I stride into the waiting area feeling both furious and glum. The Wizengamot will pay very dearly for making me go through this nonsense. I gaze around myself and can barely restrain from retching.

The room is ghastly. It positively reeks of Muggle filth, from the blue-grey wall-to-wall carpet to the... well, I can only assume they're children's drawings covering the wall. The floor is littered with the ugliest chairs I have ever seen, and in them...

I cannot stand it any longer. Turning abruptly, I make for the exit.

Outside I swallow huge gulps of air, trying to calm my turning stomach.

It's not that the room is full of Muggles. I expected that. But these Muggles...

Muttering to themselves, or drawing on their skin, or – or drooling... I shudder at the memory.

This is the punishment the Wizengamot has set for me. They have sent me not only into the Muggle world, but to the lowest, most primitive and revolting among Muggles...

Oh, how they will pay! If it's the last thing I do, they will pay for this, I swear it.

For a good five minutes or so, all I do is stand there and envision the slow, bloody deaths of every last Wizengamot member. It settles my stomach nicely, and so I gather up whatever meagre excuse for dignity I have left and enter the... what do they call it? The surgery, was it?

Almost immediately my name is called.

A short, dark skinned boy with a clipboard smiles stupidly at me. I do not return that smile, obviously.

"What?" I bark at him, and the grin falters.

"Ehm, Mr. Malfoy, you may go in now. Dr. Platt is waiting for you."

Platt? What on Earth is a Platt? I don't believe I've ever heard such a stupid name.

He leads the way to this doctor Platt's... study? Office? I follow, and enter the door he opens for me.

"Here we are then," he says in a voice of comradeship which threatens to upset my stomach.

A woman with frighteningly unruly dark brown hair and eyes like green olives stands from behind a hideous desk. All the furniture is so plain and cheap in this place. It burns my eyes. She's young. Far too young to have completed her training to become a Healer – I mean, a doctor.

"Good afternoon," she smiles broadly as the door clicks shut behind me.

"I am here to see a 'doctor Platt'," I say, not succeeding in masking my disdain, but then not trying very hard either.

"How fortunate," she says, still grinning, "because that would be me. You must be Lucius."

"Mr. Malfoy will do," I retort automatically. I can't bear much more of this forced comradeship.

"Mr. Malfoy, then," Platt defers, but looks like she finds this slightly amusing. "Carolyn Platt here. I'm pleased to meet you."
Without warning she grabs my hand and shakes it.

Shakes it! My hand, my fine, pure hand polluted by muck like her!

"Unhand me at once, vermin!"

She backs away, looking startled, but I scarcely notice. I wipe my hand on my sleeve.

Feel. So. Dirty!

"I'm sorry," she says, gathering her composure. I can do nothing to save mine. "Please, take a seat."

She gestures to a divan of some sort someone has carelessly left right in the middle of the floor.

She sits down in a chair, also left in the middle of the room for some unearthly reason. It's on an angle relative to the divan so that when we sit, we're facing each other, but not quite. Why, this is just laziness.

"I'm sorry I tried to shake your hand, Mr. Malfoy. I will try to respect your boundaries. Now, I would like for you to call me Carolyn -"

"I will do no such thing." I shall call you muck, filth and vermin. Anything else would be improper.

"Very well. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Malfoy?"

I'd kill for a Firewhiskey, but I'm not accepting anything this woman gives me.

"I would not."

"A cup of coffee then, perhaps? Or some water?"

Only now I notice she's scribbling away furiously at a notepad while speaking.

"No, thank you." I don't know where the sudden politeness came from. Will it let me off sooner, if I'm amicable with the scum?

Then again, that would cost me my entire sense of self.

"All right then. How are you feeling?" she asks suddenly.

"What?"

"How are you feeling today?" she repeats.

"Phenomenal."

She raises her eyebrows. "Really?"

Does she understand the concept of sarcasm? This is like conversing with a toddler.

"I don't see what business it is of yours," I bite out.

"It is the definition of my business, Mr. Malfoy. Your thoughts and emotions are my livelihood, you might say."

Well, that's... technically true, I suppose. But what do I care? She's still filth.

"You do seem a tad uncomfortable today, Mr. Malfoy," she goes on mercilessly.

I glare, hating her. "You state your opinion very decidedly for a M – for someone so young," I correct myselfless-than-smoothly. "Pray, what is your age?"

Oh, she looks uncomfortable now. That's a small victory, at least.

"My age? Why should my age matter to you?" she asks, scribbling down notes without looking at the page.

"Answer the question, you insolent little -" I catch myself, closing my eyes to suppress my fury.

"You appear quite quick to anger," she says quietly, cautiously.

"One of my many virtues," I boast, smirking a little, "now tell me, Platt," muck, filth, vermin, "what is your -"

"Twenty-nine."

She doesn't look twenty-nine. I would have guessed nineteen at first, but then she's much too confident to be a teenager.

"You're incompetent," I mutter viciously. "Healer's training completes only after a student has turned -"

"Healer's training?" she gasps. Damn. Another slip. I could kick myself. "Well, I mean – I finished early," she adds lightly, as if she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

I'll bet she thinks she does, too. Muggles think they know everything, but what do they know? Nothing at all, nothing!

Meanwhile she's scribbling so furiously I fear the paper will catch fire any second.

Her flushed, slightly smiling expression is not lost on me.

"Enjoying ourselves, are we?" I sneer at her. She looks up from her notes, her cheeks blushing even more. "Tell me, doctor Platt, am I an interesting case?"

She gapes, clearly surprised by the question. "Of course," she says hastily.

I just glare at her, hoping to unsettle her.

Disappointingly, it seems she is only too accustomed to stares.

"Are you all right, Mr. Malfoy?"

"I have told you. I feel absolutely terrific."

"You're quite sure about that, are you?"

"I am not here to discuss feelings with a flimsy little Muggle brat like yourself." Damn.

Scribble scribble scribble.

"Then why are you here, Lucius?"

"It's Mr. Malfoy to you!"

"Of course. My apologies," she says without conviction. I really ought to teach her her place, once and for all...

"I am here only because the court has ordered me to be here."

"Ah yes. And I presume that court order does not sit well with you, does it?"

"Of course not."

"Can you specify the reasons you don't wish to be here?"

"Merlin, you do need to be spoon-fed everything, don't you?"

"I'm sorry, I think I may have misheard you. Did you just call me 'Merlin'?"

Damn it all!

She ploughs on, mercilessly. "What does the King Arthur legend mean to you?"

I refuse to make a slip this time. "It's a legend. It's age demands respect."

"Do you like it?"

"What?"

"Do you enjoy the story?"

"What on Earth does this have to do with anything?"

She pretends not to have heard this. "When reading that story, who do you most identify with?"

"This is utter silliness."

"I'm curious because Arthur, the protagonist, preaches tolerance and Christian values."

Ah. She thinks she's got me now, does she? I cross my arms. "And?"

"Forgive me, but you do give the impression that these are not your first priorities."

"Do I?" I ask nonchalantly, checking my nails in a display of indifference.

"What are your first priorities?"

"Survival."

"Naturally. What else?"

"What?"

"What else do you value?"

I open my mouth, but then close it again. I have to think for a moment. Can't afford another slip. What do Muggles like?

"The... er, environment," I improvise, "I find it important to preserve the environment."

She looks thoroughly puzzled now. "In what way?"

"Keeping it free of pests and vermin." What else could it possibly mean? This woman is an idiot.

"Does this relate to the crimes you've been sent here for?"

"The crimes for which I have been sent here," I correct her. I can't endure grammatical laziness.

"Forgive me. Would you like to discuss the crimes you committed?"

I roll my eyes at her. "Why on Earth should I wish to discuss that with you?"

She shrugs. "Why shouldn't you?"

I take a deep breath. Damn her. Why does she make everything so difficult?

"I will not tell you what I did."

"That's perfectly fine." I'm sure it is. She'll have it written down somewhere, surely. "But do you regret what you did?"

"I beg your pardon?" My voice is a hiss.

"Do you regret the crimes you committed? Do you feel remorse or wish you could undo them, I mean -"

"I am well aware of regret is, thank you very much!"

"All right. Then do you?"

"Why," I say, my voice very low and hard, "should I regret what I did?"

"From what I understand you've hurt people. I have been told you persecuted and tortured innocents. Do you have any regrets about that?"

I manage a tiny smirk. "Let me reverse the question. Do you mourn the lives of the insects you crush under your shoe on your way to work? The bacteria you boil to death when you make your tea? What regrets have you for their losses?"

"The way I see it," she begins, and I can tell she's fighting to be patient and calm, "there are two distinct differences there. One, I do not kill any creature on purpose, much less for he fun of it. Two, you talk of insects and bacteria – that's not the same as a human being, I believe."

"You would say so, counting yourself as a human being, of course."

"Well, yes, I do count myself as a human being, as it happens." She's flustered now.

"See, that's where we differ. Creatures as low as you are indistinguishable from the meanest virus. I would no sooner regret killing you than I would swatting a fly."

She's forgetting her notebook, just staring at me with incredulity written all over her face.

"And what is most fascinating about this case is," I go on, keeping my voice so low she must lean forward to hear me, "that the court has decided that I, ruthless torturer of your sort, should be here, with only an overgrown schoolgirl for company twice every week... I would hope I never get bored, if I were you..."

The smiles are all gone now. There is no colour in her cheeks.

My work here is done.

"Well, this has been a most illuminating chat, doctor... Platt, was it?" Smiling briskly, I stand up, and this time I shake her hand, which trembles when I let it go. "I will see you again on Thursday, I believe. Good day to you."

She makes no attempt to stop me as I flounce out of the room. Well outside I pull out my pocket watch.

Just twenty minutes! Some work on the routine and I'm sure we can get it down to five. Ah, lovely. I can get used to this.