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Fury's mind raced, weighing the colossal security risk against the immeasurable potential reward. Giving this child access to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deepest secrets was an act of pure insanity. But she was also the key to understanding a power that could rewrite every rule of modern warfare. It was a devil's bargain.
"Alright," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble of capitulation. "I agree to your terms. Level seven access, to start."
"So," he continued, trying to regain some momentum, "when can you begin your consultation? I can have a list of our top theoretical physicists and engineers ready for you to brief by tomorrow."
He was desperate to begin, to start quantifying and categorizing this impossible new science. But Hermione just shook her head, a self-important, put-upon look on her face.
"I'm afraid I'm quite busy for the next few weeks," she said, puffing out her chest. "There's a rather important Quidditch match coming up. As Gryffindor's new star Beater, my presence at daily training is absolutely mandatory."
"Quidditch?" Tony, Pepper, and Coulson all asked at the same time, their voices a chorus of confusion.
"Did I not mention it?" Hermione blinked, feigning surprise. She then launched into a brief, animated explanation of the wizarding world's favorite, and most violent, sport.
To her surprise, Tony and Pepper were instantly captivated. The idea of a high-speed, full-contact aerial sport with four different balls and a bizarrely complex set of rules appealed to both Tony's love of chaos and Pepper's fascination with this strange, new culture.
"Can we watch?" Pepper asked, her eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. "Can we come see you play?"
"That's… difficult," Hermione began. "Hogwarts is magically concealed from Muggles…" She paused, a slow, clever smile spreading across her face. "But… I think I might have an idea."
A few minutes later, as Hermione was giving Tony the technical specifications for a magical-to-digital visual relay device she wanted him to build, Fury let out a worried sigh. He looked out at the city, at a world he was sworn to protect, and felt a profound sense of unease. With Iron Man's public debut, he had a feeling the floodgates were about to open. The Avengers Initiative was no longer a theoretical proposal; it was an imminent and desperate necessity.
Hogwarts, the Quidditch Pitch.
Today was the day. The first match of the season. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The air in the locker room was thick with the smell of wood polish, old leather, and nervous sweat. The six other members of the Gryffindor team were a mess of frayed nerves and adrenaline. Hermione, however, was a picture of calm. She sat on a bench, already changed into her scarlet and gold uniform, methodically taping the handle of her Beater's bat.
As the others chattered nervously, she discreetly pulled a small, silver sphere from her pocket. It looked like a miniature, polished Snitch. With a whispered, nonverbal charm, its tiny wings began to beat, and it silently lifted into the air, phasing through the locker room ceiling, completely unnoticed. In Tony Stark's lab, thousands of miles and one dimension away, a monitor flickered to life, showing a perfect, bird's-eye view of the Quidditch pitch.
"Hermione?"
Harry's quiet voice pulled her from her thoughts. He sat down beside her, his face pale, his knuckles white where he gripped his new Nimbus 2000.
"I need to talk to you later," he whispered, his eyes darting around the room. "Ron and I… we've found something. Something important. I need your help."
"Library," she replied without looking at him, her voice a low murmur. "After the game."
Harry nodded, a visible wave of relief washing over him. The puzzles that had been tormenting him for weeks—Snape's strange behavior, the three-headed dog on the third floor—suddenly felt manageable. When in doubt, ask Hermione. It had become their new mantra. Thinking was overrated when you had a walking, talking magical supercomputer on your team.
Hermione, for her part, already had a good idea of what he was talking about. The Philosopher's Stone. The main plot was moving along, right on schedule. But that was a problem for later. Today, she had only one goal: win the game, and if possible, beat several of the Slytherin players into a bloody pulp.
"Alright, team, listen up!" Oliver Wood's voice cut through the nervous chatter. He paced back and forth in front of them, his face a mask of intense, barely controlled stress. The preparation time was over.
They walked down the dark, narrow tunnel that led to the pitch. The muffled roar of the crowd was a physical, vibrating presence, a wave of sound that grew louder with every step. As they emerged into the bright, crisp autumn daylight, the roar became a deafening, all-consuming explosion of noise.
The entire stadium was a sea of color—scarlet and gold, green and silver, blue and bronze, yellow and black. Banners waved, horns blew, and the collective voice of the entire school rose to greet them.
"GRYFFINDOR! GRYFFINDOR! GRYFFINDOR!"
And in that moment, something strange and unexpected happened. Hermione, the detached observer, the reincarnated adult, the cold, calculating strategist, felt a powerful, unfamiliar surge of emotion. A wave of fierce, tribal pride. A sense of belonging. She looked over at the Gryffindor stands and saw Ron, Neville, and Seamus, their faces red from shouting, waving a massive, hand-painted banner that read 'GO GRYFFINDOR!'
For a single, fleeting moment, the weight of her two lives, of her dark secrets and grand plans, fell away. A genuine, unrestrained smile spread across her face. She was not a transmigrator or a secret weapon. She was a Gryffindor. And she was here to win.
"Nervous, Harry?" Wood asked, his own voice tight with anxiety.
Harry nodded, swallowing hard.
"Don't be," Wood said, trying for a reassuring tone. "First time I played, I was nervous too."
"And then what happened?" Harry asked.
"Then I took a Bludger to the head two minutes into the match and woke up in the hospital wing a week later," Wood said cheerfully.
Harry went even paler.
Wood looked over at his other rookie, his star Beater, expecting to see a similar case of nerves. But Hermione wasn't looking at him. She was swinging her bat lightly in her hand, her gaze fixed on the green-robed Slytherin team across the pitch, a look of pure, predatory hunger on her face.
A new, more immediate fear seized Wood. Please remember you're supposed to protect us, too, he prayed. Please remember that.
"And now, welcome to the pitch, the players of the Gryffindor team!" Lee Jordan's magically-amplified voice boomed across the stadium.
With a powerful kick, the seven red-robed players shot into the sky, circling the pitch to a deafening roar of applause. They took their positions, hovering in a loose formation, the wind whipping at their robes.
"And today's match, of course, is the classic rivalry: GRYFFINDOR VERSUS SLYTHERIN!" Lee Jordan screamed, and the crowd went wild. He began to introduce the players, his voice full of energy and shameless Gryffindor bias.
"And for Gryffindor, a bold new strategy this year, with not one, but two first-year players!" he announced, his voice full of surprise. "The new Gryffindor Seeker, HARRY POTTER!"
The stadium erupted, the name alone enough to send a fresh wave of excitement through the crowd.
"And," Lee Jordan paused for dramatic effect, "in the Beater position, the one, the only, the famous 'Library Witch'… HERMIONE GRANGER!"
At the mention of her nickname, a massive, confused, but overwhelmingly enthusiastic roar went up from the Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff stands.
"Seems you're quite popular," Wood said, a surprised grin on his face.
The Weasley twins flew up on either side of her. "She's the smartest, prettiest, and most terrifying first-year in the castle," Fred said with a wink.
"Who wouldn't love her?" George added. "Our little brother Ronnie is completely smitten…"
Hermione shot them a glare that could have curdled milk, and they wisely zipped away. She hadn't sought out popularity, but her combination of beauty, brains, and a terrifying, untouchable mystique had, apparently, gained her a legion of fans.
She looked across the pitch at the Slytherin team, their faces a mixture of sneering arrogance and a very real, very satisfying fear. Her brief, warm feeling of belonging was gone, replaced by a cold, familiar focus. The game was about to begin.