Chapter 369: No Answers

For the next few days, Hoffa remained under intensive medical care. His body was riddled with fractures and bullet wounds—half of him was practically knocking on death's door.

Fortunately, once Dumbledore recognized him, he immediately gathered the best medical personnel available to treat Hoffa, barely keeping him alive.

Despite undergoing multiple surgeries and rounds of anesthesia, Hoffa forced himself to stay conscious. He dared not let himself fall into uncontrolled sleep, fearing that the Nightmare God was still lurking in the shadows, waiting to drag him back into a dream at his weakest moment.

Perhaps because Hoffa had shielded him from bullets, the Gryffindor student remained deeply grateful. Throughout Hoffa's days of surgery and recovery, Chris never left his side.

It wasn't until the final operation ended and the last bullet was removed that Hoffa gave Chris one last instruction—to wake him up exactly eight hours later. Only after receiving Chris's firm confirmation did Hoffa allow himself to fall into a deep sleep.

Even though he had prepared for it, what awaited him in his sleep was still a turbulent nightmare—

A man in a wheelchair sat with his head bowed, while an indescribable creature behind him constantly shifted forms. Its face flickered between Aglaea, Miranda, Chloe, and the strange beings he had encountered on his adventures.

Amidst the storm, Hoffa sailed a small boat across the raging sea of dreams. That ancient ocean was as old as the world itself. He struggled desperately to keep the boat steady, knowing that beneath the waves lay every event that had ever occurred in his dreams—his father, his husband, Minister Bach. One misstep, and he would be swallowed whole.

No one spoke to him. No one told him what to do. The storm and whirlpools raged on without pause.

At the bow of the boat, a tiny Thunderbird stood on one leg, trembling its wings as it faced the storm head-on. Only when he saw the bird did Hoffa feel the slightest sense of reassurance.

The restless dreams drained him completely, and it wasn't until someone vigorously shook his shoulder that he was finally pulled back to reality.

When Hoffa opened his eyes, he saw Chris staring at him with dark circles under his eyes. In the chaos of battle, Hoffa hadn't paid attention, but now that they were safe, he realized that the Gryffindor wizard was quite handsome. He had the chiseled features of a Roman statue, wavy hair, and a faint dusting of freckles around his nose. If they were still at Hogwarts—or if it were a time of peace—his looks alone would have earned him the admiration of many.

"How are you feeling, Senior?" Chris asked with concern.

"Not bad."

Hoffa muttered. His body felt much better, though he was still mentally exhausted.

"Sorry, Senior, I didn't wake you up. The doctors said you needed rest, so I let you sleep a few extra days." Chris sounded a little guilty.

"It's fine."

No wonder his dream had felt so long.

"Senior, do you have something on your mind? You were calling someone's name in your sleep." Chris asked curiously, a hint of mischief in his tone.

"Don't say that name out loud."

Hoffa's expression remained unreadable.

Chris scratched his head and chuckled. "No worries, Senior. You called out so many names—I couldn't even catch them all."

"Chris."

Hoffa cut him off. "You should get some rest. You've got dark circles under your eyes."

"I'm fine!"

Chris patted his chest proudly. "If you need anything, just let me know. I'm at the perfect age for pulling all-nighters! Back at Hogwarts, I was always the last one to sleep in the common room!"

Hoffa glanced behind Chris and remarked, "Brave of you."

"Of course!" Chris grinned. "My favorite nighttime activity was sneaking out for a stroll around Hogwarts. Once we reclaim it, I'm definitely going night-wandering again! Senior Hoffa, do you like night walks?"

Hoffa gave a somewhat awkward smile but didn't answer.

A quiet cough sounded behind Chris.

A soft voice spoke. "I suspect Ravenclaws have different interests than Gryffindors."

Chris's grin froze on his face like melted wax. He jumped to his feet and turned toward the doorway, groaning in despair as he covered his face. "Professor, you could at least knock first."

Albus Dumbledore patted Chris's shoulder. "Gryffindor, minus twenty points. Once we take back Hogwarts, I'll make sure it's recorded. Now, go get some rest and let me check on Bach."

Chris sulked toward the door, throwing a playful grimace at Hoffa before leaving.

Hoffa shifted deeper into the bed, trying to sit up and make space, but Dumbledore waved his wand. A cushioned armchair materialized on the floor, and he sank into it with a thoughtful expression.

"Incredible," Dumbledore mused. "Bach, it's been a long time since I've heard anything about you. Ever since you vanished from the Ministry of Magic two years ago, no one knew where you went."

"Professor, if I told you everything I've been through in these two years, we'd be talking until nightfall." Hoffa sighed. "It was a very distant journey—so distant that I hardly know what's happened here, what's happened to Hogwarts. I want to help. Please, tell me—what exactly has been going on?"

Dumbledore nodded. With a flick of his wand, the curtains and windows shut tightly, sealing the room in silence.

Then, in a solemn voice, he spoke.

"Two years ago, shortly after Fatiel's death, a strange plague appeared on European soil. Those infected with it inevitably fell into an endless sleep.

At first, we paid little attention to this odd sickness, as it initially spread among Muggles.

But soon, we realized something was terribly wrong."

You know, only some wizards come from traditional wizarding families; a significant portion are born into Muggle families. But ever since that plague, we've discovered that no more wizards have been born among Muggles.

Not only that, but even the most traditional wizarding families have begun producing Squib offspring one after another. That year, Hogwarts admitted only a dozen students. The following year, not only did Hogwarts fail to recruit any new students, but more than half of the existing students and teachers turned into Squibs. Rumors spread like wildfire—those Squib students grew to resent the school, believing that the ghosts of Hogwarts had drained them of their magic. Under immense pressure, Hogwarts was forced to shut down.

Of course, if that were the worst of it, it might still be bearable. But what's truly terrifying is that the power of spells and magic itself has been weakening. Except for a few wizards who can barely maintain their magical abilities, the majority have experienced a noticeable decline in their magical power. Despite sending out numerous investigators, we've found nothing—magic's decline appears irreversible."

Hoffa listened intently, his expression grim.

The disappearance of magic.

He had sensed it the moment he woke up. At first, he assumed it was due to his lost memories, but now, even with his memory restored, his magic remained all but gone.

"It must have been caused by that slumber," Hoffa murmured.

"Of course, we all suspect that," Dumbledore sighed. He removed his half-moon glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief before continuing, "But we have no proof. The rate at which magic is vanishing is staggering. By the time we realized what was happening, more than half the wizarding population had already become Squibs. They not only lost their magic but also stopped believing in it—some even grew to loathe it. As you've seen, they are now more enamored with Muggle craftsmanship and technology, viewing us as heretics. Conflict is inevitable."

"Professor, have you ever dreamed? Why does it seem like your magic hasn't faded?"

Dumbledore hesitated, his expression briefly bitter. However, the moment passed quickly, and he soon replied calmly, "Hoffa, I am human. Of course, I dream. But I understand something very clearly—dreams are just dreams. No matter how many wool socks I receive in my dreams, no matter how many, they aren't real."

"Then what should we do, Professor? How can we restore magic?"

"I don't know, Hoffa. This situation is more dire than any we've faced before. It surpasses even my experience. At a time like this, I'd rather hear your thoughts."

Hoffa thought for a moment before asking, "Professor, have you ever heard the story of Death?"

Dumbledore's eyes flickered slightly. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. "You mean those ancient fairy tales? The Tale of the Three Peverell Brothers and such? Of course, I've heard of them. I was quite interested in them when I was younger."

"Death exists, as do many other strange deities."

Hoffa spoke seriously. "I don't fully understand their purpose, but it's clear that these mysterious entities are driven by certain desires. And those desires must come from people."

"You mean—?"

"Eliminate the one who controls those desires. Cut the problem off at its root."

Hoffa said firmly, "No matter what he intends to do. No matter what."

Albus Dumbledore gazed at Hoffa in astonishment. There was no doubt—the student he once knew had changed dramatically.

"The Half-Blood King, is it?" he asked.

"Yes."

Dumbledore shook his head.

"I can hardly think of a more terrifying existence. I can barely even classify him as a wizard anymore. Frankly, if we are to attempt such a thing, with the current state of our magical world, we would need absolute unity. Otherwise, it's impossible."

Dumbledore's tone grew cold and distant, showing little optimism. He stood up, took a slip of paper from his pocket, and handed it to Hoffa. "This is from Flamel. He asked me to give it to you. When he heard of your return, he wanted you to find him."

Hoffa unfolded the note. It was a roughly drawn map that seemed to wriggle like a living thing. A small dot marked a location, accompanied by an address and a house number: 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Flamel… You mean Nicolas Flamel?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I didn't expect you to know him. Once you've recovered, head to Wilkins District in London. Nicolas Flamel specifically asked to see you. He seems to believe that you hold the key to solving the magical world's crisis."

As Dumbledore finished speaking, a compass needle appeared on the map, pointing toward a location on the other side.

Hoffa looked at Dumbledore in surprise.

Dumbledore shrugged lightly. "Don't look at me like that, Bach. What you've said makes sense. This is precisely the mission we are currently undertaking. But first—whether it's rebuilding the magical world or preserving the mystery and spirit of this realm—we must reclaim Hogwarts. Once you've healed, I hope you'll join us."

With that, he turned toward the door. But Hoffa called after him.

"Professor… do you really think I can solve this problem?"

Hoffa looked at Dumbledore expectantly, hoping—as he had in the past—for the wise old wizard to provide answers and guidance.

But his question only made Albus Dumbledore appear sorrowful. Leaning against the doorway, he gazed at Hoffa for a long time before speaking.

"You are no longer a first-year or second-year student, Bach. Sometimes, time moves so fast. From Wood Orphanage to now—just like that, you've all grown up. Especially in times like these… a single year is worth ten of the old days."

After a pause, he added, "If you were at Hogwarts, you would have already graduated. And Bach, if you're asking me this question now, I don't have the answer. At this moment, in this world, I doubt anyone does—except you."

(End of Chapter)

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