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Fury jolted. His first instinct? Refuse.
S.H.I.E.L.D. ran on two pillars: classified intel and strict clearance protocols. Open the gates for Hermione? Every secret would be laid bare.
But the words died in his throat.
That was just reflex talking. Think it through... maybe it wasn't such a bad deal after all.
The girl was curious, not hostile. And those 0-8-4 objects gathering dust in storage—things they couldn't identify, couldn't categorize—maybe she could crack them.
Fury nodded slowly. "Fine. Deal."
"So... when can you swing by again? I'll handpick a few 'star students' for you."
He was already itching to get started.
Ever since that prophecy demonstration, Hermione hadn't set foot in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Their intel pipeline on the mystical side had run dry.
Sure, yesterday's display of lethal magic was concerning... but knowledge? Knowledge was power.
"Can't do it this week," Hermione said, hands on hips. "Quidditch match coming up. I'm Gryffindor's Beater. After the game, we'll talk."
"Quidditch?"
All three spoke in unison.
"Wait, I never told you?" Hermione blinked, then gave them the rundown.
To her surprise, both Tony and Pepper lit up like kids on Christmas morning.
A wizard-exclusive sport? Flying on broomsticks? Rogue balls trying to murder players? Fascinating.
Pepper leaned forward. "Can we watch you play?"
"That's... tricky. You can't exactly waltz into Hogwarts—wait. Wait, I've got it!" Hermione's eyes sparked.
Minutes later, while Hermione and Tony huddled in animated discussion, Fury let out a weary sigh. His hand drifted to the pager in his pocket.
Call it instinct. Call it paranoia. But with Stark's identity public, the floodgates were opening. More threats. More chaos.
The Avengers Initiative couldn't wait much longer.
Hogwarts. Quidditch Pitch.
Game day. Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
In the prep area, Hermione and six teammates wore scarlet-and-gold jerseys. Each gripped a broomstick. Hermione and George held an extra bat.
She released a tiny drone, watched it vanish into the sky. No one noticed.
Good.
Harry sidled over, tugged her sleeve. "Got a minute after this?"
Hermione's tone was flat. "Spit it out."
"Ron and I found something weird. We need your help."
"Fine. Library. After the match."
Harry's shoulders relaxed. These past few days had been a nightmare of unanswered questions. He and Ron had stayed up all night theorizing, getting nowhere.
Then Ron had his eureka moment: Why not ask Hermione?
One sentence. Problem solved.
Think for themselves? Why bother? They could gossip about Snape instead.
Hermione glanced at Harry.
No clue what he'd stumbled into this time. But today? Today, everything else could wait. One goal: Win. Crush them.
Prep time ended. Both teams lined up.
The oval stadium roared. Packed stands. Students screaming themselves hoarse.
"GRYFFINDOR! GRYFFINDOR!"
"SLYTHERIN! SLYTHERIN!"
Hermione soaked it in. These kids loved Quidditch. Genuinely, passionately loved it.
Harry nudged her, pointed toward the Gryffindor stands.
Ron, Neville, Seamus—all waving like maniacs, faces red, voices drowned in the din.
She read their lips: Go get 'em.
The noise. The energy. It clawed at something buried deep. For a heartbeat, she was back in her old life, front-row seats at the World Cup, pulse synced with the crowd.
She'd thought that part of her was gone. That post-transmigration, only ambition and cold calculation remained.
Turns out? Not quite.
Hermione tightened her grip on the broom.
Wood glanced at Harry. "Nervous?"
Harry nodded.
"Don't worry. I was too, my first time."
"And?"
"And... I got knocked out by a Bludger two minutes in. Spent a week in the Hospital Wing."
Harry swallowed hard.
Great pep talk. Never do that again.
"This time," Wood muttered, eyes drifting to Hermione, "I'd rather not get concussed."
She wasn't even looking at him. Just twirling her bat, staring down the Slytherin line, grinning like a predator.
Wood's chest tightened.
She remembers Beaters are supposed to PROTECT their teammates, right? ...Right?
"WELCOME BOTH TEAMS!"
Lee Jordan's voice boomed through the megaphone.
Players mounted their brooms. Shot into the sky. Circled the pitch. Hovered in formation, face-to-face.
"Today's match: Gryffindor versus Slytherin!"
Lee rattled off names. Each one drew cheers.
When he reached Gryffindor's roster, his voice spiked with surprise. "And in a bold move, Gryffindor's fielding TWO first-years—Harry Potter... and the one, the only... The Library Witch, Hermione Granger!"
The Library Witch.
Every house except Slytherin exploded.
Wood chuckled. "Guess you're popular."
The Weasley twins grinned. "Prettiest first-year, smartest witch in decades—who wouldn't love her? Even our Ron—"
Hermione shot them a death glare.
She hadn't tried to build a fanbase. But stunning looks plus unmatched magical talent? Recipe for instant celebrity.
Cold and aloof? That only made her more intriguing.
The more untouchable, the more they wanted in.
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