AN: Prompts will be displayed at the bottom to avoid them potentially giving away things.

Never Too Old

AlwaysPadfoot

You never expected to outlive Neville.

A week after his passing, you are standing at his funeral. Your bones creak under your weight in the small graveyard of the village where you and Neville spent your retirement. It's a fresh day; the bitingly cold winter is being replaced by longer spring days. You notice that the flowers in the village have bloomed overnight, as though to show their support. You feel comforted by the bright yellow of the daffodils.

Many, many people talk at the service. Much of it, you don't hear because you're lost in your own thoughts — and perhaps partially because you've long since gone deaf.

It's a long exhausting day, but you feel mildly offended when your niece suggests that no one would take offence if you left the wake to go up and rest. The only response you feel is appropriate is 'bugger off'. It's a celebration of your husband's life; you will not leave early.

You might be old, but you're certainly not going to show everyone that.

You make sure to see every guest out at the end of the night — just to prove a point — before collapsing into Neville's favourite chair.

After a few days of mourning, your niece visits again. You make her a cup of tea and you sit and make small talk from the comfort of his purple chair. That's when she suggests that perhaps it's time to move on, and the extended family starts casually dropping into conversation the words retirement home. It takes them far less persuasion than you think they initially imagined. You can't look after this house alone much longer. Besides, the idea of pretending you're senile and getting people to do things for you is somewhat intriguing. You give in.

The next thing you know, you're there — Wendell's Retirement Home for Magical Folks. You are sure you could have come up with a more enticing name. You have to admit, though, the grounds the home is situated on are beautiful; you're looking forward to spending the warmer months of the year out there.

The wrinkles in your skin and the grey of your hair means you fit in straight away. On top of that, you get to yell at people regularly: what's that? I can't hear you, son.

No one tells you when you should go to bed; you're 117, for Merlin's sake.

You spend a week settling in; you learn the ins and outs of how to get more food and how to move silently around the sleeping residents so you can acquire the remote for the TV. That goes quite well until one evening in your second week. You're one of only two people up, and the old fart with the remote has fallen asleep watching an awful soap opera.

Just as you wrap your fingers around the remote, he wakes suddenly. 'Did you think you were the only one here who isn't senile, Abbott?'

You recognise the drawl, even if it's from a distant memory.

'Draco Malfoy?'

He grins a wicked smile and leans forward with a groan not uncommonly heard around here. He stretches and then looks to you, pulling the remote away. 'I'm watching this.'

'You were asleep, you old crone,' you mutter.

He doesn't say anything, but you decide to retire to your room for the night. With the blankets around you and Neville's picture on your bedside table, you feel comforted.

The following morning, you lie in. You don't go downstairs until nine, and at this point, the staff are tidying away breakfast. You help yourself to a cup of tea and sit in one of the two large armchairs facing out towards the lake. You stay undisturbed for a while, content in your own peace, until someone places a croissant on the table to your right.

'You missed food,' Draco grunts, before beginning to shuffle away.

'Draco Malfoy, don't you walk away,' you say suddenly. 'Sit with me.'

There is no point holding onto Hogwarts stereotypes. He sits — reluctantly, you think — and gazes through the glass into the outside world. The croissant is lukewarm, but it's better than nothing. Neither of you say a word. You study Draco's reflection; once an upstanding Ministry official, now even his wrinkles have wrinkles. His eyes mirror the weather, the dull grey of an April shower, and it appears as though he hasn't noticed you watching.

You never would have thought his family would have place him here.

'Thank you for the croissant,' you say after neither of you exchanging so much as a how are you?

Draco Malfoy makes an affirmative noise to show that he's listening, but doesn't respond. You try a few conversation starters, but then decide you're better off reading your book than trying to make conversation.

After a few weeks of sitting quietly — not including the occasional sardonic exchanges — with Draco in the armchairs by the window, a member of staff stops you on one of your frequent trips to the toilet. 'You're the only person he talks to.'

You're surprised by this; you would have thought a Malfoy would be demanding someone fluff his pillow sixteen times a day. You return with two cups of tea and complain about your aching feet as you put his cup by his side.

'Thank you,' he says.

It's the first polite thing he's said to you, usually it's: shut up, you old hag or you're breathing too loudly.

'You're welcome.'

The silence becomes comfortable.

As May comes around at the retirement home, Draco touches your hand as you listen to the wireless. Neither of you say anything; neither of you move away. It's strange, but oddly, it's not uncomfortable. You consider saying something, but instead, you decide to leave it.

When the programme is over, he squeezes your hand, bids you goodnight, and retires to his room. You smile and then head to bed yourself after some brief contemplation about how polite the former Slytherin has become.

Draco's behaviour remains the same; you reciprocate it. He leans on you and you lean on him whilst you watch the TV. He saves you breakfast when you stay in bed to read; you bring him cups of tea. Draco doesn't have much dexterity left; you decide it's safer to avoid second degree burns by you being responsible for the hot liquids.

As you sit down beside him in front of the blue sky outside the window, he grumbles: 'Those bloody kids are driving me crazy.'

You have already noticed the clunk of off-key piano being played. It's one of Lee Jordan's many grandchildren bashing the keys in a random order. Despite the fact there seems to be one of his family here every day, you're sure you haven't seen the same child twice.

'Tell me about it,' you respond, sitting beside him. 'Musical talent is clearly not his forté.'

The two armchairs are beside one another; there's no longer a table in between. Draco places his tea on the windowsill shakily. The two of you share a cushioned poof to put your feet up on.

You notice he's gazing longingly at your book and you shoot him a curious look. 'You can read it once I'm finished.'

He shakes his head. 'My eyesight is long past reading.'

You press your lips together in thought. 'I can read it to you, but I warn you, it's not like those shitty soaps you watch.'

And so begins the tradition of you reading to Draco. You quickly cycle through all the books you have and have to owl order more so that you can continue. As the weather warms up in late May, you relocate from the armchairs in the window to a swinging bench outside on the patio. It quickly becomes your bench — everyone knows — so it's always free.

Late one night, after you finish a vivid and intense drama on the television, he does his usual routine. He squeezes your hand, stands, and does his old man groan as he stretches. Then he leans down and kisses the top of your head.

'Goodnight, Hannah.'

You turn quickly. 'Draco?'

The grey-haired man fixes you with a questioning look, leaning heavily on his cane. 'Yes?'

'Your companionship and compassion in this place means more to me than you can possibly imagine,' you blurt out.

You see him smile and you stand as he takes a step back towards you. Draco takes your hands and lifts them, kissing the knuckles. 'My late wife died many, many years ago, when my son was just a child. I never expected to find someone that would put up with me again — I was wrong.'

You smile softly before whispering. 'Thank you, Draco.'

You go your separate ways, but you spend the night tossing and turning. Neville's picture makes you feel guilty. Would it be right to think that someone else could provide you with comfort and loving companionship in your waning years?

Unable to sleep, you find yourself up early and in the garden before breakfast even begins. You find a private bench out of sight of the house; it is situated under a willow tree beside the pond. Its long, drooping branches brush the grass and the surface of the water, creating a canopy of green over the bench.

'What do I do, Neville?' you say.

The warm spring breeze makes the willow branches sway gently, the surroundings exuding a calming atmosphere that you appreciate.

'I wish you could tell me what to do,' you say in a quiet voice that is lost amongst the sound of rustling leaves. 'Draco Malfoy has been nothing but a gentleman and I love his company. I love him, but now it feels like a betrayal to you. I never dreamed I would ever have to deal with this.'

You sigh and look back across the grounds. 'What do I do?'

The breeze lifts the branches up and then caresses your cheek. You lift your hand; it tingles when you touch the spot on your face where the wind dances across your skin. It's subconscious, but you whisper your late husband's name and the wind seems to respond. It encourages the willow branches to perform for you, twisting and rustling before it fades. The air turns still and you touch the wedding band on your finger.

This is Neville's blessing for you.

When you return to the house, you find Draco waiting for you by your bench.

'Ewan, the curly-haired staff member that you dislike, said he saw you leave,' he says.

You huff; you haven't liked Ewan since he tried to tell you that you're supposed to have a bedtime. 'I couldn't sleep, so I thought an early morning walk would help me clear my head and keep me awake.'

You notice that Draco looks worried, so you close the gap between you both and take his hand in yours. You ask him how he slept and guide him to the bench. He hasn't slept any better than you. Sat so close there's no elbow room, Draco shifts and puts his arm around you.

'Is this okay?'

You nod. 'It's perfect.'

Your gazes meet; your faces are just a few centimetres apart. Draco whispers, 'May I?' and you nod. He tucks a curl of hair behind your ear, before placing a tender kiss on your lips. You both smile and Draco holds you close with one arm and then reaches into his pocket.

'My son and his husband brought me this new-fangled Muggle device,' Draco begins, pulling out a phone and earphones from his pocket, 'and claims we can listen to books on it.'

You laugh softly. 'Yes; here, shall I show you?'

You and Neville incorporated Muggle culture into your lives a long time ago like many other magical families. Clearly, Draco is still in the dark. He lets you explain, and you download a free book from an application called Audible. You listen to a crime thriller, which has fast become Draco's and your favourite genre, and sit close holding hands with one earphone each. It's nice to not have to spend your day focusing on the tiny text of a book and you can admire the sunlight illuminating the garden and the man sat beside you.

On the days that bring showers, you return to the armchairs in the window, but nothing is quite like enjoying the fresh air.

Spring turns to summer so fast you can barely notice. Draco and you spend most of your time walking in the grounds, interspersed with multiple breaks, and listening to audio dramas and podcasts. Occasionally, you prefer to do the Prophet's crossword and Draco has become mildly obsessed with games on the phone his son gave him. You laugh when he gets frustrated and he scowls and starts giving you the answers to the crosswords. He knows you hate getting help, but you both love teasing one another.

Draco's presence fills you with an emotion that you expected not to feel again. Your days bleed with colour instead of the dull hue that encapsulated you when Neville passed. One of the younger staff members has taken to using the words, 'You guys are so cute' every time she sees the two of you together.

You find yourself besotted; you both act like teenagers in love, unaware of the fact that you're both 118, with the multiple ailments that come with being old. It doesn't matter because you both have nothing to lose; you're both hopelessly content in one another's company. No one can tell you it's wrong, just like no one can tell you what time to go to bed. Just because you're grey, and old, and your hearing is going, and your bladder is out of control, and all of those side effects doesn't mean anyone has licence to treat you like a seven-year-old.

Despite your newfound love, you both still argue; you still insult each other when either of you does something stupid. Everyone else in the home has come to get used to the silence and then the sudden screech of 'you cold-hearted hag' or 'you old bastard' when you disagree on something you were listening to.

You struggle through the last few weeks of summer with heatstroke; it's the hottest summer in many years. Draco sits in your room with you whilst you suffer migraines and fatigue. He holds your hand and you listen to a podcast that Scorpius recommended together. It's a humorous fact-telling show; it's entitled "No Such Thing as a Fish", which you initially turned your nose up at, but actually it's hilarious. A combination of Draco and binge-listening to that podcast pulls you through to autumn.

With the changing of the seasons, your mood boosts and the garden somehow gets even prettier.

On the morning of September 22nd, you notice Draco is off his game. He seems distracted; he doesn't have any quick comeback to your usual quips. It's okay, you tell yourself; everyone here has their off days. Hell, you just had an off fortnight.

'You look tired, Draco,' you say just after dinner at five-thirty.

'I'm one-hundred-and-eighteen, Hannah,' Draco retorts. 'I'm always tired.'

He offers a small smile to you alongside his words.

'That explains why you're always so cranky,' you say.

Draco crinkles his nose and prods her with his cane. You wave it away, claiming you're close to beating your record for how quickly you can do the Prophet's crossword.

'It would be the first time you finished it unaided,' Draco mutters.

You shoot him a look. 'I love you, but shush.'

You go about your usual separate activities. Draco doesn't go to bed early like you suggest a little later. By eight pm, the room is practically empty, and outside, an inky darkness is seeping across the sky. You can see the stars outside; it's a beautiful September night, one you wouldn't want to change at all. It's nearly time for the second part of the mystery you and Draco started last week to begin on TV, so you nudge him.

Draco jerks awake from a light nap. 'Give an old man a heart attack.'

'C'mon, it's time for Light Town,' you say, offering an arm to him.

He groans as you help him up, and together, you shuffle across to the unused TV set in your slippers. You sit side by side with your feet up and wait for the previous programme to finish, the light from the screen the only one in the room.

'Thank you for putting up with me, Hannah,' Draco says as the intro music plays.

You turn and smile, then kiss his cheek. 'I wouldn't if I didn't love you.'

'I love you too.'

He doesn't say anything else, and you both sit back and watch the show. Occasionally, you babble on about who you think is the bad guy and Draco, as always, doesn't indulge you. In the break, you turn to him. 'Why do they always end there — ?'

You cut yourself off; Draco has fallen asleep. You sigh; this is why you always record your favourite shows. Nudging him lightly, you say his name. 'Draco, Dray, you should just go to bed; we can watch it tomorrow.'

When he doesn't respond, your chest tightens. You use your wand to turn the main lights on. Draco's pale face is illuminated; he looks as though he's asleep, but when you shake his shoulder, his head lolls to the side. Your fingers search for the pulse in his neck; his skin is cold; his heart isn't beating. Yours is, so strongly that you're concerned you might need a Healer, but instead, you put your head against Draco's shoulder, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes. You sob; you keep saying his name even though you know there's nothing you can do.

The man you love has passed.

Competition: QLFC Round Eleven

Prompt: KEEPER: Write about a romantic story on a spring day(s) OR a tragic story on an autumn night(s).

Word Count: 3000