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These are done in a hurry so translation may not be good
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Chapter 75
Carrying the basket of fruit he had just purchased, Draco Malfoy walked steadily toward the final destination of his errand—Purge & Dowse Ltd.
On the surface, it was nothing more than an old, red-brick Muggle department store. A faded sign hung on the door reading Closed for Renovation. Ordinary people would never think to step inside.
But wizards knew better.
Hidden beneath this unremarkable façade was St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries—the most important, and arguably the only large-scale comprehensive hospital in the British wizarding world.
The street outside bustled with life, but under layers of concealment charms, the hospital remained perfectly hidden. Draco stopped before an inconspicuous display window. Inside stood a hopelessly outdated mannequin doll. Its paint had faded, joints stiff with age—something no modern child would give a second glance.
Time had not been kind to it.
Draco leaned in and murmured a few words.
At once, the lifeless doll stirred. Its glassy eyes shifted, and it gave a small nod, raising one stiff finger in acknowledgment.
Permission granted.
It reminded Draco faintly of the barrier at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—but this glass pane was the threshold to healing rather than travel.
Without hesitation, Draco stepped straight into the window.
There was no resistance—only the sensation of passing through cool water. Once fully inside, he glanced upward. Hanging above the entrance was a circular plaque of deep blue, edged with red, bearing the emblem of a wand crossed with a bone—the unmistakable symbol of magical healing.
After passing through a creaking iron door, Draco arrived at the ground floor.
It served as a strange hybrid of emergency ward, information desk, and reception hall. The wide corridor was packed with people. Healers in dark green robes moved briskly in every direction. Patients suffering from severe spell damage or external injuries sat along the walls, groaning softly as they waited for treatment.
Unlike a Muggle hospital, there was no sharp scent of disinfectant. Instead, the air was thick with herbal smells—pungent, sweet, and unfamiliar.
Some patients were victims of potion mishaps.
One laughed uncontrollably, then burst into tears. Another belted out the Hogwarts school song at full volume. A third crawled along the floor, sniffing wildly, convinced he was a bear searching for honey. Someone else staggered past with arms swinging backward—clearly suffering from reversed limb perception.
The results of magical accidents were bizarre, varied, and spectacular.
The healers barely batted an eye. As long as no one caused a major disturbance, this was business as usual.
Those with severe external injuries were prioritized, sent upstairs to Spell Damage or Creature-Induced Injuries, often on the second or fifth floors. Patients there were rarely in good condition.
Others sat calmly reading newspapers—The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly—clearly here for routine checkups. They observed the chaos with practiced indifference.
"Young man, you're not here as a patient, are you?"
Draco felt a light tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw a wizard in green healer's robes, thick eyebrows framing kind, alert eyes.
"My name's Augustus Pye," the healer said warmly. "Would you mind giving us a hand? This patient's a bit heavy."
Behind him lay an enormously fat man on a stretcher. His arms were thicker than his head, his face so swollen it was impossible to tell whether his eyes were open or shut. The stretcher beneath him groaned ominously, its supports visibly bending.
Draco paused. "What happened to him?"
Pye sighed. "He was only slightly overweight. Then he drank some dodgy wizarding diet potion—Merlin knows where he bought it."
Fake potions really are everywhere, Draco thought.
After a moment's consideration, he stepped forward.
His earlier hesitation had nothing to do with reluctance—just hygiene. If this were an open wound, he'd have thought twice.
"You're quite strong," Pye said in surprise as the pressure suddenly lifted. Then realization dawned. "Levitation spell."
Healers couldn't afford to waste magic unnecessarily. Every spell they cast might mean the difference between life and death later on. An outsider like Draco, however, could be more generous.
The bloated man was sent to the fourth floor—Potion and Plant Poisoning.
Only once the patient was settled did Pye finally relax. He wiped sweat from his brow and leaned against the bed.
"Thank you," he said sincerely. "Who are you here to visit?"
Draco gave a few names.
Pye nodded and rattled off several room numbers. "If anyone stops you, just mention my name. They won't trouble you."
"Thank you," Draco replied.
"I've still got patients waiting," Pye said with a sigh. "You can head upstairs yourself. All your people are on the fifth floor." He hesitated, then muttered, "Honestly, we're short-staffed. I'm assigned to Creature-Induced Injuries on the second floor, but here I am being used as extra muscle."
He only dared complain because Draco was an outsider—and because he was technically just an intern assisting the senior healer.
Draco nodded sympathetically.
With the wizarding world so small, St. Mungo's was effectively the Mayo Clinic of magical Britain. Everyone important had ties here. Anyone with sense knew better than to cause trouble.
Even Lucius Malfoy would later donate generously—earning invitations, prestige, and even prime seats at the Quidditch World Cup.
"Pye! What are you doing?" a muffled shout echoed from downstairs. "The patient's still waiting!"
Pye jumped. "Coming!"
He hurried off, calling back over his shoulder, "Goodbye, young man!"
"Thank you," Draco replied, raising a hand in farewell.
With that, he turned toward the stairs leading deeper into St. Mungo's—toward the true reason he'd come.
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