A/N: Hi guys, another chapter for you as a sort of second advent gift. :) I hope you're still reading this - so give me a sign (or a review)!

Enjoy!


There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

– Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone


7. A Heart to Heart

It was almost dawn when Dean climbed up the stairs to his room. He'd nearly finished the bottle of whiskey and was hoping to simply pass out on his bed, slipping into unconsciousness instead of sleep.

Sometimes, nightmares were worse than real life. When awake, you could defend yourself, you could act – in a nightmare you were reduced to a spectator of your own memories, forced to watch, to suffer, to run, but never able to escape. He didn't want to see hell; he didn't want to go through his brother dying again because the pain would be just as fresh as if it had happened only moments ago.

The wooden stairs creaked under Dean's weight, and he paused as he reached the topmost step. There was a faint strip of light beneath Hermione's door, indicating that he wasn't the only one awake in the dead of the night. Maybe he should talk to her. Some things were easier to say in the cover the darkness, the intimacy of the night.

Before he could change his mind, Dean walked up to her door and knocked.

A few seconds later, he heard a lock being turned, and then the door was eased open. Dark eyes peered through the gap between the door and the frame. When Hermione recognised him, her eyes narrowed.

"What?"

That was a good question. Now, standing in front of her, Dean didn't know what to say. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?" he asked, but realised the second the words had left his mouth that it came out all wrong.

"Why would you care?" she snapped, about to close the door again, but he stopped her.

"Sorry. That's not… that's not what I meant." He took a deep breath. "I wanted to apologise for accusing you of being evil. I was rude and unfair, and I'm sorry."

The door opened a little further, and Dean could discern her face. The light behind her framed her hair like a halo, and, not for the first time, he thought that she was beautiful.

"Are you drunk?" Hermione asked.

Dean snorted. "Just accept the apology, Hermione. Do you have to question everything?"

A crease appeared between her brows as she took in his appearance. There was a slight slur in his speech, and his movements were a little sluggish. She could smell the whiskey in his breath. But she didn't blame him. The encounter with Dementors was something she'd also like to suppress. "Fine. Thank you," she murmured.

Dean let out a sigh of relief. "Good." He really felt the alcohol now, the exhaustion. Hermione didn't look much better, so what was she doing that kept her awake? Leaning casually against the doorframe, he asked, "Why are you still up?"

Between the door and the frame, he sneaked a glance into her bedroom. A single light on the desk illuminated her room and tinged the walls into an even deeper yellow than they already were. From his perspective, it seemed that bookshelves covered an entire side of the wall. Pictures decorated the desk and the bookshelf, moving pictures. It didn't look like a guest room… it looked like Hermione was actually living here, despite her claim she stayed at that boarding school.

Hermione followed his gaze, pausing at her desk, then turned back to him, almost defensive. "I could ask you the same."

Dean flinched. He seemed to always say the wrong things with her. He was about to leave when Hermione said, "Paperwork, you know?" She sighed. "I have to write a report about tonight's hunt."

"And that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but Dean interrupted her. "Forget it. I understand."

He did. She tried to cheat the nightmares just like him. But work seemed to be her drug of choice.

"So why are you up?" Hermione returned the question.

"Jet lag," he lied smoothly.

"Ah."

They were both perfectly aware why neither of them was sleeping. But Hermione would be damned before she admitted anything. She knew Bellatrix would visit her as soon as she closed her eyes, and she wanted to postpone that rendezvous as long as possible. Her arm still hurt, despite the pain killers.

Dean seemed to have his own demons to fight. From the little she knew about him, he'd suffered so much, lost so many people.

And still, he stood in front of her, as if it was perfectly normal to be here, the most ordinary thing in the world. She wondered what goodbyes lay behind him, what decisions had brought him here, to right this moment. She wondered what had made him the way he was.

Dean shifted his weight, uncomfortable under her gaze, and Hermione realised she'd stared at him. She could forgive the way he behaved. There must be reasons for it. So she said, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let's just put it behind us, yeah?"

Dean nodded slowly. "I was an ignorant asshole, Hermione. I see now…" His gaze flickered to her arm. White bandages peeked out from under the sleeve of her pyjama. "I understand now, I mean."

She noticed his gaze and automatically shifted, so her hurt arm was hidden behind the door. "You should sleep, Dean. You've got work to do tomorrow."

"Listen. I've just got to say this before…" he hesitated, "Thank you for saving our lives tonight."

A ghost of a smile played across her face. "You're welcome. Good night, Dean." With that, she closed the door.

"Good night, Hermione," Dean whispered back although she couldn't hear it.


The next evening, Sam used his chance to explore Harry's library. The day hadn't been as bad as he thought I would be. Dean had behaved, for once. Nobody had been threatened, or shot, or magically disarmed. There had been no fights between his brother and Hermione either. Sam wasn't blind. Something had changed between them, like they'd come to a truce.

So, all in all, the day hadn't been so bad.

The doors to the library creaked slightly as pushed them open. Dean was in the kitchen with Harry, plotting the next hunt, but Sam didn't crave killing monsters like his brother. He preferred doing some research.

Rounding a bookshelf, he realised someone had beat him to it. Hermione sat at the large table, a roll of parchment in front of her. She looked tired, no – exhausted. Sam was reasonably sure that she hadn't slept at all. He knew the signs too well.

He wanted to retreat silently, to leave her to her work, but Hermione looked up in just that moment. It was apparent that she'd been quite aware of his presence.

"Sam," she said, smiling slightly.

Hesitantly, Sam approached her and sat down in the chair opposite of her. "Watcha doing?"

Hermione sighed and stretched he right wrist, in which she'd been holding a feather. "Completing an essay for Transfiguration. It's due in two days, and I still have another inch to write." She shook her head, as if she'd committed a mortal sin.

"Transfiguration?" Sam echoed. "Is that a subject at Hog- Hogwarts?"

A smile ghosted across Hermione's features. "Yes." From somewhere, she conjured a thick, often-read book. "Here, read that. It tells you all about it."

Sam leaned forward, deciphering the title. Hogwarts: A History. Interesting. "Thank you," he replied honestly. Hermione nodded and returned to her essay.

"I can't believe I've been a hunter for so long and never came across a natural witch," Sam exclaimed all of a sudden.

Hermione paused and looked up. "Maybe you didn't know it. We're good at hiding."

"Maybe," Sam agreed half-heartedly. "Or maybe we've just been too stupid to notice it."

Hermione chuckled.

"Anyhow, I want to know more. Tell me more."

Hermione scrutinised him for a moment, then she seemed to reach a decision. Putting the feather aside, she asked, "About what?"

Sam let his gaze wander around and finally stopped at the picture above the fireplace. It was Harry and Hermione and two other red-heads, smiling and laughing, pushing each other out of the frame. It wasn't the Hermione in front of him or the Harry downstairs. They were younger. But not only that, they seemed less world-weary, lighter, full of energy. It must have been taken before the war, Sam concluded.

"That's Harry, Ron, Ginny, and I," Hermione explained, having followed his gaze. "Ron's Harry's best friend. Ginny's Ron's sister and Harry's girlfriend." A sad edge had crept into her voice, and Sam's gaze snapped back towards her.

"What happened to them?"

"What do you – oh. No, nothing like that. They're still alive and kicking. Ginny's at Hogwarts. Ron… Ron's living at home. He's working at his brother's shop in between Auror missions. He… well…" She silenced herself, and Sam sensed that there was a whole lot of history that she wasn't telling. But he wouldn't pry.

So he decided to switch the topic. "I think I understand your world a little bit more. But… there's this whole lot of history that always gets mentioned, but everyone dances around the topic itself as if it was poisonous."

Hermione quirked an eyebrow.

"Voldemort," Sam clarified. "The war."

He felt almost guilty for the shadow that instantly darkened Hermione's features. He didn't like reminding her of bad memories, but it was something he needed to know.

"I see," she replied barely audible. "Well, there's one thing you have to understand if you want to understand the war. In the Wizarding world, there are three 'kinds' of wizards. Muggleborns." She pointed at herself. "Me, for example. A witch or wizard that was born by non-magical parents."

Sam nodded, a little confused to where this was leading.

"Halfbloods," she continued. "As Harry. His mum was muggleborn, his dad pureblood. That leads us to the last classification. Purebloods." A cynical smile twisted her lips. "These witches and wizards can trace their ancestry back to William the Conqueror or whatever. They are proud of their bloodline that supposedly only consists of purely magical people, other purebloods. If someone married a Halfblood, or, Merlin forbid, a Muggleborn, they were extinguished from their family trees. Blood-traitors." She snorted.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "So, the war was between Purebloods and… the others?"

"You're fast," she nodded. "Yes. There was a man called Tom Riddle – a Halfblood actually, but his mother was a Gaunt, her blood-line tracing back to Salazar Slytherin, one of the founders of Hogwarts. Anyway, Tom Riddle wanted to became the most powerful, the most feared wizard in the world. And he hated Muggles and Muggleborns with all his heart, playing right into the hands of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The Pureblood families with the most influence in the magical world. They sit behind the scenes everywhere." She chuckled. "I know it sounds like a conspiracy theory, but they pull the strings in the Ministry of Magic, they even have influence at Hogwarts."

"It doesn't sound like a conspiracy theory," Sam replied. "It sounds terrifying."

"Well, that was before the war," Hermione explained quickly. "A lot has changed. Anyway, Tom Riddle called himself Lord Voldemort and started a war to usurp power and eradicate everyone who was, in his eyes, not worth of magic." He hand automatically flickered towards her left forearm where Bellatrix had left her mark. "People like me."

"Wha- But…" Sam quickly silenced himself. He could understand some of her anger now. She wasn't accepted by the Wizardkind for what her parents were, not accepted in the 'real' world because she always would need to hide a part of herself, and not accepted by him and Dean because she possessed something she was not supposed to possess. Why she had forgiven Dean for the words he'd spoken was beyond Sam. But Hermione most certainly didn't want his pity.

"What happened?" he asked instead.

So Hermione began to talk. She told him about a prophecy that was made before either of them was born, about a boy whose parents died on Halloween; about a mother who sacrificed herself for her son. Something inside Sam stung at that. It sounded a little like his own mum, dying over his crib. She told him about herself, about discovering that she was a witch, about going to Hogwarts. Soon, Sam hung to her every word when she told him the story of her past seven years. He knew she skipped bits, condensed things, but it was fine. It was a lot of history.

Finally, she arrived at their year on the run, explained what a Horcrux was, told him about the lake where the Dementors had attacked them yesterday. And, finally, it all made sense. Their evil presence at that place.

"That's why the Dementors haunt the lake!" Sam exclaimed, interrupting her.

Hermione nodded. "Probably."

"Do you think that's the reason all the monsters suddenly came out in the open, hunting humans, attacking your school?"

Hermione tilted her head. "The Horcruxes?"

"No, Voldemort," Sam replied.

"That's the hypothesis, yes," she said, smoothing her hair out of her face. "He gathered lots of evil creatures to aid him in the war against us."

"Mhm," Sam murmured, deep in thought. There had to be more. Why had the creatures become so careless, hunting out in the open? They must know hunters would be coming. And Voldemort was gone now, wasn't he?

"So these creatures listened to a wizard? That seems… unlikely," Sam added after a pause. "Are you sure Voldemort's dead?"

"Yes," Hermione replied firmly. "As dead as can be. Harry killed him… or rather, he killed himself. The killing curse rebounded."

Sam frowned. "Mhm..."

"Maybe there's something else they want…" Hermione muttered. "But what could that be?"

Sam let his eyes wander through the library, over bookshelves packed with leather-bound books, to the flickering flames in the fireplace, and finally, paused at the window. It was dark outside, so the glass reflected the light – almost a perfect mirror. The door to the hallway was ajar and a thin strip of light slanted through the small gap into the library. Sam was sure, however, he'd closed the door.

He'd stared so intently at the window that Hermione half-turned around to see what he was looking at, but she didn't notice the light of the slightly open door. Quickly, Sam focused back on her to prevent her from discovering the shadow behind the door.

"I'm okay… just thinking," he explained quickly. "We've encountered many creatures, but yesterday…"

Hermione pulled a face, her eyes full of sympathy. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that happened. I've been researching a way to keep them away without magic, but it seems impossible."

She sighed tiredly, massaging her temples.

"Don't worry about it," Sam replied gently. His eyes darted to the window to find that the shadow behind the door was gone. He was reasonably sure it had been Dean. "Thank you for saving us yesterday," he added quickly.

Hermione smiled slightly. "Of course." She paused. "Sam? Can I ask you something?"

Sam frowned at the anxiousness in her tone. "Yeah, sure."

"What did you…" she hesitated again, "What did you feel? Yesterday, when the Dementors attacked, I mean."

Sam swallowed thickly. "It wasn't really about what I felt. It was the absence of feeling, no love, no warmth. Just cold and empty. A void. And the only thing filling the void was…" He subconsciously rubbed his arms, as if cold. "Death, I think."

Hermione nodded slowly.

"I was dragged back through memories… It was all so fast, as if the Dementor's greed brought them to the surface all at once. For a second, I was back in the cage with Lucifer; then, I saw Dean ripped apart by Hellhounds; then, the fire consuming my father's body…" His voice broke.

Hermione's eyes were gigantic, and Sam could definitely detect pity in them, but also something different. Self-loathing.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't've asked."

"It's fine," the younger Winchester replied.

Hermione felt pathetic. Sam's worst memories were far more terrible than hers, and he hadn't been a complete mess afterwards. His worst memory was being tortured by the devil – what was Bellatrix in comparison? How could she still let that horrible woman haunt her dreams even after her death?

Sam had suffered so much more. Had lost his mother too early, his father, his brother, his friends. And she? Harry was still alive, even though she dreamt of that moment over and over again, his lifeless body in Hagrid's arms. And her parents… they were simply gone. Vanished. Monica and Wendell Wilkins never boarded a plane to Australia. Hermione didn't know what happened to them. Maybe, they'd been kidnapped by Death Eaters on their way to the airport. Maybe, they'd had a car accident. Maybe they'd been tortured and murdered in some dungeon. Maybe they'd travelled to France instead.

Hermione didn't know and likely would never know. Magic hadn't been able to trace them, to find them. Hermione had made sure of that before she'd left. Now it was working against her.

But still, it was nothing against the tragedies Sam and Dean had went through.

At least, they still had each other. She had Harry, true, and he was her brother in all ways but blood.

With shaking fingers, Hermione rolled up the parchment and sent the books back to the shelves with a swish of her wand. She had to leave. If she stayed one more second in Sam's presence, she'd tell him everything. She didn't know why, but she felt she could trust him...

And she didn't want that. She barely knew him, after all.

"I'm going to bed," Hermione choked out, leaping to her feet. Her chair scratched loudly over the wooden floor.

"You looked exhausted," Sam replied diplomatically. "Sleep well."

Hermione grimaced, nodded, then fled the library.