When Hoffa opened his eyes again, he saw the skeletal remains in his arms—the charred, blackened bones. As time passed, they disintegrated into ashes within a few breaths, vanishing completely, as if they had never existed in this world.
However, Hoffa himself was not in much better condition. Having consumed the forbidden World's Blood, the flames of the world's furnace still burned fiercely on his body. He looked at his rapidly withering form and the last traces of strength fading away, realizing that he had reached the end of his fate.
Perhaps Sylby had struggled madly before his death. Perhaps, after Hoffa's kiss, he had attempted to flee. But he hadn't managed to get far—only as far as the edge of the Black Lake, where he collapsed beside the white stone grave that Hogwarts had once prepared for him.
For Hoffa, this was good news. Earlier, there had been a dense crowd of wizards near the main building, and he did not wish to be surrounded by people in his final moments. As a Ravenclaw, as a proud and solitary eagle of the sky, if he were to die, then he should die alone. Perhaps that way, the world might still echo with his legend.
(Especially at this moment, he felt utterly unworthy of facing Miranda.)
"Not listening to one's wife always leads to trouble."
He muttered, "Thank you, Sylby."
Due to his rapid aging, he had to find a pine tree to lean against, sitting down to ease the phantom-like pain coursing through him.
Across the slope lay the Black Lake, and beyond the lake stood the Hogwarts Castle. Though it was badly damaged, its original form remained intact. Night had already fallen, and faint firelight glowed from the castle's windows, indicating that many people had gathered there.
Now, the Nightmare God had been sealed once more, and Sylby was dead. Everything had settled. Magic would surely return to this world.
But... what about the promises he had once made to others?
"Aya... this is so hard."
Pain pulsed through his back as Hoffa let out a sorrowful sigh. If he could help it, he would never break his word. Yet, whether in dreams or reality, why did he always fail, again and again?
"Hoffa!"
"Senior Bach!"
"Professor Bach!"
"Hoffa Bach!"
"Hoffa, are you there?"
"Senior, where are you?"
"Elder, where are you?"
Suddenly, Hoffa heard voices calling his name.
Looking down the slope, he saw figures searching frantically. Though the night had fallen, they carried torches, moving in and out of the castle, circling the Black Lake, repeatedly calling for him.
Most of the time, as a Ravenclaw, Hoffa preferred solitude and disliked being disturbed—especially now, in his frail, aged state. He didn't want anyone to see him like this.
But hearing the people below calling his name over and over, he couldn't help but sob softly. Through endless time, he could endure ninety-nine percent of his solitude. Yet, that remaining one percent... was enough to break him.
At this moment, he finally understood the worth of everything he had done.
At least for this moment, that one percent of loneliness had been dispelled by their calls. For the first time, he truly felt needed—truly felt awaited.
A small orb of light floated toward him. Hoffa turned his head and wiped the tears from his face.
"Hoffa!"
Someone hurried toward him, following the glow.
When Miranda reached Hoffa's side, she stopped abruptly, covering her mouth with both hands before slowly kneeling beside him.
Though he felt unworthy of facing her, Hoffa forced a weary smile and mouthed the words, "Miranda, it's you again who found me first."
Miranda couldn't speak. She stared blankly at the man leaning against the tree—this aged, shrunken figure, nothing like the spirited youth he once was.
This was exactly what she had seen in the forbidden prophecy. Despite everything she had done, despite her desperate attempts to prevent it, this moment had still arrived.
She removed her glasses, her body drained of strength, and sat down beside him, trembling as she reached out to touch his hair. In unbearable anguish, she murmured, "Look at what they've done... look at what they've done to the man I love..."
"I was wrong… you were right," Hoffa's voice was barely a whisper. "You saw further than I did."
"There's no point in saying that now."
Miranda quickly wiped her eyes and said, "Hold on, Hoffa. I'll take you to the archives—there must be a way!"
More glowing orbs gathered around them, and more people noticed Hoffa's presence. They called his name loudly, rushing up the slope with torches in hand. Among them were Professor Dumbledore, Aberforth, Osivia, Olim, past teachers and students of Hogwarts, instructors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and wizards Hoffa had met during his travels and adventures.
Their anxious voices reached Hoffa, filling him with their concern. Yet, they also drowned out Miranda's voice.
Hearing the commotion behind her, Miranda suddenly hugged Hoffa tightly, her tear-filled eyes glaring at the crowd.
"Get lost!" she roared. "Does everything have to fall on him? You useless fools! Useless!"
The mass of wizards halted, hesitant and worried.
Hoffa smiled helplessly and turned his pleading gaze to the towering figure of Albus Dumbledore in the crowd.
Dumbledore saw the old man beneath the tree. Their eyes met, and in that instant, the wise man understood his former student's wishes. He wiped the corners of his eyes and nodded slightly.
Then, he extended his hand and turned away with a sigh, holding back the eager wizards who wanted to rush forward.
Naturally, this action sparked outrage.
"Headmaster!"
"Why are you stopping us?"
"Let us see him! Let us do something!"
"Professor Dumbledore, he looks gravely injured!"
"Albus, let us through! Don't you see Bach is cursed?"
"Brother, don't make me punch you again—we have to get him to a hospital! Right now!"
Albus Dumbledore lowered his head, struggling to lift his wand. A nearly invisible barrier formed, separating the furious wizards and worried students from Hoffa and Miranda, ensuring they would not be disturbed in their final moments together.
Once the others were forced back, Miranda finally, trembling, loosened her grip on Hoffa. Yet, in mere seconds, he had aged even more. His hair fell out at the slightest touch, his wrinkles deepened, and liver spots spread across his skin.
"Hoffa, don't do this. I'm scared," Miranda sobbed.
"Miranda… I've missed you so much."
Hoffa whispered. After drinking the World's Blood, he had been reborn and perished across countless cycles of the universe. Yet, only at this moment did he feel something real.
"I shouldn't have let you go," Miranda trembled. "I should never have let you go. But don't be afraid—I'll find a way. I'll take you to a doctor. There has to be a way… there has to be a way..."
Hoffa shook his head, a faint smile on his aged face. His lips moved a few times, but no sound came out.
Miranda quickly pressed her ear to his lips.
Hoffa whispered into her ear, "That was an amazing kiss. If I could do it a hundred times over, I would kiss you a hundred times more—whether you were dressed as a boy or a girl, whether you were Miranda or Miller. I would kiss you until your face turned red."
"What are you even saying?!"
Miranda burst into tears. "You're already this old, and you're still saying things like that?!"
"Maybe I'm just an old pervert," Hoffa muttered. He patted Miranda's hand. "Now that you're awake from the dream, do you still hate me?"
Miranda's eyes seemed to melt, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face.
"No, of course not. How could I hate you? Hoffa, I was too selfish. Some things are so precious that I couldn't help but want to keep them for myself. I'm sorry… I really am."
Hoffa let out a slow sigh. He reached out, wanting to wipe away the crying girl's tears, but under the influence of the World's Crucible, his hand had already withered into brittle bones, incapable of movement.
"It's not your fault, Miranda. It's just... I'm so tired. I want to find a place to rest properly. But how could I ever escape from what I must do? Don't blame yourself."
"Stop talking, stop talking..."
Miranda pleaded in pain.
Hoffa shook his head and murmured, "All my life, I was obsessed with change—whether as a Metamorphmagus or an adventurer. I was so obsessed that I forgot some things can never change."
He choked up. "Now, I don't regret the life I spent with you in the dream, nor do I regret the adventures we had outside of it. No matter how others see me, I have no more regrets. But... there's still something very important I haven't done. A promise I made a long time ago."
Miranda said, "Tell me. I'll help you do it. We'll do it together."
Hoffa shook his head with a smile. "Miranda, I'm about to die, but I still miss Aglaea... I miss her so much. Could you take my message to her? She'll be waiting for me by the Sussex seaside fifty years from now... but I can't go there anymore."
"You'll be fine! You'll be fine!" Miranda cried desperately. "I'll take you there! I'll go with you! Don't say things like that! Just don't!"
She tried to pull Hoffa up, but the moment she touched his hand, it crumbled into dust.
She sobbed, desperately trying to piece his broken hand back together, but against the relentless passage of time, his body decayed in an instant—irreversible, unstoppable.
The man who once played with time was, in the end, played by time itself.
"Miranda."
Hoffa looked at her with a pleading gaze.
She immediately understood his request and quickly leaned down, pressing her ear to his lips. Hoffa whispered softly, "Take care of your grandfather, then find Nicolas Flamel. He will ensure you can safely reach the future."
Miranda bit her lip, forcing back her tears, and nodded.
Seeing her agreement, Hoffa finally relaxed completely. No matter what he had done before, no matter what mistakes he had made, no matter what had happened during this adventure—he no longer owed anyone anything.
This never-ending adventure had once exhausted him, but now, in this moment, he cherished every single day he had spent within it. Now, at last, he could rest. Now, he only hoped that the silver-haired girl by the seaside would not blame him too much for his mistakes. Now, he only wished to take one last look at this place he had once been so reluctant to leave.
Under the moonlit sky, the castle by the black lake shimmered with golden light against the deep blue night. It held endless mystery and fantasy. It was his childhood. His youth. The closest thing he ever had to a home.
"So beautiful."
He sighed from the depths of his heart.
In the next second, the World's Crucible consumed him entirely, reducing him to nothing but bones, and then even the bones were gone. Just like Sylby, he was burned completely to ashes.
Miranda wailed in agony, reaching out to touch that boy's face one last time—but he was no longer there. The night wind carried his ashes away, sending them drifting toward the castle.
"Why?"
Clutching her chest, Miranda cried out in anguish. She didn't even know who she was asking. "Why? Why did it have to go this far?"
Outside Dumbledore's barrier, the wizards watched in stunned silence as the man burned to ashes before their eyes. They watched as the remnants of him floated overhead, merging with the galaxy. Some wept, some stood in silence, some sighed.
The girl's desperate question echoed in their ears—unanswered.
Why did it have to go this far?
No one knew.
Until the night wind scattered the ashes, revealing something glimmering quietly on the ground, resting beside Miranda's knee.
She froze, then trembling, reached out to pick it up.
Even in such a moment of sorrow, she couldn't help but be shaken by the existence of this stone. It was so dazzlingly pure that even the most beautiful gemstones in the world paled in comparison.
Holding the stone, she could clearly feel the emotions within it. Perhaps anyone who touched it could feel them too. It was utterly unbreakable. Even the fire of time, which decays all things, could not steal its light. Even the World's Crucible, which melts everything, could not erase its existence.
"The Heartstone…?"
She murmured, gazing at the brilliant gem.
Its glow was faint, yet as eternal as the stars. Just looking at it, one could sense something unchanging—an extraordinary magic that flowed through the deepest dreams of every wizard.
On this day in 1945, as the great war finally came to an end, no one would ever know the full truth. How had the conflict begun? Why had it ended? How had that boy killed the most terrifying dark wizard in history with a single kiss? And why had he turned to ash after?
What was the nature of the radiant stone left behind in the flames? What purpose did it serve?
All these answers, all these details, were forever buried in the dust of history, leaving no room for further inquiry. The only person who might have known more vanished from the world not long after.
What remained was endless speculation, endless mystery. Yet, no matter the version of the story told, no matter the legends that emerged, all were willing to grant that boy the most legendary of titles.
And at this very moment—
Perhaps as a tribute to the greatest wizard.
Perhaps as a tribute to the mysteries of this world.
No one knew who started it, but someone raised their wand.
A silent white firework shot into the sky.
And then, one after another, more wizards followed suit.
Wands lifted.
Fireworks of countless colors erupted into the night sky above Hogwarts.
From the distant past, reaching into an endless future—never ceasing.
(End of Chapter)
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