The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Page count: 13

They had stopped at three different gas stations.

Three.

And not a single one stocked banoffee muffins.

Hermione sat rigidly in the passenger seat—her first time ever sitting upfront with the Winchesters—arms crossed tightly, scowl carved into her features like storm clouds refusing to break. Her displeasure radiated like static.

Dean kept glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, biting back a grin. Every few seconds her foot tapped, or her huff deepened. It was like he was driving around with a very offended woodland creature who'd been promised a rare treat and denied it at every turn.

From the back seat, Sam sprawled sideways with a book—another Hermione-approved deep dive into the history of Wizarding Europe—glancing up every now and then to catch her expression before hiding a quiet laugh behind a cough.

"It's not funny," Hermione muttered darkly, her scowl deepening as she stared out the window. "You said we'd get banoffee muffins."

Dean lifted one shoulder in a slow, deliberate shrug. "Yeah, sweetheart. I also said I wasn't giving up. We're zero for three, not dead in the water."

She let out a frustrated, childish sound of disapproval that Dean barely managed to keep himself from laughing at.

"I promised you muffins," he said, softening just a notch. "So you're gonna get muffins. Eventually."

Sam snorted behind them, flipping a page. Hermione sent him a withering look in the rearview mirror.

Dean nodded toward the windshield. "Besides... we're almost there. Should be pulling up to her house in about ten minutes."

Hermione instantly sat straighter, the shift in her demeanour stark. Gone was the sulking over baked goods. In its place: sharp focus. Her gaze swept the landscape as houses emerged in the distance.

When they reached a small, neat home at the end of a gravel drive, Dean slowed the Impala to a stop by the curb.

"Do you want us to come in with you?" he asked, voice losing all its humour—gentle now, respectful. He knew what she was about to walk into.

Hermione shook her head, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "No. I won't be long."

He didn't push. She stepped out into the crisp air, squared her shoulders, and walked up the drive, every step heavier with responsibility.

Dean watched her until the door closed behind her.

~000~000~000~

Hermione didn't wait long.

The door swung open, revealing Ms Binns—her expression shocked, fragile, and yet... fuller, somehow. Less hollow. Hermione noticed the colour back in her cheeks, the absence of dark rings beneath her eyes.

"Miss Granger?" the woman breathed.

"Hello, Ms Binns," Hermione said softly, offering a small, respectful smile.

"Please. Come in." The woman stepped aside, ushering her inside and leading her to the kitchen. They sat across from each other at a small wooden table. Ms Binns offered her a beverage; Hermione politely declined, folding her hands tightly in her lap.

She took a steadying breath.

"Ms Binns," Hermione began, her voice gentle, steady, "when I last saw you... I made a promise. That I would find the people responsible for your son's death."