blogombal Chapter 182 The Past
Chapter 182 The Past
Chapter 182 The Past
"stop!"
"Put down your wand!"
"Don't move!"
One day in 1942, the headquarters of the German Ministry of Magic was bustling with activity.
Or rather, a mess.
The chaotic hall was littered with wizards, and the shattered glass from the high dome reflected the large group of wizards dressed in black robes.
They shared the same identity as the wizards lying on the ground: Aurors from the German Ministry of Magic.
They all gritted their teeth, holding their wands, their eyes filled with disbelief. Occasionally, someone would show another expression, but that was one of resentment and bitterness.
The person being gazed upon was the girl with long silver hair who was kneeling in the center of the hall.
She let out a soft sob, clutching a completely deformed wand in her hand, while the Aurors lying around her—all seemed to be her handiwork.
"Put down your wand! You monster!" shouted a wizard with black hair. "Royla, you pathetic freak!"
"Do you want to kill even more people?"
"A guy like you should stay in prison!" he cursed, raising his wand but hesitated to strike for a long time.
As he spoke, the other Aurors also began to utter angry curses.
Their vocabulary consists mainly of freaks and monsters, and of course, some people angrily use words like murderer.
But these words seemed to have no effect on the silver-haired girl—she covered her face, tears slipping through her fingers, falling onto the ground, onto the glass, onto the blood as her pale hand fell.
he----
The girl dared not think about what had just happened—everything had happened too fast, she hadn't accomplished anything—and he was already—and she was still—
She had clearly promised him—she hadn't even answered his question—and she had just let him do this for her sake—
"Ugh————"
"Enough! Are you still putting on this act?" The harsh voice rang out, and Loila knew who it was.
Makarov, back in Durmstrang, was always looking for trouble—and it was Müller who stepped in then.
"You bastard who uses your Veela appearance to harm others!" Makarov said righteously, but his slightly trembling wand seemed to indicate that he was also shocked by what had just happened.
"Still trying to gain sympathy through fake crying?" He pursed his lips and continued, "A monster like you should have been killed long ago!"
His words seemed to elicit nods from all the other Aurors present, who gripped their wands as they watched their colleague lying on the ground, his life hanging in the balance.
They were well aware of the girl's reputation, and they had just witnessed her defeat seven or eight Aurors in an instant.
But—but now reinforcements are arriving in droves, and even that person is on their way—even she can't cause much trouble, right?
Thinking this, they each took a deep breath.
The silver-haired girl was unaware of their thoughts. Her heart was shattered like the glass of the dome, and as fragmented as the falling chandelier. She bit her lip blankly, gripping the wand, which was almost broken, tightly, making a creaking sound.
She suddenly had this thought: "Why don't I just die here?" She thought to herself, "No one would care if someone like me died."
No one would care if I died, right?
After all, I'm a freak—a monster—a being that brings disaster to others, a disgusting parasite that uses its pathetic appearance to bewitch others—
I should have died, I should have died long ago—when I was ten, in Durmstrang, in the courtroom—just now—
If I had died early on, no one would have been hurt, right?
The girl slowly raised her head, looked at the wands pointed at her, pursed her lips, and then closed her eyes.
Let's just end it all like this?
It shouldn't hurt, right?
"Crunch."
The boots made a soft sound as they stepped on the glass, and with that sound, the noisy Aurors suddenly fell silent.
"My lord—" It was unclear who was the first to bow their heads, but the Aurors all bent down respectfully as the middle-aged man with silver hair strode towards them.
"Good morning, my dear compatriots." His voice was magnetic and highly infectious, as if he were born to lead others. Just by opening his mouth, everyone held their breath.
Although he spoke of his compatriots, his eyes gently and tenderly rested on the girl kneeling in the center.
"My lord—she is that damned escaped prisoner who killed seven of our fellow Aurors—" Makarov strode to the man's side, his head bowed and his voice trembling slightly, whether from excessive excitement or fear, it was hard to tell.
"I see—" The man shrugged knowingly. "In that case—it seems he should be sentenced to death." He said, taking a step forward without glancing at Makarov, and walked to the woman's side on his own.
No Auror spoke; everyone simply watched.
The girl also noticed someone approaching, and she slightly raised her head to look at him.
She certainly recognized the man before her—Müller had talked about him, Makarov had talked about him—almost everyone had spoken of him—but this must be the first time she had ever met him.
He didn't seem as spirited as he appeared in the portrait.
The girl was somewhat amazed that this was actually her last thought. If he killed her, it didn't seem to matter much after all.
"Interesting," he said softly, in a voice only the girl could hear, "and—exactly the same."
His words were somewhat nonsensical, but the girl seemed indifferent; after all—she was going to die anyway, and even if he didn't kill her, she didn't seem to have any chance of surviving.
"You want to die, don't you?"
"To fantasize about dying like a martyr? As if that would grant one's desires?"
"It's easy to die, Miss Hamilton, but it's much harder to live," he said softly, in a voice only he and the girl could hear.
Why—why say these things—the girl looked up, wondering why the person before her seemed so familiar with her—she was nothing more than—a roadside bug—
"You are no bug, Miss Hamilton," he said softly. "You are a genius—you are a silent witch—you are a participant in the great plan—you are Philip Hamilton's daughter."
"Dad—Dad?" the girl murmured unconsciously, as if she saw her father's smile for a moment.
It's as if they're still in that country cottage right now—
"Hmm~ Hmm~" The man in front of her suddenly hummed softly. He was humming a sound that the girl was very familiar with, a sound that she had only ever heard from her mother's harmonica.
He knows his father and mother, but why?
"Stop crying, Miss Hamilton," he said slowly. "You are far superior to these people."
"Are you willing to die like this?"
"Give up your dreams, your father's and mother's dreams, and Mr. Muller's dreams?" The man's voice grew softer, but his words became heavier.
"Miss Hamilton, jealousy is always easier than admiration—" he said with a smile, then knelt before Loila and whispered in her ear, "Let those bastards burn!"
He seemed different from others—he spoke words that Loila had never heard before, nor dared to hope for.
These were words the girl in the corner could never have imagined.
As the girl stared in disbelief, the middle-aged man slowly rose and looked at the Aurors around him: "My fellow countrymen—she is guilty of heinous crimes—"
—Unforgivable.
"But I am still willing to give her a home as a wizard," he said slowly. "Please rest assured and leave this matter to me."
His words caused the Aurors to bow their heads slightly, as if they could gain loyalty no matter what he said.
Watching the Aurors disperse, he curled the corners of his lips into a smile: "Mr. Makarov, please wait a moment."
"My lord!" Makarov looked at him, flattered, then lowered his head and said, "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Of course." The middle-aged man smiled slightly. "There's something that only you can do."
"What's wrong?"
"Albus Dumbledore," he murmured, "I think only you can kill him."
"Me—Me?" Makarov suddenly took a few steps back, but was grabbed by the sleeve by the black-haired woman who had been following Grindelwald.
"The master trusts you greatly, don't let him down," the woman said slowly, without any emotion.
"Yes, sir!" Makarov, trembling, sat on the ground, seemingly lost in thought. Grindelwald said nothing more but turned to look at the girl kneeling on the ground, who seemed oblivious to what had happened.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Loila Hamilton." He knelt on one knee, looked into the girl's blue eyes, and said softly, "I am Gellert Grindelwald."
"Your father, a friend of Philip Hamilton," he said softly. "I'm sorry I'm late."
"Let this happen—"
He gently took the broken wand from the girl's hand, then snapped his fingers deftly, causing the wand to slowly turn to ashes.
The girl shuddered slightly, but Grindelwald's hands caught her shoulders.
He gently, with an apologetic look, slowly pursed his lips: "However—I'm glad—I can provide you with—"
"A warm home."
"Welcome, Loila—" That was the most unrestrained smile the girl had ever seen in her life, and the warmest words she had ever heard.
Home----
Although Lord Grindelwald did not succeed in providing himself with a home—he certainly tried—
Loila slowly opened her eyes, looked at the sunlight shining into the office, and wiped the corner of her eye.
There were a few tears there—were they for Lord Grindelwald, or for himself?