Chapter 314: Revisiting Familiar Ground

"Back to the point—spells. They come in various forms, each with different magical properties. According to the Ministry of Magic's guidelines, I should only be teaching you counter-curses and nothing more. Technically speaking, it's against the rules for me to teach you about illegal dark curses, especially since you're not even sixth-years yet. You're too young to handle that kind of magic. However, Professor Dumbledore spoke highly of your bravery and believes..."

At nine o'clock in the morning, Alastor Moody was passionately lecturing in the classroom. His expressions were as animated as ever, identical to his usual demeanor. Only upon closer inspection could one notice the deep, hidden emptiness and confusion in his eyes.

Hoffa sat quietly in a corner of the classroom under the guise of a transformation spell, saying nothing.

The previous night, after encountering Miller, the latter had possessed Hoffa's right hand. Following a fierce confrontation that even escalated to Dumbledore's office, Hoffa had finally obtained the knowledge of the three Unforgivable Curses. However, it wasn't his own mastery—Miller, inhabiting Hoffa's right hand, had used the Imperius Curse to control Moody, who was now pretending to teach Harry Potter's class.

Wary of potential mishaps, Hoffa had discreetly followed Moody in disguise, with Miller in tow. Yet his concerns proved unfounded. The Imperius Curse cast by Miller was extraordinarily stable. Since the start of class, Moody had not made a single error.

On the platform, Moody was, as described in the original text, enforcing classroom discipline, questioning students, and introducing the three Unforgivable Curses.

While Hoffa sat in the corner, his gaze rested idly on Moody, though his thoughts were elsewhere—on Dumbledore. After last night's meeting with the headmaster, Hoffa couldn't shake the suspicion that Dumbledore was already aware of his existence.

His words seemed directed at Moody, yet it also felt like they were intended for Hoffa:

"A dark star rises; the gods clash among themselves."

What exactly was Dumbledore trying to convey? Hoffa furrowed his brow, absentmindedly tugging at his hair.

The Nightmare God he had briefly met was nowhere to be found, offering no answers. His mentor, Death's emissary Grindelwald, was also missing. Damn it—why couldn't anyone just be straightforward? Why must everything be so cryptic?

A burst of laughter pulled him from his thoughts.

It turned out that Moody had taken out a glass jar containing a spider. Waving his wand, he cast the Imperius Curse on the spider, which began dancing on the desk, eliciting laughter from the students.

Miller muttered in Hoffa's mind, "Teaching the Imperius Curse by using the Imperius Curse—how ironic."

"How is the Imperius Curse different from the Puppet Curse you used on me?" Hoffa couldn't help but ask.

"The Puppet Curse controls the body while leaving the mind intact. After the spell ends, the victim retains memories of being controlled. The Imperius Curse, on the other hand, controls both body and mind. Once the spell is lifted, the victim doesn't even remember who controlled them."

"Doesn't that make the Imperius Curse superior?"

Hoffa glanced at Moody uneasily. In his view, the Imperius Curse was even more dangerous than the Killing Curse. The thought of falling under its influence genuinely terrified him.

"That's not how it works. Every spell operates under its own set of rules; no curse is inherently better or worse than another.

For instance, while the Puppet Curse doesn't control as deeply as the Imperius Curse, it can manipulate large groups over greater distances. The Imperius Curse, in contrast, is more intense but usually only affects one individual at a time, and the controller must stay close to the victim. If the caster's mental strength isn't high enough, they even risk losing control."

"Controlling large groups..."

Hoffa's mind drifted to Grindelwald and his followers, recalling the terrifying cages they wore on their heads.

"Is the Puppet Curse unbreakable?" Hoffa asked.

"Unbreakable? Of course not," Miller replied with a smug tone. "But I don't see any reason to tell you how."

"Damn it," Hoffa cursed inwardly, though he said nothing aloud.

As long as Miller didn't use his body for any heinous acts, Hoffa didn't mind his presence. At least this way, he had someone to talk to.

Moody's Defense Against the Dark Arts class didn't last long. After demonstrating the three Unforgivable Curses, the lesson ended smoothly. The students gradually filed out of the classroom, showing more respect for Moody now than they had at the beginning of the term.

Once the class had dispersed, Hoffa raised his right hand and, speaking as though to himself, asked Miller, "What exactly does Miranda want to give me? Can you tell me now?"

In the empty classroom, Miller controlled Hoffa's right hand, making a gripping motion in the air.

The space rippled like water.

Miller conjured an old, faded parchment from the void and handed it to Hoffa.

Hoffa took the parchment and examined it. Written in red ink was a line of text:

"The demands of ancient, unknown gods can only be met with the long, immeasurable passage of time. The older the gods, the more they fear death. To trade with such entities, the price must be time itself—the only time humans can offer is their lifespan."

Beneath the text were densely packed runic symbols—ancient and sharp, resembling an eye. Below the eye was a complex list of potion recipes and spells, clearly meant to be used together.

"This is...!"

Hoffa's hand trembled as memories flooded back. Fifty years ago, in his first year at Hogwarts, before he could transform into a Thunderbird, Joey had opened the gateway to the Deathly Hallows for him. At the time, Joey had sacrificed a finger and part of his lifespan, carving an eye symbol on Hoffa's arm. The symbol was identical to the one on this parchment.

"This is the sacrificial ritual for entering Helheim, the Death God's domain," Miller explained nonchalantly. "It's something my sister spent years uncovering in primitive tribes for you. By sacrificing part of your lifespan under specific conditions, you'll gain a brief chance to enter the Death God's realm. Perhaps there, you can find the person you're looking for."

"Miranda..." Hoffa stared at the parchment, speechless. He had assumed that after fifty years, Joey must have died, and the secret to entering Helheim had been lost. Yet here it was, seemingly handed to him effortlessly.

Seeing his expression, Miller poured cold water on his excitement: "Don't get your hopes up. So much time has passed. Even if you reach Helheim, the soul you're looking for may have already dissipated."

Ignoring Miller's pessimism, Hoffa took a deep breath, calming his excitement, and asked, "Can I meet Miranda to thank her in person?"

"Throw away the parchment, and I'll take you to her," Miller replied bluntly.

Hoffa instinctively hid the parchment behind his back.

With Miller's help, Hoffa no longer needed to monitor Moody or maintain any disguises. His days became relatively uneventful, at least for him.

Hogwarts, however, was abuzz with activity. The Triwizard Tournament had begun, drawing students from schools worldwide. The grounds were filled with young witches and wizards, handsome and beautiful alike. Dumbledore unveiled the Goblet of Fire, and the Ministry of Magic stationed officials in Hogsmeade for security. A wave of Ministry personnel flooded the castle.

A week later, under Hoffa's direction, Miller cast a powerful Confundus Charm on the Goblet of Fire, ensuring Harry's name was submitted. On the night of the champions' reveal, a bewildered Harry Potter was thrown into a storm of conflict by the scheming duo. From that moment, his life became a mess of mockery, gossip from nosy reporters, and betrayal by his closest friends.

Everything proceeded as planned, except for one variable: Barty Crouch Jr.

After exposure to Helheim's cold winds, Barty had descended into madness. Only the sight of Shimmer pulled him from insanity into a state of catatonic stupor.

Though Shimmer claimed Barty would recover in a week, a month passed without any change. Barty's condition worsened; he seemed to slip into a hibernation-like state, his breathing and heartbeat slowing to a crawl.

Shimmer grew increasingly anxious, pestering Hoffa every other day about what to do.

But none of this concerned Hoffa. He had no interest in Barty or Harry Potter. With the sacrificial contract from Miranda in hand, his focus was entirely on preparing for the journey to Helheim.

Sacrificing one's lifespan to enter Helheim wasn't a straightforward process. The sacrificial potion had to be crafted according to the parchment's instructions and paired with specific spells.

For an entire month, Hoffa devoted himself to this task. He instructed Shimmer to steal potions from Snape's storeroom, brewed in secret within the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, and ventured into the Forbidden Forest to prepare the ritual site. He had no intention of being interrupted while opening the gateway to Helheim.

Time flew by. A month later, as the Triwizard Tournament approached its first task, Hoffa completed his preparations. That night, he stood ready to enter the realm of the dead.

That Night

The grounds were shrouded in darkness. Hoffa and Miller, disguised as Moody, walked together deep into the Forbidden Forest. Because of the unique task Hoffa had planned for the night, Miller had left Hoffa's palm and taken residence in the body of the infamous Mad-Eye Moody.

As they passed the lawn, the towering half-giant Hagrid was outside his hut. Dressed in a tight-fitting suit, he stood by the sink, combing his hair in preparation for his evening date.

Across from Hagrid's hut was an enormous carriage belonging to Madame Maxime, the headmistress of Beauxbatons. A few young men and women chatted and kissed in the dark grass, their carefree demeanor a testament to the French students' openness and romantic tendencies, far more so than their British counterparts.

A gentle night breeze brushed Hoffa's face, carrying the intoxicating fragrance of honeysuckle through the air.

For a fleeting moment, Hoffa, who had been consumed by his sacrificial potion preparations, felt a twinge of envy for the students on the lawn. He reminded himself that he was only seventeen. If he had arrived in this time instead of his own, he could have been like them—relaxing with friends over tea, chatting about tournament competitors, or perhaps even representing Hogwarts in the Triwizard Tournament, breezing his way to victory. His only concern might have been whom to ask to the Yule Ball.

But then he thought of Aglaea and Miranda. If he had been born fifty years later, he might never have met them. With that thought, his envy melted away, and he no longer envied the boys and girls enjoying the night.

Miller, however, felt differently. He eyed the French students with a wicked glint in his magical blue eye, which spun wildly in its socket. Rubbing his hands together, he said excitedly, "When you're gone, I'm going to possess one of those handsome lads or lovely ladies and fully enjoy the feeling of youth!"

Hoffa glanced at him, his expression tinged with both irritation and disgust. Miller's lecherous attitude paired with Moody's terrifying face was almost enough to make Hoffa want to lock him in a cage.

"Don't mess anything up," Hoffa warned. "Just stay in character as Moody and wait for me to return."

"You're not my boss," Miller scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"If you screw this up, I'll report you to your sister."

Miller smirked slyly. "Do you really think this wasn't her idea? She's always been reserved, but behind closed doors, she—"

"Shut up! Shut up and stay put!" Hoffa's face flushed as he pushed Miller away, unwilling to hear any more about Miranda's private matters.

They continued deeper into the Forbidden Forest. Before long, loud voices and a piercing, guttural roar echoed through the trees.

"ROAR!!"

Rounding a cluster of trees, Hoffa glimpsed an open clearing ahead. Four fully grown, ferocious-looking dragons were confined within a sturdy wooden enclosure. They reared up on their hind legs, bellowing and snorting, sending flames licking through the night sky.

"So, the first task involves dragons," Hoffa remarked.

Miller chuckled, then sneered. "What a downgrade. In our day, taming a dragon was child's play for any student."

"What does taming a dragon mean to you?" Hoffa asked, looking at the magnificent creatures.

Miller, still inhabiting Moody's body, shrugged. "Nothing much. They were just pets to us."

"To them, it's a test of courage—a way to prove themselves. It's not about raw power," Hoffa replied.

Miller frowned. "Bach, there's something I've never understood."

"What is it?"

"Why did you jump into the lake in your third year? I still can't comprehend why anyone would choose death."

"It was just…an immature decision I made," Hoffa replied calmly.

"If my sister had been there, she'd have saved you. But I wouldn't have let her go," Miller said seriously. "Honestly, I don't think being abandoned by Hogwarts is a big deal. Sacrificing yourself over something so trivial is just petty."

"You're right—it wasn't a big deal," Hoffa said evenly, his tone distant.

"Do you regret it?" Miller pressed.

"No. At least I confirmed some things," Hoffa replied.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, the dragons' roars faded into the distance. The ground began to glow faintly as luminescent fungi shimmered in soft blue and yellow hues, attracting swarms of insects that buzzed lazily around them.

Miller moved ahead, waving his fingers to cast defensive and isolation barriers in all directions.

Once the setup was complete, Hoffa sat cross-legged on the ground and pulled a small vial from his robes. The potion inside bubbled furiously, its surface glinting with a heavy, bronze-like sheen.

This was the sacrificial potion he had spent the month preparing. Drinking it would enable him to perform the ritual. Despite his years of experience, Hoffa's hand trembled slightly as he held the vial.

"Do you want me to drink it instead?" Miller asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

"Are you worried about me?"

"Not worried—just pointing out there's a perfectly good sacrifice available." Miller gestured to Moody's body. "Sacrificing him would save your lifespan."

"There's no need," Hoffa said softly. He thought of the man who had shot him and shook his head with a wry smile. Without hesitation, he uncorked the vial and drank its contents.

The potion was thick and metallic, leaving no discernible taste. But as it coursed through his veins, Hoffa felt a foreign force envelop his very essence.

It was his time—his life force.

It surged within him, so overwhelming that he felt an instinctive urge to release it. Mimicking Joey's ritual from years past, he cut his finger and drew an eye on the back of his hand.

Instantly, as if squeezing the last drop from a bottle, an invisible force drained Hoffa's vitality. His body withered, aging a decade in moments.

Miller frowned, clearly displeased. Kneeling beside Hoffa, he bit his own finger and drew a symbol on Hoffa's forehead with his blood.

"This is a puppet rune. I can't accompany you to the Underworld. If you're in danger and need help, use this rune to summon me. I'll take control of your body for an hour—but only an hour. Understood?"

"I understand," Hoffa said, nodding.

"Also, that place is Death's domain—the deepest abyss. Whether or not you find what you're looking for, you must return before the eye disappears. Otherwise, you'll be lost in Helheim forever, and your physical body here will be reduced to a vegetable."

"I understand. Thank you, Miller."

The blood-red eye on Hoffa's hand blinked, and his eyelids grew heavy.

Suddenly, with a thud, he collapsed. It felt as though an unseen force yanked him by the arm. His irises faded, leaving his eyes pure white.

A massive, invisible gate slammed open, and a fierce wind swept Hoffa's consciousness away.

His awareness spiraled through layers of space, passing countless worlds in a blur. It felt as if he were surrounded by old film reels, each flashing and shifting rapidly.

Finally, the fall ended, and Hoffa stood on solid ground.

A bone-chilling wind swept over him, threatening to obliterate him entirely. He instinctively shivered, clutching his arms tightly.

However, his mental fortitude had grown considerably since his first year. Though the wind discomforted him briefly, he quickly adapted.

Adjusting to the cold, Hoffa opened his eyes—and staggered back in shock, gasping.

He was standing on a colossal, straight stone bridge that stretched from a hazy void to an unknown shore. At the far end, a massive, indistinct eagle shadow loomed. The figure was so immense that words failed to describe it.

It was the only source of light in this abyss, with faint glimmers escaping from its movements.

But that wasn't what shocked him.

Hoffa had visited the Deathly Realm before and vividly remembered its desolate landscape.

This time, however, things were drastically different.

The last time he had been here, the bridge was empty.

Now, it was crowded.

Shoulder to shoulder, people filled the bridge like tourists on a bustling shopping street during a national holiday.

Each person wore identical attire: black leather robes and rusted birdcage helmets. Silent and motionless, they formed a dense, eerie crowd.

Hoffa's sudden arrival made him an anomaly—the only one without a cage or black robes. His presence was as jarring as a man wandering into a women's bathhouse.

All eyes turned to him.

Snow drifted down from the shadowy sky, vanishing into the endless abyss below.

Standing among the crowd, Hoffa stared at the sea of birdcage-headed figures and their piercing gazes from behind the rusted bars.

Swallowing hard, he raised a trembling hand.

"E-excuse me...?"

(End of Chapter)

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