Disclaimer: Everything here belongs to JK Rowling, except for the plot.
Hugo stepped out of the fireplace, dusting off the bit of soot that had fallen onto his robes. He walked past the Welcome Witch's desk, exchanging a tired smile with her as he went. Hugo thought about the last five years while he waited for the lift. It was as though he was living through a very long, very painful day. He rubbed his hands over his prematurely lined face as he stepped out onto the fourth floor, visions of funerals, healers, and long, sleepless nights circling each other around his mind. Hugo walked the familiar path to the back of the ward, dodged Gilderoy Lockhart, and finally reached the bed by the window.
He looked at the man lying in the bed. He was sleeping, his chest slowly rising and falling. The man's hair, formerly a vibrant red, had turned white over the course of his first year at St. Mungo's. His skin, always a bit pale, was now almost gray. Hugo remembered the man always being so lively; he would tell jokes, get angry quickly, but forgive easily; he was fiercely protective of his family, but once he opened his heart to someone, that was it—they were in. Now, even after five years of weekly visits, it was still difficult for Hugo to believe that this man, who couldn't speak, who could barely move, was his dad.
A/N: I wrote this for the fics-nextgen drabble angst prompt on tumblr. The site is fics-nextgen [dot] tumblr [dot] com. Anyway, hit that "Review" button and let me know what you think!