Hermione's room was a quiet sanctuary, a world away from the grime and chaos of New York. It was tidy, filled from floor to ceiling with books, and smelled faintly of old paper, lavender, and the comforting scent of a home she barely remembered. She gently took the crisp envelope from the owl's beak, rewarding the bird with a small treat from a jar on her desk before it launched itself back into the cool English morning.
From the foot of her bed, a low, guttural hiss vibrated through the floorboards. Crookshanks, the squat, ginger cat she'd acquired on her trip to Diagon Alley, flattened his ears, his bottle-brush tail twitching in fury at the feathered intruder who had dared to invade his territory.
"Hush, you," Hermione murmured, reaching down to scratch the cat's squashed face until the growl subsided into a rumbling purr. She turned her attention to the letter, her fingers breaking the elegant wax seal. The handwriting inside was a sharp, slanted cursive, written in emerald-green ink.
Dear Ms. Granger,
Thank you for your correspondence. It is a pleasure to hear from an eager new student. I wish you a happy start to your term at Hogwarts.
Sincerely,Minerva McGonagall
A small, surprised smile touched Hermione's lips. After receiving the original Hogwarts acceptance letter—a memory that felt like it belonged to another person—she had, on a whim, penned a brief, polite thank-you note and sent it back with the bewildered owl. It was a simple courtesy, an echo of the manners from her past life. She never imagined the notoriously stern Deputy Headmistress would actually take the time to reply. It was a small, human touch that made this impossible reality feel a little more solid.
That reality was something she was still struggling to comprehend. Being here, in this room, was only possible because of the impossible artifact living in her mind. After her initial, week-long panic attack upon waking up in the Marvel Universe, a terrifying and practical problem had surfaced: how was she supposed to attend Hogwarts from another dimension? More pressingly, how was a twelve-year-old girl with no identity, no family, and no legal status supposed to survive in New York City? The Ministry of Magic's Trace on underage sorcery was another issue entirely. Practicing magic would be impossible in Britain.
In a moment of pure desperation, convinced she was trapped, she had scoured her mental grimoire, searching for any function she might have missed. And there, on the very last page, she'd found it: two strange, simple icons. One was a stylized, capital 'M,' grayed out and unresponsive. The other was the silhouette of a castle, glowing with a warm, inviting light. With nothing left to lose, she had focused her will on it.
The world had dissolved into a nauseating swirl of color and sound, and she had found herself standing right here, in Hermione Granger's childhood bedroom. A quick check of the book confirmed her theory. The castle icon was now gray, while the 'M' was lit up, a thin progress bar slowly filling beneath it. After a few frantic, disorienting experiments, she confirmed the rules: the book allowed her to travel between the Marvel and HP worlds, but on a strict twelve-hour cooldown.
It was the perfect loophole. Her mind, the mind of a cynical adult who saw systems to be exploited, had immediately formulated a plan. She'd made a trip to Diagon Alley, bought a proper wand and a mountain of spellbooks, and used her grimoire to instantly copy every piece of magic she could find. Then, she'd jumped straight back to New York—a place far beyond the Ministry's jurisdiction—and practiced nonstop, working a grueling job at a shawarma shop to blend in and earn untraceable cash. It was a brutally efficient training montage, fueled by desperation and a deep-seated fear of what she knew was coming for the Marvel world.
Now, with her luggage packed and a brief, slightly awkward farewell to the kind, befuddled couple who were her parents in this reality, Hermione made her way to King's Cross Station. The station was a roaring cathedral of mundane chaos—the screech of train brakes, the echoing voice of the announcer, the hurried footsteps of a thousand Muggles rushing to their destinations. She navigated the crowd with practiced ease, her destination a solid brick pillar between platforms nine and ten.
She watched a wizarding family ahead of her—a plump mother and two red-headed sons—walk directly at the barrier and simply vanish. The Muggles rushing past didn't even blink, their eyes sliding right over the impossible event. A powerful Muggle-Repelling Charm, then, she mused. Or maybe a mass Confusion Charm.
Taking a steadying breath, she tightened her grip on her luggage trolley and walked straight at the wall. For a terrifying, heart-stopping second, all she could feel was the unyielding solidity of brick and mortar. Then, a cold, tingling sensation washed over her, the roar of the station abruptly cut off, replaced by a sudden, echoing silence. She burst through into a different world.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was bathed in the warm, hazy light of late morning. A magnificent, deep-red steam locomotive, the Hogwarts Express, hissed impatiently on the tracks, billowing clouds of white steam that smelled of coal and something else—something wild and magical. The platform was a joyous, chaotic scene of robed students, hooting owls in cages, and families embracing in tearful goodbyes. It was exactly like the books, so perfectly realized that it brought a strange ache to her chest.
After handing off her trunk, she boarded the train, the scent of polished wood and old velvet filling her senses. She found an empty compartment, slid the door shut, and settled into a seat by the window. As the English countryside began to blur past, she stared at her own reflection—the face of a twelve-year-old girl, but with eyes that held the weary, ancient weight of a different life.
The two worlds swirled in her head. Dumbledore, Voldemort, Death Eaters… they all seemed like characters in a story, a manageable, contained threat compared to what she'd left behind. S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, alien invasions, purple genocidal titans… one world was a fairy tale teetering on the brink of war; the other was a cosmic slaughterhouse waiting for the main event to begin. And she was stuck, somehow, with a foot in both.
Just as she was sinking into her grim thoughts, the compartment door slid open with a rattle.
"Excuse me?" a hesitant voice said. "Sorry to bother you, but everywhere else is packed. Would it be… alright if I sat in here?"
A boy with unruly black hair, a lightning-bolt scar, and glasses held together with tape stood in the doorway, looking deeply uncomfortable.
Hermione recognized him instantly. She gave a short, single nod, not trusting herself to speak.
"Thanks," Harry Potter said, looking relieved as he slid onto the seat opposite her.
A few minutes later, he was joined by a lanky, red-headed boy with freckles and a smudge of dirt on his nose. Ron Weasley. The scene played out exactly as she remembered it from her past life, a bizarre moment of pop-culture déjà vu.
"That scar…" Ron breathed, his eyes wide with awe. "You're… you're Harry Potter!"
The trolley came by soon after, and Harry, bewildered by the strange currency, simply bought the entire lot. Ron's eyes nearly popped out of his head at the sight of the mountain of Chocolate Frogs, Cauldron Cakes, and Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. A revolutionary friendship was forged right there, over a pile of sugar.
Through it all, Hermione remained silent, watching them from her corner. It was like watching a movie she'd seen a hundred times. They kept stealing glances at her, a silent question in their eyes. They had finally noticed that this strange, cold girl hadn't reacted at all to the most famous name in the wizarding world.
Feeling their gaze on her, Hermione finally looked up, her eyes landing on the sad-looking tape on Harry's glasses. It offended her sense of order.
"Reparo," she said quietly, giving her wand a small, almost imperceptible flick. The tape vanished and the cracked frame fused together seamlessly. A tiny notification pinged in her mind's eye. Repairing Charm proficiency +1.
Harry and Ron stared, their mouths agape. They hadn't even had a single lesson yet, and she was already casting flawless, nonverbal spells.
Hermione just turned back to the window. She had no interest in fawning over the Boy-Who-Lived; she'd already read his entire life story. And besides, she was an adult trapped in a child's body. The last thing she wanted to do was play house with a bunch of eleven-year-olds.
Night had fallen by the time the train finally arrived at Hogsmeade station. The first-years were led by the enormous silhouette of Hagrid down a dark, winding path to the edge of the Black Lake. As they clambered into a fleet of small, enchanted boats, the clouds parted, and she saw it.
Hogwarts Castle.
It rose from the cliffs across the lake, a breathtaking fairytale of soaring towers and glowing, lantern-lit windows, all reflected perfectly in the still, black water below. Even after seeing countless skyscrapers in her old life, the sheer, impossible beauty of it made her breath catch in her throat. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, she felt a flicker of genuine, unadulterated wonder.
"It's more real than the movies," she murmured to herself.
They climbed a massive stone staircase that led to the castle's entrance hall, where Professor McGonagall was waiting, her stern presence radiating an aura of no-nonsense authority. Just behind them, the sneering voice of Draco Malfoy cut through the air as he insulted Ron's family, a petty squabble that Hermione pointedly ignored.
As the students filed past McGonagall into the Great Hall, the professor's sharp eyes found hers in the crowd.
"Miss Hermione Granger."
Hermione froze. She had deliberately hung back, trying to blend in. How had she been noticed? She turned. "Good evening, Professor McGonagall."
McGonagall's severe expression softened into a rare, almost imperceptible smile. "I simply wanted to thank you for your letter, Ms. Granger. I wish you a happy start to your term."
So that was it. "Thank you, Professor," Hermione replied with a polite, practiced smile. "I wish you a successful year of teaching."
She walked into the Great Hall, her eyes adjusting to the light of thousands of candles floating magically in mid-air below an enchanted ceiling that mirrored the starry night sky. At the front of the hall, the staff sat at a long table. In the center, in a grand golden chair, sat Albus Dumbledore.
The ancient headmaster stood to address the students. His gaze swept across the hall, his twinkling blue eyes pausing for a moment on Harry Potter. Then, his gaze continued, moving past the rows of other students, until it landed directly on Hermione, hidden away at the back of the crowd.
He held her gaze for just a second too long, and it felt like he was looking right through her, past the face of a twelve-year-old girl, and seeing the old, weary soul hiding inside.
Hermione's polite smile faltered.
What?
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .