Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Stone

Hope you are well,

Thaddeus

Narcissa frowned. That certainly wasn't what she was expecting. She wasn't necessarily concerned, the dark lord had always been obsessive over myths and legends. But it did give her a clue as to what the Cuckoo might actually be doing back in Potter's clutches. After seeing her dynamic with Draco, there was no way the Granger girl would have left him willingly. Tapping her chin, she brought out another piece of parchment and began writing.

Rumor says A.D. kept a rock garden.

What a lovely idea.

-The Snake

She quickly rolled the note and located a spare owl. Once it departed, she looked back at the stack of letters and sighed. Only fifteen more to go.

***

After those first few days, Hermione was sure the worst part of this mission would be speaking with Ron. Or Harry. Or both at the same time. But oh no, they had nothing on the boredom. Six months away was enough for her to forget this part, this endless waiting. There was literally nothing to do most days but send her measly amount of messages and read whatever books Theo sent her. It only took four days for her to grow claustrophobic, and she had to repeatedly play that game Draco had taught her. Even imagining what objects could fit inside the bedroom only helped so much, though. Eventually, she'd always end up outside.

The cabin was surrounded by a grove of trees, which suited Hermione's angst perfectly. By the fifth day, she realized Ron wouldn't come near if she had her daggers out, so she spent hours each day throwing them at various trunks. Harry wasn't as hesitant, but she didn't mind him so much. If she was really in a mood, he picked up on it quicker and sat quietly, practicing the trick she taught him. He was actually improving quite a lot; he could sometimes roll the knife over all of his knuckles and back again before it fell.

Hermione threw two daggers at once, watching them spin in the air before lodging deep into the bark. She tugged on her sleeves distractedly; it was an old habit, making sure every inch of her arms was covered. Finally, she sighed and dropped to the ground beside Harry, flopping onto her back lazily. Staring at the branches above, she carefully folded her arms beneath her head.

"Alright. Spit it out, Harry. I can tell you're dying to ask me something."

Harry dropped the knife in surprise and barely missed his fingers. Hermione tutted in annoyance. One of the first things Draco taught her was to always be aware of the weapon–nothing could distract you from it, because no matter how skilled you were, carelessness could leave you injured. She bit back the lecture and waited for Harry to gather his thoughts.

He cleared his throat. "Sorry, you know I kinda lose it when people are unhappy with me. It's just...it's almost been a week. Do you think you could tell me why you're angry with me?"

Hermione closed her eyes. "No."

He shifted beside her. "Okay, yeah I saw that one coming. I have a backup question anyway."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. I guess I'll preface this by saying I have no idea if I'm allowed to ask this, so you can obviously just say no or whatever. Normal rules."

"Cheers."

Harry cleared his throat again. "Great. Well, I was wondering what's your thing with long sleeves? I mean, I get that it's kinda cool out here, but you mess with them a lot. You just did, actually. Uh, sorry maybe this is a stupid question. You're obviously allowed to like long sleeve shirts. No problem with that at all."