Lucius Malfoy had been many things: manipulative, stubborn, intelligent, aristocratic, cunning, cowardly, groveling, neglectful, scarred. A review of his life revealed a man that ran the gamut of all possibilities, from a successful career man to a broken, disgraced veteran. To the world (or at least wizarding Britain), his name still sent shivers down spines and caused warm smiles to frost quickly.
But to Draco, more than anything else Lucius had been a father. Never mind the rumours of Crucios and terror, Lucius had been a loving father, one who had held Draco's hair back when was sick over the toilet, who had flown with him over the local villages on the Christmas Day that Draco got his first broom, who had written letters of encouragement when the students at school scorned an eleven year old who had been afraid of rejection.
And now, seventy years later, stripped of his titles, his property, his savings, and his dignity, Lucius Malfoy was dying, alone in the private hospital room save for two figures, one sitting rigidly by the cheap bed, the other hidden in the shadows.
Gone was the beeping of the intrusive Muggle machinery, the tubes and the wires, the impersonal metal and plastic and computer screens, once so foreign to their society, still so foreign to Lucius' generation. Even the simple charms could give no warmth to the room, as if even the hospital staff had condemned the once-powerful man to die without the basic comforts awarded to those who had kept the upper hand on Death for so long.
Pale eyelashes twitched. Immediately a supple hand flew to a sunken one, the latter dotted with murky spots so indicative of long life. Surreal in their similarity, it was a reminder that no effort can stave off time forever, that eventually the skin loosens and the veins dominate the landscape of the body, turning the ideal into reality.
Wrinkled and dry, Lucius' hand grasped that of his son, the grip reflecting the will within, strong and relentless. Draco welcomed the almost pain, realizing the veiled desperation, the need to prove that though Death may be hovering nearby to claim the weakened body, the soul inside would not willingly leave. The harsh fluorescent light washed out the enjoined limbs, creating a sallow sheen where there had once been rosy life, the skin the body's medium for decrying this tentative hold on the material world.
Draco held on with equal power, meeting the opaque cerulean eyes hesitantly. Lucius could barely see, he knew, but his father would know, from years of parenting, if Draco avoided his gaze. There was a sadness messily concealed beneath the cloudiness, a pool of regret and defiance and resignation and acceptance, an expression that pierced the heart of the once-proud heir more than the passing of his late mother had done.
A brief smile crossed the cracked lips, the weathered hand releasing its grip to brush across the warm face. Draco captured it there, defiantly unblinking, the tears escaping his twitching eyes unheeded. He felt a shift in his father, and the smile widened, the eyes closed again.
"She says hello," Lucius managed in a croaking whisper, his vocal chords straining for clarity. "She says we're welcome there, that she loves you, that it's time."
That last rattling breath echoed in Draco's ears for moments afterwards, competing with the sound of his own ragged breathing. The world bottomed out, his vision narrowed, and he finally dared to close his eyes, his face collapsing down into waiting hands, the sobs inaudible save for the gasps for air.
The warmth on his shoulder was not immediate, the weight of the hand not pressing. His connection to the world, the one that could be drowned out by grief, the stability he would not survive without.
Harry did not rush Draco, did not prod him as to how much longer he was going to stay or push him to go home and eat for the first time in days. He simply stood, waiting for the devastated man to gather himself, to steady himself, to return to the world that waited with bated breath.
When they exited the small, inconspicuous room, the nurse outside gave a curt nod before entering and slamming the door behind them. The blatant stares at the pale, red rimmed eyes bothered neither as they passed through eerily glowing white halls that had been washed too many times, elevators that smelled of brine, a lobby too stripped of life to be welcoming. The dreary wet of London was comforting, a reminder that the city knew the pain and the torment. Yet she still stood proudly over the streets that had punished her so, much like the two men that made for home amidst a world that, though they had given it all they could, would not release them from the bonds of humanity.