Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"No!!"

Cedric Diggory was the first to react. He shouted in alarm, drew his wand from his waist, and charged fearlessly toward the massive creature standing at the center of the maze.

"Stupefy!"

Burning with rage, Cedric cast a spell at the Thunderbird. But the spell struck its body like a spark against a steel plate—without any effect.

"Confringo!"

He swung his wand again.

Hoffa, in his Thunderbird form, grew impatient with the noise. He turned his head and glanced at Cedric. Just one glance.

A bolt of lightning descended from the sky, striking Cedric Diggory. His entire body convulsed violently, his hair stood on end, and he collapsed to the ground, his body twitching uncontrollably, his face charred black.

With Cedric taken care of, Hoffa shifted his massive talons, crushing the pedestal that held the Triwizard Cup into the ground. The cup itself was flattened into a mere metal disk—worthless even to a scrap dealer.

If the Triwizard Cup had been a Portkey, touching it should have instantly transported him to Voldemort's hideout. That was his plan—to force Voldemort to hand over the Resurrection Stone.

But now, the cup did nothing. Not even the faintest trace of magical energy emanated from it. His heart sank. Once again, history had deviated.

The cup was not a Portkey.

The Sphinx had warned him about a hidden truth within the maze. But what was the real secret? If the two champions were simply competing for the cup, what was so unspeakable about that?

His gaze shifted to Harry Potter—the boy he had deliberately manipulated earlier. Hoffa knew Voldemort's target was Harry, and he wasn't one to sit idly by. The moment he left the group, Voldemort would surely find another way to take Harry.

At that moment, Harry was kneeling beside Cedric, who was still convulsing. He hesitated, wanting to help but too afraid to touch him. His face was filled with fear and concern.

Sensing the oppressive gaze of the massive six-winged bird, Harry scrambled to his feet. He backed away, sweat dripping from his forehead, clearly bewildered and terrified.

Their eyes met for no more than two seconds.

Suddenly, a massive purple serpent slithered out from the pitch-black maze.

Its body was covered in intricate, overlapping scales. Its fangs gleamed with a chilling light. Its speed was incredible, and its head alone was the size of a motorcycle.

It darted past the fork in the maze where Harry stood and lunged at him with its jaws wide open.

The moment the snake struck, Hoffa cursed inwardly. He saw the unconscious Cedric beneath the serpent's coils and Harry paralyzed with fear.

With a powerful flap of his six wings, Hoffa dove at the serpent.

A fierce gust of wind howled through the maze. Within two seconds, he reached the serpent, extending one talon toward the unconscious Cedric and the other toward the petrified Harry.

But the snake flicked its head sharply.

Harry was hooked by one of its fangs, lifted high into the air, and tossed aside—just barely avoiding Hoffa's razor-sharp talons.

Slash!

Blood and scales scattered through the air.

Three deep gashes were carved into the serpent's neck by the Thunderbird's iron-like claws.

The creature recoiled, gripping Harry tightly, and, in the blink of an eye, bolted into the maze. The entire exchange took less than a second, everything happening at breakneck speed.

Landing on the ground, Hoffa reverted to human form. Holding the nearly-crushed Cedric in his arms, he looked down at his bloodied hands, covered in snake scales and fresh wounds. He couldn't help but curse.

Damn it.

He knew Tom Riddle wouldn't give up so easily. The Triwizard Cup was just a distraction, while the real Voldemort had personally entered Hogwarts.

Was he planning to resurrect himself right here, within the school?

Hoffa couldn't understand it. Voldemort was far too weak—there was no way his frail body could endure Apparition or any other long-distance travel. How had he made it from England to Scotland?

What the hell is he planning?

Glancing at Cedric Diggory, who was still in his arms, Hoffa noted that while the lightning strike had knocked him out, it hadn't been fatal. He was now awake, staring at Hoffa in utter terror.

Hoffa gently placed him on the ground and whispered, "Close your eyes."

Cedric hesitated, looking at the unfamiliar man with gray hair and striking golden eyes. Remembering how Hoffa had just saved him, he obeyed and shut his eyes.

From the ground, several stone hands emerged, wrapping around Cedric like the petals of a lotus. The stone lotus slowly sank into the earth, leaving only a small air hole.

"Good luck, Cedric."

Hoffa murmured, looking down at the stone lotus.

After what had happened with the Crouch family, he had come to understand the unyielding nature of fate. If someone was destined to die, no amount of effort could change that.

Perhaps Cedric was no exception.

But at least he had done everything he could.

With Cedric secured, Hoffa took off, following the trail of blood left by the serpent. He raced through the maze, turning left and right, faster and faster. Anything that dared block his path was obliterated in an instant.

Giant spiders with eight legs, eight-foot-long Blast-Ended Skrewts, floating Dementors—any creature foolish enough to stand in his way was crushed to a pulp.

After nearly a hundred turns, Hoffa finally caught up.

He saw the serpent's tail flicker ahead of him.

Swish!

The serpent suddenly stopped, as if it had crashed into an invisible barrier. Then, forced to adjust its course, it began slithering upward to bypass the obstacle.

Hoffa rushed forward, only to find his path blocked by a massive unicorn lying on the ground.

It was the same unicorn he had seen earlier.

But now, it was nothing like before.

Emaciated, its ribs protruding, it lay there like an old, dying horse. In less than thirty minutes, something unspeakable had happened to it.

Standing before the unicorn was a woman—Fleur Delacour.

Her face was as pale as a sheet. She wore a white dress, but at her abdomen, a dark red stain spread ominously.

The sight of that vivid red color sent a chill through Hoffa's body.

His breath caught in his throat.

He stepped closer, his voice trembling. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened," Fleur replied softly, her voice barely audible.

"Nothing?" Hoffa repeated. She certainly didn't look fine.

"Nothing happened," she murmured again, her eyes hollow.

Gracefully, she clasped her hands over her bloodstained abdomen and walked forward.

Her white dress trailed behind her, leaving a thin red line on the grass. Slowly, she vanished from Hoffa's sight.

Overwhelmed with confusion, Hoffa followed the trail of blood, arriving at another clearing within the maze.

The serpent had stopped there, coiled around Harry's unconscious body, facing a man who had just emerged from the shadows.

The snake hissed menacingly—"Sssssss!"

But Hoffa wasn't looking at Harry.

His gaze was fixed on something even more horrifying.

A three-meter-tall, plant-like unicorn stood in the clearing. Beneath it was a grotesque, squat man clutching a blood-soaked infant.

The infant's scarlet eyes glared at Hoffa.

And then—it laughed.

At that moment, Hoffa understood.

His knees nearly buckled.

They had used dark magic so vile, so depraved, that even he struggled to comprehend it.

"Tom…" Hoffa's fists clenched, veins bulging.

"Oh, Bach," the bloodied infant chuckled in Wormtail's arms. "You saw the woman, didn't you? What a shame you missed the real show—it was quite the spectacle."

Hoffa's teeth ground together audibly. "Why are you… so experienced with this?"

"Everything comes with a price," Voldemort said coldly. "But that price… will never be mine to pay."

Hoffa's face twisted with more disgust than ever before. "I really underestimated you."

"That's normal—I overestimated you."

"Come here, Nagini."

The infant waved his frail little arm, and beside him, the massive purple serpent slithered over, carrying an unconscious Harry Potter. As it reached Voldemort, he gently stroked the snake's head with his thin fingers, his gaze fixed mockingly on Hoffa. "Is it fun fighting with two little brats over a trophy?"

"Hand him over," Hoffa demanded, pointing at the unconscious Harry Potter.

"Feeling charitable again?" Voldemort sneered coldly. "Then you can dig him a little grave after I hang him."

Hoffa's expression darkened as he strode forward.

"I knew you couldn't be trusted, Bach."

Voldemort, covered in blood, showed no fear. He let out a hoarse laugh. "Despite all the conditions, all the agreements, all the clauses—you still betrayed me."

"Yes. And I have no regrets."

Hoffa quickened his pace toward Voldemort. "If I could, I'd hunt down every filthy fragment of your soul and destroy them one by one."

"Do you still have time for that, Bach?"

Infant Voldemort regarded Hoffa with equal loathing, though his voice carried a strange amusement. "You know, I heard something interesting recently.

Someone told me that you're already dead—that the one standing here is actually you from fifty years ago. And soon, you'll have to return to that time. Tell me, is that true?"

"It is."

Hoffa stopped ten meters away from Wormtail. He tore off his shirt, his body beginning to grow taller.

"What a pity. Hahaha!"

Voldemort laughed heartily. "Then I'll forgive everything you've done to me. After all, you've already paid the price."

Boom!

The ground cracked beneath Hoffa's feet as he launched himself at Voldemort, raising his fist. "Even so, it's still enough to kill the you of today!"

Wormtail clutched the infant Voldemort, his legs trembling with fear. The baby let out a sharp cry: "Stop him, Flamel!"

At his command, dozens of iron pipes descended from the sky, blocking Hoffa's path and surrounding him completely.

Then, a voice sounded from behind him.

"Nagini, take them where they need to go."

Hoffa slowly turned his head.

There, standing behind him, was an old man with white hair.

A flood of fury, like an apocalyptic deluge, poured from the peak of Olympus, threatening to wash away the sins of the world.

"Flamel, what foolishness are you doing?" Hoffa's rage ignited. "Did Fatière's death teach you nothing?"

"It should have taught you something."

Nicolas Flamel spoke calmly, meeting Hoffa's gaze. "At least I'm not attempting the impossible."

"The impossible?"

Hoffa repeated Flamel's words.

"Voldemort wasn't wrong about one thing—you truly don't understand how to weigh the consequences."

Flamel sighed. "Your fiery emotions are both your strength and your downfall."

"My downfall?"

Hoffa echoed, his fury intensifying.

"Hmph… hmph…"

Voldemort let out a sly chuckle as the serpent slithered away, carrying Harry Potter into the depths of the labyrinth.

Its movement was like the sounding of a war horn.

A storm howled through the forest, snapping tree trunks like dry twigs. Screams and howls of nature tore through the air, rising into the sky.

Hoffa struck out, shattering the iron pipes that blocked his way.

Flamel drew his wand, pulling a glass orb from his robes and stepping into Hoffa's path.

Then, in an instant, a blinding white light exploded from Flamel's body, expanding outward and momentarily robbing Hoffa of his sight.

A barrage of over twenty spells and alchemical concoctions rained down on him.

Hoffa vanished—then reappeared, seizing the glass orb from Flamel's hands and hurling it high into the sky, where a bolt of lightning shattered it.

But Flamel caught hold of Hoffa's arm, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. Some kind of alchemical substance coated his fingers, eating away at Hoffa's wrist until the bone was exposed.

"You will change—whether sooner or later, what difference does it make?" Flamel roared.

"Shut up! You care about nothing, old man!"

Hoffa kicked him away. "Everything you've done was an act! You hypocrite! Tell me—what do you really want?"

"You dare speak to me that way?"

Flamel swung a fist into Hoffa's face, breaking his nose. Blood spattered as he snarled, "You dare say I don't care?"

Spittle flew from his lips.

"You think I wanted to harm that girl? You think I, at my age, would do something so despicable if I didn't have to? Do you know who insisted—who made sure I would do whatever it took to send you back?"

"Oh? Who was it? Dumbledore? Voldemort? The entire wizarding world?"

Hoffa's face twisted with fury and scorn.

"It was you—your future self!"

Flamel shoved Hoffa. "The you from fifty years in the future came to me personally. He arranged everything, instructed me to ensure you accept your fate after his death, and ordered me to send you back—no matter the cost. This was all his doing!"

The wind fell silent.

Hoffa's expression turned from pale to ashen.

Who could know him better than himself?

If it was his older self—the one from fifty years ahead—then there was no denying it.

Flamel took a deep breath and released Hoffa's hand. He paced across the grass, his voice heavy with sorrow.

"I care more than anyone. I care about Chloe. I care about that girl. But if the foundation collapses, nothing survives. If I don't send you back, no one will live."

Hoffa trembled with emotion, but no words came out.

All he could do was let out a long, weary sigh.

"Say no more, Flamel."

Flamel shook his head. "Whether you listen or not, the truth remains unchanged. The threads of fate are woven into a vast web, and each life is a strand. You are a key node in that web, and every action you take alters the destinies of others."

Hoffa closed his eyes, refusing to respond.

"Bach, you don't belong in this time. You must return to the past! If you don't, the entire world will collapse. We will all fall into eternal slumber. By then, reviving anyone will be meaningless."

"I understand!!"

Hoffa's eyes snapped open. He seized Flamel by the throat, his rage so intense that he bit down on his own lip until it bled.

"I will seal away Grindelwald. I will return to fifty years ago. I will mend the timeline. But I have one wish—to stop history from repeating! Is that so much to ask?!"

"History… repeating?"

Flamel stared at him, confused.

"I want to bring Fatière's daughter back! I must!"

Hoffa roared. "I'm sick of this endless cycle—I have to change this!"

"I don't know what nonsense you're talking about."

Flamel pried Hoffa's hand away. Lightning flashed as he spread his arms.

"You can't do it, foolish boy. A person who has been dead for fifty years—without a soul—even if you reconstruct a body, it would only be an empty shell. What meaning is there in that?"

"No."

Hoffa's gaze bore into Flamel's, unwavering.

"Voldemort has the Resurrection Stone. I can take it from him. I can summon her soul back from Helheim."

Flamel fell silent.

He stared at Hoffa, looking older than ever.

Hoffa stepped closer, gripping Flamel's shoulders.

"Help me, Flamel. If I can fulfill this one wish, I will return to the past as you want. Can you help me?"

Flamel shook his head, expression vacant.

"What does that mean? Not even one condition can be met?"

"It's not that I won't help you, Hoffa. It's that you're too late."

Flamel looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

"The Resurrection Stone… Grindelwald has already taken it."

"And if he controls the key step in resurrection… then he controls you. No matter what he asks, you will have no choice but to obey. He knows you too well."

(End of Chapter)

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