Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa stared blankly at Aglaea, who remained calm and indifferent. His voice was hoarse as he asked, "What... what exactly have you been through?"

Clap! Clap! Clap!

But before he could get an answer, thunderous applause interrupted him.

He turned his head, scanning his surroundings for the source of the clapping—but there was no one in sight.

At the same time, a powerful dizziness surged through his mind. It grew stronger and stronger until his entire space stretched infinitely. Aglaea's translucent body receded into the distance, like a redshifted star drifting away in the cosmos.

Everything before him blurred and distorted—the crucible, the cavern, Aglaea—all peeled away, forming a stage.

Beyond the stage stood countless specters, clapping fervently. Behind them lay an endless void. And within that void, a colossal black head loomed like a planet—Avada, holding a microphone in one hand while supporting the stage with the other. His jagged white teeth gleamed as he roared with feverish excitement:

"Behold! Another man has reached the final challenge! In this grand feast of life, how many can truly foresee the future? How many can embrace fate without fear? My answer is—ZERO!"

"So now, let us welcome the ultimate challenge of the Reaper's Game! The final opponent of the legendary wizard, Hoffa Bach! The ruler of chaos consciousness, the guide from the depths of the soul—THE GOD OF NIGHTMARES!"

Tick.

The elongated space snapped back into place. Avada's voice faded from Hoffa's ears. The specters, the void, the cosmos, the stage—everything vanished.

Like a circuit breaker tripping, darkness swallowed his vision.

"Wait..."

"Wait!?"

Hoffa called out in desperation. "What have you been through, Aglaea? Tell me!"

No one answered.

He groped around in the darkness, grasping onto someone and shaking them forcefully. "Tell me! Tell me!"

"Tell you what?" A voice responded from the pitch-black void, struggling.

Tell me what...?

For a moment, Hoffa was dazed. A wave of confusion washed over him as if he had just lost his memory—everything that had just happened was slipping away.

When he opened his eyes again, he found himself gripping the collar of a Black bartender. The man held a white cloth, looking at him with suspicion.

"Hey, man, let's keep our hands to ourselves. Isn't there anything a drink can't solve?"

"Sorry..." Hoffa muttered, slowly releasing his grip.

He realized he was now in a completely unfamiliar place—a British-style bar. The decor was refined, with crystal chandeliers, a mahogany counter, and inverted wine glasses hanging above. Soft, elegant music played in the background. This was clearly not a place for street thugs. The patrons, dressed in professional attire, sat quietly, sipping their drinks with little conversation.

"What can I get you?"

The bartender asked.

"What kind of drinks do you have?" Hoffa asked absentmindedly, feeling uneasy.

"Here's the menu—take a look for yourself."

The bartender pulled a drink menu from under the counter and handed it over.

Hoffa took a glance and immediately felt puzzled. Instead of regular drink names, the menu listed bizarre phrases—Coward, Family Discord, Father-Son Conflict, Help Me. Every item was labeled with something strange.

"What the hell?"

He frowned and glanced at the chalkboard behind the bartender. The daily specials were also labeled with cryptic messages—Help Me and SOS.

Curious, he randomly pointed to one. "I'll have a Father-Son Conflict."

The bartender nodded and began expertly shaking the cocktail mixer with ice. As he did, Hoffa caught his reflection in the polished silver surface—he had returned to his usual appearance, with gray hair and golden eyes, looking quite young.

Before long, the bartender placed a finished cocktail in front of him. "Your Father-Son Conflict. Enjoy."

Hoffa picked up the seemingly ordinary cocktail, ready to take a sip—

Boom!

Thunder rumbled outside, followed by heavy rain.

A young man in a suit burst through the door, stumbling onto the barstool beside Hoffa, panting heavily. "Where is this place? Did we make it out?"

Hoffa turned to look at the young man. He had chestnut-colored hair, pale skin, and looked almost identical to Miranda—except without the curves. Rainwater dripped from his soaked hair, tracing down his sharp jawline before pooling on the counter. It was a pitiful sight.

"No," Hoffa said, lifting his glass and taking a sip. The taste was bitter at first but left a sweet aftertaste. "We're still in a dream."

"A dream?" Miller asked, wide-eyed.

"Yes."

"You've got to be kidding. We were fine just now, we were—" Miller paused, his face clouding with confusion as he rubbed his head. "Wait... what just happened?"

"You don't remember, do you?"

"It's all a blur..."

Hoffa took another sip and sighed. "People can't recall the specific time and place of events in dreams. They don't even notice their own appearance changing, or remember how the dream began."

"You remember?"

"I remember some things."

"Why do you get to remember?" Miller muttered, dissatisfied.

Hoffa chuckled bitterly. "You have no idea how many times I've dreamed this."

He swirled his drink. To his surprise, the empty glass refilled itself. He lifted it again, speaking to himself: "The absurd details, the nonsensical transitions, the ominous symbolism in the environment..."

Miller interrupted, "Enough with the riddles! What the hell is going on? Just tell me!"

Hoffa set down the glass. "I played a game with Death. If I win, I can take Aglaea and leave Helheim. If I lose, I stay in the Underworld forever."

"And?"

"Death chose three opponents for me—my past self, my present self, and my future self. I've already defeated my past self. My present self—well, the monster you just saw—has been reduced to a pool of blood. As for my future self..."

Hoffa trailed off, pressing a hand to his chest, unable to continue.

Fragments of memories flashed before his eyes—the original deal he made with the God of Nightmares, the hollow emptiness of his elderly self's home, the gun forced into his own mouth, and the looming burden of a destiny waiting for him fifty years ahead.

It felt like an entire mountain was crushing his back, making it impossible to breathe.

Miller grabbed his hand. "What's wrong?"

Hoffa shook his head, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths before gritting his teeth and saying, "It's nothing."

Wiping the cold sweat from his forehead, he continued, "The future me can control dreams. This is the dream he created for us."

"The future you…" Miller pondered for a moment before his expression suddenly changed. "So, you've already decided to go back fifty years?"

"Do I have a choice?" Hoffa smiled bitterly, swirling the drink in his glass. "Your past should have my shadow in it. Tell me, what was I like?"

Miller's face went through a series of changes—first shock, then unease, and finally indifference. He turned his head away.

"In that case, there's nothing more to say."

"Of all things to learn, why Aglaea?"

Hoffa said indifferently, "What's there to hide?"

Miller suddenly looked furious. He grabbed Hoffa's collar. "Listen to me—I don't want you to go back. Not one bit!"

"Oh?" Hoffa was taken aback. "You're only the second person to say that to me."

"Damn it, Hoffa!" Miller tightened his grip, nearly strangling him. "Every single thing you do now could change the future. The future isn't set in stone."

"Then why isn't it that every action, every choice, simply creates the future?"

Miller's mouth opened slightly. After a moment, he let go and stood up. The bottles on the bar clinked from the sudden movement. "No. I refuse to accept your way of thinking."

People in the bar turned to look at Miller. Hoffa quickly pulled him back into his seat, and the patrons gradually lost interest, returning to their drinks.

A Black bartender stepped forward and handed Miller a white towel to wipe the rain off, then asked politely, "What would you like?"

"Gin and tonic," Miller muttered.

A transparent glass with a sphere of ice was placed before him. He took a sip of the amber liquid, then leaned toward Hoffa and whispered, "Listen, Hoffa. If you don't acknowledge this as your future, no one can force a future upon you."

"I know."

"No, you don't." Miller's tone was firm. "I won't allow you to think like this. It's too dangerous—it's no different from denying your own existence. It's suicide."

"Alright, alright," Hoffa raised his hands in surrender. "Calm down. Whether or not this is something my future self did, the reality is that we've been pulled into a dream. We have to find a way out. Otherwise—"

"Otherwise what?"

"I don't know. But I do know that the only way to fight a dream is to wake up. If we don't, anyone outside—a cat, a dog, whoever—could easily destroy my body. And once my body is gone, I've lost completely."

Miller took another sip of his drink, calming himself. "Then what do you propose?"

"First, we need to determine whose dream this is. Generally, a dream has a host, and everything within it is a projection of their subconscious."

"Subconscious projection…"

Miller looked around. "I've never been here before. Is this your dream?"

Hoffa shook his head. "I rarely drink, and I hardly ever go to bars. If this were my dream, I wouldn't have chosen this setting."

Miller stroked his chin, speaking slowly. "So… this is that brat Barty's dream?"

It was only then that Hoffa realized someone was missing. He turned his head, searching. Where was young Barty? Where had he gone?

Just as he was thinking about it, hushed voices drifted over from a nearby table.

"You must make a decision, Mr. Crouch. If Cornelius Fudge gets hold of these documents, forget about running for Minister of Magic—you'll be lucky just to keep your current position."

"There's no other way?"

"None. Associating with Dark wizards taints your name beyond redemption. Even the world's best lawyers couldn't clear you. And frankly, sir, your son's actions have been far too reckless."

"That damn brat."

The man slammed the table in anger. "How did I end up with a son like that?"

At the bar, Hoffa and Miller exchanged glances, both seeing the shock in each other's eyes.

One of the two men drinking in the corner was none other than Barty Crouch Jr.'s father—Barty Crouch Sr.

At this moment, Barty Crouch Sr. was wearing a gray cloak, deliberately concealing his face. But Hoffa could still see that beneath his hood, his features were gaunt and weary.

The old man sitting across from him, however, was dressed like a Muggle businessman—he wore a suit, had a large belly, and his receding hairline was neatly combed. A monocle rested on his face as he continuously pulled documents from his black briefcase, handing them to the exhausted-looking Crouch Sr.

Flipping through the papers carefully, Barty Crouch Sr. rubbed his temples in frustration. "What's the best outcome you can manage?"

"My suggestion is a life sentence, with a few years of delay. Once the public forgets about young Crouch, you can figure out another approach." The lawyer-like man paused before adding, "Honestly, it may not take that long. You know how fast the public forgets—quicker than goldfish."

"Alright."

Barty Crouch Sr.'s face softened slightly. He massaged his forehead and asked, "Anything else?"

"Yes."

The lawyer added one last remark. "This case must be resolved swiftly. And more importantly—you must be the one to personally judge it."

Upon hearing these words, old Barty's face, which had just calmed down, instantly tensed up again—this time even more so than before. In utter disbelief, he exclaimed, "What?? You want me to personally send my only son to Azkaban!?"

"That's right," the lawyer said firmly. "And it must be you who does it. It has to be ruthless, it has to be merciless. Only this way will the Ministry see you as an impartial man, and it will prevent others from seizing the opportunity to ruin your reputation and that of your family."

Pausing for a moment, the rotund lawyer made a sharp cutting gesture with his hand. "This is damage control, Mr. Crouch. If you don't do this, the consequences will be far worse than you can imagine. You are a frontrunner in the Ministerial elections—there are countless eyes watching you."

"Enough! Benson, say no more."

Old Barty Crouch's voice was strained and filled with pain.

But the lawyer did not stop. In a cold and detached tone, he continued, "A man of your position must understand. If you endure these years, there is still hope for you."

Old Barty remained silent for a long time.

Finally, he closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. He pulled out several banknotes, threw them onto the table, and strode out the door. The lawyer remained seated, slowly gathering his documents, drinking his wine as if nothing had happened.

"Follow him and settle the bill," Hoffa said to the black bartender.

"Thirteen pounds."

Hoffa reached into his pocket, took out a banknote, and slid it across the counter. However, the face printed on the bill was not the Queen's—it was a grotesque image of young Barty crouching inside a cage, screaming and thrashing wildly.

As they stepped out of the bar, a fierce storm raged outside, making it almost impossible to see. Strangely, though, the rain did not fall from the clouds, nor was there a street beyond the doorway. Instead, they found themselves in a dimly lit corridor engulfed in flames, where the storm raged from within.

"Where are we going?" Miller shouted through the downpour.

Hoffa pressed his lips together tightly, dragging Miller along as they followed behind old Barty Crouch. He had a vague idea of their destination.

Sure enough, they had not gone far before old Barty stopped in the corridor and pushed open a door at the far end, stepping inside. Hoffa followed closely behind him.

Bang!

The moment the door shut, the storm disappeared, and the scene transformed into a gloomy dungeon.

A cold, eerie atmosphere filled the room. The walls were bare, without paintings or decorations—only rows of tightly packed benches ascending in a tiered formation, ensuring that everyone had a clear view of the locked chair in the center.

This was an interrogation chamber.

Hoffa scanned the room and saw Dumbledore seated beside old Barty Crouch in the highest chair, presiding over the proceedings. Others sat in the lower seats, while he and young Barty stood at the entrance.

The room was deathly silent except for the faint sobbing of a frail-looking witch beside old Barty Crouch. Her trembling hands clutched a handkerchief to her mouth. Hoffa crossed his arms, studying the woman. He suspected she was young Barty Crouch's mother.

"Bring them in."

Old Barty's cold, emotionless voice echoed through the dungeon.

A door in the corner creaked open, and six Dementors escorted four prisoners inside. A murmur spread through the audience.

The Dementors forced the prisoners into the four chained chairs at the dungeon's center. Among them, a short and stocky man stared blankly at Barty Crouch, while a thinner man looked increasingly anxious, his eyes darting toward the spectators. A woman with thick, dark hair and long lashes wore a smug, defiant expression.

And then there was a boy of seventeen or eighteen, utterly petrified, trembling all over. His straw-colored hair hung messily over his freckled, paper-white face.

The moment Hoffa saw him, he recognized him at once. Though much younger, this was unmistakably young Barty Crouch.

(Miller shifted slightly, seemingly tempted to snatch young Barty away then and there. But Hoffa grabbed his arm and forced him back into his seat. This was the nightmare world, not a Pensieve. If Miller acted rashly, it would trigger a subconscious backlash. In a dream, no force could be measured by normal logic.)

Once the four prisoners were seated in the courtroom,

Old Barty Crouch stood up, towering over them, his face filled with unrelenting hatred.

"You have been brought before the Wizengamot to hear your sentencing," he declared with precise enunciation. "Your crimes are so heinous—"

"Father," young Barty cried out in terror. "Father… please…"

"—that cases such as yours are rare in this court," Mr. Crouch raised his voice, drowning out his son's plea. "We have heard the charges against you. The four of you kidnapped an Auror—Frank Longbottom—and used the Cruciatus Curse on him, attempting to extract information on your master, the one whose name cannot be spoken—"

"Father, I didn't do it!" the boy shrieked, struggling against his chains. "I swear I didn't! Father, don't send me back to the Dementors—"

"The charges further state," Mr. Crouch roared, "that when Frank Longbottom refused to yield, you used the Cruciatus Curse on his wife as well. You conspired to bring the Dark Lord back to power, to restore the violent world in which you once thrived. Now, I call upon the jury—"

"Mother!" the boy screamed. The frail witch beside Crouch sobbed harder, her body rocking back and forth. "Mother, stop him! Mother, I didn't do it—it wasn't me!"

"I now call upon the jury to vote," Mr. Crouch announced. "Those who, like me, believe that these crimes warrant a life sentence in Azkaban, raise your hands!"

The wizards seated on the right side of the dungeon raised their hands in unison. Young Barty Crouch let out a piercing scream.

"No! Mother, no! It wasn't me, I don't know anything! Don't send me there—stop him!"

The Dementors glided forward once more. The boy's three accomplices silently rose from their seats. The long-lashed woman lifted her chin and called out to Crouch,

"The Dark Lord will return, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban—we will wait! He will come back for us. He will reward us! We alone remained loyal! We alone searched for him!"

Laughter erupted from the audience. Some stood up, whistling, while others even raised their middle fingers. But the woman strode out of the dungeon with her head held high.

Young Barty Crouch struggled desperately against the Dementors, but it was futile.

"I'm your son!"

He shouted at Crouch, his voice hoarse with despair. "I'm your son!"

"You are not my son!"

Old Barty Crouch's eyes bulged with fury as he roared, "I have no son!"

(End of Chapter)

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