Hermione's trembling hands pressed against the cold ground as she struggled to push herself upright. Every breath felt sharp and shallow, her chest tight with the suffocating weight of failure. Watching Angitia grow into a behemoth, brimming with unstable magic, only deepened her despair. Angitia's glowing scales were dazzling, a testament to the serpent's unwavering loyalty and power, but Hermione could feel the wild magic roiling within her, untamed and dangerous, she knew it was killing her familiar.

  "Sstop" she whispered, her voice cracking. She was supposed to be the clever one, the one who always had a pn. But here, against the Fae—beings who embodied the very essence of nature's raw and unrelenting power—she was nothing. A Wanderer, as they had called her, drifting between worlds without truly belonging to any.

  The Fae hadn’t even been cruel. Their every movement had been deliberate and effortless, as though the confrontation was more of an amusement than a threat. Their dismissive words echoed in Hermione's mind, "You are small. Insignificant." She had fought battles before, both physical and magical, but never had she felt so utterly powerless, so dwarfed by the sheer scale of another's existence.

  Her fingers curled into the dirt, frustration bubbling beneath the surface of her despair. She hated this—hated the helplessness, the ck of control. Her mind raced for solutions, for strategies, for anything that might turn the tide. But the Fae’s speed, their precision, their overwhelming strength... it was as if the rules she had come to rely on didn’t apply. They were faster than thought, stronger than her best defenses, and more ancient than she could fathom. Against them, she was barely a spark in the void.

  Tears stung her eyes as Angitia lunged at the Fae, her massive form rippling with raw power. The Fae moved like a shadow, impossibly fast, their form a blur as they evaded the serpent’s strikes. Each csh sent tremors through the earth, a symphony of chaos that Hermione could only watch helplessly. She wanted to scream, to force Angitia to stop, but her throat was dry, and her voice felt trapped beneath the weight of her despair.

  What was the point? a dark voice whispered in her mind. What can you, a mortal girl, possibly achieve against beings who have walked the earth since time began? Pathetic, your hubris will be your undoing. ‘YOU’RE NOT STRONG ENOUGH!’

  The voice was her own, she realized, cold and logical, stripping away the fragile yers of her resolve. She had always prided herself on her intelligence, her resourcefulness, her ability to think her way through any situation. But now, confronted with the vastness of the Fae’s power, she felt those qualities shatter like gss.

  "You were right," she muttered bitterly, her voice barely audible over the chaos. "I’m small."

  And yet, despite the resignation in her tone, her heart rebelled. Small didn’t mean worthless. Insignificant didn’t mean helpless. Hermione wasn’t done—not yet. If nothing else, she owed it to Angitia, to her parents, to herself, to try. But how could she fight against something so far beyond her comprehension?

  The answer came to her in fragments, scattered thoughts pulled from the depths of her exhausted mind. She couldn’t overpower the Fae; that much was clear. But perhaps... perhaps she could outwit them, if only for a desperate moment. The Fae thrived on rules, on the intricate dance of power and consent. Perhaps there was a loophole, a way to turn their own nature against them.

  Her eyes darted to the shattered remains of her crystals, the lingering threads of wild magic shimmering faintly in the air. Wild magic was unpredictable, chaotic—everything the Fae were, especially if she an unseelie as she suspected. It couldn’t be controlled, not even by them and especially not by Wix. If she could harness it, even for a split second, it might be enough to tip the bance.

  "Angitia!" she called, her voice hoarse but filled with desperate determination. The serpent’s gaze flicked toward her, golden eyes bzing with fury and pain. "Hang in there! I have an idea!"

  The Fae’s head turned sharply at Hermione’s words, their expression shifting from amusement to intrigue. "Oh?" they murmured, their voice carrying across the battlefield. "The Wanderer plots again. What will it be this time, Hermione Granger? Another feeble attempt to defy your limits?"

  Hermione pushed herself to her feet, swaying unsteadily but refusing to fall. Her hands shook as she raised her wand, focusing on the remnants of wild magic still lingering in the air. "Limits," she hissed, as though the word was poison on her tongue. "Destiny, chains—take them and choke on them. No one gets to define what I can do!" she said, her voice steadier now, though her body trembled from the strain.

  The Fae’s ughter was soft, almost pitying. "Then break them, little Wanderer. Let us see the cost of your ambition."

  The air around Hermione crackled as she began to weave her magic, pulling on the wild threads with every ounce of willpower she had left. The Fae watched her, their luminous eyes sharp and calcuting. Hermione could feel their presence pressing down on her, vast and unyielding, but she forced herself to focus.

  Pain nced through Hermione’s side as she struggled to her knees, clutching at the earth for bance. Her wand y out of reach, her strength all but drained. Angitia’s colossal form coiled around her, glowing fiercely with raw power drawn from the shattered crystal. The serpent held the Fae’s attention for now, but Hermione knew it wouldn’t st. Even Angitia’s strength had limits, and the Fae’s unrelenting grace made the disparity between mortal and immortal excruciatingly clear.

  You are small. Insignificant.

  Her hands trembled as she reached for the pouch at her side, fumbling to pull out the enchanted shards of her crystalline focus. They felt fragile in her hands—almost as fragile as her own fleeting life felt in the face of the Fae’s impossible power.

  "You’re not strong enough. You never will be."

  But maybe she didn’t have to be, it was time to show them why she was a Slytherin.

  She gritted her teeth as she studied the shards, her mind racing through half-formed ideas and desperate calcutions. Angitia had absorbed the raw magic from the shattered crystal, growing stronger than Hermione had ever thought possible. If she could amplify that absorption enchantment, make it so the crystals siphoned the ambient magic swirling around the Fae and discharged it back into the environment, she might have a chance to harness it herself.

  But there was a catch—there was always a catch. Magic required bance, an exchange. And what she was about to attempt would demand more than the crystals could provide on their own.

  Hermione’s heart sank as she realized what the magic would demand. A sacrifice. Something of value, something deeply tied to her essence. Blood alone might not be enough this time. She would have to give more.

  Her memories stirred—warm images of a family she hadn’t seen in this life. Her mother’s ugh. Her father’s voice calling her name. The smell of Sunday dinners. It wasn’t fair. Those memories were all she had left of them, her first family. To give them up was unthinkable.

  But as her gaze fell on Angitia, still holding the line against the Fae, and on her father, standing frozen near the tent, terror etched across his face, Hermione felt the weight of her choices.

  "It’s not fair," she whispered, her voice trembling. "but life isn’t fair."

  With shaking hands, she pulled out her wand and sshed it across her wrist. Pain blossomed as blood welled up, dripping down her arm and onto the shards in her hand.

  The magic sparked immediately, the crystals glowing with an eerie, pulsing light. But it wasn’t enough. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, tears spilling freely as she focused on the memories she knew she had to give up.

  "I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "... I’m sorry."

  The images began to surface, vivid and wrenching. Her mother’s warm embrace, her father’s proud smile when she’d first learned to ride a bike, her sister’s giggles as they pyed hide-and-seek. The memories filled her heart with a searing ache, each one harder to let go of than the st.

  But she let them go. One by one, she poured them into the magic, each memory unraveling like threads pulled from a tapestry. Her heart felt hollow, like pieces of her were being stripped away.

  The shards pulsed brighter, their light almost blinding now. The magic surged around her, wild and untamed, and Hermione fought to control it, to direct it toward her purpose.

  "Take it" she hissed through gritted teeth, forcing the magic to flow into the environment. The air around her crackled with raw energy, the atmosphere growing heavy with potential.

  Hermione felt it—the pull of the magic, vast and overwhelming. It threatened to consume her, to drown her in its immensity. But she held on, reaching out to it with every ounce of will she had left.

  "I won’t be helpless," she whispered fiercely, her voice shaking with defiance. "Not ever again."

  The magic responded, surging into her like a tidal wave. It burned, searing through her veins and filling her with an intoxicating, unbearable power. Her body screamed in protest, the strain of containing so much energy threatening to tear her apart.

  The Fae turned their gaze toward her, their expression shifting from amusement to something resembling intrigue.

  "Interesting," they murmured. "You would go this far, little Wanderer?"

  Hermione staggered to her feet, the raw magic coursing through her stabilizing just enough to allow her to stand. Her blood-soaked hand clenched the glowing shards tightly, and her eyes burned with a fierce, unyielding determination.

  "You said I was insignificant," she said, her voice low and steady despite the tremor in her limbs. "Let me show you how wrong you are."

  Hermione’s chest heaved with each desperate breath. Her body shook, the magic inside her a votile, chaotic storm threatening to tear her apart. The raw power surged through her veins, far more than she could possibly control. Her blood and her memories had become fuel for this uncontrolled inferno. It burned, it cut through her mind like jagged gss, but she clung to it with everything she had left.

  The Fae stood before her, their eyes gleaming with an unsettling mixture of curiosity and amusement, as if they were watching a child struggle to lift a weight far beyond their strength. They tilted their head slightly, their lips curling into an almost patronizing smile.

  “Still standing, Wanderer?” The Fae’s voice was smooth as silk, their words cutting through the crackling tension in the air. “You continue to disappoint.”

  But Hermione didn’t hear the mocking tone. She didn’t hear the Fae’s words at all. She felt nothing except the roaring magic, thrumming beneath her skin like a living thing. She was the magic now. There were no incantations, no wand movements, no carefully honed spells to craft her power. She was raw energy, her body a vessel for the fury of the universe itself.

  With a snap of her mind, the air around her trembled. She didn’t summon a gust of wind, didn’t form a shield or a bst. She simply commanded it. The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with the weight of her will. The ground beneath her feet cracked, the earth groaning in response to her defiance.

  “I am done being helpless,” Hermione whispered, barely a breath as her eyes burned with the pure intensity of her focus. “I will not be controlled.”

  Her hand shot out before her, fingers spread wide. The raw power in her veins roared in answer, but this time, she didn’t try to contain it. She let it go. The magic poured outward, not as a spell, not as a form, but as a flood—wild, untamed, and absolutely unstoppable. It was pure intent, nothing but force of will. The Fae’s eyes widened in shock, a flicker of recognition passing through their expression. For the first time, something akin to concern fshed in their luminous eyes.

  The air grew colder, the temperature plummeting as she twisted the magic. It snaked and crackled like lightning, sharp and fast, jagged streaks of frozen energy splitting the very air. Her control was not of structure, but of purpose—the purpose to hurt, to defend, to take back what had been taken from her.

  Without warning, the magic surged toward the Fae. Not as a spell, not with the precision of a calcuted attack—but as a force of nature, a tide too strong to be resisted. The Fae barely had time to raise a hand before the magic struck, smming into them with a force that shook the clearing.

  The figure staggered back, their footfalls leaving deep imprints in the earth. Their eyes glowed brighter now, not with amusement, but with a cold realization that Hermione was no longer just a mortal to be toyed with.

  “You think you can challenge me?” The Fae’s voice was no longer a taunt, but a low, dangerous growl. They raised their hands, drawing the magic into themselves, weaving it into a delicate, intricate shield of frost.

  But Hermione’s magic was wild. It wasn’t designed to be controlled. It was pure, untamed, and it tore at the Fae’s shield as though it were paper. The frost shattered in an instant, splintering into a thousand ice crystals that glistened like stardust before they vanished.

  The Fae’s expression shifted—no longer pyful, no longer patronizing—but something closer to fear.. or recognition?.

  “You cannot be…” the Fae began, but Hermione interrupted, her voice ringing with the authority of someone who had nothing left to lose.

  “I can,” she snarled. She raised her hands, palms out, and the earth beneath her feet trembled in response. The very fabric of the clearing seemed to bend and shift, as if the world itself was answering her command.

  The Fae, for the first time, stumbled. They raised a barrier of ice in desperation, but Hermione was done pying games. She didn’t need a barrier. The world bent to her will. Her fingers curled into fists, and the air around her snapped—like the crack of a whip.

  “Enough.”

  The raw magic she had released exploded outward in a wave of intense force, the energy vibrating with every ounce of her fury, grief, and determination. The ground shook, the trees groaned, the very sky above seemed to twist and warp under the pressure of her power.

  The Fae’s shield buckled under the weight of her intent. Their body flickered, distorting, as though the raw magic of her will was too much to contain. The clearing became a storm of energy, crackling and howling as the very fabric of magic itself seemed to unravel in the wake of Hermione’s desperation.

  The Fae’s beautiful form shimmered like an illusion, and with a final, resounding crack, they vanished from view, their form dissipating like mist in the wind.

  Hermione colpsed to her knees, her body wracked with exhaustion. She had won, but at what cost? The raw magic that had surged through her was both exhirating and terrifying. It was a part of her now—imbued in her very blood and bones—and it had nearly consumed her.

  She raised her hand to her forehead, wiping away the sweat and blood that had soaked into her skin. Her wrist throbbed, the sacrifice of her memories still fresh and painful. But she had done it. She had wielded the magic, raw and unrefined, and she had defeated the Fae.

  The serpent, Angitia, slithered up beside her, her massive body winding protectively around Hermione, her emerald eyes glowing softly in the aftermath.

  “Silly Girl! Do you know how dangerous that was?!” Angitia hissed at her .

  Hermione managed a weak smile, her heart still racing “Yes, I do.”

  The forest, once filled with the fury of their magical battle, had fallen into an eerie silence. The air was still, the echoes of raw power lingering like a charged atmosphere. Hermione stood alone in the center of the clearing, breath ragged, heart still pounding from the confrontation.

  For a long moment, the space remained empty. She expected a second wave, another ambush, but instead, the forest seemed to hold its breath, waiting.

  Then, as though stepping through the very fabric of the world itself, the Fae reappeared. This time, their form shimmered not like a storm but like the very night sky—ethereal, distant, and impossible to fully grasp. Their eyes gleamed, not with malice, but with something far more elusive—wonder, maybe, or perhaps something deeper.

  They stepped forward, moving with a fluid grace that made the air hum around them. They smiled—not cruelly, but with a quiet, knowing amusement. There was something unsettling about it, like they were privy to some secret they had yet to share.

  “You did it again,” the Fae said, their voice low and almost reverent, carrying an undertone of something old, ancient. “Broken through, shattered your own limitations. How extraordinary.”

  Hermione stiffened, still catching her breath, her mind spinning from the intensity of their exchange. “What do you mean?”

  The Fae’s smile deepened, a glint of something far too ancient to fathom lighting their gaze. “Oh, you know exactly what I mean, Wanderer. You’ve done it before. But this—this was something else. More than any mortal should be able to bear, and yet here you are."

  Hermione’s pulse quickened at their words. Done it before? They weren’t just referring to the battle—this was something more. Something older. She swallowed hard, trying to push the unease out of her mind, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the Fae knew far more about her than she had ever let on.

  “You’ve crossed into realms you were never meant to tread,” the Fae continued, their tone almost wistful, as though admiring the very audacity of Hermione’s power. “I thought perhaps this would be the end of you, but instead, it is only the beginning. You’re a fascinating creature, Hermione Granger.”

  Hermione’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t choose this,” she said, a bite of frustration creeping into her voice. “I’m just trying to survive.”

  The Fae’s ugh was soft, musical. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. But survival, to one such as you, is but the first step. There is more, so much more than even you realize.”

  Hermione's heart skipped a beat at their cryptic words, but before she could press further, the Fae extended a hand, the motion slow, deliberate, as though offering something precious, dangerous.

  “You are invited, Hermione Granger. To the Winter Courts.” Their voice dropped to a whisper, ced with both warning and invitation. “When you have finished wandering, and seek more than to survive, then you will know what awaits you.”

  Hermione’s blood ran cold. The Winter Courts—an ancient, enigmatic realm of the Fae, known for their merciless politics and unfathomable power. To be invited was not a gift. It was an obligation. One that would come with strings attached, promises made in shadow, bargains that could unravel everything.

  “What do you want from me?” Hermione demanded, the weight of the offer settling in her chest like lead.

  The Fae’s smile widened, but it was not one of malice. It was, instead, the smile of someone watching a grand performance unfold, knowing the ending before it even began. “Oh, nothing. Not yet. But perhaps one day you will come to see the Winter Courts as more than a realm of ice and shadow. Perhaps you will see it as a gateway—to power, to knowledge, and to something far greater than you ever dreamed.”

  Hermione stared at them, her thoughts racing. What could the Winter Courts offer her? And why now? She wasn’t ready for this. But deep down, something—some instinct she couldn’t quite name—whispered that refusing might be the biggest mistake of her life.

  The Fae’s gaze softened as they saw her hesitation. “I’m not asking you to come now, Wanderer. Not yet. But when the time comes, when your path leads you there, know that the Winter Courts will be waiting for you. And you will be welcomed.”

  Hermione felt a chill, the weight of their words pressing into her chest. There was more, so much more beneath the surface, and they knew it. Too much, perhaps. She opened her mouth to speak, but the Fae held up a hand to stop her.

  A gleam of something almost affectionate fshed in their eyes. "And do not forget, child—For you are already mine. Do not forget the deal you made."

  The words echoed in the stillness of the clearing, their meaning vague yet piercing, like the distant sound of a bell tolling across a foggy night. Hermione’s heart skipped. The voice, the phrasing—it sounded eerily familiar.

  No... The memory struck her like a bolt of lightning—a shadowy figure, their words reverberating in her mind from some past life. She had heard those exact words before, in the fragmented recollections of dreams, or was it memories?

  "Do not forget the deal you made…"

  The Fae smiled knowingly, as though they could see every thought flicker across her face. “Ah, yes, the whispers of your past. How amusing.”

  Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The shadowy figure in her dreams. The unsettling sense that something far greater than herself was at py. Was that… the Fae? Was this the deal they spoke of?

  Before she could gather herself to ask, the Fae began to dissolve, their form blending into the air like mist under the first rays of dawn. “Farewell, for now. But I shall be watching. As always. Oh and Mortal you may have your name back.” she added before she dissipated.

  Hermione watched, her pulse hammering, the words "As always" rattling through her mind like a ghostly refrain. The Fae’s cryptic promise hung heavy in the air, and she felt the weight of it settle deep into her chest.

  As always? Why did those words feel like a key unlocking something hidden, something ancient? Why did she feel as if she had been walking a path toward this moment long before she even realized?