Harry Potter: I am the Legend

In the dimly lit room, a bald young man held a freshly peeled apple in his hand, bowing slightly toward the chair before him. Seated in the chair was a peculiar creature, wrinkled and infant-like.

From the distant hallway, Peter Pettigrew crouched behind a cabinet, nervously observing the scene. He swallowed hard, unsure if his eyes were deceiving him. The figures by the roaring fireplace seemed less like two people and more like a hawk folding its wings beside a venomous snake coiled on the ground.

Ignoring the apple before him, Tom Riddle narrowed his crimson eyes, scrutinizing his long-time adversary. Suddenly, the shriveled, infant-like figure slumped in the chair, tilting its head lazily as it spoke with an air of disdain:

"Kneel."

Hoffa frowned slightly, remaining still with the apple in his hand.

"I said, kneel. Didn't you hear me?"

Tom leaned forward, his voice colder and sharper. "Kneel. Now."

Hoffa held the apple steady, unmoving.

"You think you can sway me with an apple? Do you take me for a baby, Bach?" Tom's crimson eyes gleamed with mockery. "Don't you want to resurrect your precious little girlfriend? Show some sincerity!"

Raising an eyebrow, Hoffa put the apple away and straightened his posture. Walking over to the dark hall's fireplace, he removed a porcelain plate from the wall, blowing off the accumulated dust.

"Tom, while I may need your help, that doesn't make me your subordinate or servant. Let's not pretend—you need me now more than ever."

Tom Riddle's expression twisted into a sinister smile. "You're overestimating yourself, Bach. I don't need you."

Placing the plate on the table, Hoffa's fingers transformed into a small blade, slicing the apple into eight pieces.

"The Ministry might think you're dead, but Albus Dumbledore doesn't. Neither does the Order of the Phoenix. They'll find you and kill you. Your most loyal followers are wavering—or have already betrayed you. Malfoy, Karkaroff… with even the slightest turmoil, they'll tear you apart. You know this better than anyone."

The figure in the chair twitched, spitting on the floor as it sneered. "You're just as insufferably informed as always."

"Don't take it personally. These things are common knowledge in the wizarding world. And given the current circumstances, relying solely on Peter Pettigrew out there won't protect you. Will you really let petty pride push me away at a time like this?"

"No one can find me! No one!" Voldemort hissed vehemently.

"Oh, really?"

Leaning against the fireplace's brick wall, Hoffa casually bit into an apple slice. "Didn't I find you?"

"You—cough, cough!" Voldemort choked on his anger, breaking into a fit of coughing.

Shrugging, Hoffa said, "How many people in this world can remain neutral and objective? Perhaps only Ravenclaw ever managed it. I hold no bias against you, Tom."

"I don't need your ridiculous neutrality! Submit or leave!" Voldemort snarled, his voice like a serpent's hiss. "Never trust a Ravenclaw—that's a lesson I learned at the cost of my soul."

The conversation stalled.

Crunch. Crunch.

Hoffa slowly ate his apple by the fireplace.

Tom licked his lips with cruel amusement. "I'll give you one minute to decide. If you finish that damn apple and still refuse to kneel, prepare to kill me. Hmph."

Swallowing a slice, Hoffa nonchalantly picked up another. "The Gaunt Shack."

Crunch. Swallow. Another slice. "The seaside cave."

With each bite, Tom Riddle's face grew paler.

Another slice disappeared.

"Gringotts."

"Enough!!"

Tom's crimson eyes widened in fury, his expression teetering on the brink of chaos.

Hoffa held half a slice of apple, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"Impossible. Impossible! How could you—?!"

Sweat poured from Voldemort's face as his trembling body betrayed his fear. "Stop it… stop it!"

When he looked back at Hoffa, his eyes were filled with endless hatred and malice. "You!!"

Setting down the apple slice, Hoffa spoke slowly, "That's why you shouldn't speak in absolutes, Tom. I hate loneliness, and you fear death. Cooperation is still possible."

"You dare threaten me?!" Voldemort's teeth chattered with rage. "Threaten the greatest Dark Wizard in history?!"

"I'm not threatening you. Your life or death means little to me. I'm here for a transaction," Hoffa replied calmly.

Voldemort closed his eyes, his expression shifting unpredictably. After a long three minutes, he opened them again, his voice cold. "I trust actions, not words. The Philosopher's Stone is useless to me now, so don't even mention it."

Hoffa shrugged. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"I want Harry Potter," Tom Riddle said. The room's fire wavered violently, nearly extinguished by an unseen chill.

"Hmm," Hoffa hummed in acknowledgment.

"Don't give me any excuses. We're no longer the young wizards of fifty years ago. Bring Harry Potter to me—quietly, without drawing attention. Help me fully resurrect and reclaim my power, and I'll give you the Peverell secret to human transmutation."

As Tom spoke, Hoffa's expression flickered briefly, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him. For reasons he couldn't explain, this scene felt hauntingly familiar, as though he'd lived it before.

The feeling of déjà vu came swiftly and dissipated just as quickly, until Tom Riddle's sharp voice broke through:

"Hey, hey, are you even listening to me?"

Hoffa raised his head and locked eyes with him.

Tom Riddle repeated emphatically, "I said, I agree to your deal. But the condition is this: you deliver the boy to me. In exchange, I'll give you the Peverell secret to human transmutation, and even the resurrection incantations."

"Do you mean immediately?"

"No, there's no rush. You have a year. I need time to prepare the ritual, gather materials, and arrange the site. All you need to do is deliver him to me when everything is ready."

After a pause, Riddle sneered, "So, what do you say, legendary wizard? Such a task should be child's play for you."

"Fine," Hoffa replied, his expression heavy. "But I have one condition as well."

"Speak."

"I want someone from my side involved in your preparations."

"Your side?" Tom's expression turned mocking, his laughter cold and disdainful. "Ha! When did the proud Ravenclaw eagle start building a faction?"

"Nicolas Flamel."

Hoffa said calmly, "I want him to participate in your resurrection ritual."

"Absolutely not."

Tom Riddle rejected him outright without hesitation.

"You're too naive if you think you can plant someone in my circle," Riddle scoffed.

"Sorry, Tom, but trust between us isn't as strong as you might think," Hoffa said without much emotion. "I'm sure you'd find a way to pull some tricks on me. That's why I need someone knowledgeable to supervise."

"Then there's no need for us to cooperate."

Voldemort's cold smile deepened. "How do I know you won't sabotage me instead?"

The two men stared at each other, each seeing caution in the other's eyes.

Hoffa picked up another slice of apple and bit into it with a crunch.

This time, Voldemort didn't back down. He glared at Hoffa hatefully, his small, wrinkled fists clenching tightly, sweat dripping from his face.

"Nicolas Flamel must participate in your resurrection ritual," Hoffa said, putting down the apple. "That's my only condition, and it's non-negotiable. As compensation, you may propose your own terms."

In the flickering firelight, Tom Riddle's expression looked as though he'd swallowed something vile. He stared at the nearly empty plate of apple slices, took a deep breath, and forced himself to speak.

"Fine. Fine! Let's not beat around the bush."

Narrowing his eyes, he said slowly, "If you want to plant someone by my side, then I must have someone by yours."

"Your person?"

Hoffa raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to Riddle's chair. "Wormtail?"

A loud thud echoed from outside the room, as though something—or someone—had tumbled down the stairs.

Riddle's expression soured with disdain. "No, someone far more capable—a loyal servant of mine."

Smirking confidently, he continued, "He's the son of the Ministry's current Head of International Magical Cooperation: Barty Crouch Jr., a pitiful soul locked away in Azkaban by his own father.

"Whether you've heard of him or not, it doesn't matter. Your task is to rescue him, ensure his participation in your actions, and guarantee his safety until my resurrection is complete. Otherwise, all your demands are meaningless."

"Hiss…" Hoffa clicked his tongue, taken aback by the demand. His heart sank, and a bitter smile crept across his face—one only he could sense. But he clenched his jaw, quickly regaining composure. Standing before Riddle, he extended his hand.

"Fine. We have a deal."

Riddle stared at the hand in front of him, sweat pouring down his face. Then he laughed—a joyless, malevolent laugh. Though his eyes burned with unmistakable killing intent, in that moment, he seemed genuinely amused.

"Heh… heh… heh…"

"Ha… ha… ha…"

The laughter grew louder, more sinister, filling the room.

"What are you laughing at?" Hoffa asked.

"I was just reminded of the orphanage we stayed in fifty years ago," Tom Riddle said slowly, his nostrils flaring as though savoring something delicious. "Ah, how the tables have turned, Bach. You've changed."

Hoffa withdrew his hand without hesitation and turned away from the fireplace. He strode out of the room, stepping over a trembling Wormtail cowering at the stairway corner, and left without looking back.

Behind him, Voldemort's laughter echoed, unrelenting and filled with derision.

"You've changed. You've truly changed! Hahaha!!"

(End of Chapter)

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