Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa reached out and carefully peeled off the scarred mask from Chloe's face.

Beneath it was an unexpectedly delicate face, about the same age as his. Her pale skin was stretched tightly over her cheekbones, her large, light-purple eyes sunken deep into hollow sockets, and her bloodless lips twitched uncontrollably. Despite her frail and lifeless appearance, Hoffa could still discern faint traces of the vitality she must have possessed when healthy—an oval face, fair skin, soft lips, and flowing auburn hair.

"What did you do to her? Did you poison her?" Hoffa demanded through the door.

"Poison her? Oh, no, no," replied the SS Colonel. "She simply forgot to take her medication. We were kind enough to bring it for her, that's all."

The Colonel continued, "I know you, Mr. Bach. I hold great respect for your teacher, the revered Grindelwald. So let me spare us both the formalities—I advise you to leave her behind. Otherwise, when her magic spirals out of control, the consequences will be beyond your ability to handle."

That name ignited a surge of anger within Hoffa. He took several deep breaths to suppress the hatred bubbling up in his chest before responding with a cold chuckle.

"Whether or not I can handle a magic overload isn't for a Muggle like you to decide."

There was a two-second silence before the Colonel replied with a laugh of his own.

"I've met many arrogant wizards, Mr. Bach. Most of them ended up dead—quite miserably, I might add."

Hoffa shot back, "Well, I must be one of the rare exceptions who survives."

"We'll see. Don't say I didn't warn you," the Colonel said calmly before falling silent.

At the same time, large numbers of soldiers surrounded the hotel kitchen. Milky-white smoke began seeping in through the cracks of the door, filling the air with the bitter scent of almonds.

Gas.

Hoffa's expression changed. He quickly covered his nose and rushed to Chloe's side, pressing a hand over her nose as well.

The situation had taken a sharp turn. Hoffa hadn't anticipated that they would resort to using poison gas. If they stayed in this enclosed space, they would either suffocate or pass out from the toxins.

"Do you have any ideas?" he asked Chloe tentatively.

Suddenly, Chloe grabbed Hoffa's wrist and lifted her head.

Her once-black eyes had turned pure white, like those of someone with cataracts. The eerie, vacant gaze carried a mix of helplessness and something profoundly unsettling. For a fleeting moment, Hoffa felt as though he were back at the door, negotiating with the SS Colonel.

But the illusion lasted less than a second. When he snapped back to reality, he was kneeling by Chloe, still holding her nose shut.

"Get away from me," Chloe said weakly. "Apparate. Just get far away."

Apparate? Hoffa clenched his teeth. He wished he could, but he didn't know how.

"Get away," Chloe repeated, her voice growing fainter. "Don't get caught up in this."

"What did you say?" Hoffa leaned closer, trying to hear her better.

Chloe didn't answer. Her wide eyes stared blankly as her mouth opened. A glowing, silvery liquid began to drip from her pale eyes—thick and viscous, like blood.

As the silvery, mercury-like liquid hit the ground, the magical energy in the room surged to a peak.

Drip.

The swirling smoke, the fluttering strands of hair, the tense muscles—all came to a halt.

It was a sensation unlike anything Hoffa had ever experienced. Chloe's magic carried an innate force of law, leaving no room for resistance.

Snap!

It felt as though someone had yanked him violently from behind. Hoffa was suddenly hurled backward, speeding through space. Colors and shapes blurred past him. His ears throbbed painfully, and though he tried to shout, he couldn't hear his own voice.

He hurtled through a distorted membrane of light, surrounded by fleeting, fragmented images—a castle, a black lake, centaurs leaping through a forest, thunderbirds soaring through the sky. For an instant, he even glimpsed a head of shimmering silver hair. His heart ached, and instinctively, he reached out, trying to grasp the indistinct figure.

But the vision lasted less than a second. Before he could react, his feet hit solid ground, and the world around him stabilized.

Thud!

He collapsed heavily onto the cold, tiled floor, disoriented and spinning.

The air was still. Chloe was slumped in a corner, gasping for breath, looking as though nothing had happened.

Yet the faint scent of onions lingering in the air left him utterly perplexed.

The sounds of laughter and bustling activity gradually filtered into Hoffa's ears as his hearing returned. Pots and pans clanged together noisily, accompanied by lively chatter.

"Table three, bacon and cheese rolls!"

"Table four, one potato salad!"

"Hurry up and take out the trash at the entrance!"

Startled, Hoffa sprang to his feet and instinctively patted himself down. After a moment of frantic checking, he realized he was neither missing parts nor had extra ones.

In front of him was the same old-fashioned restaurant kitchen, now teeming with life. Around a dozen chefs and servers were bustling about, creating a lively and crowded atmosphere.

Just then, a kitchen apprentice holding a black trash bag walked past Hoffa. Seeing him standing idly at the kitchen door, the apprentice snapped, "Who are you? This is a restricted area—don't just wander in!"

The apprentice reached for the door handle.

(The bullet holes left by the SS officer's shots were nowhere to be seen.)

Alarmed, Hoffa blurted out instinctively, "Don't open the door!"

"Don't open the door?" The apprentice scoffed and raised an eyebrow.

"How am I supposed to take out the trash, then? You want to eat it yourself? Get out of the way and stop bothering me."

Annoyed, the apprentice brushed Hoffa aside, casually twisted the doorknob, and stepped out to throw away the trash.

Nothing happened.

Outside was a deserted, grimy alley behind the restaurant, lined with rows of green garbage bins. There were no soldiers, no SS colonel, and no dark wizards. The hotel kitchen was just a regular kitchen once more.

"Did they leave?" Hoffa murmured to himself, puzzled.

Chloe sat pale-faced in a corner, trembling uncontrollably. Her face was devoid of any color, and when Hoffa called out to her, she didn't respond. There was no sign of relief or joy on her face—just a vacant, lifeless expression. She slumped against the wall like a recovering addict or a lovesick girl abandoned by a heartless lover.

Cautiously, Hoffa approached her, studying her as if she were some kind of creature. Once he was sure she posed no immediate threat, he tentatively touched her forehead.

It was icy cold.

The strange and overwhelming magic surge from earlier had completely vanished. Now, Chloe was devoid of even the slightest magical trace, as ordinary as a Muggle.

"How are you? Can you still walk?"

Chloe remained motionless.

Although Hoffa didn't fully understand what had just happened, seeing the once-powerful girl now reduced to a hollow shell stirred a faint sense of sympathy in him.

Fearing that the dark wizards might return, he lifted Chloe's arm and slung it over his shoulder. Supporting her weight, he limped out of the kitchen and into the streets of Paris.

The city was alive with activity. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, and cars whizzed by. In the distance, the Eiffel Tower stood tall against the setting sun, its silhouette bathed in hues of orange and gold. Leaves on the trees glowed with the light of dusk, while flocks of birds circled in the sky before settling onto walkways, swaying vines, and suspension bridges, chirping harmoniously.

Standing on the street, shielding his eyes from the sun, Hoffa felt a growing sense of unease. When they had been trapped in the room earlier, it had been around noon. Now, the day was nearing sunset.

Had he been unconscious for over three hours?

After pondering for a moment, he gave up trying to figure it out and continued forward with Chloe.

As they passed a newsstand, Hoffa overheard a group of Muggles chatting anxiously nearby.

"Three Jewish families from our neighborhood were arrested yesterday."

"You're not Jewish—why does it matter to you?"

"They were my neighbors. I can't just ignore it…"

"Think too much and you'll get yourself in trouble. The streets are crawling with German soldiers—what can you do?"

The mention of Jews being arrested caught Hoffa's attention, and he instinctively turned to glance at the newsstand.

Sure enough, the newspaper headlines featured bold text:

"All Jewish residents in Paris to be relocated to designated gathering points by the 29th."

Hoffa stared at the headline for a few seconds before picking up the newspaper and skimming through the article. The report detailed specific policies of persecution against Jews under German occupation in France.

Hoffa had already heard this news on the radio before, but as he read through the newspaper, a chill ran down his spine, and goosebumps erupted all over his skin.

After finishing the article, he quickly began rummaging through the stacks of newspapers at the stand. After a while, he leaned over and asked the kiosk owner, "Excuse me, is this today's latest newspaper?"

"Isn't every day's newspaper the latest one?"

The owner, smoking a cigarette with his legs propped on the counter, responded lazily.

"What about the newspaper from September 1st?" Hoffa asked.

The owner looked puzzled, peeking out from behind an adult magazine. "What September 1st?"

"The September 1st newspaper—today's edition," Hoffa clarified.

Blowing a smoke ring, the owner scoffed, "Are you crazy? Are you buying or not?"

Hoffa put down the paper and shook his head.

"Then stop wasting my time! Where am I supposed to get a September 1st newspaper on August 28th?"

Annoyed, the owner grabbed a feather duster and waved it at him irritably. "Shoo, shoo!"

Dodging the feather duster, Hoffa felt no desire to argue with the man. His thoughts scattered, he dragged Chloe a few steps back and leaned against a bench by the street.

No, no, no—this doesn't add up. Today should be September 1st. He'd even reflected briefly earlier on missing school because of the date. How could it be August 28th now?

Unable to stay calm, Hoffa slapped Chloe's face lightly to wake her. "What's going on here?"

Chloe stirred weakly, her eyes fluttering open, looking utterly drained and barely conscious.

Hoffa, growing more anxious, grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Who are you, really? And where are we?"

"Stop shaking… stop," Chloe murmured, holding her head in her hands.

Hoffa let go, and after a long moment, Chloe seemed to regain a sliver of strength. She glanced at her wristwatch, sighed deeply, and said in a hoarse voice, "Rewind."

"Rewind? What do you mean?"

"Time has rewound," Chloe whispered. "We're now two days in the past."

(End of Chapter)

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