Hoffa opened his eyes again, his face utterly cold. Rising to his feet, he asked, "Where's Little Barty?"
"I don't know," Nicolas Flamel replied, bewildered. "What's going on? Did he cast the Dark Mark? Who was fighting with you just now?"
"Gellert Grindelwald," Hoffa replied, his face still stern as he began walking back.
"Of course… it had to be him," Nicolas said, not surprised, but his face turned grim. Holding his forehead, he gritted his teeth and muttered, "I can't imagine anyone else doing something like this."
Hoffa didn't respond. This wasn't the time for idle conversation.
He and Nicolas descended from the stadium canopy back to the camp.
By now, the once-celebratory camp was in utter chaos. The ground was trampled black by countless fleeing feet, and thick smoke billowed, obscuring the sky.
Along the way, tents were ablaze, and the air reeked of burning wood and fabric. The Ministry of Magic's rescue efforts had yet to arrive. A panicked crowd of witches and wizards huddled together, fleeing into the woods as if escaping some unspeakable horror.
"Filthy Mudbloods!"
"You deserve this!"
"Hahaha!"
Unrestrained laughter echoed in the air.
"Fiendfyre!"
With a deafening explosion, an orange fireball erupted and scattered in all directions, igniting the roadside tents.
A group of hooded figures approached from afar, seemingly reveling in the chaos as they used their wands to set fire to more tents.
"My child is in there, you monsters!" screamed several witches in nightgowns as they rushed out in desperation. But they were caught off guard and struck down by curses, left dangling upside down.
"Howl, why don't you?"
"Struggle all you want!"
The hooded figures pointed their wands upward, advancing slowly. Over their heads floated several figures clad in nightclothes, twisted into grotesque shapes—knees bent, heads thrown back, jaws pointing skyward. Some opened their mouths as if to scream, but no sound emerged.
Like marionettes, they were manipulated by invisible strings from the wands of masked wizards.
Hoffa stopped cold in front of the hooded figures, his expression unreadable.
The puppet-masters ceased their laughter, turning to face the young man and the old wizard approaching. For a moment, both groups stared at each other.
"Baldy, what are you looking at?!"
"Hey, what kind of outfit is that?"
The hooded figures, clearly drunk, swaggered unsteadily toward Hoffa. One tall, arrogant man even flicked his wand to toy with the torn remnants of Hoffa's battle-worn clothing.
"Got caught by a Veela, did you?"
"Or was it this old geezer here?"
"Hahaha! What a riot—hic!"
Their laughter filled the air—until the tall man suddenly flew backward like a cannonball, spinning through the air. He smashed through a burning tent, snapped low-hanging branches, and vanished into the distance, his laughter replaced by a terrified scream that faded into silence.
Hoffa lowered his hand, his golden eyes scanning the remaining figures.
"Scram."
The masked wizards collapsed in terror, their legs giving way beneath them. Without hesitation, they scrambled to their feet and fled.
Above, the marionette-like figures fell from the sky, landing with dull thuds. Amid the chaos, they scattered, save for one boy. He remained, staring upward in desperation at a girl still suspended, her nightgown covering her head as she slowly rotated.
"Little sister…"
The boy reached out, his voice trembling.
The last floating girl hung helplessly in the air.
Hoffa stood beneath her, his expression dark as he turned toward an empty corner of the camp. "Let her down," he demanded.
No response.
"I said, let her down. Can't you hear me, Crouch?"
An Invisibility Cloak was abruptly thrown aside, revealing a pale, sweat-soaked young man with straw-like yellow hair. Despite his disheveled state, he wore a smug smile.
"Did you see that, Mr. Bach? I did it! I successfully cast the Dark Mark!"
"You did well," Hoffa replied calmly, beckoning him with a finger. "Come here."
The yellow-haired youth hesitated, sensing something amiss. He fidgeted, hiding his wand behind his back, and forced a nervous grin.
"Don't you want to meet your master?" Hoffa tilted his head, his voice calm as he gestured again. "Come here. I'll take you to him right away."
Relieved, Little Barty jogged toward Hoffa with a goofy grin.
Slap!
A resounding slap sent him flying backward.
Little Barty landed hard, clutching his bleeding mouth. Half his face swelled visibly, and he looked up in shock.
"Why… why did you hit me?!"
Hoffa looked down at him coldly, plucking a loose tooth from his right palm with his left hand.
"Why?!" Little Barty raised his wand, pointing it at Hoffa, his face contorted in confusion and rage. "Just for some filthy Mudbloods?!"
Thud!
His wand was kicked away, and the last floating girl fell to the ground. The boy rushed forward, embracing his sister tightly.
Hoffa stepped over the crying siblings without pause, striding toward Little Barty.
The youth's terror grew as Hoffa closed in, lifting him by his collar.
Slap!
Another slap echoed in the night.
"You hit me again! You hit me again! I didn't do anything, I didn't do anything! You... you..." Little Barty Crouch fell to the ground, kicking his legs, frantically scooting backward. "You... you..."
Hoffa caught up with him in a few quick steps, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and lifting him up.
With tears streaming down his face, Little Barty raised his hands in surrender. "You're the boss! Please, Mr. Bach, I was wrong, I was wrong! Don't hit me!"
Slap!
Slap!!
Slap!!!
The sharp sounds echoed, and even the brother and sister who had been crying in the distance stopped, trembling as they watched the bald young man sitting atop the yellow-haired youth, violently swinging his fists in rapid succession.
Little Barty was already beyond help. He lay on the ground, like a battle-worn soldier fleeing from a battlefield, crying and crawling away. He mumbled through his tears, "Flash, Flash, Flash, help me."
At that moment, Nicolasstepped forward, grabbing Hoffa's arm tightly and urgently saying, "Bach, Bach, stop! Stop! He'll die if you keep going! Even when hitting a dog, you must respect its master. Our goal is resurrection magic!"
Hoffa refused to stop. He kicked Little Barty, already beaten to a pulp, in the chest. With a harsh scream, Little Barty was sent flying into the corner, rolling into a pile of broken barrels.
"Stop it, Hoffa Bach!" Nicolassaid sternly, his beard trembling with anxiety. "We need to leave! If we don't go now, when the Ministry of Magic arrives, it'll be too late for us!"
As if to confirm Nicomel's words, several flying broomsticks swooshed by overhead.
Hoffa took large strides toward the pile of broken wood.
There, Little Barty was curled up, holding his head, staring at Hoffa with tears, mucus, blood, and broken teeth dripping from the corners of his mouth. He was wailing in pain, but amidst the crying, he was also forcing a smile—something was wrong with him.
Hoffa grabbed Little Barty by his pale, yellowing hair and dragged him out of the wreckage, ignoring his cries. Then, Hoffa went to Nicomel, shaking his hand and holding it firmly.
Snap.
A faint sound was heard.
The three of them vanished with a Disillusionment Charm.
Not long after they disappeared, a group of Ministry of Magic officials appeared in the distance, their faces filled with rage as they surrounded the most chaotic area. Broomstick riders flew through the thick smoke, shooting jets of water from their wands to extinguish the flames below.
When Hoffa and the others reappeared, they were back at Nicomel's house in London.
Inside the living room.
Little Barty was still wailing, as though he had suffered some immense injustice. Hoffa shot him a glare, and Barty's legs buckled. He kneeled down, clinging to Hoffa's leg, crying and laughing, his voice trembling. "Don't—don't—don't hit me! I'll do whatever you want, Mr. Bach, I'll listen to everything you say!"
Hoffa disgustedly shoved him away, casually grabbing an empty wine bottle from Nicomel's desk and stuffing it into Barty's mouth. Coldly, he said, "If the bottle falls, you die."
Waaah
Little Barty finally stopped crying that shrill sound. He clasped his hands together and curled up in the corner, struggling to hold the bottle in his mouth, forcing a smile on his face.
Nicolassat by the fireplace, holding his forehead. He poked at the flames with his wand, and they roared back to life. He looked at Little Barty in the corner and sighed. "I really don't know how Barty Crouch had such a son. It's truly hard."
"Stop wasting time. Tell me everything you know about Grindelwald."
After tossing Little Barty aside, Hoffa's first question was about Grindelwald.
Nicolaspaused slightly, then shook his head with a soft sigh. He walked to the wine cabinet, poured himself a drink, and after finishing the glass, he let out a deep breath. In a dreamy tone, as if recalling the past, he began, "Fifty years ago, everyone in this world was caught up in a nightmare. Perhaps calling it a nightmare isn't accurate; we should say everyone was trapped in a beautiful dream."
"The dream was so real that few could wake up from it. I don't know if you've ever experienced that... Ah, in that dream, I became my twenty-year-old self, running through the fields with my wife, back when we had just met."
"Get to the point." Hoffa interrupted his reminiscing with a dark expression.
Nicolaspoured himself another drink. "Even so, some powerful wizards realized something was wrong with the world they were living in."
"Those who woke up divided into two factions. One led by Dumbledore, who advocated for killing the source of the dream, destroying the dream itself."
"The other faction, led by Grindelwald, believed that killing the source of the dream was pointless, because there was no way to know if what you were seeing was the true source of the dream. So their only solution was death—dying in the dream to wake up in reality. That was their way."
Hoffa asked, "Did he succeed?"
Nicolasreplied, "Maybe. From the results, it seems so. He was one of the first to wake up from the dream."
Hoffa sat down, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames, his face darkened. He recalled what Grindelwald had told him not long ago—"It's so peaceful now, Hoffa. Back in our day, if a hundred thousand wizards gathered, they would just kill each other. How could there be such peace? It's too unreal."
"So, Grindelwald believes this world is also a dream?" Hoffa furrowed his brow.
Nicolasnodded. "Maybe for him, all beautiful worlds are dreams. Only coldness and cruelty are real."
"Damn it!"
Hoffa leaned back on the couch, rubbing his face furiously.
He wasn't afraid of Voldemort or other dark wizards driven by personal gain or honor. Where there's desire, there's a flaw, a space to exploit. But Grindelwald wasn't like that. He saw himself as the savior of humanity.
In this moment, the plans of Voldemort's resurrection, Grindelwald's world-destroying conspiracy, and Hoffa's inner desires tangled together, making his head spin.
He rubbed his face, almost rubbing off his skin.
Nicolaswatched Hoffa with a worried expression.
In the distance, Little Barty dared not make a sound.
But after a while, Hoffa calmed down, his eyes now as steady as iron. Nothing could stop him from obtaining resurrection magic. He stood up and walked to Nicomel. "What's the date today?"
Nicolasreplied, "August 25."
Hoffa thought for a moment. "August 25... Hogwarts will open soon. Prepare yourself. Tomorrow, we're going to find Voldemort."
(End of Chapter)
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