Draco slowly opens his eyes, trying not to wince at the effort it takes him. There is a soft palm against his cheek.
He blinks a couple times, trying to will the sleep out of his system.
That's all he's felt these last 3 years. A heavy, heavy exhaustion, slowing down his brain, making his movements lazy and jerky, his eyes droopy, his hands quivery. The curse of old age.
Unlike countless others, Draco doesn't feel threatened by it. No. Far from it. He watched his parents succumb to it. Watched people he had cared about, taken by old age. Though, for the life of him, he can't seem to remember any of them. No one... except him.
Draco lifts his head, turning it to his left, where the voice came from. His dying neck muscles protest the action.
"Father.... Dad? Are you up? Mr and Mrs Weasley are here to see you." The voice informs him, sounding rather gentle.
He looks up slowly. Through his blurry, milky vision, he can tell there is a young woman standing next to his bed, looking down at him. She's beautiful. Her voice is comforting in it's familiarity. Despite the water in her eyes, her speech is stable, and her composure resonates a fantastic inner strength. Draco doesn't know her.
"Who-" His body is racked with a bout of coughs. His eyes tear up during the short duration of the coughs, which have, at this point, become customary.
Wiping at his eyes with shaky fingers, and trying to control his wheezing, he tries again. "Who are you?"
His voice sounds strange to his own ears. Small, and feeble.
The woman flinches at his question. Her eyes well over, tears falling freely. She doesn't try to hide it.
"I'll leave you to it then." She turns around slowly, walking with small steps. Her shoulders are hunched.
Did Draco make her sad? He didn't mean to. She seems like a good person. He wouldn't want to make her cry... But why was she crying?
His thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of two people through the narrow doorway. A man and a woman. Both with pure white hair. The woman walks in front, her hand twisting behind her back to grasp at the man's fingers. The man, presumably Mr Weasley (according to the teary eyed young woman) is carrying a walking stick. His eyes are downcast. The woman- Mrs Weasley, he assumes- has short curly hair. Her bespectacled eyes meet his, and for a second, he's blinded with the image of another pair of eyes, behind another pair of glasses...