The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Page count: 7

Three months later...

It had been three months since the Unicorn case, and in that time they'd fallen straight back into the routine of hunting, travelling, and occasionally pretending to be normal humans. They squeezed in a few days of respite — just long enough for Hermione, Dean, and Sam to hop over to England, where they'd visited the Potters, Malfoys, and Weasley families.

To Hermione's amusement, the kids spent more time glued to Dean and Sam than to her. She didn't complain. Seeing the children latch onto them so easily — calling them "Uncle Dean" and "Uncle Sam" — had shocked the brothers so hard that Dean nearly dropped his beer.

After a few days, they returned to America, hunted nonstop again, and another month later, Hermione was pulled back to England for a week to train new recruits and run her department's quarterly meeting. By that point, the brothers were starting to consider England their unofficial third home — Hermione's apartment and Bobby's salvage yard holding first and second place, respectively.

They'd survived a Sunday dinner at the Burrow, where every Weasley on the planet seemed to be present. It had overwhelmed the brothers so badly that they both nearly hid in the broom shed. Because of the crowd, dinner was held outside under the old marquee from Bill and Fleur's wedding, and they were finally introduced to Claire, Hugo, and Rose, which ended with two children treating Dean like a jungle gym and Sam like a very tall pillow.

Then back to America. More hunts. More travel. More near-death moments.

And now, three months later, after finishing several cases in a single week, they were taking a weekend off at the Cambridge apartment.

During those months, Dean's mind kept circling the Unicorn's words — replaying them like a damn mixtape he couldn't shut off. He knew he and Hermione would have children someday... but every time her cycle started, a quiet, heavy disappointment settled in his chest. They'd been trying for six months. Still nothing.

Eight months together. His longest relationship. Easily his happiest.

They fought, teased, argued, made up... and he loved her. He loved their life, messy as it was. He was happy — a state of being that would've sounded like a joke to him a year ago.

Dean wandered through the apartment until he reached the open door of the potions lab. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching Hermione in her natural habitat — standing over a cauldron, completely absorbed in whatever the hell she was brewing.

He'd only seen her make a potion once before, and damn if it wasn't one of the sexiest things he'd ever seen. The focus, the precision, the way she chopped ingredients with surgical annoyance, the way the steam wrecked her hair into a frizzy lion's mane, she pretended not to notice.

She was still in her jeans, boots, and t-shirt, but now she had her black brewing robes hanging open over everything — and that hair. The mane. The glorious, furious, golden-brown storm cloud around her head. He had to physically bite his cheek not to laugh because she'd hex the breath out of him if he did.

"You're staring," Hermione murmured without looking away from the cauldron.

"I'm allowed," he shrugged. "You're a sight to behold."

She snorted. "Yeah, and my hair's definitely not a fluff ball."

"Well, I wasn't gonna mention the hair..."

She turned and glared. He threw his hands up.

"Kidding! Just kidding."

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious, before returning her attention to her brew.