The air inside the tiny New York shawarma shop was a suffocating blanket woven from the heat of the vertical rotisserie, the sizzle of frying potatoes, and the sharp, savory scent of garlic sauce. Outside, the city screamed its usual symphony—a frantic orchestra of blaring taxi horns, the distant wail of a siren, and the low, earth-shaking rumble of a subway train passing beneath the worn linoleum floor. It was a sensory assault, one that left a permanent film of grease on the skin and the taste of exhaust fumes on the tongue.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the stainless-steel counter, a girl of about twelve hummed a tuneless song, her small body a whirlwind of relentless motion. Dressed in a simple, sauce-splattered shop assistant's uniform, she moved with a preternatural speed that bordered on the impossible. Her hands were a blur, a coordinated storm of activity that never ceased. One hand would slice a perfect, paper-thin sheet of spiced lamb from the spit while the other was already scooping a cascade of golden fries. A flick of the wrist sent a zigzag of white sauce across the filling before her fingers, a flurry of dexterity, wrapped the entire steaming concoction in a warm, pliant flatbread.
The finished product was slipped into a paper bag, and the process would begin again without a single wasted movement. Her speed was hypnotic, mesmerizing the long line of impatient New Yorkers who watched, dumbfounded, as she churned out orders faster than a machine.
"Yours, take it," she said, her voice crisp and clear, carrying a surprisingly sharp British accent that cut through the city's din. She slid the paper bag across the counter without looking up, her other hand already sweeping the scattered coins and crumpled bills from the previous customer into the open register with a single, practiced motion.
"Next!"
The man who stepped forward began speaking in a torrent of rapid-fire Spanish. The girl's brow furrowed for a split second, the only break in her fluid, trance-like concentration.
"English, please!" she stated, her tone firm but not unkind. There was no time for language barriers. The line snaked out the door and curled onto the pavement, a testament to the quality of the food and the spectacle of its preparation.
To the hungry, jostling crowd, she was just a prodigy, a savant of the street-food arts. No one in that bustling, noisy shop noticed the subtle impossibilities that made her speed achievable. No one saw the gleam of the carving knife as it hovered just below the counter, trimming the meat spit with invisible, precise strokes. No one's eyes were sharp enough to catch the way the pale, raw fries seemed to tumble into the bubbling oil of the fryer a fraction of a second before her scoop arrived. And no one could explain how the stack of flatbreads always seemed to have a perfectly warmed one waiting on top, as if floating into place on a cushion of hot air.
Finally, as the setting sun began to bleed through the canyons of steel and glass, painting the sky in fiery shades of orange and purple, the last customer departed. The frantic energy of the shop floor drained away, leaving a ringing silence broken only by the hum of the drink cooler.
"Haaaah…"
The girl sagged against the counter, a long, shuddering sigh escaping her lips. She let her head fall forward, the cool metal a welcome relief against her sweaty brow. Every muscle in her small body ached with a deep, soul-crushing weariness. She flexed her fingers, which felt stiff and swollen from hours of repetitive motion. A small, triumphant smile touched her lips as she took a mental inventory.
The Confusion Spell held up all day. No one's eyes even glazed over, she thought, a spark of pride warming her chest. And the Levitation Charms were much smoother. The knife barely wobbled at all. Definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A warm, familiar voice broke her reverie. A kind-faced, middle-aged man in a tall chef's hat and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the back kitchen. He was Sal, the owner, and the closest thing she had to a friend in this loud, overwhelming new world.
"You were a whirlwind today, kid. Great work," he said, his voice laced with genuine admiration. He held out a thick, white envelope. "Here's your pay."
Hermione's tired face lit up with a brilliant, sunny smile that seemed to push back the encroaching evening shadows. She took the envelope and, without even glancing at its contents, tucked it securely into the pocket of her jeans.
"Thank you, Uncle Sal!"
"See you tomorrow," he called after her as she hopped off her stool and waved.
"Bye-bye!"
She skipped out the door and into the warm glow of the setting sun, a small, anonymous figure swallowed by the vastness of the city.
Yes, the girl's name was Hermione. Hermione Granger. And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator. The man she used to be didn't have a name anymore. He was just a collection of fading memories, a ghost from a life that felt like it had belonged to someone else.
As she walked, the adrenaline of the workday faded, leaving room for the familiar, crushing weight of her reality to settle back in. She caught her reflection in a grimy shop window and stopped, staring. The face looking back was not her own. It was the face of a twelve-year-old girl with bushy brown hair and startlingly intelligent eyes. It was, impossibly, the face of a young Emma Watson. A bitter, humorless laugh escaped her lips.
Why? The question echoed in the hollow space where her old identity used to be. Why did I die and wake up as Hermione Granger? I was a perfectly happy, twenty-something guy!
And the crueler, more terrifying question followed right behind it.
Even if I had to become Hermione, why am I in the wrong goddamn universe?
The first few days after she'd woken up in this new body had been a blur of pure, unadulterated panic. When she had finally, begrudgingly, accepted the absurd fact that she was now a character from her favorite childhood book series, she'd actually started to feel a flicker of excitement. She'd begun looking for the signs—an owl tapping at the window, the crisp weight of a Hogwarts acceptance letter in her hand.
Instead, she'd woken up in a cheap motel room in Queens. The first time she'd ventured outside, she found herself in Times Square, a sensory nightmare of flashing lights and towering billboards. And there, looming over it all, was an image of a man with a smug grin and a perfectly sculpted goatee, his face identical to Robert Downey Jr.'s. Underneath it, two words: STARK INDUSTRIES.
The world had tilted on its axis. Her memories—Hermione's memories, which were now tangled up with her own—were of a quiet life in a London suburb in the 1990s. Of two loving, Muggle parents who were dentists. She could feel the memory of receiving her Hogwarts letter, the thrill of the magical words on the parchment. That was real. That had happened.
But her reality was here, in New York City, in the summer of 2008. She was a ghost, an undocumented child with no records, no family, and no identity.
She'd spent days sorting through the two sets of memories, trying to make sense of the impossible. The conclusion was as simple as it was insane. The universe had managed to get her soul into the right body, but had shipped the whole package to the wrong address.
There was, however, one saving grace. In a moment of pure, abject despair, huddled in that lonely motel room, she had found it.
Her consciousness turned inward, and an image slowly formed in her mind's eye. It was an ancient, hardcover book, bound in dark, cracked leather and etched with intricate, silver runes that seemed to shift and writhe in her peripheral vision. With a simple thought, the grimoire opened.
Hovering on the first page was a status screen, clear as day.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
Below it were seven icons. She had spent hours exploring them.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
Only the first two categories had any content. When she focused on [Spells], the book's pages turned, revealing a short list.
[Spells:]
Levitation Charm: Lv.1 (453/1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv.1 (148/1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv.1 (65/1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv.1 (388/1000)
Then came the second, more ominous category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls and gain energy.
The other five categories were empty, their pages blank and waiting. This book was her system, her cheat code, her only lifeline in this terrifying new reality. Its function was beautifully simple and brutally effective. It could scan spells from books, or even copy them directly from other magic-users, adding them to her mental library. She could learn them instantly, with no study required. Her only limit was practice. The more she used a spell, the more its proficiency increased, which in turn leveled up her own magical core. She wasn't bound by talent, only by effort.
It was a ridiculously overpowered ability, the kind of cheat you get when the universe screws you over so completely it feels guilty. In a world of super-powered individuals, aliens, and literal gods, power was the only currency that mattered. From her past life, she knew what was coming for this version of Earth. She knew about the Chitauri invasion, about Ultron, about Thanos. This planet wasn't just a random sphere of rock; it was the universe's favorite punching bag. And she was standing right in the middle of the ring.
This book was her only chance to survive.
"Still, the starting arsenal is a bit weak," she muttered to herself, her eyes returning to the single, chilling entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
The description was as simple as it was unnerving. Harvest souls and gain energy. It didn't sound like a "good guy" ability. The book offered no further explanation, but she had a few unsettling theories she was in no hurry to test.
"Another time," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now… school should be starting soon. It's time to go."
She flipped to the very last page of her mental grimoire. Two icons waited there. One was a stylized, capital 'M,' which was gray and dim. The other was the silhouette of a castle, glowing with a warm, welcoming light.
Her consciousness reached out and selected the castle.
The world dissolved around her in a nauseating, vertigo-inducing swirl. She felt like she was being pulled through a straw, her senses twisting and folding in on themselves.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the grimy, neon-lit streets of New York were gone. She was in a familiar, cozy, and distinctly British-looking bedroom. On the windowsill, an owl was perched, tilting its head and staring at her with large, intelligent eyes.
A slow, determined smile spread across her face.
So what if you end up on the wrong side of reality?
You just have to find a way to break back through.