Harry Potter: I am the Legend

London.

The Leaky Cauldron.

In the dim, grimy bar, a few people sat scattered in silence. One middle-aged man had bandages wrapped around his shoulder, his gray hair disheveled and wild. Other patrons flipped through newspapers, engaging in idle, half-hearted chatter.

"This year's Triwizard Tournament is really making waves."

"You're telling me. They even invited non-magical folk to watch, and the rewards are through the roof."

"The projected audience has hit a hundred thousand, including fairies, centaurs, and veela—double the crowd of the Quidditch World Cup."

"Wow! That's a massive turnout. Can Hogwarts even handle that many people?"

"I heard the heads of the three major wizarding schools have set up super grandstands over the Black Lake and Forbidden Forest. They can hold over three hundred thousand, easy."

"Are you going? I heard there'll be a lottery."

"Of course! Only a fool wouldn't. Everyone who got wind of it is going."

The conversation among the middle-aged men drilled into Hoffa's mind like a persistent buzz, pulling him from his daze. He couldn't resist ordering a drink, sipping it slowly.

Three days had passed since Barty's death. In that time, Hoffa, weakened by septic potion effects, had lost his formidable nighttime combat abilities and rapid recovery. He'd been forced to find a secluded spot to tend to his wounds.

Miller had vanished. Barty was dead. Dumbledore had lost his memories. Nicolas Flamel had betrayed him. Hoffa was utterly alone, while his enemies grew stronger with each passing moment.

Voldemort. Grindelwald. And that elusive, omnipresent force: fate.

Though his past memories were gone, fleeting moments of déjà vu haunted him, as if reminding him that this wasn't the first time he'd faced such trials.

Creak.

The stone wall leading to Diagon Alley slid open.

A dozen people emerged in neat formation, carrying everyday wizarding supplies, moving in single file like ants.

In just three days, most people Hoffa encountered had transformed into what he'd once seen in his nightmares: indifferent, numb, emotionless, silent—like walking diamonds.

An inexplicable dream had spread like a plague, silently sweeping across the world, turning most people into hollow shells.

Hoffa had an inkling why this was happening, what they might be dreaming of, but he refused to dwell on it—let alone admit it.

He had never felt so alone, so helpless.

At that moment, the hunched bartender set a glass of strong liquor before him. Hoffa, who rarely drank, downed it in one gulp, his throat burning like it was aflame.

For a fleeting moment, the alcohol dulled the crushing weight on his shoulders.

"Another," he muttered.

The bartender obliged. Hoffa hesitated briefly before drinking it down again. The burning rush blurred his vision slightly, and for the first time, he discovered the comfort of drinking.

No… perhaps it wasn't the first time.

Alongside that comfort came a powerful sense of familiarity.

This wasn't the first time he'd sat in a bar, drinking. If his instincts were right, he'd probably sat in the Leaky Cauldron like this thousands of times before, consuming enough alcohol to circle the globe or fill Lake Baikal.

Gulp. Gulp.

The glass emptied and refilled, again and again.

His weathered, middle-aged appearance now mirrored a man crushed by life. The bartender, seemingly used to such patrons, poured his drinks with practiced ease.

After the tenth glass, the bartender lifted the bottle to pour more.

Hoffa covered his cup.

"No more?" the hunched bartender asked.

"No more," Hoffa replied, shaking his head.

The bald bartender paused, polishing a glass with a faint smile. "No wonder I chose you. Even now, you can still control yourself."

Hoffa looked up at the stooped, bald man. He seemed much older than he had fifty years ago. Hoffa remembered the first time he came to the Leaky Cauldron alone; this old man had been younger than him then.

"Have you decided?" the bartender asked cryptically.

"Decided what?" Hoffa countered.

"To accept my invitation." The bartender shrugged with a smile.

Hoffa squinted, the haze of alcohol clearing. The man's deep, soul-piercing eyes were not those of an ordinary bartender.

"You… you're the Little Monster?" Hoffa asked, surprised.

"Correct," the bartender replied calmly. "I see you haven't been fooled by a mere facade."

"Ha!" Hoffa pushed his glass aside, recalling their last encounter. Back then, the Nightmare God had been alluring, almost otherworldly. Now, they resembled a beggar.

"These people," Hoffa gestured at the soulless crowd drifting nearby, "is this your doing?"

"Not mine," replied the Nightmare God, wiping Hoffa's empty glass. "It's the world's interference.

I told you, this timeline exists because you stopped Sylbie Spencer. But you've delayed returning to the past. No one has stopped the half-human king. This paradox is unraveling reality itself.

Sylbie Spencer's victory is slowly consuming the reality you fought for. The past will overwrite the present, and that's what you're seeing."

"No one can escape?" Hoffa thought of Dumbledore. The first time they met, he was erasing his own memories. The second, he didn't even recognize Hoffa.

"Not even the greatest wizard can defy fate. Accept it, Hoffa Bach," the Nightmare God said solemnly. "So, have you decided?"

"What happens if I do?" Hoffa asked.

"You'll become my avatar. I'll grant you the power to conquer all—Riddle, Grindelwald, Spencer. Anyone who dares oppose you will be dragged into an eternal nightmare."

"You want me to become the Nightmare God?"

"You could put it that way, though it won't be forever."

"The price?" Hoffa asked bitterly.

"You know it already," the Nightmare God replied calmly.

"Return to fifty years ago. Defeat Sylbie."

"Of course."

BANG!

Hoffa slammed his hand on the table, his restrained anger finally surfacing.

"Why does it have to be me?"

The God of Nightmares quietly polished a glass, saying nothing, his profound gaze locked onto Hoffa until Hoffa could no longer bear the stare and looked away.

Hoffa stood up and left without paying.

Outside, the sunlight was cold and blinding, the winter wind slicing across his neck like a blade.

Old memories surged within him, compelling him to walk. He Disapparated without another thought.

When he reappeared, he found himself in a graveyard near Grasmere and Rydal Water.

A priest dug a pit, brown earth piling beside it. A group of solemn men dressed in formal black attire with unusually tall hats and polished black boots carried a black wooden coffin. A robed priest spoke loudly nearby, while women wept.

The sound of mourning brought Hoffa a strange sense of peace. It was only in such moments that he felt connected to the ultimate truths of existence. He gazed at the thickets underfoot and began a long, solitary trek.

After crushing countless twigs and brambles, he reached a frosty hillside, covered with dead thorns and towering, withered shrubs. The brittle stems of faded roses crumbled under the harsh winter cold.

Rubbing his hands together, his breath visible in the frigid air, he searched based on memory. Soon, he found a collapsed, rusted metal fence on the slope. Within it stood two gravestones, their surfaces overgrown with yellow moss.

Clearing away the debris and moss, he revealed the faint names: Fatil and Aglaia.

For the first time in fifty years, Hoffa faced his past so honestly.

In many ways, his life had already been fulfilled. An old man had left him immense wealth, enough to achieve anything he desired. Yet, ironically, the one thing he truly wanted remained forever out of reach.

From the moment he was born into this world, he had always been alone.

If he could, he would have loved to sit by the sea with the person he cherished, watching the sunset give way to a sky full of stars, listening to the waves without the need for words, knowing deep inside he was no longer alone.

But he couldn't.

It was impossible.

Absolutely impossible.

The god above him, whimsical and mad like a child, would rather see him die six thousand times, even six million or six trillion times, than grant him his heart's desire.

He touched the gravestone and sat down, leaning against it, lost in thought—about the past, the future, the meaning of his existence, and why life was so hard.

The more he thought, the smaller he felt. The more he pondered, the more meaningless his actions seemed.

Yet, despite this, a fierce unwillingness burned within him, a stubborn desire to do something.

"Little Monster," he whispered softly.

The moment the words left his lips, the priest delivering the eulogy far off among the swaying shadows suddenly fell silent. The crowd quieted, women stopped crying, men ceased digging. They parted in unison.

The priest adjusted his robes, stepped through the bushes, and approached Hoffa with an enigmatic smile.

"Have you decided?" he asked.

"Is this world a dream?" Hoffa asked the God of Nightmares.

"I can't answer that. But from your perspective, no. At least, it wasn't created by Sylby Spencer."

Hoffa slowly turned his head. "You know my future, don't you? You know my cycles, right?"

"Sorry, I don't," the priest replied, shaking his head. "But from my millennia of experience, your future holds no choice but responsibility."

"If I go back, how do you want me to return?" Hoffa asked.

"Dreams can carry you across the illusions of time and the deep layers of cause and effect," the priest replied, circling Hoffa lightly, like a dancer. "Think of it as leaping from one point to another, as long as you don't violate this world's principles."

"I don't understand," Hoffa said.

"Simply put, as long as you follow your destiny, I can take you back."

"Can I come back?"

"No. I'll help you until you defeat the Half-Blood King. After that, you mean nothing to me."

"Ha, at least you're honest," Hoffa chuckled bitterly. "But Grindelwald is trying to stop me. He wants to destroy this world directly. If he succeeds, won't both worlds lose their meaning?"

"Of course. If you don't want that to happen, you can do as Sylby did."

"Do what?"

"Drag Gellert Grindelwald into a dream and seal him away. I have that power. If you agree to return to the past, I'll help you defeat Grindelwald, help you get your revenge."

"I'm not like Sylby. I'm not like anyone," Hoffa rejected without hesitation.

"Words are empty. I only believe in actions," said the God of Nightmares.

Hoffa fell silent, thinking of the future version of himself he'd seen in the Underworld.

His future self had agreed to the God of Nightmares' deal, becoming the new God of Nightmares, dragging Grindelwald into eternal nightmares, returning to the past, and waiting for his future self to arrive.

Death had seen this outcome, which was why it had let him go without care. His fate had formed a perfect loop. Anyone connected to his destiny couldn't escape it. They were all trapped in this cycle, losing their memories repeatedly, including himself. Only Aglaia in the Underworld remembered everything.

"Is there no other choice?" Hoffa asked.

"No, at least not one I can see," the priest answered confidently. "You will accept your fate. You will."

Faced with such certainty, Hoffa found he could no longer defiantly say, "But I refuse."

He felt like a gray hare hunted by hounds across the wasteland. No matter how fast or far he ran, the hound would always catch up, find him, and devour him.

Yet an intense defiance filled his heart, so strong he couldn't agree to the deal before him, couldn't accept this predetermined fate.

He stepped back, trying to escape the God of Nightmares' gaze.

But it was futile. The men and women from the graveyard surrounded him, moving closer.

He stumbled into a woman in black silk. She said, "We are destined to be connected. That's why you feel familiar to me and why I've come to seek your help."

Hoffa quickly turned in another direction, only to bump into a man holding a spade.

"Rebellion is excruciating, and most of the time, it's pointless," said the man. "If submission is inevitable, doing it sooner spares you unnecessary suffering."

The God of Nightmares had countless avatars, each capable of speech, all sharing the same deep, universe-like eyes.

The gathering crowd made Hoffa feel suffocated. He shoved past the woman and the priest, striding away. The crowd followed leisurely behind.

He walked faster, eventually reaching the city where the crowd finally disappeared.

But then, every passerby on the street turned to him, expressionless, and said in unison:

"You will accept. You will."

(End of Chapter)

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