Harry Potter: I am the Legend

At the outermost perimeter of the Quidditch stadium, thousands of figures dressed in black surrounded the spectator stands. They slit their own veins and, like martyrs, slowly marched around the stadium, letting their blood seep into the ground beneath them.

"What is happening? Why are so many strange people entering the field!?"

From the stands, Ludo Bagman's amplified voice echoed through the air, which was now thick with a frenzied and chaotic energy.

All eyes were fixated on the field. Ever since the trophy was crushed under the foot of that mysterious figure who appeared out of nowhere, the spectators had been unable to tear their gazes away.

And then, when that massive purple serpent coiled around and carried Harry Potter away, the crowd erupted into absolute mayhem. Some screamed in shock, others gasped in horror, covering their mouths in disbelief, yet there were also those who waved their hats and cheered.

"Who is that? How can a baby speak?"

Ludo Bagman's hat had slipped askew, and he shouted in a frenzied voice, "Wait a minute… Is that Nicolas Flamel? The greatest alchemist in history? What is he doing here? Can someone tell me what the hell is going on!?"

Before he could say more, his microphone was taken from him—calmly but without question. He turned his head and saw a tall man in a black wizard's robe standing beside him.

"Allow me," said Grindelwald. "You are not fit to commentate on this event."

He grabbed Ludo Bagman by the collar and shoved him off the commentator's platform. Bagman tumbled into the crowd, swallowed up by the frenzied spectators, his face immediately doused with several cups of brown licorice juice.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Grindelwald's voice boomed over the stands, commanding attention. "On this momentous night, allow me to introduce the greatest Dark Lord in history—Tom Marvolo Riddle."

The eyes embedded in the maze's towering hedges all turned in one direction. And so, the spectators saw him—the blood-soaked, crimson-eyed infant still attached to an umbilical cord, cradled in the arms of Peter Pettigrew.

At that moment, he was grinning arrogantly while chatting with Hoffa.

"This new guest who has graced Hogwarts," Grindelwald's voice grew even louder, reverberating across the stadium, "is none other than the man you commonly refer to as… Voldemort."

A deafening silence fell upon the stands, as if someone had pressed the OFF button on the entire crowd.

The spectators, with stiff necks, tore their gazes away from the field and turned mechanically toward the commentator's platform. There stood the tall man, microphone in hand, speaking with ease and authority.

Grindelwald continued, "As you all know, this legendary Dark Lord has been in decline ever since he was defeated fourteen years ago. But recently, I received a request—to resurrect him in the safest place possible. And tell me, what place could be safer than here?"

The audience split into two extremes.

One group, mostly women and children, shrieked in terror at the name. They clutched their heads and screamed, running in all directions in a near-hysterical frenzy.

The other group, mostly male wizards, shot to their feet in outrage.

"You bastard! Who the hell are you?"

"What have you done?"

"Are you joking!?"

"Who gave you the guts, helmeted freak!?"

Some hurled curses, while others acted immediately. A portion of the wizards leaped off the high stands, Apparating into the center of the Quidditch field, wands drawn, firing spells at Grindelwald.

A barrage of spells obliterated the commentator's platform into splinters, sending wooden planks and stone debris raining down. As panicked witches ducked for cover, Grindelwald casually reappeared on the other side of the stands, his voice unwavering.

"Let's make a bet, shall we? By the end of this night, either Voldemort will rise to power once more, or he will be reduced to dust, never to return.

And you—each and every one of you—have only two choices: stop his resurrection or help him return."

"Kill him first! Then kill Voldemort!"

The voice rang out. It was Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. He stood among the crowd, wand raised like Napoleon brandishing a sword atop a warhorse.

"Kill him!"

"Kill them all!"

"Throw them into Azkaban!"

As the Ministry officials surged toward the platform, another group—the fanatical followers invited by Voldemort—rose from their seats, intercepting them. Without hesitation, they drew their wands and unleashed a barrage of counter-spells.

In an instant, the stands descended into utter chaos. Hexes and curses flashed in every direction, food and popcorn were sent flying, men shouted, women screamed.

Then came the howl of a werewolf—Awooo!

A considerable number of the spectators transformed, their bodies erupting with thick, coarse fur, muscles bulging, fangs and claws gleaming. In the pandemonium, they lunged at the fleeing witches and wizards, sinking their fangs into necks, tearing with savage delight.

Severed limbs flew, and agonized screams filled the air.

"Hahaha—AHAHAHAHA!"

Grindelwald roared with laughter, arms outstretched as if basking in the finest of wines, reveling in the madness around him.

"Look at this! How wonderful! How harmonious! All it takes is a single spark, and we—just like men and women—can so easily fall into our natural roles."

After laughing for a moment, his expression shifted to one of boredom and indifference. He glanced at the slaughter unfolding before him, then, without hesitation, drew his wand and calmly stepped off the platform, making his way toward the maze.

Deep within the forest, Hoffa clenched his teeth.

That bastard.

Never in his wildest imagination had he thought that in just a few days, the Resurrection Stone would once again fall into Grindelwald's hands.

As he and Nicolas Flamel spoke, the dark mist obscuring the outside of the maze gradually dissipated, revealing the chaos beyond.

Even without seeing it, Hoffa could guess—Grindelwald was exploiting Voldemort's resurrection for his own ends. Not only that, he had also used Hoffa's own actions to orchestrate this large-scale disaster.

"Did you learn the resurrection spell?" Hoffa asked Flamel.

"With Voldemort's cunning, do you really think that if I failed to stop you, he would entrust me with the most critical part of the ritual?" Flamel sighed. "No. He would only reveal it to me if you were dead and I had completely surrendered to him."

"Is this the place where he's being resurrected?"

"It is," Flamel admitted. "Grindelwald has been helping him prepare for days."

"Can we use the ritual for ourselves?"

Hoffa's mind shifted gears immediately.

Flamel hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Theoretically, yes. As long as the three key elements—blood, flesh, and bone—are present, creating a new body isn't difficult."

"Then we kill Voldemort, destroy this fragment of his soul, and repurpose the ritual for our own use."

Hoffa's voice was firm. "He hasn't fully revived yet. If we kill him now, the chaos and war he's caused will end quickly."

"Grindelwald won't just stand by and watch. He will keep the chaos going until the ritual is complete," Flamel warned, his gaze fixed on the battlefield. "Who knows how long he has been planning this?"

"Then let him come," Hoffa cracked his knuckles, expressionless. "I'll take back the Resurrection Stone. And his blood."

"Can you really do it?" Flamel asked, full of concern. "You're too confident. Do you think he'll let you succeed?"

"Will you help me?" Hoffa countered.

Flamel fell silent, then, after a moment, stepped forward and embraced him—an abrupt, unexpected gesture. Hoffa froze.

Flamel sighed and pressed a firm kiss to his forehead, his rough hands cradling Hoffa's head, like a grandfather bidding farewell before sending his grandson off to war.

Hoffa understood. He knew what kind of man Flamel was.

Without another word, he took Flamel's hand, unfurled his wings, and soared into the sky.

Moments later, he spotted a hidden corner outside the maze, shrouded in dense steam. He flapped his wings, summoning a gust of wind to disperse the fog.

The sight that emerged was astonishing.

On the grass, a massive serpent coiled protectively around an unconscious Harry Potter.

Beside it lay a half-rotted black wooden coffin—Tom Riddle Sr.'s grave.

And before the coffin, a boiling pool of liquid shimmered with ominous runes, glowing with ancient, powerful magic.

Little dwarf star Peter struck even harder, and soon, the entire water surface shimmered with sparks, glistening like it was studded with diamonds.

"Hurry up!"

Nicolas Flamel, clinging to Hoffa's back, urged him on. The wind whipped against his face, forcing his eyes shut. "The Resurrection Pool won't last long. It will soon vanish. If Voldemort fully revives, he won't give you another chance."

"I know."

High in the sky, Hoffa dove downward, his speed increasing. His gaze was razor-sharp, as if he could slice through the world itself.

"Stop him!!"

From the grassy field below, Voldemort shrieked in his piercing voice as he saw Hoffa plummeting from above.

Boom!

Hoffa, half-human and half-bird, crashed headfirst into an invisible barrier. The impact sent him reeling, his mind thrown into chaos.

Feathers scattered in all directions as he plummeted to the ground. Nicolas Flamel landed on top of him, nearly crushing him half to death.

Fortunately, Flamel was unharmed. As soon as he hit the ground, he grabbed Hoffa's arm and helped him up.

Hoffa got to his feet, his wings vanishing behind him. A man stepped forward from the maze, slowly emerging while holding up a shield, blocking the path between Hoffa, Flamel, Voldemort, and Wormtail.

It was Miller—the very man Hoffa had shaken off earlier. Turns out, he had already arrived at the destination, lying in wait like a predator.

Damn it!

Hoffa stomped his foot in frustration. If Miller were on his side, his chances of success would increase by at least forty percent. But misfortune never came alone—Miller was under Grindelwald's control.

Miller raised his hand, dispelling the barrier, then brandished his wand.

Flaming arrows rained down upon them like a storm, filling the air with the acrid scent of sulfur.

"Talico-Skita!"

Hoffa conjured a shield while dropping to one knee, summoning slabs of stone from the ground. They rose up and layered over his shield spell, creating a second layer of defense.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

The fire arrows struck the stone shields, exploding on impact. The heat melted the stone into lava, which dripped down the protective barrier in a terrifying display.

Through the searing heat, Miller's form appeared distorted by the air, his presence growing more oppressive as he steadily advanced toward Hoffa.

"What now, Flamel?!"

Under the shield, Hoffa asked, "Do you have a plan?"

"He's under Grindelwald's mind control. That guy is a master at this. Fighting Miller is useless—you have to defeat Grindelwald first."

Flamel's voice was anxious. "Take him down, and the mind control will break on its own."

"Damn it!"

Defeating Grindelwald—easier said than done. Hoffa had encountered him before at the Quidditch World Cup and hadn't stood a chance back then. Now, with Miller on his side, the odds were even worse.

"No choice. We have to split up. You hold him off," Hoffa decided quickly. "I'll take care of Voldemort."

"You're leaving me, an old man, to fight him?!"

Flamel groaned. "I'm ancient! There's no way I can beat him!"

"You said the same thing when you trapped me."

Without waiting for a response, Hoffa stopped facing off against Miller and swiftly bypassed him, charging toward Voldemort, who was hiding behind Miller. But the moment he moved, Miller followed immediately.

"You brat," Flamel sighed, rolling his frail shoulders. "If it must be this way, then I guess I'll have to move a little."

He pulled a peculiar flute from his pocket, placed it in his mouth, and blew a few notes. As the strange melody flowed, thick purple smoke billowed from the flute.

The sound transformed the smoke into a towering iron giant. It tilted its head, listening intently to the tune, a look of appreciation on its metallic face.

Then, as the melody shifted into a fierce and triumphant tune, the iron giant grew restless. It turned its head, scanning the battlefield for an opponent, and quickly locked onto Miller. With a mighty leap, it lunged forward, pinning Miller beneath its colossal body.

The impact shook the ground violently, embedding Miller deep into the soil. The giant then seized his arms, holding him down firmly.

"Phew!"

Seeing Miller restrained, Hoffa let out a breath of relief before yelling, "And you said you couldn't do it!"

"Just luck, you fool," Flamel snapped, removing the flute from his lips. "Don't say I never helped you—now hurry up and deal with Voldemort!"

Without pausing, he resumed playing the flute.

Miller, still trapped beneath the iron giant, summoned a horde of skeletal warriors wielding blades. They surged toward Flamel, attempting to cut him down. But Flamel altered the melody, splitting the purple smoke into two streams. The second stream materialized into a group of shield-bearing guards, forming a protective wall around him.

As the battle raged behind him, Hoffa didn't look back. Flamel might always act like a frail, dying old man, but after clashing with him multiple times, Hoffa knew better. He had never once gained the upper hand against him.

There was no way a man who had lived for centuries didn't have an ace up his sleeve.

Voldemort, seeing Hoffa rapidly approaching, shrieked in desperation, "Stop him! Stop him, Wormtail! Nagini!"

But without Miller's protection, Voldemort's remaining guards were no match for Hoffa. Nagini was sent flying with a single kick, while Wormtail transformed into a rat and scurried away underground.

In just five seconds, Hoffa reached Voldemort, scooping him up like a basketball.

Gripping the bloodstained infant tightly, he sneered. "You're not escaping."

"Let me go!"

Voldemort struggled wildly in his grasp, but as a mere infant, he was powerless against Hoffa.

"Tell me, did you give the Resurrection Stone to Grindelwald?"

Hoffa interrogated him.

"I'd rather destroy it than give it to you!"

Voldemort's red eyes burned with hatred. "You'll never bring anyone back to life! I want to see you suffer in endless, maddening loneliness!"

"Fine, then die!"

Hoffa tightened his grip around the frail baby limbs, threatening to tear Voldemort apart. If the Dark Lord refused to hand over the Resurrection Stone, he would end him right here.

But instead of fear, Voldemort's crimson eyes gleamed with a twisted sense of triumph.

A cold shiver ran down Hoffa's spine. Tom Riddle wasn't one for mind games—he never bluffed. If he was laughing now, something terrible had already happened.

"What are you laughing at?"

Hoffa demanded.

"Heh… Heh… Heh…"

The infant in his grasp tilted his head. "Our dear teacher has arrived."

An overwhelming sense of dread washed over Hoffa. He spun around just in time to see a towering white-haired man emerging soundlessly from the maze.

With a flick of his wrist, the man hurled a crystal-clear, glass-like arrow.

It materialized out of the shadows without warning.

The arrow pierced Nicolas Flamel's chest.

The flute's melodious tune turned into a discordant screech before falling silent.

The iron giant dissolved back into purple smoke.

"Flamel!!"

Hoffa screamed, tossing Voldemort aside. With a frantic beat of his wings, he scrambled toward Flamel. For the first time, true panic seized him.

He reached Flamel just as Miller, freed from the giant's grasp, erupted in flames.

With a sharp flick of his wand, a deadly blue curse crackled at its tip, flashing toward Flamel's head.

(End of Chapter)

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