Chapter 326

Hoffa looked at agleia with a dull face and asked hoarsely, "what on earth have you been through?"

Pa Pa!!

But his question was interrupted by a thunderous applause.

He looked around, looking for the source of the applause. No one saw it.

At the same time, a strong sense of vertigo surged into the brain, and the sense of vertigo became more and more serious. Then, the space where he lived was infinitely extended, and aglia's transparent body was like a redshift star in the universe, getting farther and farther away from him.

Everything in front of my eyes is blurred and deformed. The crucible, crypt and agraia are all stripped out. Finally, a stage was formed.

Outside the stage, there are countless ghosts clapping for him. Behind the ghosts, there is endless void. In the void, Avadana's black head, as big as a star, holds the microphone, holds the stage in one hand, and cries out with white teeth: "look, another man who has come to the last challenge. In this feast of life, how many people can know the future, how many people can know the fate and be very calm, my answer is zero!!

Now let's welcome the ultimate challenge of the game of death, the last opponent of the legendary wizard Hof á Bach, the future self, the master of chaotic consciousness, and the guide of the soul -- the God of nightmares! "

Tick.

The lengthening of the space stopped suddenly, and Avada's voice disappeared from Hoffa's ear. Ghost, avatar, universe, starry sky, stage, all disappear.

As if the switch had tripped, my eyes fell into darkness.

"Wait...

" wait

Hoffa cried anxiously, "what have you been through? Agraia, you tell me... "

nobody answered.

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

"Tell you what?" Someone struggled in the dark.

Tell me what?

Hoffa himself was confused for a moment. He lost his memory in a trance. What had just happened was quickly forgotten.

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

"Hey, man, can you stop it? What can't be solved by drinking?"

"I'm sorry," Hoffa muttered, slowly releasing his hand.

He found himself standing in a completely strange place, which seems to be the interior of an English Street bar. The bar is decorated with style, crystal lights, mahogany bar, upside down glasses and elegant light music. At first glance, it's not a place for ordinary gangsters to consume. Most of the drinkers sitting here are dressed like the elite of the workplace. They are very quiet sitting in the same place drinking and rarely talk.

"What would you like?"

Asked the black bartender.

"What kind of wine do you have?"

Hoffa asked casually, a little uneasy.

"Here's the menu. Look at it for yourself."

The bartender took out a drink list from under the table and handed it to him.

Hoffa took a look, and the original words of wine on the menu became some strange words, such as "loser", "family discord", "father son fratricidal", "help me"... All the way down there were some strange words.

"What the hell?"

He was a little puzzled. He looked behind the bartender - the small blackboard of today's special price, on which the names of liquor were all "help me". 】Or SOS or something.

This made him a little curious, so he casually pointed to a wine, "give me a glass of father son fratricidal."

The black bartender nodded and professionally picked up the shaker and the ice. With the help of the smooth silver surface of the shaker, Hoffa found himself a normal figure again, gray hair, golden eyes, very young.

After a while, the black bartender put a glass of mixed wine in front of Hoffa. "Your father and son are fratricidal. Take your time."

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

Boom!

Thunder and rain came from outside the bar.

A young man in a suit slammed the door open, stumbling on the high stool beside Hoffa, gasping and asking, "where is this? Are we out?"

Hough looked as like as two peas in the side of his suit. He had chestnut hair and pale complexion. It was almost the same as Miranda. He had no chest. The rain dripped from his wet hair and dripped down the bar on his sharp chin.

"No He took a sip from the glass, slightly bitter in the mouth, but sweet in the aftertaste: "we are in a dream."

"Dreaming?" Miller asked in surprise.

"Yes."

"Are you kidding? We were just fine, just... Just..." Miller felt his head in a daze: "what just happened?""I don't remember, do I?"

"Some confused..."

Hoffa took another sip of wine and sighed: "people don't remember the specific time and place in a dream, they don't care about their specific appearance in a dream, and they don't even remember how they started."

"Do you remember?"

"I remember some."

"Why do you remember?" Miller was reluctant to whisper.

"Well, I don't know how many times I dream."

Hoffa shook his glass, but the empty one was full again. He picked up the glass and said to himself, "this ridiculous detail, a completely unconventional transition, and an environment full of foreshadowing..."

Miller: "don't talk nonsense, what happened? Tell me quickly

"I played a game with death. Only if I win him can I take agraia and leave herheim, or I will stay in the underworld forever."

"And then?"

"Death chose three opponents for me in the game. They were me in the past, me now and me in the future. The past I have been defeated by me, and now I, the monster you just saw, have been turned into blood. As for the future i...

Hoffa put down his glass, shook his head, covered his chest and said nothing.

Countless broken pictures flashed in front of his eyes. He thought of the God of nightmare and his initial trading request, his empty house, the gun stuffed into his mouth, and then he thought of the mission he had been waiting for fifty years ago, and he had difficulty breathing like a mountain on his back.

Miller grabbed his hand: "what's the matter with you?"

Hoffa shook his head, closed his eyes, gasped hard, gritted his teeth and said, "nothing."

He wiped the cold sweat on his forehead: "I can control dreams in the future. This is the dream he made for us."

"The future of you..." Miller thought about it and suddenly changed his face. "So, have you decided to go back 50 years ago?"

"Do I have a choice?" Hoffa shook his glass with a wry smile: "your past should have my shadow. Tell me, what does it look like?"

Miller's face changed from astonishment to uneasiness, and then from uneasiness to indifference. He turned his head.

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

"What's wrong with learning? Why do you learn from agraia?"

Hoffa said faintly, "what can't be said."

Miller suddenly appeared very angry, he grabbed Hoffa's collar: "listen, I don't want you to go back, not at all!"

"Oh?" Hoffa was stunned: "you are the only one who told me that."

"Damn it, Hoffa!" Miller held his clothes with his hands, and his neck was deformed. "Everything you do now is likely to change the future. What future is unchangeable."

"Why isn't everything, every choice, the future?"

Miller's mouth opened slightly. After a while, he released his hand and stood up. The bottle on the bar jingled: "no, I refuse to accept your idea."

All the people in the bar looked at Miller, and Hoffa quickly took him to sit down. Then the people in the bar quietly withdrew their heads.

The black bartender stepped forward, handed Miller a white towel to wipe the rain, and politely asked, "what would you like?"

"Jintangli." Miller muttered.

A transparent glass wine cup with ice hockey 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: "I don't allow you to have this kind of idea. It's too dangerous. It's a denial of your existence and suicide."

"OK, OK," Hoffa compromise raised his hand: "don't get excited, whether it's something I will do in the future or not, but now the fact is that we are dragged into a dream, we must try to do it... Otherwise...

" otherwise what? "

"I don't know, but I know that the only way to fight against dreams is to wake up. If I don't wake up, any dog or cat outside may damage my body. Once my body is damaged, I will lose completely."

Miller took another sip and calmed down. "What do you think about that?"

"First of all, we have to determine whose dream it is. Generally speaking, dreams choose a master and form his subconscious projection."

"Subconscious projection..."

Miller looked up and looked around: "I've never been here before. Is this your dream?"

Hoffa shook his head. "I rarely drink, I go to bars less often. If I project my dreams, I would never choose such a place."Miller touched his chin and said slowly, "so... This is the dream of little buddy?"

Hoffa found that he was short of a person. He turned to look for it. Where's little Barty? Where did he go?

...

as he was thinking about it, there was a faint voice coming from the table next to him.

...

"you have to make a decision, Mr. crouch. If Cornell fudge gets this information, you may not be running for Minister of magic. It may be very difficult to maintain the status quo."

"Is there no other way?"

"I can't wash it clean. I've been with a wizard like a mysterious man, even if you invite the most famous lawyer in the world. And... With all due respect, your son is a bit too wild to act. "

"Damn little beast."

The man angrily patted the table: "how can I have such a son?"

In front of the bar, Hoffa and Miller look at each other. We can see each other's surprise. One of the two people drinking in the corner turned out to be little Barty Crouch's father, old Barty crouch.

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

The old man opposite him is dressed more like a Muggle elite, he is wearing a suit, a big belly, Mediterranean sparse hair combed meticulously, wearing a unilateral glasses. Is constantly from his black briefcase out of the document to the man in front of haggard.

Looking through the documents carefully, old Barty crouch rubbed his temples with a headache: "what's the limit? How much can you do? "

"My idea is to get a life sentence first, with a few years' reprieve. When the public forgets Mr. little crouch, you can think of other ways." After a pause, the old man dressed as a lawyer said, "maybe it won't take a few years. You know... The public forgets things faster than goldfish."

"All right."

Old Barty Crouch's face softened a little. He rubbed his forehead. "Do you have anything else to say?"

"Yes."

The lawyer added: "this case should be handled as soon as possible, and it must be tried by you in person."

Hearing these words, old Patty's face was tense, even tighter than just now. He said in disbelief: "what?? Do you want me to send my only son to Azkaban myself? "

"That's right," the lawyer said firmly, "and you must do it yourself. You must be cruel and merciless. Only in this way can you leave an impression of selflessness to the Ministry, and prevent other people from falling down on you and your family."

After a pause, the big bellied lawyer made a one size fits all gesture: "this is a timely stop loss, Mr. crouch. If you don't do it, the loss will expand to a degree that you can't imagine. You are a popular candidate for minister, and there are countless pairs of eyes staring at you..."

"enough! Benson, no more

Old Barty Crouch's voice was oppressive and painful.

But the lawyer didn't shut up. He said in a heartless tone: "a person in your position can certainly understand. As long as you get through these years, you still have hope."

Old Patty was silent for a long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes, cursed, took out a few notes, threw them on the table, and strode out of the door. Leave the lawyer sitting in place, slowly put away the documents, drink like no one else.

"Follow up and check out," Hoffa said to the black bartender.

"Thirteen pounds."

Hoffa put his hand into his pocket, took out a bill and pushed it over. The picture on the bill was not the queen, but the twisted picture of little Patty lying in the cage and yelling out.

Get out of the bar.

It's so stormy outside the bar that you can hardly see anything. But strangely, the rain did not fall from the clouds, and outside the bar was not a street, but a dark corridor burning with fire. There's a storm in the corridor.

"Where is this going?" Miller asked Hoffa loudly in the rainstorm.

Hoffa clenched his lips and dragged Miller behind old Barty crouch. He had some premonitions about his destination.

Sure enough, not far away, old Patty stopped in the rainstorm corridor, pushed open a door at the end and went in. Hoffa followed him and went in.

Bang, bang!

The moment the door closed, the rainstorm disappeared. The scene also becomes a gloomy dungeon.

There was a gloomy atmosphere in the dungeon. There were no portraits or decorations on the walls. There were only rows of benches all around. From all the seats, you could see the chair with chain in the middle of the dungeon.

This is an interrogation room.

Hoffa looked around and saw Dumbledore sitting next to old Barty crouch, in the highest main seat, the rest at the bottom, and he and little Barty at the entrance.The room was quiet, the sobbing of a weak witch next to old Barty crouch. She held a handkerchief in her trembling hands to her mouth. Hoffa held his arm and looked at the woman, thinking that she should be little Barty Crouch's mother.

"Bring it in."

Old Patty's cold and heartless voice echoed in the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner opened and six Dementors came in with four men. Someone started whispering.

The Dementors put four men on four chained chairs in the middle of the dungeon. One of the stout men looked blankly at old Barty crouch, while the other, a little thinner, looked more nervous and looked straight into the audience. A woman with thick black hair and long eyelashes looked elated.

There was also a 17-year-old boy, who looked completely shocked and trembled. His straw colored hair was scattered on his face, and his freckled skin was as white as paper.

The moment he saw him, Hoffa recognized him. Although he was much younger, it was little Barty crouch.

(Miller moves, as if to snatch little Patty on the spot, but Hoffa grabs him by the arm and presses him on the seat. This is a nightmare world, not a meditation basin. If Miller moves rashly, it will immediately trigger subconscious backfire. In dreams, no force can be measured by common sense.)

After four people were taken to court.

Old Barty crouch stood up and looked down at the four men with a look of extreme hatred.

"You are brought before the magic Law Committee for sentencing," he said plainly. "Your crimes are so terrible..."

"father," cried Little Barty crouch in horror, "father Please... "

"- rare in cases before this court." Mr. crouch raised his voice over his son's, "we heard the accusation against you that the four of you kidnapped an Auror Frank lombarton and used a heart drilling mantra on him to find out the whereabouts of your master, the man whose name can't be mentioned --"

"father, I don't have it!" The boy strapped to the chair screamed, "I didn't, I swear, father, don't send me back to the Dementors -"

"the charges also said," Mr. crouch yelled, "frank lombarton won't provide information, so you use the heart drilling curse on his wife. You conspire to make a comeback of a man who can't even mention his name, and want to restore the violent life you had when he was strong. Now I invite the jury - "

" mother! " The little witch next to crouch sobbed and swayed back and forth. "Mother, stop him, mother, I didn't do those things, not me!"

"Now I ask the jury to vote," Mr. crouch said aloud. "Those who think these crimes should be sentenced to life in Azkaban, as I do, please raise your hands!"

The wizard on the right side of the dungeon raised his hands in unison. Little Barty crouch began to scream.

"No! Mother, no! It's not me, it's not me, I don't know! Don't send me there, stop him

The Dementors slowly came in again. The boy's three companions stood up silently from the chair. The woman with long eyelashes raised her head and called to crouch: "the Dark Lord will come back, crouch! Throw us in Azkaban, we'll wait! He will come back to save us. He will reward us specially! Only we are loyal! Only we are trying to find him

The audience roared with laughter, some stood up and whistled, some even compared with the middle finger. But the woman walked out of the dungeon.

Little Barty crouch tried to get rid of Dementors, but it was in vain.

"I'm your son!"

He called to crouch, "I'm your son!"

"You are not my son!" "I don't have a son!" old Barty crouch roared furiously, his eyes bulging