The next day.
A relentless rainstorm blanketed London, the sound of raindrops incessantly tapping against the windows, stirring a sense of irritation.
Inside Nicolas Flamel's house, Barty Crouch Jr. paced restlessly in the living room, like a hamster endlessly running in its wheel. His routine was repetitive—after every lap, he'd glance at the boy on the sofa. The bald youth, however, remained sullen and unresponsive, paying him no attention.
Hoffa sat on the sofa with a newspaper in hand. The bold, enlarged headline screamed, "Terror at the Quidditch World Cup." Beside it was a black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark gleaming in the sky, hovering over treetops.
The article recounted the chaos that erupted after the World Cup final in vivid detail. Yet, oddly, all fingers pointed to "He Who Must Not Be Named," with no mention of Grindelwald or any reports of missing persons.
This baffled Hoffa. How could the Ministry of Magic turn a blind eye to such obvious disappearances? Were the relatives of the missing not filing reports? What in Merlin's name was wrong with this world?
Gurgle, gurgle.
From the basement, the sound of boiling potions echoed, accompanied by a strong medicinal aroma that quickly filled the room.
Barty Crouch Jr. finally stopped pacing, rubbing his hands together with anticipation as he stared toward the basement.
Not long after, Nicolas Flamel emerged, carrying a tray with several vials of blue potion.
"Did you hear anything from the Ministry?" he asked, setting the tray down in front of Hoffa.
"All their attention is on Voldemort," Hoffa replied expressionlessly, his eyes scanning the newspaper. "No reports of missing people, no mentions at all. It's ridiculous. They're utterly incompetent."
Flamel gave a knowing sigh. "Cornelius Fudge was never a wise leader. His only focus is maintaining his position, avoiding any scandal during his term. Besides, even if someone reports a disappearance, it might take a week before it's officially recognized."
Hoffa frowned deeply as he set the newspaper aside. Something felt off. Grindelwald, that shadowy figure lurking in the background, must have employed some other means to cover up the massacres he orchestrated. However, the details remained elusive to him for now.
Flamel picked up one of the vials and handed it to Hoffa. "This is a blood-suppressant potion. It can temporarily suppress the vampire power in you. A single sip will last about an hour."
Hoffa accepted the small vial, observing the swirling blue liquid inside. Under the light of the fireplace, tiny golden specks shimmered within, creating an almost mesmerizing appearance.
"This potion is effective against the vampire influence in your body," Flamel explained. "But remember, it behaves differently based on the time of day. During the day, it acts as a cure, restoring your original magical state. At night, however, it becomes poison. Under no circumstances should you drink it at night."
"I'm not stupid," Hoffa muttered, uncorking the vial for a sniff. Instantly, a sharp pain radiated from his chest, as though needles were piercing his heart. His body stirred in silent protest, and he frowned.
"I even made it blueberry-flavored. Hope you like it," Flamel added with a smirk.
Hoffa pocketed the vial silently and stood up. "Ready? Let's go find Voldemort."
"Master…" Barty Jr. clutched his head dramatically, his voice trembling with excitement as if he might faint. "Master… I'm coming!"
"How are we getting there?" Flamel interrupted, frowning. "Are we taking a Muggle car again? Let me be clear—I've never been to Voldemort's lair. Without a clear memory of the destination, Apparition is impossible."
Hoffa opened his mouth but said nothing.
Flamel sighed. "Tell me, Hoffa, don't you know how to Apparate?"
"…I don't," Hoffa admitted, slightly embarrassed. He realized, despite all his time in the Harry Potter world, he'd never bothered to learn this essential magical skill. He had always been busy traveling through vastly different regions, seldom retracing his steps. For short distances, he never felt the need for Apparition, given the intense magical fluctuations it caused.
"Let's fix that, then," Flamel said. "I'll teach you. Once you've learned, you can take us there directly."
Hoffa nodded immediately, seeing the logic in sharpening his skills first. However, Barty Jr. groaned dramatically, clutching his chest. "You mean he doesn't even know how to Apparate?"
"Shut up!" Hoffa snapped. "A few extra minutes won't kill you."
Barty Jr. cowered, flashing an awkward smile. "Yes, Mr. Bach, you're absolutely right…"
Flamel waved his wand, moving the furniture aside to create an open space near the fireplace. "Apparition is an ancient wizarding art, primarily used for long-distance travel. The key principles are Destination, Determination, and Deliberation.
"First, have a clear image of your target location in your mind. Your desire to get there must be strong. Finally, stay calm. Count to three and step into the magic with confidence. Got it?"
Hoffa nodded, familiar with the theory but having never practiced it himself.
"Step one: focus on your destination." Flamel pointed to a small patch of carpet beneath the deer head mounted over the fireplace. "Start by Apparating there. There's no significant difference between short and long distances—the only distinction is the amount of magical energy required."
Hoffa squinted at the spot, locking his gaze on the carpet. Normally, focusing his thoughts was easy for him, but the daylight proved a challenge. Despite the overcast skies, he could feel the oppressive malice of the sun behind the clouds.
As he concentrated, his headache intensified, accompanied by an overwhelming wave of fatigue and irritation. It felt as though every cell in his body screamed at him to stop casting.
Unaware of Hoffa's internal struggle, Flamel mistook his furrowed brow for deep focus. Encouragingly, he shouted, "Alright—one, two, three! Now, Apparate!"
CRACK!
A violent surge of magical energy followed.
Hoffa's perspective dropped abruptly, and the next moment, he was tumbling across the floor. The soft touch of wool carpet met his face, and he heard Barty Jr.'s uncontrollable, piercing laughter.
"Hahaha! Oh, that's rich!"
Hoffa frowned and tried to lift his head, only to find he couldn't. Instead, his gaze fell on a headless body standing stiffly about three meters away. Surprisingly, the figure wasn't bleeding much, and with some effort, Hoffa discovered he could remotely control it.
To his shock, the headless body raised its arm, responding to his thoughts.
CRACK!
With a wave of Flamel's wand, a burst of vivid purple smoke enveloped Hoffa. His vision returned to its normal height, and he realized his head was securely reattached to his neck.
Nico Flamel slowly lowered his wand, looking puzzled.
"How could you get split apart? For someone of your level as a wizard, this sort of basic mistake shouldn't happen."
"Even losing my head doesn't matter?!"
Hoffa touched his neck. It was smooth and seamless, with no trace of his head having been detached moments ago. Surprisingly, there wasn't much pain either—just a slight tightness in his muscles.
This left him curious yet uneasy. The thought that his head had been separated from his body moments earlier was unsettling, showing that Apparition was even more dangerous than he had imagined.
"Temporary separation doesn't have much of an effect," Nico Flamel said with a frown. "Apparition distorts space, not your physical body. As long as the distortion doesn't exceed a certain threshold, your head will return to your body once the spell resolves. But if you go beyond that threshold, you could actually die."
After a pause, he scratched his head, still perplexed. "But logically, as a Metamorphmagus, your mental strength far surpasses that of ordinary wizards. Apparition shouldn't be difficult for you."
"It is," Hoffa replied, rotating his neck and sounding somewhat helpless. "During the daytime, I find it quite challenging. Forget Apparition; even performing basic Transfiguration feels like a struggle."
"Ah, I see now!"
Nico Flamel slapped his forehead. "Silly me! That's perfect timing—try the Bloodbane Potion."
Hoffa took out the small vial of blue potion from his waist pouch, pulled out the stopper, and reluctantly drank it.
Though Flamel had added a blueberry flavor to it, it couldn't mask the instinctive aversion Hoffa felt toward the potion.
As he swallowed, it felt as though he were drinking a thick, sticky oil. Before he could fully gulp it down, the substance clung to the roof of his mouth and his palate, rapidly absorbed into his body.
The overwhelming nausea forced him to bend over and cover his mouth. But as the feeling gradually subsided, he could sense the wild beast lurking in his bloodstream finally settling into slumber.
What followed was a rare sense of clarity. It was as though he had been in a suffocating steam room for years and had suddenly stepped outside into fresh air. His mind was clear, and his body felt rejuvenated. The sunlight piercing through the clouds no longer seemed so oppressive, nor was the daylight so glaring. For the first time in a long while, he felt normal.
"How do you feel?" Nico Flamel asked.
"Great."
Hoffa raised a finger. That finger flexed and transformed fluidly, turning into a variety of shapes: a wine glass, a spiked mace, a fluttering ribbon, a coiled snake, and a crab claw.
"I can cast spells in the daytime again. It's a very effective potion."
"I hope you'll still say that tonight," Nico Flamel muttered. "Come on, try again."
Hoffa stopped playing with his finger and focused his gaze on the rug beneath the mounted deer head.
Nico Flamel raised his wand. "One, two, three!"
Pop.
A strong wave of magical energy swept through the room.
A puff of greenish smoke wafted by, and Hoffa vanished from where he had been standing.
When he reappeared, he was firmly planted on the plush rug, his body intact with no signs of dismemberment.
"Ugh."
In the corner, a snickering little Barty was abruptly silenced.
Nico Flamel clapped his hands and laughed. "I told you, this technique isn't difficult for you, is it? And you're a quick learner! When I was young, it took me three whole days to get the hang of it."
"Three days?"
Hoffa frowned. Although he had succeeded quickly, he still disliked this ability, which required three seconds to cast. He had faced many wizards in close combat before, and taking three seconds to prepare an Apparition spell during high-intensity battles was a ridiculous notion.
"Perhaps it's because I don't like going out much," Nico Flamel joked self-deprecatingly. "This skill hasn't been very useful to me. But you should keep practicing. If all goes well, you might master it today and take us to Voldemort's old home."
Hoffa shifted his gaze to the distant church steeple outside the window. Closing his eyes, he silently counted, one, two, three.
Then, crack.
It felt as though he were being squeezed through a thick rubber tube. He couldn't breathe, and every part of his body was under immense pressure. But when he reappeared, he stood atop the rain-drenched church spire.
"Interesting."
He took a moment to reflect on the Apparition technique. Then, with a slight sway of his body, he whispered, "One, two, three."
He vanished again.
And reappeared.
Each jump took him farther.
One moment, he was on Regent Street; the next, by Big Ben; then at King's Cross Station. In each location, he stayed only three or four seconds.
Like Li Kui enchanted with a speed charm, Hoffa flitted across London's rooftops, flickering like a restless phantom.
Once he got the hang of Apparition, he had to admit it was quite enjoyable. Despite its significant magical fluctuations and the longer casting time compared to instantaneous Transfiguration or Ghostly Walk, it was still a fascinating experience.
It felt as though the intangible fabric of space had turned into something elastic—malleable, twistable, and even navigable. Any place he had been to or remembered now seemed just within reach.
Eventually, he returned to Nico Flamel's home, his magical reserves nearly depleted from overuse. By this time, the Bloodbane Potion's effects had also begun to wear off.
The fatigue and clumsiness of daytime once again surged through his body. Content, he leaned back into the sofa.
"Confident now?" Nico Flamel asked.
"Yes," Hoffa nodded.
"Then when do we leave?"
As Nico Flamel posed the question, little Barty clutched his chest, looking at Hoffa with a face full of anticipation, trembling with excitement.
"Tonight," Hoffa replied curtly. "I don't want to see him during the day."
"Tonight?!"
Little Barty let out a wail of despair, clutching his head and rolling on the floor. "Why?! I've waited thirteen years! Thirteen years!"
"Thirteen years, and you can't wait a few more hours?" Hoffa snapped irritably. This lunatic's constant pestering grated on his nerves.
Barty's face turned red as he gazed into the distance with a dreamy expression. "If you understood the master's charm, you'd realize that every second of waiting is pure torment."
"Insane."
Ignoring him, Hoffa sat cross-legged and began to meditate.
"Ah!"
After a few more dramatic rolls on the floor, Barty transformed back into a hamster on a wheel, scurrying aimlessly around the room, both empty and restless.
Finally, as night fell, Hoffa ended his meditation, his magic fully restored. Grabbing Nico Flamel and little Barty's arms, he whispered, crack.
With the sound of Apparition, they vanished.
In a single bound spanning hundreds of miles, they reappeared in front of the dilapidated gates of the Riddle Manor.
(End of Chapter)
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