Chapter 400: Final Warning

After obtaining intelligence from Riddle, Hoffa and Miller wasted no time leaving Genoa. They found a functioning airplane in a relatively normal Muggle city and took off for Paris. Upon landing in Paris, they immediately embarked on their journey to the Far East.

By now, it was early winter. With the global situation growing increasingly turbulent, the confrontation between the world's two major factions was beginning to take shape. Flights to Moscow had already been suspended by the local Muggle government. Fortunately, railway transport was still operational, allowing them to travel to the Far East by train.

Though the journey would be much slower, Hoffa no longer felt the same urgency after disrupting Sylby's financial resources. The situation had reversed—without financial backing, Sylby, who was under a curse, would soon lose his ability to act. The Squib army he had supported and manipulated would also cease to function once their funding dried up.

Now, Hoffa's only task was to locate Sylby and eliminate him. Once that was done, everything would return to its original state. Cursed as he was, Sylby would no longer be a threat.

The only remaining variable was his wand—or rather, what had once been sealed within it: the Nightmare God.

The Nightmare God still possessed the power of time, but Hoffa had no idea what its true intentions were. This unknown factor unsettled him far more than any tangible threat.

After boarding a train bound for the Far East from Paris' Gare du Nord, Hoffa secured a spacious private compartment. He hunched over the desk, holding a fountain pen and parchment, writing letter after letter without pause.

The contents of his letter read:

To Professor Albus Dumbledore—

The financial source of the Half-Blood King has been severed. I believe that the longer time drags on, the more disadvantageous it will be for him. If he has any plans or strategies, he will have to act now.

I anticipate that the situation will reach its peak turmoil at a certain point.

If Hogwarts is one of the cornerstones of wizarding faith, then please, protect it at all costs—do not let it suffer any more harm. Also, take care of the Beauxbatons students. Tell them that I have not forgotten their aid. When the time comes, I will stand and fight alongside them.

At this moment, I am heading to Durmstrang to warn the Eastern wizards to prepare. There are reports that the Half-Blood King is already on his way to the Far East. We cannot let Durmstrang suffer the same devastation as Beauxbatons. If possible, please send me a map of Durmstrang.

Here, Hoffa paused. After a moment of thought, he couldn't help but add:

The visions the Half-Blood King transmits in dreams are dangerously alluring—just like those seemingly righteous, beautifully worded slogans. But please, convey this to those wizards he has bewitched: so-called equality and righteousness are nothing but the disguises of power. Pursuing them recklessly is like chasing a mirage—fleeting and insubstantial.

—Your student, Hoffa Bach.

After sealing the letter in an envelope, Hoffa continued writing more letters. Some were addressed to Professor Gorshak, who was recuperating on Black Golan Island, though they were signed under the alias "Dr. Lainer."

To the esteemed Dr. Lainer:

I hope life on the island is treating you well. Are your supplies sufficient? If not, please contact me immediately, or reach out to Nicolas Flamel in London—we will find a way to help you.

It has been some time since our last meeting. How is Professor Gorshak's condition? If he is doing well, please tell him that Miller and I are both safe. We are currently on our way to find Miranda, and I will bring her back safely. I hope he can rest and recover in peace until the day he reunites with his family.

—Hoffa

After finishing Gorshak's letter, Hoffa penned several others—one to Flamel, one to Aberforth, and even ones to Professor Olim and Madame Maxime at Beauxbatons. If he still held any influence, he wanted to ensure that it didn't fade away before the coming war.

In the train compartment, Miller sat across from Hoffa, watching as the young man scribbled tirelessly. At this moment, Hoffa once again resembled the Minister of Magic he had seen in the dream—focused and diligent in his work.

Noticing the way Hoffa's dark hair naturally fell over his forehead, Miller instinctively reached for a kettle, brewing a cup of tea and placing it beside him.

As he gently stirred the tea, allowing the leaves to steep, he couldn't help but ask softly, "You don't remember much from the dream anymore, do you, brother-in-law?"

"Mm," Hoffa answered without looking up.

"I remember it well. You actually did a good job. People spoke highly of you in private." Miller's voice carried a faint dreamlike quality.

"It was all fake."

Hoffa's response was cold and indifferent.

"Yeah..."

The train rumbled on, leaving behind the bustling city and entering the gray and white landscape of the outskirts. The air had turned chilly with the onset of early winter.

Miller propped his chin on his hand, gazing out the window. From time to time, he exhaled onto the glass, fogging it up before tracing strange patterns—smiley faces and odd little flowers—with his fingers.

His mood seemed lighthearted.

When Hoffa finally finished his letters, he handed them to Miller. "Take these and deliver them for me."

"I'm not an owl," Miller grumbled in protest.

Despite his complaints, magical circles flickered into existence in his palm. A strange energy pulsed within them as he tossed the letters inside, making them vanish instantly.

Afterward, Hoffa picked up a Muggle newspaper, scanning for clues about the current situation. With the wizarding world in decline, he hoped to glean useful insights from mundane reports. However, most of the articles held little value. There was one piece on an earthquake investigation in the Pyrenees, but it was already outdated.

By the time he finished reading, the sky outside had darkened. Across from him, Miller had dozed off on the bench. The girl's body—whom Miller was possessing—was still clad in her short New York attire. Hoffa sighed and pulled out a blanket, draping it over him.

"Mmm... Hoffa," the girl murmured sleepily, her eyes half-opening.

"Want something to eat before you sleep?" Hoffa asked gently.

Miller shook his head, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. He stretched out his legs, propping them up on Hoffa's lap.

Hoffa sat beside him, lightly tapping his shin, lost in thought.

If he were Sylby, what would he do next? How long could he sustain himself financially? If the Nightmare God used time magic against him, how could he counter it?

As these questions swirled in his mind, drowsiness overcame him.

When he awoke, the train had crossed the French border, passing through Brussels and Berlin. They were now in the region where the two major factions converged.

Snow had begun to fall, forming a thin frost on the train windows. The train was stopping for coal refueling and maintenance in a Western-controlled area.

Miller sat by the window, staring blankly at the soldiers outside in the swirling snow.

"It's cold out. I'll go buy you some warmer clothes," Hoffa offered.

Miller remained silent, his expression distant.

Sensing something was off, Hoffa frowned. "Miller, what's wrong?"

"I..." Miller opened his mouth but hesitated. After a moment, he simply said, "I just want to sleep a little longer."

Hoffa instinctively reached out to check his temperature, only to realize how pointless the gesture was. Miller wasn't truly human—he was a spirit. He wouldn't get sick. Even if the girl he was possessing caught a fever, it wouldn't affect him in the slightest.

But why did he seem so sluggish?

Seeing Miller drift back into sleep, Hoffa decided not to press the issue. He stepped off the train and purchased a dark blue military coat for him, anticipating that once they crossed to the other side of the Berlin Wall, his American dollars would be useless.

Before long, the train bypassed Berlin and continued toward the frigid north. By this point, most passengers had disembarked. Miller, however, remained asleep—longer than ever before. Worried, Hoffa shook him awake every few hours. But even when roused, Miller would only stare blankly out the window before drifting back into slumber.

When they finally arrived in Moscow, Hoffa could no longer let him sleep. He nudged him and said, "Miller, we've arrived. Let's go to Durmstrang together."

Miller groggily opened his eyes and stood up, draped in a military coat.

Hoffa steadied him, holding onto his suitcase as he helped him off the train.

A piercing cold wind hit them in the face, and the snow blurred Hoffa's vision. On both sides of the road at the station, an unending stream of cold, unyielding steel stretched as far as the eye could see, accompanied by Soviet soldiers marching in perfect formation through the snow, rifles in hand.

The strict and imposing atmosphere was entirely different from Europe. Looking at the neatly arranged soldiers, Hoffa suddenly felt an inexplicable sense of unease. He turned his head and took several deep breaths, trying to push away the sudden weight pressing on his mind.

"Brother-in-law... I think... I can't go any further."

Miller stared at Hoffa in a daze as he spoke.

"Miller, what's wrong?" Hoffa asked, gripping his shoulder.

"You promised me... back in Genoa's illusion... you said..."

"Said what?"

"That you would talk to me... and make me a cup of tea. But now... now you haven't made me tea, and you haven't talked to me." Miller muttered blankly.

"For heaven's sake! You should have said something earlier! We were on the train for so long, there was tea, there was hot water—but you slept the whole way!" Hoffa complained.

"Tea... talk..." Miller stubbornly repeated.

"Fine, fine, as you wish. Tea and a talk."

Hoffa rubbed his forehead in frustration. He glanced around and spotted a small shop near the train station. He walked in and found shelves stocked with cigarettes, alcohol, and tea, all labeled in Russian—mostly vodka.

After searching for a while, Hoffa grabbed two packs of black tea from the shelf. As he approached the counter, he noticed a few enamel mugs with a distinct vintage style. They were printed with images of Stalin and Lenin—bold red, full of revolutionary fervor.

He reached into his pocket, only to pull out a roll of U.S. dollars he had brought from America. Clenching his teeth, he handed over the money despite his reluctance.

The shopkeeper stared at the dollar bills for a long time, visibly displeased. But after hesitating, he finally accepted the money and handed over the tea and the enamel mug adorned with Stalin and Lenin's faces.

Just as Hoffa returned with the mug and tea, he noticed that Miller had disappeared into the snow near the station, leaving behind only a trail of faint footprints.

Hoffa's heart clenched in alarm, and he immediately followed the tracks. He chased through the vast snowy landscape for a long while before finally spotting Miller, aimlessly standing at the edge of a pine forest on the outskirts of Moscow.

Deeply worried, Hoffa rushed forward and grabbed Miller's shoulders, shouting, "Don't just wander off! Miller, we don't know anyone here—what if we get separated?"

"Boil water... drink tea... talk..."

Miller stared ahead, his gaze unfocused.

"You've lost it!"

Hoffa cursed under his breath. Looking around at the vast, empty, snow-covered land, he helped Miller sit under a pine tree.

Then, using transfiguration, Hoffa constructed a small stone stove on the ground. He gathered some wood from the forest and placed it inside. Opening the packet of black tea, he sprinkled the leaves into the enamel mug.

"Fire."

Hoffa ordered.

Miller reached out and tapped the wood, instantly igniting the fire.

"Water."

Hoffa commanded again.

Miller, like a well-trained assistant, tapped the mug, and it immediately filled with clean water.

Looks like he came prepared.

Hoffa sighed, placing the enamel mug—with Stalin and Lenin's faces—over the fire to heat the water. Before long, the two figures were blackened by the smoke. Hoffa stirred the tea while adding sugar. Once the tea began to bubble and boil, he handed the mug to Miller with a grumble.

"Tea."

Miller took the cup expressionlessly. Then, out of nowhere, he asked:

"If, back then, the one who jumped into the Black Lake to save you was my sister... would you have regretted it?"

Hoffa's hands trembled, nearly spilling the tea. He looked up, startled, and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Stop avoiding the question. Just give me an answer."

Miller's face was blank.

Hoffa shook his head and remained silent.

Miller took a sip of the hot tea as if he couldn't feel the heat.

He spoke softly, "My sister may have been a witch, but she longed for a normal life. She yearned for a family. Whether in dreams or in the fusion between us, you must have felt her desire."

"I know."

Hoffa's eyes dimmed. "Miller, stop talking."

But Miller suddenly set down the tea and slowly crouched beside Hoffa, resting his hands on Hoffa's knees.

"Hoffa... I want to ask you... please, don't go on."

Hoffa's body tensed.

"If you continue, you will die. You merged with me before—didn't you see what that ending looked like?"

Hoffa slowly raised his head, looking at Miller with slight astonishment. Or rather... what should he call this person? He no longer knew. The two spirits were merely different faces of the same being, and now, that boundary was becoming increasingly blurred.

"When you told Riddle you wanted to find a wife, I was truly overjoyed," the girl's voice wavered, her face streaked with tears. "I know you've been filled with regret for decades. Not a single day in your nightmares did your heart truly belong by my side. Not once were you truly happy.

But now that fate has brought you to me, how could I just watch you walk into that inescapable abyss again? That year, I wasn't there by your side at Black Lake, and I let you face the void alone. I've regretted it ever since. But the past is the past—you taught me that.

I can't watch you die again. I can't. I won't."

"I won't die." Hoffa turned his head away, speaking indifferently.

"Why are you so stubborn?"

She choked on her words. "Why must you be so stubborn? Even if this road leads to death, will you still march forward without hesitation? If you die, how will you face Aya?"

She suppressed her sorrow and pleaded, "Can't you just look at me? I'm right here, right in front of you, right now."

A heavy wave of sorrow crashed over Hoffa. He felt as if this person had been split in two by an overwhelming force—one half bound by decades of shared understanding, the other overflowing with uncontainable emotions.

Even with the warm fire between them, he could feel the immense helplessness and sorrow emanating from the other side.

Yet, he did not stand up. Instead, he lowered his gaze to the snow-covered ground, his fingers digging into his palms, his teeth biting into his lips until they bled.

A few moments later, the girl's sobs gradually faded.

Across the fire, she let out a long, trembling sigh and said, "If you keep going, I'll have to find another way. Even if you end up hating me... even if we end up as enemies... I won't let this happen."

As soon as she finished speaking, Miller's body collapsed silently into the snow. A faint black mist drifted from the unfamiliar girl's face, disappearing into the trees behind her.

Hoffa heard movement in the forest. He immediately stood up and chased in that direction.

However, when he arrived, only a pair of shallow footprints remained in the snow. The air was filled with traces of magical distortion from Apparition—along with a faint scent of violets.

(End of Chapter)

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