Tick......

Tick......

Tick......

The sound of liquid dripping from inside the pipe.

It was an infusion bottle hanging from an iron shelf.

A month later, the dilapidated St. Mungo's Hospital.

Hoffa woke up from his endless nightmare, the sun shining on his face through the flying curtains.

He was stunned for a moment, the light a little blinding.

He raised his palm, trying to block out the sunlight.

But the sun shone down his face through his thin, white fingers.

There are some catheters and needles attached to his hands.

He looked sideways.

On the other side, Fatil Drashes lay in a hospital bed.

Unconscious, his eyes closed, unable to see clearly.

Hoffa pulled the catheter off his hand and stood up from the hospital bed.

The cold, hard tiles of the ground gave him a certain real touch as he was barefoot.

He walked slowly out the door, staggering slightly at first, leaning against the wall. But slowly, he stopped supporting the wall.

Some hospital nurses saw Hoffa and tried to grab him, but he slowly but firmly pushed him away.

Walk out of the hospital gates.

The sun is dazzling and cloudless.

He saw a lot of people waiting for him at the door, Miranda, Dumbledore, Slughorn, his classmates at Hogwarts, William, Antonio, and many, many other students.

Their expressions are either expectant, expectant, worried, or silent. But without exception, they are all so far away from themselves.

What they seem to be saying.

The sound is ethereal.

After glancing at the men, Hoffa turned his head and disappeared into thin air, making no pause and heading straight for the outside of the hospital.

The streets of London are littered.

While some Ministry of Magic executives wield their wands and repair buildings damaged by the madness, another group of employees of the Division for the Prohibition of Misuse of Magic are working tirelessly to modify Muggles' memories.

Along the banks of the River Thames, crowds gathered around the half-blown Big Ben and other buildings, pointing to the ruins and talking about the German bombing of London.

"Hey, how many planes did you see flying through the sky that day?"

"A hundred, or two hundred?"

"Hey, the whole sky was burning that day. ”

"It's horrible...... I remember, I had a nightmare that day. ”

"yes, I had a nightmare, too. ”

"Hey, what a nightmare you've had. ”

"In a dream, I was turned into an animal by a dragon. ”

"Hey, I've had a similar dream. ”

"Really?"

"Really. ”

"Hahaha......"

Passers-by were talking, when suddenly, their eyes were drawn to a figure walking in the distance.

The figure had gray hair, golden eyes, and looked like a teenager. The most peculiar thing is that he is dressed.

He wears a blue and white striped hospital gown.

Barefoot.

Like a patient in a psychiatric hospital.

The crowd looked at the young man wandering the streets with amazement.

They whispered, "Who is that man?" ”

"How to wear this kind of clothes....."

"Seems to be a madman....."

"Leave him alone, stay away from him. ”

Everyone walked in the opposite direction of Hoffa, and he was alone in the midst of the bustling crowd. Turning a deaf ear to the voices and discussions around him, he only walked the path under his feet.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, he came to a theater that had been half burned down.

Remove the wooden beams at the doorway.

Walking along the red carpet scattered on the floor, Hoffa walked through the empty theater, his fingers slowly swiping over the dusty props.

The black robes, the dull rusty daggers......

Sunlight shone in through the skylight of the canopy and hit him. From beginning to end, his expression did not change in the slightest.

Finally, he walked to the audience, pulled out a chair and sat down. He just looked at the empty stage, imagining the drama that might happen on it, imagining his failed life, imagining the words that had never been spoken.

He didn't move until the sun went down.

Until the moonlight covered the earth, he still didn't move.

Until the dawn broke through the darkness, he did not change in the slightest, just looked at the stage in silence, like a clay statue, as if he could sit here until he was old.

Then.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

The boy turned away

The morning sun streamed through the ends of his hair

He looked up gently

His eyes were full of hope.

But there was no one around.

Only Tyndall's light shone on his shoulders through the broken canopy.

The light in his eyes dimmed slightly, and after thinking about it, he still stood up, took one last look at the stage, and turned to leave.

Then, following some unknown guidance, he walked to the sunlit exit, through the alley entwined with cables, through the ruined city, through the green grass where everything grows, through the woods where everything grows.

Eventually, he came to the top of a hillside.

On the hillside, patches of white roses bloom.

Far away on the hillside, an unknown funeral is taking place.

Some black Thestrals stopped in the distance, and some men wearing white flowers on their chests stepped out of the carriages. They followed suit, their faces blurred, as if they were crying.

Hoffa stood under the oak trees and watched the crowd of people coming and going on the hillside in the distance, silent as a sculpture.

The breeze blows, the leaves fly, and the hem of the clothes flutters.

He didn't come near that place the whole time.

Just look into the distance.

Watch them pray, lay flowers, and say greetings.

Or do some other activity.

Until the crowd of people in the distance re-embarked on the Thestrals carriage and disappeared at the end of the road.

Finally, he pursed his lips, and his eyes turned red with no help but form. But he stubbornly stopped his impulse, and despite the tsunami-like frenzied fluctuations in his heart, there was not the slightest hint on his face.

At this moment, he perceived some incredible absurdity, but under this absurdity, he also experienced a kind of truth.

That's a kind of rustic.

But pure emotion.

This emotion made him understand the meaning of life.

He deserves to live, to live with all his might.

Live with the cracks that the world gives life, heal the wounds of the soul with the damaged palms, stubbornly face hope, embrace the light of the moment, no longer pin hope on the empty utopia, and be uplifted, because survival itself is the most powerful rebellion against the world.

Finally, the boy rubbed his eyes and looked up.

Resolutely turned around and walked into the distance.

Barefoot and dressed in simple clothes, he walked through the dancing shadows of the trees, through the steep woodlands of this lonely mountain, and through the shadows of the foliage of the glorious spring day.

The emaciated figure pulled the old elder among the trees.

Depressed and determined, lonely and stubborn.