Chapter 310: An Unexpected Visitor

In the office, Hoffa paced back and forth. Little Barty's exact recovery time was uncertain, but he only had three days before teaching his first Defense Against the Dark Arts class to Harry Potter. If he failed, it was almost certain he'd be exposed under Dumbledore's watchful eye.

What should he do?

Seeing him pacing, Dobby couldn't help but ask, "What's troubling you?"

Hoffa looked at Dobby. "Do you know any Dark Magic?"

Dobby's large eyes widened in shock, as if a giant question mark appeared above his head.

"The three Unforgivable Curses—do you know them?"

Dobby, horrified, shook his head and retreated while clutching Little Barty.

Hoffa then turned his gaze behind him. Moody was glaring at him angrily, his expression frozen in a perpetual scowl. Who knew how long he'd been maintaining this furious demeanor?

Hoffa carefully closed the door, used a Transfiguration spell to conjure three soundproof walls, and sealed the entrance tightly. He then approached Moody, unlocking the magical restraint on his mouth.

Moody, ever the blunt one, didn't yell. Instead, he sneered, "Panicking? Facing a problem, are we?"

"Just a small one," Hoffa replied nonchalantly.

Moody tilted his head, a twisted smile forming on his scarred face. "Tell me about it. Maybe I can help?"

The glint in Moody's eye was one of mockery, but Hoffa still asked, "Do you know the three Unforgivable Curses?"

"Of course," Moody replied with a hearty laugh. "Has that soft-hearted Dumbledore finally asked you to teach them? Ha, he's grown a spine at last!"

Moody's laughter faded, replaced by a serious expression. "You mean to tell me, Transfiguration master, that you don't know them?"

Hoffa shook his head. "No, I don't."

Moody's single eye narrowed. "Then untie me, and I'll teach you. The three Unforgivable Curses are only taught during the Ministry's secret Auror training. You won't find them elsewhere."

He sighed dramatically. "The fact that you don't know them suggests you're not entirely irredeemable. If you free me, I won't hold a grudge over what you've done these past few days. I might even recommend you to the Ministry, help you escape Voldemort's control, and offer you—"

"You're retired, and Cornelius Fudge despises you. You can't offer me anything except the three Unforgivable Curses," Hoffa interrupted calmly.

"You—"

Moody's mouth opened in astonishment, followed by a flash of anger in his eye. "Fine! But untie me. I can't teach you while I'm bound like this."

"And hand you your wand?" Hoffa retorted.

Moody sighed in exasperation. "Kid, are you stupid? Without a wand, how am I supposed to teach you?"

He looked utterly sincere, his anger seemingly replaced by gentleness.

Hoffa squinted, noticing the murderous intent hidden beneath Moody's gentle facade.

Slowly, Hoffa circled behind Moody and extracted a fork he'd concealed in his bound hands. It must have been smuggled to him by Little Barty during one of his moments of confusion.

Hoffa silently held up the fork. "You reek of lies."

The gentleness in Moody's eye vanished, replaced by cold fury. "You little punk, you're this cunning at your age? What'll you become when you grow up!?"

Thud!

Hoffa gagged Moody once more and tossed the fork aside, feeling a pang of frustration.

If he knew the Imperius Curse, he could force Moody to teach him the three Unforgivable Curses. But the Imperius Curse was one of the three Unforgivable Curses—a paradox with no solution.

Helpless, he turned to Dobby. "Take care of Little Barty. Don't tell anyone about what happened today. Do you understand?"

"I-I understand," Dobby stammered.

"And when you return, you must continue crying."

"Cry? But... but I can't cry on command."

Dobby looked at Little Barty, scrunching his face into a pitiful expression that, unfortunately, appeared more delighted than distressed.

"If you can't cry convincingly, both your young master and your old master will die. Do you understand?"

Dobby's face turned ghostly pale.

Hoffa added, "I'm your young master's protector. If my cover is blown, your young master will be skinned alive, thrown into Azkaban, and left to die in madness and solitude."

Dobby burst into wails on the spot.

"Quiet!" Hoffa snapped. "There'll be time for crying later—just not here!"

"Mm-hmm!" Dobby stuffed his hands into his mouth to muffle his sobs, though a string of snot still trailed down his face.

After ensuring Dobby was settled, Hoffa checked the time and headed to the Hogwarts library under the cover of night.

Time was running out, but he couldn't sit idle. If he could master the three Unforgivable Curses in time, he might avoid being exposed in class.

Two Days Later

Twenty-four hours remained until Hoffa's first lesson at Hogwarts.

Disheveled and despairing, Hoffa (disguised as Moody) emerged from his office, surrounded by piles of books.

For two days, he had scoured the library, borrowing books on every excuse he could think of. From first-year spellbooks to advanced seventh-year texts, he'd searched them all. But his efforts were in vain—the three Unforgivable Curses were nowhere to be found.

As Moody had said, they were taught only in the Ministry's secret Auror training, passed down orally and never recorded in books.

Hoffa had hoped that Hogwarts' library might surprise him, but his optimism was misplaced.

Frustrated, he sat in the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, running his fingers through his hair as he racked his brain for a solution.

Time was almost up. Without the knowledge of the three Unforgivable Curses, exposure in front of Dumbledore seemed inevitable. And yet, Hoffa wasn't ready to clash with the greatest wizard of the age.

Should he flee?

The thought crossed his mind, but the memory of Fatir's piercing blue eyes snuffed out his doubts.

No, he couldn't run. He had to complete Voldemort's mission and obtain the Resurrection Spell.

As his fingers brushed against the embossed gold letters on a spellbook cover, a sudden sense of déjà vu struck him like a lightning bolt. It was as if fate itself had nudged him, aligning random events into something inevitable.

He closed the spellbook and stared at its spine. There, a familiar name was printed: "Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5—Miranda Goshawk."

The name was written in delicate, elegant lettering that he knew all too well.

For five long seconds, Hoffa froze. Then, he almost flung the book into the air, exclaiming, "What the—?!"

Standing abruptly, he flipped through the book. To his astonishment, nearly every spellbook he'd borrowed from the library—at least those published after 1950—was authored by Miranda Goshawk.

This discovery left him slumped in his chair, covering his face in a mix of laughter and tears.

Upon reflection, it made sense—it fit her perfectly. A prodigy of the spell-casting family, who had already taught him the Disillusionment Charm in their first year, and now, as an adult, had written a spell-crafting textbook. It wasn't surprising at all.

After the initial shock, what followed was an overwhelming wave of guilt and unease. Back then, he had pushed Miranda away, thinking he could always go back to her. But he hadn't anticipated that "later" would mean over fifty years.

Hoffa's face turned pale as he stared at her name.

Fifty years. Merlin's beard—could she even remember him?

Thinking back to five years ago, even his own memories were blurry, let alone those from fifty years ago. She might already have grandchildren, a family, a whole life of her own. Perhaps she was now enjoying her golden years in some quiet countryside villa. Would it really be right to disturb her life again?

Strange thoughts flooded Hoffa's mind, one after another, each more unsettling than the last.

But looking around, who could he turn to for help?

Who would keep his secrets?

Who could possibly understand his determination to save Aglaia?

Perhaps no one. Perhaps only that old friend from long ago.

"Shameful," Hoffa muttered to himself as he set the spellbook down. "I only think of you when I need help. Shame on you, Hoffa Bach."

He grabbed his arm and pinched himself hard. Finally, he slid the book back onto the shelf and decided to contact the one friend he had left.

Where Miranda was now, he had no idea. And with only 24 hours left, sending an owl seemed impractical. But this was a magical world—there were other ways.

First, at noon, Hoffa went to the student activity area at Hogwarts.

After passing through the club registration area and slipping behind a massive portrait on the second floor, Hoffa entered a hall surrounded by numerous arched corridors. Intricate patterns carved into the corridors occasionally shimmered as magical runes, faintly glowing on the walls.

In the center stood statues of young witches and wizards holding wands, looking as vibrant and ambitious as they had fifty years ago.

However, when he reached the Violet Society—where Miranda had once taught him the Disillusionment Charm—he found it completely deserted. Even the guardian portrait, once holding a bouquet of violets and wearing a mask, was now empty.

But Hoffa didn't give up. Failing to find anything in the club's activity room, he made his way to Ravenclaw Tower, climbing towards the observatory. There, at the very top, he stopped in front of an office filled with astronomical instruments.

This was Professor Flitwick's office. Fifty years ago, it had belonged to Adabay Gosak.

To his surprise, Flitwick hadn't replaced the security portrait on the door. It was exactly as it had been when Adabay was there.

The portrait depicted two people: a man and a woman.

The man had gray hair, a high nose, and a warm smile. The woman, with chestnut hair and a soft demeanor, leaned lazily against the man's shoulder.

Hoffa stepped out of stealth mode and stood before the portrait of Miranda's parents.

This time, he didn't take any Polyjuice Potion; he appeared as himself.

When Miranda's parents in the painting saw him, their smiles slowly faded. The man looked puzzled, while the woman's expression turned cold.

"I'm looking for Miranda," Hoffa said nervously, standing under the portrait. "Could you please notify her for me?"

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds.

The woman snorted coldly, turned her head, and refused to look at him. The man, however, sighed, nodded, and stepped out of the portrait.

The woman cast a frosty glance at Hoffa and muttered, "Scum." With that, she left the portrait in the opposite direction, moving into the frames of other paintings nearby.

Hoffa was left standing alone in front of the empty frame, unsure of what to do.

After a while, Miranda's father, Nimon Gosak, returned. "Midnight. Ravenclaw common room. Someone will find you," he said gently.

Relief washed over Hoffa, his heart nearly bursting with gratitude. He clasped his hands together and bowed deeply to Miranda's father.

The man in the painting looked at him with a mix of pity, helplessness, and regret. Finally, he shook his head. "Go."

Having received the message, Hoffa felt reassured. For the rest of the day, he alternated between excitement and nervous anticipation.

Would he really see Miranda? How would she get here? Would she use the Floo Network? What would she look like now? Married? With children? If she were seventy, bald, and frail, what would he do?

Hoffa thought about it endlessly. When he finally met her, he decided he'd hug her tightly, kiss her, apologize, and ask how her last fifty years had been.

He rehearsed every scenario—how to win her forgiveness, how to apologize if she ignored him, even how to introduce himself if she no longer remembered him.

Finally, as the clock struck midnight, Hoffa arrived at the entrance to Ravenclaw's common room.

The eagle-shaped knocker unfurled its wings as he approached.

"You move swiftly on your journey, but I move swifter. No matter how far or fast you travel, I will always be farther."

A familiar Ravenclaw riddle.

Hoffa bowed his head in thought, then looked up. "Light."

"Welcome back," the eagle said, folding its wings.

Hoffa paused, surprised—it was the first time he'd heard the eagle say anything beyond riddles.

But the eagle was indifferent. After receiving the answer, it returned to being a motionless sculpture.

The door behind it spun open, revealing a blue, curving corridor.

Taking a deep breath, Hoffa stepped inside.

The Ravenclaw common room at midnight was as serene as he remembered.

Dim embers glowed in the fireplace, and curtains fluttered in the autumn breeze. The familiar half-body statue of Rowena Ravenclaw stood proudly above the hearth, gazing out at the Scottish Highlands. Below her marble statue, an inscription in elegant Latin read: "Extraordinary intelligence is humanity's greatest treasure."

"Miranda?"

"Miranda."

"Miranda."

Hoffa called softly into the silence, his voice tinged with unease. Only his echo answered, along with the faint crackle of the fireplace.

"Miranda? Are you here?"

Hoffa began to wander the common room, cautiously searching as he called her name.

But after searching every corner, he found no one.

The midnight common room was empty.

Eventually, Hoffa returned to the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw, staring at it in confusion. "Good evening, Rowena," he muttered. "Surely you're not the one I'm supposed to meet."

"It's not her," came a soft laugh behind him—young and chillingly cold.

The hairs on the back of Hoffa's neck stood on end. He hadn't sensed anyone behind him.

Swish.

He spun around.

Pale moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the blue marble floor.

Hoffa's eyes widened as he stared at the figure before him, who had appeared as suddenly as a ghost. She wore a semi-transparent nightgown, her feet in slippers, her bare legs gleaming in the moonlight.

It wasn't Miranda.

It was Cho Chang—Cedric Diggory's girlfriend.

(End of Chapter)

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