Chapter 200 Chapter 67, A Different Sky

tick.

tick.

tick.

The sound of liquid dripping from pipes.

It was an infusion bottle hanging on an iron shelf.

A month later, the dilapidated St. Mungo's Hospital.

Hoffa woke up from the endless nightmare, the sun shining on his face through the flying curtains.

He froze for a moment, the light was a little dazzling.

He raised his palm, trying to block the sun.

But the sun shines on his face through his thin, white fingers.

There are some catheters and needles attached to the hand.

He looked sideways.

On the other side of him, Fatil Drasses was lying on the hospital bed.

In a coma, eyes closed, unable to see clearly.

Hoffa pulled the catheter off his hand and stood up from the hospital bed.

The cold, hard tiles of the floor gave him a certain real touch to his bare feet.

He walked slowly towards the door, staggering slightly at first, leaning on the wall. But slowly, he stopped supporting the wall.

Some hospital nurses saw Hoffa standing up and tried to grab him, but he pushed him away slowly and firmly.

Walk out of the hospital gate.

The sun was blinding and there were no clouds.

He saw many people waiting for him at the door, including Miranda, Dumbledore, Slughorn, and his classmates from Hogwarts, William, Antonio, and many, many other students.

Their expressions were either anticipation, anticipation, worry, or silence. But without exception, they are all so far away from themselves.

They seem to be saying something.

The voice is ethereal.

After glancing at those people, Hoffa turned his head and disappeared into the air without stopping, walking straight out of the hospital.

On the streets of London, a thousand things are waiting to be done.

Some Ministry of Magic executives waved their wands and repaired the buildings damaged by the Mad War. At the same time, another group of employees of the Department of Prohibition of Misuse of Magic were tirelessly modifying the memories of Muggles.

Along the Thames River, crowds gathered around the half-destroyed Big Ben and some other buildings, pointing at these ruins, and talking about Germany's crazy bombing of London with sympathy.

"Hey, how many planes did you see fly by that day?"

"One hundred, or two hundred?"

"Hey, the whole sky seemed to be on fire that day."

"It was horrible. I remember, I had a nightmare that day."

"Yeah, I had a nightmare too."

"Hey, what kind of nightmare did you have?"

"In the dream, I was turned into an animal by a dragon."

"Hey, I had a similar dream too."

"Really?"

"real."

"Hahaha"

Passers-by were talking, when suddenly, their eyes were attracted by a figure approaching from a distance.

The figure had gray hair, golden eyes, and looked like a teenager. The most peculiar thing is his attire.

He was wearing a blue and white striped hospital gown.

bare feet.

Like a patient running away from a mental hospital.

The crowd looked at this young man wandering the streets like a lonely ghost with surprised eyes.

They whispered: "Who is that man?"

"How to wear this kind of clothes."

"Looks like a madman."

"Leave him alone, stay away from him."

Everyone was walking in the opposite direction to Hoffa, and he was alone among the bustling crowds. Turning a deaf ear to the voices and comments around him, he just walked the path under his feet.

After walking for an unknown amount of time, he came to a half-burned theater.

Remove the wooden beams at the door.

Following the red carpet scattered on the ground, Hoffa walked in the empty theater, his fingers slowly slid across the dusty props.

The black robe, the rusty dagger

The sun shone in from the skylight in the ceiling and hit him. From the beginning to the end, his expression didn't change at all.

Finally, he walked to the auditorium, pulled out a chair and sat on it. He just looked at the empty stage, imagining the drama that might happen on it, imagining his failed life, and imagining the words that he never said.

He didn't move until the sun went down.

Until the moonlight enveloped the earth, he still didn't move.

Until the dawn broke through the darkness, he didn't change at all, he just watched the stage silently, like a clay statue, as if he could sit here until he was very old.

At this time.

Someone tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

boy turn around

The morning sun shines through his hair

he raised his head gently

His eyes were full of hope.

But there is no one around.

Only Tyndall's spot of light shone on his shoulder through the damaged canopy.

The light in his eyes dimmed slightly. After thinking about it, he still stood up, took one last look at the stage, and turned to leave.

Then, following some unknown guidance, he walked towards the sunny exit, passed through the alleys entwined with cables, passed through the ruined city, passed through the grassland where green shoots grew, and passed through the woods where everything grew .

Finally, he came to a hillside.

On the hillside, there are flakes of white roses blooming.

In the distance on the hillside, an unknown funeral is being held.

Some black Thestral carriages were parked in the distance, and some people wearing white flowers on their chests got out of the carriages. They followed suit, their faces blurred, and they seemed to be crying.

Hoffa stood under the oak tree, watching the people coming and going on the hillside in the distance, as silent as a sculpture.

The breeze blows, the leaves are flying, and the hem of the clothes is fluttering.

From beginning to end, he never approached that place.

Just look at the distance like this.

Watching them pray, lay flowers, give words.

Or do some other activities.

Until the crowd in the distance re-boarded the Thestral carriage and disappeared at the end of the road.

Finally, he pursed his lips, and his eyes turned red uncontrollably. But he abruptly stopped the impulse, despite the tsunami-like fluctuations in his heart, he didn't show it on his face.

At this moment, he noticed some kind of incredible absurdity, but under this absurdity, he also experienced a kind of reality.

That is a kind of simplicity.

Yet pure emotion.

This emotion made him understand the meaning of life.

He should live, live with all his might.

Live with the cracks that the world gives life to, heal the scars of the soul with the damaged palms, stubbornly face the hope, embrace the light of the moment, no longer pin hope on the empty utopia, and be excited, because survival itself is a response to the world. The most powerful resistance.

Finally, the boy rubbed his eyes and raised his head.

Resolutely turned around and walked away.

Barefoot and simply dressed, he walked through the dancing shadows of the trees, through the steep sloping woodlands of this lonely mountain, through the leafy shadows of a bright spring day.

The thin figure stretched the elders in the woods.

Depressed and determined, lonely and stubborn.