Highway to Hell
Bang, bang, bang!
"Granger, get up!"
Bang, bang, bang!
Hermione groaned. Hank Malone was going to die a very painful death. He had once again interrupted a pleasant dream about a tall man with sandy hair and forest green eyes. Growling, she shoved her covers off her and threw her door open.
"Seriously, Malone? Why can't this wait until I come into the office?"
"I brought coffee this time," he said, casually. He cautiously handed her a brown paper cup.
She took it, still pouting slightly, "I prefer tea."
"Not this morning, you don't," he replied. She rolled her eyes. As Hermione had the morning before, she flicked her wand to fold her bed into a sofa, grabbed a change of clothes and towel and headed to the bathroom. Once she shut the door, she looked at her hair and frowned. The mass was more frizz than curls.
"How long do I have?" she yelled through the door.
"Enough time," came the reply. Hermione took that as code for 'wash your bird's nest' and the liberty of taking her time. Once she had completed her morning routine and almost taken out the sink getting dressed, she exited the bathroom.
"I'm starting to think that he's the reason you come over in the mornings," she commented. Just like the morning before, the stern man was cooing over her cantankerous half-Kneazle. "He usually doesn't like people."
"Good judge of character then," Malone returned. "Ready?"
"Yeah, where are we heading?"
"Motel. Bobby called me this mornin'. Said we need to get over there as quickly as we could."
Hermione swirled around, hands on her hips. "You said I had enough time."
He shrugged, "I figured I'd let them stew."
Hermione shook her head in disbelief before marching to the alley beside her building.
When they landed in the older hunter's room, she felt like she had entered a war zone.
"That's the stupidest fuckin' plan you've had since that time you wanted to see if chickens floated!" Bobby was yelling at Dean. Sam was laid on one of the beds flicking through a magazine.
"You heard her last night. Death is the answer, we still have the ring-"
"Excuse me," Hermione cut them off. All three men turned to her in surprise, "You have the resurrection ring?"
Dean stared at her as though she had grown a second head, "Resurrection ring?"
"You said you have Death's ring," she said slowly.
"Yeah."
"Gold. Sort of old fashioned. Big black stone in it?"
"That's it, but -"
"How did you get it?"
"Death gave it to us to open the cage."
Hermione sighed, "You'd think he'd have learned giving his possessions away is inadvisable by now."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It doesn't matter."
A cough came from across the room, "Are you two done?" asked Sam, bored. Hermione looked over at the tall man perplexed.
"Er, sorry?" she asked.
"That's okay," he replied.
"Granger," Malone cut in. "How about you explain to the rest of the class what you ran off to do last night?"
"Oh, right," she said sheepishly. She had forgotten that she had disappeared suddenly the night before with no explanation. "I know how we can get Sam's soul back." Peering around the room, all the men were examining her expectantly. "Death."
"See!" Dean exclaimed, gesturing wildly at her. "I'll go to Dr Robert -"
"Shut up, you idjit!" Bobby snapped. "You won't be killin' yourself -"
"I'll only die a little bit -"
"No one has to kill themselves," Hermione interjected, baffled. "Merlin, what is it with men in my vicinity and sacrifice," she muttered. "No, it just takes a little trip to Scotland."
"Come again," Dean said.
"I have connections," Hermione hedged.
"To Death? In Scotland?"
"Yes, that's what I was doing last night," she confirmed.
"You went to Scotland?"
"No, don't be silly. International Apparition that far is way too risky."
"Oh, of course."
"Seriously, guys, will you please stop flirting?" Sam sighed, irritated. Hermione and Dean turned to the dark haired hunter, bewildered.
"What the fuck, dude?" Dean asked.
"Language," Hermione scolded, automatically. "Anyway, I spoke to my… source. He's agreed to meet me this weekend."
"Us," Dean said.
"Excuse me?"
"Look, no offence, but this is my brother's soul on the line. I'm not leaving it up to a chick I barely know. A witch, at that."
"Offence very much taken," Hermione shot back, but considered what he said. She understood where he was coming from. If roles were reversed and Harry or Ron or Ginny's soul was on the line, she would probably find it hard to trust a hunter to save them. "Fine. How are you with flying?"
At that Sam burst out laughing and Dean paled.
Over the next few days, the strange group buried themselves in research. Hermione was pleasantly surprised that all four men were willing to put in the effort. Having grown up with Harry and Ron, who she often felt needed the extra push to apply themselves, it was a relief not to be carrying the weight of the case on her shoulders. Bobby had invited them all back to his salvage yard to start planning. She had agreed but Hank had opted to stay in New York. He wanted to get a handle on the situation brewing between Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. He would still pop in intermittently to relay new information or with scrolls and texts that Hermione had requested.
Apparating between New York and Sioux Falls was, while not impossible, severely inadvisable. When the week began Hermione had such good intentions. She set up a series of Portkeys to take her from New York early in the morning and return from Sioux Falls well after dark. She knew it was a futile effort after the first night.
Hermione made her nest, surrounded by books and scrolls, on the threadbare, sunken red sofa in the older hunter's study. She was not sure when she fell asleep, but she awoke the following morning with a crick in her neck. During the night, someone had placed a heavy patchwork blanket over her. It smelled of leather, motor oil, and cedar.
"Coffee?" Dean asked, when he spotted that she was awake.
"Is there any tea?" she replied. He rolled his eyes muttering about Brits but started searching the kitchen cabinets. He managed to find a single teabag. She watched as he filled a milk pan with water and boiled it on the stove.
"Where's the kettle?" she asked.
"Er, why would Bobby have a kettle?"
Hermione looked at the sandy haired hunter incredulously, "To boil water?"
"That's what a stove is for," he retorted, shrugging, just as Sam walked into the kitchen. When the water was boiled, he carefully poured it into a coffee-stained mug over the teabag.
"What's the point of hot tea, anyway?" Sam asked as Dean handed her the mug. Hermione glared at him before moving to the fridge for some milk to add to her tea.
Despite their rocky start, she and Dean were managing to find a rhythm. The second morning she had woken up on the sofa, he had offered to take her to the local store to get some supplies. Grateful, Hermione had agreed quickly, keen to pick up a tube of toothpaste and other essentials, ever thankful her trusty beaded bag had enough clothing in it to last an army a week.
Sighing heavily Hermione looked over her purchases; she had managed to gather everything she needed apart from one thing. She tried to remember her holidays in France with her parents. She headed to the biscuit aisle. True to form, to the right of a stack of Oreo's, was a bright yellow box. She grimaced at the Lipton Yellow label, but without any other options headed to the till.
Just as she was reaching for her purse, Dean put his hand over hers, "It's on me."
"Are you sure?"
"Least I can do with what you're doing for us," he smiled. The moment she saw the name on the card he pulled out to pay, however, she scowled.
He chuckled down at her. "Hunting ain't a paying gig, sweetheart."
Over the following days, she arose each morning she was greeted by Dean holding out a mug of perfectly brewed tea. She had managed to make the space she had commandeered on the sofa somewhat comfortable, but she found that the pain in her neck was becoming unbearable. Halfway through the week Hermione had mentioned it to Dean. The following morning she had woken up to one of the sofa cushions placed gently behind her head in her sleep.
Dean slowly started to open up to her a little more regarding the last few years. It began as things that she needed to know as part of her research, however, soon it started to include more personal details. He struck Hermione as someone who typically would not share such things freely, so she treated everything he told her with the respect she knew it deserved. Still, she knew he was holding something back. She, in turn, opened up to him slightly. Hermione had not realised how lonely she felt until she started to confess to him. She only shared little things. Mainly so that he would be prepared for the reception they may receive when they arrived in Britain.
Two days before they were due to fly to London, Dean approached her. She was immersed in her research, the customary pile of books at her feet and scrolls spread out beside her. A quill was tucked behind her ear, wild curls piled on top of her head, and a tome on her lap with her feet tucked beneath her. His nervous approach made her pause in her reading and give him her full attention. The way he was fidgeting made her sit up straighter. She thought that whatever he had been holding back all week was about to be exposed. Hermione met Dean's forest green eyes with her chocolate ones. The fear there made her worry.
"Hey," she said gently, as though approaching a skittish deer.
"Hey," he returned, face softening. Whatever he found in her gaze seemed to relax him slightly. "There's… There's something that I didn't tell you before."
"Okay," Hermione coaxed.
"It's about Sam's soul." He rubbed at the back of his neck, a habit that Hermione had seen frequently while in Sioux Falls.
When he did not continue, she moved the papers on the sofa beside her and indicated for him to sit. As he sat she was suddenly very aware of how close he was. He smelled of her patchwork blanket, motor oil, leather, and something fresh. Sitting this close, without bantering or debating, Hermione examined Dean closer than she ever had before. She noticed that his eyes were a striking mix of jade and forest green, framed by the longest and darkest eyelashes she had ever seen. His freckles light, dusting his nose and cheekbones, an indication of a childhood spent outside. And his lips…
Hermione quickly snapped her eyes back to his. She coughed to snap herself out of where her mind had just gone. "What about Sam's soul?"
Dean hesitated again. "Cas said… He warned me that… It's been in the cage, with two extremely powerful archangels. I… Shit… He said that… With all your witchy, hocus pocus, have you ever read about healing a broken soul? A… A soul that… Goddamnit!" he exclaimed, breaking their eye contact.
Sensing that he was feeling guilty for whatever may have happened to Sam's soul in hell, she reached for his hand. "I can look into it. There… I know a place to start but, well, this is new to us too. Soulless people in the wizarding world, they don't function as well as Sam is right now." Dean scoffed. "I mean it, Dean. They… Have you ever seen someone just… exist? A shell of a human being? I have. The fact that Sam can get up in the morning is a good sign, Dean."
"But what if he goes from being the kinda shell he is now to another one. Do you have a way… Dammit... His soul will have been tortured down there. For a year and a half. I know…" he flinched, pain flashing across his face.
"I will do everything in my power to bring your brother back to you, Dean," she vowed solemnly. His eyes flicked back to her at her firm tone. The raw emotion swimming through them made her breath hitch. She was suddenly hyper-aware of the heat from his hand under hers. And that her knee was brushing his. And the way her stomach seemed to have filled with butterflies.
"Thank you," he said, so softly she almost missed it.
A creek of a floorboard somewhere in the house broke their trance.
"Right," Hermione said. "Okay. Erm, I'm going to send a message to Malone. I just read something in one of these books that might be able to help."
Dean coughed, "Okay. Great."
Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand from on top of his and moved to the hallway. She ignored the tingling she felt beneath her fingertips. And that she was thinking of his eyes when she cast the Patronus that sent the message.
The moment they stepped foot off the aeroplane and entered London Heathrow, Hermione released a breath she did not know she had been holding. Even the cold September air and drizzle speckling the windows could not dampen her mood.
Since Dean had mentioned that Sam's soul may need more healing than she originally thought, Hermione had not left her research behind. She tried to pretend that the reason that she had returned to her flat that night was because it was easier for packing and to be closer to the MACUSA archives. That it had nothing to do with the moment on the red, worn out sofa. But the blank look on Dean's face continued to resurface at the oddest times between then and now. The lack of goodbye before she was whisked away by Portkey had settled deep in her gut. Once in her little flat, the loneliness over the following thirty-six hours only exacerbated the loss of him.
Hermione chuckled as she thought over the flight from JFK to London. It had been awkward as she learned that Dean was a very anxious flyer.
"Here, drink some of this," Hermione offered, placing a bottle of Calming Draught in front of him. When he looked at her suspiciously she quirked her eyebrow at him. "If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it a long time ago."
The effects were instant, and he relaxed comfortably into his seat beside her.
She had not known how exhausted she was from the week's events until she woke up halfway over the Atlantic, slumped on Dean's shoulder. He was fast asleep, mouth agape, head resting on top of hers. By the time the plane touched down on the tarmac, he was sitting upright, nervously flicking through the in-flight magazine. She realised that the effects of the potion had likely worn off during his sleep but just as she was about to offer him another swig, an announcement came that landing would be in a few minutes.
Passport control was swift, though Hermione did cast a subtle Confundus charm on the officer who looked at Dean's documents suspiciously.
"James Page? Really? You couldn't have even gone with Patrick?"
"Usually works," Dean shrugged, looking impressed that she knew the guitarist's middle name. "Where now?"
"We'll head into the city, I have rooms booked at a pub there. We can freshen up and then I have arranged to meet someone who might have some information on how to heal Sam's soul."
"Sounds like a plan, but I still can't believe you made me leave Baby behind."
She rolled her eyes, "I am not shrinking a car and bringing it on a plane! The weapons were a stretch," she hissed, gesturing at his bag.
"Gotta be prepared."
"Yeah, model Boy Scout, you are," she quipped. "Come on, Baden Powell, let's find somewhere we can Apparate from."
Dean shivered. "Do we have to? I want to puke every time we do that zapping thing."
She shook her head at him before grabbing his hand, "Come on!"
Hermione hoped the blush on her cheeks was not obvious to Dean when he walked into the room with a towel wrapped around his hips. She also hoped that he could not feel her watching him as he was searching through his duffel bag for some fresh clothes. On their arrival, Hermione had led Dean through the city to the Leaky Cauldron. She had explained that to an ordinary Muggle, certain places would be concealed. Since he worked with supernatural beings, she suspected that the Muggle repelling charms were less likely to work on him. When they reached their destination they had discovered that only one room was booked and the rest of the rooms were occupied for the duration of their trip.
"I'm really sorry about this," she said. His head shot up, his forest green eyes meeting her chocolate brown. "I thought there would at least be a sofa for me to transfigure. I can always send a note to Harry to see if I could stay there for the night."
"It's okay, I've slept in worse places than the floor of this joint," he replied.
"Oh, don't be so silly," she said. "I'll put an extension charm on the bed. I'm not going to have you injuring yourself before we've even begun."
"If you wanted me in your bed, all you had to do was ask," he smirked. Hermione felt her cheeks flushing a deeper red. She looked down at the text on her lap to avoid his gaze. "You find anything useful in there?"
"Maybe," Hermione said. "I've been looking into soul healing magic. I hope whatever the contact we're meeting later can come up with will be helpful. We're due to meet them soon if you're up for that."
Dean nodded, "Sure, just give me a moment," he said, gesturing to the pile of clothes in his arms before moving back to their bathroom.
Hermione pretended not to notice the dimples in his back just above where the towel sat. Returning, instead, to reading the scroll she had brought with her from the MACUSA archives. It was from a now-defunct Muggle organisation who researched supernatural beings relating to the use of Dementors, or Shtriga as they were called in the scroll. They were not only a creature that removed a soul, but also a conduit for restoring it. She had reached out to a contact in the Department of Mysteries who was working on soul magic that had ties to the British chapter of the Muggle organisation. Hermione hoped that there was a way to use the information to heal Sam's soul before it was replaced into his body. She absentmindedly twirled a curl that had fallen from where she had piled her hair on top of her head with her right hand. With the other, she was furiously scrawling notes on a scrap of parchment.
"That important, huh?" Dean asked from the doorway to the bathroom. He was casually leaning against the doorframe, dressed in his customary flannel shirt, dark jeans, and sturdy boots. The countenance on his face was somewhere between amused and intrigued.
"I'm sorry?"
"You're scribbling on that piece of paper while reading, and twirling your hair at the front," he said. "Means what you've got in front of you is something big. If it's something you don't agree with, you play with your hair at your neck."
"You… You know my research tells?" Hermione asked, bewildered. She had never expected him to learn her in that way in such a small amount of time.
He shrugged, "It's my job to be able to read people." Dean pushed himself off the doorframe and sat next to her on the bed, peering over her shoulder at what she was reading. "What are Dementors?"
Hermione chose not to acknowledge the way that his breath tickled the hairs on the back of her neck. "You might know them as Shtrigas? They're the creatures I was telling you about. I'm hoping that they'll be able to help with restoring your brother."
At her words, his face went cold. "I'm not letting one of those things near Sam."
"Dean, it might-"
"No!" he bellowed, leaping to his feet. The tone he was using was unlike anything he had used before. "I have watched what those things do."
"But, Dean, we can control them. I would -"
"Control them? Monsters can't be controlled."
"Please, Dean, I told you -"
"Listen, lady, I'm not going to let a soul sucking, kiddy killing, mutant monster near my fucking brother. Soulless or not."
Hermione recoiled. The venom in his voice and the way his broad frame towered over her made her body shrink away from him. She felt wetness on her cheeks and was suddenly aware that it was tears. Then she got angry.
"I told you I would find a way to get your brother back," she hissed. "I told you it had never been done. I don't know whether you've noticed, Dean," she spat his name with so much vitriol that he flinched, "but I have kept my word. I am exploring every option and at every turn, you have fought me." To her horror, tears were running freely down her face. She was not sure if it was out of anger, or fear, or something else. "I don't need to be doing this. But I am. Because for some stupid reason I feel like I am supposed to help you."
"Well don't feel like you gotta do anything for us, sweetheart! We were getting on just fine before you came along!"
That snapped something in her. "I am going to meet Luna," she said in an even tone. "She has, at my request, put herself in jeopardy to help you. I suggest that if you want your brother whole, you listen to what she has to say."
"Fine. But don't expect me to like it," he said, grabbing his leather jacket and stomping from the room.
As soon as the door slammed behind him, Hermione deflated. She swore to herself after things ended between her and Ron that she would never let another man make her cry. She screamed in frustration, before walking over to the bathroom and splashing her face with cool water. When she descended the stairs she saw Dean waiting for her at the bar. She watched as he threw back a shot of Firewhisky and flinched slightly.
"I see you've discovered our alcohol already," she deadpanned. "Only took you two hours."
"Yeah, well, I needed something to take the edge off today."
"It's not over yet," she shot back. "Come on, I don't want to keep Luna waiting."
Dean nodded and reached for his wallet.
Hermione reached out and placed a hand on top of his to stop him. "It's on me. Different currency here, anyway," she smiled and hoped he saw it for the olive branch it was intended to be.
He hesitated before nodding. She placed a sickle and a few knuts on the bar before leading him through the back of the pub and onto Diagon Alley. She stepped through the archway onto the street. There was a bite of autumn in the air and the skies were dreary, but Hermione could not help but find comfort in the familiar sombreness of September in London. It took her a moment to realise that she was alone and turned back to see Dean staring in awe. She smiled, remembering her first time in the magical street in London. "Are you coming?"
He did not say a word, simply stepped forward to walk beside her. Within a few moments, they reached the cafe they were meant to meet Hermione's blonde friend. After telling Dean to take a seat at one of the tables, she ordered their beverages and returned to him. When the waitress set her order in front of them, he looked over at her. "Is there whisky in this?"
"Just a nifter," she smirked. Dean smirked back and Hermione was glad they were settling into the familiar banter. "Dean -" she started before she was cut off by a petite, blonde woman taking a seat at the table.
"Hello, Hermione," Luna beamed. "You're looking effervescent today," she commented. "You must be Dean," she said, turning to the hunter. Her wide blue eyes examined a spot above his head. "Your Wrackspurts are a rather interesting colour."
Confused, Dean looked up at where she was looking, then looked at Hermione for confirmation. She continued to sip her Earl Grey, smiling around her mug. Rather than explain her friend, she turned to the younger woman, "What did you find out, Luna?"
The petite witch turned to her before she reached into her pocket. She pulled out a bundle of papers and enlarged them. "Well, we have been monitoring this for a few years. I have personally found the role of intention in magic fascinating. As well as the conversations I have had with the old Dementor Negotiation Department. Quite lovely people. It was a shame what happened to them after the reforms."
Hermione bit her tongue at the remark. It had taken a lot of campaigning on the part of certain people who had fought in the war to get the necessary justice system reform. A part of that was the abolition of the Dementor's Kiss due to the number of false convictions in the First Wizarding War. The Dementors were also eventually dismissed as the guards of Azkaban. The people in the DND were eventually rounded up and some tried for the wrongful execution of a prisoner. "Did they have any ideas on soul magic and soul healing?" she asked instead.
"Oh yes," Luna said in her soft tone. "I spoke to Daniel, a lovely wizard from Chester whose aura is very red. He was partially responsible for Barty Crouch Jr's Kiss and was telling me that Fudge suppressed some research happening at the time about restoring souls. It seems that Professor Dumbledore had started his research into Voldemort's Horcruxes and was very angry about what happened. As part of Fudge's plan to control Gringotts, he did not want Dumbledore to be able to repair Barty's soul."
"What did the research find?" Hermione asked, watching Dean's bewildered face from the corner of her eye.
"Dementors don't eat souls." At Dean's scoff, Luna turned to him, puzzled. "Oh no. They are not allowed to. They are angels of death, you see. They take souls to their final destination. But it seems that many years ago, wizards corrupted them and so they no longer have access to heaven or hell. It seems, before then, they were able to give their grace to souls that needed healing the most."
"Wait," Dean said, speaking for the first time. "You're telling me that a Shtriga can do backsies?"
Luna frowned, "I don't know what you mean, but no. Shtriga cannot restore a soul. They are damned souls, wraiths, of dark witches and wizards. They are not the making of the divine, they are purely the corrupted." Luna paused a moment to sip the orange juice that she had ordered to the table. "Dementors are Death's angels. They are the creators of reapers. They can give the breath of life, ruacḥ, to those who they deem worthy. The one true vessel to an archangel for example."
Dean looked at Luna, astonished, "How did you…?" he trailed off.
"The Nargles," she replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Dean continued to stare at her, flabbergasted. Hermione had to hide a snort as she realised that she had never seen Dean speechless before.
"Thank you, Luna," she said. I will read this and get it back to you as soon as I have my notes.
"Oh, that is quite alright, Hermione," Luna replied, her intense gaze turning to the older woman. "His Wrackspurts are the same colour as yours." With that, the flaxen haired woman got to her feet. "It was lovely to see you again, Hermione. Lovely to meet you, Dean. I need to be going back. Souls to save." Without waiting for a goodbye from her companions, she turned and floated out of the cafe.
"Do we trust that chick?" Dean asked.
"Implicitly," Hermione answered.
Dean sat in the bar of the Leaky Cauldron sipping on what he had discovered was called Firewhisky. He was trying to wrap his head around the last few days. And there was a lot to wrap his head around. Sam could get his soul back. No strings attached, no deals, no price. All because of one little witch. And what a witch she was. He flung back another shot of the fiery liquid.
Hermione was another thing to wrap his head around. He had never met a woman like her. She was strong, and determined, and intelligent. Never had anyone, man, woman or otherwise, been able to keep up with him the way she did. The closest he had was Jo, but she was always more like a sister. The thoughts that he was having about Hermione were not what anyone should have about their sister. An image of her, cheeks flushed, hair wild, and eyes dark flashed across his mind. Dean poured another two fingers of amber liquid.
Ever since the curly haired witch had popped into his life, he had felt a draw to her. He wondered if she felt it too. An unexplained pull. He did not realise what was happening until Sam had mentioned it. "Why do you put that blanket on her every night?" Dean had not known the answer. All he knew was that when he had seen the woman curled around a book in the most awkward position, he felt a staggering urge to look after her. Dean had avoided whatever had been happening between them since he asked her to help with Sam's soul. Really help. When he had bared himself to her in a way that he had not opened up in a long time. The conviction in her voice that day had pulled him closer to her.
"I will do everything in my power to bring your brother back to you, Dean."
They had been so close. Her small, cool hand on top of his. Her knee brushing his. And then she had left for New York and he felt betrayed. Dean was not sure why, but it was like he had laid himself at her feet and Hermione had not even thought to look. There had been some residual feelings there when he met her at the airport. Add to that a genuine fear they would fall out of the sky at any moment in the following hours and Dean was on edge. Then there was the magic she was suggesting. Another image of her flashed through his head earlier in the day. Her chocolate eyes wide, tears on her cheeks, and her body small. The sight of her so vulnerable had made him stop in his tracks. That Hermione was so upset with him was a surprise. The fire that burned in her when she realised that she had shown him that side of her was enticing. Dean shook his head. This was getting him nowhere.
Hermione was keen to go over the papers that her strange friend had given her as soon as they were back from the meeting. He had told her he would meet her in their room. That was - he glanced at his watch - four hours ago. Dean sighed and slipped off the barstool that he had been perching on before climbing the stairs. When he reached the room Dean was sharing with the strong woman, he found her cross-legged on the bed, hair loose, a small frown on her brow. He watched her from the doorway as Hermione brushed a curl behind her ear with her left hand. Dean frowned when something on her forearm caught his eye in the candlelight. He finally passed the threshold into their room and snapped the door shut behind him.
"What's that?" he asked, surprised at the anger in his tone.
Hermione jumped slightly in surprise, clearly having not noticed him enter the room. "It's the document that Luna gave me."
"No," he growled, "that," Dean said pointing to her arm. "On your arm."
"Sugar," she whispered under her breath. "The glamour must have worn off. It's nothing. Really, just -"
Hermione petered off as he sat on the bed beside her and grabbed her arm and flipped it over. When he had seen it from the door, Dean had thought that it might have been an injury from an attempted suicide in her youth. He was not expecting to see a word carved into her skin. "What's a Mudblood?"
She pulled her arm back and cradled it to her chest. "It doesn't matter. It's an old scar from a long time ago."
"What does it mean?" Dean asked, his blood boiling.
Hermione looked at him in shock and he realised he was still talking at a louder volume than was necessary. "It… It really… Dirty blood. It… It means dirty blood."
"What? How can blood be dirty?"
She scoffed. "You know how you thought I was pure evil when we first met?"
He grimaced, unable to even comprehend how he could have thought that, but nodded. "There was a war when I was a teenager. And the people on the other side thought I, and people like me, had stolen my powers too. But not for the same reason." Dean felt his stomach drop. Her eyes were glazed in a way so familiar to him that his skin itched. "My parents, they were Muggles, not magical at all. My blood, according to some, is dirty because of them. It makes me inhuman."
Dean stared down at her astonished. And something hit him in the gut. His thoughts when they first met were not far off what she had just described. He felt sick. "I… I know… I don't… You…"
"It's okay, Dean," Hermione said, her eyes meeting his. "I know."
He closed his eyes and turned away from her, unable to look at her.
"It was a long time ago," she said softly. "Torture is a part of war."
That made his blood boil, "Where's the son of a bitch now?"
"Language," Hermione chided. "Dead. Long dead." Dean kept his back to her, unable to meet her eyes. He heard the shuffling of paper and the creek of the bed before he felt her hand on his shoulder, "Please, Dean, look at me." The softness of her voice was heartbreaking.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking.
"You didn't do this to me," she assured. A lump formed in his throat.
"Not to you. But…" Dean paused. He could not tell her. Not about hell or what he had done there. "About what I said earlier…"
Her hand ran over his shoulder and down his arm, "Already forgotten." He turned to look at her then and was startled by how close they were. Dean could see the flecks of amber in her chocolate eyes. And the way her nose turned up slightly at the end. And the slight swell of one side of her lower lip where she chewed it. His eyes flicked from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes again before leaning in.
Dean instantly wondered what he had been doing until that point. It was like an ember was ignited in his body. How had he gone his entire lifetime without his lips pressed to hers? Hermione tasted like fire and cinnamon and something so uniquely her. Her chapped, full lips pliable beneath his own. He reached up to cup her jaw, stroking the soft skin of her cheek with his rough thumb. Dean twisted himself to face her fully, wanting to be near her. Hooking his hands behind her knees, he flipped them so she cradled him between her strong legs. Hermione made a delightful squeal as he pinned her beneath him. Dean savoured the sensation of her soft, strong body below his. He held both her wrists above her head in one hand, while the other traced patterns on her skin beneath her top. Nipping and sucking, he trailed his lips from her mouth up to her ear and down her slender neck.
"Fuck," Hermione gasped when his hand slipped under her bra. He smirked into her skin at the sound of the word falling from her lips. She arched into his touch as he caressed her firm breast, teasing her nipple into a taut peak.
His mouth continued to blaze a trail over her supple skin. He was heady with lust as the scent of her rose and strawberry perfume filled his nostrils. Dean paused when his eyes landed on an angry scar that started below her collar and disappeared beneath her t-shirt. Looking up at her face, he saw it was flushed the most delicious shade of pink and her eyes were dark with lust. When their eyes met Dean felt a surge of some unknown emotion fill his body. In the blink of an eye, he had one hand behind her and the other grasping her thigh. Keeping her legs firmly around his waist, he spun them so he was beneath her, pulling her into his lap. She squealed at the sudden change of position. He groaned as she brushed against his rapidly hardening cock. In a swift movement, Dean tugged her top over her head to get a better look at the blemish to her otherwise perfect skin. He could feel her heavy-lidded eyes on him as he took in the valleys and plains offered to him. He ran his hands over every inch of soft skin he could reach, marvelling at the way her muscles twitched under his manipulations. Her lithe, strong body was bowing to his every touch. His calloused fingertips ghosted over the scar with a featherlight caress.
"Shit," Hermione moaned, shivering beneath his touch.
Dean chuckled. "Language," he growled playfully before capturing her lips once more. He moved his hands around her body and unclasped her bra before tossing it aside. He once again moved his mouth down her neck and over her collarbone, nuzzling at her silky smooth skin as she writhed beneath his ardent care. He scorched his lips over the puckered, tight skin of the scar, following the line between her breasts and down her ribs. Her hands were tugging at his short hair, guiding him. When he moved his lips up to her hardened nipple she rocked her hips wantonly against him. His hips bucked in response as Hermione grazed over the erection straining against his jeans. A sob fell, unbidden, from his lips when she ground down harder.
"Shit," she whimpered again when she felt him through both their jeans. Dean could feel her wanting heat through the fabric, knowing what she was craving. He reached between them to start to unbuckle her jeans, but she flicked her wrist and he felt the cool night air hit the skin of everything below his waist. He looked up at her in surprise, but Hermione just smirked down at him. Abruptly, he felt her small, soft fingers wrap around his hardness and position him at her entrance. Dean could feel the slick heat of her against the head of his cock as she teased it against her slit.
"Holy fuck," Hermione whispered, as she sunk down on him.
Her warm, wet heat enveloped him and he could swear he saw stars. He looked up at her as she lost herself in ecstasy. Her eyes closing as she moved on top of him, rolling her hips. Her tight pussy fit him like a glove. Dean traced runes on the skin of her strong thighs wanting to feel as it moved from hot to cold. Her muscular body moved with graceful ease as she set a steady pace that he matched with thrusts of his own. The candlelight made her skin glow a golden hue that enraptured him. He watched in awe as beads of sweat rolled between her breasts. Without losing their rhythm, he sat up and kissed her passionately. His calloused fingers continued drawing patterns, following the line of her curved spine. Hermione wiggled under every brush of his hand. He was thrilled by every clench of her thighs around his hips, every gasp that fell from her lips. Her small hands were on his shoulders, nails biting crescents into his tissue, as she bounced on him. Not willing to lose all control to the witch, he gripped her hips firmly, rolling so that she was pressed beneath him once again, his cock still buried in her.
"Oh, shit, Dean!" she whimpered, head rolling back on the pillow in rapture.
He held her wrists above her head in one hand while the other grasped behind her firm thigh. Dean pistoned in and out of her tight channel at an unrelenting pace. Their slippery, sweat-soaked skin slapping furiously as he moved his hips against hers. He gloried at the sight of her, stretched out below him, body tight with delight. She wailed in pure bliss, urging him on. Her heels dug into his flesh, pulling him deeper. The delicious friction between them building as she met him thrust for thrust. Her body arched into every assault on her senses as he licked, touched, bit, sucked at any part of her that he could reach. His hands held her wrists firm as she bucked and jerked against the restraint, eager to touch him.
"Fuck, yes. Oh, shit," Hermione repeated breathlessly as she climbed closer to her rapture.
Dean moved one hand to just above where their bodies joined and flicked at her clit. At his touch, she lost what little control she had, her movements becoming erratic. All too soon, he could feel her walls clamping down around him, sending him over the edge with her.
Hermione awoke to strong arms wrapped around her. Smiling to herself at the memories of the previous night. After their frantic sex, they had cleaned themselves up, clambered under the sheets, exhausted by the day's events.
Shuffling back into his body, his arms pulled her tighter to his hard chest. She smirked when she felt his hot, hard cock nestled against her soft arse. Playfully, she rolled her hips back, teasing him. His hips rocked forward automatically at the friction. Hermione repeated the action, wriggling closer to Dean. When he responded again, she pushed herself more firmly into him with a slower movement. He met her with each thrust.
"Good morning, little minx," Dean growled in her ear, sleep and arousal heavy in his voice. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as a shiver ran right down her spine.
"Good morning," Hermione smiled, not pausing in her actions.
She felt him shift behind her, unravelling one arm from around her waist. The loss of the weight made her whimper, but when his hips moved back slightly and his knuckles brushed the firm flesh of her arse, she understood what he wanted to do. She lifted her leg fractionally before she felt his hand brushing between her thighs. Hermione keened lowly as Dean placed his rock hard cock against her slickening folds, teasing her aching entrance. The arm that was still around her waist, trapped under its weight, pulled her more firmly against him as they continued rocking against the other. With his free hand, he lightly brushed curls at the nape of her neck aside before leaving lazy kisses. He then idly traced electrifying patterns on her skin. Slowly his textured fingertips grazed the soft skin at her collarbone, following the tight skin of the scar Dolohov had given her when she was sixteen. She arched into his touch as he moved to tease her nipples into firm peaks.
"Fuck, Dean," she whispered.
"Ah, ah, ah," he growled into her ear huskily. "Patience, little witch. You tease me, I tease you."
Hermione sobbed in frustration at his words as Dean kept a tight grip around her waist, large, warm hand spread over her stomach. His lips ghosted over her shoulder and down her spine, sending tingles straight to her core. The free hand moved to bestow attention on her other breast, granting it the same treatment. His hips did not slow their steady pace, teasing her with languid strokes. She met each surge of his hips with her own, delighting at the feel of his silky hot shaft moving through her honeyed folds. The hand on her stomach began to gradually snake its way down towards her wanting slit.
"Oh, thank fuck, yes," Hermione choked out, his fingers found her swollen clit.
He chuckled, lips brushing her ear, "You like that, little witch?"
She could not respond with anything coherent as Dean drove her wild with his caresses. He was matching the brush of the pad of his finger with the stroke of his hips. Her body ached with the need to be filled as he languorously massaged her bundle of nerves. She twitched and ground into him, a tension building deep within her.
"Fuck, Dean," she panted. "I… Please."
But he did not yield, continuing with his agonising pressure. Dean guided her closer and closer to the abyss as her head fell back against his chest. With the same lethargy, the hand on her breast meandered down her ribcage and over the side of her waist before gripping her thigh. Guiding her firmly, he hiked her leg up over his hip before driving himself into her.
"Shit, yes," Hermione moaned; her blood was humming as waves of pleasure flooded her.
Unlike their coupling the night before, this was leisurely and deliberate. Dean's strong arm restrained her against him, keeping their bodies flush. Her nerves sung with each shockwave as his mouth nipped and sucked at the column of her neck and his hand worked her sensitive nub. She was soon teetering on the edge of her bliss. With a few more sweeps of his finger and lurches of his hips, she fell into a sea of pleasure, dragging him with her.
They lay together, limp and sated. Dean's arms cradled her as he curled his body around her. They fit together so perfectly that Hermione did not want to move. Did not want to speak. Did not want to break the bliss they had found with each other. They stayed like that, his hot breath tickling the hairs on the back of her neck, for a while. It was not until they heard shuffling in the pub below that they moved.
As Dean showered, Hermione started to think over what had transpired between them. She had not been with many people and did not know what was supposed to happen now. She had certainly never had to work with someone after being intimate with them. Ron and she worked in the Ministry together, that much was true, but that was a different situation altogether. And the handful of one night stands did not stay the night. When the bathroom door clicked she looked up to see Dean with a towel around his waist. Hermione felt her face heat with a blush that only deepened when he smirked at her.
"Cute," he chuckled. "You'd think after what we did this morning… and last night… you wouldn't be blushing." She looked away when her face flamed in mortification.
Hermione coughed, "Breakfast?" she asked.
"Lead the way, little witch," he said.
The moniker made her mind flash to the morning's activities and a burn of a different kind flashed through her. They sat in a companionable quiet while eating their breakfast. Dean was observing their surroundings while Hermione went back over her notes on the information Luna had provided the day before. She kept glancing up at him, distracted by the thoughts that had started while she waited for him earlier.
"What's up?" he asked when she had looked up for the fifth time.
"Last night and this morning…"
Dean frowned, "Didn't peg you for that type of chick."
Hermione scowled, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Did you enjoy it?" he asked bluntly.
"Wh- Well, yes," Hermione spluttered, reddening. "I thought that was fairly obvious," she hissed.
"Good," Dean said with finality.
"But… That -"
"We have other things to think about right now. We're adults, we had fun." When he saw her face fall slightly, "We can talk about it, just not right now," he said in a gentler tone.
Feeling reassured Hermione smiled, knowing that with the way her brain worked she would likely hold him to that promise. She returned to her notes to prepare for their meeting with Harry.
"What's on the cards today?" He asked, taking a gulp from his mug of coffee.
"We're meeting Harry in about an hour," Hermione replied. "I wanted to go over what Luna gave me once more before then."
"Harry's you're brother, right?"
"May as well be," she shrugged.
Nodding, "Alright," he said. "How are we getting to Scotland, anyway?"
"Oh, we won't be going up there yet. Harry's meeting us here to go over some things before we do the full ritual. I have a couple of options, though, so you won't have to side-along there."
Dean's relieved expression was part of the reason she was considering Portkey or Floo. She understood that Apparition could be disorientating at the best of times, side-along even more so. Hermione expected that, similar to her, he did not enjoy surrendering his control over how he was travelling. His objection to leaving his car in the States was an excellent example of that.
An hour later, Harry stepped out of the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron. Dean, who had been helping Hermione with her research, looked up surprised at the dark haired man's entrance.
"But… He…" he narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "Definitely no demons involved, right?"
Hermione laughed, "No, Dean, just magic." She turned to Harry and placed her hands on his face, "Wait, you're real? I'm not just seeing you on a mirror?"
The wizard scoffed and grabbed her wrists lightly before moving her hands away. "You're one to talk," Harry chuckled. "You're the one who ran away to the other side of the world." He hugged her, "Missed you, Hermione."
Squeezing him, she took in the comfort he provided, allowing his scent of broom polish, coffee and herbs to settle her further. "Missed you too, Harry." She reluctantly broke away and gestured toward the hunter who stood when Harry had approached, "This is Dean."
Harry stretched a hand out for Dean to shake, keeping one arm securely around Hermione's shoulders. The fair haired man took the proffered hand in a firm grip and looked directly into the wizard's eyes. "Pleased to meet you, mate," Harry said.
"Yeah," Dean replied, not breaking eye contact. Neither man moved to take a seat and Harry had not released his grip on Hermione.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes, "Men," Hermione muttered. "Shall we get started?" She extricated herself from Harry and sat at the table. Both men followed, Harry sitting beside her and Dean resuming his seat opposite. When neither man talked Hermione sighed at their antics. "Is everything set to do the ritual?" she asked Harry.
He coughed and looked away from his staring contest with Dean, "Yes, all we need is the ring. You said you had it?"
"Yeah," Dean answered, patting the pocket of his jacket.
"Why do you have the resurrection ring anyway?" Harry asked.
"Hermione called it that before," Dean frowned. "Death gave it to me last year," he continued, sitting up a little straighter.
"Death gives his stuff to just anyone these days, huh?" Harry quipped.
"Listen, dude," Dean started. "The last couple of years ain't been no picnic -"
"Yeah, Hermione mentioned your little adventures. Sounds like it's part of the reason we're here."
"Little adventures? Apocalypse just a Sunday here in Oz?"
Harry shrugged, "When we defeated our evil we did it properly, didn't fuck it up so much that we left parts behind."
"Language," Hermione chastised automatically.
Dean, who had taken a swallow of coffee to calm himself, spat the liquid across the table.
"You've shagged him?!" Harry exclaimed, turning to the witch beside him.
"Wha- Wait- How?"
"Drunk Ron and silencing charms aren't friends. Ginny's room at the Burrow was next to his, remember?"
Hermione wanted to sink into a hole and die of embarrassment. "Oh," she said in a small voice.
Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his seat, "Back to this ritual."
"Yeah," Harry replied before turning to Dean, "but this conversation isn't over," he continued. Dean paled then flicked his eyes over to Hermione, who was beet red. "I've arranged to meet with Pr- Minerva. I'll pick up the wand when we've finished tea."
Hermione nodded, "Okay, we will bring the ring along, and presumably you'll have the cloak," she confirmed. "Now, I'm still working on the finer details, but I think we should do the ritual in the forest. Away from prying eyes, you know? Do you think that Hagrid will be willing to talk to the centaurs about it for us? I also need to double-check exactly what the elements we need for summoning Death himself. This isn't like last time you did this." Hermione looked up into her friend's emerald green eyes as images of the final battle flashed through her mind. Being the Master of Death came at a price. The sight of him cradled in Hagrid's arms that day was still a part of her nightmares.
"Yeah, I'll send a letter to Hagrid. I know it's not the same as last time, Hermione," he said softly, holding her gaze; the memories flitting before their eyes syncing up as they attempted to file the war back in its messy, jagged box. Harry took his glasses off his face and cleaned them with a corner of his sleeve. Hermione reached over and took them from him, casting a silent charm to wipe away the grease marks he had just created with his sleeve. He took them gratefully before replacing them on his nose. "Besides," Harry said with a smirk, "I think my wife would kill me if I died." Hermione rolled her eyes but silently agreed. "Speaking of my wife," he continued, "she was complaining about not seeing you. Come for dinner tonight. Both of you," he added, looking back at Dean for a moment.
Hermione nodded, "Okay," she said softly. "Sounds nice."
"We… fuck… should… oh shit… get ready," Hermione panted. After a day of research, she had moved to the bathroom to freshen up for dinner at the Potters. As though he had been waiting for this all day Dean followed her two minutes later, already half naked. Which was why she was pinned to the shower wall, shampoo still in her hair, and filled with his cock.
"Make 'em wait," he growled, hips snapping forward. Dean adjusted his grip on her arse as her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper. "I've wanted to do this to you all day."
Hermione could not help but agree that she was happy to be late with the sinful things he was doing to her body. The way he filled her so completely was addictive and she wished that they could spend the night locked in their room together. But they had things to do. People to see. She loved it when he did that with his tongue.
"Shit," she gasped.
He chuckled, nibbling and sucking his way over her collarbone, "Stay with me, little witch. Your mind has been working overtime since breakfast."
Hermione clasped his shoulders tighter, trying to stay balanced. She vaguely noticed trickles of blood mingling in with the stream of water at their feet from where she had broken skin. Every time he sunk himself inside her, she became more lost in sensation. The way his large hands grasped her arse so hard Hermione was sure she would have fingerprints left behind. The way their water slicked skin created delicious friction. The way the bathroom tiles bit delightfully into her back. She slipped one hand up the back of his neck, tugging at his hair as he laved kisses across her flesh. The angle that he was pounding into her made an exquisite ecstasy course through her. It did not take her long to give in to the waves of satisfaction that washed over her. Dean soon followed, spilling his seed within her. He took a moment to regain his breath before lowering her to the ground on shaky legs. He kissed her soundly before taking a step back. The smirk on his lips made her blush.
Dean chuckled but didn't say a word, simply rinsing himself clean before stepping out of the shower, allowing her to finish. While Hermione washed her hair, she reflected on the last few days. The research she had done after the meeting with Luna the day before had provided a breakthrough. From what she had found, it seemed that there may be a way to fully heal Sam's soul before it was replaced in his body. The spellwork would be difficult and intricate, and there would be complications as the man was a muggle, but it could be done. She was cautiously optimistic about Dean's reaction.
Dean.
The shift in dynamic between them was both exhilarating and unnerving. From the moment Bobby had explained what he and Sam had done over the last few years, Hermione had felt a draw to them. That pull only grew when she met them. And the moment she recognised how fiercely Dean protected his brother, she knew she was already in the deep end. She had never felt the way she did when she was with him. Everything about him electrified her. Her magic sung in her veins with him. Every touch, every word, every argument was invigorating. Hermione did not know how she could feel like this about someone she barely knew. It terrified her that he was holding something of her in the palm of his hand and did not even realise it.
Dean paced the small bedroom waiting for Hermione to finish whatever it was chicks did in the shower. He tried to banish the image of her pinned to the wall, moaning and writhing under his touch so that he did not demand a repeat performance. Just as he was about to bang on the door and ask what was taking so long, he heard the door click. The vision in front of him made his heart stutter. Her long dark curls were swept to the side, cascading over her shoulder. Hermione's makeup was minimal, dark lashes framing her dark eyes and a flush to her cheeks. She was dressed in a simple black top with a deep v and short black denim skirt that hugged her shapely ass and thighs.
Her brows furrowed, "What's wrong?" she reached for her hair and smoothed her hands over it, "Is there something in my hair or something?"
He gulped, "Nothing's wrong. Never seen you in a skirt before." Dean shook his head to snap himself out of his thoughts. "You done?"
Hermione nodded, grabbed a black leather jacket and some biker boots before heading to the door.
Dean followed her, restraining himself from dragging her back down the corridor to bend her over their bed and fuck her in that little skirt. He was shaken from his thoughts when they came to an abrupt stop in front of the fireplace.
"Okay, step into the grate," Hermione said in her no-nonsense tone. When he looked down at her in confusion she gestured to the fireplace. "Get in. You hate side-along and the wards around Grimmauld are more secure than Fort Knox. This is the only way to get there." At her words, Dean remembered how her friend had arrived to meet them earlier in the day. Following her instructions, he stepped into the fireplace and looked around himself. "This is Floo Powder," she said before grabbing his hand and placing some black glittering powder in his palm. "When I say, throw it at your feet and say very clearly Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Oh and keep your arms tucked in. Do you understand?"
"I'm not an idiot," he snapped.
"Okay, now. Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place."
Dean threw the shimmering dust at his feet and repeated her words. What followed was the trippiest experience of his life. With a whoosh, he felt like he was spinning through the air. Flashes of front rooms and glimpses of other people's lives dashed in front of him. Then all of a sudden, he stopped. His knees collapsing beneath him as he fell to the ground. Getting to his feet, Dean glanced around where he had landed. He was in a large kitchen that was bustling with activity. Pots were flying, moving from one end to the other landing with a crash in the large basin sink. A whisk was beating egg whites in a bowl while sugar was being carefully added. By the stove, where most of the activity seemed to be congregated, was a tall, red haired woman. She had a small red haired girl balanced on her hip while a slightly older child, a boy, sat by her feet playing with a firetruck on the floor. She was watching him curiously.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Dean opened his mouth to reply when a whirl came from behind him. "Hermione?" the redhead asked. "What are you doing here? Wait, is this one yours?" she asked, gesturing to Dean.
"Hello, Ginny," Hermione said from behind him. "Did Harry not tell you he'd invited us over tonight? Oh, good you got here," she said turning to Dean.
"Why wouldn't I be here?"
"Well, I didn't know if Muggles could use the Floo or not," she shrugged.
"So I was your test dummy?"
"Pretty much."
"HARRY JAMES POTTER!" Ginny interrupted. "GET YOUR BL-" she glanced at the small children surrounding her, "BLOOMING PANTS HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND!"
Harry, the man Dean had been so intimidated by earlier in the day, ran into the kitchen as though his ass was on fire. "What is it? Did James blow the potatoes up again?" Dean smirked. The dark haired wizard spotted the two of them by the fireplace he smiled. "Hi, Hermione so glad-"
"Harry, you fu-dging idiot!" Ginny interrupted.
Harry just looked at his wife perplexed, "I thought you wanted to see Hermione, so I invited her tonight because…" the man trailed off then looked back at his best friend. "Oops."
"What's wrong?" Hermione asked just as the fireplace lit up a bright green and the blonde woman from the day before stepping out.
"Oh, hello Hermione, Dean," Luna said. "I didn't know you would be here tonight."
"Luna?" Hermione said, confused. Then realisation dawned on her face. She turned to her best friend with hands on her hips, "Harry James Potter," she said in a tone that Dean recognised as her what-the-fuck voice. Hermione had used it in his direction countless times over the last couple of weeks. "You idiot," she hissed.
Dean did not know what trouble the dark haired man had caused but he expected it to be a colossal fuck up. Especially if the expressions on Hermione and Ginny's faces were anything to go by. He looked between each person, bewildered, before the fireplace lit up again. A tall red haired man stepped out of the grate, dusting off his clothes, "Luna, did you pick up-" the man stopped mid-sentence when he saw Hermione. The look on his face made Dean's hackles rise slightly. "Hermione? I didn't know you were going to be here tonight."
"Ron, it's nice to see you again," she said with a strained smile. Dean's head was spinning from the dynamics in the room. He looked around hoping to find some kind of explanation when he almost jumped out of his skin. Luna had moved closer to him, large blue-grey eyes looking at a spot above his head.
"Your Nargles have gone," she observed before turning to Hermione. "Oh look, so have hers."
The red haired man instantly flushed an unattractive shade of red, "You shagged him?!" he yelled at Hermione.
"Actually," Harry interjected, "we already established that."
"We did?" Ginny asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Who even is he?!" Ron exclaimed.
"Oh, this is Dean, the man I was telling you about yesterday, Ron," Luna said dreamily. "The one with Wrackspurts the same colour as Hermione's."
Dean waved awkwardly. "Hi there."
"Oh, American," Ginny said with approval. "I like this one better than your ex," she said to Hermione. "Well done."
"I was her ex!" Ron bellowed and Dean suddenly understood the awkwardness. "I'm your brother."
The woman shrugged, "And?"
"I need a drink," Dean said eventually.
"Excellent idea!" Hermione cried, a little too enthusiastically for it to be believable. "Come on, Dean, let's go to the parlour," she said before dragging him from the kitchen. He stumbled after her as she pulled him up a flight of stairs and through a door. Once they were through, she slammed it behind her and sagged against it. She sighed before looking up at him. "I'm so sorry," she groaned. "If I had known that Ron would be here I would never have agreed to this."
Dean leered, "We can still get out of here. I've got a few ideas of what we could be doing instead."
He leaned his arm above her head on the door and slanted forward to capture her lips. She melted into his touch, moulding into his body. His hand slipped to the curve of her spine, drawing her closer. Fuck, Dean could not get enough of this woman. He slid his hand over her firm, rounded ass. His lips traversed the slant of her neck and over her exposed collarbone. His hand continued its path down her thigh, hitching it up so he could move between her legs and press her more firmly into the door. A bolt of electricity ran through him when he brushed his jean-clad hardness against her centre through her panties. Her warm breath brushed the shell of his ear as a gasp fell from her lips. He bent the arm above her head so that it covered her mouth so that they would not be heard. "This," he said before driving his hips forward to rub himself against her, "has not left since I saw you in that little skirt." She let out a muffled sob against his hand. His free hand rounded her strong thigh, burning a path toward her waiting core.
"Aunt Hermione?" a small voice said through the door, stopping him in his tracks. Her big brown eyes looked up at him in surprise and fear. He dropped his forehead to hers and slowly released his hand from her mouth before kissing her longingly. She lowered her leg from around his hip slowly, as he pulled his hand from beneath her skirt. With one last look at her, he grabbed the door handle beside her and tugged.
He plastered a smile on his face as Hermione straightened herself before peering around the door. "Albus!" she said warmly. The kid was about five and the spitting image of his Dad. He was peering up at the curly haired woman with wide emerald green eyes through a mop of messy black hair. The love and adoration on the boy's face were almost cute enough to make up for the fact that he had interrupted his make-out session. Almost.
"Aunt Hermione!" the boy squeaked, before flinging himself at her legs. The woman laughed and bent to wrap her arms around the boy's small shoulders.
"Hey, lovely," she cooed.
"I missed you," the kid said in what he thought was a whisper.
"I missed you, too," she said.
It hit Dean like a punch to the gut. This was Hermione's family. She had people here, in a completely different country. He suddenly had an itch in his feet that made him want to get out of this house. He did not belong here. And whatever the thing with her was could not last. Hermione had a place there. He began to panic, wondering how best to make his excuses and leave. Dean started to move when she looked back at him with the most dazzling smile. And he knew he was screwed.
"This is Dean," she whispered to the small boy in her arms, though her dark brown eyes would not leave him. There was something in them. A question, a pleading. "He's become a very special friend of mine," she blushed prettily when he raised his eyebrow. "And he makes me quite happy," her blush deepening before she took a deep breath and turned to the child. "He also loves cars. Why don't you show him yours?"
Albus broke away from Hermione and nodded enthusiastically. As quickly as his tiny legs could carry him, the small boy dashed away.
"Cute kid," Dean said.
Hermione smiled in the direction that he had disappeared in, "Yeah," she said. Spinning to face him, happiness radiating off her, "Dean…" she started.
He did not want to have the conversation that she was trying to bring up. Especially not in her brother's house. Instead, he smiled back and reached for her hand. "Later?"
"Okay," Hermione beamed.
Within moments, Albus raced back, an armful of matchbox cars. The excitement on his face was infectious.
Dean crouched down, "What you got there, kid?" The boy walked past him into the parlour.
"These are my cars. I like cars a lot," the boy said very seriously.
"Me too, bud," Dean replied. "Which cars have you got?"
As if it were the question he had been waiting for, the dark haired boy opened his arms and emptied his collection onto the floor.
"Well this one," he pointed at a red car, serious expression still in place, "is a red car. And this one," he said pointing at a blue car, "is my blue car. And this one," he said pointing at a black car, "is a Mustang. It's my favourite."
Dean chuckled, "That so?"
"Yes, and this one," he said picking up a green car, "is-"
"Albus," came Ginny's voice from the doorway. "It's time for bed. Come on, don't bore poor Dean with your collection."
The boy's face fell. "Don't worry, kid, I like cars too but you gotta listen to your Mama. Go to bed," he looked up at Hermione, who had been watching the two of them interacting with a smile, "and maybe you can show me your cars another time," he said looking directly in her eyes. Hoping that she understood.
"Yes, Al," Hermione said, not breaking her gaze with him. "That would be nice, wouldn't it."
Yeah, he was screwed.