I was bone tired.

My twelve-hour shift at St. Mungo's had just ended. I was really looking forward to getting home and curling up in bed. Preferably with a book to read on the bedside table. I felt as if I'd been working forever. My time at St. Mungo's was tiresome but eventful; I couldn't imagine my life without the constant motion that came with being a Healer.

I took off my lab coat and yawned before letting my eyes droop shut the tiniest bit. My feet dragged along the linoleum floor as I searched for my bag. I was dying for a cup of hot chocolate, and I figured I would stop by the cafeteria before going back to the flat.

I finally found my wallet, holding it up triumphantly as if it was trophy in honor of my long day at work.

"Healer Granger!"

I cursed under my breath as I turned around slowly. It was my obnoxious boss, Kieran. He never seemed to understand that Healers had lives outside of the hospital. He didn't have much of a life; from what I understood, when he left the hospital he went home and read more medical articles to prepare for the next day at work. He volunteered for longer shifts. Unfortunately, I was not nearly as dedicated to my job.

"We need you for a patient."

"My shift ended ten minutes ago." I made a valiant effort to keep the irritation out of my voice. I really did.

"You're the expert on Dark spells in the hospital. The patient has some serious nerve damage. You're the only one who has a chance at reversing the effects."

I sighed. If only I'd left a couple minutes earlier. "Are you sure you can't get anyone else? If this is going to require surgery…"

"Malfoy."

My eyebrows drew together. Malfoy. I had heard that name in passing from time to time (on the news, especially) because of Draco's highly successful consulting firm. But I hadn't spoken to, or seen, a Malfoy in years. Why was Draco taken to St. Mungo's? Surely he had the money to afford a much higher-end, posh hospital facility if he fell ill. Even if he hadn't had such a successful business, he still had that massive Malfoy fortune passed down through generations of slimy, selfish gits. "The patient?"

"It's Lucius Malfoy."

I automatically flinched. Surely that was a conflict of interest, considering Lucius had often (however indirectly) tried to kill me. More than once. Not to mention I had looked him in the eyes as he had tried to kill my best friends and stood by as his sister tortured me. "I can't treat Lucius Malfoy."

Kieran's face abruptly hardened with contempt. "You can and you will, Healer Granger. Lucius Malfoy has done his time, and I will not have prejudice in my hospital."

That had been one of the things I had admired most about Kieran: his insistence on former Death Eater rights. While most of the employees at the hospital had turned their noses up at the sight of the Dark Mark, Kieran had gotten every one of them treated.

I let out a breath and nodded. I knew I was good at my job; there was very little I couldn't handle. "Of course."

Kieran abruptly turned around and started towards the main hallway, clearly expecting me to follow him. I immediately matched his brisk pace. "He was brought in fifteen minutes ago," he started. "He was convulsing sharply, eyes glazed over, couldn't speak. An emergency contact wasn't listed in his file, so we couldn't call to check if it was an allergic reaction."

"How do you know it's Dark magic?"

He shook his head grimly. "Our usual spell therapies for seizures and allergies aren't working. His regular motor functions are degenerating. Process of elimination."

Suddenly, Lucius Malfoy was rolled right in front of me on a stretcher. His pale face looked strange under the lights of the hospital; his bones jutted out sharply from his skin. His moribund appearance stunned me for a moment; I couldn't feel the wand in my hand.

"Ms. Granger," Healer Goffrey prompted, shaking me out of the strange spell.

"Who brought him here?" I asked, turning my face to the side so I wouldn't have to look at him.

"We don't know," another Healer said nervously. "He was dropped off in the waiting room and an orderly found him on the floor."

"No one saw the person who dropped him off? No one thought to stop him and ask what happened to him?" My frustration leaked into my spell work, which had clearly gotten shoddy because of exhaustion.

"Shit," I said. "There's only one option we have left. You all are going to have to pull out your wands."

They immediately obeyed. I was the uncontested expert on cursebreaking in the hospital, and they usually followed my command when it came to cases like this.

I closed my eyes slowly. To carry out the spell, I had to be completely calm. Any sort of worry or anxiety would immediately amplify when I came to Lucius' health. It was incredibly dangerous, and if it didn't work... well. There was no hope. "Repeat after me," I said softly. "Reducere tenebris."

Their wands glowed as they followed my lead, and our magic intertwined over Lucius's chest. I listened to the sound of his heartbeat, still keeping a tight grip on my control. "Just a few more seconds," I told my fellow Healers. "Just a few more seconds, and it'll…"

The chain of magical energy abruptly died off. My wand dropped out of my hand.

His heartbeat had stopped.

"It's… That should have worked," I whispered. I almost put my hands on his chest and pumped my arms, the way I'd seen muggle doctors on those old television shows do to save a dying patient. This wasn't happening. I was an excellent Healer; I beat impossible odds every day. Lucius Malfoy couldn't have been the exception. Not after he had survived so long under the darkest wizard of all time.

My stomach rose to my throat and blocked the pathway to air.

"I'm sorry, Granger." Kieran said.

"Time of death," Healer Lutz pronounced, "4:21 A.M."

"I'll have to alert his son and wife immediately," I said, dazed. It was surreal. I'd had Lucius Malfoy on a stretcher in front of me, and I'd allowed him to die.

"Granger, we aren't expecting you to break the news to the family," Kieran said gently.

I shook my head. "No. I'll do it."

Logically, I shouldn't have felt anything for him. Logically, I should have felt indifferent to his death.

But Lucius was someone's father and someone's husband. I knew this about all of the patients I had lost before, but it had never hit me so hard before: it was end to a lifetime, a lifetime of struggle to survive and thrive. And after all those years, it had been ended by a few whispered words.