touchnovel Chapter 318 The Suddenly Appearing Cafe
Chapter 318 The Suddenly Appearing Cafe
Chapter 318 The Sudden Appearance of a Coffee Shop (5K) (1/2)
When I arrived at the door of that ward, there was a small glass window above the door.
Lin Qi stopped and calmly looked inside.
The ward was simply furnished, giving it the feel of a long-term resident's home.
The old lady was sitting in a chair next to a hospital bed, with her back to the door.
Lying on the hospital bed was a middle-aged male witch with a haggard face and empty eyes.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, seemingly unresponsive to everything around him.
The old woman was speaking softly to the male witch on the bed. Her voice came through the door, and the exact words were unclear, but her tone was not sad. It was more like a comforting and outpouring of stubborn hope, day after day.
Just as the old lady slightly turned her head and adjusted her posture, Lynch saw her face clearly and also noticed an old photograph in a frame on the bedside table—a photograph of the spirited Frank Longbottom and his gentle-smiling wife Alice, holding their infant son Neville in their arms.
Then the identity of this resolute-faced old lady is obvious—Augusta Longbottom.
In an instant, all the information matched up.
This is the hospital room of the Longbottoms.
They had been recuperating at St. Mungo's for a long time after being driven mad by Bellatrix Lestrange and his associates with the Cruciatus Curse.
This old lady was Neville Longbottom's grandmother, an admirable witch who single-handedly shouldered the burden of her family after her son and daughter-in-law suffered misfortune, and who raised her grandson with strict discipline.
Lynch's gaze lingered for a moment on Frank Longbottom's face, so different from the Auror elite he remembered, before settling on Augusta Longbottom's straight back. The wounds of war were etched into this family in the cruelest way, never fading.
He didn't knock on the door, nor did he go in to disturb them.
He simply stared at the scene silently for a few seconds, as if trying to etch it into his mind—a silent yet shocking monument left by another war, reminding him of the potential cost of defeat and the untold burdens borne by certain families.
Then, he turned around silently and left down the corridor as he had come.
He had other things to do, and the Longbottom family matter would have to wait.
Batty Crouch's leather shoes echoed clearly and forlornly on the empty cobblestones of the street.
The chill of the winter night pierced the fibers of his heavy wizard's robe like fine needles, but he could hardly feel the cold; a deeper, more profound weariness had frozen him.
He had just stepped off the Ministry of Magic's old, musty-smelling carriage.
Had the avionics network in that area not been temporarily notified of "emergency maintenance and suspension of service," he, Barty Crouch, the Chief of the Enforcement Division, would never have been able to take such inefficient and utterly private transportation home.
The thought of the nearly half-hour bumpy and confined ride in the carriage, and the awkwardness of being forced to share the carriage with that shifty-eyed junior employee from the International Magic Cooperation Department who was trying to get information out of him, made his brows furrow even more.
This damn "maintenance" notice came so abruptly, like some kind of ominous sign, adding another layer of frustration to this already terrible day.
He'd been arguing all day at the department, and the sounds of the argument were still ringing in his head—Fudge's round face was flushed red as he tried to shift the blame for the entire "Black-Peter scandal" onto him.
He managed to hold his ground, using legal provisions and procedural details, like wielding a blunt knife, but he was already covered in wounds.
He got off the bus at the familiar street corner, intending to walk the rest of the way back by himself.
This was a habit he had maintained for many years—refusing to let others, especially those from the Ministry of Magic, approach his home.
Moreover, the distance from home to the street corner, neither too long nor too short, was also a brief respite for him to shed part of the heavy mask of "Chief of the Legal Enforcement Division" and revert to simply being "Barty Crouch"—even though this identity itself had long been riddled with holes by the shadows of work and family.
I'm almost home. The outline of that familiar, cold, almost undecorated mansion is already visible in the night.
Just then, something unexpected happened.
On the roadside, a building that should have been an abandoned general store was now lit up with warm orange lights, making it look like a coffee shop.
Crouch stopped abruptly, his heart clenching as if gripped by an icy hand.
Alertness instantly overwhelmed fatigue, and ears perked up like those of a hunting dog.
He had lived on this street for decades, and while he wouldn't say he knew every brick and tile by heart, he was certain there wasn't a single coffee shop here!
His sharp gaze swept across like a searchlight—"Midnight Soybean Meal," a strange name, inlaid in elegant bronze lettering on the gleaming glass window.
The interior is decorated in a minimalist style, with dark wood tables and chairs and clean lines, which is completely different from the wizard bars or teahouses he is familiar with. It has a distinct Muggle atmosphere, but there are traces of magic in the details, such as the moving paintings on the wall and the magical plants with their branches stretching freely in the pots in the corner.
It was completely empty, except for ————
By the window, a figure raised a hand and calmly waved to him through the spotless glass.
It's Jim Lynch.
Crouch's pupils suddenly contracted.
The man who stirred up the entire Ministry of Magic and personally directed last night's spectacular show at Hogsmeade is now sitting leisurely in this cafe that appeared out of nowhere, as if waiting for an old friend.
In an instant, countless thoughts swirled in Crouch's mind: a trap? a threat? a negotiation? What was Lynch up to? He almost immediately turned around, Apparated away, or at least pulled out his wand.
But he didn't.
His years in politics taught him that avoidance wouldn't solve anything, especially when facing an opponent like Lynch.
Moreover, a deeper curiosity, almost overshadowed by exhaustion, drove him.
He wanted to know what the executioner was really up to.
Finally, he took a deep breath of the cold night air, as if trying to inhale courage into his lungs, and then stepped forward and pushed open the door of the coffee shop that had a "Open for Business" sign.
The bell on the door made a clear, single "ding-a-ling" sound, not loud, but exceptionally distinct.
The warmth of the room and the rich aroma of coffee instantly enveloped him, like an invisible film that shut out the cold and noise from the outside world.
The quiet here is unusual, as if the space itself has been subjected to a powerful soundproofing spell.
His gaze immediately locked onto Lin Qi—the man was wearing a suit vest and white shirt, which made him less sharp than usual and more calm, even dangerous.
Crouch walked straight to Lynch's table, his steps steady, but each step felt like walking on cotton.
He stood still, his body ramrod straight, as if he were giving a statement in the Wisconsin court.
"Mr. Lynch," his voice was hoarse from the long argument and dehydration, but it still retained its cold, hard tone, "Good evening."
Lin Qi raised his eyes, his dark pupils appearing like two bottomless ancient wells under the soft lights of the coffee shop.
He showed no surprise at Crouch's abruptness, simply gesturing gently to the empty seat opposite him.
The rather comfortable-looking dark leather armchair silently slid back half a foot, stopping perfectly beside Crouch.
"Good evening, Mr. Crouch." Lynch's voice was steady, devoid of emotion. "You look like you need some rest, and more importantly, something to help you think clearly. The coffee here is good, or would you like something more energizing?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the empty café: "I assure you, the coffee here is far superior to what the Ministry of Magic provides."
Crouch stared at him, then glanced at the chair.
Refusal means weakness, it means he is afraid to face it.
Moreover, he was indeed extremely exhausted, and both his mind and body longed for a support.
He finally sat down stiffly, his back still straight, refusing to lean completely against the soft chair back.
"I don't need a drink," he reiterated, his voice tense. "I need an explanation. This," he raised his chin, gesturing very slightly to the illogical surroundings, "what does it mean? What are you planning to do here waiting for me?"
Lin Qi gently pushed aside the almost untouched, steaming black liquid in front of him and placed his hands crossed on the smooth tabletop.
"Notification of FlooNet maintenance," he began, his tone flat, "is something I suggested was made by the technical advisor of the Ministry of Magic's Logistics Department."
"The inspection area happens to precisely cover your neighborhood." He readily admitted, as if it were just a harmless arrangement.
"I need a quiet opportunity to speak with you, Mr. Crouch. An opportunity free from the buzzing flies of the Ministry of Magic, especially Cornelius Fudge and his cronies."
Crouch's knuckles were slightly white from gripping his fist tightly.
Sure enough it was him.
"What is there between us that needs to be discussed outside the Ministry of Magic?" Crouch's voice grew even colder. "If you want to get more compensation for Black," or to claim credit for your own role in this farce, you can talk to the Minister in his office tomorrow.
Lin Qi gently shook his head, a faint, almost pitying expression on his face.
"Mr. Crouch, at this point, do you still think this is just about Black, or about me?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice low. "We're talking about your political life, perhaps even—your future, and—that 'secret' you've carefully guarded for so many years."
The word "secret" struck Crouch's heart unexpectedly, like an icicle.
His facial muscles twitched almost imperceptibly, but his years of cultivated composure prevented him from losing his composure immediately.
He stared intently at Lin Qi, trying to find any trace of bluff on the other's face.
Lynch didn't give him much time to think.
He casually took something out of his pocket, placed it lightly on the table, and pushed it in front of Crouch.
That was a magical photograph.
The photo shows a thin, pale young man sitting in the shadows.
He had his head down, his gaze vacant, but Barty Crouch would never mistake that face—a face so similar to his mother's, yet bearing the hallmarks of the Crouch family.
It's Barty Jr.
His son, who should have died in Azkaban.
The photo was taken from a rather unusual angle, as if it were quickly shot from some hidden corner, but the image is incredibly clear.
Crouch felt all the blood rush to his head, only to freeze in the next second.
He remembered that Christmas, and the clumsy diversionary tactic outside the house.
He was furious, thinking it was a test or revenge by some pure-blood family. In the following months, he made trouble for many of his suspects, especially Lucius Malfoy. Now that he thinks about it, that operation was probably instigated by the man in front of him!
Damn hangmen!
He actually got involved with those pure-blooded scoundrels!
Crouch's heart felt as if it were being squeezed by an icy hand, and it almost stopped beating.
The pale face in the photo was so clear that he could no longer deceive himself.
But his years of political instincts led him to immediately retaliate.
He abruptly raised his head, his face no longer showing panic, but a fierce expression mixed with anger and insult. His voice was deliberately low, yet sharp as a blade: "Lynch! You think you can threaten high-ranking officials of the Ministry of Magic with a photo of dubious origin that can be easily forged with Transfiguration or Confusion Charms? This low-level trick, are you insulting my intelligence, or the dignity of Wizengamor?!" He slammed his fingers on the table, making a dull thud, trying to regain some of the initiative.
Faced with this sudden and forceful counterattack, Lin Qi showed no surprise on his face, not even the faint smile on his lips changed.
He simply stared at Crouch, his grey eyes devoid of any emotion, as if watching a play that had been rehearsed countless times.
Only after Crouch's slightly rapid breathing, a result of his excitement, had calmed down a little did Lynch speak slowly and deliberately, his voice eerily steady, as if reciting a pre-carved epitaph: "Yorkshire, on the edge of the North York Moor, beneath an abandoned observation post. The house-elf Sparkle is in charge of daily care. Every seven days, you will personally go there to deliver supplies and, at the same time, ensure the prisoners'—" silence.
Every word was like a cold chisel, precisely piercing Crouch's last psychological defenses.
That address!
That place that even he himself had to circle around several times and cast multiple anti-tracking spells before daring to approach!
That grave he thought was absolutely safe, the grave that buried him and his family's greatest shame and secret!
Crouch's anger froze instantly, then peeled off like cheap paint, revealing a pale and desperate undertone.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out; his throat felt as if it were being tightly constricted by an invisible rope.
His hands, which were under the table, began to tremble uncontrollably. The imposing aura he had been maintaining collapsed, leaving only the fear of being completely seen through and having nowhere to hide.
He could even feel the cold sweat trickling down his temples from his forehead.
"—You—" He finally managed to squeeze out a broken syllable, his voice dry and hoarse like sandpaper, "How could you—"
"Relax, Mr. Crouch." Lynch's voice remained calm, as if soothing a frightened beast. "How I know isn't important. What matters is that I know. That's enough. I understand how you feel as a father, even if that father is Barty Crouch, renowned throughout the wizarding world for his uncompromising integrity."
Crouch abruptly raised his head, his eyes bloodshot. His previous coldness and composure had vanished, leaving only the ferocity of a trapped beast whose fatal weakness had been exploited.
"What do you want?"
"I said, a deal." Lynch withdrew his hand, leaned back in his chair, and regained absolute control. "A chance for you to live with dignity."
"Go on," Crouch said, his voice dry and filled with strong suspicion.
"The tide of public opinion has been raised. The Daily Prophet and my Stone Tower Trading Company will both push for a thorough investigation and reflection on the Black case. The Ministry of Magic needs someone to take responsibility, but not necessarily someone who will be permanently condemned. If we handle things properly, you can become the former director who made difficult decisions in extraordinary times, but also had the courage to admit mistakes and promote judicial reform."
Reason returned to his mind, Crouch narrowed his eyes, and Lynch redefined his role as a defeated figure: "Former director? I'll still lose the Legal Enforcement Division. What dignity is there to speak of?"
"Losing one position is for gaining another," Lynch's voice was full of allure. "I can help you secure the position of Director of the International Department of Magical Cooperation."
"International Cooperation Division?" Crouch repeated instinctively, his brain racing in shock.
This position—nominally on par with the Director of the Department of Law Enforcement—is prestigious because it oversees international treaties, magical sports affairs, and official liaison with the Ministries of Magic of other countries.
But everyone with a discerning eye knows that in the hierarchy of the Ministry of Magic, it has always been subordinate to the Division of Law Enforcement, which directly governs the Aurors and combats dark magic.
This is a glamorous stage filled with diplomatic rhetoric, far removed from the core of domestic politics and law enforcement.
Sitting in this position is practically equivalent to being labeled "Dead End, Minister's Office".
But indeed, it can be said to be a respectable step.
"What was the price?" Crouch asked calmly. "You went to all this trouble just to let me leave with a clean slate? I don't believe it."
"Two things," Lynch said, holding up two fingers. "First, cooperate in the upcoming internal investigation. Acknowledge the procedural flaws of the past, express remorse, and attribute some responsibility to the pressure of group decision-making under wartime emergency conditions. You need to act like an official who made a mistake, but is essentially loyal to their duty and willing to take responsibility. This will preserve your last shred of dignity and is the foundation for your future standing on the international stage—a strong person who knows how to reflect is more valuable than a loser who refuses to admit mistakes."
"Second," Lynch's gaze sharpened, "when you submit your resignation and recommend a successor for the Division of Law Enforcement, write Rufus-Scringer as your name."