The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Page count: 9

Hermione had promised to meet Dean at the club Sam found on his laptop, and Dean had smirked in that infuriating, cocky way that told her he was already imagining peeling her out of whatever she planned to wear.

Which meant she was absolutely going to make him wait.

After whipping up a quick lamb curry, she set aside a portion for Sam, layering enough preservation and heating charms over it to survive a nuclear blast. Then she Port-keyed home.

She flipped her wardrobe open and froze.

Right. Clubbing. With Dean Winchester.

Her pulse kicked up.

A few cleaning charms later, she stood before her full-length mirror, wand tucked behind her ear as she inspected herself with clinical precision. Mascara, a sweep of shimmery shadow. Lips natural. Hair spelled into sleek, glossy ringlets that fell down her back like something out of a magazine.

Then she stepped into the dress.

Black. Halter neck. Sweetheart plunge that showed cleavage but didn't cheapen her. The fabric hugged her waist and hips, skimmed mid-thigh, lengthening her legs when she strapped on silver heels.

She looked powerful. Beautiful. Self-possessed.

She looked like a witch who could stop a man's heart — magically or otherwise.

Then she glanced at her left arm. Her expression immediately softened. Then hardened.

Mudblood.

The scar stared back at her. The one thing glamour charms couldn't conceal.

She sighed, pulled out her Muggle concealer, and carefully blotted over the raised letters until they disappeared. All her other scars vanished under glamour; this one, only makeup. But she didn't mind Dean knowing. He'd seen her at her most vulnerable already.

She grabbed Sobriety and Hangover Potions, slipped them into her beaded bag, disillusioned it, and crept toward her bedroom door.

She listened.

Silence.

Perfect.

She sneaked out of the house before Mimsy could materialise and demand to know where she thought she was going "dressed like a disreputable succubus, Mistress Hermione!"

Hermione Port-keyed to the club's rear alley, the boom of bass vibrating through the brick walls. She disillusioned herself, slipped inside unnoticed, ducked into the ladies' loo, confirmed it was empty, removed the spell, and stepped out into the pulsing heat of the club.

Her eyes scanned for him. She didn't even need to look.

There was a tug inside her—sharp, magnetic, unmistakable—that pulled her gaze straight toward the bar.

And there he was.

Dean Winchester, framed by neon lights, leather jacket open, drink in hand, surrounded by a flock of women in barely-there dresses who were practically crawling into his lap.

Hermione felt it like a physical burn.

Mine.

Hermione told herself she wasn't jealous.

That was a lie.

She could feel her magic prickle at her fingertips, her wand already halfway out of her beaded bag as she glared daggers at the entire group. She had promised herself she wouldn't react like this.