Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The sound of liquid echoed as it dripped through the pipes—coming from an IV bottle hanging on an iron stand.
A month later, in the ruins of St. Mungo's Hospital.
Hoffa awoke from an endless nightmare. Sunlight filtered through fluttering curtains, casting its rays on his face.
For a moment, he was dazed, the light slightly blinding.
He raised his hand, attempting to block the sunlight.
But the light streamed through his pale, slender fingers and landed on his face.
His hands were connected to tubes and needles.
He turned his head.
On the bed beside him lay Fatiel Drassus, unconscious, eyes tightly shut, his features indistinct.
Hoffa pulled the tubes off his hand and got up from the bed.
The cold, hard tiles beneath his bare feet gave him a sense of tangible reality.
He walked slowly toward the door. At first, his steps were unsteady, and he held onto the wall for support. But gradually, he let go of the wall and walked unaided.
Some nurses at the hospital noticed Hoffa rising and tried to stop him, but he gently and firmly pushed them aside.
Stepping out of the hospital doors—
The sunlight was dazzling; the sky was cloudless.
Outside the entrance, many people awaited him. There was Miranda, Dumbledore, Slughorn, as well as his classmates from Hogwarts—William, Antonio, and many other students.
Their expressions varied—anticipation, hope, worry, or solemnity. Yet without exception, they all seemed so distant from him.
They seemed to be speaking.
Their voices were faint, like whispers carried on the wind.
Hoffa glanced at them, then turned his head and disappeared into the air without stopping, walking straight away from the hospital.
The streets of London were in ruins but beginning to recover.
Some Ministry of Magic personnel waved their wands, repairing buildings damaged in the chaotic battles. Meanwhile, another group of Obliviators tirelessly modified the memories of Muggles.
Along the Thames, crowds gathered near Big Ben, half of which had been destroyed by bombings. They pointed at the ruins, discussing with sorrow the devastation of London under Germany's ferocious air raids.
"Hey, how many planes did you see flying overhead that day?"
"A hundred, maybe two hundred?"
"Wow, the whole sky looked like it was on fire that day."
"Terrifying. I remember I had a nightmare that night."
"Really? I had one too."
"What was your nightmare about?"
"In my dream, I was turned into an animal by a dragon."
"Huh, I had a similar dream."
"Did you really?"
"Really."
"Haha."
As the passersby chatted, their attention was suddenly drawn to a figure approaching from a distance.
The figure had gray hair and golden eyes, appearing to be a young man. Most striking was his attire—
A blue-and-white striped hospital gown.
Barefoot.
He looked like a patient who had escaped from a mental institution.
The crowd stared at him in astonishment as he wandered through the streets like a solitary ghost.
They whispered among themselves:
"Who is that?"
"Why is he dressed like that?"
"Looks like a lunatic."
"Don't bother with him. Stay away."
Everyone walked in the opposite direction of Hoffa. Alone, he threaded through the bustling crowd, oblivious to the murmurs and stares around him, continuing on the path beneath his feet.
He walked for an unknown length of time until he arrived at a theater, half-burned and abandoned.
He pushed aside the wooden beams blocking the entrance.
Following the tattered red carpet strewn across the floor, Hoffa entered the empty theater. His fingers brushed slowly over props thick with dust—a black cloak, a blunt, rusted dagger.
Sunlight streamed through the broken skylight above, casting its light on him. Throughout, his expression remained unchanged.
Finally, he reached the audience seating. Pulling out a chair, he sat down.
He stared at the vacant stage, imagining the dramas that could have unfolded there. He thought about his own failed life, about the words he had never spoken.
As the sun set, he did not move.
As moonlight blanketed the earth, he remained still.
And as dawn broke through the darkness, he stayed there, silent, watching the stage. Like a clay statue, he seemed ready to sit there until time wore him down.
Then—
Someone lightly tapped his shoulder.
The boy turned his head.
The morning sunlight passed through his hair, and he raised his head gently.
His eyes were filled with hope.
But there was no one beside him.
Only a beam of sunlight, filtered through the broken skylight, fell softly on his shoulder.
The light in his eyes dimmed slightly. He thought for a moment, then stood up. With one last look at the stage, he turned and left.
Following an unseen, inexplicable guidance, he walked toward the sunlit exit. He passed through alleys tangled with electric wires, through a city of ruins, through fields where green shoots sprouted, and into woods where life thrived.
Eventually, he arrived at a hillside.
The slope was covered in blooming white roses.
In the distance, a funeral was taking place.
Black thestral-drawn carriages were parked afar, and people wearing white flowers on their chests descended from the carriages. They moved slowly, their faces blurred, and they seemed to be weeping.
Hoffa stood silently beneath an oak tree, watching the distant figures on the hillside. He was as still as a sculpture.
The wind stirred, leaves danced, and the hem of his simple attire swayed.
He never approached that place.
He just watched from afar.
He watched as they prayed, laid flowers, and delivered eulogies.
Or engaged in other ceremonies.
Until, one by one, the mourners boarded the thestral-drawn carriages again and disappeared down the road.
At last, Hoffa pressed his lips together, his eyes reddening despite his efforts. Though his heart surged with waves of unbearable emotion, his face betrayed none of it.
At that moment, he felt an incredible absurdity, but beneath the absurdity, he also perceived something real.
It was a kind of simplicity—
Yet profoundly pure emotion.
This feeling made him grasp the meaning of life.
He realized he should live—live with all his might.
To embrace life with all its cracks, to smooth the wounds of the soul with scarred hands. To stubbornly face hope, to cherish the light of the present. To abandon the illusion of utopias, to rise with courage, for survival itself is the strongest defiance against the world.
Finally, the boy wiped his eyes and lifted his head.
Resolutely, he turned and walked away.
Barefoot and dressed simply, he walked through the shifting shadows of trees, across the steep forested slopes of the lonely mountain, and under the lush spring foliage.
His thin silhouette stretched long and longer among the trees.
Somber yet steadfast, lonely yet unyielding.
(End of Chapter)
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