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The Headmaster's Office.
"The Triwizard Tournament is a death trap," Snape continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper. He paced behind Hermione's chair, his black cloak billowing like gathering storm clouds. "Given the special nature of the competition, no professor can be near Potter at all times. If danger occurs—when danger occurs—there will not be enough time to rescue him."
He stopped, glaring at Dumbledore. "He is fourteen. He will be slaughtered."
Dumbledore steepled his fingers, the candlelight reflecting off his half-moon glasses. "Which is precisely why I have appointed Miss Granger as the Special Safety Officer. To ensure Harry's safety."
Snape's lip curled. If he had volunteered to shadow Potter, the other two Headmasters would have vehemently objected, citing bias. But Hermione Granger? The girl who had publicly threatened the Minister of Magic and leveled half of Whitehall? Karkaroff and Maxime were too terrified of her to argue.
It just went to show that a reputation could be quite useful sometimes. Even a terrifyingly bad one.
Hermione popped a lemon drop into her mouth and shrugged indifferently. "How would I know who put his name in? Maybe it's some prank by a student who doesn't like Harry. Like the Slytherins?" She glanced sideways at her Head of House. "After all, they seem to have always disliked Harry. It's practically a house tradition."
Snape's face immediately turned an even uglier shade of sallow, and he fell silent, his jaw ticking.
He had to admit, infuriatingly, that the girl had a point. There were plenty of Slytherins who despised Potter. Including himself. Who knew if some audacious, foolish student had used some clandestine, dark means to put Harry's name in, just to see the boy embarrass himself on an international stage... or die trying.
"Can't I just take his place?" Hermione suddenly suggested, leaning forward, resting her elbows on Dumbledore's desk.
"You? Substitute for him?" Snape barked a harsh, humorless laugh. "Do you think the Triwizard Tournament is your private property, Granger? A playground where you can simply rewrite the ancient rules of magic to suit your whims?"
Hermione nodded seriously, without a trace of irony. "It can be my family's business. Or I can just decide. I have a very convincing wand."
Snape: "..."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blossoming behind his eyes. Okay, stop talking. It's a bit scary when she says things like that with a straight face, because she actually means it.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, a faint smile touching his lips. "Let's give the other Champions a chance to survive, Hermione. They are students entering a tournament, not a suicide squad volunteering for a war."
"Tch." Hermione rolled her eyes, leaning back in the plush chair. "It's just a competition. With me there, no one will die." She paused, a wicked, dark glimmer flashing in her eyes. "At most, their beautiful eyes might accidentally get poked out by something. I hear magical prosthetics are very fashionable these days."
Snape abruptly raised his head, furious, and glared fiercely at her.
That brat definitely did it on purpose! She was mocking the new Defense professor right under the Headmaster's nose.
The Next Morning. Defense Against the Dark Arts Classroom.
The heavy oak door creaked open. When Hermione Granger stepped over the threshold, the entire classroom fell silent instantly. The ambient hum of adolescent chatter vanished, replaced by the sound of eighty students collectively holding their breath.
All heads turned to look at her. Faces were filled with surprise, awe, and stark disbelief.
Hasn't the Big Boss been skipping classes for more than half a year?
Did the sun rise in the west today?
Hermione ignored the staring eyes, the dropped quills, and the gaping mouths. She strolled straight to her usual seat next to Harry, the crisp rustle of her robes the only sound in the room.
After the initial shock wore off, the buzzing discussion in the classroom resumed, though at a slightly lower volume. Naturally, the topic revolved entirely around the dramatic selection process from the night before.
"I can't believe it, Potter has actually become a Champion..." a Ravenclaw whispered loudly from the row behind.
"He's only a fourth year! How could that be?"
"It must be Dumbledore's favoritism. Or he secretly put his name in there himself. Sneaky..."
Many students, particularly the Hufflepuffs who felt Cedric had been robbed, looked at Harry with obvious dissatisfaction and suspicion. They muttered among themselves, debating whether he had lied or used some dark, improper means to bypass the Age Line.
Harry sat slumped over his desk, his face pale, looking miserable.
Hermione's sharp eyes scanned the room. She noticed Ron Weasley sitting in the far corner. He was slouched low in his chair, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his face dark with resentment. He remained completely silent, stubbornly refusing to even glance in Harry's direction.
Hermione nudged Harry's ribs twice. "What happened between you and Ron?"
Ron had been dissatisfied in the original timeline, yes, but this level of brooding hostility felt deeper.
Harry looked up, his green eyes thoroughly exasperated. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "Ever since my relationship with Malfoy... improved a bit, he's been like this."
Malfoy? Hermione raised an eyebrow, genuinely interested.
Harry sighed, keeping his voice low so the gossiping students wouldn't hear. "As you know, we've been through some things before. We've saved each other from Dementors, right? We had a good talk afterward and found out... well, he's not actually that bad. He's just a prat. But Ron feels like I betrayed him. Add that to what happened with the Goblet last night..."
Harry didn't finish the sentence, but Hermione understood perfectly.
After three years of Hermione's harsh, uncompromising discipline, Draco Malfoy's arrogant, pure-blood supremacist personality had been severely beaten out of him. He had become much more restrained. Setting aside his inherited prejudices, Harry found that he and the blond Slytherin actually got along quite well when they weren't trying to curse each other.
Ron was jealous.
On one hand, there was the sharp, adolescent jealousy of having his best friend "stolen." On the other hand, the Weasleys and Malfoys were true mortal enemies with a multi-generational blood feud. I treated you like a brother, Ron's body language screamed, and you ended up hanging out with my family's worst enemy?
Hermione didn't say much. She patted Harry's shoulder once. She was a woman who conquered dimensions and manipulated governments; she couldn't be bothered to untangle the petty, hormonal squabbles of teenage boys.
Not long after, a heavy, irregular rhythm echoed from the stone corridor outside.
Clunk. Step. Clunk. Step.
The door banged open. A figure limped into the classroom, leaning heavily on a wooden staff. His face was a roadmap of gruesome scars, a chunk of his nose was missing, and a whizzing, electric-blue magical eye darted wildly around its socket.
The students jumped in their seats, startled by the sheer menace radiating from the man.
Alastor Moody threw his staff aside and limped to the blackboard. He introduced himself in a rough, hoarse voice that sounded like grinding stones. His fierce, paranoid expression contrasted sharply with the gentle, ragged demeanor of Professor Lupin, terrifying several of the younger students in the front row.
After a brief, terrifying introduction, Moody got straight to the point. He slammed a heavy, clawed hand onto his desk.
"Today," Moody growled, his magical eye fixing on the ceiling before snapping down to the class, "let's learn about... the Unforgivable Curses."
He paused, expecting gasps of horror. He expected wide eyes and trembling hands. He had carefully cultivated this dramatic atmosphere.
Instead, the atmosphere in the classroom became somewhat... strange.
Students sat up straighter. A few pulled out notebooks, looking mildly intrigued rather than terrified.
Ignoring the bizarre lack of fear, Moody pressed on, leaning heavily on his good leg. "Can anyone tell me what the three Unforgivable Curses are? The ones that earn you a one-way ticket to Azkaban?"
"I know!" a Hufflepuff boy immediately thrust his hand into the air, bouncing slightly in his seat. "The Cruciatus Curse! It overloads the nervous system causing extreme pain, but leaves no external physical wounds! Highly effective for interrogation, but prolonged exposure causes permanent cognitive damage!"
Moody narrowed his real eye, somewhat taken aback by the clinical, textbook delivery.
"Very well..." Moody grunted. "So, what about the Imperius Curse?"
A Ravenclaw girl quickly answered, her tone brisk. "It can completely control another person's will and make them do anything! It feels like a floating, euphoric sensation, completely removing the burden of responsibility from the victim's mind. But it can be resisted with sufficient willpower and Occlumency training!"
Moody shifted his weight, his wooden leg groaning. "The last one...?"
"AVADA KEDAVRA!"
Almost all the students shouted in unison, their voices echoing off the stone walls like a twisted choir.
"A flash of green light!" one boy yelled.
"Instant death!" a girl chimed in.
"Impossible to defend against with standard shields!"
"Impossible to reverse! Requires physical barriers to block!"
Moody: "..."
What is going on here?
Looking at the excited, morbidly eager students below, Moody felt completely bewildered. The fake eye spun wildly in its socket.
Where did they get this? Is this still Hogwarts? Why does it look like an Azkaban training camp for junior Death Eaters?
His carefully prepared show of force, his intimidation tactics, his terrifying lesson plan—it had absolutely no effect. Every time he uttered the beginning of a spell, a student would immediately and accurately recite the spell's name, its physiological effects, and even the tactical precautions for casting and defending against it.
Barty Crouch Jr., hidden beneath the Polyjuice Potion, was completely stunned.
What has Dumbledore been doing all these years? Is this the style of Hogwarts now? Have they gone completely dark?
From then on, the lesson devolved into a farce. Before Moody could even finish a sentence, the students would enthusiastically follow up with the next paragraph of theory.
"Professor," a Gryffindor student in the front row finally said, unable to stand the repetitive pacing any longer. He raised his hand, looking slightly bored. "With all due respect... these things... the Witch already explained them in detail in our Defense Against the Dark Arts class two years ago."
The boy shrugged. "It's almost exactly the same as what you're saying. Actually, she even let us actually... uh, observe the effects on some Doxies. It was very thorough."
Moody surveyed the crowd. Every single student nodded in solemn agreement.
Their collective expression practically screamed: You shameless old Auror, you actually plagiarized the Witch's teachings word for word! At least try to make it original!
Moody's gaze slowly shifted to the back corner of the room. It landed on the calm, seemingly indifferent girl sitting with her arms crossed, watching him with a faint, knowing smirk.
Barty Crouch Jr. suddenly felt a cold sweat break out beneath his magical disguise. Despite his meticulous planning, his infiltration, his devotion to the Dark Lord... he suddenly felt as if he had always been living in the suffocating shadow of this teenage girl.
Moody remained silent for a long, painful minute. The classroom waited.
Finally, the grizzled Auror waved a scarred hand dismissively and muttered in a muffled, defeated voice, "...This class is a self-study period. Read chapter four."
Hermione ignored Moody's complicated, paranoid glare. She turned to Harry, lowering her voice.
"When does the first task start?"
"A few more weeks," Harry replied, looking relieved that the lesson was over. "Late November."
A few weeks... Hermione calculated internally. That is enough time.
Hermione had made up her mind. It seemed she could go back to the Marvel universe first and resolve the lingering issue with the Orb—the Power Stone. She needed the complete set.
After class, she slipped into an empty broom closet. She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar tug of dimensional travel pulling at her navel.
When she opened her eyes again, the stone walls of Hogwarts were gone. The scent of ozone and recycled air filled her lungs. She was sitting comfortably in the sleek, runic-carved cockpit of her stolen Asgardian spaceship, the stars of another universe stretching out before her.