Harry Potter: I am the Legend

After watching Susanna, Arthur, and the others leave in the truck, Miranda took Hoffa to the outskirts of town to wait for a bus. They waited from morning until noon, under the scorching sun that left Hoffa drenched in sweat. Finally, an old, battered bus appeared in the distance, puffing out black smoke as it rumbled toward them.

Hoffa glanced at the schedule on the bus stop sign—this bus was heading to Scotland. Due to his fragmented memory, he wasn't entirely sure where Scotland was, but he had a vague sense that it was very, very far away. Traveling by bus would take an incredibly long time.

As soon as they boarded, Hoffa frowned. The bus was old and cramped, packed with people, along with two goats and four chickens. The air was thick with the musty scent of wool and unwashed bodies, mixed with the pungent stench of goat droppings and dried chicken feces scattered like pearls on the floor. The overwhelming odor nearly knocked Hoffa out the moment he stepped inside. Fortunately, Miranda stood beside him, her short chestnut hair carrying a faint violet fragrance that, in contrast to their surroundings, smelled like an angel's bathwater.

However, after just a few seconds, a wave of deep unease rose within him. His body trembled uncontrollably as he turned his head away in fear.

Miranda, on the other hand, remained unfazed. She showed no sign of disgust at the terrible smell in the bus, nor did she react to Hoffa's uneasy movements.

Since there were no available seats, she simply stood, gripping a hand strap, and pulled out a small, palm-sized novel from her coat. She began reading with a calm expression, completely indifferent to their surroundings.

Seeing her so composed, Hoffa felt ashamed. He sighed inwardly, grabbed onto a hand strap, and gazed out the window.

Three hours into the ride, some passengers got off, finally freeing up two seats. Hoffa wanted Miranda to take the window seat, but she firmly pressed him into it without a word.

Once seated, Miranda remained silent. She crossed one leg over the other, buried her chin in her coat collar, and kept one hand in her pocket while flipping through her book with a single finger, as if the pages contained a hundred Shakespeares.

Ever since their conversation that night, Miranda had barely spoken to Hoffa. Even when they did communicate, it was mostly through eye contact. Oddly enough, sometimes a mere twitch of her lips was enough for Hoffa to understand her thoughts, and this strange sense of understanding left him feeling restless.

The bus continued driving through the night without stopping. Outside the window, the sky alternated between clear and rainy as passengers came and went. Gradually, Hoffa's eyelids grew heavy. Miranda had already fallen asleep, arms crossed and head lowered. Watching her sleep, Hoffa figured they were still far from their destination. He leaned against the window and dozed off.

In his drowsy haze, he felt the bus slow to a stop. Some male passengers stepped out into the wilderness to relieve themselves. He saw Miranda also get off. Standing at the bus door, she glanced at him, her expression seemingly asking him to follow.

Thinking she needed someone to stand guard while she used the restroom, Hoffa got up and trailed behind her.

They walked away from the bus and into the wild. The vast plains were covered in waist-high clover, rustling in the cool night breeze. Miranda's pace was brisk, forcing Hoffa to exert himself just to keep up.

As they walked, a building suddenly emerged in the middle of the wilderness. Miranda stopped in front of a fenced gate. As Hoffa approached, he realized it was a grand and luxurious mansion.

Inside the courtyard, near a fountain, a few children were playing in the gravel, stacking sand piles. Their faces were indistinct.

"Do you know them?"

Miranda stood outside the mansion, pointing at the children in the courtyard.

Hoffa looked at her in confusion and shook his head.

"Do you know their names?" she asked again.

"I don't," Hoffa replied.

"Do you want to know their names?"

Hoffa stared at the children's backs and the beautiful mansion. An inexplicable sense of aversion welled up in him.

"No," he answered. "I want to go back to the bus. Let's go, it might be leaving soon."

Without hesitation, he turned and walked away.

After a while, he realized Miranda hadn't followed him. He turned back to call for her—only to find that both the mansion and Miranda had vanished.

All that remained was the desolate plain, beneath an enormous, blazing red moon hanging in the sky.

The massive moon exuded an unbearable sense of oppression. Under its weight, Hoffa found himself unable to move, unable to breathe. His body felt as heavy as stone. He raised his hand, trying to block out the overwhelming presence, but it was useless.

Ahhhh!!

With a silent scream, Hoffa jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The suffocating pressure still clung to his chest. Shivering, he reached out and pushed open the bus window, desperately sticking his head outside.

The bus had stopped at a small town's gas station. A fine drizzle fell, and the air carried the cool scent of rain mixed with gasoline fumes. As he inhaled deeply, the crushing sensation in his chest finally eased.

He took several deep breaths before pulling himself back into the seat, still shaken.

Beside him, Miranda nudged his shoulder. "Hoffa."

His movements were stiff as he turned to look at her deep brown eyes.

"What?" he croaked.

"We're almost there," she said. "From here, there won't be any more vehicles. We'll have to walk the rest of the way."

It was only then that Hoffa noticed the bus was nearly empty. He had no idea how long he had been asleep—long enough for almost everyone else to have gotten off.

Miranda stood up and stretched her legs.

"Why didn't you wake me up earlier?" Hoffa muttered, his heart pounding.

But Miranda didn't answer his question. Instead, she pulled up the hood of her cloak to shield her hair from the rain and then casually stepped off the bus.

Hoffa followed closely behind her, occasionally pinching his own face to make sure he wasn't dreaming. But the sharp pain and the cold rain dismissed his doubts—he was fully awake.

The small town was nestled among mountains, completely unfamiliar to him. They hadn't walked far before leaving the nameless town behind and stepping into the wilderness. Hoffa had no choice but to stick close to Miranda, though he had no idea how she knew the way. As he trudged through the misty rain, crossing valleys and forests, an old railway line suddenly appeared before him.

A strange sense of familiarity washed over Hoffa. There was no doubt—he had been here before. He just couldn't remember when.

Miranda led him along the railway tracks, walking forward without hesitation. By the time dawn was breaking, they veered off the tracks and onto an unfamiliar path. In the misty rain ahead, vague silhouettes began to emerge—figures of different sizes, scattered in small groups. Their faces were obscured by the fog.

"We're almost there," Miranda said. "Looks like there really is a gathering here."

Hearing this, a spark of excitement ignited in Hoffa's heart.

Could magic truly exist here?

Would he be able to recover his lost memories?

Not long after, a towering figure emerged from the rain and blocked their path. He had grayish-white hair, piercing blue eyes, and wore a butcher's leather coat with high boots. A whip hung in his hand, and a group of grazing goats stood beside him. He looked like a shepherd from the countryside.

"Hey, where are you two from?"

The shepherd stood at the roadside, questioning Hoffa and Miranda.

Miranda halted, her face filled with surprise as she eyed the shepherd warily. She took a step back but remained silent, visibly on guard.

"I'm talking to you two! Are you deaf?"

Seeing them remain silent, the shepherd snapped impatiently.

"Sir, we're from London," Hoffa stepped forward and answered respectfully.

"From London, huh?"

The old shepherd stroked his chin, scrutinizing them from head to toe. He then clicked his tongue in distaste.

"No wonder you look all slick and polished. Disgusting."

Hoffa scratched his head. It seemed their appearance didn't sit well with the old man.

"What are you here in Hogsmeade for?" the shepherd asked.

"To attend the gathering," Miranda answered this time, cautiously watching the man. A hint of confusion flickered across her face.

"The gathering, huh?"

The old man muttered to himself for a moment, then suddenly asked, "What remains after fire has burned everything?"

Miranda was caught off guard by the bizarre question and didn't immediately respond.

Hoffa, however, reacted quickly. "Uh… ashes?" he blurted out.

But as soon as the word left his mouth, the shepherd's expression changed drastically. Without warning, he raised his whip and lashed out at them.

Sensing the hostility, Hoffa instinctively grabbed Miranda, shielding her. The whip cracked against his face, leaving a searing wound.

"Get lost, you fools! You're not welcome here! Scram!" the shepherd bellowed furiously.

Stunned by the sudden attack, Hoffa's temper flared. He turned around and pointed at the shepherd, shouting, "Hey! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you just go around whipping people for no reason?!"

But the shepherd showed no mercy. He raised the whip again and lashed at Hoffa while cursing, "I'll whip any fool who dares step foot here! Now get out! You hear me?!"

Miranda quickly pulled Hoffa back, dodging another strike. Hoffa, still unwilling to back down, opened his mouth to protest—

But Miranda shot him a look. That damnable silent understanding between them sent a shiver down Hoffa's spine.

He glanced around. In the thick rain and fog, several large figures were closing in on them.

"Run!"

Without hesitation, Miranda grabbed Hoffa's wrist and bolted.

As they fled, Hoffa could hear the shepherd's furious shouts behind them:

"Bastards! I'll remember your faces! You London brats better stay out of my sight, or next time, it won't just be a whip you're dealing with!"

(End of Chapter)

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