Harry Potter: I am the Legend

When Hoffa opened his eyes again, he felt a bone-chilling cold. He wasn't sure if this winter was exceptionally harsh or if he had simply gone too long without feeling temperature. Perhaps it was both.

He slowly got up from the bed, his body making cracking sounds as his bones shifted against each other.

The Dark Arts Defense Office was in complete disarray—ropes were scattered across the desk, and the floor was littered with overturned cups and plates. It looked as if a violent struggle had taken place.

Cold wind howled through the open window. It was about half an hour before dawn, and in the wind, a faint sobbing could be heard. It was the house-elf, Dobby. He was curled up in the corner of the office, crying.

"What happened?" Hoffa walked over and asked. The moment he spoke, he startled himself—his voice was hoarse and unrecognizable, as if it didn't belong to him.

"Master... Master is gone... took the young master away..."

Dobby sobbed as he pointed at the scattered ropes on the floor.

Hoffa glanced around but saw no sign of young Barty. They had left Helheim together, yet they hadn't reappeared in the same place.

Ssshhh...

A faint sound.

Miller, controlling Moody's body, got up and lit the fireplace in the office.

In the flickering firelight, Hoffa caught a glimpse of himself in the glass.

Months had passed. The hair he had lost in the fire had grown back, but his prolonged stay in Helheim had drained too much of his life force. He was no longer the teenager he once was. Now, he appeared as a hollow-eyed middle-aged man. Gray-white hair hung over his gaunt forehead, deep nasolabial folds framed his sunken golden eyes. He looked more haggard than ever before.

"Young Barty was taken away by his father," Hoffa said to Miller, who was crouching by the fireplace.

"And you still have time to worry about that?" Miller muttered weakly. "Did you hear what Aglaia said? Six thousand times! By Merlin's beard, what kind of nightmare are we caught in?"

"Yeah..."

Hoffa murmured, staring at his withered hands with an eerie calmness. "Six thousand times. If my fate has repeated six thousand times, then so has young Barty's... and his father's."

"Patricide."

"Not just patricide—mutual destruction."

Hoffa thought of the original timeline—where Barty Sr. was murdered and Barty Jr. had his soul sucked out by Dementors. This fate, too, had likely repeated six thousand times—unalterable, unavoidable.

"What the hell are you thinking, Hoffa? What do we do next?" Miller threw the fire tongs aside, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

"The previous plan won't work. It's meaningless. I need to find Dumbledore—I need to reach out to anyone I know."

Hoffa clenched his fists, a renewed fire igniting in his golden eyes. "I've always avoided being discovered by Dumbledore, but that might be exactly what has trapped me in this loop. I have to break the pattern. I need to find a way out."

With that, he strode out of the Dark Arts Defense Office. Miller hurried after him. "How do you know you haven't thought this exact thing in the previous six thousand cycles? If you're thinking this now, then surely, you've thought it before."

"Do you have a better idea?"

"My suggestion? Do nothing. Go into hiding. Screw it all."

"And how do you know I haven't tried that before?"

Hoffa didn't slow down.

By now, the first light of dawn had barely touched Hogwarts, but the sky was thick with dark clouds, blocking out any hint of sunlight. The frost-covered snow had hardened to ice, crunching loudly underfoot. Students scurried by, huddled in their robes, clutching books as they rushed past—silent, expressionless.

It should have been just after Christmas, right after the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, with the third task yet to begin. The castle was filled with students from other magical schools—Durmstrang students in thick brown-black cloaks, Beauxbatons students in elegant silver-gray robes.

As Hoffa walked past them, he grew increasingly uneasy. Though the school was packed, there was an eerie silence—students didn't speak to one another. The once lively castle had fallen into an unsettling hush.

"What's going on?"

He turned to Miller.

"It's been like this since Christmas started," Miller replied. "I don't know why."

The silent students passed them, heading towards the Great Hall, their movements precise, frictionless—like puppets on strings.

"Damn it!"

Hoffa quickened his pace, heading for the castle's upper levels. The once-vibrant Hogwarts had transformed into something grotesque. More than anything, he wanted to break free of this cursed cycle, to change his fate. If possible, he wanted to change the fate of those around him—even these dreamlike students. But he had no idea how. His only hope was Dumbledore.

Before reaching the top floor, he spotted a gathering of wizarding journalists. They stood in neat rows, flashing cameras, pushing and shoving, their loud chatter making them seem far more normal than the eerie students.

"What's happening?"

Hoffa searched his memory but found nothing like this in the original timeline. For the first time, history had deviated from his knowledge. This both worried and excited him.

Moments later, an elderly man with silver-white hair descended the spiral staircase from the office. He wore a pointed wizard's hat and a gray-white robe—none other than the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore.

"Professor! Professor Dumbledore!"

Hoffa called out.

He pushed through the crowd, striding up to Dumbledore and gripping his shoulders, turning him around. "Professor Dumbledore, it's me! Do you remember me?"

The surrounding crowd stared at Hoffa in shock.

Dumbledore lowered his blue eyes, gazing at Hoffa through his half-moon spectacles, a flicker of confusion in them.

His lack of reaction unsettled Hoffa, but he had no time to hesitate. He leaned in close and whispered urgently, "Listen to me. You have to stop the Triwizard Tournament. This tournament is the key to Tom Riddle's resurrection. He sent me here. He's turned the Triwizard Cup into a Portkey to transport Harry Potter at the end of the tournament—to bring him back to life."

Hoffa's words came in a rush. "If you don't want to see people die, if you don't want a war to break out, you must stop the tournament now!"

His heart pounded as he anxiously searched Dumbledore's face, hoping the headmaster would believe him and act immediately.

Dumbledore listened, then suddenly chuckled. He patted Hoffa's shoulder. "I understand. Just wait a moment—let me finish my press conference, and then we'll talk."

Before Hoffa could respond, Dumbledore turned away, spreading his hands before the gathered reporters. "Listen closely! I am here to announce today's major event."

At once, the journalists erupted with excitement, cameras flashing wildly, their bulbs firing like miniature explosions of white light.

Hoffa, already feeling weak in daylight, winced at the glare. He shielded his eyes and retreated into a corner.

But despite his discomfort, seeing Dumbledore gave him a glimmer of hope. If he could gain Dumbledore's support, he might finally have a real chance at breaking this cursed cycle.

Dumbledore's voice rang out:

"This year, the Triwizard Tournament is being held at Hogwarts as scheduled. So far, it has been a great success. Our four champions have braved countless challenges and completed two arduous tasks, drawing significant attention from the wizarding world. However, such attention is far from enough."

He paused for a moment, then smiled.

"Therefore, I announce that on the night of the final match, all spectators coming to Hogwarts to watch the Triwizard Tournament's grand finale will not only be granted free admission but will also receive a reward of one hundred Galleons per person. On top of that, we are offering a special grand prize of ten thousand Galleons—a lottery open to all attendees. Every spectator will have a chance to win."

In a corner of the room, Hoffa was stunned.

What!?

He stared at Dumbledore, who was smiling amidst the crowd, unable to utter a single word.

As soon as Dumbledore finished announcing the extensive list of rewards, the reporters erupted in excitement. They eagerly pushed their microphones toward him.

"Headmaster Dumbledore, is this true?"

"Has the Ministry of Magic approved your decision?"

"When will the final task begin?"

"What prompted you to make this decision?"

Hoffa observed the elderly wizard closely and finally noticed something off. The Elder Wand tucked at Dumbledore's waist was subtly emitting a faint, almost imperceptible, dark energy.

At the sight of the Deathly Hallow and Dumbledore's unusual behavior, Hoffa felt his heart plummet into an abyss. The hope that had just begun to rise within him shattered instantly. He recalled the night he had first met Miller and accidentally stumbled into Dumbledore's office. Even back then, Dumbledore had seemed a little strange. Now, he was beginning to understand why.

Amidst the swarm of reporters, Dumbledore even cast a glance at Hoffa, his eyes full of mirth. The unease within Hoffa swelled into full-blown fear. It was broad daylight, and he had no means to fight back.

Just then, a hand grabbed him from the crowd.

Turning around, he saw Miller.

"We're leaving."

Miller's magical eye—Moody's eye—was locked onto Dumbledore as he pulled Hoffa away without looking back, heading straight out of the castle.

They hurried down the shifting magical staircases. Meanwhile, Dumbledore, surrounded by flashing cameras and journalists, did not stop them—he did not even glance their way again.

"Dumbledore has been controlled by someone. We need to get out of here fast," Miller muttered irritably.

"He doesn't recognize me anymore."

Hoffa recalled their last meeting—Dumbledore had been constantly extracting memories from his mind. Perhaps by now, all memories of Hoffa, along with those from fifty years ago, had been removed and sealed away in glass vials.

"I shouldn't have come looking for you, you walking disaster," Miller snapped. "Anyone who gets involved with you is doomed. Maybe that's exactly what he thought—that forgetting you would be safer."

Hearing this, Hoffa oddly felt relieved.

He thought of Aglaea's three hundred thousand years in Helheim, and suddenly, his own troubles seemed insignificant. He had to find a way to break the cycle.

"Then why don't you just Obliviate yourself?"

He pulled his hand away from Miller's grasp and even stepped ahead of him. Miller scowled at Hoffa's back, both annoyed and resigned.

By the time they reached the castle gates, the air had grown even colder. The sunlight in the sky felt artificial, offering no warmth at all.

And to make matters worse, a chilling voice called from behind them.

"Where do you think you're going, Bach?"

Hoffa froze.

Miller—disguised as Alastor Moody—also halted.

A man wearing an iron cage over his face sat beside the courtyard fountain, holding an unfinished book. He slowly closed it, stood up, and soundlessly approached them.

"I thought Helheim would be enough to keep you locked away. But it seems you still managed to escape."

"Grindelwald."

Hoffa took a slow step back. He wasn't surprised. If even Dumbledore could be controlled, then there was only one person capable of orchestrating it.

He glanced at the sky and reached for a vial of septic potion at his waist.

"This is your plan, isn't it? Using the Triwizard Tournament to gather the attention of all Europe's wizards, drawing them to Hogwarts—so you can take them all down in one fell swoop?"

Grindelwald smirked. "Precisely. Waste not, want not."

"How did you do it? When did you take control of Dumbledore?"

"Even the greatest wizard can be tempted. And to me, Albus Dumbledore was never truly great."

As he spoke, a dark-clad crowd emerged from all directions, encircling Hogwarts. They wore tattered black robes, held wands in their hands, and had blank expressions.

Grindelwald shrugged.

"All that needs to be said has been said. Now, only life and death remain."

The moment he raised his wand, Hoffa didn't hesitate—he lifted the vial of septic potion and tilted it toward his mouth.

But before he could drink, a crushing blow struck his head, shattering the vial into fragments.

Grindelwald had made his move.

Hoffa was sent flying more than twenty meters, tumbling across the ground before crashing into a group of students.

The students—clutching their books—wordlessly stepped aside, not making a single sound.

Hoffa scrambled to his feet, only to be met with the sight of hundreds of spells streaking toward him from all directions like beams of light, illuminating his face.

In broad daylight, he had no means to resist.

But before the spells could strike him, Miller appeared in front of him, raising his wand. The space around them twisted and bent, redirecting the hundreds of spells toward the Forbidden Forest, where they exploded into bursts of light in the dark sky.

"Little Gorshak, are you going to attack your own father?"

Grindelwald stood atop the grand stone staircase, looking down at Alastor Moody's body with a mocking smile.

"If not for me, you wouldn't even exist."

"Don't expect me to be grateful, Grindelwald," Miller said coldly. "Existing isn't exactly a blessing."

Holding his wand, Miller turned to Hoffa.

"Go! You know the secret passage—behind the Gregory statue."

"What about you?!" Hoffa asked urgently.

"Forget about me. He can't kill me. You have to fix this."

With a flick of his wand, Miller conjured a translucent barrier that obscured everyone's vision.

"Now go."

"Damn it!"

Hoffa glanced at the shattered glass in his hand and the rising sun. If he stayed, he'd only drag Miller down.

He tore a piece of fabric from his clothes, wrapped it around his face, and, under the cover of smoke, stumbled away from the battlefield.

(End of Chapter)

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