Chapter 34: The New Life
The battlefield was chaos incarnate. Smoke filled the air, the scent of burning metal and scorched earth mingling with the cries of the dying. Wanda Maximoff barely registered any of it. Her world had narrowed to a single moment—holding back Thanos with one hand while using the other to shatter the Mind Stone, the very essence of her beloved Vision.
Her heart cracked with every fragment of yellow light that splintered away, her soul screaming as she poured all of her power into the task. Vision's voice, soft yet pained, echoed in her ears.
"I love you."
Tears streamed down her face, her own whispered words lost to the roaring storm of destruction. Then, in an instant, it was gone. Vision was gone.
For a fleeting moment, relief washed over her. She had done it. She had stopped Thanos.
But the universe was cruel.
She barely had time to process the horror before the Mad Titan reversed time itself, undoing her sacrifice as though it had never happened. Helpless, drained, she could only watch in silent despair as Thanos wrenched the Mind Stone from Vision's forehead with sickening ease.
A guttural, broken sob tore from Wanda's lips as she watched Vision's lifeless body crumple to the ground. He was truly gone now. There was no coming back.
Then the Snap happened.
A cold sensation spread through her fingertips, then up her arms, consuming her whole. Her body disintegrated into nothing but ash, yet she felt everything—every particle, every molecule, unraveling in slow, agonizing surrender. She had no breath to scream, no form to resist. Only pain, and then… darkness.
Yet, it wasn't the end.
As her consciousness faded, something pulled at her. It was not the nothingness she expected. No peace, no eternal rest. Instead, there was a force—ancient, vast, and incomprehensible. It wrapped around her essence, neither cruel nor kind, but absolute.
And then, she was falling.
The first thing she became aware of was air filling her lungs, a deep, unfamiliar breath that wasn't hers.
Her eyelids fluttered open, the world a blur of light and color. Panic surged through her—where was she? Why was she still alive?
But something was wrong. Her limbs felt small, weak, as if she had been compressed into a tiny form. The weight of an oversized blanket smothered her, and she struggled against it, kicking off the unfamiliar fabric.
The room around her was bright, the walls a soft beige, filled with bookshelves neatly lined with children's stories. A stuffed bear sat on a polished wooden dresser, and sunlight streamed through a lace-curtained window.
This wasn't a battlefield. This wasn't Wakanda.
Wanda bolted upright in bed, her breath coming in short, rapid bursts. Her fingers curled into the sheets—small fingers, too small. She pulled her hands up to her face, staring in horror at the chubby little palms, the smooth skin untouched by the trials of war.
A mirror sat across the room. She stumbled toward it, nearly falling as her legs adjusted to the strange proportions of her body. She caught herself on the edge of the dresser, gripping it tightly before forcing herself to look at the reflection staring back at her.
A little girl. No older than five, with bushy brown hair that framed a round face. Wide, intelligent eyes stared back at her, filled with rising terror.
This wasn't her.
A rush of pain shot through her skull, and she clutched her head, gasping as foreign memories crashed into her own.
She was Wanda Maximoff, the Scarlet Witch. She had lived through war, tragedy, love, and loss. She had wielded chaos magic, bent reality to her will, stood against the might of gods and madmen alike.
But she was also… Hermione Granger.
A normal girl. The daughter of two dentists. A bright, curious child living in a peaceful, mundane world where magic was nothing more than fairy tales in storybooks.
Her mind fractured under the weight of both identities, two lives intertwining into one. She remembered learning to walk in a cozy home in England, her mother's gentle laughter as she read bedtime stories. She remembered her father teaching her how to tie her shoes, the smell of toothpaste always lingering on his clothes.
But she also remembered Sokovia, the ruins of her home, the experiments HYDRA had forced upon her. She remembered the red glow of her magic, the power that had once been hers. The rage, the grief, the endless fight for survival.
Her stomach twisted as she staggered back, her hands trembling.
She had died. She had felt herself fade away. And yet, here she was, alive but trapped in the body of a child.
How?
She squeezed her eyes shut, steadying her breathing. One fact remained undeniable: she was Hermione Jean Granger now. But she was also still Wanda Maximoff.
And as the haze in her mind cleared, she realized something else.
The chaos magic—the power that had defined her, the energy that had once coursed through her very being—was still there.
It hummed beneath her skin, no longer wild and uncontrollable, but dormant, waiting. It was easier to grasp now, as though being reborn had reshaped its very essence. She could feel it, coiled deep inside her like a sleeping serpent, whispering at the edges of her mind.
A spark of defiance flared within her.
She may have been reborn into a different life, but she wasn't powerless.
This world, whatever it was, would not break her.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she looked back at the little girl in the mirror—at herself.
"I am Wanda Maximoff," she whispered. "And I am Hermione Granger."
A slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips.