Harry Potter: I am the Legend

A mysterious blackness engulfed the ceiling of the cave. Anyone touched by the darkness unknowingly began to change.

Some grew sharp horns, others had blood-red eyes. Some developed razor-sharp teeth, while others had elongated noses. Even Dumbledore was not spared—his elegant silver beard and hair turned into writhing black tentacles, and obsidian crystals sprouted from his forehead, transforming him into a true demonic wizard.

But the one who changed the most was Barty Crouch Sr.

After shouting, "You are not my son!"

His entire body twisted and swelled, morphing into a satyr with bent legs, a hunched back, and elongated arms, complete with a long tail trailing behind him.

His wife, meanwhile, shrank rapidly in size, transforming into a creature that closely resembled a house-elf.

"What just happened?"

Miller turned to Hoffa.

"This is probably how they appear in young Barty's eyes," Hoffa replied. "Dreams don't explain things; they symbolize them with images."

"Well, that's certainly a blatant metaphor."

Miller muttered to himself before asking, "Why didn't you save him just now?"

"Dreams have nothing to do with reason, only emotions," Hoffa said calmly. **"You think we can just take him away from here and everything will be fine? It won't.

I still don't know the purpose of this dream, nor how to defeat my future self. Until we figure out the intent behind this, we cannot act recklessly."**

Miller was silent for a moment before letting out a cold chuckle. "How convenient. When it was Aglaia, I didn't see you being this calm."

A rare flush crept onto Hoffa's face as he turned away.

But just then, as young Barty was dragged away by Dementors, the pitch-black darkness completely swallowed the underground cave. The once-deafening voices gradually faded into silence.

"Why did it go dark again?"

Miller's voice rang beside his ear.

"Don't be afraid," Hoffa reassured him.

After a moment, the darkness gradually lifted.

A massive gray screen appeared before them, illuminating several rows of empty chairs. It looked just like an old-fashioned movie theater. On the screen, white numbers began counting down.

3, 2, 1...

As the countdown ended, a balding man with sparse hair and golden eyes appeared on the screen. Dressed in a suit, he smiled politely and said,

"Welcome to Hell Cinema. Now playing: Patricide."

"WTF? Is that your future self?"

Miller turned to Hoffa in utter confusion. Hoffa was just as bewildered.

He ran his hands over the plush seat beneath him and the solid black wooden armrests at his sides, realizing that he and Miller were now seated in an actual movie theater—only missing popcorn and soda.

As if on cue, a tub of golden, butter-scented popcorn and a cold soda with ice cubes clinking inside appeared in front of him.

"What the hell?" Miller stared at the popcorn on his lap. "Weren't we just... watching Barty's trial?"

"This is a dream. Logic doesn't apply."

Hoffa took a bite of the popcorn. It tasted just like it would in the real world. "Since we're here, we might as well see what my future self is planning."

On the screen, a vast lake slowly came into view, zooming in on a familiar castle—Hogwarts and the Black Lake.

Hoffa immediately sat up straighter.

What is my future self trying to do? Play the entire Harry Potter series in front of me?

As he wondered, the camera zoomed in further, focusing on the lakeshore, where two figures appeared. Their heated argument echoed through the theater.

"You shamed me more than ten years ago! Now that people have finally forgotten, you want to cause another Longbottom incident?!" the older man bellowed.

"I didn't harm the Longbottoms! Bellatrix did! Why are you blaming me?" the younger man shouted in defiance.

"What's the difference between doing it and letting it happen, you fool?" the older man rebuked sharply. "Don't think I don't know what you're hiding at Hogwarts for! Tell me—are you trying to resurrect the one whose name must not be spoken?"

"No! I serve a proper wizard now!"

"Serve? You disgraceful wretch! Where is your wizard's pride? How did the Crouch family end up with such a shameless disgrace?"

"And what about you? Aren't you just the Minister's lapdog?"

On the screen, young Barty and his father, Barty Crouch Sr., stood on the lakeshore, their argument growing more intense by the second.

SLAP!

A loud smack echoed as Barty Sr. struck his son across the face.

Pointing a furious finger at him, he roared, "You dare bring up Cornelius Fudge?! I could have made great strides in the Ministry if not for you ruining everything!"

"Serves you right!" Barty Jr. stumbled back, clutching his face as he screamed, "You think you deserve to be a government official? You can't even manage your own family, and you want to govern society?!"

SLAP!

Another heavy slap left young Barty's face bleeding.

His father, enraged, bellowed, "How dare you?! Say that again!"

"Do you still think I'm a child?"

Barty Jr., trembling with rage, grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it at his father's head.

"You locked me in a room alone for weeks at a time! Every time I came home from Hogwarts, you belittled me over and over again, telling me I was never as good as the others!"

"Blaming others for your failures—pathetic," his father spat. "You'll never be anything more than an excuse-maker."

"Shut up!"

Young Barty charged forward, shoving his father and screaming, "You ruined my life! You destroyed my confidence! I couldn't even look at the girl I liked! I'm going to kill you! I'll kill you!"

"Go ahead."

Barty Sr. crossed his arms, completely unfazed. He didn't even draw his wand.

"Do it, Oedipus. Come on, kill me. If you dare, at least you'll finally act like a man. But do you have the guts?"

"You... you..."

On the screen, young Barty panted heavily, his hands trembling as he held the rock.

In the theater, Hoffa and Miller sat wide-eyed, staring unblinking at the screen.

But the rock never fell.

"You are my father..."

Young Barty slowly lowered his hand, stepping back. His bloodshot eyes burned with resentment as he gritted his teeth. "I won't kill you. But I want an apology. You owe me decades of apologies, and you'd better start now."

"Keep dreaming. Apologize? You're not even worth it."

Barty Sr. scoffed and turned away.

After a few steps, seeing his son hadn't followed, he snapped, "What are you waiting for? Get back home and stay put!"

"Apologize."

Young Barty's voice was low and cold.

Finally losing his patience, Barty Sr. pulled out his wand. With a flick, it turned into a rope.

"You've never been anything but a burden! Before you, my career was soaring! After you, my wife got sick, my job suffered—everything I worked for was ruined by you, you worthless rat!"

He raised the rope to bind his son's neck.

But before he could, a rock slammed into his skull.

THUD!

Blood gushed instantly.

"You—?!"

Clutching his bleeding head, Barty Sr. stared at his son in disbelief.

Then, the blows rained down.

"Apologize! Apologize! Apologize!"

Barty Jr. went into a frenzy, hammering his father's head with the rock, staining the screen with blood.

Hoffa and Miller sat frozen, mouths agape, their popcorn spilling to the floor.

The beating continued for what felt like forever.

Finally, Barty Sr. lay motionless on the lakeshore, his skull shattered beyond recognition.

Young Barty stood alone, trembling, gripping the bloodstained rock, his expression vacant.

The screen faded to black.

Darkness enveloped the theater once more.

After a long silence, Miller's raspy voice muttered beside Hoffa's ear,

"Damn... Patricide indeed."

He bit into his popcorn viciously. "Serves him right. That old bastard reminds me of Adébayor in his youth."

Hoffa remained silent. He still hadn't figured out the meaning of this dream. First, he was shown young Barty's trial, then young Barty committing patricide. What exactly was his future self trying to convey?

As he pondered this—

The screen lit up again.

Once more, it was young Barty. Once more, it was old Barty.

But this time, the setting had changed. It was neither the Black Lake nor Hogwarts. Instead, it was a dimly lit basement. A dining table stood in the center, set with a few simple homemade dishes—bread, salad, red wine, and the like.

Father and son sat across from each other, eating in silence. A house-elf was bustling around, dutifully uncorking a bottle for old Barty and laying a napkin for young Barty—it was Winky.

Two candles flickered on the walls, casting a soft glow. Despite being underground, the scene carried a strange sense of warmth and harmony.

Winky placed a bowl of vegetable salad on the table. Young Barty frowned at the spread of vegetarian dishes and complained, "Winky, go cook me a steak."

Winky immediately turned and started toward the stairs.

"Wait."

Old Barty stopped her. He shook out his napkin and said deliberately, "We're having fruit tonight."

"I've told you, I don't like fruit," young Barty said.

"No one asked what you like, boy. And let me remind you—eating fruit at night helps you maintain the right level of energy for work the next day."

"I fail to see what 'work' I could possibly have in this basement," young Barty sneered.

Old Barty shot him a sharp glare, his expression stern and disapproving. Slowly, he said, "You invite me to dinner, yet you don't respect my eating habits. Is this what the Dark Lord taught you?"

A few veins bulged on young Barty's forehead. He took a deep breath—then another. Eventually, he sat back down and muttered begrudgingly, "Fine. We'll have fruit."

"As you wish, young master," Winky whispered, hurrying to bring him a bowl of salad.

"Now, speak. Why did you call me here?" Old Barty leaned back in his chair, a hint of arrogance and satisfaction in his voice. "But let's be clear—if you want to leave this place, I won't allow it. If you're asking for more allowance, I won't agree."

"Neither."

Young Barty gripped his fork tightly. "I asked you here for one reason—to confirm something. Aunt Polly's daughter, my sister Olive—did you send her to Ilvermorny in America as an exchange student?"

"That's right. Who told you? Winky? Or Olive herself?"

Young Barty said nothing.

"Winky," Old Barty called coldly.

From the kitchen, the house-elf immediately abandoned her task and scurried down the stairs.

"Who told him Olive was going to Ilvermorny? Was it you, or Olive?"

"I-It was me," Winky stammered in terror. She clutched her wrinkled apron, stammering, "I saw young master cut off from all outside news, so… so I thought… I just thought—"

"My son does not need outside information, Winky. If it happens again, don't blame me for giving you clothes."

The elf collapsed to the ground, trembling.

Meanwhile, young Barty's face darkened as his fists clenched tightly.

"Enough. Leave," Old Barty ordered impatiently, waving her away. The terrified house-elf scurried off.

"Yes, I'm sending Olive to Ilvermorny. What of it?"

"Are you out of your mind?"

Young Barty's voice was low, restrained. "America is so far away. Olive has been frail since childhood, and we have no family there. Why would you send her so far from home? She's just a girl—"

"You think everyone is like you?"

Old Barty's voice suddenly rose. "Olive can take care of herself."

"She's twelve!"

"There are twelve-year-olds who have already become Animagi!"

Old Barty's momentum surged, determined to suppress his son completely.

"I've never heard of a twelve-year-old Animagus!" young Barty snapped in disbelief. "Are you joking? Last month, you hadn't even considered this, and now you're sending her across the ocean? Is it because she snuck down here last month to see me?"

"Enough!"

Old Barty slammed his palm against the table. The force sent the salad bowl bouncing, the dishes clattering.

"Don't question my decisions, and don't try to read my mind. Your only job is to accept and obey!"

With that, he bit into a cherry tomato, tossed his fork onto the table, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

"I could be enjoying a peaceful dinner in my dining room, yet here I am, dragged to this place for such nonsense."

With that, he rose from his chair and strode toward the door.

"Stop."

Young Barty's voice was cold as he called after him.

Old Barty turned his head.

"You're afraid, aren't you?" Young Barty's voice grew sharper. "Afraid that the family will find out I'm still alive. Afraid Olive will let something slip. That's why you're sending her away, isn't it?"

Old Barty looked momentarily surprised, but then he curled his lips in disdain. He didn't bother answering and simply continued walking up the stairs.

"All you care about is your position, isn't it?"

Young Barty's voice grew louder. "Apart from those worthless Ministry chairs, do you even care about anything else?"

Bang!

Old Barty swung his wand.

The dining table in front of young Barty exploded into splinters. Plates shattered, salad and tomato juice mixed with shards of porcelain, dripping down his face in a grotesque mess.

"That's right."

Old Barty spoke with extreme coldness. "To tell you the truth, your sister must go to Ilvermorny. The reason? I don't want to see her sneaking into the basement to visit you. I won't let you corrupt the other members of the family! For that reason, I even cast an Obliviate on her so she would completely forget you exist!"

Hearing his father's words, young Barty turned pale as a sheet. He sank back into his chair, his lips devoid of any color.

"If you want to blame someone, blame yourself for being so pathetic."

He shoved his wand back into his pocket, cast a disdainful glance at young Barty—who had collapsed among the overturned dishes—and turned to leave.

But just as he stepped onto the basement stairs, preparing to walk toward the exit—

A silver dinner knife suddenly plunged into the back of his neck, its tip piercing through to the front, bringing with it a splash of crimson.

Shhff!

Young Barty yanked out the knife and, without hesitation, stabbed it into his father's neck again. Then, with another forceful pull, he struck a third time.

Slash! Blood splattered everywhere.

"Ahhh!!"

Amidst a piercing scream—

The screen faded to black, and the cinema was once again shrouded in darkness.

"What...?"

Miller, mid-bite with his popcorn, froze. A piece slipped from the corner of his mouth. "I thought this was supposed to be a flashback... How come—how come he just killed him again?"

Hoffa's expression was grave. He couldn't understand it either. Both scenes had been vividly real—both showing young Barty killing his father. Yet the circumstances and locations were completely different.

Of course, Old Barty couldn't have died twice.

No one could.

So what was going on?

Just as he was thinking about it, the screen lit up again, revealing two figures.

Unsurprisingly, it was young Barty and Old Barty once more.

This time, there was no dramatic buildup.

The moment they appeared on the screen, they immediately started brawling.

But the setting had changed yet again—it wasn't the Black Lake at Hogwarts, nor the dining table in the basement. This time, they were in a graveyard, under a torrential downpour.

They wrestled in the mud before a tombstone, both covered in filth.

"Get back home, you disgraceful brat!"

Old Barty pinned young Barty beneath him, his hands tightly wrapped around his son's throat—his expression filled with murderous intent.

Young Barty's face turned a dark shade of purple as he flailed on the ground, grasping at the wet earth. "Go back? So you can lock me up in the cellar like a rat again!?"

"Being a rat would be better than what you've become! You've humiliated me enough! Do you want me to lose my position as Head of the Department?!"

Veins bulged on Old Barty's forehead as he tightened his grip.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed.

Tears mixed with rain as young Barty choked out in fury, "Then why did you pull me out of Azkaban!? Why!?"

"You think I wanted to save you? You worthless fool! It was your mother who pitied you—she sacrificed herself to get you out! And now you've driven her to her grave! You think anyone will protect you now?"

"My mother didn't die because of me, you miserable old bastard! You only ever cared about the Ministry! You never cared about her!"

"Even so, it's still better than you running after Voldemort like a brainless idiot! You disgraceful, pathetic little waste of space! You killed your own mother, and you still have the audacity to stand at her grave!?"

Old Barty shoved young Barty's head against the tombstone. "You and your useless friends have embarrassed me enough! And you still dare argue with me!?"

Bang! Bang!

With two heavy smashes against the stone, young Barty suddenly twisted around, grabbing his father's legs and dragging him down into the mud. Then, he climbed on top of him, roaring with all his might:

"Then why me!?"

He strangled Old Barty's throat with all his strength. "Tell me—why did it have to be me!?"

"What are you blabbering about!? Speak clearly instead of rambling like an idiot! Who taught you to talk like this!?"

Boom!

A bolt of lightning tore through the sky, illuminating young Barty's twisted, vengeful face.

"Why am I your son!? Why did I have to be your son!? Why couldn't it have been someone else!? Why couldn't I have been born into a normal family!? Why are you never satisfied with me!?"

"Why you!? I should be the one asking why you had to be my son!"

Old Barty roared back amidst the storm. "Having an ambitious and respectable father like me—most people would kill for that! Do you know how many outstanding young men out there would do anything to be my assistant!? Even their crap has more dignity than you! And you dare ask why!?"

He spat directly onto young Barty's face. "Get out of my sight! You make me sick!"

"Then why did you even have me!? Did I force you to screw my mother!?"

Young Barty howled, his hands tightening.

"There's no do-over in life," Old Barty sneered, clutching his son's throat as well. "But if I could redo it, I'd rather have shot you against the wall! Or down the damn toilet!"

"I'll kill you!"

Young Barty screamed in rage, "Go to hell!"

"Let's see who dies first!"

Old Barty rained punches onto his son's face.

The brutal fight reached its peak.

Then—suddenly—

A bolt of lightning struck down from the sky, hitting both father and son at once.

In an instant, their brawling figures were reduced to charred remains.

The screen went black again.

Then it lit up.

Young Barty and Old Barty appeared once more.

The screen darkened.

Young Barty killed Old Barty.

The screen brightened.

They reappeared.

Darkness.

Old Barty's death.

Light.

Appearance.

Darkness.

Death.

Light.

Hoffa and Miller sat motionless in the strange cinema, holding their popcorn, watching as the Crouch father and son fought over and over again. Each time, the setting changed. Each time, the reasons were different. Some conflicts were monumental, while others were as trivial as food preferences or sexual orientation.

But no matter what the cause was—young Barty always ended up killing Old Barty. Or perishing alongside him.

The film on the screen continued looping.

Again and again.

Again and again.

Again and again.

Finally, by the twelfth repetition, Hoffa could no longer bear it.

He stood up and shouted into the darkened theater:

"What the hell is going on!? Who's playing this damn movie!? Show yourself!"

(End of Chapter)

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