An old man and a young man strolled through the mist-shrouded grounds, weaving between long rows of tents.
The morning sunlight filtered through the fog, landing on Hoffa's face and making him somewhat uncomfortable. Despite that, he had to admit that this place was bustling with life.
Through the mist stretched an endless sea of tents, adorned with strings of triangular banners fluttering in the breeze. Flags of the Bulgarian and Irish national teams were hung prominently. Below the banners lay clusters of tents resembling small hills. Most of the tents looked ordinary, like those used by Muggles, but some were remarkably unique. Despite being tents, they sported chimneys, bell ropes, or weather vanes, adding a whimsical charm.
The air was filled with the fragrances of honeysuckle and gorse. Along the roadside, robust men lay sprawled on printed blankets, snoring loudly with beards soaked in remnants of last night's drinks, evidence of late-night partying.
Bright yellow gorse bushes blanketed the heath, sparkling in the first light of day. Having grown accustomed to the gloomy, overcast lands of fifty years prior, Hoffa felt a refreshing sense of novelty, as if he had stepped into another world.
Nicolas Flamel commented with a chuckle, "See? This is all thanks to you."
Hoffa pretended not to hear.
When the two reached the center of the first field, Nicolas stopped. Here stood a massive tent, larger and more opulent than any of the others. It was extravagantly draped in striped silk, resembling a small palace. At its entrance, several live peacocks were tethered near a small fountain.
"This is our accommodation. Do you like it?" Nicolas asked with a sly smile.
"Quite ostentatious," Hoffa remarked, raising an eyebrow.
Five years ago, such a sight might have left him astonished. But now, he scrutinized the tent with a critical eye. The fountain seemed too small, the flowers overly mismatched, and the peacocks lacked vigor.
"Don't mind it too much. After all, Ali Bashir is a renowned Arabian flying carpet supplier," Nicolas said. "When you're playing a role, you must commit fully."
"I never said I didn't like it. I actually do," Hoffa replied, pushing aside the tent flap. "Let's go in."
The tent had been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. Inside, it was far larger than its exterior suggested, boasting three full stories. An intricate carpet adorned the floor, and the surrounding low red cabinets were filled with unique gold and silver ornaments. Towering piles of sweets sat on tea tables, and the air carried a creamy fragrance.
Hoffa curiously examined the Arabian-style decor, occasionally picking up and inspecting the ornaments.
Meanwhile, Nicolas stood before a full-length mirror and turned his head, calling out to Hoffa in a shaky voice, "A little help, if you please."
Hoffa set down the lamp-shaped decoration in his hand and stepped behind Nicolas to help him remove his gray cloak, revealing a frail, hunched frame.
From his pocket, Nicolas took out a bottle of gray, mud-like Polyjuice Potion and grimaced before swallowing it.
Gulp, gulp.
The wizened figure in the mirror began to swell as if inflating. His bony frame grew robust, and his sparse gray hair thickened and darkened. In moments, he transformed into a man of Middle Eastern appearance with jet-black hair and a hooked nose, looking about forty years old.
Panting slightly, Nicolas shook his head and muttered, "Getting old. My body's building a resistance to Polyjuice Potion. I doubt I'll be able to sustain this for more than an hour."
Hoffa's gaze lingered on Nicolas's hand. Though his body had rejuvenated, the age spots on his hands remained visible.
Nicolas walked to the tent's wardrobe and began rummaging through it. As he selected garments, he sighed, "I'm getting too old for this. Once Chloe is revived, I should retire for good."
"Do you really love her that much?" Hoffa asked from his seat on the carpet. "There's such a large age gap between you two."
"She was feared by her parents because of her bloodline abilities. I was the one who raised her. Once you have grandchildren, you'll understand. Honestly, our relationship is more like a friendship."
"Did you send her to France?"
"It was before the war started. I hoped God could cure her illness. But things didn't turn out as I wished. At least with her, God didn't show much mercy."
"Does God even exist?" Hoffa scoffed, gesturing toward the tent's ceiling. "If you ask me, this Allah they believe in doesn't exist either."
"Not necessarily God. In alchemical terms, it might be referred to as a higher existence," Nicolas said.
"A deity?"
"Not just that. Something higher."
Fully dressed, Nicolas now resembled an Arabian merchant, adorned with a tall turban and a peacock feather pinned to it.
"Let's go. We need to find Bartemius Crouch," he said.
"I could manage on my own," Hoffa muttered.
"Hmph. As young as you are, no matter how grandly you dress, Crouch wouldn't even remember your name, let alone let you into his tent," Nicolas said, shaking his head. "He's a man obsessed with power."
By the time they stepped out again, the sun was high in the sky.
The intense sunlight gave Hoffa a sense of disorientation, as though everything before him had been covered in a translucent film. He squinted against the brightness.
Hoffa had initially hoped to spot Harry, Ron, and Hermione—the legendary trio—among the Quidditch World Cup crowds.
But under such blazing sunlight, he no longer felt like searching. All he wanted was to return to the tent and sleep until nightfall. Yet, he could only entertain such thoughts briefly; he still had to meet Bartemius Crouch, and there was no time to waste.
He plucked a branch from a nearby tree, transfigured it into a pair of sunglasses, and perched them on his nose, barely shielding himself from the harsh sunlight. Only then did he feel slightly better.
Nicolas Flamel slowed his pace, lowering his voice as they walked. "Don't worry. When we return, I'll brew some potions to help suppress the vampire power in your body."
"Let's deal with that when we get back," Hoffa replied, feeling as though someone was watching him. He glanced over his shoulder but saw no familiar faces—just a few foreign wizards carrying water kettles on their way to fetch water in the early morning.
Time passed.
The camp grew busier as the morning progressed. Many young men and women darted through the crowds, laughing and joking. Their conversations, in languages both familiar and foreign, filled the air.
Hoffa couldn't help but envy them—so vibrant and carefree in their youth, surrounded by friends. Meanwhile, his companion was an old man.
After passing a section of tents adorned with Viktor Krum's photos, Hoffa and Nicolas Flamel arrived at a quieter area. The tents here were fewer in number, spaced far apart. Among them, one stood out. Nestled amidst the trees, it resembled a wooden cabin rather than a traditional tent. It had doors, windows, and a small garden surrounding it. The roof was covered with wooden shingles, and a yellow path, paved with clay and stones, wound through the garden.
The garden was enclosed by a three-foot-high wall capped with wooden fences. At one corner of the fence, a brown wooden plaque bore three gold-plated orbs and the engraved words: "Bartemius Crouch—No Trespassing."
Nicolas Flamel walked up to the three gilded orbs and knocked gently.
There was no answer.
After a moment, the two exchanged a glance. Hoffa stepped back and stood on his toes, trying to peer through the window. A layer of white gauze covered the glass, obscuring the view like a cataract clouding an eye. He couldn't see anything clearly.
Yet, Hoffa sensed someone standing just behind the door. He could feel their wary gaze fixed on him through the crack, wand tightly gripped in hand. The person had been standing there for some time.
Disguised as Ali Bashir, Nicolas Flamel knocked again, speaking politely, "Is Mr. Crouch at home? Minister Fudge recommended me."
The eyes behind the door narrowed, and Hoffa heard the faint shuffle of footsteps retreating about ten meters. A stern voice called out, "Coming."
After another moment, there were sharp, deliberate footsteps. Then the lock turned with a click.
A middle-aged man opened the door. His short black hair was meticulously combed, his posture stiff, and his movements mechanical. He wore a crisp, spotless suit and a tie. His narrow toothbrush mustache immediately reminded Hoffa of Adolf Hitler.
"Ah, good day, good day," Nicolas Flamel greeted warmly, extending a trembling hand. "You must be Bartemius Crouch. I've heard so much about you."
The impeccably dressed man hesitated for a moment before offering a brief, reserved handshake. "You're Ali Bashir? CEO of the Arabian Carpet Export Company?"
"Yes, that's me."
Nicolas Flamel twisted his fingers, conjuring a golden business card and presenting it with a flourish. "And this," he added, motioning to Hoffa, "is my nephew and secretary, Horva Bashir."
Crouch examined the card before glancing at Hoffa. His brows furrowed slightly, but he stepped aside with a subdued, "Please come in."
"Thank you," Nicolas Flamel replied smoothly, his expression unchanged as he strode into the house with a polite smile.
Hoffa breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Old Bartemius Crouch even knew Arabic. If Nicolas Flamel hadn't come, Hoffa doubted he could have made it through the door without giving himself away.
Once inside, Hoffa's sharp eyes quickly scanned the surroundings. In mere seconds, his powerful mental abilities had mapped the entire house.
It was an old-fashioned three-bedroom home with a bathroom and a kitchen. Beneath the kitchen floor was a basement, its entrance sealed with magic.
Tom Riddle believed his loyal follower, Barty Crouch Jr., was imprisoned in Azkaban. But unbeknownst to him, a year earlier, the elder Bartemius Crouch had swapped his terminally ill wife for his son at her dying request. Since then, young Barty had been confined at home. He would only be released on the day of the Quidditch World Cup, later playing a pivotal role in the Triwizard Tournament, infiltrating Hogwarts disguised as Mad-Eye Moody.
He was Hoffa's target.
"Please, have a seat," Bartemius Crouch said, gesturing toward the sofa. His gaze lingered on Hoffa's silver earrings and sunglasses, his brow occasionally furrowing.
Nicolas Flamel sat naturally, fingers interlaced over his stomach, while Hoffa stood silently behind him.
"Coffee or tea?" Bartemius Crouch asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"Just a glass of water, if you don't mind," Nicolas Flamel replied courteously. "By the way, Mr. Crouch, your home was quite difficult to find."
"Ah, I prefer peace and quiet," Bartemius Crouch said blandly. "I dislike being disturbed."
"Busy lately, with the World Cup?" Nicolas Flamel inquired, casting Hoffa a meaningful glance as he tried to make small talk.
"It's manageable. The ministry workload is heavy, but it's all within my responsibilities."
"Do you live alone?"
"Yes."
Old Bartemius emerged from the kitchen carrying two glasses of water. He handed one to Nicolas Flamel, deliberately ignoring Hoffa, who stood behind him.
"Don't you have any help?" Nicolas asked casually as he accepted the glass. "Like a house-elf, perhaps? For someone in your position, handling everything personally must be exhausting."
Bartemius Crouch's gaze sharpened. "That's none of your concern. I was told you came here to discuss a trade deal."
He sat upright, as if presiding over an international negotiation. But just as he took on the demeanor of a diplomat, Nicolas Flamel, disguised as Ali Bashir, suddenly rolled his eyes and fell silent.
Alarmed, Hoffa leaned in and saw the old man's eyes glazed over, a thin line of drool escaping his lips. "Not now!" Hoffa muttered under his breath.
Quickly removing his sunglasses, Hoffa revealed his now-black eyes and spoke smoothly. "I apologize, Mr. Crouch. My uncle overindulged last night and isn't quite himself today."
Bartemius Crouch's expression soured as he looked at the drooling man, but when his eyes landed on Hoffa, he hesitated. His brows furrowed. "Did you attend Hogwarts?"
"No," Hoffa replied, his heart skipping a beat. "Why do you ask?"
"You remind me of someone from my house's history," Crouch muttered, shaking his head.
"Oh?" Hoffa forced a smile, his cheek twitching.
He noted the room's decor—heavy on blue tones, with eagle motifs in several places.
Crouch didn't linger on the thought. Sitting opposite Hoffa, his expression rigid, he said, "Since your uncle isn't up to it, why don't you present your case? If you're unprepared, take him and leave."
Hoffa straightened his posture and spoke seriously. "I'm here to discuss the embargo on flying carpets. As you know, in recent years, the exchange between wizards has become increasingly frequent. My uncle hopes the policy might be relaxed, given that the embargo has been in place since 1954."
"Impossible," Crouch interrupted with a dry cough, his tone stern. "A law is a law. We have no intention of lifting the ban on magical carpets."
"Wouldn't that violate the International Confederation of Wizards' Free Trade Act?" Hoffa countered. "Other countries conduct fair trade with us. For instance, British broomsticks circulate freely in the global market."
While keeping his tone professional, Hoffa's eyes subtly darted toward the kitchen. He could sense a pair of wide, frightened eyes and pointed ears peeking out from behind the counter.
Crouch remained unfazed. "Foreign countries also impose tariffs on our broomsticks. Every nation has its policies."
Thud!
A muffled sound came from the floor, accompanied by a slight tremor, interrupting Crouch mid-sentence.
Feigning surprise, Hoffa looked around. "What was that noise?"
A flicker of irritation and helplessness crossed Bartemius Crouch's face. He stood up. "Look, Mr. Bashir, there's no point in discussing this with me. The flying carpet embargo exists because they are enchanted textiles easily mistaken for ordinary rugs by Muggles. That risks breaching the Statute of Secrecy. It's a matter of national policy. My suggestion is to speak with Arthur Weasley at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. If he can amend the confidentiality regulations surrounding magical carpets, we can revisit the matter."
It was a clear dismissal. Hoffa feigned displeasure but helped Nicolas Flamel to his feet.
"Thank you for the advice."
"You're welcome. Enjoy the match."
"You too."
The two exchanged a brief handshake before Hoffa guided Nicolas Flamel out of the house.
Under the shade of a discreet tree, Hoffa grabbed Flamel's shoulder and shook him vigorously. "What was that? You were doing fine, and then you just zoned out!"
Flamel startled awake, blinking rapidly. He looked around, then patted his chest. "Oh dear, I must've dozed off."
"In the middle of this? I'm starting to worry if you're fit for the task of monitoring Voldemort."
"I didn't sleep well last night," Flamel muttered defensively. "I've been up since three in the morning."
"Never mind that," Hoffa sighed. "So, did you sense it? The Death Eater imprisoned in Azkaban—Barty Crouch Jr.—is in that tent."
Flamel's eyes widened. "He's really there? That old man actually had the audacity to smuggle his son out?"
Hoffa nodded slowly. "No doubt about it."
Flamel drew a sharp breath. "Incredible. What nerve… So, what's the plan? Are we going after him now?"
Hoffa squinted at the sun, now high in the sky, and shook his head.
"No. This isn't the right place, and it's not the right time. Tonight, when most of the Ministry officials are at the match, we'll make our move."
(End of Chapter)
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