For 40+ advance chapter: patreon.com/Snowing_Melody
"In that case, farewell."
Hermione's voice was soft, barely audible over the roar of the burning cargo ship. She waved her hand gently, a motion as elegant as a conductor cueing a symphony.
A small, roiling ball of flame appeared out of thin air. It didn't look like normal fire; it hissed and popped, swirling with the shapes of chimera and serpents, radiating a malevolent heat that distorted the very air around it.
Tony, recognizing the heat signatures of the Extremis virus, shouted a warning. "Extreme warriors are not afraid of fire! Your trick won't work, they feed on thermal energy!"
His reminder earned him a withering glare from Hermione.
"This is Fiendfyre," she corrected him coldly. "It is not mere heat. It is a curse. As long as my magic feeds it, it will never go out. It consumes everything. Flesh, steel, and soul."
With a flick of her wrist, the small ball expanded into a roaring serpent of cursed flame. It lunged forward, jaws open wide, and instantly engulfed Aldrich Killian.
"AHHHH!"
Killian's scream was a high-pitched sound of absolute agony, abruptly cut short as the magical fire consumed the oxygen in his lungs. The orange glow of the Extremis virus fought against the dark crimson of the Fiendfyre for a split second, but magic reigned supreme. The virus was burned out, the regeneration overwhelmed.
A moment later, Hermione clenched her fist. The roaring fire serpent vanished into smoke, leaving only a small, neat pile of grey ash on the scorched deck.
The Flame Warrior—the man who claimed he would own the War on Terror—was simply deleted.
Tony opened his mouth, his instinct to make a snarky comment battling with his genuine horror. He decided to keep his mouth closed.
Colonel Rhodes stood aside, staring at the pile of ash. His memory clicked. The green light he saw earlier. The fire now.
"That green light…" Rhodes whispered. "That's the instant-death spell the Chitauri were hit with in New York. She's her. The Witch."
He looked at the small girl in pajamas, finding it impossible to reconcile the harmless appearance with the terrifying reality.
"Tony," Rhodes hissed, leaning in. "You have backup like this, and you didn't call her sooner? It made us fight so hard just now! I almost died!"
Tony gave a wry, exhausted smile, leaning against a piece of wreckage. "Do you think I don't want to? That little brat does whatever she wants. She's uncontrollable. If it weren't for that idiot Killian trying to kidnap her, we'd probably still be in a cell right now."
New York City. 11:00 PM.
The rain slicked the streets of Manhattan, reflecting the neon kaleidoscope of the city lights.
Dr. Stephen Strange, the world's foremost neurosurgeon, stepped out of Metro-General Hospital. He inhaled the cool night air, adjusting the collar of his expensive coat.
"Phew…" Stephen let out a long breath, the stress of a twelve-hour surgery fading. He subconsciously raised his left wrist, checking the time on the exquisite Jaeger-LeCoultre watch.
The hands pointed to 11:00 PM.
"Christine should be asleep by now…" Stephen muttered to himself, a soft smile touching his lips. The watch was a gift from her. It was more than a timekeeper; it was a tether to the one person who tolerated his ego. It said: Time will tell how much I love you.
He quickened his pace, turning into a narrow, quiet alleyway. It was a shortcut to the private parking garage where his Lamborghini waited. It was dimly lit, damp, and smelled of old garbage and rain, but Stephen Strange was arrogant enough to believe the city wouldn't dare touch him.
He was wrong.
A dark figure darted out from behind a dumpster, blocking the narrow path.
"Hey kid," a gruff voice rang out, carrying a heavy, metallic threat. "Hand over the money."
Stephen stopped, startled. A burly man in a hoodie stood before him, holding a gleaming, serrated dagger. The metal caught the faint light from the streetlamp.
Robbery? Stephen frowned. He was annoyed, not terrified. This was an inconvenience.
"I don't have any cash on me," Stephen said calmly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "Everything is digital."
"Enough with the nonsense!" The robber's eyes were glazed, unfocused, but his aggression was sharp. He pointed the knife at Stephen's chest. "Hand over all your valuables! Now!"
Stephen sighed. He reached into his coat, pulled out his leather wallet, and tossed it to the man.
The robber snatched it, rummaging through the contents with shaking hands. He found only black credit cards and a few bills.
"Is this it?" The robber's face darkened with irrational rage. "Are you trying to fob me off like a beggar?"
His gaze fell on the watch. The crystal caught the light.
"Take off your watch!" he commanded.
Stephen's heart tightened. The wallet was replaceable. The money was irrelevant. But the watch… the watch was Christine.
"This watch isn't worth much," Stephen lied, his voice steady but his pulse racing. "It's a cheap souvenir. Sentimental value only."
"Stop talking nonsense!" The robber lunged, grabbing Stephen's left arm.
"No!" Stephen shouted. He didn't think; he reacted. He yanked his arm back, trying to protect the timepiece.
They grappled in the wet alley. Stephen was tall, but he was a surgeon, not a fighter. The robber was a brute force instrument. He slammed Stephen against the brick wall, pinning him to the damp pavement.
The robber raised the heavy handle of the dagger.
SNAP!
With a sickening, sharp crack, the watch band broke. But the sound was masked by a far worse noise—the crunch of delicate metacarpal bones being pulverized. The dagger slashed down, piercing deep into the nerves and tendons of the world's most gifted hands.
"AHHH!"
Stephen screamed, a raw, guttural sound of agony that echoed off the brick walls. He curled into a ball, clutching his ruined, bloodied hands to his chest. He could feel it. The precision was gone. The nerves were severed. The career was over.
The robber, his task complete, scrambled up and fled the scene. He ran two blocks, turned into a blind spot devoid of surveillance cameras, and stopped.
His eyes, previously filled with rage, went blank.
High above on a rooftop, hidden by a disillusionment charm, Hermione watched the scene unfold. She lowered her wand.
The robber was a pre-programmed puppet. A necessary evil.
Flash.
A green light flickered in the alley shadows. The robber collapsed silently, his role in the grand cosmic play finished.
Hermione listened to the distant, sobbing screams of the future Sorcerer Supreme. It was cruel. It was brutal. But it was the only way to break the man so the sorcerer could be born.
She turned and vanished into the night sky.
Hogwarts, The Quidditch Pitch.
The wind howled like a banshee. The rain came down in icy sheets, turning the pitch into a mud bath. Thunder roared overhead, shaking the stands.
It was Quidditch season, and the contrast between the Gryffindor scarlet and the Slytherin green was stark against the grey storm.
Hermione sat in the stands, wrapped in a heavy waterproof cloak, leisurely eating a bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. She looked incredibly cozy.
She was not on the team.
It wasn't that she didn't want to play. It was that no one—literally no one—dared to play with her.
Two years ago, she had been banned from using her custom broom, the Cyberpunk 2077, due to "excessive velocity and psychological trauma to the opposing Seeker." Last year, after the Chamber of Secrets incident, the reputation of the "Witch" had become so terrifying that opposing Beaters would instinctively apologize to her before hitting a Bludger.
This year, when her name appeared on the roster, the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw teams had collectively threatened to forfeit the season.
So, for the sake of the sport, Hermione had graciously agreed to be a spectator. A very active spectator.
BEEP—!
Madam Hooch's whistle blew, barely audible over the thunder. The game was on!
Without Hermione in the air, the Slytherin team felt brave. They unleashed their traditional strategy: violence.
Marcus Flint, the troll-like Chaser, grinned maliciously as he saw Angelina Johnson carrying the Quaffle. He accelerated, aiming not for the ball, but for her ribs.
"Angelina, watch out!" Harry screamed from above.
Just as Flint was about to ram her, Hermione, sitting in the front row, suddenly stood up.
She didn't cast a spell. She didn't shout. She just stood up.
Marcus Flint saw the movement in his peripheral vision. His brain screamed DANGER. He instinctively slammed on the brakes, jerking his broom handle so violently that he nearly spun out of control, tumbling through the air like a clumsy pigeon.
Angelina seized the opportunity, tucked the Quaffle, and zoomed past the terrified Slytherin. She threw.
"Gryffindor scores!" Lee Jordan roared into the magical megaphone.
The Gryffindor stands erupted in thunderous cheers. The Slytherin stands were deathly silent, glaring at their captain.
Marcus Flint, recovering his balance, looked down at the stands. His lips twitched.
Hermione stretched her arms, gave a sweet smile, and sat back down, popping another jelly bean into her mouth as if nothing had happened.
Psychological warfare, she thought. It's super effective.
The game continued. The rain grew heavier.
A few minutes later, a brutish Slytherin Beater named Bole saw a Bludger rocketing toward him. He raised his bat, grinning. He lined up a shot perfectly aimed at Harry Potter's head.
Just as he wound up for the swing, Hermione, looking bored, casually pulled her wand out of her pocket to check the time.
Bole saw the wand. His eyes bulged. His muscles locked up in pure terror. She's going to hex me! She's going to turn me into a ferret!
He froze. He forgot to swing.
BANG!
With a sickening, muffled thud, the iron Bludger slammed directly into Bole's face. He was knocked clean off his broom, plummeting into the mud below.
Hermione checked her wand, shrugged, and put it back.
"Ouch," she whispered, munching on a bean. "That looked painful."