The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER NINE

Page count: 8

"Lovely place," Hermione commented dryly, her eyes sweeping over the seedy bar they'd chosen for a quick dinner and a drink before heading back to the motel.

Dean snorted and shook his head, amusement flickering in his eyes as he led the way to the bar. Sam followed, more reserved, while Hermione lingered behind for just a moment, taking in the cracked vinyl booths, sticky floor, and the faint smell of fried food and stale beer.

They each ordered a beer at the bar, then slid into a booth in the corner, the low lighting making the room feel smaller and a little grittier than it actually was. A waiter appeared almost immediately, notepad in hand, ready to take their orders.

"Chicken salad," Sam said automatically, his tone polite. Dean groaned loudly, and Hermione's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Double cheeseburger with fries and onion rings on the side, plus whatever pie you've got," Dean said without even looking at the menu.

The waiter raised an eyebrow at Hermione. "Salad?" he asked uncertainly.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "A salad? Do I look like a bloody rabbit?" she asked incredulously. Sam blinked at her in surprise, and Dean laughed, giving her a look of proud amusement.

"No, I don't want a damn salad. What I want is two double cheeseburgers, fries with melted cheese on top, and onion rings. And if I see one—just one—lettuce leaf anywhere near my food," she wagged a finger at the flustered waiter, "you will be wearing it."

The man, dark-haired and dark-eyed, blinked at her, cheeks pinking as he stammered, then turned quickly toward the kitchen.

Dean leaned back in the booth, smirking. "You know, I think this could be the start of a beautiful friendship."

"Of course," Sam muttered, resting his chin in his hands. "Bonding over your complete lack of healthy eating choices. Fine. Die of high cholesterol, both of you. I don't care."

Dean and Hermione exchanged a glance, then simultaneously shrugged, a tiny smirk tugging at Dean's lips.

Sam shook his head, muttering under his breath. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Hermione grinned, a gleam in her eye. "Funny — I said that every day at school after becoming friends with Harry and Ron."

Hermione laughed, leaning back comfortably against the booth. For the first time in hours, she felt the tight knot of tension in her chest loosen, if only slightly, as the smells of burgers, fries, and fried onion rings filled the air.

"So, Gryffindor Princess, what's that about?" Dean asked, a smirk tugging at his mouth as Hermione shot him an annoyed look.

"It's one of my many titles, bestowed by peers, the media, and the public," she sighed. "Harry had a whole list: The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Just Wouldn't Die, The Boy Who Conquered, The Chosen One... and among the Slytherins, he was Potty or Scar-head. At one point, the entire school population was filled with idiots who genuinely thought he was the Heir of Slytherin. Stupid pricks," she muttered, and Dean snorted.

"And you?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

"How long do you have?" Hermione shot back, sounding exasperated. She muttered to herself, "Where to start..." Then, with a sharp inhale, she rattled off: "Gryffindor Princess, Golden Girl, Know-it-All, Bookworm, the third member of the Golden Trio, Mudblood..." She spat the word, "Potter's Bitch, Harlot, Scarlet Woman, Heartbreaker of famous wizards, Little Miss Perfect, 'Mione by my friends, Hermy by a giant called Gwarp, and—by my ex, Viktor Krum—Herm-own-ninny."