Hoffa looked at Aglaia with an indifferent face, and asked hoarsely, "You... What exactly have you been through???"

Bang Bang Bang!!

But his questioning was interrupted by a thunderous applause.

He turned his head to look around, looking for the source of the applause, but he didn't see anyone.

At the same time, a strong feeling of dizziness surged over his brain, and the dizziness became heavier and heavier, and then, the space he was in was infinitely elongated, and Aglaia's transparent body was like a red-shifted star in the universe, farther and farther away from him.

Everything in front of me was blurred and distorted, the crucible, the crypt, the Aglaia, all stripped away. The result was a stage.

And outside the stage, there are countless ghosts applauding him, and behind the ghosts, there is an endless void. In the void, Avada's black head as big as a planet held the microphone, held the stage in one hand, and shouted feverishly with white teeth: "Behold, another man who has gone to the last challenge, in this feast of life, how many people can know the future, how many people can know their fate and be extremely calm, my answer is, ZERO!!

So now let's have the ultimate challenge of the Grim Reaper game, the last opponent of the legendary wizard Hofabach, the future self, the master of the chaotic consciousness, the guide of the soul - the god of nightmares!!"

Tick.

The elongation of the space came to an abrupt end, and Arvada's voice vanished from Hofa's ears. Ghosts, Arvada, the universe, the starry sky, the stage, all gone.

It was like an electric door tripping, and it was pitch black in front of me.

"Wait......"

"Wait!?"

Hoffa shouted anxiously, "What the hell have you been through?" Aglaia, tell me ......."

No one answered.

He groped in the dark, grabbed a man, and shook vigorously: "You tell me, tell me!"

"Tell you what?" said someone struggling in the darkness.

What can I tell me...?

Hoffa himself was confused, and in a trance he lost some of his memory, and everything that had just happened was quickly forgotten.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself clutching the collar of a black bartender. The black bartender, holding a white cloth, looked at him suspiciously.

"Hey, buddy, can you not do it, what can't be solved by drinking?"

"I'm sorry," Hoffa muttered, slowly letting go of his hand.

He found himself standing in a completely unfamiliar place, which looked like the interior of a British street pub, decorated quite stylishly, with crystal chandeliers, mahogany bars, upside-down glasses, and elegant light music. At first glance, it is not a place for ordinary gangsters to consume, and most of the drinkers sitting here are dressed as elites in the workplace, and they sit very quietly and drink in place, rarely saying much.

"Something?"

The black bartender asked.

"What wine do you have here?"

Hoffa asked casually, a little uneasy.

"There's a menu here, you can see for yourself. ”

The bartender pulled a drink list from under the table and handed it over.

Hoffa took it and saw that the words on the menu that were originally marked with alcohol had become some strange words, what was "wreckage", what "family discord", what "father and son cannibalism", what "help me...... All the way down are some inexplicable words.

"What the hell?"

He was a little puzzled, and then looked at the small blackboard behind the bartender - today's special, and the name of the liquor marked on it was also "Save me." Or something like SOS.

This made him a little curious, so he casually pointed to a wine, "Give me a glass of cannibalism." ”

The black bartender nodded, picked up the shaker and shook the ice cubes very professionally. With the help of the smooth silver face of the shaker, Hoffa found himself normal again, gray-haired and golden-eyed, very young.

After a while, the black bartender put a glass of mixed wine in front of Hoffa, "Your father and son are killing each other, use it slowly." ”

Hoffa picked up the ordinary-looking cocktail and was about to taste it.

Thundered!

Thunder and torrential rain could be heard outside the bar.

A young man in a suit slammed open the door, stumbled down on a stool beside Hoffa, and asked breathlessly, "What is this place, are we out?"

Hoffa looked at the young man in a suit sitting next to him, he had chestnut hair, pale complexion, almost exactly like Miranda, except that he had no chest, and the rain was dripping down his wet hair and down his pointed chin on the bar, which was distressing.

"Nope. He picked up the glass and took a sip, which was slightly bitter in his mouth, but sweet in the aftertaste: "We are in a dream." ”

"Dreaming?" asked Miller, surprised.

"Yes. ”

"What are you kidding, weren't we okay just now, just... Just now...", Miller touched his head in confusion: "What just happened?"

"I can't remember, do I?"

"It's a little confusing..."

Hoffa took another sip of wine and sighed, "People don't remember the specific time and place that happened in the dream, and they don't care about what they looked like in the dream, or even how they started. ”

"Do you remember?"

"I remember some. ”

"Why can you remember?" said Miller, unwillingly.

"Hmph, I don't even know how many times I've dreamed. ”

Hoffa shook the glass, which was full again, and he picked it up and said to himself, "This absurd detail, the completely unconventional transition, and the foreshadowing of the environment......"

Miller: "Don't talk nonsense, what's going on? Tell me quickly." ”

"I played a game with the Grim Reaper, and only by winning him will I be able to take Aglaia and leave Helheim, otherwise I will remain in the underworld forever. ”

"And then?"

"The Grim Reaper has picked three opponents for me in the game, and they are my past me, my current me, and my future me. The past me has been defeated by me, and the current me, the monster you just saw, has been turned into blood, and as for the future me..."

Hoffa put down his glass, shook his head, and clutched his chest to say something.

Countless shattered images flashed before his eyes, thinking of the god of nightmares and his first request for a deal, thinking of the empty room of his old self, the gun that was stuffed into his mouth, and the mission that awaited him fifty years ago, and his back was like a mountain weighing on his breath.

Miller grabbed his hand: "What's wrong with you?"

Hoffa shook his head, closed his eyes, and after gasping for a few breaths, he gritted his teeth and said, "It's nothing. ”

He wiped the cold sweat from his forehead: "In the future, I can control the dream, this is the dream he created for us." ”

"The future you—" Miller thought for a moment, and his face changed suddenly, "So, you've decided to go back fifty years?"

"Do I have a choice?" Hoffa smiled wryly and shook the wine glass in his hand: "Your past should have a shadow of me, tell me, what does that look like?"

Miller's face changed several times, from astonishment to unease, and then from unease to indifference, and he turned his head away.

"In that case, there's nothing to say. ”

"What is not good to learn, why is it to learn Aglaia. ”

Hoffa said lightly, "What can't you say." ”

Miller suddenly looked angry, and he grabbed Hoffa by the collar: "Listen, I don't want you to go back, not at all!"

"Oh?" Hofa was stunned, "You're the only one who told me that." ”

"Damn it, Hoffa!" Miller grabbed his clothes with his hands, strangling his neck out of shape, "everything you do now has the potential to change the future, and the future is immutable." ”

"Why doesn't everything, every choice make up the future?"

Miller's mouth opened slightly, and after a while, he actually let go of his hand and stood up, touching the jingling of bottles on the bar: "No, I refuse to accept your idea." ”

The people in the bar all looked at Miller, and Hoffa quickly pulled him to sit down, and the people in the bar silently withdrew their heads.

The black bartender stepped forward again, handed Miller a white towel to wipe the rain, and politely asked, "What do you want?"

"Gin & Tonic Power. Miller muttered.

A clear glass containing an ice hockey puck was placed in front of Miller, who took a sip of amber liquor. He put his head to Hoffa's ear and whispered, "Listen, Hoffa, if you don't admit that this is your future, no one can force a future on your head. ”

"I know. ”

"No, you don't know. Miller said forcefully: "I don't allow you to think like this, it's too dangerous, it's simply denying your own existence, and suicide." ”

"Okay, okay," Hoffa raised his hand in compromise, "Don't get excited, whether this is what I will do in the future or not, but the fact now is that we are being dragged into a dream, and we have to think about it... Otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

"I don't know, but I know that the only way to fight the dream is to wake up, if I don't wake up, maybe any cat or dog outside can destroy my body, and once my body is destroyed, I will lose completely. ”

Miller took another sip and calmed down: "So what do you think about it?"

"First of all, we have to determine whose dream it is, and in general, dreams choose a master and then form a subconscious projection of him. ”

"Subconscious Projection ....."

Miller raised his head and looked around, "I've never been here, is this your dream?"

Hoffa shook his head, "I rarely drink, I go to bars even less, and if I were to project my dreams, I would never be in a place like this." ”

Miller touched his chin and said slowly, "So..... Is this Barty's dream?"

Only then did Hoffa realize that there was one less person by his side. He turned around and looked, where's little Barty? Where did he go?

.....

Just as he was thinking, there was a faint sound of voice from the table next to him.

.....

"You have to make a decision, Mr. Crouch, if you let Cornelius Fudge get this information, let alone run for the Minister of Magic, it may be difficult to maintain the status quo. ”

"There's no other way?"

"If you can't wash it clean, you've been with a wizard like a mysterious man, even if you hire the most famous lawyer in the world. And... With all due respect, your son is acting a little too rampantly. ”

"Damn little brute. ”

The man slapped the table with hatred and anger: "Why did I give birth to such a son?"

In front of the bar, Hoffa and Miller glanced at each other. Each can see the other's surprise. One of the two people sitting in the corner drinking was Barty Crouch Jr.'s father, Barty Crouch Sr.

At this moment, old Barty Crouch was wearing a gray cloak, deliberately hiding his appearance, but Hoffa could still see it, his face was haggard and gray under his hood.

An old man across from him was dressed more like a Muggle elite, dressed in a suit, pot-bellied, with meticulously combed Mediterranean hair and one-sided glasses. He kept taking out documents from his black briefcase and handed them to the haggard man in front of him.

After carefully flipping through the documents, Barty Crouch Sr. rubbed his temples with a headache: "What about the limit? How far can you go?"

"My idea is to give him a life sentence with a few years of probation, and then you can think of another way when the public forgets about Mr. Crouch Jr. After a pause, the old man dressed as a lawyer said, "Maybe it won't be a few years, you know... The public forgets things faster than goldfish. ”

"Okay. ”

Barty Crouch Sr.'s face softened slightly, and he rubbed his forehead, "Do you want anything else to say?"

"Yes. ”

The lawyer added: "This case must be handled as soon as possible, and you must try this case personally." ”

Hearing this, Old Barty's newly relieved face instantly tensed, even tighter than just now, and he said in disbelief: "What?? You want me to send my only son to Azkaban with my own hands!?"

"That's right," the lawyer said categorically, "and you must do it yourself, you must be ruthless, you must be ruthless, so as to leave the impression of your selflessness in the ministry, and also prevent other people from falling into the trap and leaving a bad name on you and your family." ”

After a pause, the pot-bellied lawyer made a one-size-fits-all gesture: "This is a timely stop-loss, Mr. Crouch, if you don't, the losses will be magnified beyond your imagination, you are a popular ministerial candidate, and there are countless pairs of eyes on you....."

"That's enough! Benson, no more. ”

Barty Crouch Sr.'s voice was muffled and painful.

And the lawyer did not shut up, he said in a ruthless tone: "A person of your status must be able to understand, as long as you survive these few years, you still have hope." ”

Old Barty was silent for a long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes, cursed abomination, pulled out a few bills, threw them on the table, and strode out the door. Leaving the lawyer to sit where he was, he slowly put away the papers, and drank like no one else.

"Let's go along and check out," Hoffa said to the black bartender.

"Thirteen pounds. ”

Hoffa reached into his pocket, took out a banknote and pushed it over, but the head printed on the banknote was not the Queen of England, but a twisted pattern of little Barty lying in a cage, roaring outward.

Leave the bar.

It was so windy outside the bar that you could barely see anything. Strangely, the rain was not falling from the clouds, and outside the bar was not a street, but a dark and burning corridor. It's raining in the hallway.

"Where is this going?" said Miller aloud to Hoffa in the midst of the rainstorm.

Hoffa pursed his lips and dragged Miller behind Barty Crouch Sr. As for the destination, he has some premonitions in his heart.

Sure enough, he hadn't gone far before Old Barty stopped in the corridor of the rainstorm, pushed open a door at the end, and walked in. Hoffa followed him and walked in.

Bang knock!

As soon as the door closed, the rainstorm disappeared. The scene also turns into an eerie dungeon.

There was a bleak and gloomy atmosphere in the dungeon, with no portraits on the walls, no decoration, only rows of dense benches around it, which were lined up in a stepped pattern, and from all the seats you could clearly see the chair with the chain in the middle of the dungeon.

This is an interrogation room.

Hoffa looked around and saw Dumbledore sitting next to Barty Crouch Sr., in the main seat at the top, with the rest of the people sitting at the bottom, and he and Barty Jr. standing at the entrance.

The room was silent, the sobbing of a weak witch next to Barty Crouch Sr. She clutched a handkerchief in her trembling hands and covered it over her mouth. Hoffa looked at the woman with his arms crossed, and thought that the woman must be Barty Crouch Jr.'s mother.

"Bring it in. ”

Old Barty's cold and unforgiving voice echoed through the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner of the room opened, and six Dementors walked in with four men. Someone started talking to each other.

The Dementors placed the four men on four chained chairs in the center of the dungeon. One of the stocky men stared blankly at Barty Crouch Sr., while the thinner one looked a little more nervous, his eyes glancing straight into the audience, and a woman with thick black hair and long eyelashes looked triumphant.

There was also a boy of seventeen or eighteen years of age, who looked completely stunned and trembling, with straw-colored hair scattered over his face, and freckle-colored skin as pale as paper.

The moment he saw him, Hoffa recognized him, and although he was much younger, it was Barty Crouch Jr.

(Miller moves, as if trying to snatch Barty Jr. on the spot, but Hofa grabs his arm and pins him to his seat.) This is a nightmare world, not a meditation basin, if Miller is delusional, it will immediately trigger a subconscious backlash, in which no power can be measured by common sense. ）

After four people were taken to court.

Barty Crouch Sr. stood up and looked down at the four men with extreme hatred on his face.

"You have been brought before the Council of the Law of Magic to be sentenced," he said, clearly "and your crimes are so heinous......

"Father," cried Barty Crouch Jr., in horror, "father...... Please......"

"— a rare case before the Tribunal. Mr. Crouch raised his voice, drowning out his son's voice, "We have heard the accusations against you, that the four of you have kidnapped an Auror, Frank Longbottom, and cast a Soul Curse on him, in an attempt to find out from him the whereabouts of your master, the man whose name he can't even mention—"

"Father, I didn't!" screamed the boy tied to the chair, "I didn't, I swear, Father, don't send me back to the Dementors—"

"The accusation also states," roared Mr. Crouch, "that Frank Longbottom refused to provide information, and you used the Diamond Charm on his wife. You are plotting to resurrect the man whose name you can't even mention, and to restore the violent life you lived during his reign. Now I ask the jury—"

"Mother!" the boy shouted, and the skinny witch next to Crouch sobbed, her body swaying back and forth, "Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do that, not me!"

"Now I call for a vote on the jury," said Mr. Crouch, "and raise your hand to those who, as I do, think that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!"

The wizards on the right side of the dungeon raised their hands in unison. Barty Crouch Jr. began screaming.

"No, Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, stop him!"

The Dementor slowly walked in again. The boy's three companions silently stood up from their chairs, and the woman with long eyelashes looked up and shouted to Crouch, "The Dark Lord will be back, Crouch! He will reward us in particular! Only we are loyal! Only we are trying to find Him!"

The audience burst into laughter, some stood up and whistled, and some even compared their middle fingers. But the woman walked out of the dungeon proudly.

Barty Crouch Jr. tried to get rid of the Dementors, but it was to no avail.

"I am your son!"

He shouted to Crouch, "I'm your son!"

"You're not my son!" Old Barty Crouch's eyes burst into rage, and he roared furiously, "I have no son!"