For 40+ advance chapter: p atreon.com/Snowing_Melody
Watching Sif's retreating figure, Hermione turned to Frigga, shaking her head slowly.
"Forgive my bluntness, Your Majesty," she said dryly, "but I think Asgard's biggest problem isn't Frost Giants or Dark Elves. It's incurable, terminal love-struck brains. That poor woman pines over your son like a puppy, and he's too busy making eyes at a mortal astrophysicist."
Frigga was taken aback, then a wry, sad smile touched her lips. "You have a sharp eye, Hermione. Perhaps too sharp for one so young."
WOOP—WOOP—WOOP!
A piercing alarm shattered the serenity of the gardens. The ground shook beneath their feet.
Hermione looked up towards the sky. A fleet of angular, pitch-black spaceships—like obsidian daggers cutting through the air—had breached Asgard's outer defenses. They tore through the golden shield dome as if it were paper, roaring toward the palace.
"It seems we have guests," Hermione noted calmly, pulling out her wand. "Malekith must have sensed the Aether. He's come to claim his prize."
Frigga's expression turned grave. "The dungeons," she whispered, her eyes widening. "The explosion came from the dungeons. Loki."
"This isn't the time to worry about the emo prince," Hermione cautioned. "Your defenses just crumbled. I'm going to take a look."
She gave Frigga a quick nod. "Your Majesty, please be careful. Hide Jane. Don't play hero."
CRACK.
Hermione vanished.
Frigga, realizing the danger, lifted her skirts and ran towards the healing chambers where Jane was resting.
The Palace Courtyard.
Chaos reigned. Dark Elf Harrows—smaller fighter crafts—strafed the golden halls, blasting chunks of masonry into the courtyards. Black-armored warriors swarmed the walkways.
The Einherjar, Asgard's elite guards, fought back with spears and swords, their golden armor clashing against the dark invaders. They fought bravely, with practiced skill, but they were overwhelmed by numbers and superior firepower. The Dark Elves carried plasma rifles and black hole grenades that compressed soldiers into nothingness.
Sif was in the thick of it. Her double-bladed sword was a blur of motion, carving through the enemy ranks. She was fierce, each strike lethal. But she was one woman against a tide of lasers. She already had several plasma burns on her armor, and blood trickled down her forehead.
"For Asgard!" she roared, charging into a fresh wave of enemies.
How stupid, Hermione thought, observing from a high balcony.
Thor loved close combat, fine. He was a god with an indestructible hammer. But these soldiers? Why were they running toward people with guns holding sticks?
What kind of culture is Asgard? Did they skip the invention of gunpowder entirely?
She shook her head at the inefficiency. It was time to level the playing field.
She raised her wand high.
"Fiendfyre!"
A spark erupted from the tip, swelling instantly into a roiling mass of cursed, dark red flame. It took the shape of a colossal, serpentine dragon, roaring with a sound that drowned out the battle.
Hermione flicked her wrist. The dragon descended.
It crashed into the thickest concentration of Dark Elves, not just burning them, but consuming them. The fire had a mind of its own, hunting down the black-armored soldiers.
"AHHH!"
"What the hell is this?!"
The Dark Elves screamed as the living flames latched onto them. It wasn't normal fire; it defied physics, spreading like a contagion, turning flesh to ash in seconds. They scattered in terror, their formations breaking instantly.
Sif and the surviving Einherjar stopped fighting, stunned into silence. They watched as the tide of battle turned in seconds. It was a one-sided massacre.
Sif looked up at the balcony, her eyes wide. She had seen Hermione's power on Earth, but this... this was different. This wasn't just strength; it was an oppressive, terrifying dominance. She realized now that when Hermione fought the Destroyer, she had been holding back.
This is her true power, Sif realized, a shiver running down her spine.
The other Asgardian warriors stared in disbelief. A Midgardian girl. A child. Unleashing destruction on a scale that rivaled Odin himself.
"This... this is magic?" one young soldier whispered, lowering his spear.
Fear mingled with awe. In the warrior culture of Asgard, power was respect. And Hermione just demanded it.
By the time Odin arrived, striding onto the battlefield with Gungnir in hand, the fight was over. The courtyard was silent save for the crackle of dying embers. Piles of ash were all that remained of the invading force.
"This is..." Odin stopped, his one eye taking in the devastation. He could taste the residual magical energy—dark, ancient, and hungry.
He looked up at the balcony. Hermione stood there, brushing soot from her sleeve, a look of mild satisfaction on her face.
It hasn't been that long since New York, Odin thought, a chill settling in his gut. Her strength has improved by leaps and bounds.
If he had been wary of her before, he was now genuinely alarmed. She was a variable he couldn't control. A nascent cosmic power walking around in a teenager's body.
After a moment, Odin regained his composure. He showed no fear, only a calculating respect.
"Wrong," Hermione suddenly said, her voice carrying across the quiet courtyard. She frowned, looking down at the ashes.
"What is wrong?" Odin asked.
"Malekith's target is the Aether," Hermione said, her voice somber. "Only he can control it. If he didn't lead this assault personally, what was the point?"
She looked at the scattered bodies. "These were just grunts."
Odin's expression changed instantly.
"A distraction!" Odin roared, his realization hitting him like a physical blow. "His target is the woman! Jane Foster!"
Without another word, Odin turned and sprinted back toward the palace.
He was too slow.
CRACK.
Hermione vanished.
Jane Foster's Chambers.
Malekith the Accursed, leader of the Dark Elves, stalked into the room. His face was a grotesque mask of pale, scarred skin. Behind him lumbered Algrim the Kursed, a monstrous brute radiating raw power.
Frigga stood between them and Jane, a small dagger in her hand. Jane was cowering behind the Queen, pale and terrified.
"Hand over the mortal," Malekith rasped, his voice like grinding stones. "And I might spare your life, witch."
Frigga said nothing. She flicked her wrist, and the air rippled. Suddenly, there were four Friggas, then eight.
Illusion magic. Her specialty. She wove images of herself and guards, trying to confuse the enemy, to buy time.
Malekith sneered. He didn't move.
Algrim, the Kursed, simply walked forward. He ignored the illusions, walking straight through them as they dissipated into smoke. He grabbed the real Frigga by the throat, lifting her off the ground effortlessly.
"Enough tricks," Malekith hissed. He pulled a jagged, dark-metal dagger from his belt.
He walked up to the struggling Queen, aiming the blade at her heart.
"No!" Jane screamed.
Just as the tip of the blade touched Frigga's dress, Malekith felt an invisible, crushing force clamp around his wrist.
His eyes widened in shock. He tried to move, to stab, but his arm refused to obey. It felt like it was caught in a vise of solid iron.
"Ah—!"
He cried out as the pressure increased. There was a sickening crack.
Malekith screamed in agony, dropping the dagger as the bones in his wrist shattered.
Hermione appeared in the doorway, her hand held out, fingers loosely curled in a crushing gesture. Her expression was bored.
"Hey, spicy chicken face," she called out. "Pick on someone your own size. Or at least someone who isn't your grandmother's age."
Just then, the wall exploded inward.
"NO!"
Thor roared into the room, his hammer gleaming with lightning. He saw his mother held by the monster, Malekith wounded, and red haze descended over his vision.
He threw Mjolnir with all his might.
Algrim dropped Frigga and stepped in front of the hammer. He didn't dodge. He caught it mid-air.
The impact should have leveled the room. Instead, the Kursed just grunted, absorbing the blow. He then backhanded Thor across the room.
Thor crashed through a pillar, dazed. He struggled to his feet, roaring again, charging the beast.
He was batted aside like a toy. Mjolnir flew from his hand, clattering across the floor. The God of Thunder was being beaten to a pulp.