Beginning at the End ⏃ Dramione

Chapter 3: Reluctance

While Hermione slept, Draco spent most of his energy creating a potion that might cure her condition. After a few mistakes and nearly burning down part of the tent, he thought he might finally have created a successful batch. Though, the only way to find out, would be for her to wake up and try it.

During the day he made sure that his protective enchantments over the tent were still strong, testing them by stepping in, then out, then back in again. Sometimes finding a small rock or stick to throw to see how it interacted with the spell. He wondered if Hermione would find them adequate, or if she would have done better.

After more hours had passed, he went to check on her, expecting that she would wake up soon. Maybe her bodyclock was not adjusted to their current timezone, or perhaps she woke up in the night and purposely slept during the day to avoid him. So one night he stayed up to be sure, but she still did not wake, which concerned him.

Later into the next day, he sleepily opened a small fridge that had some meats and cheeses and he wondered how old they might be. Draco sighed and closed it, grabbing some stale bread from a tin box instead. While taking reluctant bites, he began to saunter around the tent and approached a bed with ruffled up blankets. He had purposely avoided it, assuming it was where Potter or Weasley had slept. Using his wand to nudge open the curtain, he took a peek inside, studying the space until he saw a crumpled-up jumper. Holding the rest of the bread in his mouth, he leaned to pick it up and held it high away from himself. Sure enough, it was one of those awful jumpers the Weasley clan had worn, this one with a giant 'R' in front. He scrunched his nose and dropped it immediately on top of the bed and dramatically pulled the curtain closed.

Draco turned and made his way to the back of the tent, with the thought of the Weasley family infesting his brain. They all seemed so close and something about that made him feel ill, or maybe that was the bread. He finished his last bite, mulling it over... no, it was definitely the Weasleys. Ron's mother had probably made that jumper, but even with magic, she did not possess the talent of a seamstress. Draco's mother would never let him go out wearing something so distressed and homely. The thought of his mother gave him a heavy heart. By now the Dark Lord would know he was absent and her lies would be spun like an artistic web, a proper seamstress indeed. Would his father care? Was he at all concerned by his absence? Maybe if it angered the Dark Lord...

His thoughts trailed on his last interaction with his father as he approached the bathroom. There were shelves near the bath that he had not looked at yet. He approached them; there in a dark corner, he found a pair of glasses with a plain black frame with round lenses. Potter. These must be his spare, he was wearing them when I saw him last, with that boiled face, so obvious. Draco picked them up, and walked them over to the mirror and placed them on. He stared at his blurry reflection. Bloody hell, Potter is nearly blind. Why didn't I just knock these off his head during Quidditch? He moved closer to the mirror in an attempt to focus, but as he leaned in, the glasses slipped off of his nose and clinked against the sink. One round lens flopped out of the frame and rolled around the basin, clinking as it settled.

Draco gasped and pulled out his wand, "Reparo." The round glass wiggled it's way back into the frame and lay there below him.

He stared down at them and exhaled, allowing the burn of truth to suffocate his pride. They needed Potter. He picked up the glasses and delicately placed them back on the shelf where he had found them, and left the bathroom. No one can ever know I did that. He walked over to Hermione and checked on her again. She was breathing, but still curled up in a deep sleep.

As another day rolled by, he managed to work his way through a small bookshelf of Muggle novels. He could not decided if he actually liked them or if he was just bored. It was like a reluctant vacation, knowing you should be doing something important, but forced to do nothing and relax.