Chapter Text
Hermione crashed through the dark forest, branches slapping against her arms, leaves crunching under her shoes. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and every step echoed against the trunks of ancient trees. She was near Sioux Falls, South Dakota, chasing three rogue Death Eaters, their dark robes slithering through the undergrowth like shadows on the move.
The war had been over nearly nine years, but some dark remnants refused to fade. Death Eaters, fugitives, killers, the ones who thrived in the cracks between worlds—they were her responsibility now. Harry handled the Wizarding World; she handled the Muggle. It was a job that demanded speed, cunning, and nerves of steel.
A streak of orange fire sliced through the shadows, humming with deadly intent. Hermione dove behind a massive oak, feeling the heat brush past her cheek. The spell hit a branch above her, splintering it with a sharp crack that rumbled through the forest. Her heart hammered in her chest, breath sharp and ragged.
Peering around the trunk, she sent a bolt of Stupefy skimming past her first target's shoulder, narrowly missing. Another bolt, a Petrificus Totalus, shot toward a second assailant, and she watched the shield between them shatter under the force, showering sparks into the damp darkness.
The three rogues bolted, kicking up leaves and snapping twigs. Hermione's side burned with a stitch, but adrenaline shoved the pain aside. She sprinted after them, chest tight, lungs burning, shoes skimming over roots. A curse slammed into her shield, shaking it with a force that rattled her teeth.
She let it drop and retaliated. Impedimenta—her spell streaked like lightning, missing. Incarcerous followed, ropes of magic lashing out, wrapping around a branch. One twisted, barely managing to duck behind a tree, panting, robes fluttering like dark wings.
There was no room for mistakes. She was alone, against three—but she had hunted worse, survived more impossible odds. Every spell, every dodge, every breath carried her closer to the moment she would corner them.
The edge of the forest came up faster than Hermione expected. The three figures paused, black robes whipping around them, hoods up, skull masks glinting in the dim light. Before she could react, they spun on their heels and vanished with sharp cracks of Apparition.
"Shite!" Hermione hissed, skidding to a stop and bracing herself against a tree to keep from falling. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she steadied her breathing.
No time to waste. She swept through her spells, casting tracking charms over the three targets. They would have split up—she could only follow one. Focusing, she locked her wand on the nearest path, spinning on her heel.
The world shifted in a blink, and she landed in the middle of a salvage yard. Sunlight hammered down on her back, making her squint against the glare. Rusted, totalled cars were stacked haphazardly around her, creating a maze of jagged metal and dusty shadows. The air smelled of oil and rust, and every step stirred the grit beneath her shoes. Too many places to hide—she had to stay sharp.
Her wand was tight in her grip, white Auror robes fastened, hood pulled low over her face. Her beaded bag rested safely against her side. Slowly, she moved through the aisles of cars, eyes darting left and right, every shadow a potential threat.
Twenty minutes crawled by, and frustration bubbled beneath her calm exterior. She lifted her wand, pressing it gently against her palm. "Point me," she whispered.
The wand rose on its own, spinning erratically before jabbing straight north. She moved cautiously, shoes crunching on gravel and metal scraps. At a fork, the wand swung left, and she followed, senses stretched tight.
Through the heat haze of the sun, a house appeared in the distance. Squinting, she made out figures moving around it—one in black robes, the other two...
"Shit! Muggles!" Hermione muttered under her breath, adrenaline spiking.
~00~000~000~
Dean Winchester was feeling good. They'd saved the world from Lucifer, trapped him back in the cage along with their resurrected half-brother Adam and the angel Michael. Sam had survived possession, Cas was alive, Bobby was alive—and somehow, miraculously, all of them had made it through.
After a recent spree that had seen them take down a Werewolf, a Wendigo, and a Succubus, the brothers had decided to swing by Bobby's for some respite—and maybe a little research for their next case. Sam was the brains, Dean was the brawn…and the guy who occupied himself by singing along to the radio at full blast while Sam tried to think.
Bobby had stepped out for supplies, leaving the brothers to their own devices. Sam sat on the porch steps, nose buried in a book, muttering under his breath. Dean leaned against the Impala, smirking, and cranked up the radio, belting out his favourite rock tunes like the world was listening.
"Dean?" Sam said, voice tight, eyes not leaving the page.
Dean grinned, hitting a particularly loud chorus, singing at the top of his lungs.
"Dean!" Sam snapped, louder this time, frustration sharp in his tone.
Dean pretended not to hear, one hand cupped to his ear in mock confusion.
"DEAN!" Sam finally exploded.
Dean laughed, reaching over to cut the radio off. "I wondered how long it'd take you to snap," he said, leaning back against the Impala, arms crossed. "Found anything useful, Sammy?"
Sam scowled, jabbing a finger at him. "No. Not when you're being a bitch!"
"Jerk!" Dean shot back.
Sam shook his head, eyes scanning the yard, then froze. The book slipped from his lap with a soft thud. Dean followed his gaze, and his own eyes went wide.
A figure emerged from the distance, pale skull mask glinting under the sun, black robes flowing like shadows. In one hand, a strange wooden staff. The figure moved toward them, a slight limp making each step uneven, predatory.
"Hey, pal," Dean called, half-joking. "Halloween's not for another seven months!"
"Dean," Sam hissed, but his gaze stayed locked on the figure.
The masked figure's head tilted, attention now fully on them. Danger radiated off it in waves, thick and heavy, and both brothers instinctively stepped back from the Impala, hands going to their holsters. Years of hunting experience kicked in as they trained their guns on the approaching stranger, eyes sharp, muscles tense.
"If you don't stop, I'll shoot," Dean warned, voice low, steady, and dangerous.
The figure let out a deranged laugh, sending chills crawling down their spines. Dean's finger twitched on the trigger, ready to fire—but a sharp shout cut through the air, freezing him in place.
Dean and Sam's eyes flicked to a spot just over the first figure's shoulder—and froze. Another figure stood in the distance, robes white this time, hood pulled low, a wooden staff gripped firmly in one hand.
By the height and build of the first figure, they'd assumed it was a man. The voice of the second, crisp and commanding, left no doubt—she was a woman.
"Leave them alone. They're under my protection," the woman called, her tone sharp, unwavering, echoing through the salvage yard.
Dean opened his mouth to scoff, ready to snort at the audacity—but something in her voice, the sheer certainty behind it, held him back. Every instinct in his chest—hunter's instinct, gut instinct—told him she wasn't bluffing.
Sam shifted beside him, hands tight on his gun, eyes scanning between the two figures. The air felt heavier now, charged with something neither of them could name—danger, yes, but also power. And whatever it was, it wasn't something either brother wanted to test lightly.
~00~000~000~
Hermione snatched her wand from the air, heart hammering, and sprinted forward.
"Hey!" she shouted, drawing the attention of the Death Eater—and the two muggles. "Leave them alone! They're under my protection!"
She caught the glint of their handguns and knew she had to be precise—one wrong move and they'd be in the line of fire.
"Mudblood," the Death Eater spat, his smirk hidden behind a skull mask. Hermione flinched instinctively.
"The party's over."
"And what's a weak Mudblood like you going to do?" he taunted, laughing.
"If I'm weak, why am I here and Voldemort's dead?" Hermione replied, her voice steady. The laughter faltered. She could feel the seething hatred radiating off him. "If I were you, I'd run and get out of the way," she added, gesturing to the Muggles, though her hood hid her face. They stared dumbly, caught between confusion and awe.
Before she could finish, a sharp beam of yellow light shot toward her—Cruciatus. Hermione dropped flat onto her stomach. The spell sailed over her head, slamming into a tree with a loud crack.
"Stupefy!" she called, but he twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the blast. She sprang to her feet.
"Sectumsempra!" he snarled. Hermione dove sideways, the curse slicing through the air where she had just stood.
"Death Eaters. So predictable," she taunted, firing back. "Rictumsempra!"
He blocked, sneering, "A tickling jinx? Weak, pathetic."
Hermione vanished from his view and reappeared behind him, sprinting toward the Muggles to get them to safety.
"Sanguinem!" he shouted, a dark curse that would make her bleed from every orifice if it connected.
"Protego!" A blue shield flared to life, absorbing the full force of the spell.
The impact slammed her backwards through the air, skidding past the Muggles and crashing into the porch railing. Wood splintered, boards littering the dusty ground. She slammed into the house wall, chest pounding, stomach twisting in pain, landing hard on her stomach with a dull thump.
"Son of a—" she groaned, cutting herself off as another Sectumsempra whistled past her head. She staggered to her feet, gripping a porch support beam, bruises already blooming across her back.
"Reducto!" she shouted, pushing herself free. "Flipendo! Impedimenta!"
Three spells launched in rapid succession. He blocked the first two, but the third caught him square in the chest, sending him flying into a totalled car. Metal groaned, windows rattled, and dust puffed into the air.
"Not so nice, is it?" Hermione muttered, pressing a hand to her head. No blood. Good. She descended the porch steps, moving with purpose toward him, taking the space between the gawking Muggles.
"Avada Kedavra!" he hissed as he staggered to his feet.
"Shite! Duck!" Hermione shouted. The Muggles obeyed, diving aside just as the deadly green beam ricocheted off a broken mirror and slammed into a car. Smoke curled from the scorched metal; glass littered the ground like glittering shards.
Hermione exhaled sharply. "Okay. Now I'm mad."
She pushed off the ground and fired five spells in rapid succession. The Death Eater barely had time to raise his shield. He blocked the first three, stumbled on the fourth, shield shattering, and the fifth—Confringo—caught his robes ablaze. As he panicked, she shouted, "Petrificus Totalus!"
He froze mid-step, arms stiff at his sides, collapsing face-first onto the ground. Flames extinguished with a flick of her wand.
Relief washed over her, fleeting, as pain surged through her chest from hitting the railing. Bruises would form, but at least he was neutralised.
The silence lasted only a moment.
"Cas! CAS!"
Turning to the Muggles, she raised her wand. "You won't remember this… just a few blanks," she said gently.
Then she felt it—a sharp, searing pain in her stomach. Blood soaked her white robes. The world tilted. Heat, pain, and magic flared… then darkness swallowed her.