The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Page count: 14

He collapsed on top of her, both of them breathless and shaking. Hermione felt boneless... almost weightless. Her body hummed. Her pulse thundered. And behind it all, rising slowly in her throat, was something she refused—absolutely refused—to let him see.

Tears.

Not after what he'd just made her feel—something she had convinced herself she was incapable of feeling. Something she thought had been stolen from her forever.

Dean pressed soft, aimless kisses along her throat and shoulder, his lips barely brushing her skin. When he lifted his head, his fingers slid into her curls, and he kissed her again—slowly, lazily, as if he had all the time in the world. When he finally pulled back for air, he shifted off her, gathering her against his chest and pulling the blanket over them both. His arm wrapped around her, warm and heavy.

"I knew it," he murmured, already half-asleep, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

Her breath hitched. "What?"

"That the sex'd be fan-fucking-tastic," he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion.

She went still.

Completely, painfully still.

The words hit her harder than any curse ever had. A sob clawed up her throat, but she bit it back, trapping it behind clenched teeth. He didn't notice. He was asleep moments later—breathing slow, even, and unmistakably content. She could feel the ghost of his smile against her skin.

Hermione waited—counting the seconds, then the minutes—until she was certain he was deeply asleep.

Only then did she slip out of his arms.

Carefully. Quietly. Like someone escaping a battlefield.

She pulled on her shorts, then reached for Dean's discarded t-shirt. It swallowed her frame, falling past the hem of her shorts, smelling like him—soap, leather, motor oil. The scent strangled her chest, but she forced herself to breathe.

She retrieved her wand, extinguished the candles with a flick, and tiptoed out of the bedroom, closing the door silently behind her.

Her vision blurred.

She made it three steps into the living room before the first tear fell. Then another. And another.

She didn't try to stop them this time.

Ignoring the hour, ignoring the time difference, ignoring everything except the crushing ache behind her ribs, Hermione stepped into the fireplace, threw down a handful of Floo powder, and whispered the only place she could think to go.

"12 Grimmauld Place."

She disappeared in a flash of green flame.

~000~000~000~

Hermione stumbled out of the Floo in the study of Grimauld and hit the rug on her knees.

Harry appeared in the doorway a second later, hair a mess, tie loosened, clearly minutes away from going to bed. His expression shifted immediately—exhaustion replaced by alarm.

"Hermione?"

He crossed the room fast, dropping to a crouch and hauling her into his arms without hesitation.

"What happened?" he demanded, trying—and failing—to keep the panic out of his voice.

She curled into him, sobbing so hard her whole body shook.