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The Great Hall was a sea of green and silver. Slytherin banners hung from the enchanted ceiling, their serpentine crests seeming to sneer down at the other houses. The mood at the Gryffindor table was funereal. They were in last place, a fact the Slytherins were thoroughly enjoying.
Then, Dumbledore stood up.
A hush fell over the hall. The Headmaster, his eyes twinkling with a light that seemed far too mischievous for a man of his age, began his end-of-year announcements.
"Another year, gone," he began, his voice echoing through the hall. "And now, as I understand it, the House Cup needs awarding." He gestured to the banners. "In fourth place, Gryffindor, with 312 points. In third, Hufflepuff, with 352. In second place, Ravenclaw, with 426 points. And in first place, with an impressive 472 points, Slytherin House!"
A thunderous, arrogant cheer erupted from the Slytherin table. The Gryffindors sank lower in their seats. They knew it was their own fault. Harry's constant clashes with Snape, Ron's occasional temper, and Hermione's flagrant disregard for class attendance had cost them dearly.
A slow, knowing smile spread across Dumbledore's face. "Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," he said calmly. "However, recent events must be taken into account."
A new, hopeful silence fell. The Gryffindor students' eyes lit up.
"Ahem," Dumbledore continued, clearing his throat dramatically. "First, to Mr. Ronald Weasley, for the best-played game of chess that Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor fifty points!"
The Gryffindor table exploded in applause. Ron turned a shade of scarlet that matched his hair.
"Second, to Mr. Harry Potter," Dumbledore's voice grew stronger, "for pure love and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House sixty points!"
The cheering was now deafening. The score was tied. The Slytherins looked murderous.
"And third," Dumbledore's gaze swept the hall until it landed directly on Hermione, "to Miss Hermione Granger… for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, and for a level of magical mastery and tactical brilliance that saved her friends from a great and terrible evil, I award Gryffindor House sixty points!"
The final score was 482 to 472. Gryffindor had won.
The Great Hall erupted into pure, unadulterated chaos. The green and silver banners magically transformed into a sea of scarlet and gold. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, delighted at the prospect of anyone but Slytherin winning, were cheering just as loudly as the Gryffindors.
Snape looked as though he had just been forced to drink a gallon of Skele-Gro. Hermione just shook her head, a smirk playing on her lips. By one point. Hurtful, and deeply insulting. Dumbledore, she had to admit, was a master of theatrical trolling. The old man caught her eye from across the hall and gave her a subtle, almost imperceptible wink. She just rolled her eyes in response.
Back in the quiet solitude of her dormitory, Hermione finally allowed herself to process the events of the previous night. The moment Quirrell's body had disintegrated, her grimoire had lit up like a Christmas tree.
A staggering 5000 soul energy points had flooded into her system.
It wasn't just Quirrell's soul; it was the parasitic fragment of Lord Voldemort that had been riding in his head. By destroying the host, she had effectively "killed" that piece of the Dark Lord's soul, and the Dark Harvest had reaped the reward. She had been forcibly promoted from a soul-remnant to a mere soul-seedling.
The influx of power was immense. She sat cross-legged on her bed and felt it settle, her magical core expanding, solidifying, advancing to a completely new tier of existence.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 3 (672 / 50000)
She now had the raw magical power of a fully grown, and quite formidable, adult wizard. But the real prize, the true game-changer, was the new skills that had automatically unlocked with her advancement.
[Spells]
Silent Spellcasting: Lv. 1 (1 / 1000)
Wandless Casting: Lv. 1 (1 / 1000)
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs with a thrill of pure, unadulterated glee. These were the true magical arts, the skills that separated the masters from the students. She knew the greatest weaknesses of any wizard: take their wand, or silence their voice. With these two skills, those weaknesses were gone. Even at Level 1, they were applicable to every spell she knew. She could now be disarmed, bound, and gagged, and still be the most dangerous person in any room.
She imagined it: an enemy thinking they had her cornered, and then her hand simply stretching out, five silent, wandless Killing Curses erupting from her fingertips. Can even Voldemort do that? she wondered. She was now, without a doubt, a monster. A wonderful, terrifying, and utterly unstoppable monster.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Triskelion, Marvel Universe.
Hermione stood in a vast, white, and completely sterile training room that was the size of an aircraft hangar. Lined up before her, in a neat, military formation, were the "students" Nick Fury had chosen for her.
She looked at the Director, who was standing beside her with a proud, confident expression. "This is the team?" she asked, her voice flat.
"The best of the best," Fury confirmed. "Hand-picked by me."
Hermione let her gaze drift over the agents. They were hard-faced, professional, their bodies honed into living weapons. Grant Ward. Brock Rumlow. Jasper Sitwell. Clint Barton. A few others she didn't recognize. Her eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second as she performed a quick, casual, and completely undetectable Legilimency scan.
And then, she had to physically bite the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter.
Okay, she thought, going down the line in her mind. Let's see. HYDRA. HYDRA. HYDRA. S.H.I.E.L.D. Oh, look, another HYDRA.
The sheer, spectacular, breathtaking incompetence was a work of art. Nick Fury, the world's greatest spymaster, the man who trusted no one, had just hand-delivered his organization's most deeply-embedded HYDRA cell to her on a silver platter for private instruction.
It was the single funniest thing she had ever seen.
She turned to look at the one-eyed Director, her face a perfect mask of childish innocence, while her mind was screaming with the cosmic, beautiful irony of it all.
"Director Fury," she said, her voice full of a sweet, false sincerity. "On what criteria, exactly, did you select these agents?"