Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Daytime felt much longer than Hoffa had imagined. Perhaps it was because Old Barty was incredibly efficient. Before long, Hoffa heard the sound of Apparition above him, accompanied by faint voices engaged in conversation.

"Is it safe?"

"Doesn't seem to be any problem."

"Did you detect any magical fluctuations?"

"Yes, although they're very faint, they cover a wide area. There are definite traces of dark magic."

"Excellent."

"What do you plan to do, Mr. Crouch?"

"You head back and keep an eye on me from the shadows."

"Yes, sir."

The voices faded as Old Barty descended from the first floor of the dilapidated mill, untying the ropes around Hoffa and Little Barty. Then, grabbing both of their arms, he Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Crack!

With a soft pop, the trio squeezed out of Apparition. The moment they landed, a cold wind rushed from the frost-covered hillside, stinging Hoffa's throat.

They were back in Little Hangleton. The place had changed significantly since Hoffa last left. A bleak ray of sunlight pierced through the swirling gaps, casting strange patterns on the ground. Under this bizarre light, thick white mist blanketed the village like a suffocating mattress, smothering life and leaving the village struggling desperately, as if drowning in despair.

Old Barty quickly bound Hoffa again, this time like a cocoon, restricting him to small shuffles. Giving Hoffa a shove, he gripped Little Barty tightly with one hand, the other holding his wand, his voice cold and sharp:

"You. Tell me where Voldemort is."

"Hey! Stop pushing me," Hoffa squinted, his tone defiant.

"Enough nonsense."

Old Barty pointed his wand directly at him, his other hand, clad in a black leather glove, clutching Little Barty's arm with an iron grip.

Hoffa could sense faint surveillance from afar—on the mountaintop, in the houses halfway up the hill, even from the frost-laden pine trees. These were likely Old Barty's men, stationed in advance.

"Follow me," Hoffa muttered reluctantly, picking a random direction and leading the Crouch duo away.

Shortly after they vanished, a small purple snake slithered out from the spot where they'd disappeared, its forked tongue flicking in and out with a faint hiss.

Riddle House Ruins

In the dark upper levels of the mansion, a shriveled, baby-like figure sat in an ornate chair, squinting through a gap in the curtains, observing the empty ground below.

An old man waved his wand on the clearing, carving intricate, stern runes into the earth. Behind him stood a nervous, short middle-aged man. After each flourish of the wand, the shorter man would pull out powdered magical substances from a large sack and sprinkle them onto the ground.

As they worked, a large serpent silently slithered to the ornate chair. It transformed into a thin woman with purple hair, who knelt beside the chair, leaning close to the shriveled baby's ear to whisper a few words.

Tom Riddle listened indifferently at first, but gradually his expression darkened. By the time she finished, his face was as stormy as a thundercloud. He hissed to Nagini, "Bring those two from downstairs."

The slender purple-haired woman coiled back into a giant snake, slithering silently across the floor and out through a crack in the door.

Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed on the stairs. The door creaked open, revealing the hunched figures of Nicolas Flamel and Peter Pettigrew. Peter rubbed his hands together obsequiously, his voice shrill:

"Master, are you hungry? Shall I fetch you some milk?"

"Shut up, Wormtail. Find a new greeting next time."

Tom Riddle lazily beckoned Nicolas Flamel closer. "Come here, Flamel."

Flamel stepped forward, visibly annoyed. "What is it? Why call us up? We have little time to waste. Every minute counts."

"No rush," Riddle replied leisurely. "How's the progress?"

"Eighty percent complete. Barring any unforeseen issues, I'll have it finished before the Triwizard Tournament."

"No unforeseen issues, huh?" Voldemort's thin fingers stroked the armrest, his eyes flashing with dangerous red light. Suddenly, he asked, "Flamel, how much do you know about Hoffa Bach's past?"

Flamel was taken aback. "What? Why are you asking me this?"

"I mean, do you truly know your partner?" Voldemort pressed.

"I know him. He's a very kind man," Flamel replied flatly.

"Kind to the point of foolishness, perhaps. Yet, he still stands with me, serving my cause. After all, I am the greatest dark wizard of this century."

"What's your point?" Flamel's impatience grew.

"How much do you really know about his past?" Riddle repeated.

"Not much. In fact, I hadn't heard of him before 1937," Flamel admitted dryly.

"Ah, what a pity," Voldemort chuckled, playing with his fingers. "I grew up with that guy. I know his quirks like the back of my hand. We once had a petty squabble—over a cat. I killed it, and he was furious, confronting me about it. I even pushed him into the sea, but the stubborn fool crawled back out, drenched, and the first thing he did was bury the cat. Hahaha!"

Flamel's annoyance faded, replaced by a grave expression. The ornate chair slowly turned, its legs screeching against the floor, filling the room with an ominous sound.

"Before meeting you, Hoffa Bach had a close friend, the daughter of Drases. I assume you know about her, right?"

Nicolas Flamel's expression shifted slightly, but he replied, "Who Hoffa Bach likes has nothing to do with me. Whether it's a cat or a woman, as long as he fulfills my wishes, he could even like a rat, and it wouldn't matter to me."

"For someone so driven by emotions, forgetting is not easy. I'll bet you ten thousand Galleons that his desire to resurrect that person outweighs your desire to revive your granddaughter."

"It doesn't concern me. I only care about the result," Nicolas Flamel responded coldly.

"What if he tries to stop you?" Tom Riddle continued, "Nagini just informed me of something interesting. Hoffa Bach, who left here six months ago, has returned."

"What? Are you joking?" Nicolas Flamel was stunned. "Why would he come back? We're not ready for anything yet."

"Maybe he thinks it's not worth trading the resurrection of a Dark wizard for his own happiness. Who knows—great love, small love, moral standards, and all that."

"Impossible," Nicolas Flamel denied flatly, though his expression showed some panic.

"Not only has he returned, but he's also brought a group from the Ministry of Magic. I believe you know one of them, the so-called most impartial Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Bartemius Crouch Sr."

"What?" Nicolas Flamel stared blankly at the back of the chair, silent for a long moment.

A cold, ruthless voice came from behind the chair, "He's never been a rationally driven person. He doesn't care about interests or glory. Instead, his intense emotions often lead him to do things that seem foolish to others but perfectly natural to him.

I don't know why Hoffa is here—whether it's a sudden pang of conscience or a moment of madness—but I don't care. I only know that if the Ministry learns of my plan, you'll never obtain the complete resurrection spell. How you handle it is up to you."

"How long do you plan to keep me wandering around?" Bartemius Crouch Sr. asked impatiently on the frost-covered hillside.

"We're almost there," Hoffa replied dismissively, glancing at the horizon where the sun was setting. The deep blue twilight cloaked the land, mist swirling among the pale mountains, and frost-coated pine needles trembled slightly in the breeze.

Several hours had passed since the trio arrived in Little Hangleton. During that time, Hoffa had led Bartemius Crouch Sr. in circles through the mountain valleys, trying to delay until nightfall. He knew that once darkness fell, he would be safe.

"If I'm not mistaken, this is the third time we've circled this hill," Bartemius said, pointing at their footprints in the snow. "What are you playing at?"

Hoffa, bound tightly, remained unfazed. "I haven't been here many times. Perhaps Voldemort cast some Confundus Charms around to keep others from finding him."

BAM! Bartemius slammed Hoffa against a fir tree, shaking frost from its branches. He gripped Hoffa's neck tightly and turned to Barty Jr. "Is your master here?"

"Bastard," Barty Jr. growled, clenching his fists in suppressed anger.

Bartemius showed no mercy, driving his knee into Barty Jr.'s stomach, doubling him over in pain. "Is your damned master here?" he repeated.

Barty Jr. remained silent, then suddenly lunged, trying to knock Bartemius over. But Bartemius struck him on the head, dazing him and pulling him back.

"Is he here?" Bartemius demanded relentlessly, determined to break Barty Jr.'s defiance.

The only response was the furious grinding of Barty Jr.'s teeth.

Hoffa sighed inwardly. Even after everything he'd said to Barty Jr., the younger man still couldn't bring himself to show even a hint of submission to his father—not even as a pretense.

Hoffa coughed heavily.

"Yes," Barty Jr. finally forced the word out through gritted teeth.

Bartemius seemed even more displeased. His gaze at Hoffa was filled with murderous intent, but perhaps driven by his desire to find Voldemort, he suppressed his anger and released Hoffa's neck.

"Lead the way."

Time ticked by. As the sun dipped below the horizon, darkness fell, and the air grew thick with the scent of blood. A flush of excitement colored Hoffa's face as the dormant blood in his veins surged, flowing faster and faster.

Bartemius sensed something was wrong. He tightened the rope binding Hoffa and threatened, "I advise you not to play any tricks. If you don't find Voldemort within ten minutes, I'll execute you on the spot."

"Almost there," Hoffa whispered.

Minutes later, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the mountains, a green aurora snaked across the sky.

Hoffa's steps grew larger, shifting from walking to sprinting. Realizing something was amiss, Bartemius roared, "Catch him!"

WHOOSH! Several Aurors burst from the shadows of the forest.

CRACK—like the blaring horn of battle.

At the exact moment the moon rose, Hoffa's body swelled as if inflated. To Bartemius's shock, he broke free from the ropes in the blink of an eye.

Old Barty, dragged by the rope, was pulled down to the ground, sliding far across the snowy field.

Several Aurors raised their wands.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

"Stupefy!"

"Diffindo!"

Under the moonlight, Hoffa plunged his hand into his own chest. The moment the spells struck, he withdrew his hand.

Blood splattered as his body disintegrated into countless fluttering nightingales.

The nightingales swooped towards the Aurors, pecking at them savagely until they screamed, clutching their heads, and dropping their wands.

Young Barty laughed maniacally. Taking advantage of Hoffa defeating Old Barty's men, he broke free from his father's grip, kicked Old Barty to the ground, and snatched his wand.

"Tables have turned, old man!"

With glee, Young Barty pointed the wand at his father and chanted cheerfully, "Crucio!"

A flash of red light. Old Barty let out a piercing scream, rolling frantically in the snow.

"You ungrateful brat!"

Old Barty curled up on the ground, his meticulously groomed gray hair now a disheveled mess across his forehead. He stared at his deranged son with heart-wrenching despair.

"Thirteen years in Azkaban, a full thirteen years! You'll pay for that!" Young Barty's hand trembled violently as he gripped the wand, his voice shaking with fury. Taking a deep breath, he began, "Avada—"

Before the Killing Curse could be completed, several nightingales swooped in, snatching his wand away and shoving him against a tree. The birds converged mid-air, morphing back into Hoffa.

"You can't kill your father."

Hoffa pinned Young Barty down, shaking his shoulders. "You've killed him thousands of times already!"

"Then one more time won't matter!" Young Barty's eyes bulged with fanaticism as he glared at Hoffa. "This failure doesn't deserve to be my father, Mr. Bach!"

Smack!

Hoffa slapped him hard across the face, sending him reeling.

Dazed, Young Barty staggered to his feet, disoriented.

"Idiot! Do you think my words are just hot air?" Hoffa roared.

Terrified, Young Barty immediately covered his head, a stark contrast to his defiance under his father's scolding.

"Leave Britain. Leave London. Get away from your father. Go out there and never look back." Hoffa kicked him hard, sending him sprawling. "Go!"

Young Barty scrambled up from the snow, panicked. "Where should I go? I don't know."

Hoffa snapped a branch from a snowy cedar. Young Barty instinctively crawled back ten more meters.

Hoffa took deep breaths, calming himself. "Crouch, you're capable of far more than you think. Stop looking back. Go, now."

"You dare let him go!"

Old Barty struggled to his feet, hair wild, face twisted with rage. "Let him go? Bring him back!"

"Get lost!" Hoffa kicked Old Barty aside, urging Young Barty, "Go! Go!"

Young Barty hesitated, glancing between Hoffa and his father, stepping backward slowly.

"Go!!" Hoffa roared.

Startled, Young Barty slipped on the icy ground, sliding far away.

Old Barty lunged up, grabbing Hoffa by the neck. "You think I don't know what he is? What can he do besides act tough in front of me? Out there, he'll be eaten alive!"

"Then let him go!"

"I promised his mother I'd protect him!"

"Damn it! Can't you trust him just once?"

"If he turns out well, pigs can fly!" With that, he pointed his wand at the distant Young Barty. "Stupefy!"

"Bullshit!"

Hoffa tackled Old Barty, knocking the spell off course, disappearing into the dark night.

Young Barty, alone, kept glancing back as he stumbled down the mountain, hesitant.

Just then, a train bound for an unknown destination rumbled through the valley, screeching to a stop at Little Hangleton. Passengers with large bags disembarked.

Hoffa's face lit up. He shouted, "Get on! Leave here!"

Young Barty saw the train, grabbing the handrail.

"Go! Go, don't look back!"

Hoffa pressed Old Barty down firmly, his heart filled with desperate hope. He had never wished so fervently for Young Barty to leave. If he left, it would mean the cycle wasn't unbreakable.

But then, Old Barty laughed suddenly. With a surge of inexplicable strength, he shoved Hoffa away and stumbled toward the foot of the mountain, yelling, "Stop, you little brat!"

Hearing his father's shout, Young Barty instinctively let go of the train's door, turning back.

"Damn it!!"

Hoffa snapped, rushing forward to grab Old Barty's arm, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence him.

In the dim night, Young Barty looked back up the slope.

The crowd flowed past him. His face was blank, lost in thought.

Then—

Thud!

A soft sound.

Without warning.

A knife tip pierced through his chest, as light as a dragonfly's touch on water.

"No!!"

Old Barty broke free from Hoffa's grip, collapsing to his knees.

Hoffa's eyes widened in shock.

In the distance, Young Barty stared at the blade protruding from his chest, bewildered. He touched the sharp tip, then collapsed face-first into the snow.

The train rumbled away. Where Young Barty Crouch fell, two figures emerged from the shadows: one short, the other hunched.

The shorter figure stepped forward, pulling the dagger from Young Barty's chest, wiping it on his dirty trouser leg, then grinning at the white-haired old man beside him.

"Is this enough?"

(End of Chapter)

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