, weighing my words.

"I understand, Miss Granger. It is a bit peculiar."

"Professor, what do I do if he chooses to exploit this?" I ask quietly.

"Don't worry. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore has explained the seriousness of the situation. Try not to fret."

I try to believe her.

The door creaks open. Malfoy stumbles in, like he's been pushed.

His face is even paler than usual. My chest good?I wonder. He looks sick with knowledge.

I move toward him and lean against a nearby table. McGonagall excuses herself with a nod.

Malfoy hops up on a desk, kicking his heel into the metal legs. I sigh.

"Come on, then," I say, because I refuse to sit in this silence.

"At least tell mesomethingbefore you run off to laugh with your friends."

He doesn't respond. Just stares past me, like he's somewhere else entirely.

"Malfoy. I know you hate me, but just tell me—is it good or bad? You can at least give me that much."

He runs a hand through his too-long, greasy blond hair and finally looks at me. There are purple shadows under his eyes.

"What did you expect, Granger,huh?" he snaps. His sneer falls into place like it never left.

"What do you mean? I didn't expect anything. I didn't even think about it until my name was called."

He laughs bitterly, dragging his fingers through his hair again. It sticks up in all directions.

"Well, what youexpectis only half of what you'll actually get. Don't look at me like that," he warns as I frown at him.

"What does that even mean?" I raise my voice.

There's a sound outside the door. Malfoy shifts.

I let my anger go. The last thing I need is McGonagall or Dumbledore storming in.

"You're going to be happy," he says suddenly, voice low.

"You don't need me to tell you that."

He stands.

"In fact… you don't need me at all. So, fucking remember that." he spits."There's not going to be some friendship from this. Stay away from me, okay?" he moves down from the desk."You'll be for you."

He bows, sarcastic. Then storms out.

The room is silent again.


"What do you mean he only said that?" Ron asks loudly—loud enough that most of the Gryffindor table, who had clearly been eavesdropping, turn to each other and start whispering, sneaking glances at me over their shoulders.

"Shut up, you idiot!" Ginny hisses, elbowing Ron hard in the ribs. He chokes and spits a chicken wing across the table at Neville.

"Sorry, mate," Ron says with a laugh as Neville—wearing a sour expression—plucks the wing from his hair.

"That's all he said," I sigh, nudging my peas around my plate.

"I'll fix his little red wagon, so I will!" Ron exclaims, tossing his tissue aside and standing up to scan the Slytherin table. But Malfoy is nowhere in sight.

"I expected him to be easy to spot, you know? Circles of people around him, all laughing—that sort of thing," Ron mutters.

"Me too, Ron," Harry replies.

"So where is he?" I ask, a knot of worry tightening in my stomach. Losing track of Malfoy right now is the last thing I need.


Draco Malfoy's Point of View


I feel Dumbledore's hand tighten on my shoulder, and I exhale deeply. What's thisoafup to now?

"Sherbet lemon," he says in his aged voice, smiling down at me.

I think of my father's voice—and how different it sounds now compared to when I was a child. Doesn't Dumbledore know? He must know what I've been chosen to do.

We step into the lift, and it begins to ascend.

"You know, Mr. Malfoy," he begins, turning to me, "I've often admired your great talents and intellect. Often a little cocky, overwhelmingly naïve and gullible—but you do have a head between your shoulders, and no one can deny that." Dumbledore gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. I awkwardly avert my gaze.

"Often, when bad things happen in life, we're presented with an opportunity. A pathway, if you will," he continues as he leads me off the staircase toward the Pensieve. It glides forward from a crack in the wall and settles onto his desk. The vial burns in my hand like fire. As Dumbledore reaches for it, the heat intensifies—like acid—as it's pulled from my grip. My hand feels instantly lighter. He unscrews the cap and pours the green liquid into the Pensieve.

"…And this, Draco, is your second pathway in life. I hope you choose wisely," he says.

Before I can even ask what the hell he's on about, he pushes my head forward into the Pensieve—and I begin to fall. Physically fall. I reach out to grab something, but there's nothing. Just the rush of wind between my fingers.

I land painlessly on soft earth—as if I hadn't just been free-falling. It feels like sand. When I open my eyes, I realise it is sand. I haven't felt sand in a long time. It's been years since my family went to the beach. I grip it in my hands, but it slips too easily through my fingers. I reach for another handful, frustrated, when I hear laughter—familiar laughter—coming from a house I hadn't noticed.

I rise to my knees and stand to get a better look. The house is large and wooden, with a broad front porch. This isn't England anymore—I can tell by the heat in the air. Somewhere hot. Somewhere exotic. Somewhere I've never been.

The laughter pulls me forward. I follow the sound over a small hill until I get a clearer view of the house—and the sea. It's right on the beach. I stare out across the vast openness of the water and spot two figures running along the sand—a man and a woman. They're racing. The woman tries to catch up until the man turns and catches her in his arms. They fall into a laughing heap.

The image shifts. The sea air vanishes.

Like a star crashing from the sky, the new surroundings hit me all at once. I crawl across a hardwood floor until I bump into something soft. I look up—and see her. An older Hermione, smiling, her eyes fixed across the room. She's holding a small boy. He must be three or four—pale-skinned and blonde, but with her eyes. That's when I realise—he's her son.

She's laughing at something, gently soothing the child when he cries. I stare, stunned. She looks about thirty, but still unmistakably herself. I try to call out, but she can't hear me. I turn to see who she's smiling at, but the scene shifts again before I can find them.

Another glimpse. Another piece of her life.

Everything moves quickly—a rush of people, images, places. I'm trapped, forced to watch. I see our graduation across the river, her face aglow beneath floating lanterns. Hermione pinning her first payslip to a corkboard. Her hand intertwined with another—paler, like her son's. She laughs with Harry and Ron in an apartment. Harry holds a small Weasley. Ron's wrapped around a girl I don't recognise.

Then a blur of a hospital—Hermione sweating, screaming. A man holds her hand. She's in labour. I look away, the intimacy too much. The vision disappears before I can see his face.

Then the scene slows. A bedroom. Hermione lies beneath a thin duvet. Her skin is tanned, glowing. She's smiling across the bed at someone. I try not to look at her body—but she looks... perfect. And it sickens me.

Then I hear it.

A laugh.

My laugh.

But it's not coming from me—it's coming from the man in the bed. She laughs back.

My heart stops as he kisses her, pulling her on top of him. She laughs again. My skin burns. My wrist swells beneath my robes. I drop to my knees and roll under the bed like a coward. I want to escape this madness. When does it end?

I hear my voice again.

Why am I in her future?

Why am I there—with her?

This has to be a joke.

Her moans ring in my ears. I can't think. I can't let myself process this. But worst of all—I can't ignore how happy I look. Not like the person I am now. Not like the boy I see in the mirror every day.

The vision vibrates and shifts again. I think I've finally escaped—but no. Another future. This one faster. Sharper.

More images. Us—together. I'm holding our son on the couch. Hermione twirls beneath a willow tree in a white dress. Everything is blindingly bright. I see myself push her down a corridor, pin her against the wall, kiss her. My hand sliding up her skirt. All of it… me. Every choice. Every action.

I hope you choose wisely, Dumbledore's voice echoes.

The visions freeze. They begin to rewind. Slowly at first, then faster—racing backward. The sand. The sea. Then—black.

I sigh in relief. It's finally over.

But it's not.

A new vision begins.

This time, I'm not in it.

Ron beach house. No child. Hermione looks the same age she is now. The moments flash by too quickly to understand.

Then I'm in my home—Malfoy Manor.

Hermione screams under Bellatrix's wand. My mother stands to the side, eyes averted. Lips pursed. My father watches, eager. And beside him—I'm standing too. Just watching.

Her screams fade. Blood seeps from the carvings on her arm.

"She's finished," Bellatrix says flatly, as a house-elf drags her away.

Then, when there's nothing left of me, I drift away from her lifeless eyes. The vision fades, and I fall back into Dumbledore's office. His cold hand is on my burning shoulder again. I grip the edge of the Pensieve for support. Heat rises in my stomach, and I lean over, vomiting violently.

"What the fuck was that?" I shout, barely staying upright. I wipe my mouth, stare at the floor. The nausea builds again. I vomit a second time.

"I would advise you not to use that kind of language with me, Mr. Malfoy. You will show your headmaster some respect," Dumbledore scowls.

"Respect?" I snap. "After what you just put me through?"

"Was that... was that some kind of sick joke?" I demand, wiping sweat from my forehead. Dumbledore hands me a glass of water. I gulp it down.

"Why were there two?" I ask.

"Two?" he echoes.

"There were two! Two differentversionsof Granger's future," I insist.

"There was one—" I begin, but my voice falters.

"Go on, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore urges.

"There was one where I was in it—with her," I say. The words feel foreign. He raises an eyebrow, but his expression is unreadable. Like he knows. Like he's waiting.

"The other one… it was short. She looked the same as she does now and then—" My throat tightens. I see her eyes again. Her death. Dumbledore watches me closely. I can't tell if it's curiosity or knowledge in his gaze.

"She died in the second one," I whisper, staring at the floor. I don't even know how to process it. Hating someone is one thing. Wishing them gone. Butseeingit? That's something else entirely. There's a line between hate and that—and now I've crossed it. The future I'm not in... she dies.

The bile rises again, but nothing comes up. I dry heave against the wall.

Dumbledore places a hand on my shoulder and leads me from the office. Every image replays in my head as the staircase descends. Everything I've been asked to do. Everything I've beentrainedto do—for my family. For the Dark Lord.

He opens the classroom door and gently pushes me inside.

"Make your choice, Mr. Malfoy. But remember—your actions have consequences.