The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Page count: 8

"Dean, wake up," Hermione said, shaking his shoulder.

He groaned—a long, dramatic, put-upon noise—and burrowed deeper into the blankets like a hibernating bear.

"Dean. Wake. Up."

"What time is it?" he grumbled, eyes firmly closed.

"Three in the morning."

"Then let me sleep, crazy witch," he muttered, rolling over and presenting her with his back, blanket pulled up to his ear like she was a draft he disapproved of.

She sighed, long-suffering. "I'm doing this for your benefit. England is five hours ahead. Even though Floo travel only takes minutes, we're still crossing time zones. I'm trying to prevent you from having jet lag."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

"Come on," she added casually. "Up you get. Butter made you an apple pie as a treat."

Dean shot upright like he'd been tasered.

"Apple pie?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, he's made you an apple pie. And several more to take with us to London. If you hurry."

His eyes narrowed. "There really is apple pie?"

"Not if you don't hurry. Sam was eyeing it."

Dean vanished into the bathroom so fast Hermione's hair fluttered in the breeze he left behind.

~000~000~000~

"It's not going to hurt?" Sam asked, staring into the green flames like they would leap out and consume him.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sam. For the fifth time. No. It's not going to hurt."

Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, smirking. He looked like he was watching the world's most patient preschool teacher deal with a very large, very nervous toddler.

"It may feel strange," Hermione continued, "but not painful. Just close your eyes so soot doesn't get in them, bend your knees for the landing, and you'll be fine."

"Right," Sam nodded, still staring into the flames like they held his death prophecy. "But you're really sure it's not—"

"Sam," she cut in sharply, "if you finish that sentence, I will turn you into a chair. And when someone sits on you, you'll have their arse in your face."

Dean lost it, laughing loud enough that Sam scowled at both of them.

"Sorry," Sam muttered, dignity in tatters.

"Just step into the flames," Hermione sighed.

Sam took a long, bracing breath, like he was preparing for execution, then strode forward and stepped into the fire—mouth open, ready to scream.

He blinked. "It... doesn't hurt."

"Halle-fucking-lujah," Hermione said, throwing her hands in the air. "He finally gets it."

Dean snorted as he and Hermione stepped into the flames beside Sam.

Hermione called out clearly,

"Granger Residence, London."

And the three vanished in a swirl of emerald fire.

~000~000~000~

They stepped out of the fireplace and into Hermione's London apartment. It looked similar to her London one—warm lighting, deep wood, shelves that definitely contained things that buzzed with magic—but smaller, cosier, and more obviously lived in.