A wave of mocking laughter rippled through the Slytherin students. A Gryffindor mouthing off to the Head of Slytherin on the very first day? Classic lions, all bravery and no brains.
Hermione met Snape's furious glare and let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. She spoke in a calm, level voice. "Powdered root of asphodel mixed with an infusion of wormwood creates the Draught of Living Death. A bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, and it will cure most poisons. As for monkshood and wolfsbane, they are the same plant, which also goes by the name of aconite."
She tilted her head slightly. "Am I correct, Professor?"
The answers were textbook-perfect. Her grimoire could only copy potion recipes, not theory, but her memory from her previous life, honed by years of compulsory education, was more than enough to retain the basics after a single read-through.
Her flawless recitation completely derailed Snape's planned tirade.
"...Correct," he finally bit out, the word dripping with reluctance. For a brief second, a flicker of something—begrudging approval, perhaps—crossed his face. Then his eyes seemed to unfocus, as if he was looking through her at some distant memory, and he was lost in a trance.
He snapped out of it a moment later, turning away with a sneer. "Five points from Gryffindor. For your cheek."
But he never mentioned the history book again, which was a tacit admission of defeat. The rest of the class could see it clearly: Snape had tried to humiliate a student and had ended up being shown up himself. The name Hermione Granger was now firmly cemented in the minds of the first-years.
For the remainder of the lesson, Snape kept shooting glances toward their corner. Everyone assumed he was still stewing, trying to find another excuse to punish her.
Only Hermione knew he wasn't looking at her at all. He was looking at Harry, seated right beside her. At his eyes.
Lily's eyes, she thought with a flicker of understanding.
In the days that followed, Hermione settled into a routine. She attended classes, mastered the entire first-year spellbook with ease, and spent the rest of her time in the library. She even managed to copy a few useful charms from Professor Quirrell, who, despite his timid act, was a competent teacher.
Her relationship with Harry and Ron solidified into a strange sort of friendship. She remained aloof, but if they asked for help, she would answer their questions patiently. They were her associates; the rest of the school were just faces in the hall.
One moonless night, armed with the class schedule, she snuck back to the empty Potions dungeon. "Alohomora," she whispered, and the heavy door clicked open. In a dusty corner cabinet, she found what she was looking for: an old, heavily annotated copy of Advanced Potion-Making.
On the inside cover, a line of elegant, spidery script declared: This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.
A genuine, triumphant smile spread across Hermione's face as her magic book buzzed.
[Dark Arts]
Spell Learned: Sectumsempra
[Spells]
Spell Learned: Levicorpus
Half an hour later, having copied every high-level potion and handwritten curse from the book, she carefully returned it to its hiding place and slipped away.
A month passed. Life at Hogwarts normalized. Hermione, however, grew bored. Having already mastered the curriculum, she began skipping classes, attending only the bare minimum to avoid official trouble. The one exception was History of Magic, where she often stayed after class to discuss obscure historical events with the ghostly Professor Binns.
The other professors didn't know what to do with her. She was a genius who never needed to be told anything twice, so they grudgingly tolerated her eccentric schedule. Among the students, her reputation grew, earning her two distinct titles: "The Library Witch," and, due to her odd friendship with the Boy-Who-Lived, the leader of "The Library Witch and Her Two Followers."
Marvel Universe, New York.
In a dark, garbage-strewn alley, a small figure materialized out of thin air.
"Finally," Hermione breathed, the scent of rot and exhaust fumes filling her lungs.
She had spent nearly a month at Hogwarts, copying every spell she could access and maxing out the proficiency on most of them. But she'd hit a plateau. Her core magic level was still Lv. 1, which seemed to be capping her spell progression. Furthermore, grinding experience was becoming inefficient. A spell that once gave her 5 XP now only gave her 1. While she could just wait to grow older and more powerful, she was impatient. Both the Marvel and Potter worlds were far too dangerous to rely on slow, natural growth.
Voldemort was right about one thing: magic is power. And her grimoire offered a shortcut.
She stepped out of the alley into the neon-lit night. She needed money—her British pounds were useless here—and a place to lie low. Her thoughts drifted to her old boss. Sal had been kind to her, a good man in a city that wasn't.
As she approached the familiar street, she heard shouting from inside the shawarma shop. Her brow furrowed. She walked silently to the front door. It was locked.
"Alohomora." The lock clicked open. She cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, becoming a ripple in the air, and slipped inside.
Near the counter, Sal was facing off against a man holding a pistol.
A stick-up.
"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" Sal said, his hands raised in surrender. "The money's in the register, just take it." He started to inch toward the counter.
"Don't move! I said don't move!" the gunman shrieked, his voice cracking with panic. "Now hand over the money! Go on, get the money!" The pistol trembled in his hand, his finger twitching on the trigger. He was high or terrified, maybe both. A dangerous combination.
Hermione sighed internally at the man's contradictory, panicked screaming. As Sal stood frozen, unsure whether to move or stay still, the robber's agitation peaked. He was about to do something stupid.
Hermione didn't hesitate. She pointed her wand at the man's chest. "Depulso!"
An invisible cannonball of force slammed into the robber. He flew backward with a strangled cry, hitting the far wall with a sickening crack. The drywall spiderwebbed around the impact. The force of a full-proficiency Knockback Jinx was immense, far more powerful than what any normal student could produce.
The man slumped to the floor, groaning in pain, his ribs clearly broken. "Help… hurts…"
"You're not dead yet?" Hermione noted, her voice a silent thought. She raised her wand again. He was still a threat. A loose end.
"Diffindo!"
A transparent, shimmering wave shot through the air. It struck the man's neck. A deep, perfectly straight line appeared, bisecting his throat from ear to chin. Blood erupted in a hot spray, and he collapsed, choking for a second before falling silent.
Sal stared in horror, trembling. One moment the robber was threatening him, the next he'd been thrown against a wall by nothing, and then his throat had simply… split open. It was like a scene from a horror movie.
Hermione stepped out of the shadows, her invisibility fading. She ignored Sal's terrified gasp and pointed her wand at the fallen pistol.
"Expelliarmus."
The gun flew into her waiting hand.
PLS SUPPORT ME AND THROW POWERSTONES .