The cafe was a small island of calm in the roaring ocean of New York City. The air smelled of dark roasted coffee, cinnamon, and warm sugar. Hermione sat by the window, nursing a cappuccino, the warmth of the mug a small, comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of her thoughts. She was on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar. That much was certain. The only question now was how they would make their approach.
The gentle jingle of the bell above the door gave her the answer. A young, handsome couple walked in, arm in arm, laughing at some shared joke. They were the picture of mundane happiness, a walking, talking embodiment of the normal life she had lost forever. They exuded such a powerful aura of saccharine romance it was almost nauseating.
Hermione watched them in the reflection of the window, her eyes cold and analytical. She recognized the woman instantly. The slightly curly, burgundy-colored hair, the confident, predatory grace in her movements, the way her eyes, despite her easy smile, were constantly scanning the room. Black Widow, Hermione thought, a slow, predatory smile of her own touching her lips. They sent their best. How flattering.
Natasha Romanoff and her partner ordered two coffees, then looked around for a place to sit, their gazes sweeping the room before landing, as if by chance, on a small table near Hermione. They were good, but Hermione wasn't playing their game. She was inventing a new one.
She drained the last of her coffee, the sweet foam clinging to the sides of the cup, and stood. With a confidence that was deeply unsettling in a twelve-year-old, she walked directly to their table.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice polite but firm. She nudged the handsome male agent with her hip. "Move."
The man, caught completely off guard, stumbled sideways. Hermione slid into his still-warm seat, directly opposite a stunned Natasha Romanoff. The couple stared at her, their carefully constructed romantic facade momentarily shattering.
Hermione fixed her gaze on the woman. She was beautiful, even more so in person than on screen. A sculpted face, a lithe, powerful body visible even under her casual clothes, and eyes that held a universe of secrets.
"Little girl, what do you think you're…" Natasha began, her voice a perfect blend of confusion and mild annoyance.
"Let's stop pretending," Hermione interrupted, her voice dropping slightly. "You're not here for the coffee. What do you want with me?"
Before Natasha could recalibrate, her partner recovered, slipping back into his role as the indignant boyfriend. "Hey, what's the big idea, kid?" he said, his brow furrowed. "That's my seat. Look, I don't have any change for you, so why don't you run along?" He was trying to dismiss her, to frame her as a common nuisance.
Hermione didn't even bother to look at him. She tilted her head, her gaze still locked on Natasha, and began to mutter to herself, just loud enough for them to hear. "Hmm, no trace of magic. Definitely not from the Ministry. Why would they send Muggles? So strange…"
Her words were a carefully crafted piece of disinformation, designed to seize control of the narrative. She had already decided on her persona for this world: a brilliant, powerful, but slightly naive young witch from a mysterious and highly organized magical society, with a child's sense of justice. She would be an enigma they couldn't easily categorize, a problem they couldn't solve with a simple bullet.
"You!" the male agent said, his feigned annoyance turning into genuine frustration. She was ignoring his script completely.
"Quiet, adults are talking," Hermione said dismissively. She drew her wand from her sleeve—a simple stick of polished wood—and casually tapped him on the forehead. A tiny, imperceptible spark of light, visible only to Natasha's hyper-aware eyes, flashed at the point of contact. The agent froze, his angry retort dying on his lips as a wave of momentary, inexplicable confusion washed over him.
The young man stared blankly for a second, a flicker of something like professional shock in his eyes. What just happened? Did she just… tap me with a stick?
Natasha raised a hand, her expression unreadable. "Agent Davis, why don't you wait in the car," she said, her voice calm and even. "I can handle this."
Davis's expression shifted from confusion to the grudging respect of a subordinate. The angry boyfriend persona melted away, leaving only the professional agent. He gave a single, curt nod and walked out of the cafe, muttering to himself about how a child could have possibly seen through his cover.
Once he was gone, Natasha leaned forward, her warm, disarming smile back in place. "Miss Granger… may I call you that?"
"Just Hermione is fine," she replied, offering a small smile of her own. Two can play this game.
A flicker of relief passed through Natasha's eyes. The target is responsive, not immediately hostile. "Alright, Hermione," she said, her voice soft and friendly. "I have to admit, you have me at a disadvantage. How did you know we weren't just… a couple getting coffee?"
It was a genuine question. As one of the world's top spies, Natasha had absolute confidence in her ability to disappear into a role. A breach of cover this clean and this fast was unheard of. For a terrifying moment, she wondered if this child was a product of some rival agency, a new Red Room.
"Oh, that?" Hermione said with a dismissive wave of her hand, as if explaining something incredibly obvious. "Wizards are very sensitive to being watched. It's a survival instinct. Since you walked in, you glanced at me six times. Your partner over there glanced at me eleven times. You never once made eye contact with each other. Even the couples at Hogwarts who are about to break up are more convincing than you two were."
Natasha's smile didn't falter, but her mind was racing. Sensitive to sight? Is that part of her ability?
Hermione chuckled inwardly. It was all, of course, complete nonsense. She knew who Natasha was because she'd seen all her movies.
Natasha filed the information away and decided to press on the most unbelievable part of the girl's story. "Hermione," she said, her tone gentle, like an adult correcting a child's tall tale, "lying isn't a very nice habit." She had read the file. The girl had some kind of kinetic or telekinetic ability. This talk of "wizards" and "magic" was clearly a child's fantasy, a way for her young mind to cope with the sudden manifestation of terrifying powers.
But instead of getting angry or flustered at being called a liar, Hermione just frowned, her previously confident expression melting into one of genuine confusion.
"Lie? But… you don't know? You really weren't sent by the Ministry of Magic to monitor me?" Her expression suddenly became serious, and she ran a hand through her hair in distress. "Oh, no. This is bad. I've told you about wizards. I've told you about Hogwarts. I've broken the International Statute of Secrecy. Dumbledore is going to be furious with me when I get back."
Natasha watched her, her analytical mind struggling to find a flaw in the performance. There wasn't one. The girl's distress seemed completely, utterly genuine. There were only two possibilities: either this child was a masterclass actor, the best she had ever seen, or… she was telling the truth.
"Oh, this is so annoying," Hermione grumbled, slumping onto the table. She began to idly twirl the small wooden stick in her hand. Suddenly, she perked up, an idea flashing in her eyes. "Wait! I know!"
She sat up straight, a bright, cheerful, and utterly terrifying smile on her face. "Before the Ministry finds out, I'll just erase your memory! Then no one will ever know I told a Muggle about the existence of magic!" She clapped her hands together. "Yes! That's it! Oh, I'm such a genius."
Erase my memory?
Natasha felt a cold, primal fear crawl up her spine. The girl leveled the small wooden stick at her, and Natasha saw the very tip begin to glow with a faint, silvery light. In that instant, every alarm bell in her head, every instinct honed by years of surviving impossible situations, began to scream. The feeling of danger was overwhelming, more potent than any gun ever pointed at her face. This was real.
"Wait!" Natasha shouted, her voice sharper than she intended. She fought down the overpowering urge to draw her own weapon. "Don't you want to know who we really are?"
It was a desperate gambit, an appeal to the child's curiosity. The silvery light at the tip of the wand flickered and died. The immense sense of crisis vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Hermione slowly lowered the stick, her head tilted. "You're not from the Ministry," she said, her expression now one of genuine curiosity. "Then who are you? And what do you want with me?"
Natasha let out a slow, imperceptible breath. She didn't know it, but her back was completely drenched in sweat.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .