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"Stark! What's going on? What happened to the missile?" Nick Fury's voice was strained, thick with static and fear over the comms.
Tony, still hovering over Manhattan, his armor battered but whole, let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. "It turned into a pigeon, Nick. A white one. The kind that coos. It's gone."
Fury, who was waiting in the command center, squeezed his eye shut, a wave of profound relief washing over him, quickly followed by a cold wave of dread. He didn't need to ask who had done it. Hermione. Only she could achieve such absurd, physics-defying transmutation.
"Natasha, close the portal! Now!" he ordered.
In the shattered lab, Natasha didn't hesitate. She placed the Mind Scepter against the Tesseract's containment unit, and the blue light slowly subsided. The cosmic hole in the sky shrank, convulsed with a final, violent discharge of energy, and snapped shut, leaving only the sound of falling glass and distant sirens.
"One last thing," Hermione muttered to herself, and with a silent CRACK, she vanished from the skyline.
She reappeared instantly in the Helicarrier command center, standing directly in front of Nick Fury. Her presence was a sudden, chilling intrusion. The residual magic clinging to her robes smelled of ozone and cordite.
"Fury," she said, her voice unnervingly calm. "Let's talk about the nuclear bomb."
Fury's heart sank. He knew his luck had run out. Her lack of anger was the most terrifying sign of all. He tried to speak, to offer an explanation, to placate her, but the words died in his throat.
"You don't need to lie to me, Boiled Egg," Hermione said, her eyes suddenly glowing with a chilling, pale blue light. "Tell me the name of the political committee that ordered the nuclear strike on Manhattan."
Fury felt an agonizing, sharp spike of psychic pain explode in his head. A foreign will, powerful and absolute, was invading his mind. He couldn't fight it. He was bound by magical paralysis and his own fear. His deepest, most guarded memories—the security protocols, the contingency plans, the names and faces of the World Security Council members—were ripped from his consciousness in a chaotic, agonizing torrent.
"Very good," Hermione said, lifting the mental pressure. Fury stumbled, clutching his head, sweat pouring down his face. He knew she had seen everything.
Hermione turned away from the reeling spymaster and vanished again.
Washington D.C., S.H.I.E.L.D. World Security Council Chamber.
The meeting room was a picture of cold, bureaucratic power. Several suited members sat around a long, polished table, waiting tensely for the confirmation that their decisive action had saved the world—or destroyed it.
A sudden, violent crack of displaced air and a shower of orange sparks erupted in the center of the room. Hermione materialized, her face set in a mask of cold, uncompromising fury.
The council members, who had been watching the real-time feed of her elemental rampage in New York, stared in utter disbelief. The woman who could command the elements was now standing before them.
A bald, arrogant man in a tailored suit, struggling to maintain control, slammed his hand on the table. "Who are you?!" he yelled, attempting to assert authority in the face of an existential threat. "You have trespassed into a secure government facility! You will surrender immediately—"
"Sectumsempra!"
Hermione didn't even raise her voice. The silent, invisible curse tore through the air. The arrogant congressman's body instantly turned into a blood-soaked nightmare, severed into gruesome pieces that fell to the polished floor with a series of sickening thuds.
The strong, metallic smell of fresh blood instantly filled the air. The other council members froze, their faces turning ashen. Some choked back vomit. All pretenses of authority evaporated, replaced by a raw, naked terror.
Hermione surveyed the bloodied room with a cold, flat gaze. "Who gave the order to drop the nuclear bomb on Manhattan?" she demanded, her voice unnervingly calm.
The remaining council members instantly, simultaneously, pointed trembling fingers at one man sitting at the end of the table.
Gideon Malick.
Malick's face was green. He tried to stand, a desperate plea forming on his lips. "I… I'm a member of the World Security Council! You can't—"
"Save your breath," Hermione sneered. "You tried to eliminate me. That is a capital offense in my book."
"Reducto!" she whispered, aiming at his legs.
The sickening sound of bones snapping echoed through the room. Malick screamed, his legs twisting into grotesque, impossible angles. He collapsed onto the table, a terrified, broken mess.
Hermione walked up to the crippled politician and grabbed him by the shirt collar.
"You wanted to talk about a war between worlds?" she asked, her voice lethal. "Fine. You and I can have a little chat about it."
"Apparate!"
The two figures vanished in a final, sharp crack, leaving behind a silence that was thick with the terror of the survivors.
Above the East River, New York.
Hermione materialized high above the city, holding the whimpering, crippled form of Gideon Malick suspended in an invisible vice. The city lights spread out below them, indifferent to the night's chaos.
"Tell me, Mr. Malick," Hermione's amplified voice commanded over the sound of the wind. "Why, exactly, did you want to kill seven million people?"
The interrogation had begun.