The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER ONE

Page count: 5

Hermione crashed through the dark forest, branches slapping against her arms, leaves crunching under her shoes. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and every step echoed against the trunks of ancient trees. She was near Sioux Falls, South Dakota, chasing three rogue Death Eaters, their dark robes slithering through the undergrowth like shadows on the move.

The war had been over nearly nine years, but some dark remnants refused to fade. Death Eaters, fugitives, killers, the ones who thrived in the cracks between worlds—they were her responsibility now. Harry handled the Wizarding World; she handled the Muggle. It was a job that demanded speed, cunning, and nerves of steel.

A streak of orange fire sliced through the shadows, humming with deadly intent. Hermione dove behind a massive oak, feeling the heat brush past her cheek. The spell hit a branch above her, splintering it with a sharp crack that rumbled through the forest. Her heart hammered in her chest, breath sharp and ragged.

Peering around the trunk, she sent a bolt of Stupefy skimming past her first target's shoulder, narrowly missing. Another bolt, a Petrificus Totalus, shot toward a second assailant, and she watched the shield between them shatter under the force, showering sparks into the damp darkness.

The three rogues bolted, kicking up leaves and snapping twigs. Hermione's side burned with a stitch, but adrenaline shoved the pain aside. She sprinted after them, chest tight, lungs burning, shoes skimming over roots. A curse slammed into her shield, shaking it with a force that rattled her teeth.

She let it drop and retaliated. Impedimenta—her spell streaked like lightning, missing. Incarcerous followed, ropes of magic lashing out, wrapping around a branch. One twisted, barely managing to duck behind a tree, panting, robes fluttering like dark wings.

There was no room for mistakes. She was alone, against three—but she had hunted worse, survived more impossible odds. Every spell, every dodge, every breath carried her closer to the moment she would corner them.

The edge of the forest came up faster than Hermione expected. The three figures paused, black robes whipping around them, hoods up, skull masks glinting in the dim light. Before she could react, they spun on their heels and vanished with sharp cracks of Apparition.

"Shite!" Hermione hissed, skidding to a stop and bracing herself against a tree to keep from falling. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she steadied her breathing.

No time to waste. She swept through her spells, casting tracking charms over the three targets. They would have split up—she could only follow one. Focusing, she locked her wand on the nearest path, spinning on her heel.

The world shifted in a blink, and she landed in the middle of a salvage yard. Sunlight hammered down on her back, making her squint against the glare. Rusted, totalled cars were stacked haphazardly around her, creating a maze of jagged metal and dusty shadows. The air smelled of oil and rust, and every step stirred the grit beneath her shoes. Too many places to hide—she had to stay sharp.

Her wand was tight in her grip, white Auror robes fastened, hood pulled low over her face. Her beaded bag rested safely against her side. Slowly, she moved through the aisles of cars, eyes darting left and right, every shadow a potential threat.

Twenty minutes crawled by, and frustration bubbled beneath her calm exterior. She lifted her wand, pressing it gently against her palm. "Point me," she whispered.

The wand rose on its own, spinning erratically before jabbing straight north. She moved cautiously, shoes crunching on gravel and metal scraps. At a fork, the wand swung left, and she followed, senses stretched tight.