Harry Potter: I am the Legend

How Old Barty broke free from his grasp, how he dashed into the snow, and how he was ultimately struck down by the old man standing in the shadows—Hoffa no longer cared.

The Barty father and son failed to escape the web of fate. Though their deaths this time differed from any scene he had witnessed in the Helheim Hell Cinema, the sorrow of witnessing their demise still washed over him.

Chance coincidences always exist, yet the outcome feels as inevitable as destiny.

Hoffa recalled what Aglaia had told him in the underworld. His gaze fell upon Nicolas Flamel in the distance as he slowly descended the hillside.

In the snow-covered valley, young Barty lay sprawled out, his blood seeping into the hardened snow like spilled ink, steaming faintly in the cold air. However, the rising warmth was quickly swept away by the mountain winds, vanishing without a trace.

Beside him, Old Barty knelt by a snow-laden pine, his head resting against the trunk. His vacant eyes fixated on his son's lifeless body. A massive hole gaped in his chest where a curse had struck, and he was barely clinging to life, breaths shallow and labored.

Hoffa closed his eyes in resignation as he took in the sight of the fallen father and son.

"Why?" he asked Nicolas Flamel.

"Why what?"

Nicolas Flamel regarded him icily. "Why did you bring the Ministry of Magic here? We agreed that you would deliver Harry Potter at the appointed time. Why did you deviate from the plan?"

"The plan is no longer feasible, Flamel."

Hoffa exhaled, his breath forming a mist in the freezing night air. "I can't go through with it anymore."

"Is it really the plan that failed, or do you have an agenda of your own?" Nicolas Flamel shot back sharply. He raised an antique-looking necklace and questioned, "Did you forget what we agreed upon?"

"I haven't forgotten."

Hoffa spoke softly. He walked over to young Barty's body, gently closing his lifeless eyes. His hands trembled slightly. He felt as if he had fallen into a swamp—struggling only made him sink faster. "Chloe won't allow you to do this."

"This has nothing to do with Chloe. Bringing her back is my personal endeavor—whether you're involved or not, I will see it through. Our goal is the Resurrection Spell. Do you understand what that means?"

"I understand."

"You understand nothing."

Flamel shot a glance at Peter Pettigrew, who was rubbing his hands together and chuckling on the side. "You—go bury those two. Make sure it's far away."

"Got it!"

Pettigrew scurried to young Barty's corpse, panting as he dragged it away. He soon returned, hauling Old Barty's body off into the distance as well. Then, with a flick of his wand, he transfigured it into a shovel and began digging in the snow. In no time, he had carved out two shallow graves.

With Pettigrew occupied, Flamel turned back to Hoffa, his expression a mix of frustration and disappointment. "What are you thinking, you fool? Even if you want to revive Fatir's daughter, you can't do it without Chloe's power. You'll never return to fifty years ago without her."

Hoffa frowned. "Why must I return to fifty years ago?"

Flamel replied matter-of-factly, "Because only by going back and resurrecting Fatir's daughter in that era can you be with her."

"Why?"

Hoffa was taken aback. "Why can't I revive her in this timeline?"

"If you revive her here, she will be a newborn of this era. But if you take her back, the time flare will rip her apart. You, more than anyone, should understand that."

The time flare…

Hoffa's face turned deathly pale. He staggered back two steps, bracing himself against the train platform.

Seeing his shaken expression, Flamel shook his head, stepped closer, and patted Hoffa's shoulder. "Now, go fetch that damn Harry Potter and bring him here. Once I acquire the Resurrection Spell, I'll give you a copy. What you do afterward is up to you."

For a fleeting moment, Hoffa nearly agreed. But then, the horrifying thought of six thousand endless loops surfaced—an inescapable fate. He immediately shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"No?"

Flamel stared at him as if he were a lunatic.

"What's wrong with you? Reviving Voldemort—what does that matter? Worst case, the Resurrection Spell gets used afterward, and then you…"

He made a subtle throat-slitting gesture. "Bringing the Ministry here to upset him… You don't actually believe in those Ministry wretches, do you?"

"You don't understand!"

Hoffa was exasperated. He knew the truth about the endless cycle, but Flamel did not. And he had no idea how to explain it to him. "No, Flamel. I will never hand Harry Potter over to Voldemort."

"And what about the Resurrection Spell?"

Flamel chuckled. "Without it, we achieve nothing."

Hoffa had no immediate answer. One path led to an infinite cycle of death, while the other was a dead end.

But after a brief moment of deliberation, his decision was clear—he could not carry out this mission. Nothing was worse than being trapped in that endless loop again.

He took a step back and shook his head.

"Oh, I see now."

Flamel's eyes glinted with understanding. "You're afraid. Afraid that if I revive Chloe, I'll force you back to the past."

"You want to return?" Hoffa countered. "To that war-torn era? To that time when life and death were mere whispers apart?"

"I won't force you," Flamel said with a gentle smile. "If you truly don't want to hand over Harry Potter, then so be it."

He extended his hand politely. "It was still a pleasure meeting you, Bach."

Instinctively, Hoffa reached out and shook his hand.

But in that instant, Flamel leaned in and whispered near his ear, "You know, I've always admired your Transfiguration skills."

A sudden sting at his waist—Hoffa's eyes widened in alarm. He shoved Flamel away and looked down to see a syringe embedded in his side, containing traces of a transparent liquid.

His heart pounded. Sepsis Potion!

Frantically, he yanked the syringe out, lifting his gaze only to meet Flamel's cold, indifferent stare. The warmth from moments ago had vanished like an illusion.

"What the hell, old man!?"

"That dose will last you a week. Let's see how brilliant your Transfiguration is now," Flamel said coolly.

At that moment, a massive purple serpent lunged from the shadows of the forest, its jaws gaping wide. Weakened by the potion, Hoffa staggered backward. The moonlight no longer blessed him with its power. The serpent struck, sinking its fangs into his throat.

Like a coiling spring, it wrapped around him in an instant.

Hoffa clawed at its neck, his fingers morphing into talons. He snarled, "Damn you, Flamel! You're selling me out!?"

"Sorry, I had no choice," Flamel responded emotionlessly. "I gave you a chance, but you went back on your word. I can't work with you."

The serpent's cold scales tightened, squeezing the breath from Hoffa's lungs. Its bones shifted, pressing against his skull, attempting to swallow him whole.

Then, a rush of wind—an iron shovel gleamed in the night, striking his shoulder with brutal force, carving a deep gash to the bone.

Gritting his teeth, Hoffa ignored the loss of magic. His arm transformed into a Thunderbird's wing. With a violent motion, he flung the serpent against a tree, then kicked Peter Pettigrew away as he clutched his bleeding shoulder, glaring at Flamel.

Flamel flicked his cloak and drew his wand. "Relax. I won't kill you—Stupefy."

A red stun spell shot toward Hoffa—but he vanished.

With a faint crack, he reappeared a hundred meters away.

Flamel Apparated as well, reemerging right in front of him. His withered hand latched onto Hoffa's wrist like an iron clamp. "Binding Hex."

The ancient incantation wrapped invisible chains around Hoffa, twisting him into an unnatural posture.

He glared at Flamel.

This old man had become yet another strand in the ropes of fate restraining him. If he was taken to Voldemort, the original story would unfold once more.

And that was the very fate he had fought so hard to escape.

"Let me go, old man!" he shouted.

"Impossible. You'll ruin the plan."

"Then you might as well kill me," Hoffa said sorrowfully. He couldn't break free from the invisible restraints. Unable to counter the spell, he began to miss Miller.

"Apologies," Nicolas Flamel said, though his tone carried little sincerity. "Wormtail."

A small, rat-like man scurried over, dragging a shovel through the snow. His bald head was slick with sweat despite the cold. "At your service, Mr. Flamel," he panted.

"Take him to the Dark Lord," Flamel commanded. "Let the two... let them handle it themselves."

"Handle what?"

Wormtail asked in confusion. The short man hoisted Hoffa onto his shoulder and started carrying him away.

"Themselves… handle it…"

Flamel's voice trailed off, growing softer and softer. Suddenly, his legs gave out, and with a heavy thud, he collapsed onto the snowy ground, snoring loudly—he had fallen asleep.

"Huh?"

Wormtail nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden collapse. He craned his neck, staring at the unconscious old man in disbelief.

The spell restraining Hoffa dissipated the moment Flamel fell asleep. Without hesitation, Hoffa kicked Wormtail hard in the waist, sending him tumbling headfirst across the snow, sliding far away.

"You damn birdman!!"

Wormtail shrieked, blood dripping from his nose. He scrambled to his feet, turning his head just in time to see the gray-haired man vanish into thin air with a crack—he had Disapparated, disappearing from both Flamel and Wormtail's sight.

"Old man? Old man?!"

Ignoring Hoffa's escape, Wormtail clutched his bleeding nose and rushed to the unconscious Flamel, shaking his shoulders. "Wake up, old man!"

But Flamel remained sound asleep, snoring peacefully.

"What the hell is going on?"

Frustrated, Wormtail swung his shovel and slammed it into a nearby snow-laden pine tree, causing a flurry of snow to cascade down.

A short distance away, a massive purple serpent slithered silently toward them. It coiled itself around the sleeping Flamel and then, in a slow, fluid transformation, morphed into a thin, gaunt woman. Her pale lips parted as she exhaled a ring of purple smoke directly into Flamel's face.

The moment Flamel inhaled the smoke, he started coughing violently. He coughed so hard that he jerked upright from the snow.

"Useless!"

A sharp voice snapped.

The purple-haired woman turned, exposing the back of her head to the still-coughing Flamel. Beneath her high bun was a grotesque baby-like face, contorted in rage. The infant-like mouth let out a furious screech, "Useless! Both of you are useless!"

Wormtail heard the voice and immediately scrambled forward, kneeling at the woman's feet, trembling. "Master! Master! It wasn't my fault! It was him! He—he just fell asleep for no reason!"

He pointed an accusatory finger at Flamel.

Flamel clutched his throat, his face and neck turning blue as he struggled to stop coughing.

"Why didn't you just kill him?!" Voldemort roared furiously. "Do I have to teach you how to use Avada Kedavra?! Are you planning to betray me too? Just like that other fool?!"

"Master! I wouldn't dare! I swear I wouldn't dare!"

Wormtail shuddered violently, hastily turning his shovel back into a wand and prostrating himself in the snow.

Flamel's coughing finally subsided. He staggered to his feet, his voice hoarse. "I'm sorry... I'm getting old. My mind is slipping."

"You are responsible, old man!"

Voldemort snapped. "Bring that wretched boy back to me!"

"No need," Flamel said through gritted teeth. "The mission can proceed without him."

"Proceed without him?" Voldemort sneered. "And who, exactly, is going to deliver Harry Potter to me?"

A heavy silence fell over them.

Flamel pressed his lips together, deep in thought. Wormtail lay flat on the ground, not daring to move, his eyes darting frantically. The purple-haired woman stood still, Voldemort's face on the back of her head, allowing the icy wind to whip through her cloak.

They looked like bankers who had meticulously prepared all the necessary documents for a loan, only to find out the bank had shut down—completely at a loss.

"I will."

A clear, cold voice suddenly echoed from the dense forest.

The three turned to see a tall figure emerging from the snowy woods. He had long, silvery-white hair cascading down his bony shoulders, and atop his head sat a bizarre metal cage, obscuring his face.

Flamel inhaled sharply and instinctively took a step back, pressing against a tree, his body trembling slightly.

The crunching of snow grew louder as the white-haired man approached. Finally, he halted before them.

"I will deliver the boy to you," Grindelwald said with a smile. "If you intend to use his blood for resurrection."

Though the situation had taken an unexpected turn, Voldemort did not look pleased. Instead, he regarded Grindelwald with wary hostility. "Who are you?"

"Who I am is none of your concern," Grindelwald replied smoothly. "But I will hand Harry Potter over to you."

"And what's the price?"

Voldemort asked without hesitation, his slit-like eyes narrowing as he hissed like a snake.

"You are a perceptive man," Grindelwald chuckled. "I have two requests."

"Speak."

Voldemort's expression remained tense.

"First, I want prominent figures from all walks of life to witness the Triwizard Tournament. Not just the common white-wizard folk—Dark wizards and magical creatures as well. I want you to summon your old allies—the giants, the werewolves, the vampires. Have them bring their families and friends to watch the event."

"Hah! What nonsense is this?"

Voldemort let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "What are you up to? If those creatures show up at Hogwarts, and I haven't even fully resurrected yet, who will control them? Aren't you afraid they'll tear the place apart?"

Grindelwald raised an eyebrow. "With Harry Potter's blood, you will rise again. And then, you will control them."

"Even so," Voldemort sneered, "they're not fools. Why would they step into Dumbledore's stronghold? That would be suicide."

"I have already taken control of Dumbledore," Grindelwald stated calmly.

"Rubbish! No one can control Dumbledore," Voldemort scoffed—until he suddenly let out a sharp gasp and took several steps back.

Grindelwald turned around. But instead of a back, another face was there. An old man with a long white beard, his eyes tightly shut, his brows twitching as if in immense pain.

Albus Dumbledore.

Grindelwald turned back to face Voldemort. "No harm will come to your followers. I only wish to ensure that, in this era of change, everyone stands on the right side. Let us present a grand gift to herald the Dark Lord's return."

Pausing, he added in an alluring tone, "You have been in hiding for too long. The world has forgotten the terror of Dark magic. Someone must remind them. Allow me to be that person."

Voldemort stared at the eerie figure before him, silent. Then, after a moment, he suddenly burst into laughter.

"Hahaha… HAHAHAHAHA!!"

He laughed for a long time before finally stopping. Rolling his neck, he licked his lips and sighed. "It seems no one is having an easy time these days. Fine, I'll see what I can do. But I can't promise how many will come."

"As you wish."

Grindelwald even bowed slightly.

"And your second request?" Voldemort asked.

Grindelwald lifted his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. "That one is quite simple. I wish to borrow the Resurrection Stone—the ring that has been passed down in your family for generations."

(End of Chapter)

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