Draco's arms wrapped her up in a silken hug. Dull, pale, and sickly silver eyes broken into sharp shards, dug themselves into anyone who looked at them. He was a dead man walking. Or, at least sitting. Dracos thin but limber legs had gone numb, and lost all movement, as had his lower torso. All he could feel was what his hands found, and the agony digging through his chest. Breathing was that of glass being dug deeper into his lungs, forcing him to hold his breath as much as he could.

Three months. They had given him three months.

This was the fourth month.

He knew not whether to be undoubtedly grateful, or agonizingly pained. Every night was one more prayer that he might wake up once more to see his wife and kids one last time.

But this was it.

He could feel it in the way his heart throbbed.

This was the last day.

"Daddy?" A small voice chimed, her childish tone dampened with sorrow and grief.

"Yes, Lydia?" That was my own voice,

Lordy, I even sounded ill.

"Can we read together?" My six year old daughter asked, her piercing silver eyes matching my own.

How could I refuse her?

"Of course, lovely!" I had said, sounding undoubtedly cheery, despite the fact I could hardly breathe. But it was worth it. She smiled.

I hadn't seen her smile in nearly a month. It quite worried me.

Lydia sat down next to me, and I proceeded to wrap an arm around her thin little frame. I hoped she'd remember times like this.

The still moments in time, where I was able to forget my pain, forget my death that loomed over my head, and I was able to smile.

"What's this?" I questioned, as her small hands handed me a thick, leather bound book.

"Something I wrote." She responded rily, eyes suddenly unfocused and dull.

Now I was worried.

Opening the pages, my breath hung. She was writing her life through this year. How she struggled, how her mother, Megan, my darling wife, helped her smile. How I helped her smile. How she worried, cried, and forgot to sleep. And as I read, my eyes grew damper and damper.

My daughter wrote this.

Tears began to fall, quicker and quicker till I was reduced to a sobbing mess. Clutching my only daughter to my chest.

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

Seeing her in this much pain.

I wanted to fix this. I didn't want to be sick. I didn't want to die. My hands fumbled with the pages, tenderly taking one of the back sheets, scrawling a letter to my best friend. It was all I could do.

Those bright, sea blue eyes of his haunted me at times. Because I knew they would break.

I didn't want to lose him.

My handwriting was small, neat, and uniform, but tears splattered the page in spots. Lydia watched me with curiosity, eyes taunting me to tell her.

So I told her.

But I only told her what she needed to know.

I didn't tell her that her aunt would most likely kill herself. I didn't tell her that her mother would lose her mind, and I didn't tell her that my death would be most painful thing that I would ever have to go through.

No...

I told her that it would be alright.

Because in the end, it would be. It would be alright, and everyone- everyone that was left...-would be okay.

In the end...

It's funny how three words can sum up such a large problem. Driving one straight down through any glint of hope, and slamming them straight into dirt and dust. But then again, Hadn't life always done that to me? Given me hope, and then send me crashing to the ground again.

Dad...

Father never stopped hurting me, and he did as he wanted. And I had no power to stop him. I remember the sound of his fists breaking me, the sound of his belt as he took it off, and the sickening noises as my innocence was forced from me.

And I was six.

And it only got worse.

"D-Daddy?" Her voice rang through my fevered thoughts, causing me to open my eyes.

When did I close them?

Blinking back darkness, I held her close, whispering softly to Lydia, my chest aching with breath.