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Hermione watched the light leave Coulson's eyes, the raw, brutal pain of his soul-stitching complete. The memory of that agony was too immense, too dangerous to leave intact.
She waved her wand lightly, a soft, soothing gesture. "Obliviate!"
The memory of the soul-sewing process, the agonizing re-anchoring, and the vision of his own shattered spirit was gently, surgically smoothed over and erased. Coulson's body convulsed one last time, and he fell into a deep, healing sleep.
Washington D.C., World Security Council Headquarters.
Alexander Pierce sat in the deepest recess of his office, the large bandage over his missing ear a constant, throbbing reminder of his failure. On his holographic projector, a single image dominated the room: Hermione Granger, surrounded by lightning, ice, and fire, a god of destruction.
Damn wizard, he thought, gripping the armrests of his chair. Her power is immense. Uncontrollable. She is a variable that must be contained, or better yet, taken.
Suddenly, a voice, clear and chillingly close, spoke directly behind him.
"Alexander Pierce."
Pierce launched himself out of his chair with the speed and ferocity of a wild animal. He spun around, his hand instinctively going for the hidden pistol at his hip, but there was nothing there.
Then, a young man slowly emerged from the shadows near the wall. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, and radiated a quiet, profound sense of authority that seemed to warp the very air around him.
Pierce's eyes narrowed, taking in the impossible sight. No alarms. No warning. The entrance was a solid wall. Yet, this man stood there, completely at ease.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Pierce demanded, his voice strained. He reached under his desk for the emergency panic button.
The young man simply raised a hand and gave a casual, dismissive flick of a thin, dark wooden stick he held. "Langlock."
Pierce instantly felt a cold, paralyzing blockage in his throat. He tried to scream, tried to warn security, but no sound would come out. He clawed at his neck, his eyes wide with horror.
"Put your hands up, Mr. Pierce," the young man said calmly. "That's a non-lethal enchantment. It merely seals your tongue to the roof of your mouth." He gave another gentle wave. "Reductio."
The paralysis vanished. Pierce gasped, sucking in air, utterly defeated. He looked at the wand in the young man's hand. He knew that stick. It was magic.
"Are you… a wizard?" Pierce whispered. It was a terrifying confirmation of his deepest fears.
The young man nodded, a smile of icy amusement on his face. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic." His tone was that of a bureaucrat making a formal call. "I'm here to discuss your unauthorized actions concerning Miss Hermione Granger."
A Gloomy Cemetery, Coastal England.
The air was cold and damp, the ground soft and muddy from the perpetual rain. Lucius Malfoy stood alone among the leaning, moss-covered tombstones, the collar of his expensive traveling cloak pulled high around his neck. He was jittery, his gaze constantly sweeping the dark, empty space. He was waiting for his asset to arrive.
A swirl of shadows and darkness materialized behind him. A man in a simple black robe, his face hidden by a deep cowl, stepped out.
"You're late, Lestat," Lucius said, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel.
"You said it was urgent," the dark wizard, Lestat, hissed, his voice rough and low. "What do you want?"
Lucius was silent for a moment, his internal struggle visible on his face. This was it. The final betrayal that would ensure his family's survival.
"I want you to be a hero for the Ministry," Lucius said. "I want you to be caught."
Lestat's eyes widened in confusion, then pure, murderous rage. "Lucius, you betray me?!" He raised his wand, a flicker of dark, chaotic energy gathering at the tip.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The curse was fast, clean, and silent. A searing bolt of sickly green light erupted from a point just behind Lucius, striking Lestat square in the chest. Lestat's body froze mid-spell, his eyes wide with shock and fury, before he collapsed onto the muddy ground, lifeless.
Tom Riddle stepped out of the shadows, his expression one of bored professionalism. He looked at the trembling Lucius. "You took too long, Mr. Malfoy. Next time, allow the Ministry agent to take the kill shot."
Lucius, his soul sickened by the murder, could only stare at the dead man and the terrifying wizard standing over him. He had known, theoretically, that Hermione's partner was dangerous. But he hadn't expected the immediate, cold-blooded finality of it.
His magic is even cleaner than hers, Lucius thought. No sound. No warning. Just death.
"The body will be retrieved by my team," Tom said. "Consider this the first step in your rehabilitation, Mr. Malfoy. The Ministry appreciates your renewed commitment to justice."
Lucius Malfoy, the proud pure-blood lord, simply nodded, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization: he was utterly and irrevocably trapped in a game orchestrated by a genius who was entirely too young and far too ruthless. His only path forward was obedience.