The train rattled forward, its speed steadily increasing. Inside the carriage, Miranda slumped on the sofa, her expression oscillating between confusion and contemplation.
Aglaia sat with her arms crossed, her eyes darting around, while her foot tapped restlessly against the floor.
Hoffa, on the other hand, remained motionless, like a statue, completely indifferent to his surroundings. The bond between the three companions was now strained, teetering on the brink of collapse.
As they each dwelled in their own thoughts, a cheerful knock sounded at the door.
The tense atmosphere shattered. All three turned their heads simultaneously toward the sound.
Standing outside the glass door was a group of students, both boys and girls, their excited expressions barely contained.
At the forefront stood a tall, blonde girl who appeared to be an upperclassman. She wore the Hogwarts uniform, the silver eagle crest on her collar gleaming brightly.
Aglaia noticed her and moved to open the door.
Miranda, catching sight of Aglaia's movement and then glancing at Hoffa, turned pale. She quickly got up. "Wait, Aglaia, don't open the door."
But Aglaia snorted dismissively and swung the door open without hesitation. The group outside burst in, chattering and laughing as they crowded into the carriage.
The blonde girl at the front exclaimed in surprise, "Aglaia! I thought Aunt Elise sent you to America!"
"What's the matter, Sherlock? Were you hoping I'd leave?" Aglaia retorted sharply.
"Don't tell me your family didn't at least consider it."
Sherlock spread her hands with a playful grin.
"They might have, but you don't get to," Aglaia said firmly.
"Alright, alright, guilty as charged."
Sherlock raised her hands in mock surrender, then hugged Aglaia briefly before pulling her aside. Smiling, she gestured toward Miranda. "This must be the legendary Charms prodigy."
Aglaia glanced at Miranda, her voice low and sulky. "Yeah, the Charms prodigy. Miranda Goshawk."
She deliberately emphasized Miranda's last name.
Miranda didn't seem to notice Aglaia's tone. Her gaze stayed fixed on Hoffa from the corner of her eye, though she nodded politely toward Sherlock. "Hello, Prefect Pohan."
The tall girl nodded back at Miranda, but her eyes quickly shifted to Hoffa, who remained seated by the window, unmoving.
"Hey, Hoffa."
The prefect stepped forward and patted Hoffa on the shoulder. "Long time no see! After that birthday party, you disappeared completely."
Hoffa turned his head mechanically, his eyes meeting a seemingly bright smile and a group of excited underclassmen behind her.
His gaze fell on the hand resting on his shoulder. His tone was cold, distant: "What do you want?"
Sherlock laughed, unfazed, and didn't remove her hand.
"Can't I come see you for no reason? These students wanted to meet you. They're admirers, eager to see the legendary Hoffa Bach who conjured the mythical shield."
As she spoke, she pressed down on Hoffa's shoulder, forcing him to stand. Miranda held her breath, her chest tightening at the sight.
Just as Hoffa moved to resist, Sherlock pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, "These are Hogwarts underclassmen. Set a good example."
The words were like a binding charm. Hoffa froze, his thoughts flashing to Dumbledore. He stopped struggling.
Sherlock pushed him into the crowd. The moment the students saw him, they erupted in excitement.
It was as if they were fans meeting a celebrity. Their cheers and screams filled the carriage, their enthusiasm overwhelming.
"Hoffa, I admire you so much!"
"Hoffa, can you give me your autograph?"
"Hoffa, what's your zodiac sign?"
"Hoffa, Hoffa! When's your birthday?"
"Hoffa, do you have a girlfriend?"
The calls of "Hoffa" continued.
Hoffa forced a slight smile, attempting to greet these enthusiastic students kindly.
However, in a fleeting moment, their excited faces blurred in his mind, overlapping with the frenzied expressions of Azkaban's prisoners. Hoffa suddenly realized that, at their core, those imprisoned souls were no different from these students—they were all just people.
The revelation made his breathing uneven, a faint panic welling up within him. He pushed away two students vying for his autograph and said, "Excuse me, I need to use the restroom."
Without waiting for a response, he opened and closed the door behind him, walking out of the carriage without looking back.
The group of eager students stood there, looking at each other in confusion. Their idol seemed far from what they had imagined.
Outside, the storm had reached its peak, likely at its most intense. The dark clouds above allowed no light to penetrate.
The glass window, set against the murky backdrop, looked almost like a mirror. In its reflection, Hoffa saw himself—golden eyes, gray hair.
But at this moment, those golden eyes appeared dull and shadowed.
Watching the relentless, almost maddening downpour, Hoffa pressed his forehead against the cold glass and closed his eyes, attempting to use the chill to calm his restless thoughts.
The cheering and admiration behind him sounded no different to him than the meaningless, spiteful noises of prisoners in a jail. Senseless, filled with malice.
The fear and exhaustion from recent adventures had drained him, leaving cracks in his psyche. Subtle, unwelcome thoughts began to creep into his mind.
He didn't want to deal with these inexplicable social interactions. These hollow exchanges and empty emotions only complicated life, muddied thoughts, and ultimately led to a loss of self.
"Just leave."
"Jump off the train."
"Get away from this place of turmoil."
"Fly freely together."
The train jolted slightly, passing over a raised rivet. Hoffa opened his eyes, a faint shadow of darkness and obscurity flickering within them. He had no desire to return to that carriage. He just wanted to wander alone.
The train surged relentlessly toward Scotland as Hoffa began to stroll along the long corridor. Inside the other compartments, groups of people laughed and chatted. Some noticed him walking past their windows, and a few even leaned out to greet him excitedly.
Hoffa responded with a forced smile, returning to an expressionless state almost immediately, like a puppet wearing a mask. The urge to be alone grew stronger with each step.
Finally, he found an empty compartment. Well, almost empty.
Outside the compartment door stood a young man smoking a cigarette. He wore a casual checkered shirt and was so thin he resembled an addict. He had silvery hair, reminiscent of Aglaia's, and a kind of decadent beauty about him.
With his arms crossed, the young man stood alone at the door of the empty compartment, staring blankly at the torrential rain outside the train.
As the two passed each other, the young man glanced at Hoffa but, unusually, didn't greet him.
(End of Chapter)
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