After everything that had happened, Bergman finally figured it out.
No matter what he wanted to do, the Dragon Reserve had to take its first step forward—or everything else would be meaningless. And that first step required one thing above all else: Galleons, and a lot of them.
Someone had just brought in a full three thousand Galleons. If he gave nothing in return, even he had to admit that would be excessive.
And a legal dragon-breeding certificate set to activate in ninety-eight years… well, that was nearly a century. All things considered, it wasn't such an unreasonable request.
As for the promise to cover future dragon-rearing expenses—and the dragon eggs—by that time, even if he were still alive, he'd be long retired. Whatever decisions his successor made after that wouldn't be his problem.
Bergman's dramatic shift in attitude left Dumbledore, standing nearby, completely stunned.
He had listened carefully to the entire conversation and hadn't missed a single word, yet somehow still couldn't make sense of how the tone had changed so drastically.
Just moments ago, Mr. Strick had adamantly refused to issue any kind of breeding license. Now he was practically pushing it.
And Kyle, on the other hand, had started playing hard to get.
Did I… fall asleep? Was I too weak to stay awake and missed something?
That can't be right…
Perplexed and missing a chunk of the context, Dumbledore could only conclude that Kyle's actions had completely exceeded the boundaries of his understanding.
Of course, neither Kyle nor Bergman had any idea what was running through Dumbledore's mind—and even if they did, they wouldn't have cared.
Kyle certainly didn't.
As for Bergman… well, he was just an old servant. What he thought hardly mattered.
And the promise Bergman made was enough to tempt Kyle.
So, the gold coins that had been pulled out went right back into the suitcase. Amid the pleasant clink of coins, Bergman wrote up a new legal dragon-breeding certificate for Kyle.
It was the same complicated incantation as before, and when Bergman signed his name, the magic in the contract activated.
Of course, he added a long string of clauses and conditions to the parchment—restrictions meant to prevent the holder from harming dragons or using them for any sort of illicit trade.
Kyle didn't object—after all, he had no intention of doing either.
Dragon blood and scales weren't worth much.
Once he got back, he could probably stew dragon blood just for the taste and still have more than enough to get sick of it.
When Bergman handed over the second parchment sealed with contract magic, Kyle finally let a satisfied—almost triumphant—smile cross his face.
These two documents were, aside from Ariana, the biggest rewards of the entire trip.
Both parties seemed to worry the other might suddenly regret everything, so the moment the deal was done, they stood up in perfect unison.
"How about staying for a meal?" Bergman asked with a smile.
"No thanks. I've still got a few things to handle—I need to get back to London as soon as possible," Kyle replied.
In a place where even a wealthy guest would be served nothing more than wild herbs and roots, Kyle didn't expect to find much worth sticking around for. He'd rather get going.
Of course, Bergman was only being polite. Right now, the Reserve barely had enough food for its own people—there was no way they had enough to entertain guests.
That said, in another hour, that would no longer be the case.
...
Kyle and Dumbledore returned to the beech tree where they had arrived, without asking Bergman to see them off.
Dumbledore kept glancing at him, wanting to speak several times but unable to find the right words.
"It's alright, Professor. You'll understand soon enough why I did all this," Kyle said with a smile, pulling out the two parchments. "Once your memory comes back."
Dumbledore shook his head slowly. "Maybe I can guess. These conditions that seem harsh would be a bad deal for anyone else—but for you, they're just right."
"They're just a bonus—or more accurately, a prerequisite," Kyle said. "It's the second contract that I was really after."
He opened his hand and let the two parchments fall to the ground.
"Hide them well," he said softly, flicking a single Galleon into the air.
Under Dumbledore's puzzled gaze, a Niffler suddenly sprang out of nowhere. It snatched the coin first—of course—then grabbed the parchments and darted into a crack in the ground.
"What are you doing?" Dumbledore asked, baffled.
"Hiding them, of course," Kyle replied. "The contract says ninety-eight years. But what if I take it back using a Time-Turner and it doesn't recognize the time jump?
"That's why the safest plan is to make sure it really experiences the full ninety-eight years—down to the second. And for that, I need to stash it somewhere secure."
"Ah..." Dumbledore opened his mouth but didn't know what to say. He hadn't expected Kyle to be this thorough.
But Kyle had no other choice. After this trip, he likely wouldn't be able to use that Time-Turner again. He had to account for every possible complication.
What if he went back and the contract only counted a day as having passed?
At least with a magical contract, the parchment wouldn't rot or decay with time. At worst, it was a little extra work—far better than having all his effort go to waste.
Before long, the Niffler leapt out from the crack again.
These magical creatures had an odd but incredibly useful ability—they could slip through just about any gap. Even the metal vaults in Muggle banks were no more secure to a Niffler than an open cabinet.
That's why they weren't just expert treasure-hunters—they were brilliant at hiding things too… provided, of course, they weren't interested in the object themselves. If it had been a coin or a gem, chances were it would've ended up in their pouch for good.
But a parchment covered in writing? The Niffler didn't care in the slightest.
"Did you hide it properly?" Kyle asked.
The Niffler patted its chest with its tiny paws, as if to say, You can count on me.
"Excellent." Kyle tossed another gold coin to the wide-eyed Niffler.
While all this was going on, Dumbledore stood by silently. Only after the Niffler dove back into Kyle's suitcase did he finally speak.
"Can we go back now?"
"Uh... not yet," Kyle said, sounding a little sheepish. "Actually, there's still one more thing I need to take care of."
"One more thing?" Dumbledore looked visibly exasperated.
How long has he even been here? Wasn't Kyle supposed to be here to take him back? Why did it feel like Kyle was the one running errands?
"It's just a small thing, really. I'll be quick." Kyle thought for a moment, then said, "How about this—you rest here for a bit, and I'll go alone. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Seeing how frail Dumbledore looked, Kyle wasn't entirely confident he could manage another long-distance trip.
And like he said, this really was the last task left. If all went well, he'd be back in a few minutes—no need for both of them to go.
Dumbledore considered it and agreed.
Though he wasn't so weak that he couldn't use Apparition or a Portkey, they still had to use the Time-Turner afterward.
Spanning almost a hundred years in one go was no small feat. Better to save up a bit of energy.
"I'll be back soon," Kyle said, snapping off a twig from a nearby branch.
"Portus."
The twig began to vibrate and emit a faint blue glow, and in the next instant, it whisked Kyle away.
For long-distance travel, Kyle still preferred Portkeys over the more mentally exhausting Apparition.
He passed through a swirling blur of colors and landed moments later on solid ground.
The barren mountain landscape transformed into a lively pub, though no one around him seemed the least bit surprised by his sudden appearance. They were all wizards—this sort of thing was old news to them.
Kyle didn't pay them any attention either. He adjusted his robes and strode confidently through the Leaky Cauldron, heading into Diagon Alley through the back courtyard.
Hogwarts must have been about to start term—first-year students had already received their letters. Compared to his last visit, Diagon Alley was bustling.
Wizards of every age filled the streets, but the eleven-year-olds stood out the most—soon-to-be first-years who gawked and shouted in amazement at every shop window like they'd never seen the world before. Easy to spot, really.
Kyle squeezed past the crowds and stopped in front of a shop located in the middle of Diagon Alley.
The last time he'd passed by, the shop had a Closed sign hanging on the door. Now, the sign was gone, and the owner was inside, enthusiastically showing off his merchandise to a group of young witches and wizards—none of them looked older than their early teens.
"Biting Frisbee... Looks like a normal plate, right? But try to eat off it and it'll leap up and bite you right on the nose."
"Sharp eye, young man! These are fresh-picked sour-blast pods. One bite and you'll lose your sense of taste for the entire day!"
...
Kyle raised an eyebrow. He hadn't paid close attention before, but listening to the shopkeeper now, he realized—was this a joke shop from a hundred years ago?
A little over a month ago, back when he first arrived in Diagon Alley, Kyle had bought a dragon eggshell from this very shop. An Antipodean Opaleye shell—one of the core ingredients for brewing Felix Felicis.
He had also paid a high price to place an order for a full dragon egg.
At the time, the shop didn't have any in stock, and the owner said he'd have to go look elsewhere. That "errand" ended up lasting several days—far longer than they'd agreed.
Kyle had assumed the worst—that the guy had gotten himself killed, probably robbed for the egg. Even in this era, a full dragon egg was rare enough to make anyone a target.
Later, some dark wizards had caused trouble, and Kyle had been forced to leave Diagon Alley early to avoid being caught by the Aurors.
Then came the situation with Ariana, and the whole dragon egg affair had gradually slipped from his mind.
It wasn't until he was in the Romanian Dragon Reserve that Bergman mentioned dragon eggs—and Kyle suddenly remembered he still had unfinished business back in Diagon Alley. So he figured he'd drop by before heading home.
He hadn't held out much hope. The shopkeeper had already been gone longer than promised, and dragon eggs were hard to come by. Still, if he could get another, that would be a stroke of luck.
And with a Portkey, the trip barely took any time at all.
What he didn't expect—was that the shopkeeper had actually returned.
Maybe Kyle's stare was too direct, because the man, in the middle of pitching another product, instinctively turned toward the door.
Their eyes met.
"I'm sorry, kids," said the shop owner, Willie Tom, clearing his throat. "We're closed. If you need anything, come back when we open next time."
"But it's not even noon yet," someone complained.
"Then that just means it's lunchtime for me."
Before anyone could argue, or even react, he forcefully shooed them all out and slammed the door shut behind them.
"Are you insane?" He turned and growled at Kyle, who had appeared inside without him noticing. "The Aurors are hunting you everywhere, and you have the nerve to show up in Diagon Alley—broad daylight, no less—and park yourself in front of my shop? You're not worried about dragging me down with you?"
"Not at all," Kyle replied matter-of-factly. "Even if you get hauled off to Azkaban, what's it got to do with me? I wouldn't care."
Willie Tom was momentarily speechless.
As harsh as it sounded, he had to admit—it was painfully true.
And now that he mentioned it, Kyle suddenly remembered: right, the Aurors were still after him. So much had happened recently that he'd honestly forgotten.
Aurors these days are really this committed? It's been what, a month? They're still not letting it go?
"So... you really killed Horlick and those people?" the shopkeeper asked, clearly curious.
"You shouldn't throw around baseless accusations like that. I don't know any Horlick. Keep slandering me, and I might just report you to the Aurors," Kyle said.
Naturally, he wasn't going to admit anything. He hadn't done a thing. Those people just happened to fall asleep after looking at his trunk.
Maybe they were just the sleepy type. Not his fault.
The shopkeeper didn't respond. He wanted to tell Kyle that the Ministry's Aurors had already identified him as the true culprit behind the deaths of five wizards, and that they'd even received clearance to kill on sight if necessary. At this point, denying it was meaningless.
But the words never made it out.
It wasn't like it was some closely guarded secret anyway. Kyle only needed to walk a few steps outside to see the wanted posters plastered all over the walls.
Saying it out loud might just scare him off—and Willie Tom knew exactly why Kyle had come.
And right now, the last thing Willie Tom wanted was for Kyle to get caught by the Aurors.
Not because he cared—but because of the Galleons.
"Thank Merlin!" he said, switching to a far more pleasant tone. "I was starting to think that thing would fall back into my hands. I didn't think you'd have the guts to come back."
"I just came to see if you'd been robbed or killed by some other wizard." Since the shopkeeper brought it up, Kyle didn't bother beating around the bush. "Looks like you managed to get your hands on what I ordered."
"Of course I did," Willie Tom said confidently. "Taking something from me isn't that easy."
"Then hand it over," Kyle said. "I'm in a hurry—and I'm guessing you'd prefer I don't linger around your shop either."
"Now, now, don't say that. You're one of my best customers."
Despite the flattery, he moved quickly, stepping over to a painting and whispering something to the figure inside.
With a click, the painting swung open, revealing a hidden compartment that looked like a vault.
From inside, Willie Tom pulled out a round, heavy egg.
How to describe it... the egg looked rather unremarkable—like any old oval-shaped stone you might find by the roadside. It was a dull, grayish green, covered in pitted black spots.
Something like that, if tossed near a riverbank, wouldn't attract a second glance from a passerby. But in Kyle's eyes, it gleamed.
"A Romanian Longhorn egg!"
If there was any fire-breathing dragon rarer than most in the magical world, the Romanian Longhorn was definitely among them. For a dragon, they were relatively gentle, massive in size, produced a generous amount of dragon blood, and most notably, had a pair of golden horns on their head that were worth a fortune.
In fact, just one pair of horns could match the value of half a Common Welsh Green.
That's why professional dragon hunters had always favored them—and naturally, their numbers had dwindled over the years.
Kyle had always suspected the Dragon Reserve was built in Romania precisely to protect this native species more easily.
He hadn't expected it—Willie Tom had really brought back something this rare. For a Romanian Longhorn, two hundred Galleons was a fair price.
"You've got a sharp eye, that's for sure," Willie Tom said smugly. "I had to sink a lot of Galleons into this one. Nearly got nabbed by Aurors from the Ministry, too."
He launched into a rambling account of all the trouble he'd gone through to secure the egg, how many dangers he'd faced, and how close he came to disaster.
But to Kyle, every word practically screamed the same thing:
He wants to raise the price.
If it had been yesterday, Kyle might've tossed him an extra ten Galleons or so out of courtesy. But now? No chance.
Thud!
A heavy pouch hit the table.
"That's the remaining payment we agreed on. With the deposit I gave you earlier, that's exactly two hundred Galleons. If you think it's not enough, feel free to report me to the Aurors. I'm sure they'd pay handsomely for a solid tip."