The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Page count: 15

"We're not letting anything happen to her," Dean said quietly.

Hermione sat rigid beside him in the passenger seat, her knee bouncing, her gaze fixed on the dark blur of buildings outside the window as the motel came into view.

She finally turned to him. "If it were one of the others, I'd be concerned—but Chloe..." Her voice softened. "She's different. I actually like her. If I were ten years younger, I could see us being friends. She reminds me of Ginny and Luna. Luna's kindness, Ginny's fire." She swallowed. "She doesn't deserve this. None of them do."

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel. "I know. That's why we stop it. No more bodies."

He pulled into the parking lot. "Here's the plan. We clean up, eat something, and then head to the school. Sammy and I handle the spirit. You stay with Chloe—don't let her out of your sight."

"And if it comes for her anyway?" Hermione asked.

"Then it's walking into a trap."

"If I have to," she said calmly, "I'll use magic. I can protect her—and clean up her memories afterwards."

Dean nodded once. He trusted her.

"Uh... guys?" Sam said from the back seat. "We've got a problem."

Dean sighed. "Hit me."

"Brenda Combe was cremated."

Dean slammed the car door shut harder than necessary. "Of course, she was. Why is it never simple?"

"You have spectacularly bad luck," Hermione muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples. "That means the spirit isn't anchored to remains. It could be bound to anything."

Dean rubbed his jaw. "But all the deaths happened on or near school grounds. So whatever she's tied to is still there."

"That narrows it down," Sam said. "To... basically everything."

"Wonderful," Hermione sighed.

They entered the motel room. Hermione dropped onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. The brothers sat at the table, saying nothing—waiting. They'd learned a long time ago that rushing Hermione when she was thinking was a bad idea.

Fifteen minutes later, she straightened.

Dean and Sam both looked up.

Hope flickered across her face as she reached for her beaded bag, digging deep before pulling out an old, worn compass.

Her breath hitched in relief. "Thank Merlin."

Dean squinted at it. "Please tell me that's not just sentimental junk."

"It was my father's," she said, then met their eyes. "And I can use it."

She held it up. "I can cast a locator charm. If I attune it properly, it'll lead you straight to whatever the spirit's anchored to."

Sam exhaled. "That's huge."

"There's a catch," Hermione said, and both brothers groaned in unison.

"We don't know what we're looking for," she continued. "Each spirit has a unique magical signature. I can't tune the charm without it."

Dean folded his arms. "So...?"

"So we need the spirit's energy," she said evenly. "Which means the spirit has to touch the compass."

Silence.

Sam blinked. "You're kidding."

"I'll cast protection charms," Hermione continued. "We lure the spirit out—she'll go for Chloe. When she manifests, I keep Chloe safe. One of you throws the compass through the spirit."