The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FORTY

Page count: 6

Hermione stood beneath the pounding spray of the motel shower, forehead pressed to the cold tile as scalding water cascaded down her spine.

It should've helped. It didn't.

She had killed a teenage girl.

The thought looped, relentless and merciless, circling her mind like a curse she couldn't counter. Seventeen. Barely more than a child. And Hermione had put a knife through her chest.

Her fingers curled against the wall. Her breath hitched.

But what twisted inside her—what hollowed her out—wasn't the killing itself. It was the terrifying, undeniable truth that if she had to do it again, she would. Without hesitation.

Because Dean had been on his knees with a blade to his throat, and Hermione would burn the world to ash before she let anyone hurt him.

She squeezed her eyes shut as hot water blurred into something saltier.

She cared for him. Stupidly. Deeply. More than she should. More than was safe.

It wasn't just attraction anymore—not the teasing, heated glances, not the way his hands always found her hips, or the way her body lit up whenever he so much as looked at her. This was an attachment. A bond. Something anchored and real, something she couldn't sever even if she tried.

She couldn't imagine waking up without him sprawled halfway over her, heavy and warm; without his hand wandering absently over her stomach; without his breath tickling the curls that always fell over her cheek. She couldn't imagine a morning without his infuriating smirk or the soft little huff of laughter he made when she surprised him. She couldn't imagine silence where his voice should be.

He wanted her too—she knew that as surely as she knew the wand in her hand. She felt it in the way he stepped in front of her without thinking, the way he touched her like she was something precious and breakable, even when she wasn't. She saw it in his eyes—those stupid green eyes that softened every damn time he looked at her, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

And she needed him. That was the truth clawing at her chest.

She needed the comfort he didn't even realise he was giving. The safety. The steadiness. The way her nightmares quieted when he was near—how she slept deeper, how the war felt farther away, how the screaming in her memories faded into a dull, distant echo.

She needed the way he made her feel... lighter. Grounded. Cared for.

She was completely, irrevocably screwed.

Because Hermione Granger—who had survived torture, war, loss, pain—was falling madly, helplessly, dangerously in love with Dean Winchester.

And it was going to destroy her.

She should end it now. She should cut this off before he inevitably broke her, before she became too attached to walk away. She should leave. Pack her things. Port-key out. Protect herself while she still could.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't walk away from him any more than she could stop breathing.

She had killed for him.

And if tonight proved anything at all... She would do it again.

Arms slipped around her stomach, warm and solid, pulling her back into a familiar chest. Hermione exhaled shakily at the contact. A soft kiss landed at the back of her neck—gentle, grounding.