Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"Damn it, what kind of luck is this?" Hoffa cursed under his breath as he leapt from the signpost and started sprinting at full speed.

A group of wandering drunks scattered as he barreled through, one of them shrieking at him in Spanish. Hoffa dashed onto the uneven, wet road.

The rain was intensifying, but Hoffa didn't bother casting a shielding charm against it. Instead, he focused on calculating his magical energy consumption while converting his magic into life force to boost his running speed.

The scenery blurred as he surged forward, his speed climbing from 30 kilometers per hour to 50, then from 50 to 80.

Meanwhile, inside a black vintage Mercedes, Chloe sat with her arms and legs bound tightly, her mouth sealed with tape. She struggled desperately, twisting her body in a futile attempt to break free.

The soldier driving the car caught sight of a rapidly approaching figure in the rearview mirror and shouted, alarmed, "Behind us!"

A black-robed wizard leaned out to look, spotting a pursuer moving like a blurred shadow through the storm, leaping over every obstacle with impossible agility.

"Drive!" the wizard commanded the soldier before opening the car's sunroof and raising his wand toward the relentless pursuer.

A bolt of violet lightning shot through the storm, obliterating a factory drainage pipe in the distance.

But the explosion failed to deter Hoffa. He used the force of the blast to propel himself into the air, disappearing into the storm clouds.

Three seconds later, he reappeared, landing heavily on the car's roof.

The speeding vehicle skidded wildly, its wheels spinning out on the slippery road.

The black-robed wizard, shocked by Hoffa's inhuman speed, retreated into the car without hesitation. He grabbed Chloe by the arm and prepared to Disapparate.

Just as they were about to vanish, Hoffa tore the car door open and grabbed the wizard's arm.

Bang!

All three vanished simultaneously from the car.

The black Mercedes veered uncontrollably and crashed into a statue of Louis XVII by the roadside, erupting into a fiery explosion.

A moment later, space warped, and the three reappeared less than two kilometers away near a checkpoint.

The instant they materialized, Hoffa punched the black-robed wizard in the stomach and wrestled the tightly bound Chloe away from him. He tore the gag from her mouth, releasing a piercing scream.

"Ahhh!"

Her shrieks were deafening, filled with primal terror. Hoffa clamped a hand over her mouth, picked her up, and took off into the air without hesitation.

The black-robed wizard slid across the ground, rising quickly despite the impact. He waved his wand, and an invisible chain yanked Chloe from Hoffa's grasp, pulling her back into the wizard's arms.

Caught off guard, Hoffa fell, landing hard on the ground. Pain radiated through his legs as he struggled to regain his footing.

With Chloe secure, the wizard shouted in German, "Capture him!"

Nearby soldiers stationed at the checkpoint sprang into action, leaping into armored vehicles.

Boom!

A blinding fireball exploded overhead, sending shockwaves ripping through the area. It was as if the earth itself roared in protest.

Hoffa clenched his jaw.

They're insane, bringing out armored vehicles!

Wings burst from Hoffa's back, transforming from feathers into metallic blades under the relentless firepower.

The wizard retreated with Chloe, shouting orders while conjuring shadowy undead figures to block Hoffa's path.

Hoffa, blood dripping from his mouth, no longer cared about conserving energy. He smashed his fist into the ground, his arm encased in gleaming blue metal.

Crack!

The earth split open, jagged spikes erupting from the ground.

One of the advancing tanks was impaled and flipped, rolling toward Hoffa in a fiery tumble. He met it head-on, punching through its cannon with a single strike.

Boom!

The tank exploded, hurtling through the air like a dying beast before crashing into its comrades.

As flames engulfed the battlefield, Hoffa's wings disintegrated, leaving him burned and barely clothed.

The black-robed wizard, desperate, tore open a rift in the air. Dozens of shadowy corpses crawled out, clawing toward Hoffa.

But they were no match. Hoffa cut through them like paper, leaving nothing but ash in his wake.

Realizing his imminent defeat, the wizard shoved Chloe forward and vanished into thin air.

Hoffa caught Chloe mid-air, ripping away her restraints. With his wings reformed, he soared skyward, disappearing into the clouds, leaving the soldiers below firing aimlessly into the smoke and fire.

Elsewhere, in a damp underground chamber, the black-robed wizard staggered out of his Apparition.

He passed through a dark hallway and entered a cavernous, freezing space.

At its center was a cold steel operating table, where a mutilated male corpse lay dissected. Half its jaw was missing, exposing raw gums under the harsh glare of surgical lights.

Standing nearby was a towering man in a black military uniform. He puffed on a cigar and jabbed the corpse with a thin rod, electricity sparking at the tip. Each jab made the lifeless body twitch.

"Our vision is too narrow," the man muttered. "The materials for observation are far too limited. I need more subjects for my research."

The black-clad officer spoke slowly, "Tonight, that werewolf from the Eastern District revealed the source of private alchemical weapons. If we track it down, we might find..."

He abruptly stopped speaking.

A dozen robed wizards holding quills were busily jotting down notes. Noticing the officer's silence, they collectively followed his gaze to the unfortunate figure leaning against the entrance wall.

"Encountered a dragon, Aldo? Looking this miserable?"

The officer teased, his low laughter echoing in the meeting room.

The dark wizard ripped off his tattered robe and tossed it aside. "Damn it!"

"What happened?" the officer asked. "Where's Lemay? Didn't you locate her?"

"Hoffa Bach is in France," the dark wizard spat, his tone bitter. "He snatched the target."

"What did you say?" the black-clad officer repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Say that again."

"Golden eyes, gray hair! That Animagus—Hoffa Bach. He's in France!"

"Bach? Grindelwald's student?"

"Who else could it be?"

A tense silence filled the hall, so quiet that a pin drop could be heard. Moments later, the wizards erupted into heated discussion.

"What's that kid doing here?"

"Didn't he disappear almost a year ago?"

"Why would Grindelwald take an interest in a half-trained brat?"

"If you ask me, why not just kill him? He's just another Allied wizard, after all."

"Silence!"

The officer slammed his arm onto the surgical table, silencing the room. His sharp gaze flickered with intrigue as he rubbed his chin.

"I'm not particularly concerned about some student who never even finished Hogwarts. What intrigues me is how he got tangled up with Lemay."

"Who knows?" the dark wizard replied, still seething. "But I placed a magical mark on Chloe Lemay. We can track her."

"Tracking... Magic, Animagus—it all seems very interesting," the officer murmured as if lost in thought. He then raised his head. "You did well." Tossing aside his baton, he ordered, "Gather your equipment and follow me. By the end of today, I want both of them in our hands."

At that moment, a subordinate hesitantly raised their hand.

"What about the private militia Durant surrendered? Should we continue pursuing them?"

The officer sneered. "Are you daft? Can't you see which target is more valuable?"

The subordinate wisely fell silent.

Shortly after, several black vintage Mercedes roared to life outside the cavern. Their engines emitted clouds of steam as they sped through the rain in a tight convoy.

The Pantheon District.

Ancient buildings, like most others on the street, awaited the city's tireless sandblasting and restoration.

Hoffa landed on a church rooftop with Chloe in his arms. Transforming back into his human form, he collapsed onto the ground, visibly exhausted. Without a word, he entered a meditative state to replenish his magic.

The blazing inferno from the distant checkpoint had long faded from sight. In less than ten minutes, Hoffa had drained his magical reserves, flying nearly ten kilometers.

Chloe watched the young wizard beside her, his bare upper body drenched. With his eyes shut and hands clasped in an intricate seal, he sat cross-legged, recovering. The frenzy of the earlier battle—barely three minutes long—was unlike anything she had ever witnessed.

The young man, who appeared scholarly and composed, revealed an unbridled and violent side beneath his calm exterior.

After roughly thirty minutes, Hoffa finally opened his eyes.

By now, the night rain had thoroughly drenched him.

"Are you alright?" Chloe asked cautiously, sheltering herself under the overhang.

"I'm fine," Hoffa replied.

Reaching into his pocket, he tried to pull out a potion for Chloe. But as his hand groped around, he realized his clothes—and the potions—had been destroyed in the initial explosion.

He glanced down at his bare torso, both stunned and embarrassed.

After a long pause, Chloe finally muttered, "Dressed like this... even a summoning spell wouldn't help now."

"Damn it," Hoffa grumbled, slapping his forehead and tugging at his hair.

The rain relentlessly pelted his shoulders, amplifying his irritation.

"Am I doomed?" he sighed in frustration.

Transparent time blisters now spread across his entire body, once limited to his forearm. Even the most powerful wizard was as fragile as an insect before the inexorable march of time.

Chloe, sensing the severity of the situation, dropped her usual sarcasm and asked softly, "Do you have anything else to restore your magic?"

"Where would I get that? It's not like it's a common cold medicine you can pick up anywhere," Hoffa replied, his tone sharp with frustration.

"Don't panic," Chloe reassured him. "There has to be a way."

"A way... A way to restore magic," Hoffa muttered as he paced in circles. Suddenly, he stopped.

"Wait a moment. Do you know about construct weapons?"

"Construct weapons? I'm not sure," Chloe said hesitantly.

"What about magical crystals? Do you know about those?"

"I do," she replied. "But I've heard you need specialized equipment to use them."

Hope reignited in Hoffa's eyes as he stood tall. Muttering to himself, he said, "I see... I understand now."

With the potions destroyed, his only chance to replenish his magic lay in the magical amplification gloves he carried.

When he had originally crafted that pair of gloves, he had embedded two magic crystals within them. These crystals contained enough magical power equivalent to two fully grown wizards.

If he could fully release the energy within those gloves, it would undoubtedly be enough to push Chloe into a magical overdrive.

But now, those gloves were with his self from two days ago. Retrieving them without his past self noticing would undoubtedly require a bit of maneuvering.

"What did you figure out?" Chloe asked.

Hoffa stood up, excitement gleaming in his eyes as he paced back and forth twice before placing his hands firmly on Chloe's shoulders. "I need your help."

"Help with what?"

"Help me pull off a theft."

"Not this again," Chloe said irritably, brushing off his hands. "I am not a thief!"

"Not a thief, not a thief—I'm not asking you to steal from someone else."

"Then who?"

"From me. Steal from me—from two days ago."

Chloe froze, staring at Hoffa with an increasingly peculiar expression. After a full three seconds, she suddenly stood up and pointed at Hoffa's nose, yelling loudly,

"So, that's it! You made me out to be a thief! And then you blamed me!!"

Hoffa scratched his head awkwardly, thinking about how absurd this situation was. He really had wronged her.

"I was wrong, I was wrong! Is that not enough?" Hoffa apologized sincerely. "How could I have known it would turn out like this?"

"Wrong? That's all? You humiliated me—in public! In front of so many people!" Chloe grew angrier as she spoke, raising her hand as if to strike him.

Hoffa, wearing a sheepish smile, stood still without flinching.

But Chloe's raised hand ultimately didn't fall. Instead, she noticed the ever-expanding time flare spreading across Hoffa's chest. Frustrated, she stomped her foot and lowered her hand.

"Alright, fine! I'll help. But you'll need to find me a place to put on a disguise first."

"Disguise?"

"Obviously," Chloe said, pointing to her face. "If I don't, what happens if those German wizards recognize me again?"

An hour later, in the Eastern District.

Durant's Tavern.

The adrenaline rush from the outpost raid had long worn off, and Hoffa now felt so cold that his body felt numb. He knew of a few dressing rooms in the tavern's back alley used by some of the call girls, but getting in would take some effort.

Hoffa led Chloe through the back door of the tavern, squeezing past a group of dancers. He overheard murmurs:

"Who's that dressed like that?"

"Hmph. Even the holiest of women are still just women."

"Profession has nothing to do with virtue, ha."

Through the smoky haze, four or five dancers huddled under the eaves, lazily puffing on cigarettes. They paid no mind to Hoffa, who was wearing nothing but a torn pair of pants, but their heavily made-up eyes glared at Chloe in her nun's habit. Beneath the layers of disdain, jealousy, and loathing simmered, just barely concealed.

Hoffa shrugged and greeted them.

"Good evening."

One of the women giggled and nudged him. "So, did you kidnap a nun? Or just borrow her outfit?"

"Not just her outfit," Hoffa said with a grin. "I'm also borrowing her makeup later."

"You're something else. Want me to do my makeup too?"

She flicked her cigarette and posed provocatively, drawing laughter from the other dancers. Chloe scowled and turned away, clearly annoyed.

"Long night ahead," Hoffa said, patting her shoulder and gesturing to a dressing table inside. "Sorry, but you're not the one. Mind if I borrow your makeup station for a bit?"

The cigarette smoke puffed into his face, an unspoken refusal.

"Here," Hoffa said, fishing out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill from his pocket. He instinctively smoothed it against his pants, folded it neatly, and handed it over.

The woman looked at the bill, then at Hoffa's face. Without moving her lips, she let out a faint "tsk" but took the money and moved aside.

After repeating this transaction five or six times, the dressing room was finally cleared out.

"You're awfully good at this. Not your first time, is it?" Chloe asked with disdain.

"Think whatever you like," Hoffa replied lazily, leaning against a chair. "Get started."

"Humph," Chloe snorted. She sat before the mirror, clearing away the clutter of leftovers and trash before beginning her transformation. While she worked, Hoffa glanced at her reflection, studying her real face.

She was young, with pale violet eyes and soft, wine-red hair. Her features were sharp and typically European—high cheekbones and a well-defined jawline. However, her complexion was pallid, and her lips were bloodless, suggesting she wasn't in the best health.

But to describe her appearance as decadent Gothic beauty would be inaccurate. Sitting in the chair, focused intently on her reflection, she reminded Hoffa of a woodpecker, pecking away at a tree with unwavering concentration.

As the layers of makeup obscured her natural features, she methodically added freckles, scars, and other imperfections. A snap of her fingers later, the scars seemed startlingly realistic, thanks to a touch of magic. Her skillful technique made it clear this wasn't her first time doing such work.

"Most people use makeup to look better. You're the only one making yourself look worse," Hoffa remarked. "I almost feel sorry for you."

"Save your pity," Chloe retorted, glaring at Hoffa through the mirror. "Surviving is good enough. Who cares about looks?"

"True. Just surviving is tough enough," Hoffa admitted.

Turning his gaze away, he peered through a crack in the door, observing the bar's main hall and his past self. The power of time seemed to flow through every inch of his body, crystallizing his form while altering his perception.

He could now see the tiniest scratches on the bar's dark wooden tables and how they had formed. The bar's decor, blending vintage French and pale Milanese wood carvings, was dulled by a subtle, unclean sheen. Every polished surface seemed haunted by the touch of a million patrons, marked by a residue that could never be scrubbed away.

In those seemingly insignificant details, Hoffa found the most stubborn traces of time—like a mantis thriving long after the dinosaurs had perished.

The Arrow of Time.

For some reason, he thought back to the scene from two days prior.

The werewolf Durant had been feasting on women in his darkroom. Hoffa had managed to save a few, but one had still died. If only he—or Norbert—had acted faster, perhaps that last life could have been spared.

If only...

Straightening up slightly, he wondered to himself:

Could I actually change the past?

(To be continued.)

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