Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa ran frantically, using both his hands and feet to propel himself forward, smashing through countless barbed-wire fences and locked iron gates. Behind him, soldiers and guards from the hospital pursued relentlessly—some on motorcycles, others in jeeps. Some even fired at him from their vehicles, attempting to gun him down on the spot.

But the night acted as his cover. The flashing beams of searchlights and flickering flames illuminated the darkness, yet none of them touched him.

Hoffa barely registered any of it. His consciousness was consumed by a swirling black hole, erasing all else. The endless white light that once flooded his mind had now faded into scattered remnants. A raw, primal desire surged within him, driving him madly toward King's Cross Station, toward Platform 9¾. Without hesitation, he hurled himself at the barrier.

His memories were fragmented, inexplicably missing. He had no idea why recalling the past made his head throb in agony. But one thing was certain—there was something he had to do at this place. And to do it, he had to pass through this stone wall. Or another stone wall.

However, no matter how desperately he rammed into it, the barrier did not open. Instead, the impact sent him staggering backward, blood gushing from his nose as he crashed to the ground, bruised and dazed.

Nearby passengers waiting for the night train were horrified by the sight of the crazed man. Some stepped forward, attempting to pull him away from the wall, fearing he would hurt himself further. But before they could act, the shrill sound of sirens shattered the tense silence.

A fleet of military jeeps sped toward the platform, violating every traffic rule as they skidded to a halt at the station's edge. The men inside carried stern expressions, prepared as if facing a great threat.

Blinding spotlights flared to life, tearing through the darkness and casting their beams upon Hoffa's bloodied face. He had failed to pass through the platform's barrier, but the taste of his own blood sent shivers down his spine, jolting him into heightened awareness. Snapping his head around, he glared at the approaching jeeps with the wild, feral intensity of a cornered beast.

"Hoffa Bach! If you leave the hospital now, you will cause unimaginable destruction! Don't you understand that?" A voice shouted from the rooftop of a jeep through a megaphone. "You are not well yet. Come back with us! This is for your own good, and for the good of everyone else!"

The dazzling white light obscured the speaker's face, but Hoffa loathed its brightness. That suffocating whiteness reminded him of the overwhelming light in his dreams, the endless void of illumination that swallowed everything.

Without a second thought, he turned and ran.

The moment he bolted, the soldiers and their vehicles surged after him, like hunting hounds chasing a rabbit.

Realizing that the main roads would not shake them off, Hoffa darted into narrow alleyways, navigating cramped paths and tight corridors. He leaped onto rooftops, dashing across the old buildings of London in a desperate bid to escape.

But his pursuers were equally relentless. They deployed city guards to track him down. Some carried gas lanterns, searching the streets on foot, while others rode towering horses, sweeping the area with flashlights.

Before long, the alleys were crawling with eyes. Hoffa had no choice but to flee beyond the city.

Dark clouds smothered the sky, and as was typical of England's nights, a light drizzle began to fall. The cold raindrops seeped into his skin, and as he ran, the black hole in his mind seemed to grow weary. It gradually faded, and with its disappearance, the lingering white light also vanished—leaving behind nothing but a vast, gray emptiness.

Now at the outskirts of London, Hoffa finally slowed to a stop. His awareness slowly returned, exhaustion washing over him like a tidal wave. He became acutely aware of his injuries, of the cold dampness of the night. It had been so long since he last felt this kind of chill—so familiar, yet so strangely new.

Confusion gnawed at him. He couldn't understand his earlier rage. What exactly had the doctor said that triggered him so violently? He didn't know. But one thing was certain—he would never return to that wretched, pristine hospital.

He had reached the industrial outskirts of the city. Thunder rumbled within the clouds, distant yet menacing. Perhaps a storm was brewing over the sea. In the dim night, factory chimneys still spewed gray steam into the drizzle, and beneath them, heaps of city waste were discarded carelessly.

Scattered among the refuse were people—vagrants, just like him.

Some had lost their homes to war. Others were hopeless addicts, enslaved by substances beyond cure. Some had once been middle-class citizens, ruined by economic collapse. Their faces were blank, their eyes lifeless as they sifted through garbage in search of something—anything—that might sustain them another day.

Hoffa stripped off his outer clothing and melted into their ranks, becoming one with the scavenging wanderers.

Their numb, indifferent expressions provided him the perfect camouflage. Several times, military patrols and mounted police swept through the area, their flashlights scanning the landscape. Yet, they never spared the filthy vagabonds a second glance.

It was as if they couldn't imagine Hoffa hiding among such people.

After a few rounds of searching, they left to inspect other areas.

Even after the patrols were gone, Hoffa did not move. Instead, he curled up behind a trash bin, hugging his knees, motionless.

Part of him was unsure whether they had truly given up the search. He would rather rot in this heap of garbage than return to that sterile, suffocating hospital.

But more than that, he felt lost.

His one goal had been to pass through the wall—to reach a place that he somehow knew was magical.

Yet reality had denied him.

So where was he supposed to go now?

Hoffa didn't know.

Maybe he really was sick.

Maybe there was no such thing as magic in this world.

He never left this filthy, wretched place. When he was thirsty, he drank rainwater. When he was hungry, he scavenged through trash like the other vagrants. At night, while they whispered among themselves, he curled up in a hidden corner, hugging his knees. He didn't know how long he had been hiding—maybe a day, maybe two, maybe three. He hid from daylight until night fell, then hid from the night until dawn. He hid through clear skies and rainy days, and then from rain back to sunshine.

And on this day, just as he sat dazed in his usual secluded spot, hugging his knees, a pair of black combat boots appeared before him.

The owner of the boots wore tight blue jeans that outlined a slender frame—a silhouette so familiar that Hoffa shivered the moment he saw it.

Stiffly, he lifted his head and saw a girl with chestnut hair and black-rimmed glasses. She wore a leather jacket and stared at him, bewildered.

Their eyes met, and a chill surged from the depths of his soul, nearly making him scream. Shattered fragments of memory cut through his mind like sharp glass. He instinctively kicked backward, retreating a few steps. Cold sweat drenched him as he stared at her in terror.

He had seen this girl before—back at the hospital. She had been receiving treatment alongside the others. But now, she had shed her hospital gown for normal clothes. Yet, the unease she brought him was exactly the same as the first time they met.

Hoffa no longer remembered much of anything. He couldn't comprehend the source of his fear and anxiety. He only knew to huddle closer to the trash bin, watching her warily.

The girl, however, showed no sign of fear or nervousness. She simply tilted her head, staring at him for a moment. Then, she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, studied it briefly, and said,

"So this is where you've been hiding. No wonder they couldn't find you."

Hoffa glanced at the paper. It was the same document the burly man had shown him before taking him to the hospital. The image on it depicted a gloomy-looking boy with gray hair and golden eyes—a boy who bore a seven or eight-point resemblance to him. Hoffa wasn't sure if that person was truly him, but since everyone insisted it was, he had no way to refute it.

With nowhere left to retreat, he hugged his knees tighter and asked cautiously, "Why are you looking for me?"

"Why did you run away?"

The girl crouched before him, asking with evident curiosity.

"Why did I run away?"

Hoffa echoed her words.

He had no answer. He didn't even know how he had escaped. At that time, his mind had been completely blank.

"Exactly," the girl said, spreading her hands. "There were a hundred ways to leave that hospital. Why did you choose the hardest, most reckless one?"

She continued, "You see, they ask a lot of questions. I memorized all of them. Whatever they asked, I answered exactly as they wanted, and I walked out of there without any trouble."

Hoffa stared at her, his fear still gnawing at him. He replied, "I don't like when they ask me questions."

"Oh, is that so? Well, I don't like it either. No one does."

The girl muttered, then clapped the dust off her knees and stood up. "But it doesn't matter anymore. We're already out."

She glanced around and waved a hand in front of her nose. Frowning, she said, "This place is disgusting. You really have a thing for filthy corners, don't you?"

Something about her words felt off to Hoffa, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He curled up even tighter, his wariness growing. "Why are you looking for me?" he asked again.

The girl kicked aside a discarded soda can, folded her arms, and scrutinized him. "You believe in magic, don't you?"

A spark flickered in Hoffa's dull eyes. He nearly stood up but hesitated. The fear coursing through him hadn't dissipated. Suppressing his impulse, he remained seated, waiting for her to continue.

The girl went on, "You know, everyone around me played along. They obediently answered the questions, memorized the scripts, and were released. They were so 'obedient' that I couldn't even tell if they truly believed in magic or if they were just pretending. But you… You're the only one who left that hospital the way you did. So, I figured—you must be someone who truly believes in magic. Aren't you?"

Hoffa shot to his feet, ready to respond. But then he recalled the old madman he had encountered upon first arriving at the hospital. That man had seemed to recognize him. Hadn't he, too, tried to escape?

Unease crept back into Hoffa's heart, making him more cautious. He said, "That's right. I believe. Have you seen it?"

The girl smirked. "Why? Are you in a hurry?"

Hoffa fell silent. He instinctively took a step back, putting some distance between them. His senses sharpened.

Noting his reaction, the girl chuckled—a knowing, slightly mocking laugh. She tilted her head and crooked a finger at him.

"Come with me. Sitting here, you'll never see magic. But if you want to, I might have a lead."

(End of Chapter)

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