The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Page count: 7

He held her like she might shatter under his hands — light as a bird, heavy as guilt. Her lashes fluttered open, slow as if someone had wound them up wrong.
"Don't you dare fall asleep on me," he warned, voice flat and sharper than he meant it to be.

"I'm tired," she mumbled, words gone thin.

"I don't care. If you fall asleep, I'll shoot you." He felt ridiculous the instant the words left his mouth, but he wasn't moving. Not now.

"Okay," she breathed, surrendering to the exhaustion, and her eyes slid closed.

Dean shook her harder than he'd intended. Her lids snapped up, glassy, slower this time.

"Don't make me slap you," he threatened.

"Like to see you try," she snorted, a weak edge of her old sarcasm fighting through.

"Hermione!" Sam's voice cut through, sharp enough to make both of them start.

Dean's head swung up to see Harry pushing toward them, robes open, hair a mess, glasses cracked, burns and cuts mapped across his face and torso. He looked like he'd suffered ten minutes of a particularly bad curse, then a hard run; still, he was on his feet.

Harry dropped to his knees beside them and reached for Hermione with quick, gentle hands. Dean felt a hot little jab of something — jealousy, maybe; irrational and ugly — when Harry brushed a sweat-dark curl from her forehead and she, exhausted, leaned into the touch.

"The Cruciatus," she whispered.

"Again?" Harry's breath turned panicked for a heartbeat. "Hermione, you know what that curse does. If you—" He swallowed. "How long?" He lifted his gaze to Dean. "How long was she under it?"

"A minute. Two at most," came his answer. It was small, but it was an answer, and Harry exhaled like a man who'd been holding the ocean at bay.

"Alright." Relief softened the lines in Harry's face for a second. "Longer than five and we're in real trouble. The Healers warned—" He bit the sentence off, eyes dark. "We can't move her now. Not until a proper Healer sees her. I'll Port-key to St. Helga's and bring one back. I'll be five minutes." His tone left no room for argument.

Harry leaned down and, for a moment that made Dean clamp his jaw, pressed a brief, brotherly kiss to Hermione's forehead. "Don't you dare fall asleep," he murmured.

"We both know I probably will," she muttered, already half gone.

"Well, don't. I'm not afraid to pull the Molly card." Harry's voice clicked into something lighter, but the edge was still there.

"You wouldn't dare," she rasped.

"We both know I would. When it comes to you? I will shame you into a sweater and make Ginny personally enact justice. George will back me. Bill will agree. Charlie will—" He rattled off names in a ridiculous litany that managed to be both absurd and terrifying.

"I get your point. I won't fall asleep," she promised, voice thin but determined.

"That's the Hermione I know. Welcome back to sanity." Harry offered her a tight, sad smile. "When I get back, you hex me and I'll duel you and we'll call it even."

She tried to grin and failed, but the attempt was there, stubborn. "Wizard's duel it is."

Harry gave her one more look — fierce, fond, worried — then pinched the Port-key between his fingers. "Hold tight," he said. He glanced at the brothers. "We've taken control. Should be safe now. Stay with her." And with a small pop of displaced air, he was gone.