The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Epilogue: Two Months Later

"Parkinson... Parkinson... yes, Creature-Induced Injuries," said the harassed-looking Welcome Witch at the reception area of St. Mungo's. "First floor, Hippolyta Morton Ward." She jabbed her quill toward the floor guide, then looked up for the first time since Hermione and Draco had stopped before the desk.

The blonde witch's quill froze in mid-air. "Hold on. Are you..."

"Thank you," said Hermione quickly, tugging Draco toward the double doors.

Draco's eyes glimmered with amusement. "Bored of the hero-worship already?"

"Draco," said Hermione in her most dignified tone, "I'd like to at least try to keep to our schedule. We're already late, and it's bound to be packed. Yes—see?"

The corridor beyond the double doors was chaos. Visitors swirled among Healers in lime-green robes, the crowd so thick that the portraits on the walls were nearly invisible. It took several long minutes of excuse-mes and trodden-on toes for them to reach the stairs, and by the time they got there, a current of murmurs had started to follow them. Heads turned. Necks craned. Hermione ducked into the stairwell with relief.

The stairs were just as busy, mostly with people on their way to the fourth floor—Spell Damage—but when they slipped out into the Creature-Induced Injuries floor, they found a clearer path. Soon they were entering the Hippolyta Morton Ward, a mostly empty hall of beds partitioned by gauzy, hovering curtains.

"Hermione, Malfoy," called Ron's voice from halfway down the ward. "Over here."

They approached the bed in question and found Ron, Harry, and Goyle gathered around Pansy's bedside. Pansy herself was sitting up in bed and looking artfully bored, a copy of Witch Weekly splayed open on her lap. After hugs and greetings were exchanged, Draco and Hermione drew up two more seats at the end of the bed.

"What happened, Pansy?" Hermione said, trying not to sound too worried.

Draco eyed her bandages. "I thought they were supposed to discharge you on Monday."

"They were." Pansy aimed a sullen look at the bandaging, too. "Then a lot of bruising showed up out of nowhere, so they're doing more tests. Apparently I'll be in here for at least another week."

"Ah, well," said Ron with deliberate carelessness. "More time to learn—what was it?" He craned his neck to read the cover of Witch Weekly. "Seven Wand-Free Ways to Put That Special Wizard Under Your Spell."

"It's a worthless list," Pansy said. "They don't even mention getting an Azkaban sentence."

Everyone around the bed laughed, Ron's ears took on a pleased red tint, and Pansy looked slightly cheered.

Hermione snuck another look at Ron, who had dark circles like Pansy's under his eyes. After the battle, Pansy had remained in the Hogwarts Infirmary for two weeks. St. Mungo's had been so full of injured people that anything non-life-threatening had been designated to other, less well-equipped hospitals across the country. And while Nagini's bite hadn't worsened at Hogwarts, neither had Madam Pomfrey had the resources to heal it completely. Eventually, in mid-June, after experiencing worrisome side effects, she'd been transferred to St. Mungo's.

Throughout it all, Ron had visited nearly every day, even spending some nights at Pansy's bedside. A clutter of both their possessions had accumulated at the bedside table: hand-drawn get-well cards from Pansy's younger brothers, Ron's beaten-down chess set, two imposing bouquets from Theo Nott and Blaise Zabini, a stack of Quidditch Quarterlies that might have belonged to either of them—Pansy was a staunch fan of the Falmouth Falcons, to Ron's outrage—and a jar full of opaline dragon scales that Charlie had given to Ron, which Pansy had been crafting into jewellery.