His father approaches with a glint of silver in his hand, sweeping across the floor with odd, disjointed speed, and the rest of the room fades away to a strange, black fog. Draco can still see his mother though; there is a lacy handkerchief crumpled damply up in her tight grip, her features looking old and pained, a drop of blood on her lip where she has bitten through it. He can see everything so clearly.