Harry Potter: I Am a Legend

Hoffa stared at Aglaia with an indifferent face, and asked hoarsely: "You...what have you experienced??"

Bang bang bang! !

But his question was interrupted by thunderous applause.

He turned his head and looked around, looking for the source of the applause. No one saw it.

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

Everything in front of him was blurred and deformed, the crucible, the crypt, and Aglaia were all stripped out. Finally formed a stage.

And outside the stage, there are countless ghosts applauding for him, and behind the ghosts, there is an endless void. In the void, Avadana’s black head as big as a planet is holding the microphone, holding the stage in one hand, and screaming frantically with cracked white teeth: "Look, another man who has come to the last challenge. 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 now let us have a request, the ultimate challenge of the game of death, the last opponent of the legendary wizard Hoffabach, the self from the future, the master of chaos consciousness, the guide in the depths of the soul-the **** of nightmares! ! "

Ticking.

The elongation of the space stopped abruptly, and Arvada's voice disappeared from Hoffa's ears. Ghost, Arvada, universe, starry sky, stage, all disappeared.

It was as if an electric gate had tripped, and the eyes were plunged into darkness.

"and many more......"

"and many more!?"

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

No one answered.

He fumbled in the dark, grabbed a person, and shook it vigorously: "Tell me, tell me!"

"Tell you what?" someone struggled in the darkness.

Tell me what...?

Hoffa himself was confused for a moment, and he lost his memory in a daze, 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. And the black bartender held a white cloth and looked at him suspiciously.

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

"Sorry," Hoffa murmured, slowly letting go.

He found himself standing in a completely unfamiliar place. It looked like the interior of an English street bar. The bar was decorated in style, with crystal lights, mahogany bar, upside down glasses, and elegant light music. At first glance, it is not a place for ordinary gangsters to consume. Most of the alcoholic people sitting here are dressed up as professional elites. They sit and drink very quietly and rarely speak much.

"What can I do?"

The black bartender asked.

"What wine do you have?"

Hoffa asked casually, he was a little uneasy.

"There is a menu here, you can read it yourself."

The bartender drew a wine list from under the table and handed it over.

Hoffa took it and took a look. The original vocabulary of alcohol on the menu has become some weird vocabulary, what is "worry", what is "family discord", what is "father and son", what is "help me" 】...All the way down are some inexplicable vocabulary.

"What the hell?"

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

This made him a little curious, so he just pointed to a wine and said, "Bring me a glass of father and son."

The black bartender nodded, professionally picked up the shaker and ice cubes to shake. With the help of the smooth silver surface of the shaker, Hoffa found that he had become normal again, with gray hair and golden eyes, and 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 use it slowly."

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

Rumble!

Thunder and heavy rain came from outside the bar.

A young man in a suit slammed the door open, stumbled on the high stool next to Hoffa, and asked out of breath, "Where is this, have we come out?"

Hoffa looked at the young man in a suit sitting next to him. He had chestnut hair and pale complexion, almost exactly the same as Miranda, but without his chest, the rain dripped from his wet hair and dripped down his pointed chin. It hurts to fall on the bar.

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

"Dreaming?" Miller asked in surprise.

"Yes."

"Just kidding, we weren't okay just now, just...just now..." As he said, Miller touched his head confusedly: "What just happened?"

"Can't remember, do you?"

"Somewhat confused..."

Hoffa took another sip of his wine and sighed: "People don't remember the specific time and place in the dream, and they don't care how they look in the dream, or even how they started. "

"Do you remember?"

"I remember some."

"Why can you remember?" Miller whispered unwillingly.

"Hmph, I don't know how many dreams I have."

Hoffa shook the glass, and the empty glass was full again. He picked up the glass and said to himself: "This absurd detail, a transition that does not follow common sense, and is full of signs. Meaningful environment..."

Miller: "Stop talking nonsense, what happened? Tell me quickly."

"I played a game with Grim Reaper. Only if I win him can I take Aglaia away and leave Helheim, otherwise I will stay in the underworld forever."

"and then?"

"Reaper has chosen 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, and was a little speechless, clutching his chest.

Countless broken images flashed before his eyes, thinking of the God of Nightmare and his initial transaction request, thinking of the empty house of old age, the gun stuffed into his mouth, and thinking of waiting for him fifty years ago. It’s difficult to breathe like a mountain on his back.

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

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

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

"The future you..." Miller thought for a while, and suddenly changed his face, "So, are you determined to go back to 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 it look like?"

Miller's face changed several times, from consternation to restlessness, then from restlessness to indifference, and he turned his head.

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

"What is bad to learn, why learn Aglaia."

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

Miller suddenly looked very angry. He grabbed Hoffa by the collar abruptly: "Listen, I don't want you to go back, I don't want it at all!"

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

"Damn it, Hoffa!" Miller pulled his clothes tightly and deformed his neck. "Everything you do now can change the future. How can the future remain unchanged? of."

"Why doesn't everything and every choice constitute the future?"

Miller opened his mouth slightly, and after a while, he even let go of his hand and stood up. The bottle on the counter was clanging: "No, I refuse to accept your idea."

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

The black bartender took another step forward, handing Miller a white towel to wipe the rainwater, and politely asked, "What are you going to have?"

"Gin and Tonic," Miller murmured.

A clear glass wine glass with ice **** was placed in front of Miller, and he took a sip of the amber liquor. Putting his head 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 this kind of thought. It's too dangerous. This is simply denying your own existence and suicide."

"Go, go," Hoffa compromised and raised his hand: "Don't get excited, whether this is something I will do in the future, but the fact now is that we have been dragged into a dream, and we must think about it. ..otherwise..."

"Otherwise what?"

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

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

"First of all, we have to determine whose dream state this is. Generally speaking, the dream state will choose a master, and then form his subconscious projection."

"Subconscious projection..."

Miller raised his head and looked around: "I have never been here. Is this your dream?"

Hoffa shook his head, "I rarely drink, and I go to the bar less often. If I project my dreams, I would never choose such a place."

Miller touched his chin and slowly said, "So...this is the dream of the fellow Little Batty?"

Hoffa realized that there was one missing person around him. He turned his head and looked for it. Where is Batty? Where did he go?

.....

Just thinking about it, a faint voice came from the table next to it.

.....

"You have to make a decision, Mr. Crouch, if Corneli Fudge is allowed to get this information, let alone running for Minister of Magic, it may be difficult to maintain the status quo."

"Is there no other way?"

"The one who is not clean, has been 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 actions are a bit too rampant."

"Damn little beast."

The man slapped the table bitterly, "Why did I give birth to this kind of son?"

In front of the bar, Hoffa and Miller looked at each other. Both can see each other's surprise. Among the two people sitting in the corner drinking, one of them turned out to be Batty Crouch Jr.'s father, Batty Crouch the old.

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

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

After reading the documents carefully, the old Barty Crouch rubbed his temples with a headache: "What's the limit? How much can you achieve?"

"My idea is to sentence to life imprisonment first, with a postponement of a few years. When the public forgets Mr. Crouch, you can think of other ways." After a pause, the old man dressed as a lawyer said, "Maybe it won't take much. Years, you know... the public forgets things faster than goldfish."

"Ok."

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

"Have."

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

Hearing these words, Old Barty's face that had just eased up instantly tightened, even tighter than before. He said in disbelief, "What?? You want me to send my only son into Azkaban by myself!?"

"Yes," the lawyer said categorically, "and you must do it yourself, be ruthless, and ruthless, so as to leave the impression that you are unselfish in the ministry, and to prevent other people from falling into trouble and treating you and yours. The family left infamy."

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

"Enough! Benson, needless to say."

Old Barty Crouch's voice was suppressed and painful.

But 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 the past few years, you still have hope."

Old Batty was silent for a long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes, cursed abominably, took out a few banknotes and threw them on the table, and strode out the door. The lawyer was left sitting on the spot, putting away the documents slowly, and drinking as if nothing was happening.

"Let's follow and check out first," Hoffa said to the black bartender.

"Thirteen pounds."

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

Leave the bar.

There was a gust of wind and rain outside the bar, and almost nothing could be seen. But the strange thing is that the rain did not fall from the clouds, and the outside of the bar was not the street, but a dark and burning corridor. There is a violent storm in the corridor.

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

Hoffa pursed his mouth tightly, dragging Miller to follow the old Barty Crouch. For the destination, he had some hunches in his heart.

Sure enough, before walking far, Old Batty stopped in the rainstorm corridor, opened a door at the end, and walked in. Hoffa followed behind him and walked in.

Boom!

As soon as the door closed, the rainstorm disappeared. The scene has also become a ghastly dungeon.

There is a bleak and gloomy atmosphere in the dungeon. There are no pictures on the walls and no decorations. There are only rows of dense benches all around, which are lined up in steps. You can clearly see the middle of the dungeon from all the seats. Chair with chain.

This is an interrogation room.

Hoffa looked around and saw Dumbledore sitting next to Old Batty Crouch, the main seat at the highest point, and the rest sitting on the lower head, while he and Batty Jr. were standing at the entrance.

Quietly in the room, the sobbing of a weak witch next to Old Barty Crouch. She held a handkerchief with her trembling hands over her mouth. Hoffa looked at the woman with his arms folded, thinking that the woman should be Barty Crouch Jr.'s mother.

"Bring in."

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

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

The dementor placed four people on four chained chairs in the center of the dungeon. One of the pudgy men looked at Old Batty Crouch blankly, and the other thinner man looked more nervous, his eyes gazed straight into the auditorium, and a woman with thick black hair and long eyelashes looked triumphant. Yangyang.

There was also a seventeen or eighteen-year-old boy who looked completely shocked, trembling all over, with straw-colored hair scattered on his face, and his freckled skin was 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 take Barty away on the spot, but Hoffa grabbed his arm and pressed him on the seat. This is a nightmare world, not a meditation basin. If Miller moves rashly , It will immediately trigger a backlash from the subconscious. In a dream, no power can be measured by common sense.)

After four people were taken to court.

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

"You were brought before the Magic Law Committee to be sentenced," he said clearly, "your crime is so bad..."

"Father," Barty Crouch Jr. called out in horror, "Father... please..."

"--It is rare in the case before this court." Mr. Crouch raised his voice, overshadowing his son's voice, "We heard the accusations against you, and the four of you kidnapped an Auror— —Frank Longbottom, used the Heartbreaking Charm on him, trying to find out from him the whereabouts of your master, who can’t even mention the name—"

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

"The accusation goes on," Mr. Crouch yelled, "Frank Longbottom refused to provide information, so you used the Heartbreaking Charm on his wife. You conspired to make a man who can’t even mention his name come back and restore his power. The kind of violent life you live. Now I call on the jury—"

"Mother!" the boy shouted, and the skinny witch next to Crouch sobbed, shaking her body back and forth, "Mother, stop him, mother, I didn't do those things, it's not me!"

"Now I call on the jury to vote," Mr. Crouch said loudly. "As I think these crimes should be sentenced to life imprisonment in Azkaban, please raise your hands!"

The wizards on the right side of the dungeon raised their hands together. Barty Crouch Jr. began to scream.

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

The dementor walked in slowly again. The boy’s three companions stood up silently from the chair, and the woman with long eyelashes raised her head and shouted to Crouch: "The Dark Lord will be back again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban, we wait. He will come back to save us. He will reward us especially! Only we are loyal! Only we are trying to find him!"

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

Barty Crouch Jr. tried to get rid of the Dementor, but it was useless.

"I am your son!"

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

"You are not my son!" Old Barty Crouch raised his eyes and roared furiously: "I don't have a son!"