The trip was a disaster.

The series of Apparitions to London was much harder than Hermione remembered, and the effort drained her magical reserves. She was so out of practice that on the last jump, she was certain she'd Splinched herself. She thanked Circe when she felt rain pelting every part of her body.

The London she met with was nothing like her most recent fantasies. The city's grime oozed forth from overflowing dumpsters and leaky overhangs. Bold graffiti coated every available signpost. Wanted posters lined construction fencing, showcasing wild-eyed Death Eaters and their deranged smiles. She'd lost count of the number of rats darting in and out of alleyways. Two had run across her boots, and a third was halfway up her sock before she could shake it off. She remembered one of Judy's favourite sayings. Everything bad always comes in threes.

It didn't bode well for her appointment at St. Mungo's.

Hermione made certain to keep her glamour up as she stepped into the famous hospital — the last thing she needed was to be recognised. Patients and their families sat in a bleak waiting room, where a single Healer worked the reception desk.

"Hello," she said, shrugging off stray raindrops. "I'm here for a tour of the Janus Thickey Ward."

"Name?" The Healer's eyes remained fixed on the schedule before her.

"Sylvie Snowdrop."

"You're early. Have a seat."

She stretched a smile across her face in case the woman lifted her eyes. "Thank you."

She found a plasticky chair next to a young wizard covered in puce boils trying valiantly to shield himself from view with a copy of the Prophet. DARK LORD'S FAVOURITE SOLDIER NO MORE! He turned the page before she could see the deceased Death Eater's face, his blush matching the disgusting pustules.

From this vantage point, the dire conditions of the hospital were plain to see. The ceiling above her sagged and bubbled in numerous places. There was no pleasant sterile scent like in her parents' dental office. Instead, her nostrils were assaulted with the odours of bodily fluids in varying stages of ripeness. The tile beneath her feet was smeared with something — dirt, blood, faeces — or perhaps all three.

It was unbearable. Abominable. There was no way she'd tour this place. How this level of squalor was acceptable anywhere, especially in a hospital, was beyond her. St. Mungo's was the only home some of the heroic, ageing witches and wizards within would ever see again.

She looked again at the man bedevilled with blisters. How long had he been waiting here for medical care? Hermione deduced from the way the abscesses wept down his cheeks that it had been at least twelve hours. And the way he gripped the armrests made her suspect they hadn't provided even a meagre pain potion. He winced at her examining stare.

Does the Ministry know about this? Does Harry? Who is in charge here?

Hermione lept into problem-solving mode. She should get a photographer out here. Interview patients. Raise a fuss about the foetid floors and disgraceful conditions. She shivered as she imagined what might pass as bed linens or food here.

But that would require giving up her anonymity. And as bold as she'd been yesterday, she wasn't sure she wanted to relinquish it yet. In the meantime, if she could be assured it would go to good use, she could donate some of the Malfoy family money. She never heard a peep from Malfoy or his solicitor about her spending. Perhaps the pursestrings had more slack than she realised. It wasn't as if the Malfoys hadn't been exceedingly generous post-war. According to Harry's letters, Narcissa and her son bankrolled the entire restoration of Hogwarts, Gringotts, and established a scholarship fund for Muggle-born students. As for Hermione, she'd made several sizable donations, all anonymous, to charities aiding magical creatures. She chuckled at the thought of Malfoy seeing those each month.

"Miss Snowdrop?" a bored voice droned.

In the midst of these thoughts, Hermione realised she'd dodged two hexes with her visit that day. First, her parents would never, ever set foot in St. Mungo's if she had anything to say about it. Second, it hadn't occurred to her until now as she heard her alias, but she could have never checked them in here even if she wanted it more than anything.

Judy. It was so obvious Hermione nearly slapped herself. Judy didn't know exactly what Hermione did to them in Australia, but if someone were to pry, they'd gather enough information from her to realise someone had been using advanced, forbidden dark spells and potions on her parents for many years. And that someone was one of the most famous, beloved witches of all time. Hermione Granger.

She could see it now. Actually, it's Hermione Malfoy. Yes, married to Draco Malfoy, why do you ask?

She'd live out the rest of her days in Azkaban.

Why did I think I could do this? Why did I leave the safety of the cottage? Why do I always set my sights too high?

This is a nightmare, she thought as she unstuck herself from the heinous chair. Her glamour flickered in front of her eyes, then disappeared as she used the last of her magic to separate her shoes from the viscera on the floor.

She had to get out of there before she was recognized. The doors were only a few feet away. She'd find somewhere less crowded and rest before attempting the journey home.

Then, the third hex, the one she couldn't dodge, turned his grey eyes on hers.

The trip was a disaster.

Yesterday, Draco Malfoy received the best news of his life. His father, Lucius Malfoy, was dead.

His childhood friend and trusted solicitor Theodore Nott strode alongside him now, navigating the ramshackle hallways of St. Mungo's Hospital. Passersby would think them an odd pair. Theo wore a conservative set of dress robes and kept his dark locks long. Draco stood a head taller, dressed in a black Muggle jumper and black jeans in sharp contrast to his short platinum hair. But in reality, the two had much in common. While they weren't close during their tenure in Slytherin, they were both the first and only sons of Sacred Twenty-eight families and the epitome of Pureblood stereotypes. In short, they were the most quick-witted, foul-mouthed polite gentlemen in London.

They'd formed a fragile trio with Greg Goyle after the war, but Lucius soon put an end to that. His claws extended far beyond Azkaban's walls, maintaining the mangled network of Death Eaters that remained loyal, even in a world without the Dark Lord. Goyle felt the absence of Crabbe like a phantom limb, and while Theo and Draco determined that the future welcomed all magical beings of any progeny, Goyle cast his lot in with Lucius and never looked back. Draco didn't know where he was now, and he was none too eager to find out. He worried not only for his own safety if Goyle knew that Draco's loyalties had changed, but the safety of those close to him, too.

So many of his friends were lost, either to death or worse fates. He blamed Lucius for this and so much more.

"They've put him in the basement. Fitting, really," Theo said.

Draco said nothing.

He was about to see Lucius for the first time since his mother's death. He wondered if the years had been as cruel to his father as they'd been to him. Draco's own brief stint in Azkaban haunted his dreams, although it hadn't been the focus of his nightmares for the past nine years. As if demanding attention, his prison identification tattoo began to itch. He rolled up his left sleeve to scratch it, the snake of his Dark Mark flickering its tongue between the numbers.

Lucius made him take the Mark in his sixth year. He was a bully, a tyrant of a father. He manipulated everyone he came across, but especially his son. In public, Lucius acted proud of the little dragon. But in private, all Draco knew was the sharp end of his wand and the backside of his hand.

Did his father have a good death? He hoped not.

Draco ducked under a pipe that jutted from the low, soggy ceiling. Brown droplets of an unknown substance plopped from the rusted metal to the floor below. "Sweet Circe, this place is disgusting."

"Concerned about your Merino wool?" Theo taunted.

"It's cashmere, you uncivilised swine. Let's get this over with."

A sudden temperature drop precipitated their discovery of the morgue. Both Theo and Draco cast warming charms over themselves, their visible breaths the only hint that it was below freezing. The double doors swung open and a plump man with rosy cheeks emerged from the chill. He wore a face shield, plastic apron, and flimsy shoe coverings. After confirming their identities and handing them their own protective gear, the mortician escorted them through.

The trek to the basement had horrified Draco, but he still wasn't prepared for the squalid conditions of the walk-in refrigerator. Lucius deserved such treatment, or worse, if it existed, so he was unbothered as the mortician slid a body, covered in a white sheet, out of a giant drawer. But presumably, there were other good souls here, souls that did not deserve to lay naked on slabs that hadn't seen a cleaning charm in decades.

The scent of death and decay was so pungent that Draco stepped out into the hall and applied a Bubble-Head charm. Theo caught on quickly and did the same. The mortician, unbothered, wandlessly procured a clipboard and began rattling off the required questions.

"Which one of you is related to the deceased? Or is it both of you?"

"I'm his son," Draco replied in a curt tone. He thought he felt his Dark Mark burn.

"Thought so, although you never can tell who's related these days, what with the end of bloodline preservation. Don't know what the world's coming to," he tsked.

Lovely. A sympathiser. Draco turned to Theo, who had enough disgust for the both of them written all over his face.

"Yes, we Purebloods really do have it rough, don't we? Well-educated, rich as hell, and dare I say it, so good-looking that women just—"

"Theo," Draco warned. It wasn't the time or place to convert more magical beings to their new way of thinking. And it would fall on deaf ears. The mortician ignored them in favour of the form on the clipboard.

"This says you're Draco Malfoy," the man squinted through the face shield.

Here it comes.

"So this must be Lucius Malfoy. Merlin's beard," he let out a low whistle. "We went to school together. Never got in with his crowd, but I knew of him. I suppose everyone knew of him these past few years. No matter where you were, you couldn't escape the Malfoy name."

"You're teaching to the star student," Theo muttered.

"Right then," the man flushed a deeper red. "Let's have a look."

He flipped back the sheet without ceremony. There, naked and tinged blue, laid the corpse of Lucius Malfoy II. Other than a missing index finger, he looked almost exactly the same as the last time Draco saw him.

Draco didn't hesitate. "That's him."

"Excellent. I mean, thank you for confirming. Not excellent that your father's dead."

"No, excellent is the right word for it."

"Do you want a moment?"

"No. Is there anything else you need from me?"

"Just one more thing…" his reedy voice trailed off as he scanned the form once more. "How would you like to dispose of the body?"

"I don't care what you do with it."

Theo cut in. "What are his options?"

"We can transfer it to a funeral home. They can walk you through the process of either preservation for burial in the family plot or cremation. You can check his will to see if he had a preference. I can recommend Cole & Hathaway, they are the best money can buy and the funerals themselves are very tasteful. Azkaban reported the cause of death as natural, and his face isn't too banged up so if you want to have an open-casket affair that's an option. They do the graveside service, luncheon afterward, the whole thing. Or you could donate his body to magical science. We've got several groups of researchers keen to learn more about the long-term effects of dark magic. Your father is probably the best specimen they could hope for, considering he's mostly intact despite his years of imprisonment."

Draco stared the man down. "Let the Devil's Snare have him for all I care."

"He'll donate the body. If only for the tax deduction," Theo joked.

"Oh, there's no tax deduction," the mortician said. He rummaged around in his desk drawer for another form.

"How is it a donation then?" Theo whined. "No breaks for Purebloods, indeed."

Draco rolled his eyes and signed the stack of forms handed to him on the clipboard, sealing them with his own magic to confirm the details within. And with that, Draco and Theo found themselves in the maze of hallways once more. They waved away their Bubble-Head charms and looked for signage to lead them out. There was none.

Theo chose a direction and Draco followed his billowing robes. "This place is beyond appalling. I'd vomit to prove my point but it seems plenty of people have done so before me," Theo gestured to a wall covered in sick.

"Maybe I should make a donation. As my solicitor, can you make sure it's the deductible kind?"

"Done."

Draco had plenty of money, even after his many contributions to charity and contributions to Ministry officials. A wise young witch once showed Draco and his mother the light, and Draco hadn't strayed from it since. He secured his inheritance years ago when he married his second choice of bride. Surprisingly, his wife wasn't bleeding him dry, though, in his opinion, Granger was well within her right to drain the coffers. Theo shared with him the financial reports each month, although he didn't read them. Whatever Granger — it was too weird to think of her as Mrs. Malfoy — wanted to buy was her own business.

An image of his wife the day of their engagement and wedding ceremony sprang to his mind. She'd worn black, her curls tumbling around her shoulders. He thought of her now and then, especially when he hit the bottom of a bottle — less frequently now — the same colour as her eyes. Though the wedding night was undoubtedly one of the worst nights of his life, and that was really saying something, there'd been something about her that stuck with him.

His fingers twitched, remembering their awkward coupling. The Malfoy marriage ritual required it if it was to be legal, and that had been the whole point of the thing. She'd scratched her nails deep into his flesh, extracting the pound he owed her. He'd done his best to give her pleasure, bringing her to orgasm even as she sobbed. He'd cried too, afterward. On sleepless nights that blurred into early mornings, he thought of the taste of her lips as he stirred honey into his tea. He knew so much and yet so little of her.

They turned a corner and at last found the lifts. An assistant healer in lavender robes exited one of them, pushing a cart loaded with potions. As he passed, he hawked a gob of spit onto Draco's boots.

"Death Eater scum," the man hissed.

Draco didn't even turn his head. Theo held the door of a lift open for him, and once the doors closed, he examined his boots for any lingering expectorate.

The lift doors parted and the friends found themselves in the lobby once more. A healer called out for a tour of the Janus Thickey Ward.

"Draco, let's go the other way mate." Theo's voice sounded thick and strange.

Draco didn't want to spend another second in this hideous excuse for a hospital. "This is where we came in. I can see the doors from here."

"Yes, but —" Theo started. Draco followed Theo's panicky gaze across the bustling room. His eyes were stuck on a brunette witch standing with her back to them.

"I know you've just had to see my arsehole father's corpse, but it's not like you to be this struck by a woman," Draco said. "Excuse me, Miss —"

"Shhhh!" Theo said, pulling at Draco's arm. If he wasn't careful, he'd create a hole in the cashmere, and wouldn't that just be the cherry on top of this fucking day?

"Theo, as your best mate, I've never seen you like this," Draco said with concern. "Come on, ask her to tea. Madam Puddifoot's is right around the corner. I swear I'll make myself scarce."

"I'm not interested."

"In that witch? I don't believe you for one second. You can't take your eyes off her. She's bloody fit from behind, I'll give you that." Draco tried to catch the witch's attention again, but she seemed focused on extricating her shoe from the sticky floor.

"Draco," Theo pleaded. The witch finally turned and all the blood drained from Draco's face. "That's your wife."