Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"Do you want to know what the future holds?"

The God of Nightmares pressed a finger against Hoffa's forehead. "This is the outcome I've foreseen. Whether you accept it or not, it remains the same."

Ripples spread from where the finger touched his brow.

Everything before his eyes vanished.

Grindelwald, Voldemort, Wormtail, Nicolas Flamel, the maze, the resurrection pool, the world of drifting flames, and even Harry Potter himself.

Hoffa entered a peculiar state, like a lucid dream.

He became an observer, his soul drifting away from his body.

Yet his body did not die. With a blink of an eye, another presence occupied it. That familiar yet foreign body moved on its own.

Consciousness resumed its flow.

"It's over, Hoffa. Unless you become like me, you will never be my equal."

Grindelwald sighed, looking at his student with an expression that was both joyful and sorrowful.

"I must admit, you are different from anyone I've ever met. Your existence lit up my lonely life, making it less dull. Perhaps when we awaken again, we can be harmonious teacher and student."

"Why bother talking so much?"

Voldemort, lying on the ground, laughed heartily. "It's useless, Bach. You're doomed! Hahaha! This time, you will lose without a doubt. Accept your fate."

"Farewell."

Countless illusions of Grindelwald spoke in unison.

They all extended their arms, which transformed into sharp tentacles, thousands in number. If they pierced Hoffa, he would be shredded beyond repair.

"Run, you fool!"

Aglaia's soul shouted at him.

"Go... just go," Nicolas Flamel rasped from Hoffa's arms. "It's futile... you must survive."

But when Hoffa looked up, he was no longer the same.

He moved like a dancer, his steps light as he dodged attacks from all directions. The tentacles brushed past him without so much as grazing his skin.

A meteor summoned by Miller was about to strike him when he pointed a single finger, transforming it into countless flowers that burst over the maze arena.

Nanniji, lunging to bite him, turned into a toy balloon the moment it made contact, comically bouncing on the ground.

Hoffa, in his soul state, watched in astonishment. These were feats he could never achieve—at least not with the effortless grace of the God of Nightmares, who moved with rhythm and elegance.

In some ways, it seemed he was the true master of Hoffa's body.

Then, with a single eye and arm, he floated gracefully before Grindelwald and pointed a finger.

Grindelwald, wide-eyed with shock, began to inflate.

His body stretched and twisted like a balloon, eventually transforming into a colossal, multicolored, translucent dragon, its form bubbling and formless.

One-armed Hoffa pressed a hand on the void dragon's head, his expression calm, devoid of emotion. He whispered, "This is the end."

Aglaia laughed despairingly, lost in sorrow.

"It was you fifty years ago, and it's still you fifty years later," the void dragon spoke through the God of Nightmares. "But it's too late. You can't defeat Death. My agents have opened the gates to Helheim. Soon, the cold winds of Death's realm will sweep across the land. No one will survive."

"You can't kill everyone. They will repopulate," the God of Nightmares replied without joy or sorrow.

"We'll see who is faster—the world's destruction or fate's restoration."

Then, a sudden explosion.

Something collapsed.

An endless white light surged from the horizon—the gates to the underworld had opened. Cold winds swept the land, reducing tens of thousands in the stands to dust, their bodies as fragile as paper.

Hoffa watched, a sense of déjà vu rising within him.

After six thousand cycles of reincarnation, this was all too familiar. Even without the God of Nightmares, he could foresee the outcome.

It had all happened before.

As the cold wind devoured the earth, "Hoffa," who held down the void dragon, also began to swell, stretching and distorting infinitely.

Eventually, the God of Nightmares returned to its original form: a massive being with countless arms, its lower body a tangle of jellyfish-like tendrils. Its head was shrouded in black mist, featureless except for enormous, lake-like eyes reflecting endless cycles and void.

It began to dance.

Despite its size, it moved with astonishing lightness, spinning and leaping. Each spin sent someone into deep sleep; each step made Grindelwald's face contort with pain.

Finally, Grindelwald clutched his head and screamed.

The dance continued. The God of Nightmares waved its infinite arms, sprouting countless faces—some terrifying, some kind—as it spun faster, shrinking smaller.

Amid Grindelwald's roars, more people silently rose, lifting their wands to repair the damaged arena, erect fallen platforms, extinguish fires, and carry away the dead.

As time passed, the God of Nightmares shrank to a black ring, like a miniature black hole, surrounded by layers of delicate arms manipulating consciousness and memory with precision beyond any puppet curse.

Hoffa, observing it all, knew it was taking him back to the origin of all causes.

The destroyed Quidditch stadium was restored. People carried bodies to the Black Lake and dispersed.

The God of Nightmares grasped the void dragon, an infinite pull from the black hole dragging the twisted creature in.

The black hole shrank and spun faster.

As the monster was torn apart, the beings it had devoured were revealed—including Dumbledore and countless Hogwarts professors.

They fell to the ground, their final sight the God of Nightmares vanishing into time and space.

Dumbledore scrambled up, rushing toward the black hole, shouting a name.

Miller, like a puppet freed from control, collapsed, awakening from the Cruciatus Curse, his face filled with terror as he cried and crawled toward it.

Were they calling for him?

Hoffa didn't know. He heard no sound, felt no emotion. He had lost all control over his body, now merely an observer.

Then, the black hole vanished.

The God of Nightmares, with Hoffa, disappeared from this timeline. Every trace of his existence erased—no Nicolas Flamel, no Grindelwald, not even the God of Nightmares himself.

Those trapped in the dream awoke, their memories of these events fading like a nightmare, quickly forgotten.

Voldemort and Wormtail fled, killing Cedric Diggory, trapped in the stone lotus, along the way. Nothing truly changed.

Darkness swallowed Hoffa's vision and heart.

Another era began.

Another cycle started.

Only the gods are eternal, and the rules unbroken.

"Are you satisfied?"

A speck of light appeared in the darkness.

It was the little creature's eye, circling Hoffa like the moon around the Earth.

"This is your future."

The God of Nightmares whispered in his ear, as gentle as a wife softly speaking to her husband in the dead of night:

"See? It's not so bad, is it?"

"Yeah... fighting fate is really exhausting," Hoffa replied, though he could no longer hear his own voice.

He had endured it six thousand times already—what else was there that he couldn't accept? He thought to himself that he should have agreed to the Nightmare God's proposal long ago. After struggling through countless cycles, the result remained the same in the end.

"Come back with me. Surrender your consciousness to me. Give me your mind, your soul—everything. Let's return to fifty years ago together."

From the Nightmare God's eyes, a slender, pure-white arm extended outward like a blooming lotus, reaching for Hoffa's face.

Hoffa wanted to agree. He really did. But deep within his heart, a faint voice refused to be silenced.

(Coward.)

Perhaps that voice was the remnant of six thousand cycles, Hoffa thought. He had done everything within his power, yet fate remained unchanged. What else could he do?

He gazed at the hand lingering before him, his resolve wavering.

"Have you ever had a moment when you felt utterly exhausted with everything?" The Nightmare God whispered near his ear.

"That moment...?"

"Yes, that moment—when the noisy, mundane crowds, the pretentious artistry, the calculated survival, the unspoken loneliness, and the aimless wandering all became unbearable."

Hoffa didn't answer. He let the darkness engulf him, sinking deeper into the abyss of his subconscious.

"Give everything to me," the Nightmare God urged, extending a hand toward the sea of his subconscious. "You will rest among the heroes of ages past. You will never be alone again."

(Coward.)

As his fingertips were about to make contact, the voice in his heart grew clearer. He curled his fingers slightly, dodging the Nightmare God's touch.

(Coward.)

The almost imperceptible voice was as sharp as a needle piercing his heart. He didn't know where it came from. It felt like he was speaking to himself, yet it also sounded like Miller, or maybe even Little Barty.

"I am not."

He defended himself.

"You think leaving Helheim will let you escape fate? You can't change anything. You can't bring anyone back. What you saw in the arena—that is your future."

The Nightmare God transformed into Aglaea. "Say yes. You still have a chance. Maybe next time, things will be different."

"Next time..."

"Yes, next time. Let the you of fifty years later deal with it," the Nightmare God said. "The river of time has no end. Fifty years will pass in the blink of an eye. If not this time, then the next."

Hoffa let out a breath. The Nightmare God was right—there was still another chance. If he returned to the past... He reached out again, wanting to touch the Nightmare God, to become one with it.

(Coward.)

The voice surfaced again, disturbing him.

He suddenly saw Little Barty turning his head before the train, his eyes filled with confusion before his death. He saw old Hoffa pressing the barrel of a silver revolver into his own mouth—

"There can only be one Hoffa Bach in a single timeline."

No.

He withdrew his hand, clutching his head with trembling fingers. "No, I can't... I can't change anything..."

"A failure, isn't it, Bach? This adventure, fifty years in the making?"

The Nightmare God said, "I know how much you respect Nicolas Flamel. I know you care about Little Barty. But they are gone. Only by returning to the past can you save them—change everything."

"I can't."

Hoffa whispered in agony, "I won't remember anything... I'll forget it all..."

"There will always be a time when you succeed."

The Nightmare God's voice was gentle, just like Aglaea's when she was alive.

Hoffa looked at the outstretched hands before him, and at that moment, his longing drowned out every other desire. Slowly, he reached out—once, twice, three times, four times, five... Ten times, twenty times, thirty times... A hundred, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred... One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thousand, six thousand times.

"Hoffa."

"Hoffa."

"Hoffa."

Who was calling him?

He turned his head and saw another version of himself standing in the darkness, watching. Was that the Void Dragon?

No.

That was himself.

"Coward."

"Coward."

"Coward."

The six thousand cycles had created moment after moment of déjà vu, and now, in this instant, it reached a climax. Overwhelmed by the intensity, his mind conjured an illusion.

His perspective shifted—he was now the one calling himself a coward, watching as another version of himself reached out, just like Adam in Michelangelo's Creation of Adam, trying to touch the Nightmare God.

He turned around. Behind him lay a mountain of corpses, stacked like towering peaks. Every single body bore his own face, each one frozen in regret, unwilling to die in peace.

He didn't need to count—he knew.

They were the other six thousand versions of himself.

"Coward!"

The voice grew clearer.

"Coward!"

"I am not."

He gritted his teeth, his voice firm.

"I am NOT!"

His consciousness snapped back to his own body. He struck the Nightmare God's hand away.

"There is no next time."

"No next time!"

"NO NEXT TIME!!"

"NO NEXT TIME!!!"

He roared with all his strength, just like Sylvie after the detonation of a hundred thousand tons of TNT. Inch by inch, he crawled out of the Nightmare God's gentle sea of subconsciousness, using the last shred of his willpower to force his eyes open.

Pain, like a tidal wave, crashed into him, tearing through every nerve in his body. It was the pain of a crippled body, the pain of blindness, the agony of fire raining down upon the world.

Miller's summoned meteor streaked across the sky, ready to reduce the ancient magical castle to ashes.

Grindelwald's countless illusions dragged their crimson tendrils, poised to pierce him into mincemeat.

Voldemort's serpent lunged at him from above, its bloodstained fangs bared wide.

Yet, in this moment, Hoffa had never been more awake.

Even though he knew—he had only seconds left to live.

"Are you insane?"

For the first time, the Nightmare God lost its composure. Controlling Harry Potter's body, it clamped its fingers around Hoffa's face. "At a time like this, you still refuse me? You're choosing death?!"

Covered in blood, Hoffa met Harry Potter's gaze. At this moment, at the brink of death, his mind was sharper than ever—like the keenest of crusader swords.

"Have I ever had a moment when I was sick of everything?"

I asked myself.

The answer was obvious.

Hoffa looked at the Nightmare God and said,

"Of course.

That includes you."

(End of Chapter)

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