Even though Lucius was as responsive as a frozen snake, Draco still visited. He was now in his fifties, a reflection of what Lucius could have been at that age, had he not been imprisoned: Distinguished and noble, clothed in the best robes and decorated with antique jewelry. But there was a depth of sadness in his grey eyes that hadn't been there before, even after the War; he too, had known personal loss.
It was out of duty that he visited; as a good son, he could force himself to see his wretched father for an hour every month. Besides, since Lucius was doing his best to leave the land of the living, this was likely a very short-term commitment.
Lucius had wasted away until he was skeletal. Draco had always known his father to be exacting with his appearance, and it was hard to see him now. He was disheveled, clothes tattered and his hair, those luscious locks that used to be his crowning glory, was thin and stringy and knotted. The color was indiscernible; the once fastidious man was filthy.
Then the tests came back and confirmed what Draco had already suspected: Lucius's magic had deserted him; torn from his very core.
And so, though half-disgusted with himself, Draco decided to convince the Wizengamot that his father, now a Squib in essence, ought to be released, so he could spend his last days in relative comfort. Draco could set him up in one of his family's rarely used residences, with a house elf to tend to him.
The man had been imprisoned for the better part of forty years. Wasn't that punishment enough for his crimes?
Unsurprisingly, Lucius barely realized that he had been moved.
He spent days hunched over in a floral armchair, staring into the fireplace as he shivered, despite being wrapped in a quilted dressing gown. At night, he roamed the halls like a specter, calling for Narcissa.