Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Porch

Harry found Hermione sitting alone on the porch at dawn. There weren't many places a person could go to be alone here. The safe house was nestled in Ennerdale Forest, just a small log cabin with three bedrooms. Remus stayed in one, keeping watch over Lucius; Arthur stayed with Harry and Ron in another. They'd given Hermione her own room, as she was the only female in their group.

Hermione had always been an early riser, so he'd expected she'd be awake. She wasn't in the tiny living room or the connected kitchen, so that left the porch. Her feet dangled loosely over the side, and she rolled a dagger between her fingers. That was new.

Harry cleared his throat. The last thing he wanted to do was spook her, but she didn't even turn. She must've already known he was there. Well, at least she didn't tell him to go away; that was an invitation in itself. He shuffled forward and plopped down next to her. "Mornin'."

Her eyes slid slowly to eye him in her periphery. After a moment, she grunted, "Hello."

He studied her for a few moments; she didn't seem to mind. Harry's eyes grazed over every inch of her, trying to identify the differences, the evidence of all the time that had passed. He searched her skin, wondering if this was the same person he'd always known. The hair was the same: long, delicate curls. Her nails were still short–she liked them to be crisp and clean. She didn't look unhealthy, which admittedly was a shock. His focus shifted to her hands...and the knife she expertly wielded. It was subconscious, a movement that seemed to bring her comfort. He couldn't seem to look away, the fluidity was mesmerizing.

"Want me to teach you how to do it?" Hermione didn't turn but pulled out another knife. It wasn't like any dagger he'd seen before. This one had a blade that curved like a wave. It felt...eerie.

"Erm..." Harry mumbled, not reaching for the weapon.

Hermione's mouth quirked. "I know. It looks scary, but really it's just a tool. Here, hold it."

She didn't give him a choice and lightly placed the handle in his open palm. Harry instinctively gripped it, more terrified of it falling than of clasping it. He let out a shaky breath. She was right–there was nothing evil about a tool, and once he was the one holding it, it wasn't so nerve-racking. He licked his lips. "So...what exactly do you do with these?"

Hermione turned her head, just slightly. He honestly couldn't read the expression on her face. Was there a time when he knew what she was thinking just by her countenance? He couldn't remember anymore. But now, he hadn't a clue.

Hermione slowly reached over her free hand and adjusted his fingers. "Here," she said softly, so softly, "hold it like this. With a knife as balanced as this one, it'll do a lot of the work for you." She briefly explained the trick, how to make it muscle memory, how to avoid getting sliced. Harry watched attentively because he was fascinated. After about thirty minutes, he finally did it. Or well, he sort of did it.

He looked at Hermione excitedly. "Did you see that?!"

She didn't laugh, but she did bite her lip as if to hide a smile. "I saw. That was great, Harry."

His smile faded and he handed the knife back to her. Hermione flipped it a few times, and tucked it back into a leather strap he'd never even noticed. Harry's brows furrowed.

"How many pockets do you have in there?"

Hermione snorted. "Really? Of all the questions you could ask, that's what you want to know?"

He rubbed his neck sheepishly. "Sorry. I just honestly don't know how to talk to you right now. I can't read you anymore. I don't...I don't want to do something to scare you off or something. I just, I don't know."