A/N: I wrote this a while ago, before I'd even heard of It's not that great and is kind of OOC. Kudos if you can tell me who's POV it's in (it should be obvious...)

Disclaimer: My story, my plot, not my people.

The Last Visit

The hospital says that they're going to be OK, but I know it's just a lie.

They won't be, somehow I know it.

Sure enough, I get a call don't ask why we've got a phone and it's the healer saying they're not going to make it through the night so I'd better come. Grandma's been feeling sick, so she says I can go without her.

I'm no good at Apparating, so I take the journey in short bits. When I get to London, I take the Underground to the desolate little street the hospital's on.

I go in, sign in, and go up to the forth floor like I've done so many times.

They're asleep, the healer-lady tells me. I take a chair, very quietly, between the two beds.

It's maybe 10 p.m. when I get there; at 11 the healer-lady says she's going into her office and to please get her up if anything happens.

I say I will.

But it's not until 12, long after the patients' snores fill the room, that anything happens.

It's pitch black out, and the fly that's been buzzing in the window for the last fifteen minutes has finally gone to drive someone else up the wall.

That's when they wake up.

It's nothing big; they just lie in bed and stare up at the ceiling like tired zombies.

I suddenly feel really sad: they were probably wonderful people, and of all the people in the world, I'm probably the one who deserves to know them best, and I never got to know them at all.

And now they're dying and I never—they never—got a chance.

My dad's breathing is labored; should I call the healer? Probably, but I don't. What can she do?

He's looking at the ceiling still with dark brown eyes. His face is thin and worn; his hair is puffy, wavy, and light grey. I'll bet it used to be brown. My brown. He wears square glasses, but right now they're on the table.

I find myself thinking: You can do it! Just keep breathing. You don't need to die so soon.

But I know that death would be better.

Where he's going, his mind and body will be healed, better than any healer on earth can do. In happiness and peace he'll live, forever and ever. He breathes his last.

As his body shudders to a halt, no longer needed, I whisper: Say hello to Grandpa.

My eyes go all blurry, like windshield wipers in the rain. I guess I was crying, though I didn't know why. I sit there for a long time.

All of a sudden, I feel a prickle on the back of my neck; someone's looking at me.

I turn.

It's my mom; she's propped herself up on one elbow and is staring at me intently. Should she be up like this? I half make up my mind to gently push her back down, but then I catch her expression.

Her hair, white and thin, that used to be blond and pretty, hangs around her tired, wasted face, once plump and happy.

Her eyes, large and blue, overlarge for her boney face, are what get me. Instead of staring, unfocused, over my shoulder, she's looking directly into my eyes and at my face. My eyes, large and round like hers, but brown. And the same face.

Those eyes.

They look at me with intensity, as one would look at an old school friend, half forgotten, from long ago.

Who are you?

They seemed to say as they searched my face for some clue. Always the same, I thought bitterly.

They have no idea who I am.

A sudden movement. We've been still for so long it surprises a jump out of me. She lowers herself onto the pillow, still looking at me.

But now, those eyes have an understanding look in them. Her mouth is in a little smile.

A smile that you'd give someone you haven't seen in years, someone you only knew a little.

A smile that clearly says:

Hey. I know you.

She remembered.