The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Page count: 9

"Anything?" Sam asked, glancing back at Hermione in the rear seat.

They'd checked out of the motel three hours ago, grabbed breakfast at a quiet diner, and were now crawling through Cleveland streets, searching for a dark magic signature that might register on Hermione's wand.

Hermione frowned, creasing her brow as she stared at the wand spinning lazily in her palm. She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath.

"No, Dean?" she asked, voice tight.

"Yeah?" he replied, eyes still on the road.

"Pull over."

Dean raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and eased the Impala to the side of the empty road. They climbed out, Sam slipping behind the trees to answer nature's call. Dean stayed leaning against the Impala, arms crossed, watching Hermione pace. The wand twirled in her palm like a restless heartbeat.

"You alright?" His voice broke through the muttering.

"No, this bloody thing's getting on my nerves and—"

"No," he interrupted, softer this time, "I meant you. Are you alright?"

She froze mid-step, caught by the intensity of his gaze. Dean's eyes weren't on the wand, or the road, or the shadows beyond the treeline—they were on her, steady, searching, patient.

"Yes," she said, forcing herself to keep pacing.

"You were almost ra—"

"No." She cut him off sharply. "Don't say it. I hate that word." Her wand twirled in her fingers, small sparks of frustration curling off it. "I was attacked. I got out alive. Just scratches and bruises. I've had worse over the years. Kyle will update me if he finds anything—I trust him, I trained him partially, Harry too. He knows what he's doing. I won't lie—what happened shook me, dredged up memories I've buried for almost ten years. But I'll be fine. Denial, self-loathing, all of it—I've done my time. It'll take a while to be comfortable around people again. Men in particular. But I'll get there."

Dean didn't move. His eyes followed every step, every restless gesture, scanning for a tremor of fear. She offered none. Not a single flinch.

Sam returned from the trees, shaking off the chill, but Hermione didn't pause. She let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her wand by her side.

"I was really hoping it wouldn't come to this," she muttered.

"Come to what?" Sam asked, frowning.

"I first encountered the dark magic when I was twelve. Since then, I've been around it constantly—fourteen years of exposure," Hermione explained, once more pacing with her wand slowly turning above her palm. "Because of that, my wand is... attuned. It can sense dark magic. The problem is, I've never cast a dark spell so its ability to track it is weak. I'd have to be within, say, a quarter-mile radius for it to pick up an aura."

Dean and Sam exchanged thoughtful looks.

"So, you need a wand that's been used for dark magic?" Dean guessed.

"Yes. The stronger the dark magic a wand has channelled, the stronger the connection."

"And where exactly are we supposed to find a wand like that?" Sam asked.

Hermione smirked faintly

"I have one," she admitted, slipping her current wand into her pocket.

She dug into her beaded bag and pulled out a dark walnut wand. The handle was straight, but a sharp bend in the centre made it resemble a crooked 'V.'