Prologue
St. Mungo’s had never looked better.
The grand hall, once a place of hurried whispers and weary footsteps, now shone under the glow of enchanted chandeliers. Banners bearing the hospital’s insignia hung from the high ceilings, shifting subtly between colors, as if breathing in the magic that had gone into restoring the place. The air hummed with a mix of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional flicker of magic as staff bustled about making last-minute adjustments.
At the center of it all, Pansy Parkinson directed the proceedings with an air of cool efficiency. Dressed in elegant but understated robes, she held a clipboard in one hand and waved her wand at a floating seating chart with the other. When a row of chairs rearranged themselves an inch off-center, she exhaled sharply and muttered, “I swear, if one more piece of furniture decides to test me today…”
A laugh came from behind her. “You do realize most people won’t notice a few inches of misalignment, right?”
Pansy turned to find Theodre Nott watching her with an infuriatingly amused expression, leaning against a pillar as if he had all the time in the world.
“Please,” she scoffed. “This is a grand reopening, not a student assembly. Everything needs to be perfect.”
Theo smirked, tilting his head toward the crowd. “And yet, perfection or not, the hospital’s still standing. Miraculous, really.”
Pansy rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. The event was a success—at least, so far.
Across the room, Hermione Granger had just arrived, her Healer’s robes swapped for formal yet simple attire. Her presence, like everything else about her, was steady and purposeful. As she scanned the room, Ron Weasley sidled up next to her, hands tucked into the pockets of his dress robes.
“You’re not working this event, Hermione,” Ron reminded her, following her gaze.
She huffed. “I know that, Ron.”
He grinned, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “You say that, but you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m going to find something to fix’ look.”
She sighed but let a small smile slip. “Force of habit.”
Ron didn’t press further, just offered her a drink from the passing tray before turning to take a round through the crowd himself.
Draco Malfoy arrived with the kind of presence that suggested he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. He wasn’t dressed to draw attention, but that never seemed to stop people from noticing him. His posture was impeccable, his expression unreadable, and his eyes sharp as they flicked across the room.
His left arm, hidden beneath his sleeve and well placed glamour, held no visible trace of its history tonight.
Not far from him, Ginny Weasley had taken up a post near the bar, chatting easily with a few fellow Quidditch players. Despite being on leave for the event, she carried herself with the casual confidence of someone who spent more time dodging Bludgers than attending formal gatherings. When her gaze caught Draco’s across the room, she raised an eyebrow, as if amused he had actually shown up.
Draco ignored it, instead turning his attention to the sound of familiar footsteps approaching.
Harry Potter had arrived, predictably relaxed in his formal robes, looking as though he belonged here despite the slight discomfort he always seemed to have with these kinds of events. His eyes found Draco’s almost immediately, and something passed between them—an understanding, unspoken but acknowledged.
Draco smirked, breaking the moment. “Potter. Must be a special occasion if you’re bothering to wear dress robes.”
Harry, unbothered, returned the smirk. “Draco. Must be a special occasion if you’re actually socializing.”
Beside Harry, Ron snorted into his drink, shaking his head. “You two get weirder every year.”
Harry's smirk widened. Draco, however, sent Ron a flat look. “Weasley.”
Ron lifted his glass in response. “Malfoy.”
Despite himself, Draco let out a slow breath, something suspiciously close to amusement crossing his face before he turned his attention back to the crowd.
The night pressed on, conversation and laughter filling the once-quiet halls. Some guests reminisced about the hospital’s past, some spoke of its future, but for many, this night was simply a moment to step forward—to exist in something other than war and grief.
But beneath the pleasantries and formalities, among the clinks of champagne glasses and the flickers of polite conversation, there was something else—something quieter, something unspoken.
It was in the way Pansy smoothed down a crease on the nearest tablecloth, checking every detail with a practiced eye.
It was in the way Theo watched the room, never lingering too long on any one person, but always observing.
It was in the way Hermione took a deep breath, letting herself settle for just a moment before someone inevitably dragged her into conversation.
It was in the way Ron stuck close to her, drink in hand, making sure she didn’t get too caught up in her own head.
It was in the way Ginny, despite being on leave, still stood like an athlete about to step onto a pitch—relaxed, but always ready.
It was in the way Harry and Draco, who had fought on opposite sides once, now stood in the same room, exchanging jabs as if the past hadn’t left them scarred.
It was in the way Draco, for all his sarcasm and careful detachment, was here at all.
The reopening of St. Mungo’s wasn’t just about the hospital. It was about them, about what they had become, about what they were still trying to be.
And though none of them would say it aloud—not yet, not tonight—it was about healing, in more ways than one.