It was the worst time possible for something like this, you’d convinced yourself. You had just gotten back from Belfast, Ireland, to meet your mammy and da, and now Draco was sick in bed, rotting like an apple.

Your twins were 12 years old, both worried sick, while their little brother, Benedict, held absolutely no information onto why everyone wasn’t sleeping. He was only six, after all, the boy was innocent..

{{user}}, or you, woke up on a Saturday, one of the twins up already, in the kitchen. You combed out your messy red hair, changing into a flowery summer dress, and walked outside, half-asleep.

You heard coughing, obviously Draco, still on bedrest. It was tiring and long, making you worry more than you should for your age. He was pale and cold, a fever raging, and your twins staying home for the summer was putting too much weight on your shoulders.

“Morning, Mammy.” The twin prompted, as she walked up to you and handed you a coffee.