Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa massaged his temples, staring at the café's ceiling with an aching head. Strung up above were silver stars, suspended on nearly invisible nylon threads against a crimson velvet backdrop. At the center of each star was either a dragon motif or a yin-yang symbol, refracting distorted light under the glow of the lamps.

He realized he had once again fallen into an unknown and precarious situation. The crisis had arrived so swiftly and covertly that he had no time to prepare.

Chloe, trying to offer some solace, said, "Don't be so pessimistic. If you can make my magic surge within two days, the problem will be simple to solve."

"Magic surge?"

"You're a wizard, aren't you? This shouldn't be too hard for you."

Hoffa didn't respond, rubbing his chin in thought. He did have a straightforward method to restore Chloe's magic. Being someone frequently low on magical energy, he had prepared magic recovery potions in advance.

However, making her magic surge was another matter entirely. In his three years at Hogwarts, he had devoted himself to mastering precise magic control and had never experimented with inducing magical surges.

"What's wrong? You don't have a solution?"

"Be quiet! I'm thinking."

"Every minute you spend thinking brings you closer to death," Chloe reminded him.

"Shut up!" Hoffa snapped. "I'm considering whether a magic recovery potion will work."

"Do you have enough? It would require a considerable amount," Chloe stated confidently.

"I have some," Hoffa replied without hesitation, standing up. "Wait here. I'll go get it."

Chloe stood up as well. "I'll come with you."

"Can you even walk?" Hoffa asked skeptically.

"Even if I can't, I'll have to," Chloe said, pointing outside. "If I stay here alone, I'll be like a lamb waiting to be slaughtered."

Hoffa followed her gaze and saw a line of rumbling tanks passing by on the street. Behind the tanks, dozens of soldiers were escorting hundreds of disheveled Jewish civilians down the road.

Seeing this, Hoffa's expression darkened.

"Fine. Stick close to me and don't get lost."

Perhaps it was the meal they had shared earlier, but their relationship was no longer as tense as when they first met. By the time they left the café, it was nearing nightfall.

Navigating through layers of checkpoints and outposts, they eventually reached the outskirts of Paris.

What greeted them was a maze of winding pipelines and chimneys, snaking like giant serpents across the ground and into the air. The demands of the war had turned these suburban factories into relentless beasts, consuming endless supplies of metal and coal.

By the time they arrived, night had fully descended. A muggy, rain-soaked sky began to drizzle steadily, leaving everything damp and uncomfortable.

Standing under a canopy outside a factory building, Hoffa said to Chloe, "Wait here while I go get the potion."

Chloe glanced around nervously and asked, "Is it safe here? Those wizards are combing the streets for me."

Hoffa looked out into the gray rain and thought for a moment. "It should be safe enough. I've rarely seen German forces in places as desolate as this." He paused. "I'll be back in ten minutes. Don't worry."

"Fine, but be quick," Chloe said. "And remember, avoid meeting yourself—or anyone you know."

"Why is that a rule?"

"Have you ever met yourself before?" Chloe asked in return.

"No," Hoffa admitted.

"Exactly. Everything that has already happened is immutable and irreversible. A timeline should ideally have only one of you; that's the most logical state. If your existence overlaps with your own, the resulting paradox is unpredictable. What is certain, however, is that the rate at which your body disintegrates will accelerate dramatically."

"Got it," Hoffa agreed quickly.

With that, he vanished into thin air.

Chloe watched Hoffa disappear into the rain and sighed, sitting on a bench under the canopy. The spot seemed to be an old, long-abandoned bus stop in a sparsely populated area.

After sitting idly for a while, she began to swing her legs and hum an indistinct tune to herself.

Just then, a black vintage Mercedes silently emerged from the rain, its amber headlights glowing like a ghost haunting the industrial district.

The car drove past the bus stop, paused about fifty meters ahead, and then reversed back to the canopy.

The window rolled down, revealing a hooded figure inside.

"Good evening, Miss Lemay," the figure greeted.

Chloe froze mid-hum, her body breaking out in cold sweat. Without a second thought, she bolted.

Meanwhile, on the factory wall, Hoffa clung like a gecko, climbing upward. His workspace was on the second floor, but Chloe's warning made him wary of using the usual routes. Instead, he scaled an external drainpipe to reach his office window.

Peering cautiously inside, he was met with a sight he would never forget.

Inside the old office, a figure identical to himself sat at the desk, writing.

An old-fashioned radio on the desk played a slow, somber German tune:

"Vor der Kaserne

Vor dem großen Tor

Stand eine Laterne

Und steht sie noch davor

So woll'n wir uns da wieder seh'n

Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh'n

Wie einst, Lili Marleen..."

"This song is addictive," Hoffa murmured to himself, crouched outside the window and watching his own reflection. The experience was both eerie and novel. Unable to resist, he stole a few more glances at himself.

Just then, his self from three days prior seemed to sense something amiss and suddenly looked up toward the window.

Hoffa immediately vanished into ghostly stealth, evading the other's gaze. Yet his past self wasn't so easily deterred. Rising from his chair, he approached the window and peered out, puzzled.

Separated by just a thin wall, Hoffa from two days ago leaned out to inspect the surroundings. At that moment, a sharp pain seared through his arm, as if a blade had slashed through flesh.

He rolled up his sleeve to find a portion of his forearm had turned crystalline.

The pain wasn't confined to his arm. His abdomen and thighs also ached faintly. Without needing to check, Hoffa knew the temporal distortion was expanding across his body. He was becoming increasingly illogical, defying the natural laws of existence.

He didn't know what would happen if he revealed himself now, but he guessed the distortion might devour him completely.

"Too dangerous," he muttered, leaning against the wall, barely daring to breathe.

His thoughts raced. Why was it that Harry and Hermione had experienced no side effects from time travel, yet he felt like a primal beast, bearing the full brunt of the universe's wrath?

After scanning the area for a while and seeing nothing, Hoffa from two days ago returned to his desk and resumed writing. Hoffa, meanwhile, stayed frozen outside, drenched as the rain soaked him to the bone.

After about five minutes, a knock came at the door.

Hoffa tilted his head slightly, watching as his past self stood up and opened the door.

Noble entered, dripping wet. "This damned weather, rain just doesn't stop," he grumbled loudly, pulling off his rubber boots and pouring out the water.

"Was anyone following you?" asked Hoffa's past self, securing a woven bag while locking the door.

"No," Noble replied, gulping water from a flask. He wiped his mouth and added, "Don't lock the door. We'll need to leave again shortly."

"Leave? For what?"

"Some business to handle."

"Merlin's beard, you're really set on learning alchemy, aren't you?"

"Where were you just now? Took you long enough to get supplies."

"The east district. I picked up a job."

"You mean we?"

"Yes, we."

Listening to their exchange from outside, Hoffa was growing increasingly anxious. Every passing second brought him closer to disintegration.

"Durant, the Wolf of the East District? That German broker?"

"Exactly, the idiot who stole our weapons. He knows I've been looking for him and wanted to strike first."

"Clever guy."

"Smart, but careless. Did you know? I finally found his trail. Back in March, he bought a bar in the east district specifically to shelter women escaping from the Jewish Quarter."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go."

Finally, the two inside finished their conversation, packed their gear, and left.

As soon as they were gone, Hoffa exhaled in relief, quickly opened the window, and climbed in without bothering to shake off the rain.

He strode to the desk, yanked open a drawer, and rummaged through its contents. Before long, he found two vials of magic-restoration potion, stuffed them into his pocket, and climbed back out the way he came.

"Stealing from myself," Hoffa thought, shaking his head. "This is insane."

As he passed the factory, a few workers glanced up, puzzled by his hurried pace. Realizing their stares, Hoffa slipped into the shadows. He could imagine their reaction when another identical version of him appeared moments later. "They'll think they've seen a ghost," he mused.

Still, he had the potions now. All he needed to do was give one to Chloe, and he could return to his own timeline.

But when Hoffa returned to the rain-slicked shelter where they'd parted, Chloe was nowhere to be seen.

"Where did she go?" he wondered aloud, scanning the area. No sign of her, but there was a telltale rainbow-colored oil stain on the ground.

A car had been here.

That small detail sent a chill down his spine.

In his mind, a flicker of memory surfaced: two days ago, he'd glimpsed a woman being dragged into a car during the rainstorm.

The recollection hit him like a flare, igniting his adrenaline.

"Damn it," he cursed. "So it was her!"

Back then, he hadn't given it much thought. Now, the truth became clear.

With a leap, he climbed onto a ten-meter-high road sign, scanning the horizon.

Sure enough, faint taillights flickered in the distance, barely visible through the rain.

His heart skipped a beat.

Fear surged—a primal, raw fear he hadn't felt in years. His once-quiet life had dulled his memory of true terror. If Chloe was captured, there was no way he could find her within 48 hours.

And if he couldn't, only one fate awaited him: annihilation.

(End of chapter)

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