Denmark.
In Andersen's hometown of Odense, inside an abandoned factory concealed from Muggles by mistletoe, several wizards helped their injured comrades from stretchers onto hospital beds.
This was the Danish Wizarding Hospital. A healer in green robes stared at them in surprise. "Gentlemen, did you fight a fire dragon?"
"No, it was those damned Brits!" A Danish Auror with a gaping wound in his leg cursed loudly.
The healer frowned. "The man standing before you is British too, sir! Watch your language."
"Sorry, Mr. Smethwyck." Auror captain Lenstrom looked at Hippocrates Smethwyck and apologized. "We were attacked by the British Ministry of Magic just now. Many of our men were injured. He wasn't referring to you."
"The British Ministry of Magic?" Hippocrates nodded at once. "They're nothing but a bunch of bandits now. You were right to curse them. I'm ashamed to be a British wizard like them!"
Hippocrates Smethwyck had once been a healer at St Mungo's Hospital.
After Murphy's Jishi Hospital opened, St Mungo's business steadily declined until it finally shut down two years ago. Hippocrates had no choice but to look for work again. The wizarding world was so small, and there were naturally few hospitals. After making the rounds of neighboring countries, he had finally managed to find a job at this Danish Wizarding Hospital.
Naturally, Hippocrates had no favorable impression whatsoever of Jishi Hospital, which had cost him his job, or of its owner, Murphy.
Hippocrates treated everyone with great effort, but two wizards were too seriously injured for him to save. One died from a wound that refused to heal, while the other suffocated for unknown reasons.
"It's fate." He sighed. "They were unlucky."
The Aurors were overcome with grief and cursed the British wizards one after another. Hippocrates also more or less understood