𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐄 - 𝐝.𝐦.

𝟏𝟏𝟑 - 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡

SIX YEARS LATER...

Draco never really liked hospitals. Who does, anyway? Nothing good ever really happens in them, except maybe the birth of children. Even then, it's a gruesome, painful process for the mother, so much so that one must wonder how all mothers across the planet do not resent their children for this pain.

He is slumped in a chair outside room 238. It's a terrible chair, made of black metal and thin blue fabric that does a poor job cushioning him in anyway. His spine hurts from his awful posture. He knows that if either of his parents were there, they'd scold him and tell him to sit up straight. He doesn't want to sit up straight. He wants to feel that pang at the bottom of his tailbone telling him that human beings were never evolved to fit into chairs (he's gotten into Muggle evolutionary sciences in the past few years) and he'd be better off on a rock in some cave far away.

Maybe that would be nice, being on a rock in a cave far away. Worrying only about finding dinner for the night. No hospitals to clog his nose with the faint scent of antiseptic and misery. 

Celeste isn't so fond of hospitals either. She has a terrible track record with them. The first time she died, she woke up in a steel box in the furthest corner of St. Mungo's. The second time she died, she flatlined three times after waking up. The Healers told her that it seemed as though her heart couldn't decide beating or not.

She's walking down a seemingly endless hallway, counting each square tile that her heels land on. The clicks of the points echo onwards and onwards, reaching a blissful void that she'll never reach on this miles-long stretch of hospital tile. She passes countless doors, each looking exactly like the last, and wonders why they've designed hospitals to be so miserable. Wouldn't it cheer patients up a bit more not to be surrounded by concrete walls? It's as though they're encouraging them to go into the white light.

Her eyes feel raw from crying. There aren't any tears left for her to shed, as they all escaped her last night. Still, when she rubs her eyes, they sting from the friction. She's been in the same clothes for over forty-eight hours — a stiff white buttoned shirt and slacks she wishes she bought in a bigger size, as well as a dark grey cloak that has kept her safe from the frigidity of St. Mungo's. She'd just gotten out of a meeting when she received the call. 

Ah. The endless void has reached a brief reprise. Celeste stares dejectedly at the pair of metal doors before her. Why are they here? The hallway only continues beyond them. What a stupid, useless, pointless pair of doors.

She grunts softly as she pushes them open. It shouldn't take much effort, really, but she's drained of all energy and hasn't had much to eat.

They swing shut behind her with a soft swoosh. She frowns. She wishes they shut with more of a resounding bang, something to disrupt the quiet of the hospital at three in the morning. It's much more noisy during the day.

Draco picks his head up when he hears the clicking of heels on the tile. Maybe that's the Healer coming to deliver him some news.

Instead, he sees a tall woman that he almost doesn't recognized. She hasn't changed all that much, really. She still has that beautiful, dark skin, like bronze armor shielding her from everything the world may throw at her. She's switched her glasses out for a pair with thicker frames, and they sit quite naturally on the bridge of nose. Her hair is different, though, in a style that Draco has never seen on her. It's pulled away from her face in dozens of thinner braids and up into a high ponytail. He likes it, he decides. It shows off those high, haughty cheekbones. It doesn't cover those deep brown eyes. 

Celeste nearly trips when she finds those familiar steely grey eyes. She doesn't, though. She's far too put together to let herself trip. Instead, she comes to an abrupt stop, her hands still on her cloak where they were adjusting it for comfort.