The rest of the "practice" was an exercise in controlled chaos. Nearly every Bludger Hermione hit seemed to acquire a homing instinct for either Harry or Wood. She insisted it wasn't intentional, but her aim was so consistently, terrifyingly bad that it began to feel malicious. Wood spent the entire time flinching and ducking, a mask of pure, unadulterated pain plastered on his face. He finally understood Professor McGonagall's logic. A person who could wield a bat with such savage, unrestrained force wasn't just a Beater; she was a human deterrent.
"Right! That's enough for today!" he finally shouted, his voice strained. "Harry, this is the Golden Snitch." He pulled the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball from the chest. It fluttered its delicate silver wings. "You're the Seeker. Your only job is to catch this. Nothing else matters. Catch this, we get one hundred and fifty points, the game ends. Got it? Good." He shoved the Snitch into Harry's hands, spoke the last few words at the speed of light, and then turned and fled the pitch as if a dragon were on his tail.
Harry was left standing alone in the center of the vast, empty stadium, staring from the tiny, fluttering ball in his hand to Hermione, who was casually leaning on her Beater's bat like a battle-weary warrior.
Back in the Gryffindor Tower, Hermione slipped through the portrait hole and made her way to the girls' dormitory. The circular room was empty, her roommates Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown presumably still at dinner. The last rays of the setting sun slanted through the high tower window, painting the scarlet and gold bed hangings in hues of deep orange and blood red. It was a rare moment of peace, and she intended to use it.
She drew the curtains around her four-poster bed, creating a small, private sanctuary. As she'd practiced basic broom control with Harry after Wood's hasty departure, her mental grimoire had vibrated. Her magic experience bar, which had been agonizingly close to full for days, had finally ticked over the edge. Apparently, the instinct and control required to fly, even at a rudimentary level, counted as a form of magical training.
Sitting cross-legged on her bed, she closed her eyes and sank her consciousness deep within herself, reaching for the wellspring of her power. The moment her mind touched it, her magic erupted. It was not a violent explosion, but a powerful, overwhelming surge, like a dam bursting. A torrent of warm, liquid energy flooded through her limbs, widening the channels of her magical core, reinforcing her very being. Her mind, which had felt clouded with the fatigue of her double life, became sharp and crystal clear. It was like a fog had lifted, revealing a world of vibrant, exhilarating detail. She could feel the ancient, dormant magic humming in the castle's stone walls, the faint life-force of the sleeping Whomping Willow on the grounds, the very air thrumming with power.
She opened her eyes, feeling refreshed, stronger, and fundamentally more than she had been a moment before. She immediately checked her internal status.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000)
A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. The experience needed for the next level was ten times greater, but the rewards were immediate. She could feel the raw power flowing through her, more turbulent and potent than before. Her perception and control of that power had become far more delicate, more precise.
She quickly checked her spell lists. As she'd hoped, the spells that had reached maximum proficiency at Level 1 had evolved alongside her.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000)
Knockback Jinx: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000)
Body-Bind Curse: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000)
Shield Charm: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000) …
[Dark Arts]
Sectumsempra: Lv. 2 (1 / 10000)
Levicorpus: Lv. 1 (138 / 1000)
She needed to test the difference. Pointing her wand at a spare pillow on Lavender's bed, she whispered, "Diffindo."
A flash of blue light, and the pillow didn't just rip; it exploded in a silent cloud of feathers, the fabric atomized into fine, glittering dust. She nodded in satisfaction. The Level 1 version of the spell made a clean cut. The Level 2 version was an instrument of pure, destructive force. She could feel that its range, speed, and the maximum size of its target had all increased exponentially.
She spent a few moments analyzing her new strength, comparing it to the benchmarks she knew from the books. A wizard's power grew with age. First through fourth years were generally in the Lv. 1 range. Fifth through seventh years, the more powerful ones, would be Lv. 2. Most adult wizards would cap out at Lv. 3. Powerful, elite Aurors might reach Lv. 4. And gods of the magical world like Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Grindelwald? Their level was currently beyond her ability to even estimate.
So, as a first-year, she now possessed the raw magical power of an older, talented student. But her true advantage, her ultimate cheat, was the grimoire. Other wizards had strengths and weaknesses. Gilderoy Lockhart was a bumbling fool at almost everything, but he was a god-tier master of the Memory Charm. Barty Crouch Jr. had once said that the students in his class could all cast the Killing Curse at him and he'd likely only get a nosebleed, because they lacked the power and intent. Their magical "software" was full of bugs and inconsistencies.
Her software, on the other hand, was perfect. With enough time, she could max out the proficiency on any spell, making her a perfect all-rounder with no weaknesses, able to wield every spell she knew at the absolute peak of her current power level. She was a walking magical anomaly.
"Reparo," she whispered, and the cloud of feathers swirled through the air, re-forming into a pristine, fluffy pillow that settled gently back on Lavender's bed. Her work here was done. She closed her eyes, focused on the grayed-out 'M' in her mind, and willed herself back.
The world twisted, and the warm, cozy scent of the Gryffindor dormitory was violently replaced by the cold, sterile smell of bleach and stale air. She was back in the grimy motel room in Hell's Kitchen.
Good. Still empty, she thought, relieved that no new tenant had checked in. She had left Hogwarts in such a hurry she hadn't had time to secure a new, safer transport point. Note to self: find a permanent, private base of operations in this world.
She pushed open the door and walked down the deserted, dimly lit corridor to the front desk. As she approached, the innkeeper, who was half-asleep in his chair, saw her and jolted upright, his eyes widening in a mixture of fear and shock.
"You! Little girl, what are you doing back here?"
"I left something in the room," Hermione lied smoothly, not breaking her stride. "Just came back to get it."
The innkeeper's face was a mess of conflicting emotions. He looked around nervously, as if worried they were being watched. "What's wrong?" Hermione asked, her eyes narrowing slightly.
He made up his mind. Leaning forward over the counter, he spoke in a low, urgent whisper. "Kid, I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but you need to disappear. A few days ago, some feds were here. FBI, they said. Suits, black cars, the whole deal. They were looking for you."
FBI? Hermione thought, confused for a moment. Her actions had been invisible. How could they have possibly traced them to a twelve-year-old girl? Unless…
Her heart gave a slight lurch. The agents in her past life's movies… the ones who dealt with the strange, the alien, the impossible. They often masqueraded as federal agents. Feds… S.H.I.E.L.D.
The innkeeper saw the flash of recognition in her eyes. "Looks like you know what I'm talking about," he said, his voice grim. "Take my advice. Whatever it is, you don't want those people in your life."
Hermione nodded, her mind already racing, recalibrating. She had known there would be consequences, but she had underestimated the speed and efficiency of this world's surveillance state. She had been made.
"I see," she said, her voice calm. "It's not a big deal. But thank you for the warning." She pulled a few bills from her pocket and slid them across the counter. "For your trouble."
She turned and walked out of the motel without another word, a small, solitary figure swallowed by the vast, uncaring city.
Half an hour later, she was sitting in a quiet, nearly empty street-corner cafe, a cup of cappuccino cradled in her hands. The warm, bitter smell of coffee filled the air as she stared out the window, watching the endless stream of people pass by. She needed a new plan. Her days of operating as an unknown variable were over. S.H.I.E.L.D. was looking for her. The game had just gotten infinitely more complicated.
The bell above the cafe door jingled, and a young, laughing couple walked in, arm in arm, their faces bright with a simple, ordinary happiness that felt like it belonged to another universe. They ordered their coffee and looked for a place to sit, their eyes landing on a small table not far from hers.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .