The Evil Thoughts of Hogwarts and the Genie

Chapter 179 Night Stroll in San Mungo

Why are there Muggles in St. Mungo's?

The moment the question was uttered, the questioner had already come up with the answer.

"Oh, I see. This is a poor soul who's been implicated by a wizard and gone insane, isn't he?"

Edmund asked calmly, only to see that the Auror who had come to St. Mungo with them was staring intently at the dark-skinned, curvaceous receptionist, his expression revealing his obvious attraction.

Clearly, the Auror was acting so enthusiastically in order to "show off" in front of the witch.

But he forgot that this Muggle wasn't a fugitive, which successfully wiped away the weariness from the witch's face.

Because she looked extremely worried, fearing that the Muggle's old wounds had not yet healed and that new ones had been inflicted, she thanked him and then did not look at the Auror again.

This was far too early for Edmund, who was only 12 years old; and for the genie, who was thousands of years old...

That's a bit too boring.

"Answer my question," Edmund raised his voice.

The Auror snapped out of his daze, but it was the wizard holding up two of his fingers who answered Edmund's question.

"It seems you rarely come to St. Mungo's, lad." The wizard, with his oddly shaped beard, had just greeted Dumbledore as well.

He chuckled, but his tone was dismissive.

"There are plenty of people like this. You might be right to say they're pitiful. But the therapists who are responsible for treating them are probably even more pitiful."

The grotesque wizard shook his head.

"These Muggles—they are far too fragile. If they were to encounter a curse like a thunderous explosion or being pulverized, they would basically be doomed and wouldn't survive until St. Mungo's."

"I'm not an extremist who thinks keeping Muggles in St. Mungo's is a waste of hospital beds. That would be too heartless!"

"But that means that the Muggles who get sent here are either like me, with minor injuries like losing a few fingers, which can be easily treated and healed, and then they can go home after their memories are altered;"

"Either this person—sigh, how cruel! His mind is affected by a curse, and he's gone wrong."

This is very difficult; even we wizards cannot heal this kind of injury.

He shook his head repeatedly and sighed.

However, Edmund didn't think he was sympathizing with anyone.

This exclamation is no different from saying, "The snow is really heavy this year!" It has a very wizarding feel to it.

So, what exactly is the wizarding style?

It's about viewing everything that can be explained by magic as ordinary, brutal birth, and bizarre death.

"Mr. Wolfwood!"

The receptionist had entrusted the Muggle to the therapist who rushed over. The therapist was also a young man, and he looked helpless, muttering, "God knows how he ran down from the 5th floor. I... I just went to the bathroom!" Then he floated away with the Muggle.

The waiting area was back in normal operation. The freakish wizard was called by name, and he nodded to Edmund with a smile as usual before getting up to receive treatment.

A short while later, Dumbledore returned to the waiting area.

Edmund stared at him, really wanting to say that he was completely baffled—that he actually got a room in St. Mungo's just for such a minor injury that was almost healed.

Although he knew that this move was to accumulate costs for what Dumbledore called "getting to the bottom of things".

But the one who gets troubled is yourself.

"You're much more willful than I thought," Edmund said with a stern face.

The Auror brother gave him a strange look at his outrageous statement.

Dumbledore smiled broadly, his attitude bordering on indulgence.

In the end, Edmund had no choice but to accept Dumbledore's "kindness" and, following the healer who was leading the way, wandered around the maze-like St. Mungo's and found his own ward.

It was well past dinner time, and I wasn't sure whether to praise Dumbledore for his thoughtfulness. He paid for a sandwich for each of the three of them and insisted that the smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich at St. Mungo's was the best.

Edmund pretended not to hear and ordered the most expensive one.

Having filled his stomach, the Auror confirmed all the costs except for the sandwich with the healer, as well as Edmund's medical examination results, before bidding farewell to the two.

Dumbledore waited until he left before telling him that he would come to pick Edmund up around 9 a.m. the next morning.

"I'll ask Pomona for leave for you."

"Remember to tell Professor Sprout that skipping her class was not my intention; you're the one who caused it."

"Edmund said sarcastically. But Dumbledore remained unperturbed, cheerfully Apparating away."

Edmund wasn't sure what had happened to Dumbledore. He was assigned to the innermost room of a six-person ward, but he wasn't too bothered by it, since he wasn't planning on sleeping anyway.

If he hadn't been wary of Dumbledore having spies around him, he would have loved to do something during this free night.

However, considering that they had just met with Lucifer and cleared themselves of suspicion as demons, while that bastard had also slapped several labels on them, Edmund really didn't want to gamble that Dumbledore was stupid enough to not have anticipated that he would sneak out of the hospital and give himself away.

Fortunately, a ready-made source of amusement is right in front of us.

After lying in bed until St. Mungo's lights-out time, Edmund quietly rolled out of bed.

The corridor was lit by small nightlights emitting a faint, warm glow, and there were very few therapists patrolling the area at night.

Edmund blended almost into the night, and soon he arrived on the fifth floor, where he found Mr. White.

The poor Muggle looked extremely haggard. His ward wasn't quiet; many patients were uttering incoherent phrases... Clearly, today wasn't the day St. Mungo's Living Hell Potion was being used.

Mr. White stared wide-eyed at the ceiling of the ward, looking almost desperate.

Edmund walked slowly to his bedside, and for some reason, as he approached, the other patients in the ward fell silent, as if hypnotized by an unknown force.

"Are you there? Are you there?" the voice in the darkness asked softly.

"Jack Oswald White, are you there?"

Mr. White glanced slightly and looked in the direction of the noise, but only saw a short, dark shadow.

"...Death, is that you?" the Muggle asked hopefully. "Have you come to take me away?"

The thing let out a strange laugh, as if it were shaking its head.

"You guessed wrong. You could guess twice more to make a 3, but there's no need for that."

"Are you there, White? Are you still there?"

The dark figure asked in a low, strange voice.

Jack White, feeling a sense of satisfaction, inexplicably murmured something:

"I am here."

This time, the shadowy figure nodded.

"very good."