The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
DONT READ DOWN HERE WORD COUNT
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.
The inside of the little shawarma shop on a New York side street was sweltering. The air tasted of sizzling lamb, garlic, and the city's afternoon grime that drifted in through the propped-open door. Outside, a taxi laid on its horn, the sound swallowed by the deeper rumble of a train passing somewhere underground.
"Shawarma, oh shawarma, oh shawarma…"
Behind the counter, a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve was humming under her breath. She moved like a machine built for one purpose: assembling shawarmas. Her hands were a blur, slicing meat, grabbing handfuls of fries, and dousing it all in sauce before rolling the flatbread with a speed that defied belief. A quick wrap in paper, into a bag, and she was already on the next one.
Slamming the wrap down on the greasy counter, she shoved it toward the next customer. "Here ya go."
Her other hand shot to the register, sweeping a fistful of loose change into the drawer without a single coin escaping.
"Next!" she barked, her voice a sharp, clear British accent that seemed oddly out of place.
The man who shuffled forward started rattling off his order in rapid-fire Spanish.
The girl's brow furrowed for just a second. "Sorry, English only," she said, tapping a small, hand-written sign taped to the plexiglass shield. She didn't have time for this. The line was still out the door.
To the impatient crowd, she was just an incredibly fast kid. No one saw the carving knife moving with impossible precision just out of sight, its blade trimming the spit on its own. No one noticed the basket of fries that seemed to fill itself, or the flatbreads that warmed and stacked themselves at the edge of the grill, always ready for her hand to grab.
Finally, as the setting sun painted the buildings across the street in shades of orange, the last customer walked out.
"God..."
The girl sagged against the counter, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for hours. The sudden quiet of the shop was almost deafening.
Okay, so the knife didn't get away from me this time, she thought, a secret smile playing on her lips. And the Confusion charm held—nobody's eyes went glassy. A definite improvement.
"Hermione!"
A man in a stained chef's uniform and a floppy hat pushed through the curtain from the back kitchen. "You were on fire today. Great work." He pulled a crumpled envelope from his apron pocket. "Here's your pay."
The girl—Hermione—straightened up, a genuine grin replacing her tired expression. She snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into her jeans pocket.
"Thanks, Sal!" she chirped. "Bye-bye!"
Waving over her shoulder, Hermione skipped out the door and disappeared into the warm glow of the setting sun.
Yes, the girl's name is Hermione. Hermione Granger.
And she was, for lack of a better word, a transmigrator.
Whatever her name was before this didn't matter anymore, because there were far more pressing issues to deal with.
Why did I go from being a perfectly normal guy to being twelve-year-old Hermione Granger?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, staring at her reflection in a grimy shop window. The face looking back was unmistakably that of a young Emma Watson, and she let out a groan. As much as she'd loved the Harry Potter series in her old life, she never imagined she'd actually become one of the characters.
I just liked the character, I didn't want to BE her!
When she first woke up in this body, she'd eventually accepted the cruel twist of fate and started looking for the owl with her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That's when the second, much bigger shock hit her. This wasn't London. This was New York City.
The final nail in the coffin was a massive billboard in Times Square for Stark Industries, featuring a picture of a man who looked exactly like Robert Downey Jr.
Her head was a mess. In her memories—Hermione's memories—she lived in Greater London with her parents in the 1990s. She'd just received her Hogwarts acceptance letter. That was, without a doubt, the world of Harry Potter.
But here, in the Marvel world, she was a complete nobody. No records, no identity, nothing. An undocumented, underage ghost.
After another mental deep-dive, sorting through her own memories and the original Hermione's, she came to one, obvious conclusion.
So, I got reincarnated into the right body, but the whole world got shipped to the wrong address. Just my luck.
There was one good thing, though.
Hermione's consciousness turned inward, focusing. An image slowly formed in her mind: an ancient, hardcover book bound in dark leather, its cover etched with intricate, swirling patterns. It looked like every classic grimoire she'd ever seen in movies.
With a simple thought, the book opened.
A few lines of text appeared on the first page, hovering over several icons.
Hermione Jean Granger
Magic Level: Lv. 1 (132 / 1000)
She mentally tapped the icons, reviewing the seven categories.
[Spells]
[Dark Arts]
[Ancient Magic]
[Alchemy]
[Potions]
[Magical Creatures]
[Wondrous Items]
The [Spells] category was the only one with any real substance. She focused on it, and the book's pages turned.
[Spells]
Levitation Charm: Lv. 1 (453 / 1000)
Repairing Charm: Lv. 1 (148 / 1000)
Ignition Charm: Lv. 1 (65 / 1000)
Confusion Charm: Lv. 1 (388 / 1000)
Next, the second category.
[Dark Arts]
Dark Harvest (Talent): Harvest souls to gain energy!
The pages for the other five categories were completely blank.
This mysterious magic book was her system, her cheat code for this new life. She'd discovered it in her mind during a moment of pure panic, and she'd quickly figured out how it worked. It could scan spells from books or even copy them directly from other wizards and add them to her mental library.
From there, she could learn them instantly. The more she used a spell, the higher its proficiency climbed, which in turn increased her own overall magic level. There was no talent required; just grind, and the spells would level up, becoming more powerful. In theory, she could learn any magic she could find, completely unrestricted.
It seemed the universe gave a pretty powerful cheat to people who had the cosmic bad luck to die and get shoved into the wrong reality.
Whether it was the Marvel universe or the HP universe, power was the only thing that mattered. Here on Earth, life might look normal on the surface, but she knew better. This planet was the universe's favorite punching bag, a constant target for supervillains, alien invasions, and dimensional horrors. You could get killed just by walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
This book was her only real chance to survive.
"Still," she muttered to herself, "I have way too few spells, and the other categories are totally empty. I can't exactly go hunting for spellbooks, and…"
Her mental gaze fell on the single entry under [Dark Arts].
Dark Harvest.
That… did not sound friendly. Harvest souls to gain energy. The book gave no other explanation, but she had a few unsettling guesses as to what it meant.
"Something to test out later," she decided, pushing the thought away. "Right now, school should be starting soon over there… It's time to go."
With another thought, she flipped to the very last page of the book. Two patterns appeared.
One was a stylized, capital 'M', which was grayed out and dim.
The other was a silhouette of a castle, glowing with vibrant color.
Her consciousness selected the castle.
The next second, a wave of vertigo washed over her, twisting her vision like she was being pulled through a straw.
When Hermione opened her eyes again, the world had changed.