So she could buy the dip while Tony Stark was missing and Stark Industries' share price was plummeting?
Hermione was excited for a second before her little face fell again.
She had no money.
She had never traded stocks and had no idea how to buy them.
Even if she had both, what did any of it have to do with an undocumented nobody who didn't even have an identity?
Fuck!
She was pissed.
After silently repeating Money is merely a worldly possession three times, Hermione pouted and glumly found a small inn, slapping a few US dollar bills onto the front desk.
Jungling earned not only experience, but gold too.
It was the owner's first time hosting a child this young. He hesitated for a long while, but for the sake of the cash, he gave her a room anyway.
Only then did Hermione quietly lower the wand inside her sleeve.
A moment earlier, Sectumsempra had been ready to fire. If the owner dared get any funny ideas because she was alone, she would let him enjoy sleeping like a baby.
As it turned out, he only cared about money.
Tsk. Three hours in Hell's Kitchen, and everyone looks like a bad guy.
The next morning.
Several men in black suits entered the inn.
After showing his credentials, a balding middle-aged man approached Hermione's door, knocked lightly a few times, and cautiously took two steps back.
No one answered for a long time, and there was no movement inside.
The balding man frowned, took out the key the innkeeper had given him, unlocked the door, and swiftly slipped inside.
The room was empty.
The balding man checked the surroundings. Once he confirmed that nobody was hiding in the room, he reached out and touched the rumpled bedding.
It was still warm.
"She hasn't gone far. You lot, search the area!"
The balding man gave the order decisively, and the men in black behind him immediately got moving.
Ten minutes later, they returned one after another and shook their heads at him.
The balding man took out his phone and made a call.
"Sir, she's disappeared. The bedding is still warm, and the door and windows were locked from the inside. The front desk's security footage shows her checking in at eleven last night. She never left her room after that."
He paused. "I'm leaning toward classifying her as an unregistered individual with teleportation abilities."
Meanwhile, in a spacious office.
A bald black man wearing an eyepatch put down his phone.
Of the two files lying open on his desk, one contained a jumbled statement from the barbecue restaurant owner.
The robber had "flown into the wall by himself," his "neck had split open on its own," and the pistol had "vanished into thin air."
As for the other file.
Last night, more than a dozen deaths had been reported in Hell's Kitchen. All the deceased were violent offenders with criminal records, and there had been no witnesses at any of the scenes.
The bald black man picked up the files and studied them for a while, his thoughts unreadable, before setting them back on the desk.
A photograph of a girl lay quietly between them.
On the lawn in front of Hogwarts Castle.
Dozens of young wizards stood in two rows facing each other, each with a broom at their feet.
Today was Madam Hooch's flying class.
Looking at the eager Slytherin students opposite her, Hermione couldn't help rolling her eyes.
Whoever scheduled these classes, did they really have to pair Gryffindor with Slytherin?
The lesson hadn't even started, and the two sides were already on the verge of fighting.
They glared at each other, neither willing to back down, giving off a distinct "What are you looking at?" "You. Got a problem?" vibe.
It's not like the professors don't know Gryffindor and Slytherin have never gotten along. Don't tell me this is supposed to be motivational teaching.
Whatever. Maybe it's just a Hogwarts tradition.
Back when Hermione had read the books, she had thought that the award for best villain in the entire series should go to the Sorting Hat rather than Voldemort.
The first thing that happened when young wizards entered the school was getting slapped with a label. You, off to Gryffindor. You, off to Slytherin. Those in the know understood they were being sorted into houses; anyone else would think the Hung Hing gang's four branches were recruiting.
They weren't even taught according to their aptitudes afterward. Beyond labeling them and intensifying their conflicts, the sorting served no purpose.
Still, Hermione couldn't be bothered worrying about it. At least it grouped everyone she wouldn't get along with together, saving her the trouble of finding them one by one.
Like that platinum-haired young master opposite her, who had been eyeing her sidelong ever since they had lined up.
While Hermione's mind wandered, Madam Hooch finally arrived.
"Good afternoon, students!"
Her voice rang out, strong and clear.
"Good afternoon, Madam Hooch!"
The young wizards answered in unison.
"Welcome to our first flying class. As we all know, flying is very important for a wizard, especially..."
As usual, she began with some background information and safety instructions.
After plenty of blah, blah, blah, she finished everything she needed to explain. Seeing the eager expressions on the young wizards' faces, making it obvious they couldn't wait any longer, Madam Hooch finally said:
"All right. Now, hold your right hand over your broom and say 'Up.'"
Instantly, cries of "Up!" filled the lawn.
Hermione joined in, saying softly, "Up."
Nothing happened.
Hmm... Again.
"Up."
The broom rolled over on the spot, but showed no intention of rising.
Get the fuck up already... Hermione was speechless.
Hermione was an all-rounder in almost every respect, except for flying a broomstick.
It wasn't that she couldn't use one at all. Compared with her other top-tier talents, her aptitude for broomsticks merely fell into the ordinarily excellent category.
The mysterious Spellbook hadn't offered this skill either, so she could only practice it slowly.
Beside her, Harry, who had long since summoned his broom into his palm, was astonished. This was the first time he had ever seen Hermione like this.
Finally, on her third call, the broom rose smoothly into Hermione's grasp.
"Put some feeling into it!"
Seeing that many of the young wizards still hadn't succeeded, Madam Hooch reminded them loudly.
After some fuss, everyone finally managed to summon their broom.
Madam Hooch nodded in satisfaction. "Now, on my command, everyone mount your brooms. Hold on tight, and don't slide off."
Hermione looked at everyone around her straddling their brooms and hesitated.
Wait, the broom handle is so thin. Doesn't riding it like that crush your crotch...?
Doesn't it hurt your balls?
But the next second, a wave of sorrow welled up inside her.
Right. I'd almost forgotten. It really wouldn't now...
Fuck!
With her rage meter maxed out, Hermione ultimately chose not to straddle her broom, but to sit sideways on it instead.
Seeing this, Ron leaned his head over and whispered, "Hermione, Madam Hooch told us to straddle them..."
"Shut up!"
"Oh..."
Before you continue