The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Page count: 8

"I am standing right here," she snorted.

Dean's eyes snapped to hers. She expected humour—maybe a smirk. She got worry and anger instead.

"What is it?" she frowned.

"I didn't mean you," he said tightly. "I meant there's a witch here."

Her eyes widened, then understanding flickered through them. "That could explain the sudden illnesses and freak accidents."

"You didn't touch it, did you?" Dean asked, grabbing her by the arms and dragging her closer. His eyes swept over her like he expected to find a missing limb.

"No," she shook her head quickly. "I didn't. My wand recognised it before I saw it. Alerted me to it. Bellatrix's wand lit up light a Christmas tree. I wasn't in the mood for a trip to the hospital."

He let out a breath—sharp, relieved, pissed all at once. "It was in your desk. It was meant for you. How long it's been there?"

"I didn't see it this morning. Lunch, maybe."

"We need to burn it. Now."

Dean stripped off his jacket, folded it, and used it like gloves to pick the hex bag up. Hermione watched the tightness in his jaw, the muscle twitching there—he was furious, terrified, trying not to show it.

He tossed the hex bag to the floor. "Can you burn it without setting off the alarms?"

"I don't see why not." She frowned, already rifling through spells in her mind.

She pulled her wand from her sleeve and swept around the desk. Dean stayed close—close enough to grab her if something went wrong.

She cast a ventilation charm to clear smoke, then flicked her wand again. Blue flames roared up from the hex bag, unnaturally vivid. Dean yanked her back before she could touch the edge of it.

Within seconds, nothing remained of the bag. Or his jacket.

She flicked her wand and banished the ashes, straightened, and said, "It's done."

Dean immediately pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.

"We've got a witch," he said. "Hermione found a hex bag in her desk... No, she didn't touch it—she's fine." His gaze slid over her, checking again anyway. "Yeah. We need to get into the kids' lockers. Meet us here."

He closed the phone, shoved it into his pocket, then looked at her.

"Who has access to this room?"

"It would be easier to ask who doesn't," Hermione said dryly. "We narrowed the victims to seniors. If this is a witch—and it clearly is—it's most likely a senior, too. The case feels personal. I was targeted for a reason. Statistically? It's got to be someone in my senior class."

"You're not coming back tomorrow," he said. No hesitation. "You're calling in sick."

"Absolutely not." She scoffed, and holy hell did that make him angrier. "If we don't find the culprit tonight, I need to observe my students. I can use diagnostic magic discreetly. You go to your office and go through Harrow's files. Look for confrontations, complaints, arguments—anything. do the same here."

He looked unimpressed with the plan. Specifically, the part where she stayed here alone.

"Meet me back here in thirty minutes," she said. "Sam will be here by then. Go. I'm not exactly an easy target, Dean. You know that."