Harry Potter: I am the Legend

As night fell, Hoffa was jolted from his meditation by a surge of excitement and fervor. Even through the tent's fabric, he could sense the pulsating energy in the air—a tangible manifestation of anticipation shared by thousands of wizards.

He pulled back the curtain of his peacock-colored tent.

Under the purple-hued evening sky, orange lights dotted the landscape.

Nearby, foreign wizards, their torsos bare and snakes coiled around their shoulders, sent silver ribbons of light shooting from their wands. These ribbons floated like ethereal branches, captivating onlookers. Each flourish of light was met with thunderous applause and cheers. Quidditch enthusiasts, lost in their zeal, joined hands and danced around the performers, chanting enigmatic slogans.

To the left, about ten meters away, a group of fire-wielding wizards demonstrated their craft. Holding glowing red pipes, they inhaled deeply, exhaling flames that took the shape of zebras, reindeer, and goldfish. These fiery creatures twisted and shimmered in the air before vanishing in bursts of brilliance, each disappearance drawing a wave of cheers.

Meanwhile, street vendors arrived on floating carts, offering trays of peculiar trinkets. Among their wares were glowing rose-shaped badges—green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria—that shouted team members' names in shrill voices. The sight reminded Hoffa of the glow sticks and banners wielded by fans at concerts in the future. Though simple, their collective display was undeniably impressive.

Feeling refreshed and focused after his meditation, Hoffa's thoughts turned to finding Harry. However, as he surveyed the sea of people, he realized the futility of his plan. The crowd was dense, flags waved everywhere, and the sheer scale—ten thousand wizards—made locating one person akin to finding a needle in a haystack.

Suddenly, the sound of a beer can being opened erupted from the distance, spraying foam into the air. The act set off a chain reaction like falling dominoes. Other revelers retaliated, shaking their beer cans and spraying foam at one another. The air was filled with laughter as soaked participants reveled in the chaos. Vendors, seemingly prepared, raised umbrellas over their carts to shield their goods.

The joy was contagious. Watching the revelry, Hoffa couldn't help but smile. When a stray splash of beer neared his collar, it transformed into a flurry of butterflies, fluttering away into the night.

A crowd quickly gathered around him.

"What kind of spell is that? Do it again, mate!"

A burly man draped in an Irish national team scarf and reeking of alcohol slung an arm over Hoffa's shoulder.

"That's transfiguration, not some random spell! Didn't your school teach you anything?" another onlooker scoffed knowingly.

"Ha!" the drunk man laughed heartily. "Magic or not, it's amazing! Come on, do it again."

Even a group of Beauxbatons girls lingered nearby, giggling behind their hands as they watched Hoffa encircled by butterflies.

Hoffa shook his head with a smile, politely declining. He had tasks to complete that night and preferred not to draw too much attention.

But just as he began to withdraw, children from a neighboring tent darted out, trying to catch the butterflies. When they failed, they tugged at Hoffa's robes.

"Big brother, do it again!"

"Can you make candy appear?" one girl asked eagerly.

Hoffa crouched, grinning. "Are you sure you want to see more?"

The little girl, wearing a unicorn headpiece, nodded emphatically. Hoffa's smile widened as he caught a butterfly, holding it before her. With a flick of his wrist, it transformed into a small pipe. Placing it to his lips, he blew, and a cascade of colorful bubbles ascended into the sky.

"I want bubbles! I want bubbles!" the children cheered, jumping to catch them.

Hoffa chuckled and handed the pipe—now a transparent bubble—to the unicorn-clad girl, winking playfully.

The girl laughed, crushing the bubble with her friends.

In an instant, all the bubbles burst into vibrant fireworks, lighting up the sky in a kaleidoscope of colors. The crowd gasped in awe, their faces illuminated by the dazzling display. Cheers and exclamations filled the air as the fireworks rained down, transforming mid-fall into an array of candies.

Women shrieked with laughter, dodging the colorful sweets, while children scrambled to pick them up.

"What a magnificent display of transfiguration," came an admiring voice from behind.

Hoffa turned to find Nicolas Flamel, who looked on with reverence. "Even Merlin himself might not surpass that," the elder mused.

"It's just an illusion. Anyone can pull off a trick or two," Hoffa replied, shrugging. "Clearly, it didn't fool you."

The candies, now in the hands of the children, reverted to beer. Disappointed groans rippled through the crowd, who turned to find the enigmatic wizard—only to discover he had vanished into the throng.

In the distance, the deep toll of a gong echoed through the woods. Suddenly, thousands of lanterns—red and green—blazed to life, illuminating the path to the Quidditch stadium.

The crowd forgot the false candies and surged toward the brilliantly lit arena like rivers rushing to the sea.

Meanwhile, on the edge of the marsh, staff from the Ministry of Magic's Department of Magical Games and Sports gathered around campfires after a long day's work. Some smoked, others chatted, and a few prepared meals over the flames.

Bazil, one of the staff, pulled frozen sausages from his pack. Just as he was about to roast them, the sky erupted with fireworks.

"Honestly, fireworks now? Are they trying to get the Muggles' attention?" complained his colleague, Vast, setting down a bucket of water near the fire.

"You'd think with all the lectures about the Statute of Secrecy, they'd be more careful. I bet Ludo Bagman himself is behind this," Vast grumbled, glaring at the distant explosions.

Bazil handed him a sausage and sat by the fire. "Why do you care? Nobody's thinking about the Statute right now. Just eat. We might even catch the match."

"Of course, I care!" Vast retorted. "He's a wizard, and so am I. If he's responsible, he should be held accountable."

"You don't have his flair for commentary. Oh, and don't use swamp water for tea—it's filthy," Bazil chided, gesturing to the bubbling kettle.

"What's the difference, it's all just water? Really, you're so particular."

With that, he casually opened the kettle, added some tea leaves, stretched lazily, and said, "You go tonight, I'm not going."

"You don't like Quidditch?"

Bazel gave Wast a look as if he were some kind of monster.

"Like it? Of course I do."

Wast rolled his eyes and took a satisfied sip of his tea. "If I could have a full stomach, sit back in a comfy chair, and let the game stir up my emotions, I'd be all in. But after a full day's work, watching the game? That's just ridiculous. I plan to finish eating, head straight to the tent, and sleep. I'll catch the broadcast tomorrow."

Bazel blinked, considering that his colleague had a point. He looked over at the others, still chatting away. "Charlie, you going?"

"Nope."

The colleague sitting on a rock, smoking, shrugged. "I'm a Muggle-born. I prefer football."

"And you, Sona?"

He turned to another colleague, who was busy hammering nails into the rocky ground, setting up a tent.

The colleague didn't respond, his actions mechanical as he continued his work, preparing for the night's sleep.

Bazel scratched his head, puzzled. It seemed like his colleagues were all a bit strange.

A cold breeze swept through.

Bazel shivered, pulling his jacket tighter. "Don't you feel cold?"

"Cold? A bit, maybe. It's probably because it's getting late."

Wast answered, eyes closed.

"No, I think it's... a bit too cold."

Bazel rubbed his stomach, frowning. "It's supposed to be summer."

No one replied. He seemed to be the only one feeling cold.

The two sat quietly by the fire, eating for a while. Then Wast put down his sausage, stood up with some difficulty, his face pale.

"I suddenly feel really sleepy. You go watch the game after you're done," he said, stumbling over his words.

"Hey, you're really not going?"

Bazel asked, surprised.

Wast didn't respond, turning mechanically and pulling back the tent flap, retreating inside.

Bazel was left confused. The Quidditch World Cup final was about to start, yet none of them were going. He hesitated, then decided to try convincing them once more.

In the dimming light, he returned to the misty stone shore. His colleagues were still doing their own things—smoking, cooking, setting up tents—but the air was filled with silence, no one talking to each other anymore.

"Sona, are you going to watch the final or not?"

He approached the colleague still hammering nails into the rocks. The nails were driven deep, but the work continued without pause.

"Sona!?"

Something felt wrong. Bazel crouched down to look.

His colleague had his eyes closed, mechanically raising the hammer, striking, then raising it again. He seemed to be sleeping while standing.

A chill ran through Bazel. Something ominous and eerie grew within him, like his blood pressure rising. He quickly pulled out his wand and looked around, only to see the smoking colleague had unknowingly stubbed the cigarette on his rear end. The one by the fire had burned the sausages to a crisp. The mist swirled around their faces, all of them with their eyes closed.

"Hey?"

He called out tentatively, but no one answered.

Cold sweat dripped from his brow, his throat tight. He quickly opened Wast's tent flap.

His colleague, dressed in a tweed suit, stood motionless, his head bobbing up and down.

"Wast?"

Bazel called out, unsure.

There was no response.

He approached and saw that Wast's eyes were shut, his head jerking like a student nodding off in class.

"Hey, Wast, what's going on? Say something!"

He grabbed his colleague by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

With that shake, Wast collapsed like a deflated balloon, his body going limp, as though he were made of rubber, not flesh.

"Ah!!"

Bazel screamed in horror, unable to bear the bizarre situation any longer. He ran out of the tent in a panic.

As soon as he stepped outside, he froze.

Outside the tent, in the swamp's fog, a large group of men in black military uniforms stood in eerie silence. Each one wore a strange birdcage-like helmet, holding a torch in hand, standing motionless like statues in the night.

A freezing gust of wind blew from behind them, from the birdcage helmets. The men's bodies seemed to crumble, their bones shedding like pieces of shattered glass, turning to dust before hitting the ground.

"Ah—They—they—they—"

In the distance, the Quidditch match had begun, and Ludo Bagman's voice echoed, "That's Malette! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Malette! Troy! Levsky! Moran!"

Amid the dark swamp, a few torch-bearing soldiers with birdcage helmets stepped forward. Without a word, they lowered their torches, setting fire to the tents on the swamp's edge.

In an instant, flames shot up into the sky.

Without a second thought, Bazel turned and ran.

(End of Chapter)

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