On September 1st, London was engulfed in a torrential downpour.
The ink-black sky churned with shifting shapes. The rain lashed down on the shattered spires of the church, creating a thin mist that rose and fell, thick and thin, forming ripples that merged and scattered along the eaves. The water dripped like broken strings of pearls before joining into streams, pooling on the ground and flowing into rivulets.
On the first floor of the broken church, a trapdoor leading to an underground inn creaked open. A young man stepped out, cloaked in a translucent gray raincoat. He carried a large bag on his back, dressed in black workwear, with peculiar yet dim golden eyes.
The tattered awnings along the street cracked sharply under the weight of the storm, sounding like a dump truck spilling gravel. The wind carried debris and rain, a brutal combination that overwhelmed the senses, filling the air with a haze of mineral dust and water vapor.
Amidst the relentless rain, Hoffa trudged through puddles, his head bowed.
Walking along the Thames embankment, he moved slowly and deliberately. He hadn't called for a ride. For some reason, he didn't want to interact with anyone, not even a taxi driver.
He would rather walk for two more hours in silence than say a single word. The natural chaos of the storm calmed him, reminding him that he was still alive.
When he reached the vicinity of King's Cross Station, the rain showed no signs of stopping; if anything, it grew fiercer. The surroundings were a watery blur, obscuring everything in sight.
As he approached the steps, Hoffa sensed someone following him. His heightened senses, honed by his time in Azkaban, alerted him even to the slightest prolonged glance in his direction.
He quickened his pace. The follower did the same. Hoffa moved faster still, only for the person behind him to vanish altogether.
The sudden disappearance startled him. He pressed his back against a wall, fists clenched, bracing himself for any potential threat.
Then, the space before him shimmered.
It was the telltale ripple of a Disillusionment Charm being lifted.
"Boo!"
The sudden appearance made Hoffa flinch.
His fingers, hidden behind his back, dug five deep grooves into the wall. Yet his face remained expressionless.
It was Miranda. She still wore those glasses with no real prescription—purely for show. Compared to last year, she had grown taller, no longer resembling the small child she once was. Her chestnut bob had grown to shoulder length, and her pale complexion had tanned into a sun-kissed bronze, likely from summer exposure.
Unlike the alluring Aglaia, Miranda exuded a unique androgynous mystique, maintaining an ever-present distance from others. Despite this, she was undeniably one of Hoffa's two closest friends.
"My goodness, Hoffa!"
Miranda waved her hand in front of his face. "What's wrong with you? Why are you avoiding me?"
Unlike the joy one might feel at reuniting with an old friend, Hoffa felt no particular emotion.
The blank void left by his time in solitary confinement had drained his memories of any highs or lows, leaving them filtered and flat.
"I didn't know it was you. Things have been messy around here lately," Hoffa replied nonchalantly.
Miranda seemed taken aback, surprised by Hoffa's detached attitude. Crossing her arms, she scrutinized him from head to toe.
"Two months away, and you've turned polite? Looks like your training at Aglaia's place went well."
Her teasing sent a shiver down Hoffa's spine. Her sharp female intuition made him feel uncomfortably exposed.
He shuddered involuntarily, unwilling to speak further, and silently continued walking.
Miranda frowned slightly as she walked beside him, still puzzled by his demeanor.
Due to the heavy rain, they made no effort to conceal themselves as they entered Platform 9¾.
Compared to last year, the platform was half as crowded. The rain created a veil of mist, obscuring everything in a shadowy emptiness. Passing students appeared detached, like silent silhouettes rather than living people.
At first, Hoffa thought he had arrived too early. But as they sat in a train compartment, Miranda explained, "Hogwarts has half the number of students this year. After what happened last year, many parents decided not to send their children back."
Hoffa asked, "Do they think it's safer outside Hogwarts?"
"Many wizards have immigrated to America. What do you think?" Miranda glanced out the window. "I have a feeling Aglaia won't be coming back this year."
"What?" Hoffa blurted.
"Do you think her family would risk sending their heir to Hogwarts under these circumstances? I doubt it. I wouldn't be surprised if she's already been sent to America. Otherwise, my owl wouldn't have failed to find her all summer."
"Oh," Hoffa replied dryly.
He felt utterly out of sorts sitting next to Miranda. This had never happened before.
"In times of war, separation is common," Miranda said, looking out the rain-streaked window. "If she really has gone somewhere safer, I'd be happy for her. Britain is becoming more dangerous by the day."
"Is that so? Yeah," Hoffa replied awkwardly, forcing a faint smile.
"Do you miss her?" Miranda asked.
Hoffa shook his head silently.
"Really?" Miranda pressed.
Hoffa remained quiet, unwilling even to meet Miranda's gaze. He disliked this line of questioning, perceiving it as a form of probing.
Miranda's expression shifted from confusion to seriousness. She stood, moving from across the compartment to sit beside him.
"What's wrong with you?"
Her seemingly gentle gesture felt like an intrusion, her presence overwhelming him like a tigress staking her claim. Hoffa's entire body tensed, his instincts screaming to push her away.
Leaning slightly, Miranda tilted her head to meet his eyes. "Look at me."
Hoffa cast her a cold, sidelong glance.
The ink-colored sky shifted continuously, and the rain pelted the shattered spire of a church, raising a thin mist that hovered and swirled, sometimes thick, sometimes thin. It cascaded off the eaves, at first in broken droplets, then forming continuous streams. On the ground, the accumulating water merged into small rivulets.
In the broken church's ground floor, the trapdoor leading to the underground inn creaked open. A young man stepped out, wearing a gray, translucent raincoat. He carried a large backpack, donned black workwear, and had peculiar but dim golden eyes.
The battered awnings on the street crackled loudly under the relentless rain, sounding like gravel poured from a dump truck. The wind whipped pebbles mixed with rain into an unyielding assault, filling the air with mineral dust and mist.
In the rain's curtain, Hoffa trudged through puddles with his head down.
He walked slowly along the Thames's banks, choosing not to hail a cab. For reasons he couldn't articulate, he avoided any interaction, even with a cab driver.
He preferred walking for two hours in the storm rather than speaking a single word. The laws of nature, embodied in the raging rain and wind, brought him a sense of calm—a reminder that he was still alive.
When he reached near King's Cross Station via the river route, the rain showed no signs of letting up; instead, it intensified. The surroundings blurred in the downpour, rendering everything indistinct.
As he approached the stairs, he became aware of someone following him. His time in Azkaban had honed his senses to an extreme; even a lingering gaze in a crowd felt like a blade against his back.
He quickened his pace, and the follower did the same. Hoffa moved even faster, but then the presence behind him vanished entirely.
The abrupt disappearance startled him. Pressing his back against a wall, he stood motionless, fists clenched, ready to counter any potential threat.
Suddenly, the air before him shimmered.
It was the magical ripple of someone lifting a Disillusionment Charm.
"Boo!"
The figure leapt out, startling Hoffa.
His concealed hand gripped the wall so tightly it left five deep indentations, yet his face remained impassive.
It was Miranda. She still wore her signature round glasses—purely for show, as they lacked any prescription. Compared to last year, she had grown taller, no longer resembling a stubby child. Her once short, chestnut hair now reached her shoulders, and her fair complexion had tanned to a wheatish tone, likely from the summer sun.
Unlike the alluring Aglaia, Miranda carried a neutral, enigmatic beauty. It created an unspoken distance between her and others, though there was no doubt she was one of Hoffa's only two friends.
"Oh my gosh, Hoffa!"
Miranda waved her hand in front of Hoffa's face. "What's wrong with you? Why are you avoiding me?"
Hoffa felt no emotional stirrings at the sight of his long-lost friend.
In the years of emptiness spent in the isolation chamber, his memories had been filtered so thoroughly that they were devoid of any highs or lows.
"I didn't know it was you. Things have been messy around here lately," Hoffa said casually.
Miranda's expression shifted to surprise, clearly taken aback by Hoffa's reserved demeanor. Crossing her arms, she scrutinized him from head to toe.
"Two months apart, and now you're all polite? Looks like your training at Aglaia's place went well," she teased, though her words made Hoffa's skin crawl. The distinct sharpness in her tone made him feel exposed, stirring an almost primal fear of being seen through.
He shivered, unwilling to engage further, and lowered his head, walking on in silence.
Miranda frowned slightly but kept pace beside him, glancing at Hoffa with an expression of mild confusion.
Thanks to the heavy rain, they didn't bother disguising their entrance into Platform 9¾.
Compared to last year, the station was noticeably emptier, with nearly half as many people. The rain blurred the surroundings like a veil, and shadows of students passed by, absorbed in their own tasks. They seemed less like real people and more like silent silhouettes.
Initially, Hoffa thought he had arrived too early. But once seated in a carriage, Miranda remarked, "There are half as many Hogwarts students this year. After what happened last year, many parents aren't sending their kids back to school."
Hoffa asked, "Is the outside world safer than Hogwarts?"
"Many wizards have emigrated to America. What do you think?"
Miranda gazed out the window. "I have a feeling Aglaia won't come this year."
"What?" Hoffa asked reflexively.
"Do you think her family would risk sending their heir to Hogwarts? I doubt it. I even suspect she's already been sent to America. Otherwise, my owl wouldn't keep failing to find her."
"Oh." Hoffa responded flatly.
He had lost his usual composure. Sitting with Miranda made him feel uncomfortably out of place, a sensation he had never experienced before.
"In wartime, separations like this are common," Miranda mused, looking out at the rain. "If she has indeed gone somewhere safer, I'd be happy for her. After all, Britain is becoming increasingly dangerous."
"Is that so? Yeah."
Hoffa managed an awkward smile.
"Do you miss her?" Miranda asked.
Hoffa shook his head in silence.
"Really?" Miranda pressed.
Still, Hoffa said nothing, unwilling even to meet Miranda's gaze. He disliked the probing nature of the question, finding it invasive.
Miranda studied him, her initial confusion giving way to concern. She stood up and moved to sit beside him.
"What's wrong with you?"
Her seemingly gentle gesture felt like a predator encroaching on another's territory. Hoffa's muscles tensed, and he almost instinctively considered pushing her away.
Leaning closer, Miranda tilted her head to look him in the eyes. "Look at me."
Hoffa cast a chilling sidelong glance at her.
(End of Chapter)
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