The Darkwood Wand

Recovery

A quick writing/plotting note (feel free to skip): The path to Tennant's final fate took multiple drafts. He originally died in this story—Hermione killed him immediately in the first draft, and Tennant died of his wounds later that night in the second draft. But the fallout was tremendous for both scenarios and his death felt too heavy-handed for this story. So then I had him escape, but that also derailed the story, with a crazed wizard running loose out there, and it broke up the story's narrow, almost claustrophobic feel. In the end, I felt Tennant's chosen fate advanced and deepened the story while still keeping it on track.

Anyway, here's a nice long chapter. We remain in the infirmary with Draco and the angst continues, but there are lighter moments and a few fun characters return. Thank you for reading!

Thebe

Draco opened his eyes to pinkish sunlight shining through the infirmary windows. It was early morning, barely past dawn, and his head throbbed with pain. Madam Pomfrey was standing beside Tennant's bed.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy." The matron looked sorrowful. "It appears that Mr. Rowle has suffered a relapse."

Draco sat up with a wince. Tennant lay motionless in his bindings, mouth sagging. His eyes were half open, unresponsive to the light of Pomfrey's wand. A thin line of drool trickled down his chin.

Pomfrey conjured a white cloth and wiped the wetness away. "Dear, dear."

"Dear, dear," Draco repeated.

The matron gave him a sharp look. "Drink down that potion on the table," she ordered. Draco did so, and his head cleared.

"You had better wash, Mr. Malfoy," Pomfrey said. "The Headmistress will be here any minute."

Draco complied, finding fresh gowns and wrappers in the infirmary washroom. His own gown was crumpled and sweaty after a night of dark dreams that mingled Tennant's thoughts and his own. The memory of his own face through Tennant's helpless eyes.

Now clutching the sides of a porcelain sink, he stared at that same face in the mirror. He looked pale and wan, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. Charming. Very Sixth Year. Draco straightened his posture and slicked back his hair, then frowned. Too Second Year. He tousled the white-blond locks slightly, wishing for his own soap and gel. He smelled antiseptic.

The sound of voices drew him out of the washroom and he saw that McGonagall and Potter had joined the matron beside Tennant's bed. The curtains were strongly warded and Hermione was nowhere to be seen.

The Headmistress looked as impressive as ever in long black velvet robes and the Key of Hogwarts suspended on a thick silver chain. Potter, on the other hand, looked wild-haired and hollow-eyed in his long coat. But at least he was fully dressed; Draco felt at a disadvantage in cotton infirmary garb. He ran a hand through his hair and his wrapper's wide sleeve fell back, revealing his Dark Mark. Hastily he dropped his hand again.

"Why don't we all have a seat," McGonagall said. She arranged herself on a nearby chair, her back straight, one claw-like hand on her ruby-topped staff. Potter sat on a neighboring bed and Draco had no choice but to return to his own cot. Pomfrey remained standing, hands clasped at her waist.

"I'm told that Mr. Rowle's condition has deteriorated," the Headmistress said. Her round eyes—so pale a blue they looked nearly grey—were fixed on Draco.

Draco allowed himself to look pleased. Tennant had attacked him, after all. Potter certainly didn't look too cut up about it.

It was Pomfrey who spoke. "Yes, Mr. Rowle has lapsed into an unseeing state that I fear is permanent. I suppose the damage he suffered was too deep." The matron frowned at Potter, of all people.