Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The glow of curses flashed incessantly behind him, accompanied by incessant shouts and roars. He hadn't run far before spotting two figures pursuing him—Grindelwald's followers. Emerging from the thick fog, they spread out in all directions, tracking him relentlessly.

Thanks to his familiarity with the castle, Hoffa weaved through the crowd and, with the aid of the enchanted staircases, swiftly made his way to the fourth floor, slipping behind the statue of Gregory the Bootlicker. He turned the statue and squeezed into a hidden passage.

Hoffa had only known about this passage but had never taken it before. It was pitch dark inside, forcing him to press against the damp walls to inch forward. The tunnel grew narrower, and he could hear the sound of walls shifting behind him. He didn't need to look back to know that Grindelwald's followers were closing in.

"Lumos!"

A voice behind him incanted the spell, and the dark tunnel was instantly illuminated. Hoffa crawled forward with even more urgency, but since it was daytime, his speed was far from ideal.

He had no idea how long he had been running. The glow behind him grew brighter, and the footsteps drew closer. At last, the tunnel began to slope upward.

Bang!

He burst through the wooden floor leading outside the passage, emerging into an abandoned wooden hut filled with dust and scattered haystacks. The blinding sunlight overhead stung his cheeks.

He seemed to have arrived at an old mill on the outskirts of Scotland. The snow-covered, frozen ground stretched before him, with a towering but dilapidated windmill standing in the distance—a place he had never set foot in before.

Thud!

Two men in black, their heads encased in birdcage-like helmets, charged out of the abandoned hut right after him, tackling Hoffa to the ground. The brittle, frost-covered grass crunched under their weight as the three of them wrestled fiercely. The two men twisted Hoffa's arms behind his back and began dragging him back toward the passage.

Hoffa lashed out, kicking one of them in the face, but the sturdy iron cage around the man's head absorbed the blow, leaving him unharmed. Hoffa cursed himself for his recklessness—choosing to seek out Dumbledore in broad daylight had been a mistake.

Crash!

The wooden door of the abandoned warehouse shattered into pieces as he was dragged toward the tunnel entrance, on the verge of being pulled back inside.

"Avada Kedavra!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Suddenly, green flashes streaked through the air. Two consecutive Killing Curses shot out from within the windmill, striking the black-clad men holding Hoffa. They collapsed to the ground with a dull thud.

Hoffa, still bound at the wrists, scrambled to his feet, his head spinning. As he looked up, a neatly groomed old man stood beneath the massive, broken windmill, his expression dark with fury as he glared down at him, wand raised.

Hoffa recognized him. Before the Quidditch World Cup, he had disguised himself and accompanied Nicolas Flamel to visit this very man—Barty Crouch Sr.

"Avada—"

Crouch began to chant the curse again, clearly intending to kill Hoffa along with the two fallen men.

"Wait!"

Hoffa quickly raised his arms. "I mean no harm—I don't even have a wand!"

"Who are you?!"

Crouch kept his wand aimed at him. "Who sent you to follow me?"

"I have something very important to tell you, Mr. Crouch. Just give me one minute."

Hoffa got to his feet. Seeing Barty Crouch, his mind raced. If he wanted to break free from this endless cycle of fate, he couldn't follow the events of the original timeline.

After all, Crouch was still a Ministry official, and from the looks of it, he wasn't under anyone's control. If Hoffa could gain his support, he might also gain the backing of the Ministry of Magic. And with that, maybe—just maybe—he could change fate itself.

"Thirty seconds!" Crouch pressed his wand against Hoffa's chin. "Or you die."

"Someone is planning to unleash terror during the Triwizard Tournament finals—just like what happened during the Quidditch World Cup. That time, thousands of wizards went missing. This time, it will be even worse. If the Ministry doesn't act, the entire wizarding world could be wiped out."

Hoffa paused before adding, "And I don't know if you remember Gellert Grindelwald—but he's alive. He's inside Hogwarts right now. The two men you just killed were his followers. If the Ministry doesn't isolate Hogwarts immediately, a catastrophe will be inevitable."

He stared intently at Crouch, trying to discern any reaction from his tightly pressed lips.

After a long silence, Crouch finally spoke in a slow, deliberate tone: "You're telling me that Gellert Grindelwald—the Dark Wizard who disappeared fifty years ago—plans to strike during the Triwizard Tournament finals?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you go to Dumbledore with this?"

"He's been compromised."

"Compromised?"

"Yes," Hoffa nodded firmly.

"You think I'm a fool? Do you expect me to believe something like that?"

Crouch suddenly roared, grabbing Hoffa by the collar and dragging him into the crumbling windmill.

He pressed his face close to Hoffa's, scrutinizing his eyes. A moment later, his expression changed—realization dawned upon him.

"Those eyes... and that face... I remember now. You're the same person who came to see me before the Quidditch World Cup. You look older... but it's unmistakably you."

"Who?"

Hoffa hadn't reacted yet.

Old Barty grabbed his collar, his face dark with rage, and asked in a stern voice, "Horva Bashir! The flying carpet merchant! You recommended flying carpets to me, and that very night, my son disappeared. Tell me, what is your relationship with that old man and the child from that day?"

It was only then that Hoffa recalled disguising himself and deceiving Old Barty alongside Nicolas Flamel before the Quidditch World Cup. For a moment, he didn't know how to explain.

"So, you are connected after all."

Thud!

The door slammed shut. Old Barty threw Hoffa into the cellar beneath the windmill. There, Hoffa saw young Barty, tied up like a bundle, lying on the ground. His mouth was stuffed with a torn piece of cloth, and though he struggled desperately, he couldn't make a sound.

"Damn it, Barty! Let me go!"

Hoffa struggled, but he was far too weak in daylight.

Old Barty tied him up as well before walking over to his son. He roughly tore the gag from young Barty's mouth. "Speak! What's your relationship with him? Are you both working for Voldemort?"

"I'm not!"

Young Barty stiffened his neck and denied it.

"You brat!"

Old Barty slapped him hard on the head. "Still lying? Weren't you the one who worshiped the Dark Lord the most?"

"I never worked for the Dark Lord!"

"Liar." Another slap landed on his face.

"Then what are you doing at Hogwarts? Disguising yourself as Alastor Moody? Trying to assassinate Dumbledore? Or is it Harry Potter you're after? Don't tell me you're just here on vacation!"

"I—"

"Did I guess right?" Old Barty yanked his son's hair, forcing him to look up. "Tell me, where is your master hiding?"

"Are you serious? He's your son! Can't you speak to him a little more kindly?!" Hoffa couldn't stand it anymore and shouted angrily.

"What does this have to do with you?"

Old Barty suddenly turned his head, his expression cold and ruthless. "This is my family's business, and I make the rules."

"Damn it! Aren't you afraid he'll kill you?! Even a rabbit will bite when it's cornered!"

"He wouldn't dare. Even if I gave him ten times the courage, he wouldn't." Old Barty patted young Barty's face dismissively, completely ignoring the murderous intent hidden in his son's eyes. "Would you?"

Hoffa was on the verge of losing his mind. Old Barty had no idea what was going to happen. He was still naively convinced that young Barty wouldn't fight back. If this continued, both of them would be dead—young Barty and old Barty alike.

If he couldn't even change the fate of the Crouch family, how could he hope to change Aglaea's fate or his own?

"I can tell you where Voldemort is!"

In a desperate moment, Hoffa's mind worked at lightning speed.

"He's extremely weak right now. If you find him and capture him, believe me, that achievement alone would guarantee your victory in the next election against Cornelius Fudge, making you the next Minister of Magic!"

Silence filled the air for a few seconds.

Old Barty stopped pressuring young Barty. He slowly loosened his grip and stepped in front of Hoffa, his mouth slightly open.

"You?"

"A soldier who doesn't aspire to be a general is not a good soldier, Mr. Crouch. Forgive me for being blunt, but I don't believe Minister Fudge would do a better job than you. That position was meant to be yours. If you release us, I will lead you to the weakened Voldemort and help you become the Minister of Magic."

Old Barty's expression flickered with uncertainty. "Do you really think I'm only after Voldemort just to become Minister?"

"This—" Hoffa's mind raced. His gaze fell on the bound young Barty beside him, and an idea struck him. "Trust me, Voldemort's hold on your son isn't as deep as you think. If you eliminate Voldemort, he will surely return to you and become the obedient son you always wanted."

Young Barty's face turned red with shame and fury. He glared intensely, biting his lips so hard they nearly bled.

But Old Barty seemed satisfied. His expression finally eased, and he said, "How do I know you're not deceiving me? How can I be sure you're not leading me into a trap?"

"You can have your men investigate Little Hangleton. If there's an ambush, you don't have to go. If there isn't, you'd only lose a day's time. And if I'm lying—well, you can always kill me when you return."

Hoffa spoke with utter sincerity.

Old Barty scrutinized him suspiciously, pondering for a long while. He couldn't find any flaws in Hoffa's words. Finally, he let out a cold snort, tied Hoffa and young Barty together against a pillar, then strode out of the windmill, seemingly to verify the information about Little Hangleton.

For now, the immediate danger had passed. Hoffa exhaled in relief. With Old Barty gone, only he and young Barty remained in the dilapidated windmill's cellar, both bound to the same pillar, unable to move.

"I will kill him," young Barty murmured, his voice trembling.

"Don't even think about it," Hoffa warned.

"Why don't you resist? With your abilities, killing my father should be effortless."

"The time isn't right," Hoffa said bitterly, glancing at the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the windmill. "And even if the time were right, I wouldn't kill your father."

"Why not?"

"I don't kill anymore."

"Is that so?"

Young Barty's voice was devoid of emotion.

"You can't kill him. He's your father," Hoffa repeated.

"Don't lecture me," young Barty said, suppressing his anger.

"I'm not lecturing you. If you kill him, the Ministry will kill you. They'll throw you back into Azkaban and let the Dementors suck your soul dry."

"So what? It wouldn't be worse than this."

Young Barty muttered under his breath.

"You've been to Helheim. You know what that place is like. If you really wanted to die, why did you let me bring you out?"

Young Barty fell silent.

"They will kill you without hesitation. They won't care about you. They'll forget you. To them, you are meaningless—no sympathy, no mourning, not even fear."

"I have always been meaningless, Mr. Bach," young Barty chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I have no skills, no ambitions. The only time I feel I have any worth is when I serve others."

"Shut up!"

Hoffa suddenly snapped, his anger flaring from an unknown source. In young Barty, he saw a shadow of his past self—so deeply ingrained that even now, he hadn't completely shaken it off. But he despised that mediocrity, that vine-like weakness clinging to his soul.

"Can't you find something to do for yourself? If you hadn't followed Voldemort, would Old Barty have treated you this way?"

"What should I do, then? I don't even know what I want."

Young Barty's voice was lifeless. "Maybe Old Barty is right—without him, I'm nothing."

"Exactly."

Hoffa suppressed his frustration and spoke sharply, "Imagine a messy room. You live in it. It's filthy. What do you do?"

Young Barty: "I would call Winky to clean it for me."

Hoffa: "And if Winky isn't there?"

Young Barty: "I…"

Hoffa: "Would you clean it yourself?"

After a pause, young Barty reluctantly nodded. "I guess I would."

Hoffa: "And if, after cleaning your room, you realize the whole house is a mess?"

"I would… I would…"

Young Barty bit his lip, struggling to speak. "I suppose I would clean that too."

"And if, after that, you see the entire city is in chaos, with no one to clean it up—what then?"

Young Barty suddenly broke into tears. "Mr. Bach… No one has ever told me this before."

Hoffa's anger faded slightly. He felt a trace of sympathy for young Barty. As wretched as he was, perhaps he wouldn't have turned out this way if not for Old Barty's relentless ambition.

He listened in silence as the boy sobbed. When the crying finally subsided, Hoffa spoke softly.

"Don't fight your father anymore. Give in a little. When night falls, I'll get you out of here. Promise me—go far away. Leave Britain, leave Europe, leave behind everyone you know. Never look back."

"And what about you? Don't you need my help?"

Young Barty sniffled.

"As long as you can break free from this damned cycle, that will be the greatest help you could give me," Hoffa murmured to himself.

(End of Chapter)

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