Cokeworth was a dour, industrial little town with rough cobble streets and a perpetual drizzle. Every surface, every brick and doorstop and bar sign was coated in a thin layer of grime, and the roads were pockmarked and uneven. Running through the little city was a dreary river, muddy and sad, too dirty to swim in but nice enough to look at when the weather was right; at the centre of it all, like the pus-filled core of an abscess, was a factory that belched smoke. Little millhouses ran in dizzying circles. Here and there, traces of life—a whitewashed fence, a neat stone wall, bright neon signs promising cold beer, a quaint little shop that had window boxes full of flowers. Unbeknownst to Hermione, she also passed—and vaguely appreciated—a small park with swingsets where Lily and Severus had befriended each other thirty years prior. 