The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVEN

Page count: 7

An hour later, Dean pulled into a gas station. While he was filling the tank, Sam turned toward Hermione.

"Hey, Hermione," he said softly, leaning forward a bit, but she didn't stir.

He reached back to touch her shoulder, and in an instant, she bolted upright, wand pressed against the side of his throat. Sam froze, eyes wide, fear washing over him at the feral intensity in hers.

Hermione blinked, gasped, and lowered the wand. "I'm so sorry, Sam," she whispered, her shame and apology clear in her wide eyes.

"It's okay," he said, shaking his head and holding up his hands. "I should've been more careful. You're a war veteran — I forgot for a second. My bad. But... wow. Sharp reflexes. You okay?"

She slowly nodded, sliding the wand back into her boot. "We're stopped at a gas station. I thought I'd wake you in case you needed the bathroom."

"Thanks. I'll be right back."

She swung her legs over the seat and stepped out. Dean's gaze followed her, sharp and calculating, but she ignored it, heading straight for the bathroom. Surprisingly, it wasn't nearly as bad as she'd expected — nothing like Charlie Weasley's old bachelor pad. She cast a quick Cleaning Charm on the toilet before using it and then washed her hands, pressing cold water against her face.

She caught her reflection and froze. Haunted eyes stared back — eyes that had seen too much, survived too much. The ghosts never left her. She splashed cold water on her face, but it did little to wash them away. She took Dreamless Sleep sparingly — no more than twice a week — afraid of addiction. Without it, she either didn't sleep, got drunk and passed out, or only managed a few hours before waking to relive it all. She was tired all the time. But she had learned to function on far less than most — three hours would do, unlike Ron, who needed ten to even consider getting out of bed.

Hermione exhaled and grabbed a paper towel. She dabbed her face dry, tucked some American bills into her pocket, repositioned her beaded bag, and left. Hunger gnawed at her, and she made a beeline for the counter.

With a smile and a polite farewell to the old man behind it, she returned to the car. Dean was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, scowling. Hermione smirked — she'd caught him trying to leave her behind while Sam refused to budge. She climbed into the back, plopped down comfortably, and immediately sensed Dean's eyes lingering on her as she settled in. Her smirk widened, and Dean made a small, frustrated grunt, clearly realising she knew exactly what he'd been doing. Sam, naturally, shook his head with a knowing look, amusement flickering across his face.

Dean straightened and tossed himself into the driver's seat. "You ready?" he grumbled, still trying to hide his irritation under a layer of gruffness.

Hermione held up a paper bag. "I'm starving. Bought food, water, chocolate... assorted sugary goodness. Figured I'd share — didn't know your tastes, so I got a bit of everything."

She claimed the BLT for herself and passed the other sandwiches forward. Dean snagged the chicken and bacon, Sam the chicken salad, each without hesitation, a quiet testament to their sibling synergy.

Two hours later, they were halfway through the chocolate and sweets, laughter and crumbs filling the Impala.

"You know," Hermione mused between bites, "Muggle confectionery's nice, but Wizarding treats? Way better."

"You got your own food?" Dean asked, voice lighter, more relaxed. He was even being nicer to her, which she noted. A full stomach clearly improved his mood — she understood that all too well. She, too, could be a bitch when she was hungry.