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"Take me to the man you captured," Hermione said, her voice a calm, simple command.
"Of course, Consultant," Coulson replied with a respectful nod, gesturing for her to follow.
They walked through the sterile, air-conditioned corridors of the makeshift S.H.I.E.L.D. base, a jarring, high-tech intrusion in the middle of the quiet desert. They arrived at a heavily reinforced door, guarded by two grim-faced agents. It was an interrogation room.
Through a pane of one-way glass, Hermione saw him. He was a mountain of a man, with long, golden hair and a physique that looked like it had been carved from stone. He was the very picture of a Viking god, a being of immense power and majesty. But the man she saw now was broken. He sat slumped in a single, metal chair in the center of the bare room, his head bowed, his powerful hands cuffed behind his back, exuding an aura of profound, soul-crushing despair.
The heavy, metallic door hissed open. The man in the room looked up, his expression dull and lifeless, expecting another round of fruitless questioning from the men in black suits. Instead, he saw a small girl in a strange, black robe standing in the doorway. A flicker of genuine surprise, the first real emotion he'd shown in hours, passed through his tired, blue eyes.
As Hermione stepped into the room, she felt a subtle, almost imperceptible distortion in the air to her left. She paused, her gaze flicking calmly to the empty space for a fraction of a second, before continuing forward, her expression unchanged. Interesting, she thought. It seems the trickster has already arrived.
She stopped in front of the seated giant. He was so tall that even sitting down, their eyes were almost level.
"Thor Odinson," she said, her voice clear and steady.
The man's entire body went rigid. His head snapped up, the dullness in his eyes replaced by a sharp, shocked intensity. "How do you know that name?" he growled, his voice a low, hoarse rumble.
Hermione didn't answer. She just gave her wand a small, almost lazy flick. With a soft click, the reinforced handcuffs fell from Thor's wrists, clattering uselessly to the floor.
He flexed his powerful hands, rubbing his raw wrists, his gaze fixed on her with a new, dawning awe. "There are still sorcerers on Midgard?" he asked, a flicker of his old, royal authority returning to his voice. In his world, a wielder of magic was someone to be respected.
"I am a witch," Hermione corrected him, a hint of annoyance in her tone. "There is a significant difference." She paused, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "And Midgard is a far more complicated place than you seem to believe. You should ask your father about it sometime."
At the mention of Odin, the brief spark of life in Thor's eyes died, extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. He looked down at his empty hands, and the weight of his grief and failure came crashing back down on him.
"I cannot," he said, his voice choked with a raw, unbearable pain. "Because of my arrogance, my father… my father is dead." He looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed and full of a terrible, self-loathing agony. "It is all my fault."
He proceeded to tell her the story Loki had fed him—a tale of his own reckless actions in Jotunheim, of Odin falling into the Odinsleep out of grief, and of his father's final, heartbreaking death.
Hermione listened, her expression a perfect mask of wide-eyed, sympathetic shock. He's lying, you big oaf, she thought. Odin's just taking a nap, and your brother is a manipulative, scene-stealing drama queen. But she just nodded along, her face full of a carefully crafted sorrow.
Coulson and Sitwell, who had been listening to the entire, world-shattering exchange from the corner of the room, looked as though they were about to have a simultaneous aneurysm. The man we have in a cage is the Norse God of Thunder. And his father, the All-Father Odin, is dead. This was intelligence so far above their pay grade it was almost incomprehensible.
"Report, sir!" an agent burst in, his own face a mask of confusion. "There are… some people outside. They claim to be his… colleagues."
Hermione had to suppress a smirk. Right on cue. "Let them in," she said.
A moment later, Jane Foster, Darcy Lewis, and a very nervous Dr. Erik Selvig were ushered into the room. Jane, a brilliant scientist completely out of her depth, immediately took charge.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Jane Foster," she began, her voice a little too loud, her hands gesturing wildly. "This is my colleague, Darcy, and this is our mentor, Dr. Selvig. The man you have here," she said, pointing at Thor, "is our other colleague, Dr. Donald Blake. He's… an exchange student. From Norway."
The lie was so bad, so clumsy and so transparent, that it was almost a work of art.
"He only broke into your facility," she continued, her voice gaining a frantic, rambling quality, "because you confiscated his research materials! It was an act of… passionate scientific inquiry! We are, of course, prepared to pay for any damages and to post his bail…"
Her voice trailed off as she took in the scene. The agents in the room were staring at her with expressions of profound, pitying amusement. And Thor, her brave, handsome, and mysterious "Dr. Blake," had buried his face in his hands, his entire body radiating an aura of pure, soul-deep mortification.
An excruciatingly awkward silence filled the room.
Coulson cleared his throat, about to gently but firmly dismantle Jane's terrible cover story, when he caught Hermione's eye. She gave him a single, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Play along, her look said.
Coulson, who was quickly learning that his job was no longer to make decisions but to simply follow the lead of his twelve-year-old consultant, immediately changed tack. "I see," he said, his face a perfect mask of professional seriousness. "A misunderstanding, then. Since his research has been… concluded, Dr. Blake is free to go." He waved a hand, and the guards opened the door.
Jane was stunned into silence. She had been prepared for a fight, for a long, drawn-out legal battle. She had not been prepared for an instant, unconditional surrender. She looked from Coulson's placid face to the small, calm girl standing beside the God of Thunder, and she finally understood who was really in charge.
Thor stood, his massive frame seeming to fill the small room. He looked at Hermione, his eyes full of a new, humbled gratitude. "Thank you," he whispered.
After the strange, mismatched group had departed, Coulson turned to Hermione, his expression one of pure, unadulterated confusion. "Consultant," he began, "if I may ask, why…?"
"Agent Coulson," Hermione interrupted, her voice losing its childish lightness, replaced by a cold, hard, strategic clarity. "The man you just had in that chair is the Crown Prince of Asgard, a technologically and magically superior alien civilization. You do not put beings like that in a cage. You show them courtesy, you assess their intentions, and you pray to whatever gods you believe in that they decide you are an ally, and not just an infestation to be cleansed."
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