The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SIX

Page count: 7

Her curse cut through the kitchen like a gunshot. For a second, everything froze — forks suspended mid-air, the hum of the laptop dying.

"What? What is it?" Sam asked, voice tight.

Hermione's eyes darted to them, colour draining from her face. She snapped out of it as if waking from a nightmare, shoved her jacket on, slid her beaded bag into her boot with hands suddenly all business, and pulled her wand, fingers moving in small, precise motions. The newspaper was clutched in her other hand as she made for the door.

"The bodies were found a few hours after Patterson went down," she said, not pausing for preamble, her breath shallow. "They moved fast. Three more. Same signature."

Sam rose. "You think it's them—the two who got away?"

She didn't look back. "Likely. I need to see them. Scan for residual magic."

"Hold up," Dean said, the chair scraping as he pushed to his feet. He leaned forward, hands on the table, jaw set. "You don't just run off on some one-woman wolfpack theory. We're not handing this back to you like a trophy."

Hermione froze, hand on the doorknob, and turned slowly. Light slipped across her face — hollowed cheeks, hard mouth. "You're no longer working on this case," she said flatly.

"Oh no," Dean said, stepping forward. "You don't get to tell us what to do, witch."

"You don't get to interfere in my investigation," she shot back. "Do, and I'll have you arrested for obstruction. I have jurisdiction here."

Sam held a hand up, the mediator. "We can help."

She let out a sharp, humourless breath. "I can't risk anyone getting hurt. You're useful against Muggles and demons, yes. But Death Eaters? No. You don't have magic, you don't have training, you don't have experience. I can't both protect you and bring them in."

Dean bristled, stepping closer. "We've handled witches before. Don't patronise us."

Hermione's eyes flicked to him, cold and cutting. "You can handle a lot of things, Dean. You're resourceful. But these are Death Eaters — not your average magical folk. And definitely not the kind you're used to. Swinging a bar of iron won't do a thing. They don't play by your rules. If you go in... you die."

"I shot you."

Hermione stiffened. "You did. Only because I wasn't expecting it. Trust me, if I had..." Her jaw tightened. "It would've been a very different outcome."

Sam and Bobby exchanged a glance, neither daring to blink.

Hermione tore her gaze away and turned to Bobby. "Thank you for the hospitality. Perhaps we'll cross paths again. If you need help, send an owl. They'll know where to find me." She gave him a tight, polite smile and stepped toward the exit.

"Hold it!" Dean lunged forward, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. Hermione's eyes narrowed, her gaze dropping to his hand, then back up.

"If you want to keep that arm, I suggest you remove it," she said, calm and deadly.

"You said you don't use dark magic," Dean spat, teeth clenched.

"I don't need magic to remove your hand," she replied, icy but steady. Dean hesitated, then finally let go — still blocking her path, chest forward, eyes locked.

"If you know where these people are, we're coming with you," he said.

"No," she said flatly.

"It's our case," he shot back.