Director Sykes was silent for a moment and didn’t continue with the topic.
“Let’s get down to business,” she said, looking at Dumbledore. “I suspect someone is making a potion that can influence the transformation of werewolves. The one we encountered today was most likely deliberately released into St. Mungo's. I don’t know the reason for these actions—it could be a test of the potion’s effectiveness, or maybe it’s simply to incite panic. But in any case, this behavior is a blatant desecration of St. Mungo’s, and I will find the person responsible.”
“Do you need any help?” Dumbledore offered. “I happen to know a friend who is a werewolf.”
“Thank you for the offer, but no, I have some connections with a werewolf pack,” Director Sykes replied thoughtfully. “Having them is enough.”
Her eyes turned cold. Whoever had dared to do such a thing at St. Mungo's had crossed her line. Fortunately, nothing serious had happened today; otherwise, the hospital's reputation would have suffered greatly. She needed people to understand that Potioneers also had their limits. Whether it was intentional or not, both she and Dumbledore refrained from mentioning the Ministry of Magic.
Dumbledore, accepting her decision, remained silent. A pack of werewolves... it really didn’t matter if there was one more or one less involved.
“There is one last thing, and that is about compensation.”
Kyle couldn’t help but lean forward a bit; he had been waiting for this since the start.
“I am deeply sorry that our mistake put you in such danger. St. Mungo's will take full responsibility for this,” Director Sykes said, pausing to think. “One thousand Galleons is our compensation to you. I hope you can forgive our error.”
“In addition, because you stopped the werewolf from harming anyone and helped protect the reputation of St. Mungo's, we will reward you with an additional two thousand Galleons.”
Three thousand Galleons in total?
Kyle raised an eyebrow. To be honest, it was a little less than he’d expected. Those few seconds facing the werewolf had been even more dangerous than his encounter with Oren in the Forbidden Forest. From drawing his wand to casting the first Softening Charm, it had taken only a split second, and one small mistake could have led to him being bitten.
When it came to matters of life and death, three thousand Galleons didn’t feel like much. But since she was clearly connected to Dumbledore and had vouched for him… three thousand Galleons it was. Dumbledore’s standing must be preserved. Besides, Kyle wasn’t one to haggle; he had a bit of a thin skin for it.
When someone had gone to such lengths to make amends, he really didn’t want to speak up and ask for the remaining 997,000 Galleons.
Kyle was just about to agree when he heard Director Sykes continue.
“And the Order of Merlin!”
“What...” Kyle was momentarily at a loss, certain he’d misheard.
“The Order of Merlin,” Director Sykes repeated, smiling. “I will personally nominate you, though I can’t guarantee whether it will be second or third class.”
This was her real compensation… or rather, her heartfelt thank-you.
In her eyes, the lives of those patients were more important than St. Mungo’s reputation. Nearly fifty patients were lying in beds across the entire second floor, and if a werewolf had broken into their rooms, they would have been utterly defenseless. Kyle had indirectly saved the lives of fifty wizards—an act fully deserving of an Order of Merlin medal.
It was just his age… Director Sykes frowned. Kyle was too young, not even twelve yet. If he were just a little older, even of age, there would be no issue with awarding him a second-class medal. For now, though, she would make the best of it.
Director Sykes looked at Kyle and asked, “So, are you satisfied?”
“Of course I am,” Kyle replied with a smile. “But... could I exchange the Galleons for something else?”
“Oh? What would you like to exchange them for?”
“An equivalent amount of potions,” Kyle said impulsively. “If possible, I'd love them to be made by you—any type would be fine.”
This answer caught Director Sykes off guard. She raised an eyebrow and asked, “Why would you want potions instead of Galleons?”
“Because I really enjoy Potions class,” Kyle answered without hesitation. “Having a bottle crafted by a master like you would remind me of how much I still have to learn.”
Nearby, Dumbledore, who had been sipping his tea, suddenly choked, nearly dropping his cup. He hurriedly dabbed at his beard and murmured, “My apologies, the tea is a bit hot.”
Kyle kept a straight face, pretending not to notice, and continued, “And I also have a slightly selfish reason. A master potion-maker’s work is certainly worth far more than the Galleons would be.”
“…Alright,” Director Sykes agreed after a moment’s thought. “I’ll prepare the seven potions that you’ll need to learn over the next few years, in sequence. But I’m not sure how much they’ll be worth—they may fall short of 3,000 Galleons. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, absolutely,” Kyle nodded enthusiastically.
The idea to trade Galleons for potions had come to him on the spur of the moment. He didn’t need extra Galleons right now, and even if he took the 3,000, they’d just sit untouched in Gringotts. This seemed like a far better exchange. From Dumbledore’s earlier comments, it sounded like Director Sykes’ potions skills were even a notch above Slughorn’s. It was a rare opportunity, and missing out on the work of a master potion-maker like her would be a true loss.
After concluding their discussion, the group left the tea room. The Ministry of Magic was still on site, and they were there to assist. As the Director of St. Mungo’s, Sykes couldn’t simply ignore their presence. There were also two other injured people in the werewolf’s room on the second floor. Although they were fortunate enough not to have been bitten, she still needed to check on them.
As they walked down the stairs to the fifth floor, Kyle spotted the round-faced boy again. He was still standing at the corner of the stairs, clutching his lunchbox. This time, though, an older woman stood behind him, who Kyle guessed to be his grandmother. She was dressed in a long skirt, carried a large red handbag, and wore a hat adorned with a stuffed vulture.
A round-faced boy at St. Mungo’s, and a lady wearing a vulture hat… Kyle was beginning to guess who they were.
Mrs. Augusta gave the boy an encouraging nudge from behind when she noticed Kyle and his companions approaching. The boy set his lunchbox down, walked over to Kyle, and, visibly nervous, said, “Thank you… thank you for saving me… I was—I was so scared earlier. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright, I understand.” Kyle looked at him kindly and asked, “What’s your name?”
“Neville, Neville Longbottom.”