Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Watching the woman gracefully ascend the stairs, holding her skirt, Fatir froze momentarily. Even Hoffa, confined within the astrolabe, was struck dumb. A heavy sense of foreboding surged in Hoffa's heart—had he overlooked something?

"Minister Delaceth, what's wrong? You look so lost and dazed," the tall woman stood upright before the hunched Fatir, her voice cold. "This isn't the demeanor befitting a Dark Lord."

"Spencer... Why are you here?"

In his shock, Fatir called out his secretary's surname.

Hoffa looked at Delphina, his thoughts racing as he heard the name "Spencer." A bolt of realization struck him—he finally understood why her name had felt oddly familiar.

Delphina Spencer!?

Five years ago, before his first year at Hogwarts, when he had no money for tuition, the trickster goblin Indor had taken him to Gringotts. There, they borrowed the identity of a declining noble family to secure his tuition fees.

And the false identity Indor gave him was that of Delphina's brother, Sylby.

It wasn't until his second year that Hoffa encountered another member of the Spencer family—Sylby himself. Sylby, the deranged headmaster who nearly destroyed Hogwarts, a megalomaniac who could only inhabit the bodies of his descendants and relied on their bloodline to combat Salazar Slytherin's curse—the Half-Blood King!

As the connection became clear, Hoffa trembled violently. He could never have imagined that the woman who had delivered Chloe to him, the so-called secretary of the Minister of Magic, was his old nemesis. The last time they met, Sylby had been a man, and now, incredibly, a woman.

"It's you!"

Inside the astrolabe, Hoffa's shock turned to fury, his emotions overwhelming him.

"You finally recognize me."

Delphina—or rather, Sylby—turned her head and smiled. Her voice was laced with mockery and feigned sorrow. "After all the times I circled around you, you couldn't even recognize me. How heartbreaking. Am I truly so insignificant to you?"

"Run, Fatir, run!"

The tone of sorrow made Hoffa's skin crawl. In that instant, the world seemed to flip, and the situation reversed entirely. His voice trembled with desperation as he shouted at Fatir.

But it was too late.

The bald woman moved like lightning, hooking her arm around Fatir's neck. She patted his stunned face and said, "Of course, I came. After all the hard work you've done for me, I had to thank you personally."

She grinned, drew a black branch from her waist, and plunged it straight into Fatir's abdomen.

"Stop!"

Hoffa roared, his emotions surging like a tidal wave. Four wings sprouted from his back as he struggled to break free from the astrolabe's strange metal bindings and fly toward the two figures on the platform. Yet, the bizarre metal clung to him like molten cheese, holding him fast.

Boom!

The immense force yanked Hoffa back into the astrolabe. He crashed through the metallic bands and was dragged into the electric currents within the spinning device.

Squelch.

The sound was faint, yet it echoed sharply in the silence.

Fatir stared at the black spike protruding from his abdomen, his expression frozen in shock and disbelief.

"No... No... No..."

Inside the astrolabe, Hoffa thrashed madly, repeatedly throwing himself at the energy barrier, only to be repelled like a moth to a flame.

Sylby yanked out the black mistletoe.

Dark energy surged as Fatir, dazed, looked at the wound in his chest. His gaze shifted to the smiling woman behind him. Only when thick black smoke began to seep from his wound did he realize what had happened. Pain contorted his face, but as he closed his eyes and reopened them, a sense of peace and resignation replaced his anguish.

Thud.

He collapsed to his knees, gripping the railing, his gaze fixed on the boy within the astrolabe. In a faint, trembling voice, he murmured, "You promised me, Hoffa..."

Then he fell silent, sliding face-first to the floor at his secretary's feet. His lifeless blue eyes stared wide open.

"Oh, God..."

Seeing those eyes, Hoffa felt as if his very soul was being crushed. He bent over in the massive astrolabe, clutching his abdomen as icy despair gripped him, his heart seizing in pain.

The bald woman tilted her head slightly, stepping elegantly over Fatir's body. She grasped the lever of the Arrow of Time, her voice hoarse but laced with dark humor.

"I've dreamed of this day... Cough, cough..."

She doubled over, coughing violently until she spat up bitter bile. Supporting herself against the lever, she slowly straightened, her pale face ashen but her features filled with defiance and madness. Gazing at Hoffa trapped in the astrolabe, she spoke in a weak, fragmented tone:

"Heh... Heh... Tell me, dear brother, what's the strongest prison in the world? Auschwitz? The Bastille? Azkaban?"

Her frail voice seemed to address both Hoffa and the heavens, filled with the weariness of someone who had seen too much.

"Sylby!"

Hoffa clawed at the astrolabe, burning his hands on the energy field. His despair and rage consumed him as he screamed the name over and over, his heart filled with regret and bitterness. Why hadn't he realized sooner? Why had he been so blinded by Grindelwald that he forgot his true enemy?

"None of them."

Sylby chuckled through her coughs.

"The strongest prison... is time itself. Time wears down the sharpest edges, snuffs out passion, devours will, and... even takes your body, leaving nothing behind. Nothing is more unyielding than the prison of time... Hahaha!"

With a final laugh, she yanked the lever down.

Click!

The Arrow of Time turned clockwise by ninety degrees.

1 → 50.

The astrolabe roared to life. Suspended in midair, Chloe dissolved into the endless streams of electricity.

No!!!

Hoffa's mouth stretched wide in a silent scream, sharp teeth visible, yet no sound escaped him.

Blinding silver light engulfed everything. An unstoppable force dragged him into the rushing river of time, into the relentless wheel of fate.

The last thing he saw was the woman's smiling face as she mouthed a phrase:

"See you forever."

The world spun, fragmented, and shattered. Dreams turned to nightmares. Blood, magic, death, hope, despair, annihilation, and rebirth—all blended together.

The silence was absolute, devoid of even the faintest sound.

Cold and unyielding like a deity, indifferent as a natural law.

A giant turtle stood upon the back of another, and another upon yet another, forming an endless tower of overlapping shells. The towering stack bent and twisted, becoming a winding serpent. The serpent bit its own tail, forming loops within loops, each scale of the serpent revealing intricate patterns reminiscent of the turtles' backs.

A comet streaked across the sky, yet before it could strike the earth, it disintegrated into dust.

Trees grew with reckless speed, reaching towering heights in the blink of an eye, only to wither just as swiftly. A lizard darted its tongue at a hovering fly, but before it could secure its prey, it decayed, crumbled, and turned to ash.

A lover approached him, seeking an embrace, but just as warmth blossomed from their touch, they passed through each other like phantoms.

The world turned endlessly—what was lost returned, and what was gained slipped away once more. Stars swayed uncertainly, the cycles of day and night flickered between light and darkness, tides rose and fell, rivers coursed endlessly eastward. The transient nature of life persisted—beauty faded to bones, oceans turned into fields, and earthly attachments dissolved into fleeting moments.

Countless strange and fleeting images flashed before Hoffa's eyes, ceasing only when he was violently thrown to the ground. Lying there for what felt like an eternity, he barely registered the passage of time.

"Silby..."

The name escaped his lips, a whisper barely audible.

He muttered it unconsciously, finding the sound both familiar and distant. The fiery storm of emotions that had raged within him just moments before had entirely dissipated. He stared at the darkened ceiling, seeing nothing but vague outlines of large crates and waterproof tarpaulins.

Memories surged unbidden to his mind.

"Fateal..."

He called out again. This time, his breath stirred a cobweb above, sending dust raining onto his face. Slowly, he crawled to his feet, his joints cracking audibly.

His vision fragmented, as though his eyes had become kaleidoscopes. His body was so fatigued he could barely remain upright. Gripping a piece of black waterproof cloth nearby, he managed to steady himself.

But within moments, he collapsed again, the pain in his legs causing them to tremble uncontrollably.

"Chloe..."

More memories bubbled to the surface of his mind. He exhaled, stirring up a cloud of dust, and slumped back to the floor, utterly drained.

"Silby, Fateal, Chloe... Silby, Fateal, Chloe..."

He repeated the three names, entirely unaware of his surroundings. Around him, nothing but layers of dust-covered tarpaulins filled the dim space.

It wasn't until his knee struck something hard that he mechanically rose to his feet again. He retrieved the object—a dimly glowing crystal necklace of intricate and exquisite craftsmanship.

Instinctively, he tightened his grip around the necklace, leaning against the nearby tarpaulin for support. Step by painstaking step, he shuffled forward, leaving a trail of faltering footprints behind him.

"Silby, Fateal, Chloe..."

He repeated the names mindlessly as he climbed the empty staircase. He didn't know where he was headed; he only felt a primal urge to leave, to seek help, to find water, food, and the night.

Yet reality defied him. After what felt like an endless climb, he emerged into blinding sunlight. It poured through a skylight high above, casting a dazzling glare onto Hoffa's face and leaving him dizzy.

He clung to the wall, groping for support until his fingers found a button. Leaning against the wall, he gasped for air, his chest burning with each breath.

After a while, accompanied by a cheerful chime:

Ding.

"Ninth floor."

A door slid open, and a cacophony of chatter spilled into the corridor, sharp enough to pierce his throbbing head. He panted heavily, his mind a chaotic mess.

"Hey, are you coming in or not? The elevator's about to leave!" someone called out.

Startled, Hoffa instinctively staggered into the gilded elevator.

The cabin was packed with people.

Not a single face was familiar.

"Disaster Reversal Division?" someone asked sympathetically.

Hoffa chuckled bitterly, clutching the necklace in his hand, too breathless to respond.

"Poor thing. It's rough being an intern these days," another said.

"No kidding. When I was an intern, George sent me to fix a Muggle toilet cursed to spew... well, you don't want to know what."

"Gross!"

"Enough of that! Speaking of which, has your department found Bertha Jorkins yet?"

"Not yet."

"Strange. No one takes vacations that long. What's so great about Albania anyway?"

"Who knows? That woman's always been peculiar. Nothing she does surprises me."

Ding.

"Sixth floor: Department of Magical Transportation, including Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Center."

The elevator stopped, and people flowed in and out like a tide.

Listening to the automated voice, Hoffa realized he was still inside the Ministry of Magic.

"Silby, Fateal, Chloe, Miranda... Miranda..."

As the thought of Miranda—his friend left outside the phone booth—surfaced, a glimmer of hope sparked within him. His clouded eyes regained a faint clarity as he pressed the button for the first floor.

The elevator descended.

Amid the bustling crowd of tall-hatted witches and wizards, Hoffa was jostled back and forth like a pinball. The air buzzed with annoying paper airplanes and the almost blinding glare of sunlight.

He kept his head down, gripping the necklace tightly. Stumbling through the sea of bodies, he emerged into the glaringly bright London streets.

The sun blazed.

Colors dazzled.

The snow of Christmas had long melted. Smooth asphalt roads stretched wide, red double-decker buses roared past, pedestrians chatted leisurely, and balloons of every hue floated overhead. On the sidewalks, teenagers zipped down staircases on skateboards, couples kissed by the roadside, and Ferraris tore down the streets with deafening roars.

A distant figure caught Hoffa's attention.

"Miranda..."

He stumbled toward it.

But as he drew near, he realized it was merely a poster on an advertisement board.

The poster featured a cool-looking man in sunglasses, holding a gun, with a girl clutching a shopping bag in his arms. The girl bore a faint resemblance to Miranda but was unmistakably not her.

Staring at the ad, Hoffa collapsed to the ground.

He sat beneath a poster for Léon: The Professional, gazing vacantly at Jean Reno's stern face.

1994.

Fifty years later.

(End of Chapter)

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