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Muspelheim. The Ashen Plains.
"Phew—"
Thor exhaled a long breath, the static electricity around his armor crackling and fading into the sulfurous air.
He walked over to the pile of shattered ice and charred obsidian. He kicked a fragment of Surtur's frozen chest plate, watching it skitter across the black rock. After confirming that the Demon Lord was indeed reduced to gravel, he smiled with genuine relief.
"Your magic has improved again!" Thor beamed, slapping Hermione on the back with enough force to stagger a horse. "You weren't this strong the last time we met! That freezing spell? Magnificent!"
Hermione didn't smile. She stood amidst the smoke, staring at the massive, horned Skull Crown that lay intact on the ground.
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Something's not right.
Something is nine out of ten wrong.
She closed her eyes, extending her sensory perception. She didn't sense any Soul Energy being harvested by her Grimoire. The "kill feed" remained empty.
This meant Surtur didn't actually die.
Hermione's mind raced, connecting the dots of Asgardian lore.
The Eternal Flame...
She instantly understood the mechanic. The Eternal Flame in Odin's Vault wasn't just a power source for Surtur; it was his phylactery. It was his Horcrux.
The Surtur we just fought was an avatar, Hermione realized. A projection powered by the ambient heat of this realm.
As long as the Eternal Flame burned in Asgard, Surtur could never truly be destroyed. He would always respawn.
A cold, gamer-like logic settled in her mind.
To kill the boss, you have to trigger the boss fight.
The only way to completely eliminate him was to merge his skull with the Eternal Flame, restore him to his "World-Ender" form—Prime Surtur—and then destroy him while he was mortal. She had to break the connection by breaking the vessel at its peak.
"Very good!"
Thor, oblivious to Hermione's dark calculations, excitedly waved the Skull Crown in the air like a trophy.
"We did it! Ragnarok is cancelled! Asgard is safe! Hermione, thank you so much! Father will be pleased!"
Looking at Thor's face, which was brimming with the pure joy of a Golden Retriever, Hermione sighed silently.
What an idiot.
However, there was progress. At least this time, he knew to ask for help instead of rushing in and losing an eye.
Asgard. The Royal Shipyard.
The two returned to the Golden Realm.
"Don't worry, Hermione," Thor assured her, in high spirits. "I'll make good on my promise! I'll ensure the smiths prepare the most advanced skiff in the fleet for you! You can rest in the palace for a few days until the diagnostics are complete."
Hermione thought for a moment and nodded. She needed time to analyze the Infinity Stones anyway.
Thor kept his word. Three days later, a small, sleek vessel docked at a private platform near the Royal Palace.
It was beautiful. It lacked the cold, industrial feel of Stark tech or S.H.I.E.L.D. jets. Instead, it was a masterpiece of golden metal curved like a violin, shimmering with embedded runes and propelled by solar sails.
It looked less like a spaceship and more like a magical chariot. Very Asgardian.
Hermione circled the ship, running her hand along the warm hull. She nodded in satisfaction.
"It's perfect," she said. She looked at Thor, who was admiring his reflection in the hull. "So, how do you fly this thing? Teach me."
Thor paused. He scratched his beard, looking suddenly embarrassed.
"Uh... well... usually I just fly outside the ship..."
Ten Minutes Later.
The two sat in the cockpit, staring bewildered at a control panel that looked like a church organ mixed with a kaleidoscope. There were no joysticks, only glowing crystals and runic dials.
"Maybe this one?" Thor suggested, pressing a large amber gem.
VWOOM.
The ship groaned. The gravity generator inverted for a second, throwing them both onto the ceiling, then slammed them back into their seats.
"Okay, not that one!" Thor shouted, sweating profusely.
Hermione gripped the console, her hair standing on end. "Thor, stop touching things! You're going to crash us before we even launch!"
"...Let's find someone," she concluded, feeling nauseous.
"Good idea."
A few minutes later, the hatch hissed open. Hermione expected a dwarf or a mechanic.
Instead, Lady Sif walked in, resplendent in silver armor.
Sif gave a formal bow, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. "Welcome, Miss Granger."
After the formalities, Sif smiled—a rare, warm expression—and pulled Hermione into a hug.
Thor watched, speechless. Why does Hermione dodge my hugs, but lets Sif hug her?
"Sif, you can fly this?" Hermione asked, amazed.
Thor laughed. "Don't let Sif's appearance fool you. She is the finest pilot in the Realm. She taught Loki, actually."
Hermione settled down in Asgard for the week.
During the day, Sif taught her the basics of handling the Commodore-class skiff. It turned out Asgardian tech was controlled by a mixture of manual input and channeled bio-energy—essentially, magic.
Hermione was in heaven.
She began experimenting. She used Alchemy to reinforce the hull. She used Enchanting to interface her wand with the nav-computer. She applied the Protego Horribilis charm directly to the shield generator.
With the experience gained from Tom's modification of the Helicarriers, this went smoothly.
Time slipped away quietly.
One afternoon, Hermione was in the cockpit, attempting to imprint an Unbreakable Charm onto the ship's energy core.
DING.
A clear, vibrating sensation rang in her mind. It wasn't a sound; it was a notification from her Grimoire.
[System Alert] Space Stone: Analysis Complete (100%) Mind Stone: Analysis Complete (100%)
Hermione stopped. She closed her eyes, feeling the new data unfurl in her mind like a blooming flower. The secrets of teleportation and consciousness were now hers.
She opened her eyes, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.
"It's been a long time since I've been home," she whispered to the empty ship.
"Time to go back to school."
Hogwarts. The Great Hall.
CRACK.
Hermione appeared in the second-floor girls' bathroom. The familiar smell of damp stone and Moaning Myrtle's wailing greeted her.
She smoothed her robes, checked her appearance in a cracked mirror, and walked out.
When she arrived at the Great Hall, dinner was in full swing.
It was bustling. The enchanted ceiling reflected a stormy, starless night. The hall was packed not just with Hogwarts students, but with strangers.
There were students in heavy fur cloaks and blood-red robes (Durmstrang). There were students in delicate blue silk (Beauxbatons).
And at the Staff Table, next to Dumbledore, sat a massive, wooden cup. Blue-white flames danced on its rim, emitting a powerful, ancient magical fluctuation.
The Goblet of Fire.
Hermione walked toward the Gryffindor table.
Professor Snape was the first to spot her. He nearly dropped his fork. His face immediately darkened to the color of a dungeon wall.
"Miss Granger!"
Snape slipped away from the High Table like a phantom, intercepting her before she could sit down. His tone was unfriendly, dripping with sarcasm.
"So, you know how to come back? You've been skipping for weeks. Where have you been? Plotting another coup?"
Hermione looked at Snape's face, black as a pot bottom.
"I went to study spaceships, Professor," she said calmly.
Snape: "..."
His eye twitched. I won't ask. I refuse to ask.
"Sit down," Snape hissed. "Before you give me a migraine."
Hermione looked around. "What's going on?"
"The Triwizard Tournament," Snape drawled, his voice filled with disdain.
"The Ministry has reinstated it. Organized by Barty Crouch. It's a contest between Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang."
He gestured to the Goblet. "Each school selects a Champion. They face three suicidal tasks. The winner gets 'eternal glory' and a thousand Galleons."
Snape sneered. "A pointless exercise in vanity and danger. Perfect for Potter."
Hermione glanced at the cup with the dancing blue flames. She felt the magic. It was a binding contract. High stakes. Danger.
"Can I participate?" she asked casually.
The hall had gone quiet as people noticed her arrival. Her question rang out in the silence.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Albus Dumbledore stood up at the Head Table. His blue eyes twinkled, but his voice was firm, carrying clearly to every corner of the room.
"I'm afraid not, Miss Granger."
Dumbledore smiled gently.
"You are not yet seventeen years old."
Silence.
The once-noisy hall quieted down completely. Countless eyes turned to Hermione standing at the back of the hall.
The foreign students—especially Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour—stared with open curiosity. They had heard the rumors.
The Witch of New York. The girl who fought aliens. The one the Ministry fears.
And she couldn't enter... because she was underage?
Hermione looked at Dumbledore. She blinked.
"Headmaster," she said, her voice amused. "I just blew up three aircraft carriers and fought a Fire Demon in another dimension. Are you sure I need a permission slip?"