"How's his condition?"
(In a hazy state, Hoffa vaguely heard someone asking curiously. He tried to move but found himself unable to.)
"Does it concern you?" someone replied impatiently.
"Strange," a woman remarked.
"Strange how?"
"When he was brought in this morning, we diagnosed him with third-degree burns, severe enough to destroy almost all of his skin. He was barely alive. But now, by evening, it's as if—"
(Hoffa felt an itch on his skin and struggled to move.)
"As if what?"
"As if he only has first-degree burns," the woman responded, utterly confused. "It's been less than twelve hours. How could this happen?"
"Hmm, Maize, you're observant, but—Obliviate."
With a flash of spell light, Hoffa opened his eyes. What greeted him was a dark ceiling and the steady drip of an IV beside him. The room, dimly lit by moonlight, was crowded with scattered bottles and jars, giving off a cramped and chaotic vibe. An old man stood with a wand raised, pointing at a dazed-looking witch who appeared as if she had just woken up.
Hoffa tried to lift his arm but realized his entire body was tightly bound. Looking closely, he saw he was wrapped like a mummy, lying on a metal hospital bed.
A moment of thought revealed what had happened. A wizard had set fire to his theater—not just a fire, but an explosion that obliterated the entire building. He had tried to extinguish the flames, only to be caught in the inferno as dawn broke. Someone must have rescued him and brought him to the hospital.
Thinking of the thousands of civilians who had come to his theater for the party, he couldn't bear to stay still. Without hesitation, he ripped out the IV and tore off the blood-soaked bandages.
The sound of tearing caught the attention of the old man with the wand. He immediately pocketed his wand and hurried over.
Seeing his face, Hoffa felt a surge of disgust. Wrinkled and balding, with trembling hands—it was Nicolas Flamel.
"You again?" Hoffa asked impatiently.
"Yes, it's me."
"Where is this?"
"My basement."
"Move aside!"
Hoffa shoved Flamel away, finished removing the bandages, grabbed a set of clothes from a nearby rack, and dressed hastily. He strode toward the door.
"Where do you think you're going, you brat?"
Flamel, leaning on a cane, tried to stop him but was ignored. Persistent, he hobbled after Hoffa. "You can't go back to that theater—not now."
"Why not?" Hoffa's eyes glinted coldly as he stared at Flamel. "I warned you not to follow me, didn't I?"
"I'm not following you, but you'd be ashes if it weren't for me," Flamel retorted, thumping his cane. "Do you think you're invincible? I've never seen a vampire survive being roasted alive in broad daylight. You should be thanking me!"
Hoffa halted, his expression softening slightly.
Flamel sighed, turned, and ushered the dazed witch out of the room before closing the door with a bang. He retrieved a radio from the corner, placed it in front of Hoffa, and fiddled with the knobs. A crackling broadcast spilled out:
"BBC Evening News: At 6 a.m. today, a fire broke out at a theater in Soho, London, causing significant damage to surrounding buildings. Fortunately, no fatalities were reported. One man was injured and has been hospitalized. The cause of the fire is under investigation, with initial suspicions pointing to electrical mishandling. We urge everyone to exercise caution with electricity."
The monotone voice of the Muggle announcer transitioned to weather and other current events, but Hoffa couldn't shake a sense of unease.
No fatalities?
One injury?
He had clearly seen thousands of people reduced to ashes in the flames last night. How could there be no casualties? An event of such magnitude—akin to a tragedy like 9/11—yet no one seemed to care. Was the world mad, or was he?
Flamel, unfazed, adjusted the radio to a magical channel.
"...At 6 a.m. this morning, a large number of Muggles went missing from the bar district in Soho, London. Preliminary investigations suggest the use of transportation magic. The perpetrator remains unknown, as does the exact number of missing individuals. Disaster Reversal Department members have been dispatched to repair the situation. If anyone encounters missing Muggles or suspects unusual activity, please contact the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately. Thank you for your cooperation. Now, on to our next bulletin: The Quidditch World Cup is set to take place at the end of this month..."
Nicolas Flamel switched off the radio and spoke softly to Hoffa,
"Don't cause trouble. Keep a low profile. We absolutely cannot attract the Ministry of Magic's attention this year. Do you understand?"
"But so many people died. How can they say not a single one did?" Hoffa voiced his confusion.
"Corpse-Melting Potion," Nicolas Flamel replied with a sigh.
He rummaged through the scattered bottles and jars nearby and pulled out a charred and shattered liquor bottle. Despite its damaged state, Hoffa recognized it immediately—it was the same bottle of 96-proof Polish distilled vodka he had used to serve the Nightmare God.
In a grave tone, Flamel explained, "When the fire was extinguished, I entered your theater before the Ministry could and found this. After conducting my analysis, I discovered someone had laced the drinks you served with Corpse-Melting Potion. This potion dissolves the human body into its basic elements within hours. It's one of the most terrifying potions in existence."
"What? Why poison the drinks?" Hoffa was baffled. "What's the purpose? Who would go after a group of homeless people?"
"I don't know. But I suspect their target was you. They wanted you dead, but you didn't take the bait."
Poison me?
Hoffa thought of the strange man who had coldly watched him from the flames the previous night. His fingers clenched into a fist, his knuckles cracking. But after further thought, he dismissed the theory.
"Impossible. I've been hosting free parties in Soho for the past week, providing drinks directly from the distillery—thousands of bottles. If they wanted to kill me, why use such a wide-reaching method? Besides, for the past fifty years, I haven't found anyone who even remembers I exist. Who would waste time trying to kill me?"
"Then it's a cover-up."
Flamel set the bottle down. "The Corpse-Melting Potion is primarily used for destroying evidence. A single dose, combined with a fire, is enough to make someone disappear without a trace."
As he spoke, he frowned and muttered, "But it's strange. Using the potion on Muggles and setting a fire to destroy the evidence—were they trying to avoid attention or draw it?"
Hoffa was utterly confused. He believed that every murder had a motive—be it love, revenge, or profit—but none of these seemed connected to the fire at his theater. The man who set the fire left without explanation, swift and decisive. What was his aim?
Hoffa paced around Flamel's cluttered basement.
Could it all be a dream?
He considered the possibility. Could the Nightmare God have orchestrated this out of spite after Hoffa rejected its request? He channeled his magic, finding it flowed smoothly, with no sign of interference. The surroundings were normal—nighttime, vivid, and detailed. There were no signs of a dream.
No, it wasn't a dream. Hoffa had experienced enough to distinguish between dreams and reality.
Then could it have been Tom and his group?
Hoffa dismissed the thought. Even Tom wouldn't attack a group of homeless people for no reason. Besides, given the timeline, Tom was likely hiding and struggling somewhere. It didn't make sense for him to appear out of nowhere to blow up the theater.
The situation grew increasingly perplexing. Hoffa had resigned himself to living a quiet, unremarkable life in this world, but this sudden upheaval was giving him a headache.
"Stop thinking about it," Flamel said with exasperation. "You shouldn't have drawn so much attention. The British Ministry of Magic might not know how many people died, but if I could detect the potion, they can too. For all you know, they've already set a trap at your theater. You mustn't go back there."
Unlike Hoffa, Flamel seemed calm. He put the bottle away and added,
"Besides, if you're feeling guilty about those people's deaths, let me assure you it doesn't matter. If you don't go back, this timeline will collapse sooner or later. What's a thousand deaths in the grand scheme of things?"
"Don't put this on me, as if I'm the one who killed them!" Hoffa snapped angrily.
(Flamel shrugged and kept silent, busying himself with the bottles and jars.)
Frustrated, Hoffa tried to run his fingers through his hair, only to remember it had all been burned off in the fire. It hadn't had a chance to grow back yet, leaving him completely bald.
"Damn it."
He kicked a bottle across the room, his anger simmering. First, Sylby had gray hair, so he ended up with gray hair. Now Sylby was bald, and he was bald too. Why did that guy haunt him so relentlessly?
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. He glared at Flamel. "Let me make this clear—while I appreciate you saving me, if you're trying to make me go back, forget it!"
"I'm not here to make you go back," Flamel replied, setting aside his work and sighing. "If you don't want to, who could force you?"
After a pause, he added, "Actually, the reason I'm here is to ask for your help."
"Help again? Old man, do I even know you that well?"
"It's not that kind of help. This would be easy for you." Flamel turned to him, his tone unusually earnest. "I want you to help me bring Chloe back to life."
(End of Chapter)
Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon
https://patreon.com/Glimmer09