Erik, No.

Then Draco points his wand at the cauldron fire and murmurs the incantation to lower the flames to hot orange embers and hold the potion at a low, steady simmer until he returns to his work in the morning. He covers the cauldron with its heavy pewter lid, and the remaining curls of silver steam dissipate in the cool, close air of his basement workshop. It takes rather a long time to pack away his ingredients, painstakingly tucking every strand and fibre of stray unicorn hair into the silk envelope with its fellows, scraping up crumbs of powdered lavender and flecks of mica dust back into their vials, re-waxing the cork on his flask of dragon's blood against evaporation.

Draco has a potioneer's horror of wasting ingredients, compounded by the remoteness of their situation up in the mountains. They can't spare the floo powder for frequent trips to resupply. What they've had has been carefully budgeted to restock their provisions throughout their stay and for their return trip. It won't be much longer now. The moon is earlier and earlier each night. The solstice is very near.

When his ingredients are put back where they belong, he organises his notes into a tidy stack, pausing once or twice to scratch an amendment or clarification. Then he carefully takes the golden ring out of the pocket of his work apron where he's hidden it, and tucks it into an inner pocket of his robes. He still doesn't quite have the words he needs, but he can't bear to have the ring away from him for too long. Maybe it will inspire him, bring the right phrases to the surface of his mind so that he can scoop them out like river stones and offer Harry something worth having.

_____________________________

"All great and precious things are lonely."

-John Steinbeck