The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FIVE

Page count: 8

"Giant Squid? Seriously?"

The voice broke the quiet. Hermione looked up from her book. The low light from the table lamp carved soft gold across her face, and beyond it, Sam leaned in the doorway — arms folded, one eyebrow raised, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Yes," she said evenly, a spark of challenge in her tone. "The Giant Squid. And he's a sweetheart."

Sam let out a small huff of disbelief. "A sweetheart?"

She shut the book with a quiet thud, leaning back in her chair. "He likes to have his tentacles tickled, plays fetch, and adores toast. If someone falls into the Black Lake, he rescues them and puts them back on shore." Her eyes grew distant, unfocused, as if she could still see the sunlight glinting off dark water. "Most students are terrified of him. But I've told my nieces and nephews about him — when they go to Hogwarts, he won't be lonely."

The corner of Sam's mouth twitched. "Right. And ghosts. You actually let ghosts hang around children?"

Hermione's laugh was quiet, quick, and wry. "They're not your kind of ghosts, Sam. They don't haunt or harm anyone—well, except Peeves. He's a poltergeist with a sense of humour and a vendetta against authority. Mostly Filch. Horrible man. Deserved every trick."

Sam snorted softly, crossing to take a seat on the couch. His curiosity was sharpening now, not mocking — listening.

"The others," Hermione went on, "are... different. They're part of the school. Slytherin has the Bloody Baron — foul-tempered bastard, but the only one who can keep Peeves in line. Ravenclaw has the Grey Lady, Hufflepuff the Fat Friar, and Gryffindor—" her voice softened, "—Nearly Headless Nick."

Her eyes flicked down, fingers tracing the spine of her book. "They all died at Hogwarts and chose to stay... There's more now, since the war," she added with a mutter, gaze locked on the leather-bound book in her grasp.

Sam said nothing — just studied her, his expression somewhere between disbelief and reluctant awe.

"There's also Professor Binns," she continued after a beat. "Teaches History of Magic. He died in his sleep in the staff room, then showed up to teach the next morning. No one's had the heart to tell him."

That earned a faint chuckle from Sam, but it sounded almost reverent — like he didn't want to break whatever spell she'd just cast with her words.

He shifted. "Alright... moving staircases?"

Hermione smirked. "Oh, they're real. And infuriating. One minute you're on your way to class, next you're stranded three floors up, waiting for the bloody stairs to remember where they're supposed to go. And the trick steps; a pain in the arse. Random steps would vanish as you stepped on them."

"And talking portraits?"

She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. "Those are the worst. Some are fine. Others... less so. Like Walburga Black. Her portrait used to hang in Grimmauld Place — the Order's old headquarters. She'd scream about blood purity and how we were defiling her family home." The memory drew a reluctant smile from her. "You should've been there the day Sirius told her he used to wank off in her bedroom."

Sam choked. A startled laugh burst out of him before he could stop it.

From the doorway came another sound — Dean's low, rolling laugh as he stepped into the room, a bottle dangling from his hand.

"Well done, Witch. Not often I see the Sasquatch at a loss for words."

She took the compliment — even if it was wrapped in insult — and smiled faintly. Progress was progress.
"If I didn't know she was already dead and buried," Hermione said, smirking, "I'd have thought she'd die all over again from disgust."