Chapter 370: Reunion

A month later, Hoffa had fully recovered. This recovery speed made him truly understand what Dumbledore meant by "the loss of magic." In the past, such injuries would have healed within days. Even Harry, who had an entire bone removed, could regrow it overnight—there was never a need for such a long recovery period.

After taking care of him for a week, Kreacher was reassigned to another mission, leaving the responsibility of tending to him in the hands of a house-elf. This particular house-elf was quite young and had a thick head of hair.

From its name, Hoffa immediately grasped his current situation—he was at Grimmauld Place, the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. As one of the most traditional pure-blood families in history, the Blacks had miraculously held onto their magic in this era of rapid magical decline, refusing to let go.

During his recovery, aside from the house-elf Kreacher and the doctor, Hoffa hadn't seen anyone else. It seemed Dumbledore intended to keep his return a secret.

On this particular day, Kreacher came scampering up the stairs to the second floor, carrying a stack of fresh clothes. Today was the day Hoffa would finally remove his bandages, and he had decided that he would visit Nicolas Flamel.

Standing in front of a full-length mirror, Hoffa spread his arms as Kreacher, perched on a stool, carefully unwrapped the bandages around him. As the strips of cloth unraveled, they revealed a body covered in dense scars.

Kreacher's long, gray fingers ran over Hoffa's muscles. With curiosity, he traced the bullet wounds on Hoffa's back and chest, clicking his tongue in amazement.

"Are you really a wizard, Mr. Bach?"

"Do I not look like one?" Hoffa asked.

"Apologies, sir, but you resemble a beast. A normal person wouldn't have survived injuries like these," Kreacher replied.

"Hogwarts' emblem does feature four beasts, Kreacher," Hoffa said coolly.

"You have a point," Kreacher muttered absentmindedly, though he didn't seem entirely convinced.

The outfit Kreacher had brought for Hoffa consisted of a long, high-collared black trench coat, a gray double-breasted waistcoat with golden buttons, and brand-new high-top riding boots. The ensemble even included a hat, a silk scarf, and gloves made from black serpent scales. Though Hoffa had no interest in spending time on fashion—he would have been perfectly content throwing on a simple shirt and trousers—the Black family's house-elf clearly took such matters very seriously.

"Mr. Bach, these clothes are specially tailored!" Kreacher shrieked. "They will make you look less like a Muggle!"

"Thank you, Kreacher," Hoffa said expressionlessly.

He watched as Kreacher deftly wrapped him up in the attire, the scarf around his neck feeling slightly suffocating. First, Miranda had dressed him up like a hippie. Now, Kreacher had turned him into an eccentric gentleman. All he was missing was a pocket watch—

"Sir, your pocket watch!"

Kreacher pulled a gold-embossed watch from his pouch and handed it to Hoffa. "This is a Black family heirloom. You must take good care of it."

"Is this really necessary?" Hoffa frowned.

"The master gave specific instructions that you were to be treated with the highest standards," Kreacher replied sharply.

Left with no choice, Hoffa accepted the watch and said, "Tell your master that Hoffa Bach is very grateful."

Kreacher hopped down from the stool and admired his handiwork in the mirror. With a satisfied nod, he remarked, "Sir, you look absolutely splendid. Your family members would surely be proud of you."

"Family members?"

"That's right, sir! Which pure-blood family do you belong to?" Kreacher asked eagerly.

Hoffa looked at the slightly fawning house-elf and suddenly felt mischievous. He reached out, ruffling Kreacher's thick hair—hair that, in the future, would be completely bald. Leaning in, he whispered into the elf's ear:

"I'm a Mudblood~"

Kreacher shuddered violently, his pupils shrinking as his ears shot straight up like he had been struck by lightning. He stood frozen, not daring to move.

Hoffa smirked, tucked the pocket watch into his coat, and strode out the door.

Across from 12 Grimmauld Place, a massive painting on the wall depicted a man who had been dozing. Hearing the commotion, he lifted his head and frowned at Hoffa.

Hoffa had seen this man before in Armando Dippet's office. He raised a hand in greeting.

"Good day, Headmaster."

"Hmph, a Ravenclaw. How unfortunate," the man in the painting sneered before stepping out of the frame.

Hoffa chuckled.

That was Phineas Nigellus Black.

Sirius Black's great-great-grandfather. A former Headmaster of Hogwarts.

His presence was oddly comforting to Hoffa—it meant that, at least here, the paintings could still talk. In Hogwarts, even the portraits had gone silent.

But the moment of ease quickly gave way to heavy pressure. In the original story, Phineas had once ridiculed Harry as well. That was the future Hoffa wanted—the future he sought. But the future he had seen in his dreams was one where Harry did not exist at all. If that future were to come to pass, every step forward would have to be taken with the utmost caution.

After a simple breakfast, Hoffa left the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters.

Tied to the post outside 12 Grimmauld Place stood a tall, gray warhorse. Kreacher handed Hoffa the reins with an expression of utmost distaste, as though he were holding something repugnant. It was unclear whether he was disgusted by the whip or by Hoffa himself.

Back in his first year, Hoffa had learned horseback riding from the gamekeeper, Joey, so he wasn't unfamiliar with it. However, the idea of riding a horse through the streets of the 1940s felt somewhat out of place—after all, cars were already commonplace. But the proud pure-blood families had no interest in Muggle inventions. They stubbornly clung to their ancient traditions.

Fortunately, the early morning streets were empty. Hoffa donned his gloves and hat, pulled the brim low to avoid unwanted attention, and mounted the horse. One hand held the reins while the other grasped a whip and a map. The enchanted parchment continuously redrew lines, guiding him toward Wilkins District.

The gray horse was powerful, its muscles rolling beneath Hoffa as it shook its head and snorted. It wanted to gallop, but the city's confinement stifled its instincts, reducing its movement to a slow, measured trot.

Following the map, Hoffa rode his gray horse through the streets and factories, searching for the Wilkins district where LeMay resided. The dewy morning breeze brushed against his face, and for a fleeting moment, he recalled the last time he had traveled through London like this—it was when Miranda had given him a ride home for Christmas on her motorcycle.

He had no idea how Miranda was doing with Sylby now. Though she had sided with his enemies, Hoffa held no resentment toward her and still worried about her deeply. He fully understood her reasons for doing so, but no matter what, he would never return to that place again.

An hour later, the gray horse followed the map out of the city, taking a dirt road to a tranquil countryside. A sense of familiarity gradually washed over Hoffa. This place had barely changed in fifty years. It was here, fifty years into the future, that he had met Nicolas LeMay. And now, by some twist of fate, he was about to meet him here once more.

Folding the map away, he let his memory guide him to a black, three-story villa.

As he gazed at the building, a flood of emotions surged within him.

Suppressing his excitement, Hoffa dismounted, walked to the door, and knocked.

After a moment, someone peeked through the curtain before the door opened. An old man with familiar white hair and wrinkled skin stood at the entrance.

Before the old man could speak, Hoffa stepped forward without hesitation and embraced him tightly. The sudden and forceful hug made the old man's bones creak ominously.

Startled, Nicolas LeMay shouted, "Hoffa Bach, what are you doing?!"

Hoffa released him and, unable to contain his emotions, planted a firm kiss on the old man's forehead. Only he in this world truly understood their connection—this was not only his so-called servant but also the very source of his existence. This peculiar bond made Hoffa see the old man as his own grandfather.

But, of course, the Nicolas LeMay standing before him had no knowledge of the future. At this point, he only vaguely remembered meeting Hoffa once, two years ago. Having lived for centuries, he had never been treated like this before.

Dazed and disheveled, LeMay was utterly bewildered.

Then, a raspy voice bellowed from upstairs.

"Who's at the door!?"

Only then did LeMay snap out of his shock.

"It's Hoffa Bach!!"

He furiously wiped the saliva from his forehead, shot Hoffa a glare, yanked him inside, and slammed the door shut.

"Which Hoffa Bach?!" the woman upstairs shouted, as if afraid the entire world wouldn't hear.

"The one who brought Chloe back! Her friend!!" LeMay yelled impatiently.

"What's he doing here?!"

"Go back to sleep and mind your own business!"

LeMay roared back, rubbing his temples in frustration.

Hoffa, amused, observed the elderly man before him. It seemed that, at this point in time, LeMay's wife was still around. Fifty years later, she would no longer be.

"What are you looking at? If you lived with the same person for three hundred years, you'd wish you were deaf. Or wish your wife were mute," LeMay grumbled irritably.

"You look healthy, Nico. That's great," Hoffa said softly.

LeMay flinched slightly and took a step back, scrutinizing Hoffa. Though they had only met once two years ago, there was an undeniable warmth in the young man's tone—one that could not be faked. Even Chloe had never spoken to him like this. What was even stranger was that, despite being centuries older than Hoffa, he couldn't help but feel a bizarre mix of familiarity, closeness, and even reverence toward the boy.

The complexity of these emotions annoyed him. Coldly, he sneered, "You don't look too bad yourself. Finally dressing like a proper human being. Seems like you've been doing well these past two years."

"Thanks to you," Hoffa said, removing his hat and offering a polite bow.

Now that there was some distance between them, LeMay relaxed a little. He extended his wrinkled hand, demanding, "Albus told me a month ago that you were back. I could hardly believe it. Now, tell me—do you still have the pendant?"

Carefully, Hoffa reached into his coat and retrieved a purple pendant, placing it into LeMay's outstretched palm.

LeMay's eyes lit up with joy as he ran his fingers over the pendant. Watching his expression, Hoffa couldn't help but recall the moment, fifty years in the future, when LeMay had done the same—only that time, he had been in tears, consumed by grief. Now, however, his face was filled with excitement, as if he were anticipating something.

That anticipation unsettled Hoffa. From what he knew of the future, whatever LeMay was hoping for would likely end in disappointment.

"LeMay," Hoffa called out.

"No 'Mister' before my name? You really have no manners," LeMay muttered as he admired the pendant.

"LeMay, I'm sorry I couldn't bring Chloe back to life. The future is far more complicated than I imagined. Sometimes, I can only adapt as best as I can," Hoffa admitted.

"I understand. I truly do. The fact that you made it back at all is already remarkable." LeMay gently caressed the pendant. "As long as a soul remains intact, one can always be reborn, no matter where they are. But if the soul is gone... even if the body still lives, they are no longer the same person."

Hoffa tilted his head, sensing an underlying meaning in LeMay's words. Before he could ask further, a furious voice roared from upstairs.

"What are you two whispering about?!"

Sweat beaded on Hoffa's forehead, while LeMay pulled a pained expression, as if wearing a mask of pure suffering. He turned to Hoffa and said, "Come, let's go to my basement. There's something I want to give you."

(End of Chapter)

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