Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Despite the inexplicable fear that the girl in front of him instilled, Hoffa had no choice but to follow her. Magic was the only thing he was certain about. If he couldn't find it, he might never recover his memories and would remain trapped in this unknown agony forever.

He trailed behind the girl, step by step, trying to figure out her identity. But as always, any attempt to recall the past only resulted in an unbearable headache—one he couldn't escape.

"Do I know you?" Hoffa asked.

"Is that really something you need to ask others?" The girl looked at him in surprise.

"I don't remember anything," Hoffa replied.

"You don't remember anything, yet you still want to do something, don't you?" The girl's words were vague. "If you don't remember, then it must not have been important. So why bother worrying about it?"

Hoffa found some logic in her words. Walking a couple of steps behind her, he asked, "When did you see magic?"

"I had a grandfather. My grandfather saw magic," she said matter-of-factly.

"Really? Where is your grandfather now?" Hoffa asked immediately.

The girl turned her head away, her expression unreadable. "You're too late. He left me a long, long time ago. But before he left, he told me that if I wanted to see him again—or witness magic—I needed to find a stone."

"A stone?" Hoffa frowned, confused.

"Yes. He called it the Heartstone."

Heartstone.

Hoffa repeated the word in his mind, rolling it over like a foreign object in his mouth.

He had never heard of such a thing before—or maybe he had but had forgotten. His mind was like a formatted computer, retaining only fragmented images while the rest remained a void.

"What is the Heartstone?" he asked.

"Who knows?" The girl shrugged. "He often said strange things."

"Then what does it look like? Has your grandfather seen it?" Hoffa pressed further.

"How should I know?" The girl frowned, growing impatient.

"Where did your grandfather go?" Hoffa continued.

The girl suddenly stopped. Caught off guard, Hoffa nearly collided with her. They were so close that he could catch the scent of her—faint, yet sharp enough to pierce through his fragile consciousness. He instinctively staggered backward, his face turning pale as he pressed his lips together, staring at her warily.

"Why do you have so many questions?" She glared at him, irritated. "If I knew what it looked like, where it was, and all the answers, would I need your help?"

Hoffa's racing heart slowly calmed. After a brief pause, he said, "You're right. I won't ask anymore."

"Tch."

The girl muttered her dissatisfaction before turning away and continuing forward without looking back.

Hoffa followed behind her. Though he had conceded to her irritation, he couldn't help but silently criticize her logic. She didn't know its shape or location—only its name. In this vast world, how were they supposed to find it?

"I actually asked my grandfather once," the girl suddenly said in a low voice.

Hoffa perked up, listening intently.

"I asked him what the Heartstone was."

Hoffa leaned in, waiting for her answer.

"He said that the stone is ever-changing, always appearing in different forms. No one knows what it truly looks like. But he also said that if you can find it, magic and miracles will follow." Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the wind. "That's all I know. The rest... I have no idea."

Hoffa's heart sank. That answer was as good as nothing.

The girl led him out of the grimy outskirts of London and into the eastern district of Shoreditch. The streets were covered in murals and graffiti—expressions of raw emotions splashed onto the walls by street artists, whether they be anger or sorrow.

After weaving through several alleys, they arrived at a small hotel with a pink neon sign. The flickering light, a relic that had somehow survived the chaos of war, fought against the approaching dusk. The surrounding walls were adorned with artwork—naked women painted in a style reminiscent of Picasso.

Here, the girl turned to face Hoffa, her gaze deep and unreadable.

Hoffa, unsettled, glanced at the neon sign in the fading light. Hesitantly, he asked, "The Heartstone... is it in a place like this?"

"Hah. What kind of Communist International joke is that?" The girl rolled her eyes, then pointed at Hoffa in disgust. "Before anything else, you need to wash up and change. You're filthy and reek—you think I want to travel around with someone like this?"

Hoffa looked down at himself. He was still wearing the same clothes he had unknowingly acquired. After escaping from the hospital, they had become unrecognizably tattered, dirty, and foul-smelling. Even so, he remained suspicious. "I go in to clean up... and what about you?"

The girl's eyes narrowed dangerously. She raised a hand as if to slap him, and Hoffa immediately took two steps back, raising his arms in a defensive stance.

Seeing this, the girl sneered and pointed at a stylish boutique across the street. "What are you thinking, you paranoid idiot? If I don't go buy you some new clothes, what are you going to wear?"

Hoffa finally felt a little relieved, retracting his stance as he said, "I see. Thank you very much."

"Go inside, don't dawdle," the girl said. "The key is at the front desk."

With that, she turned and walked toward the opposite side of the street, muttering to herself as she went, "Always picking people up from a pile of trash... it's such a hassle."

Hoffa reached out, intending to ask if she needed to take his measurements, but it was clear she had no intention of doing so. Seeing this, he slowly lowered his hand, his mind filled with doubt.

Every time?

Did that mean there was a last time?

For some reason, despite the girl's unsettling presence, she also felt strangely familiar. If he hadn't lost his memory, he should have recognized her. So what exactly had happened in those missing memories?

He wanted to investigate, but a sudden, searing pain stopped him in his tracks.

A sharp headache made him clutch his head, gritting his teeth as he walked into the dimly lit motel under the neon glow.

Behind the front desk stood a hunched old man with a sallow complexion. His deep-set eyes peered out from beneath a hooked nose as he scrutinized the uninvited guest before him. In his hands, he held a worn-out rag, wiping the counter over and over again.

Hoffa hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

"I'm here for the room key," he said.

His heart pounded with unease, afraid the old man would ask for his identification. Right now, he didn't even know who he was, let alone whether he was a wanted man.

But the old man didn't ask any questions—perhaps the girl had already informed him. He simply bent down, retrieved a key from beneath the counter, and handed it over at an agonizingly slow pace. His face bore a peculiar, unsettling smile.

Avoiding eye contact, Hoffa took the key and quickly left the front desk, making his way up the worn-out staircase lined with a faded red carpet.

The second-floor corridor reeked of dampness and decay. Several doors lined the long hallway, their soundproofing evidently poor. As Hoffa passed by each one, he heard a chaotic mix of noises—moans, sobs, angry curses, and deep snores.

In front of some rooms, he even spotted heavily made-up women draped in revealing clothing, lazily smoking as they eyed passing guests. Their expressions flickered in the haze of cigarette smoke, unreadable.

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Hoffa kept his gaze straight ahead and walked to his room. Taking a deep breath, he turned the key and pushed open the door.

The old wooden door creaked open, but nothing unusual greeted him. The room was unexpectedly clean—a simple twin-bed setup with a small bathroom and sink, devoid of anything else.

The sight felt oddly familiar. Had he stayed here before? He had no idea.

Still, at least he had found a lead. That was better than wandering the outskirts aimlessly, waiting for death. Pushing aside his doubts, Hoffa stepped into the bathroom, stripped off his clothes, and began to wash up.

The showerhead sprayed steaming hot water as he gripped the silver-purple necklace around his neck—the only thing that had remained with him when he woke up. He had no idea what it was or why he was wearing it, but at this moment, holding it in his hand brought him a small sense of security.

There was something he needed to do—something important.

That thought lingered in his mind.

After finishing his shower, Hoffa didn't put on his old clothes. Instead, he wrapped himself in a towel, planning to grab a drink before lying down.

But the moment he stepped out of the bathroom, he nearly had a heart attack.

Someone was sitting on the bed.

The girl who had gone out to buy clothes was now cross-legged on one of the beds, staring out the window at the hazy night sky. On the other bed lay several unopened pieces of clothing, carelessly scattered about.

At some point, she had returned—completely silent.

A deep, instinctual fear gripped Hoffa. He had no idea why this girl unsettled him so much, but her sudden, soundless appearance made his entire body tremble. He instinctively backed away, his hand gripping the doorknob, ready to flee.

Perhaps hearing the door creak, the girl spoke in a calm tone. "The clothes are on the bed. Put them on yourself."

Hoffa swallowed hard and remained frozen in place, like a statue.

"Stop being so skittish. No one's going to peek at you," she added, still facing away.

Hoffa clenched his jaw. How did she even know he was hesitating if she wasn't looking? Did she have eyes on the back of her head? If she wasn't going to turn around, what was the point of facing away in the first place?

"Put them on."

She spoke again, as if reading his mind. "Even if you're planning to leave, you can't just walk around in a bathrobe, can you?"

Damn it.

Cursing internally, Hoffa snatched the clothes from the bed and bolted into the bathroom. He hurriedly put them on, then glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

The boy staring back at him looked pale and confused. His black hair, still damp, clung messily to his forehead. The deep-blue shirt he wore was too big, printed with a stylized bird's head. The ripped jeans had several deliberate tears, and the sneakers fit him perfectly.

The entire outfit felt foreign—definitely not something he would have chosen for himself.

Awkwardly scratching his head, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

The girl had turned around. Now sitting on the edge of the bed, she swung her legs lightly as she sized up his new look.

"Not bad, huh?" she said with a grin.

"The jeans are full of holes," Hoffa frowned. "And the shirt is several sizes too big."

"It suits you. You used to be way more stylish than this."

She tossed something his way. Hoffa instinctively caught it and found himself holding a small, round silver earring.

"Put it on," she said, still grinning.

"No way."

Hoffa scowled. The outfit was already pushing it—there was no way he was wearing an earring.

The girl didn't seem bothered by his refusal. Her gaze lingered briefly on the silver necklace around his neck.

Something about the way she looked at it made Hoffa uneasy. He instinctively shrank back, tucking the necklace under his shirt.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, she hopped off the bed and walked toward the door. Hoffa immediately stepped aside to make way.

As they passed each other, she said, "Get yourself together. We're heading out—to find the Heartstone."

(End of Chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09