WEEKLY POWER GOALS 💎🔥 30→2ch | 60→5ch | 100→8ch | 200→15ch | 400→25ch⏰ Resets Monday!
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"Correct."
Snape spoke the word reluctantly. His gaze toward Hermione held a flicker of satisfaction. Then, as if recalling something, he grew dazed for a moment.
Snapping back, he turned away. Snorted coldly.
"Gryffindor, for disrespecting a teacher—five points."
But he said nothing more about her reading extracurricular material. Tacit approval.
Though he'd forcibly docked points, the young wizards could all see: Snape was the one who'd actually lost face.
This successfully imprinted the name Hermione Granger in the new students' minds—especially Slytherins, who felt secondhand embarrassment for their Head of House. Sulked quietly.
Throughout the rest of class, Snape kept stealing glances toward Hermione. As if still unwilling to let it go. Searching for trouble.
Everyone thought so.
But only Hermione knew: he wasn't looking at her.
Nice eyes, right?
The following days, Hermione maintained her routine. Attended classes on time. Spent free time almost entirely in the library.
She'd already learned every spell in the first-year textbooks. As for Defense Against the Dark Arts… though Quirrell was weak as hell now, displaying a timid personality, his skill level existed. He taught seriously.
Hermione harvested quite a few spells from him.
Perhaps because Harry's fame was too great—plus his connection to the infamous "You-Know-Who"—new students were mostly curious but didn't actively approach him. Aside from Ron, he had no real friends.
The two had no plans to expand their social circle. As for Hermione, though somewhat aloof, when students genuinely sought her help, she'd answer patiently.
Half a friend. The others were just familiar classmates.
Worth mentioning: after figuring out the Potions classroom schedule, Hermione finally found an unoccupied moment. One dark and windy night, she cast Alohomora, sneaked open the classroom door, and found an old Potions textbook in a corner cabinet.
Opening the first page, elegant handwriting greeted her eyes.
[This book is the property of the Half-Blood Prince]
Seeing those words, Hermione smiled from the heart.
The magic book reacted again.
[Dark Magic]
[Sectumsempra Lv1 (1/1000)]
[Levicorpus Lv1 (1/1000)]
Half an hour later, having fully learned the spells and many advanced potion recipes, she returned the textbook to its place. Left the classroom.
A month passed in a flash. First-years gradually adapted to Hogwarts life.
Hermione initially attended all classes on schedule. But once she realized routine attendance taught her nothing new, she finally started skipping constantly.
Aside from showing intense interest in History of Magic—often discussing privately with the ghost Professor Binns—she attended other courses at bare minimum.
This left other professors helpless. Yet unable to dislike her.
Because this little girl grasped everything instantly. Learned after one demonstration. Never needed a second showing. A magical genius.
They got used to it. Let it slide.
No helping it. Teachers always favored and tolerated good students more. An unchanging theorem across all worlds.
Since Hermione always came and went alone, mysterious and unapproachable, especially fond of haunting the library reading various school histories, two nicknames gradually spread among students.
The Library Witch.
History Enthusiast.
As for the original trio, they'd shifted from a group led by Harry Potter—"The Boy Who Lived"—to "The Library Witch and Her Two Sidekicks."
Marvel. New York.
A dark alley. From the void, a petite figure appeared out of thin air.
"Finally back."
Hermione took a deep breath.
She'd spent nearly a month collecting every accessible spell and potion from the library. Maxed proficiency on most practical magic.
Unless she risked sneaking into the Restricted Section now, she had no rapid growth space short-term.
Yet none of these spells had advanced from Lv1 to Lv2. She guessed the main reason: her own magic level remained stuck at Lv1. Capping current spell limits.
As for traces of Ancient Magic—still few leads.
After a month of accumulated study, she was no longer a magical novice. Had gained fairly deep understanding of wizards as a species.
Take herself: with her aptitude, even doing nothing, as age increased, magic power would continue growing—until adulthood, when growth slowed and stabilized.
Each spell practice session, each high-difficulty spell learned—all yielded better progress on that foundation.
This growth translated numerically into the magic book's magic level and experience points. The closer experience came to maxing out, the slower the growth.
If practicing a spell 10 times previously gained 5 magic experience, now it only gained one.
Wizards didn't have visible mana bars like games. But excessive casting still left a drained feeling—especially mental exhaustion requiring rest. Further limiting Hermione's grinding.
Though enduring a bit longer would eventually level her up, she still felt it was too slow.
Whether Harry Potter or Marvel, both worlds left her feeling insecure. She had to rapidly increase her power.
At least on one point, Hermione strongly agreed with Voldemort.
Magic is might.
Fortunately, the magic book in her mind offered Hermione another rapid advancement method.
Couldn't test it at Hogwarts. But after a month of preparation, she'd returned to the Marvel world.
"Back, sure. But where should I go…" Hermione muttered to herself, leaving the alley and walking in a certain direction.
Marvel-side was also nighttime. Same as Harry Potter time. Only the date differed.
Though she'd stayed here a few days, she wasn't familiar with New York. Hadn't decided where to go.
Just as she passed a building, she faintly heard shouting from inside.
"Hm?"
Hermione looked up. Wait—wasn't this the shawarma joint where she'd worked as child labor?
Officially, laws sort-of prohibited employing child workers. Lots of operational loopholes, but not enough to let her work openly in broad daylight. Thanks to the Confundus Charm, Hermione had deliberately made people ignore that fact.
After all, Marvel-side was 2008. Her 1991 currency was useless. Not to mention only pounds.
Still needed to earn local money.
The shawarma shop owner, Uncle Erwin, had treated her decently. Paid good temporary wages. Kind person. Helped her quickly adapt to transmigration. He deserved credit.
Ran into a good person right after arriving.
But… what was with the shouting inside?
Tomatoes in the shawarma?
Hermione frowned. Felt things weren't simple. Quickened her pace toward the shop.
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