In front of Durmstrang's snow-covered gates, Miranda still held her finger aloft.
She could feel the heavy weight pressing down on her body, the soft sensation on her lips, and the scorching breath against the tip of her nose. Her eyes widened in shock—she had been fully prepared for a deadly battle, but this… this was completely unexpected.
She had never imagined that Hoffa would do something like this. Instinctively, she wanted to resist, but those lips and that breath felt like the most powerful spell, rendering this prodigy of magic utterly powerless.
The moment their lips touched, an overwhelming passion consumed Hoffa. He had never experienced such an intense feeling before. It was as if a dull blade was slicing through his body, cutting him apart piece by piece. Like a wild beast tearing through the wilderness, unrestrained and reckless. In despair, he realized just how deeply he loved the girl before him. No awakening could free him from this—nor did he wish to be freed. He wanted this passion to rip him apart, to completely shatter him.
At this moment, no rules could punish him, and no laws could restrain him. The tidal wave of love surged over him, drowning him entirely. For the first time, he no longer blamed himself, no longer hesitated. If love was poison, he would drink it without hesitation. If this was fate, he would embrace it with all his might.
He tightened his arms around her.
And kissed her deeply.
On the black ship, every Durmstrang wizard gasped in shock, their mouths falling open in sheer disbelief.
Miranda's mind went blank for several seconds before she finally remembered what she was supposed to be doing. Gathering all her strength, she pushed against the man who was kissing her so fiercely.
"What are you doing, Hoffa?"
Tears welled up in Miranda's eyes. "How can you be like this? I was just—"
Hoffa didn't hesitate—he kissed her again. This time, the kiss was so intense that Miranda nearly suffocated, her eyes rolling back. Unconsciously, she began to respond, matching his wild, beast-like fervor.
"Headmaster! Are we still going to Hogwarts?"
A Durmstrang wizard mumbled to Oksyvia.
"What... what are we even doing here?"
But even the great Oksyvia Normanova could not answer. The sheer madness of the scene unfolding before her was beyond her limited imagination.
What on earth was happening?
Just moments ago, this young man had been righteously declaring his intent to stop the half-blood king.
And now, in the blink of an eye, this Ravenclaw junior was pressing a short-haired girl against the trees, kissing her with such intensity that even she—who had lived twenty-four years—couldn't help but blush at the sight.
Was this really the Hoffa Bach she knew?
On the entire black ship, only Vladimir watched the scene with tears in his eyes. He stared dumbfounded at the boy enveloped in snowfall, his gaze filled with longing and envy.
Hoffa was completely lost in Miranda's soft lips, his hands roaming over her face and neck, tousling her hair.
Miranda, nearly breathless, felt her heart suspended in midair, like a rootless vine swaying uncontrollably. Under this volcanic eruption of an assault, she had long forgotten her usual coldness. Her arms, moving on their own, instinctively lifted, wanting to embrace Hoffa. But then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the stunned onlookers aboard the black ship. Horror widened her eyes, and shame flooded her face. Overwhelmed, she pushed forcefully against Hoffa's neck.
"No—please… not here! Let's go somewhere else. This isn't the place…"
Gasping for breath, Miranda trembled violently, her hair disheveled, her clothes in disarray as she pleaded.
"Do you still want to help him?" Hoffa asked seriously, locking his arms around her waist.
Miranda shook her head furiously. "I wasn't helping him! I really wasn't! I just didn't want—"
Hoffa smiled slightly and kissed her again. This time, he was no longer wild—just tender. Miranda's eyes flashed with alarm, yet instinctively, she parted her lips, leaning into him.
The ease and indulgence of her response mortified her. Even as she kissed him back, she pounded against him with her fists and kicked at him in frustration.
But soon, her resistance faded. Tears streamed down her face as she hooked her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him, melting into his embrace. In this moment, she forgot everything. She only wanted to disappear into Hoffa's arms, to savor this moment with him.
Feeling the softness of the girl in his embrace, the tears on her cheeks, and the slowly dissolving barrier behind them, Hoffa let out a long breath. His expression gradually returned to normal, and he finally released Miranda's now swollen lips.
The girl was gazing at him with tear-filled, tender eyes.
"In all those years in our dreams, we never played anything special," Hoffa murmured, his voice as casual as if he were whispering sweet nothings to his girlfriend in a park. All the chaos and battles seemed far away. "Do you want to try something?"
Miranda, still teary-eyed, unconsciously asked, "What do you mean?"
"Bondage play. What do you think?" Hoffa smiled.
"W-What? Here?" Miranda gasped.
"Yes." Hoffa nodded.
In the next instant, unyielding stone shackles clamped around Miranda's wrists, ankles, and neck—even each of her fingers was locked in place.
"I know you too well," Hoffa whispered into her ear with a chuckle. "You use your fingers in place of spoken incantations, don't you?"
Realization dawned on Miranda, and all the blood drained from her face.
"Hoffa Bach! What do you think you're doing?!"
She shrieked. "Let me go!"
But Hoffa simply lifted her into his arms and leaped onto Durmstrang's black ship.
The wizards aboard were still staring at him in awe, as if witnessing a legend.
So this was the legendary wizard?
This was the famed master of Transfiguration?
A man who still found time to flirt before a great battle?
Hoffa carried Miranda to Oksyvia.
"Senior, please take her to Hogwarts immediately," he said.
"Is this… G—Gorshak?" Oksyvia finally snapped out of her stupor and stammered.
"Yes," Hoffa confirmed. "She is also my wife. She's a bit foolish, not very bright. But I love her very much. Sorry for the trouble."
He bowed deeply to Oksyvia. "Please, make sure she gets back to Hogwarts, back to her family."
Such a tender and heartfelt confession should have been a sweet moment, yet to Miranda, it was utterly devastating.
She was reminded of that snowy telephone booth from years ago.
History was repeating itself.
The warmth she had just grasped was already slipping away, turning into nothing more than a memory.
"Hoffa! Stop trying to act cool!!"
She shouted in despair, "You bastard!! You absolute bastard!!!"
But her voice was cut off as two stone hands covered her mouth.
Tears streamed down her face as she looked at Hoffa.
Hoffa, however, only looked at Oksyvia.
Oksyvia was too stunned to speak.
She didn't know whether to be more shocked that Hoffa was married…
Or by the utter devastation in the eyes of the crying girl before her.
The despair was so overwhelming that even she felt lost. It was an emotion she had never encountered before. Under its weight, even the cold and distant Slytherin senior couldn't help but embrace Miranda, wiping away her tears and offering her constant comfort.
"Miranda, I have no regrets at all."
Standing in front of Miranda, Hoffa spoke gently, "Not even a little."
Then, with a leap, Hoffa transformed into a streak of lightning and disappeared beyond Durmstrang's towering outer walls.
Miranda struggled frantically, trying to break free from Hoffa's grip, but at this moment, Hoffa had reached his peak. His Transfiguration was unmatched—no one in the world could unravel it.
Like a meteor, he plummeted into the heart of Durmstrang's campus. As he fell, he caught sight of the gaunt, bald figure sitting in a wheelchair, the statue of Salazar Slytherin kneeling before him, and the translucent green wand resting in the statue's hand.
Sylby sensed the oppressive force descending from the sky, his lips twitching uncontrollably.
"Stop him!"
His voice was rapid and urgent.
Durmstrang came to life. The colossal castle with its finger-like towers swung toward Hoffa, striking at him in midair. From within the castle, countless ghosts surged out—some drew their bows and fired arrows, others spewed deadly flames, some unleashed curses, while others wielded massive axes and guillotines.
Hoffa snapped his fingers.
In an instant, the flames, the black arrows, the curses, the axes, and even the colossal fingered castle itself—all froze in midair, completely motionless. High above, Hoffa lightly stepped onto a floating axe, flipping gracefully onto the top of one of the stone fingers. Then, with a powerful stomp, the frozen finger shattered, its fragments suspended in the air.
Using the massive recoil, Hoffa shot forward like a blazing comet. Mid-flight, he transformed into a phoenix of pure gold, unsheathing the Knight's Final Sword in a single fluid motion.
In a flash, the emerald scepter held by the Salazar Slytherin statue was cleaved apart.
The crystalline green shards scattered through the air as time resumed its normal flow. The shattered fragments of both the colossal finger and the scepter rained down upon the ground with a thunderous crash.
Sylby stared blankly at the broken pieces on the ground.
The golden-winged figure slowly turned around, approached the wheelchair, and extended a radiant golden arm, lifting the crippled bald man high into the air.
"It ends here, Sylby."
His voice rang out, resonating like the clash of gold and iron.
Standing at a towering three meters tall, the golden-winged Hoffa made Sylby appear no larger than a ragdoll in his grip. Yet, after a brief moment of stunned silence, Sylby suddenly burst into manic laughter.
"Hahahahahahaha—hahahaha—!"
The louder he laughed, the colder Hoffa's expression became.
Sylby smirked. "I have to admit, Hoffa, you might just be the greatest Transfiguration master I've ever seen—perhaps even the greatest in history. But… have you already forgotten the dreams? Have you forgotten the world we created together, the one of absolute equality? Don't you wish to return there anymore? Aren't you a legend?"
"Sylby, you don't need to provoke me with words." Hoffa tilted his head slightly and spread his hands. "Yes, that is a past I'd rather not recall. But people grow. And the more they grow, the more they recognize the emptiness behind certain beautiful façades. Those empires that crumble under scrutiny, those ideals eroded by time, those rules broken by mere emotion… Equality? Who wants to be equal with you?"
"Now, I just want to live as I please.
Right now.
I don't want to be a legend. I just want to see her."
With that, he hurled Sylby high into the air. With a swift stroke of his sword, Sylby's head was severed cleanly in two. His lifeless body collapsed onto the ground, its withered blood slowly creeping toward Hoffa's feet.
Hoffa stood still, sword in hand, gazing at the scattered fragments before him. He was waiting—waiting for fate to arrive.
And sure enough, after a moment, the severed head at his feet curled into a sinister smile.
"My dear brother, what's the point? You've traveled through so many of my domains, seen countless bizarre dream fragments… Don't you realize? The leader of those fragments is right behind you."
Hoffa's expression remained unreadable. Slowly, he turned around and lifted his gaze.
A colossal, overwhelming spiritual force surged toward him.
The Nightmare God lay sprawled upon the ground, its body stretching across the entire Durmstrang mountain range. Despite its massive form, it moved with an eerie weightlessness. Emerging from the clouds, its spine connected the heavens and the earth, and its long, flowing hair danced lightly in the icy northern winds.
Unlike all its crude imitations, this was the real thing.
Vast. Terrifying. Awe-inspiring, yet strangely elegant.
The god loomed before them, extending four elongated, enormous hands over Hoffa and Sylby. They hovered just above their heads, trembling slightly, as if the god wished to touch them but hesitated—like a deranged collector admiring his most exquisite figurines.
Then, all at once, countless glittering eyes opened across its face. In those chaotic, frenzied, and incomprehensible depths, there was an unsettling hint of pure, childlike curiosity. The sheer dissonance of these emotions blending together was enough to make anyone faint at a glance.
"You want to stop me? You, the core of my wand—are you going to help him?" Hoffa asked calmly.
The Nightmare God did not answer. Instead, it lowered its massive face toward Hoffa, its skin covered with an unsettling number of tiny noses, which twitched and sniffed at him intensely.
Lying on the ground, Sylby lazily called out, "Hey! Nightmare God! I'm about to die here! Isn't that a completely certain outcome? Don't you just hate that kind of certainty?!"
"Ah… certainty… that scent of absolute certainty…" The Nightmare God murmured in distress after sniffing Hoffa. "I have never despised you more than I do at this moment. Without uncertainty, what joy is there in the world? Without uncertainty, what meaning is there in being alive?"
Hoffa watched the Nightmare God in silence.
Floating upward, the Nightmare God spread its arms wide, as if embracing the heavens and the earth, and declared, "You know me well, Hoffa Bach. You too, Sylby Spencer. You know what I crave. I love uncertainty. I don't know who will win between you two—Hoffa's final form versus Sylby's final form… Hahahaha! What thrilling uncertainty!"
Lowering its massive head, its grotesque and ever-shifting face twisted into an ecstatic smile.
"I want to see it."
(End of Chapter)
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