So the fifth chapter is officially complete. I want to thanks those of you who read and reviewed, you guys are awesome. Am I too slow to update? Or too fast? Anyways life is mostly uneventful with my studies at Cégep, so I should be able to keep updating regularly.

I think I forgot the disclaimer in some of my previous chapters so this disclaimer will have to do for the remaining of my chapters: I do not nor will I ever own the Harry Potter franchise, its plot, its characters or anything even remotely related to them.

Ephraim

Chapter five – The days that passed and those to come

Hermione's POV

-19th of August-

She thought it would be unprincipled and iniquitous of her to stop caring for Malfoy and let him suffer. So she had taken care of him for the past month and a half. They had arrived earl July and since then, nothing had changed. The leaves on the teenager's back were still falling and Hermione was still trying her best to find some kind of cure, task at which she was failing.

Hermione had fallen into a routine. Wake up at eight, check on Malfoy, take care of his daily needs, however challenging it was for her, eat breakfast, take a shower, read some books, practice some spells, explore the grounds, lunchtime for Malfoy, lunchtime for her, some reading again, check on Malfoy again, dinner, do some chores, nightly routine, check on Malfoy and sleep. Repeat. She thought it calming to have at least something she could rely on. The hardest thing really, was not knowing where Harry and Ron were. For the tenth time that day she asked herself where the two were headed. Probably horcruxe hunting, she thought bitterly, without me. She wondered what they would say if they saw her, in some kind of summer house, taking care of Draco freaking Malfoy. They'd probably give her a disbelieving look and Ron would go on about how she was fraternizing with the enemy again. Just like in fourth grade with Krum. But for the first time in years, she saw a more human side of her Slytherin schoolmate.

She closed the book she was reading and stretched in the comfortable hammock, observing the beautiful garden. She did that often; she'd stop doing whatever she was doing and she'd just watch. Recently she'd been reading a lot. She couldn't stand not doing anything and procrastinating, so she took it to herself to learn new things. She had already crammed the content of just about three full books of spell. That day she had practised a new spell. It altered the morning glory's properties so instead of making it bloom early in the morning, it would bloom at night, as soon as the first star appeared. It was pretty useless, but Hermione was adamant that if a spell existed, it was appropriate for her to learn it. Hermione's personal favourite spell out of the new ones she had learned was a very simple incantation that created small bulbs of yellowish light. The size of her thumbnail, the small orbs could float up to two meters high and glow for three days straight. She always left one or two lit in Draco's room in case he woke up at night. At least he wouldn't be too disoriented when the roots of fever lifted. She didn't know what pushed her to be considerate about Malfoy. Honestly maybe it was just her nature that made her care.

In the last couple of weeks she had given herself the task of finding a way out of the grounds. She still couldn't apparate away, for some kind of reason. The second day after they arrived, Hermione had taken a walk, trying to see if she had any neighbours, yet she had walked for a hour straight in a rough road no one seemed to use and nothing. They were surrounded by kilometers upon kilometers of brightly coloured fields. They were literally stranded in an unknown house. The young Gryffindor didn't even know in which country they were, but they weren't in England anymore.

The house was beautiful. It was quaint and was built the old style, with a cobblestone path leading to the doorway. The roof was made with red clay tiles and harmonized with the beige coloured walls. Vines and little morning glories had grown over them, sometimes covering the whole facade. The cobblestones path was between and surrounded on either side by lemon and orange trees, the smell coming from them appalling and sugary. If you took the back door, you'd end up on the porch, and from then, to the garden. It was beautiful and full of colour and it seemed to be enchanted to take care of itself. A good thing, too, because Hermione had no idea whatsoever about how to mind a garden apart from what she had learn at Hogwarts. It was, beside the library, her favourite place to go. Some flowers, the size of a small pear, were literally floating in the air, tied down with some sort of wild liana. The colours were ranging from bright orange and yellow to purple and blues. Some type of plants, Hermione was sure, would have puzzled even professor sprout. She smiled as she thought of Neville's face in front of all those amazing specimens. She spent a lot of time reading in the hammock when the weather was good.

The property was also equipped with a fully operational greenhouse in which various fruits and vegetables you couldn't find in the garden lazily grew with the rise and fall of the sun. Some medicinal and some special plants also rose at the very end. Tables were set as countertops and all the equipment necessary for the making of potions and elixirs was accompanying them. Hermione sometimes practise her potions when she really had nothing to do. She experimented some she read about in the numerous books of the library. She'd chose randomly or she'd add something to her enchanted purse, just for emergencies. She had made several vials now, each in case of something different. She was ready for every eventuality: flu, insomnia, bad cases of zit, allergies, colds, insulation, etc. Having had her own set of problems with her skin, Hermione had taken a habit of always having witch hazel in her bag or in her trunk, even when went on a trip, for any eventual skin imperfection. Now that she had the appropriate lotion, she could get rid of the fowl smelling oil. She could get odorless oil, but that didn't quite do the job as well as the real thing. The young witch had attempted, and managed to somehow replicate skelegrow, the potion Harry had taken back in second year as Gilderoy Lockhart made his bones disappear. Always useful, and Hermione was always ready, although she doubted anyone was ever again going to get hit by a cursed bludger, and then get his arm wrecked by an incompetent teacher.

Another thing that never stopped to amaze the young witch was the refrigerator. When she had first explored the house it was the first thing she searched for. Surprisingly it was full. Soon, Hermione realised that it was probably magical, made so the food inside could be kept longer. Whoever lived here had not emptied it. The cupboards were also full and a growing garden stood in the backyard. Still Hermione rationed the food, for she didn't want them to starve before Malfoy woke up. Maybe he had answers. It annoyed the witch to be depending on the blond teen sleeping inside. She had always strived to be independent.

Reluctantly, she stepped out of her hammock. It was time to check on Malfoy and to go to sleep. Hermione willed her will-o'-the-wisps, the bulbs of light she had conjured, to lead the way as she stepped, barefooted in the tidy grass. On the porch she stopped verify everything was in order before hopping in the house. First she cleaned the countertop and tidied up the kitchen. Then it was time to check on the other occupant in the house. Everyday she'd feed him with vials of potions or directly by jamming shredded food in his mouth. Since he could still swallow in his half-coma-half-slumber she had no qualms in force feeding him. Oh, the face he would make when he'd realise mudblood Granger had fed him. Hermione couldn't wait to see the look in his eyes. Even if they had saved each other, it didn't mean that she liked him or something like that. If anything he irked her a little less than before, and that was because they didn't talk. The minute he would open his mouth, she was persuaded the ferret would be back at normal.

She silently opened the wooden door and contemplated the Slytherin. His hair had grown even longer and a blond stubble had appeared but Hermione let it grow. If he wanted to cut it afterward he could do it himself. All seemed to be in order. She conjured a couple of lights she disposed in strategic places in his room and tried to block out the small seizure that took his body as another leaf fell. She felt guilty about not being able to do anything. She had promised him to find a cure but there seemed to be none. She felt so much like a bystander it frustrated her to the highest point. Tiptoeing out the room, she closed the door behind her.

- Goodnight Malfoy.

Honestly she didn't know why she spoke to him. He couldn't possibly hear her.

Draco's POV

He could hear her. Everything was fuzzy and mixed up but he could hear her when she talked to him. Like it was going to make him feel better. The pain knew no boundaries and Draco couldn't make it stop. It felt like years had passed yet it could have been just minutes. Everything was so confusing. And on some days he'd have a chit chat with Blaise. Not that it was really Blaise Zabini, the joyful Slytherin that was his best friend anyways. It was a mind trick, his conscience taking over when the pain was too intense. But Draco found it… amusing, that his conscience, the constant nagging voice in the back of his head, was taking form as his dark skinned schoolmate.

"Draco" A sing song voice rang from the back of his head.

Well. Speak of the devil.

"What is it Blaise?"

"I just want to talk to you, man! It's been a while!"

"Yeah, well, you're still as obnoxious as ever so don't hold it against me for not talking to you as often as you'd want to."

The voice tutted and Draco fought a new wave of pain. They were closer to each other now, more often. But still as bad as ever.

"Well, your voice is still as nice to hear as ever. But I don't understand why you don't talk to me. I'm just here to make conversation."

"What do you want? Get to the point."

It was basic Slytherin knowledge. How to make conversation and how to make it turn your way so you got the lead. And Draco was not only a Slytherin, he was also a Malfoy. And Malfoys never let themselves be victim to some old conversation tricks.

"Why didn't you kill Dumbledore?"

Well, that was definitely not the question he was waiting for. Draco kept silent and suffered through a new wave of particularly strong pain. Why hadn't he killed Dumbledore? Truth was, the wizard had no idea. Like an old black and white television with a bad definition, Draco suddenly had a better image of what surrounded him. He already knew he was in a bed. But this time, he saw three or was it four- no, it was five lights around his head, floating, hovering like fireflies in august. For a second he thought he recognised where he was but as soon as the feeling struck him, he fell back into a dark half awakening. He exhaled shakily. Why hadn't he killed the old man?

"So you don't know yourself?"

Blaise's voice shook him out of his contemplative stupor.

"No, I guess not." He admitted quietly.

Really, the wizard hadn't given much thoughts at the question, since he was imprisoned in a cave, hoping not to die of the intense cold that reigned there. He was so afraid for his own life, he had actually managed to whiten his hair more.

There was an odd silence.

"Well, I'm sure that you'll get the answer someday."

"Yeah? And how do you know that?"

"I'm your conscience Draco. I just know that type of things. I think I'm actually the most qualified person to tell you to trust yourself."

"Trust myself? Can this conversation get any cheesier?" Draco laughed.

Truth was, even if he would never admit it, Draco was happy to hear Blaise's voice, even if this was some kind of crazy hallucination and that the real Zabini was probably at Hogwarts, attending side by side with Theodore Nott and Pansy Parkinson, two of his most loyal friends. Sometimes, he admitted, they could be obnoxious and loud, or, like Pansy, a little too close to him for his preference, yet they were always, or almost always there for him. Another blinding pain took a hold of his body and he groaned in discomfort. Malfoys do not scream. Malfoys do not show their pain, they control it.

"Just a little more time Draco."

Zabini's voice seemed softer. Just a little more, he had said. Yes, and then the pain would subside. And then he'd get back at his crazy aunt for cursing him. He'd figure out why he hadn't killed Dumbledore. Hell, he'd even thank the mudbl-Granger, he reminded himself. His mother, right before she had been torture until confusion and nothingness took her mind, had told him that even though she was a pureblood born and bred, she didn't want for him to be prisoner of prejudices like his father had been. Even if he found it difficult to not judge based on blood status, he would honour his mother's last wish. Yes. When he would finally be free of this damnation, he would thank Granger for taking care of him, like a civilised gentleman. He would thank her and afterward hex Bellatrix into the next week. Then, he'd run the hell away from wherever he was and he would hide in a far, far, faraway magical community until the war ended. Somewhere remote where the dark lord hadn't stationed any death eaters. Think Nepal. Or better, Canada. He knew some people over there that could welcome him with no problem: Adeline and Napoléon. Retired followers who had fled after their lord's defeat years ago, mainly. Sure it was cold in both countries, but Draco had been raised in the English countryside. He was accustomed to bad weather. He'd be away from Voldemort, away from Potter and the weasel, and away from all those blasted snatchers. He would fly, like he had been taught to all his life, like His father had fled from his responsibilities.

Draco Malfoy was not his father.