328 Chapter 50, the Nightmare Reappears

Hoffa stared blankly at the indifferent Aglaia, and asked hoarsely, "What have you experienced???"

Clap clap! !

But his question was interrupted by a burst of thunderous applause.

He turned his head and looked around for the source of the applause, but saw no one.

At the same time, a strong sense of dizziness surged into his brain, and the feeling of dizziness became heavier and heavier. Afterwards, 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 him was blurred and deformed, the cauldron, the crypt, and Aglaia were all stripped out. Eventually a stage was formed.

And outside the stage, there are countless ghosts applauding for him, and behind the ghosts is endless void. In the void, Avadhana's black head as big as a planet held the microphone, held the stage in one hand, and shouted frantically through his cracked white teeth: "Look, another man who has reached the last challenge, in this life During the feast, how many people can know the future, how many people can know the fate and be extremely calm, my answer is, ZERO!!

So let us invite you now, the ultimate challenge of the game of death, the last opponent of the legendary wizard Hofferbach, the self from the future, the master of chaotic consciousness, the guide in the depths of the soul-the god of nightmares! ! "

tick.

The length of the space came to an abrupt end, and Avada's voice also disappeared from Hoffa's ears. Ghost, Avada, universe, starry sky, stage, all disappeared.

Like a switch tripping, the eyes fell into darkness.

"etc."

"etc!?"

Hoffa shouted anxiously: "What have you experienced? Aglaia, tell me."

No one answered.

He groped around in the dark, grabbed a person, and shook him vigorously: "Tell me, tell me!"

"Tell you what?" Someone struggled to say in the darkness.

tell me what?

Hoffa himself was also confused for a moment, and he lost his memory in a trance, and everything that happened just now was quickly forgotten.

When he opened his eyes again, he found that he was holding on to the collar of a black bartender. And the black bartender held up a white cloth and looked at him suspiciously.

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

"Excuse me," Hoffa muttered, letting go of his hand slowly.

He found himself standing in a completely unfamiliar place, which seemed to be the interior of a British street bar. The bar was quite stylishly decorated, with crystal lamps, mahogany bar counters, upside-down glasses, and elegant light music. At first glance, it is not a place for ordinary gangsters to consume. Most of the drinkers sitting here are dressed as elites in the workplace. They sit very quietly and drink, rarely saying anything.

"What do you want?"

the black bartender asked.

"What kind of wine do you have here?"

Hoffa asked casually, he was a little uneasy.

"Here is the menu, you can see for yourself."

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

Hoffa took it over and took a look. The words on the menu that were originally labeled alcohol have become some weird words, such as [Wordless], [Family Discord], [Father and Son], and [Help me] 】. There are some inexplicable words all the way down.

"What the hell?"

He was a little puzzled, and then looked behind the bartender—the small blackboard for today's special offer, and the names of the alcoholic beverages on it were also [Help me. ] Or something like SOS.

This made him a little curious, so he pointed at a wine casually, "Give me a cup of father-son fight."

The black bartender nodded, and professionally picked up the shaker and ice cubes to shake. With the aid of the smooth silver surface of the shaker, Hoffa found himself normal again, gray-haired, blond-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, please take it slowly."

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

Rumble!

There was thunder and rain outside the bar.

A young man in a suit pushed open the door with a bang, stumbled and sat on the high stool beside Hoffa, and asked out of breath, "What is this place, have we come out yet?"

Hoffa looked at the boy in a suit sitting next to him. He had chestnut hair and a pale complexion. He looked exactly like Miranda, except that he had no breasts. Rainwater flowed from his wet hair and dripped down his pointed chin. Falling on the bar counter is distressing.

"No." He picked up the wine glass and took a sip. The taste was slightly bitter, but the aftertaste was sweet: "We are in a dream."

"Dream?" Miller asked in surprise.

"yes."

"Are you kidding? We were fine just now, just now." As he spoke, Miller rubbed his head in confusion: "What happened just now?"

"Can't remember, can you?"

"Somewhat confused."

Hoffa took another sip of his wine and sighed: "People don't remember the exact time and place of what happened in the dream, nor do they care about their specific appearance in the dream, and they don't even remember how it started. "

"Do you remember?"

"I remember some."

"Why can you remember?" Miller whispered unwillingly.

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

Hoffa shook the wine glass, and the empty glass was full again. He picked up the glass and said to himself: "These absurd details, the transitions that are completely unreasonable, and full of foreshadowing meaningful environment."

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

"I played a game with Death. Only by winning him can I take Aglaia away and leave Helheim, otherwise I will stay in the underworld forever."

"Then what?"

"Reaper chose three opponents for me in the game. They are the past me, the present me, and the future me. The past me has been defeated by me, and the present me is the one you just saw The monster has been turned into blood, as for the future me"

Hoffa put down his wine glass, shook his head, clutching his chest, a little speechless.

Countless broken pictures flashed before his eyes, thinking of the God of Nightmare and his initial transaction request, thinking of his empty house in his old age, the gun stuffed into his mouth, and thinking of what was waiting for him fifty years ago. With the mission, it is difficult to breathe like a mountain is on the back.

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

Hoffa shook his head, closed his eyes, took a few breaths, 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."

"You in the future." Miller thought for a while, and suddenly changed his expression, "So, have you decided to go back fifty years ago?"

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

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

"In this case, there is nothing to say."

"What is not good to learn, why learn from Aglaia."

Hoffa said lightly, "Is there anything you can't say."

Miller suddenly looked very angry, and he grabbed Hoffa's collar suddenly: "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 pulled his clothes with his hands, and his neck was deformed. "Everything you do now may change the future, and there is no future that is immutable." of."

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

Miller opened his mouth slightly, and after a while, he let go of his hand and stood up, and the bottle on the bar was clinking when he touched it: "No, I refuse to accept your idea."

Everyone in the bar looked at Miller, Hoffa quickly pulled him to sit down, and then the people in the bar silently retracted their heads.

The black bartender took another step forward, handed Miller a white towel to wipe off the rain, and asked politely, "What do you want?"

"Gin and Tonic," Miller muttered.

A clear glass wine glass containing a hockey puck was placed in front of Miller, and he took a sip of the amber liquid. Putting his head next to Hoffa's ear, he whispered, "Listen, Hoffa, if you don't admit that this is your future, no one can force a future into your head."

"I know."

"No, you don't know." Miller said forcefully, "I don't allow you to have such thoughts. It's too dangerous. This is simply denying your own existence, and it is undoubtedly suicide."

"All right, all right," Hoffa compromised and raised his hand: "Don't get excited, no matter whether this is what I do in the future, but the fact now is that we have been dragged into a dream, and we have to find a way out. 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, any cat or dog outside may destroy my body. Once the body is destroyed, I will lose completely."

Miller took another sip of his wine and calmed down: "Then what do you think about it?"

"First of all, we have to determine whose dream it is. Generally speaking, dreams will choose an owner, and then form his subconscious projection."

"Subconscious Projection"

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

Hoffa shook his head, "I seldom drink alcohol and go to bars even less. If you project my dreams, you will definitely not choose such a place."

Miller touched his chin, and said slowly: "So. This is the dream of that guy Barty Jr.?"

Only then did Hoffa realize that there was one less person beside him. He turned around and looked for it. Where's Barty Jr.? Where did he go?

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

"You have to make a decision, Mr. Crouch, if you let Cornelius Fudge get these materials, let alone running for the Minister of Magic, it may be very difficult to maintain the status quo."

"Is there no other way?"

"If you can't wash it clean, you have worked with a wizard like the mysterious man, even if you invite the most famous lawyer in the world. And with all due respect, your son's behavior is really a bit too rampant."

"Damn little bastard."

The man patted the table with resentment and sullenness: "Why did I give birth to this kind of son?"

In front of the bar counter, Hoffa and Miller exchanged glances. Each can see each other's surprise. Among the two people sitting in the corner drinking, one of them turned out to be Barty Crouch Jr.'s father, Barty Crouch Sr.

Old Barty Crouch was wearing a gray cloak at this moment, deliberately hiding his features, but Hoffa could still see his haggard, gray face under the hood.

The old man opposite him was dressed more like a Muggle elite. He was wearing a suit, with a big belly, meticulously combed thin Mediterranean hair, and wearing a single-sided glasses. He was constantly taking out documents from his black briefcase and handing them to the emaciated man in front of him.

Carefully flipping through the documents, old Barty Crouch rubbed his temples with a headache: "What's the limit? How far can you do it?"

"My idea is to sentence him to life imprisonment first, with a few years' reprieve, and when the public forgets Mr. Crouch Jr., then you can think of other ways." After a pause, the old man dressed as a lawyer said, "Maybe it won't take long. Years, you know the public forgets things quicker than a goldfish."

"All right."

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

"have."

The lawyer added: "This case must be dealt with as soon as possible, and you must personally judge this case."

Hearing this sentence, old Batty's face that had just calmed down instantly tightened, even tighter than before. 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 resolutely: "And you must do it yourself, be ruthless and ruthless, so as to impress the ministry with your impartiality, and prevent other people from making trouble and harming you and your family. The family left infamy."

After a pause, the potbellied lawyer made a one-size-fits-all gesture: "This is to stop the loss in time, Mr. Crouch, if you don't do this, the loss will expand to an unimaginable extent, you are a popular ministerial candidate , there are countless pairs of eyes staring at you."

"Enough! Benson, don't say any more."

Old Barty Crouch's voice was suppressed and painful.

But the lawyer didn't shut up, he said in a ruthless tone: "People with your status must understand, as long as you survive these few years, you still have hope."

Old Batty was silent for a long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes, cursed a word, took out a few banknotes and threw them on the table, and strode out the door. The lawyer was left to sit where he was, slowly put away the documents, and drank like nothing had happened.

"Follow up and check out, 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 portrait printed on the banknote was not the Queen of England, but a distorted pattern of little Barty lying in a cage and roaring outward.

leave the bar.

Outside the bar it was very windy and it was almost impossible to see anything. But the strange thing is that the rain did not fall from the clouds, and the outside of the bar was not a street, but a dark corridor burning with fire. It's raining violently in the corridor.

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

Hoffa tightly pursed his lips, and dragged Miller to follow old Barty Crouch. Regarding the destination, he more or less had a premonition in his heart.

Sure enough, without going far, Old Batty stopped in the rainstorm corridor, pushed open a door at the end, and walked in. Hoffa followed him and walked in too.

bang bang!

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

There is a gloomy and gloomy atmosphere in the dungeon. There are no portraits or decorations on the walls. There are only rows of dense benches all around. Chair with chains.

This is an interrogation room.

Hoffa looked around and saw that Dumbledore was sitting next to old Barty Crouch, the main seat at the top, the rest were sitting at the bottom, and he and Barty Jr. were standing at the entrance.

There was silence in the room, the sobbing of a frail witch next to old Barty Crouch. She held a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands. Hoffa crossed his arms and looked at the woman, thinking that the woman should be the mother of Barty Crouch Jr.

"Bring it in."

Old Batty's indifferent voice echoed in the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner opened, and six dementors escorted four people in. Someone started whispering.

The Dementor placed the four on four chained chairs in the center of the dungeon. One of the short and fat men looked blankly at old Barty Crouch, and the other thinner man seemed more nervous, and his eyes went straight to the auditorium. A woman with thick black hair and long eyelashes looked smug elated.

There was also a boy of seventeen or eighteen who looked utterly petrified and trembling, with straw-coloured hair falling over his face and freckled skin as pale as paper.

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

(Miller moved, as if he wanted to snatch Barty Jr. on the spot, but Hoffa took his arm and pressed him on the seat. This is a nightmare world, not a Pensieve. If Miller moves rashly , will immediately trigger subconscious backlash. In dreams, any power cannot be measured with common sense.)

Four people were taken to court.

Old Barty Crouch stood up, looking down at the four people, with extreme hatred on his face.

"You were brought before the Council of Magical Laws to be sentenced," he enunciated, "so heinous was your crime."

"Father," Barty Crouch Jr. yelled in horror, "Father... Please..."

"—a rarity in the cases before this court." Mr. Crouch raised his voice over his son's, "we have heard the charges against you that the four of you kidnapped an Auror— —Frank Longbottom, cast the Cruciatus Curse on him, trying to find out from him the whereabouts of your master, the man who cannot even be named—”

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

"The accusation goes on," roared Mr. Crouch, "that you used the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Barton's wife when he refused to provide information. You conspired to bring back a man who must not be named, and to restore him to the days when he was powerful. the kind of violent life I lived. Now I ask the jury—”

"Mother!" the boy yelled, and the skinny witch next to Crouch sobbed and rocked back and forth, "Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do those things, it wasn't me!"

"I now call on the jury," cried Mr. Crouch, "to those who believe, as I do, that these crimes should be punished with life in Azkaban, please raise your hand!"

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

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

The dementor came in slowly again. The boy's three companions stood up from their chairs silently, and the woman with long eyelashes raised her head and shouted to Crouch: "The Dark Lord will return, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban, we will wait." !He will come back to save us. He will reward us with a special reward! Only we are faithful! Only we are trying to find him!"

The audience roared with laughter, some stood up, whistled, some even pointed their middle fingers. But the woman walked proudly out of the dungeon.

Barty Crouch Jr. tried hard to get rid of the dementors, but it was no use.

"I am your son!"

He shouted to Crouch, "I am your son!"

"You are not my son!" Old Barty Crouch's eyes popped out, and he roared furiously, "I don't have a son!"