Drols felt like he was riding an emotional roller coaster—one minute soaring, the next plunging straight down.
He'd been thrilled to finally uncover the identity of the mysterious benefactor, but that joy had quickly soured the moment the man produced a legal dragon-breeding certificate.
Especially once he saw the terms: not only did it include the provision of a dragon egg, it also covered all expenses related to raising the dragon. If he agreed to this, it would basically mean establishing a London branch of the Dragon Reserve.
And worse—it would be one completely outside their jurisdiction.
But refusing wasn't so simple either... Drols thought back to the second letter he'd found in Bergman's home—a letter he'd deliberately hidden and hadn't shown anyone. It subtly referenced some buried secrets from 97 years ago.
In it, Bergman had stressed how crucial that original donation of Galleons was to the Reserve's founding. In fact, it was no exaggeration to say that the Reserve's very existence and later growth were all thanks to those 3,000 Galleons.
Without that money, the whole project might have collapsed before it even began.
To be fair, Drols couldn't really blame Bergman. If he had been in that position back then, he might have made the same choice.
Trade a magical contract—one that wouldn't become valid for 97 years—in exchange for the Reserve's long-term development? Honestly, it wasn't a bad deal.
But the problem was—he wasn't Bergman.
Now someone had come knocking, contract in hand, and the man who signed it had conveniently vanished under the excuse of retirement—leaving him, the current captain, to clean up the mess. Who was he supposed to complain to?
And there was another thing that kept bothering him. Bergman had hinted—though not outright stated—that he'd once met Headmaster Dumbledore, and that he'd misunderstood his identity and owed him an apology.
At first glance, that didn't seem like a big deal. After all, Albus Dumbledore had already been alive 97 years ago—he was an adult then. It wouldn't be unusual for Bergman to have crossed paths with him.
But when Drols compared that with the oral history passed down in the Reserve, things got... interesting.
According to that account, the original benefactor had been a young man of about twenty, accompanied by an elderly servant with a long white beard.
Drols instinctively glanced at the trio standing before him now.
Ignoring Newt... they matched perfectly. A young man in his twenties, and an old man with white hair and a beard.
Coincidence? That would be way too convenient.
Sure, dragon keepers were all muscle, but that didn't mean they lacked brains. Drols wasn't a fool—and he didn't believe for a second that Bergman would bother writing so much meaningless fluff.
Especially the part about misunderstanding Dumbledore's identity and needing to apologize. There were only two people mentioned: a wealthy young man and a frail old servant. Who could possibly have been mistaken?
The answer was obvious—it had to be the latter. After all, at that time, describing Dumbledore as a wealthy young man wouldn't have been inaccurate.
But the only reason you'd need to apologize for a misjudgment... was if you'd mistaken the Headmaster of Hogwarts—the most powerful wizard of the age—for a servant.
And yet... this was 1899. Dumbledore had just graduated. Even if Bergman's eyesight was going, he wouldn't have mistaken a fresh graduate for a decrepit old man.
Unless—unless the Dumbledore Bergman had seen was the same person standing before him now.
It was a ridiculous thought. Drols found it almost impossible to accept.
But the thing was... everything Bergman had left behind pointed straight to that conclusion.
If he let his imagination stretch just a bit further...
Setting aside Newt Scamander, even the entire scene felt like déjà vu: a young man and an old wizard, side by side.
That was why he'd taken so long to return.
Bergman's house wasn't far—just a few minutes away at most. Yet he'd taken a full half-hour.
The extra time had been spent trying to convince himself to accept what all the signs were telling him, and debating whether or not to give in to the request.
By rights, if his suspicions were correct, then Kyle was exploiting a loophole—bending the rules. The Reserve had every right to reject it.
But the other side could just as easily reject them. They had no proof—only a magical contract, which put the Reserve squarely in the wrong. Even appealing to the International Confederation of Wizards would be useless.
After half an hour of internal struggle, he'd made his decision: he would honor the contract.
And honestly, anyone willing to go to this much effort wasn't going to back down just because he said no.
Look at who he was dealing with.
Newt. Dumbledore. Titans of the magical world.
And then there was Kyle—the most difficult one of the bunch. He might not be as famous as the other two, but according to Charlie Weasley, Kyle had already become a Senior Assistant to the Minister for Magic before graduating. That was a real position of power—one that could even sway the Minister's decisions to some extent.
Mishandling this could easily escalate into an international incident.
No wonder Bergman ran for the hills. That damned old—
Drols silently cursed Bergman's entire family tree, but outwardly, he kept his expression calm as he looked at Kyle.
"Since it's a magical contract signed by Mr. Bergman, the Reserve will of course honor it. So—do you want to take the dragon egg now?"
"If possible, the sooner the better," said Kyle.
He hadn't expected Drols to agree so readily—but that was just as well. It saved him a lot of time.
"Alright then." Drols let out a sigh and headed for the door. "All three of you, come with me."
Kyle quickly followed.
He thought Drols would lead them back to the same cave as before, but instead, they were taken deeper into the Reserve.
"I know what you're thinking," Drols said, turning his head. "Sorry, but I can't give you the dragon egg."
"Oh?" Kyle raised an eyebrow.
He wasn't worried that Drols was going to break his word—or worse, lure him out here to get rid of him.
With Dumbledore right behind them? Unless Drols' brain had been entirely replaced by muscle, he wouldn't dare.
"We can't remove a dragon egg from its mother, especially not one close to hatching," Drols explained.
"There aren't any other eggs available?" Kyle asked.
"Not a single one," Drols replied. "But if you don't mind, you're welcome to try taking one yourself—I won't stop you…"
"I'd rather hear your opinion first," Kyle said.
He'd have to be insane to provoke a mother dragon guarding her clutch.
"Alright," Drols sighed.
"If you're willing, I'd suggest exchanging the egg for a hatchling—one that's already capable of hunting and has left the nest."
Dragons, as apex magical beasts, don't linger near adults for long. Once they're strong enough, they leave to claim territory of their own.
"Hatchlings are a lot more trouble than eggs," Kyle said, giving Drols a pointed look.
Dragons naturally imprint on the first creature they see after hatching. That bond was a dragon keeper's greatest advantage. But by the time a dragon reaches the hatchling stage, its personality is already well-formed. Building trust with one at that point was significantly harder than raising it from an egg.
It was clear Drols didn't want Kyle's dragon getting too attached to him.
"You're not wrong," Drols admitted with a nod. "But I believe—with Mr. Scamander's help—that shouldn't be a problem for you, right?
"And hatchlings do come with the benefit of skipping some of the more time-consuming early steps."
"Of course…" Drols added, seeing Kyle wasn't responding. "If you'd really prefer the egg, we could make preparations and have two ready within the year—no longer than that."
"No need," Kyle said with a faint smile. "I'm not the patient type. A hatchling will be just fine."
He understood exactly what Drols was playing at. Even a Niffler needed emotional bonding over time. Giving someone a temperamental creature like a half-wild dragon—especially one already past the imprinting stage—meant that even someone like Newt would struggle to win its full trust.
And Drols, as a seasoned dragon keeper, knew this perfectly well. After all, keepers had their designated areas. Without special circumstances, someone raising Hungarian Horntails wouldn't go near a Swedish Short-Snout's territory.
Kyle understood that just as clearly—but he didn't care.
"However, Mr. Drols," Kyle said, "since we're replacing the egg with a hatchling, I'd like to make a small request."
"Oh? What kind of request?"
"I'd like to specify the breed," Kyle said. "Let's say... a Liondragon."
"No," Drols said immediately.
"Now that's not very fair," Kyle said, wagging a finger. "You've run into trouble, and I've already agreed to compromise. But the moment I make a tiny request, you shoot it down? What if you hand me two Welsh Greens instead?"
"They're still dragons."
"You actually think that's acceptable?" Kyle stared at him, incredulous.
He was someone who'd helped build this Reserve. Sending him off with two Welsh Greens—wasn't that a bit insulting?
"It's just that… I'm mainly interested in studying Liondragons," Newt spoke up then.
He waved a hand, motioning Kyle to step back, and walked over to Drols to quietly confer with him a short distance away.
Kyle immediately closed his mouth and waited patiently.
As for Dumbledore… he truly seemed to be here for leisure. He wandered around, inspecting the surroundings, occasionally running his hand along the bark of a nearby oak tree and musing aloud that it would make an excellent front door for Hogwarts.
Kyle didn't know much about wood, but he was fairly certain the doors that had stood at Hogwarts for a thousand years were made from something far superior to ordinary oak.
Newt worked quickly. Within just a few minutes, Drols returned.
"Liondragon, is it? Fine, I'll allow it." Drols gave Newt a resigned look. "I'm seriously starting to suspect you two did your homework on the Reserve ahead of time—otherwise, how would you know we just happened to have two juvenile Liondragons?"
"Just a coincidence," Newt said with a cheerful smile.
"Whatever it is, just don't forget your promise," Drols muttered, shaking his head. "But let's make one thing clear in advance—if you go with the Liondragon, your second option has to be either a Common Welsh Green or a Hungarian Horntail."
Wait, I still get to choose?
Kyle blinked in surprise. Honestly, he'd already prepared himself for a combo of Liondragon and Welsh Green.
"We've got too many Hungarian Horntails in the Reserve," Drols said, rubbing his forehead. "It takes several times the manpower to control those temperamental beasts. Frankly, we're barely managing."
"Hungarian Horntails are the second most common breed after Welsh Greens," Newt added. "No one wants to go out hunting them—same reward, way more risk. It's not worth it."
"Ah, that makes sense." Kyle nodded. He hadn't thought of it that way before.
"That, and it's also because of Mr. Scamander," said Drols. "If not for your involvement, we wouldn't even consider letting one of those walking disasters off the premises."
"I just happen to have some experience with them," Newt said modestly.
The Horntail in his case was fiercer than anything the Reserve had—if it hadn't been, it wouldn't have been sent back three times.
"I'll take the Horntail," Kyle said without hesitation.
"Let's hope you don't regret it."
Kyle couldn't tell if he was imagining it, but it seemed like Drols let out a quiet sigh of relief—like he'd just offloaded a very big problem.
"Let me just say this now—no returns," Drols said quickly. "If you ever decide not to keep it, the only way out is to surrender your legal breeding rights. Also, if your dragon causes any kind of incident, we reserve the right to take it back."
"Understood," said Kyle.
He didn't know what Drols was plotting now, but there was no way he'd ever give the dragons back.
It was like trying to take Galleons from a Niffler's pouch—just prying them out would be a battle, let alone giving them up voluntarily.
"Well then, the rest is simple," Drols said, suddenly much more enthusiastic. "Let's get some lunch and go over the rest while we eat."
Kyle was starting to feel that something wasn't quite right—but he was still too pleased about getting two dragons to dwell on it. He followed Drols to the Reserve's canteen.
...
Lunch was about the same as last time: big slabs of roasted meat, a few sad leaves of vegetables, and a bowl of unidentifiable soup.
It was gray, bubbling, and vaguely threatening.
Kyle took one look, then pushed the bowl to the side. Whoever the chef was, they clearly shared a culinary philosophy with Hagrid.
Drols, on the other hand, was eating heartily.
Dumbledore gave the soup a cautious sip.
"It's quite... distinctive," he said, glancing at Kyle. "I suggest you try it."
"No thanks." Kyle looked at the soup again and firmly shook his head.
Lunch was quick, and by the time they finished, everything Kyle had requested was ready.
First came the food—an entire trunk filled with flame stones. Since they were only juveniles, they didn't need much. This amount would be plenty.
Then came the meat. Drols had selected a herd of wild boars and another of goats—about fifty animals in total.
The wild boars were for the Liondragon. The goats were for the Hungarian Horntail.
"Oh, good thing Aberforth isn't here," Dumbledore whispered. "He'd be furious."
Kyle immediately understood—and couldn't help but laugh.
Aberforth had a goat, and he doted on it like it was family.
Then came the main event.
A dragon—about seven or eight feet tall and burning red from head to tail—was brought forward. Its head was slightly longer than that of a typical dragon, and sharp, mane-like horns fanned out along the back of its skull, giving it a distinctly leonine appearance. Its wings were massive, longer even than its body.
"Careful," Drols warned. "Liondragons are far from tame. In terms of volatility, they're just behind Horntails and Norwegian Ridgebacks."
"I'm aware," Kyle nodded.
He glanced around. "Where's my Horntail?"
"Don't worry," Drols said with a slight smile. "It's only eight months old, but... its situation is a little unique, so it may take longer to bring out... Oh, speak of the devil."
Kyle turned in the direction Drols pointed—and froze.
Five dragon keepers were struggling to haul over a massive fire dragon, nearly twenty feet tall, restrained by wrist-thick iron chains.
"This is... eight months old?"
"Indeed." Drols' smile widened. "Hungarian Horntails, you know. A bit bigger than the others—perfectly normal."
"A bit bigger?" Kyle muttered.
They were the same age, yet next to the Horntail, the Liondragon looked like a delicate toy.
And even under the effects of a Stunning Spell, the Horntail was still twitching its tail with unconscious menace.
Kyle watched in horror as one of the handlers failed to dodge in time and got a spike right through the thigh.
The man calmly stepped out of the formation, splashed some potion from a bottle onto the wound with his left hand, wrapped it with a bandage using his right, then walked right back in to grab the chain again—like it was all part of his daily routine.
None of the others even flinched.
"Uh..." Kyle cleared his throat. "You know, suddenly... the Welsh—"
"No returns, remember?" Drols cut him off. "I'm sure you'll take excellent care of it."