The cheerful jingle of the bell above the shawarma shop's door was absent. The warm, inviting glow that usually spilled onto the pavement was replaced by a single, flickering fluorescent light that cast long, dancing shadows within. Through the grimy front window, Hermione could see movement, sharp and erratic. The shouting she'd heard from the street was panicked and raw. Something was very wrong.
"Alohomora," she whispered, her voice barely a breath of air. With a soft click, the lock on the front door gave way. She pushed it open a crack and slipped inside, the Disillusionment Charm already settling over her like a second skin, blurring her form into a mere shimmer in the thick, greasy air.
The shop smelled of stale beer and fear-sweat, a foul combination that overpowered the familiar scent of spices. Near the counter, two figures stood in a tense standoff. One was Sal, his kind face pale and beaded with sweat, his hands raised in a gesture of terrified surrender. Opposite him stood a gaunt, twitching man, his eyes wide and bloodshot, fixed on Sal with a terrifying intensity. A cheap pistol was clenched in his trembling hand. A nearby window had been pried open, the clear entry point for this desperate, violent intrusion.
A stick-up.
"Don't shoot, man, please, don't shoot," Sal pleaded, his voice cracking. "The money's in the register. Just take it. Take it all." He started to inch sideways toward the counter, his movements slow and deliberate.
"Don't move! I said don't move!" the gunman shrieked, his voice a high-pitched, frantic squeal. He gestured wildly with the pistol. "Now get the money! Go on, get the damn money!"
Hermione watched from the shadows, her expression cold and analytical. The man was high, paranoid, and holding a loaded weapon. His contradictory, panicked screams were the ramblings of a mind on the verge of snapping. He was a powder keg, and Sal was standing right next to the fuse. As Sal froze, caught between the impossible commands to "don't move" and "get the money," the robber's agitation peaked. His finger tightened on the trigger, his knuckles white.
He was going to shoot.
Hermione didn't hesitate. Her decision was not born of heroism or anger, but of cold, brutal efficiency. She raised her wand, her movements economical and precise.
"Depulso!"
An invisible battering ram of pure force slammed into the robber's chest. The air was driven from his lungs in a sharp, whooshing gasp. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward across the room, hitting the far wall with a sickening, wet crunch of breaking bone. The drywall behind him spiderwebbed with cracks as he slumped to the floor in a boneless heap, his pistol clattering across the linoleum.
He lay there, groaning, a low, guttural sound of pure agony. "Ah… my ribs… help me…"
He's not dead yet, Hermione observed, her mind a placid lake of calm calculation. He was wounded, but he was still a threat. A loose end. A potential witness who had seen Sal's face. Leaving him alive was an unnecessary complication.
She raised her wand again.
"Diffindo!"
The whisper of the incantation was lost in the hum of the drink cooler. A shimmering, almost invisible wave of energy shot through the air. It struck the man's exposed neck. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a perfectly straight, dark red line appeared, bisecting his throat. It widened, and a torrent of hot, crimson blood gushed out, pooling on the floor. The man made a final, gurgling sound and then fell silent, his wide, surprised eyes staring at nothing.
Sal was trembling so violently his teeth were chattering. He stared at the dead man, then at the cracked wall, his mind struggling to process the impossible, invisible violence he had just witnessed. It was like a scene from a horror movie, and he was the sole, terrified survivor. He looked around wildly, his eyes wide with a terror that was beginning to border on madness.
Hermione stepped out from behind the counter, her Disillusionment Charm fading away, revealing the small, serious figure of his one-time child employee. She ignored Sal's horrified, uncomprehending gasp and pointed her wand at the fallen pistol.
"Accio pistol."
The gun flew through the air and slapped neatly into her waiting hand. She gave the shop one last look, then turned and walked out the back door without a word, leaving Sal alone with the dead man and his shattered reality.
In a dark, garbage-strewn alley a few blocks away, Hermione finally allowed herself a moment of triumph. She focused her consciousness inward, on the humming presence of her grimoire. A new notification glowed on the [Dark Arts] page.
Dark Harvest
[Current Soul Energy: 1]
A slow, deeply satisfied smile spread across her face. It had worked exactly as she'd theorized. Death was a resource, and she had just learned how to mine it. She could already feel the single point of raw, spiritual power waiting for her, a cool, potent energy she could absorb to permanently increase her own magical core.
"So," she whispered to the empty alley, her voice laced with a dark, delighted humor, "the book wants me to be a dark witch. I can live with that."
This was her purpose in returning to Marvel. Not to work, not to hide, but to test the limits of her most powerful ability. Her moral framework, a relic from a different, safer life, had already been recalibrated. She was not a psychopath; she would not hunt innocents for sport. But criminals? Predators? They were fair game. They were walking bundles of experience points.
She had already constructed the perfect justification, a story she could tell herself and, if necessary, the world. She wasn't a murderer; she was a vigilante. She was cleaning up the streets. In a world of heroes like Black Widow and the Punisher, her methods weren't just acceptable; they were efficient. She was simply applying a magical solution to a mundane problem.
She focused on the soul energy, willing it into herself. A cool, invigorating sensation washed through her, sinking deep into her bones and making her magical core hum with newfound strength. She checked her status.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (988 / 1000)
One soul was worth a full day of grinding basic spells. The feeling of instant, tangible progress was intoxicating. This violent, chaotic world wasn't a prison; it was the perfect training ground.
Three hours later, she stood on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, the distant sounds of sirens a constant, mournful song. Her magic level was now just two points shy of leveling up. The driver who had dropped her off had stared at her in the rearview mirror, his face a mask of disbelief that a lone child would ask to be taken to the city's most dangerous neighborhood.
The place had not disappointed. Under the constant, shimmering cover of her Disillusionment Charm, she had moved through the night-shrouded streets like a ghost, a predator hunting predators. She had witnessed drug deals, muggings, and turf wars, all while the few law-abiding citizens on the streets walked by with the dead-eyed apathy of people long accustomed to living in a warzone. She had practiced her more lethal spells, honing her skills and reaping the rewards. During one particularly bloody shootout between rival gangs, she'd made a crucial discovery: she didn't even have to be the one to do the killing. As a man bled out on the pavement, she felt the same pull, and her grimoire pinged with a new soul. The world's inherent violence was now a passive resource for her to exploit.
But now, she was tired. Her legs ached, and the mental strain of holding the charm for hours was beginning to take its toll. Her incredible magic was still housed in the frail, growing body of a twelve-year-old girl.
Apparition would be nice right about now, she thought, stifling a yawn. She dismissed the idea of seeking out the Kingpin; why would a wizard bother with a mundane crime boss? Her focus was on the bigger picture. From the billboards, she knew this was the MCU, and the year was 2008. There was no Iron Man yet.
She paused, her tired mind connecting the dots with a sudden, electric clarity.
Wait a minute, she thought, her breath catching in her throat. If it's the summer of '08, and Iron Man hasn't appeared… doesn't that mean some genius, billionaire, playboy philanthropist just got kidnapped in Afghanistan?
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES