On the dimly lit street, Barty Crouch Jr., dragging Moody behind him, suddenly drew his wand and pointed it at Hoffa.
In a split second, Hoffa rolled to the ground.
The spell, flashing like lightning, missed him and struck the wall behind. Where the spell landed, a massive spider materialized, its thick pincers gripping the wall tightly. It was easy to imagine the dire consequences if the spell had hit Hoffa.
Missing his first attack, Barty slowly lowered his wand, a calm smile—one that didn't belong to him—playing on his lips. "Quick reflexes for someone so young."
"The disguise spell doesn't fool me," Hoffa said, standing up slowly. "You should drop the act."
"Impressive eyesight. Who sent you—Voldemort?"
As he spoke, Barty's face contorted and shifted, transforming into the wrinkled, ugly visage of an old man. Meanwhile, the elderly man with the broken jaw, whom he had been dragging, reverted to a young man with straw-like, yellow hair.
"We're just passing by," Hoffa lied casually, though he remained on high alert. In less than twenty seconds, the once-confident Barty had been subdued, even losing his jaw in the process. Moody was an old Auror, after all. Even in retirement, he wasn't someone to trifle with.
"Attacking Ministry officials and spewing lies—did your parents never teach you manners and morals, young man?"
Young man? Hoffa raised an eyebrow. He wasn't sure of Moody's exact age, but based on appearances, Moody should actually be a couple of years younger than him.
(He glanced at the setting sun in the distance and took out a vial of blue potion from his waist, holding it in his palm.)
Seeing Hoffa remain silent, Moody's normal eye burned with a fiery anger. "Are you working with Voldemort?"
"No, I don't even know him," Hoffa said, retreating cautiously to buy time. The sun was about to set, and he wanted to avoid using the Hemotoxin Potion if possible.
"Liar," Moody growled, his magical blue eye spinning madly. "Your expression gives you away." He raised his hand. "This guy—Barty Crouch Jr., a notorious Death Eater and Voldemort's lackey. If you're so eager to find him, you must be one of Voldemort's henchmen too, right?"
"I'm just an ordinary wizard passing through." As he spoke, Hoffa reached the yard's gate.
"Not a chance!"
Moody, ever the vigilant ex-Auror, moved like a hawk spotting prey. With a flick of his wand, he waved it in a cross motion.
The gate slammed shut behind Hoffa with a deafening boom. Nails sprouted from the walls, twisting to seal off his escape.
"I don't know how this guy escaped, but once I catch you both, I'll get to the bottom of this—Stupefy!"
A red spell shot from Moody's wand. Hoffa glanced at the horizon, sighed in frustration, and reluctantly uncorked the potion, taking a small sip.
Crack!
The spell stopped less than an inch from Hoffa's chest, striking a transparent shield instead. Behind the shield was Hoffa's raised finger.
Moody pulled back his wand, his disdain turning into a more serious expression. "A Shield Charm? Not many people can cast one of those these days."
"Thanks," Hoffa said dryly, lowering his hand. The sun was nearly gone, and the sip he took was minimal. He had no idea how the Hemotoxin Potion's effects would manifest after sunset, but he hoped to deal with Moody before nightfall.
Moody released the limp, jawless Barty, circling Hoffa slowly in the yard. "I underestimated you. Where's your wand? Show me your wand."
"Alright," Hoffa said, nodding. He broke off a grapevine from Moody's yard, holding it up like a wand in a dueling stance.
"You've got to be kidding me!"
This infuriated Moody. His magical blue eye spun wildly as he swung his wand. "Impedimenta!"
Stone bricks erupted from the ground and walls, blocking Hoffa's path and forming uneven barriers around him.
Moody didn't stop there. He swung his wand again. "Earthquake!"
The ground trembled violently. Nearby houses partially collapsed, trash cans toppled, and garbage spilled everywhere.
Hoffa stumbled, losing his balance as he got trapped between the shifting bricks. Moody's aggressive spellwork deepened the trap, dragging Hoffa further into the ground.
But just as he seemed trapped, Hoffa threw the vine in his hand. Mid-air, it transformed and expanded, turning into a massive lion three times the size of an adult man. The lion roared, opening its bloodied maw to bite at Moody's throat.
Moody's expression changed drastically. He immediately pulled his wand back, raising a shield to block the lion's attack.
He retreated three steps and countered, shouting, "Diffindo!"
The spell hit the lion, tearing it into pieces.
Yet before the lion's remains hit the ground, its mane darkened and disintegrated into thousands of ants. The swarm spread like a black carpet, swarming toward Moody with a chilling rustle.
Moody stepped back but found himself immobilized. Looking down, he saw stony hands emerging from the ground, clutching his ankles.
The ants rapidly climbed his legs, their relentless march covering his body.
"Damn Transfiguration!" Moody cursed, waving his wand.
"Incendio!"
A blazing ribbon of fire swept across the ground, engulfing both himself and the ants. As the flames crackled, some ants exploded like popcorn.
However, the surviving ants morphed into metallic chains, wrapping tightly around Moody's arms, legs, and torso.
With his limbs restrained, Moody couldn't cast another spell. The fire flickered out, leaving only glowing embers against the twilight.
Hoffa climbed out of the barrier, cautiously approaching the immobilized Moody.
The two locked eyes in silence. Moody's magical blue eye spun frantically, and sweat soaked his gray hair.
Hoffa reached for Moody's wand.
Suddenly, Hoffa's chest seized with pain.
He clutched his chest, staggering back. His breath hitched as his blood seemed to freeze.
Looking up, he saw the sun had set completely. The crescent moon hung bright in the sky, and the Hemotoxin Potion still coursed through his veins. It felt like an iron nail was driven into his chest.
The chains binding Moody vanished, reverting to a simple grapevine and falling to the ground.
Moody reacted instantly. Freeing his wooden leg, he kicked Hoffa square in the chest, sending him crashing into a wall.
Regaining his footing, Moody grabbed his wand, pointed it without hesitation, and roared, "Piercing Hex!"
Crack, crack, crack!
Three spikes materialized and pierced Hoffa's chest, pinning him to the wall. Blood splattered as his chest was shredded.
"Ughhhh!"
In the distance, Barty let out a terrified whimper, scrambling toward the gate without looking back.
Moody stood, panting, staring at the bald youth pinned to the wall. His gaze shifted to the innocuous grapevine on the ground.
Even now, he couldn't fathom how he'd been restrained by something so simple. Who was this young wizard?
Dead?
The boy hung motionless on the wall.
He must be dead.
Though cautious, Moody instinctively kept his distance. He approached Barty instead, flipping him onto his back with a heavy hand.
"Ughhh…"
The yellow-haired youth whimpered, raising trembling hands.
"Episkey!" Moody muttered, aiming his wand at Barty's jaw. With a click, the dislocated jaw snapped back into place.
"Moody, boss, you're as formidable as ever," Barty stammered, sweating profusely.
"Shut it. Tell me everything about that boy. Name, origin, family—spill it!"
"I—I don't know him," Barty stuttered, trembling.
"Really?" Moody sneered, pointing his wand at Barty's nose.
"Have the Dementors gotten too soft for you to dare lie to me?"
Barty's legs buckled. Nearly collapsing, he blurted, "I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"
Moody: "Speak!"
"He, he, his name is..."
Small-Barty's eyes shifted to Moody's back, his expression shifting from fear to a lingering sense of dread.
"What's his name?" Moody demanded, seeing that Small-Barty had fallen silent again. His voice was laced with fury.
"Hehehe..." Small-Barty laughed nervously, sweat dripping from his face. "You want... you want to know? Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Huh?"
Moody felt a sense of dread and quickly turned around.
To his shock, the young man he had nailed to the wall with the Cruciatus Curse was now slowly raising his head, coldly staring ahead. He then pressed his hand against the sharp spikes lodged in his chest and started walking toward Moody. Blood poured from his wound, but not a drop fell to the ground.
The bizarre and unnatural sight sent a chill down Moody's spine.
Without a second thought, he activated Disillusionment, his long experience in battle telling him it was time to get out.
Crack.
The blood-soaked boy fell to the ground, free from the spikes.
Crack.
Moody vanished in an instant, using Disillusionment.
But just before he could disappear, the strange boy appeared before him, surrounded by a burst of red blood mist. The boy's hand hovered lightly over his neck, landing with a gentle strike.
The seemingly soft blow struck Moody like a thunderclap, rendering him paralyzed and frozen in place. His blue eye almost rolled to the back of his head as he struggled to comprehend how the young man, with a pierced chest, was still moving.
Small-Barty, lying on the ground, watched in awe and admiration, tears glistening in his eyes. "Incredible, just like Mr. Bach... just like Mr. Bach..."
"Idiot, shut up."
Hoffa turned slightly, cutting off Small-Barty's praise. His chest wound healed swiftly in the moonlight as the effects of the blood-loss potion began to wear off.
"Who... who are you?" Moody asked, his body twitching in pain. A strange, electric sensation flowed through him, making movement nearly impossible.
"Who I am doesn't concern you."
Hoffa replied coldly, lifting Moody from the ground. His fingers reached for Moody's eye sockets, removing the crazily rotating blue eye and then the false leg, essential props for his disguise.
However, when Hoffa removed Moody's clothing, he found a stack of documents tucked inside. It was a collection of photos and a few charred bone fragments.
Upon examining the bone fragment, Hoffa narrowed his eyes. A rough triangle was carved into the piece, with a circle inside it and a vertical line through the center.
The symbol of the Grim Reaper.
Not only that, but Hoffa sensed an eerie energy emanating from the charred bones, something that triggered ancient memories buried deep within his mind.
The Realm of the Grim Reaper—Helheim.
He recalled that back in his first year at Hogwarts, the gamekeeper Joey had sacrificed his life to communicate with the deceased Thunderbird by opening the door to Helheim. The cold, chilling air from that realm had stayed with him.
Now, this same eerie energy was coming from these bone fragments.
"What are these?" Hoffa asked solemnly, holding up the charred bones.
"You'll never get anything out of me, shapeshifter!"
Moody, still lying weakly on the ground, sneered. "With such power, you don't do anything good but follow Voldemort. God must be blind."
Hoffa snorted in disdain, shaking his head. He turned to Small-Barty Crouch, who stood behind him. "Soul-Snatcher Curse!"
"Yes, Mr. Bach."
Small-Barty eagerly clutched his reattached jaw, stepping forward. His wand pointed at Moody sitting in the chair. "Out of body."
A flash of white light.
Moody's eyes went blank, his expression turning vacant.
"Tell me, what is this?" Hoffa leaned down and asked again.
"@#%^iui."
Moody mumbled incoherently, his body limp on the ground.
"What did you say? Say it louder," Hoffa pressed, putting his ear closer to Moody's mouth.
"$"*+p."
Moody continued to mumble aimlessly.
Hoffa furrowed his brows, moving even closer. He barked an order, "Speak clearly. What are you saying?"
Moody sneered. "I said, I'm your grandfather."
Hoffa suddenly turned his head, his gaze locking on Moody's unyielding single eye under the pale moonlight, watching the quivering corner of his mouth.
Cough!!
Moody suddenly bit down hard on a tooth, spitting blood and saliva out.
The distance was close, but luckily the effects of the blood-loss potion had worn off, and Hoffa swiftly turned his head, dodging the spit just in time, bending his neck almost ninety degrees.
However, Small-Barty behind him wasn't as lucky. He was sprayed with the bloodied saliva.
He screamed, rolling on the ground in distress, covering his face.
Hoffa slowly rose to his feet, eyeing Moody's battered but defiant face. He realized he had underestimated him. The man had managed to break free from the Soul-Snatcher Curse and was clearly a highly skilled wizard.
"I'll kill you!"
"I'll kill you!"
"I'll kill you!"
Small-Barty raged, standing up with wild hair.
The Soul-Snatcher Curse had no effect on him, and humiliated by the saliva, he angrily grabbed a kettle and smashed it over Moody's head.
Bang!!
The kettle shattered, and its contents spilled down Moody's face. His head lolled, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.
"I'll kill you, kill you, kill you!"
Small-Barty was far from satisfied. He picked up a broken shard of pottery, his face twisted in fury. But when he turned and saw Hoffa's cold, golden eyes, he dropped the shard, instead spitting on Moody's body, cursing as he did so. "Old bastard, old bastard, old bastard."
Hoffa watched as Small-Barty spat at Moody's body, not intervening. He carefully stored the photos and bone fragments before heading into the house of the mad-eyed Moody.
The house had no valuable furniture, and what little there was had been destroyed in the scuffle with Small-Barty.
But despite the chaos, Hoffa spotted a large European map hanging on the wall in the living room. The map was covered in red marks. As he approached, he saw that each mark indicated a location—missing persons.
His own theater and the Wales World Cup stadium were marked as well.
Hoffa clenched his fists, his expression darkening.
It seemed that Grindelwald's plan to annihilate the world wasn't as airtight as he thought. Someone had noticed the pattern. However, for some unknown reason, the large-scale disappearances had yet to be reported.
Hoffa counted the marked locations on the map—there were more than a dozen across various countries.
He gasped in shock.
It wasn't just two locations. Entire regions of Europe were under attack by an unknown force.
If each of these locations had as many disappearances as his theater, then several tens of thousands of people were likely affected.
In just a few days, tens of thousands of deaths, across all of Europe—it was a mystery Hoffa couldn't comprehend.
How had Grindelwald managed to appear in so many places at once?
(End of Chapter)
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