Harry Potter: I am the Legend

A fleeting thought crossed his mind, carrying an intangible and almost irresistible allure.

He glanced back at Chloe, who was meticulously applying makeup in front of the mirror. A tinge of hesitation crept into his expression. What if, the moment he stepped out, she was abducted again by those people?

However, seeing Chloe's makeup job becoming increasingly disastrous—her face now bordering on unrecognizable—he convinced himself there shouldn't be any issues. With her current appearance, even her own mother might struggle to identify her.

Regardless, he felt compelled to give it a try.

In the dressing room, he grabbed a bartender's suit at random. It wasn't his size, so the fit was loose and unflattering.

"Chloe," he called out.

"What?"

"I'm stepping out for a bit. I'll be back soon."

"Where are you going?"

"Bathroom."

He responded offhandedly, donning the ill-fitting suit as he headed straight to the bar's second floor. He remembered Durant had been feeding in one of the rooms upstairs the last time.

But when he arrived, Hoffa found himself staring at a labyrinth of doors. The sheer number of identical rooms made it impossible to discern which was which.

Ascending the staircase to the right, the worn, unpolished wooden steps creaked underfoot. The corridor was lined with nearly identical doors, some leading to cramped office cubicles. One door was slightly ajar, revealing a European girl in a black sleeveless T-shirt passionately making out with a tattooed man in the corner. The man's hand roamed freely over her chest.

Hearing his footsteps, the pair broke apart. The man glared at Hoffa, silently but unmistakably telling him to scram.

"Don't linger up here too long," Hoffa remarked in passing before moving on.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he found the last two doors firmly locked. Turning abruptly, he kicked the blue-painted metal door with his shoe, breaking it open with a resounding crash. The doorframe splintered as cheap hardware clattered to the floor. Inside was a pitch-dark room, illuminated only by light filtering in through a soot-covered plastic window facing the alley behind the bar. The room was sparse, with nothing but abandoned food containers, a bladeless fan, and walls adorned with antler-like structures and glass mirrors.

Just then, a sound came from the adjacent room. Hoffa quickly backed out, rounding the corner of the corridor.

However, he spotted a familiar figure moving from room to room, peering inside each one. It was Norbert—he was also searching for Durant.

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat. He realized his "other self" was currently sitting downstairs. If Norbert saw him now, how would he explain this?

As Norbert turned his head in his direction, Hoffa instinctively grabbed the transparent plastic handle of a nearby door, pushing it open with his shoulder as the frame cracked. He slipped inside and shut the door with a bang.

But it was too late. Hoffa's distinctive hairstyle and build had already caught Norbert's eye.

"Hoffa?"

A probing voice came from outside. "Didn't I tell you to wait downstairs?"

Leaning against the door, Hoffa cursed Norbert's eagle-eyed observation skills.

Norbert stood outside, waiting. "Is that you? And why did you change your clothes?"

"It's me," Hoffa replied, his heart pounding.

"I spilled something on my clothes downstairs and came up to change."

Making up excuses on the spot, he hoped Norbert wouldn't press further.

"You're changing clothes in there?" Norbert's tone was laced with suspicion.

"Yes! Aren't you looking for Durant? Have you found him?"

"No, there are too many rooms here. Want to come out and help me search?"

"No! That's your job!" Hoffa snapped through gritted teeth.

"Alright. You're sure you don't want to come out?"

"Just go ahead. I'll join you in a bit."

Norbert hesitated for a moment but didn't leave. This was driving Hoffa to the brink of frustration.

"What are you doing now?" Hoffa asked through the door.

"Thinking."

"About what? Spit it out!"

"Are you really alone in there?"

"Of course I am! Who else would be here?"

"Alright then," Norbert finally relented. "Hurry up and come out when you're done."

With that, his footsteps receded.

As Norbert left, Hoffa exhaled in relief. Yet he became acutely aware of an unpleasant odor in the air.

Sniffing cautiously, his expression changed as he spun around.

The room contained several small wooden cubicles, damp floors, and walls plastered with countless flyers and questionable recruitment ads. But something was missing.

Creak.

A wooden door to one of the cubicles opened. A dancer poked her head out, addressing Hoffa and clarifying the issue.

"Sir, this is the ladies' room."

Hoffa's gaze drifted to the sign on the wooden door, which bore a simple symbol of a person in a skirt. He stared at it for a moment before slowly lowering his eyes, his face a mix of embarrassment and exasperation.

"Oh."

He nodded calmly and stepped out of the room as if nothing had happened, maintaining the demeanor of a gentleman. Turning the corner, he let out a long sigh, covering his face with his hand.

"Damn it."

No wonder Norbert had lingered so long outside the door. Who knew what was going through that guy's mind?

The ache in his arm grew sharper.

He rolled up his sleeve and gasped.

His forearm was nearly translucent, as if it were evaporating. If not for the faint outlines of blood vessels and bones, he might have thought his arm had completely disappeared.

It became increasingly clear that the more he did in this timeline, the faster he was unraveling.

A distant howl broke his thoughts—it was Durant's wolf-like roar.

Norbert had found his room.

Hoffa stood up silently. He had already wasted too much time, and going after Durant now was pointless. This attempt was a complete failure.

When he returned to the dressing room, Chloe had reverted to looking like the unattractive girl they first met. Now, she was huddled under the makeup table, trembling. When she looked up at him, her smoky eye makeup framed pale violet eyes, wide with fear like a startled mole.

Hoffa crouched down. "What's wrong?"

"What's happening outside? I heard gunshots—and saw a werewolf!"

"It's nothing," Hoffa said softly. "Just some chaos. Let's go."

"I saw you too," she whispered.

"That was the me from two days ago, back when I was working."

"What kind of job involves so much violence?"

"Necessary measures," Hoffa replied. "I don't enjoy it."

"Really?" Chloe's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You seemed to be having a good time."

Hoffa shook his head and extended a hand. "Are you coming or not?"

Chloe crawled out from under the table, staring outside for a while before asking suddenly, "Did you kill that werewolf?"

"Yeah." Hoffa's response was nonchalant. "Let's go."

"You shouldn't have killed him."

The nun sighed. "God says—"

"Did you notice the black glove on my hand?" Hoffa interrupted her, unwilling to argue moral issues over a dead man.

Chloe hesitated. "Yes, I saw it."

"That's what you're supposed to steal. With it, I can restore your magic and get us back to the future."

After leaving the bar, Hoffa led Chloe to his residence in Paris's Seventh District. The version of himself from two days ago was busy receiving goods and wouldn't return for another two hours.

Time often drags.

When you're eagerly waiting for someone to appear or for something to happen, it feels unbearably slow.

But it can also pass quickly, especially when you become something expendable, aware of your inevitable end—like the fleeting ten minutes of recess.

Hoffa found himself caught in this paradox.

He wished the version of himself from two days ago would return sooner, like a long-distance lover waiting at a train station.

At the same time, he dreaded the rushing current of time, savoring each moment like a child drinking the last drops of yogurt.

During this interval, he didn't speak to Chloe. Instead, he sat alone on a park bench, idly striking matches.

Burned-out matchsticks littered the ground, while Chloe paced anxiously in front of him, her nervous energy palpable.

Eventually, her restlessness infected Hoffa. He tossed the match away. "What are you pacing for?"

Chloe stopped, glanced at him hesitantly, and remained silent.

"Say what's on your mind," Hoffa prompted.

Chloe hesitated before voicing her concern. "The version of you from two days ago doesn't know me. What if..."

Recalling Hoffa's ferocity during his battle with the dark wizards, Chloe mimed a slashing motion across her neck.

"He won't," Hoffa assured her. "I might find you annoying or dislike you, but I wouldn't kill you."

"But I need to say something in case he interrogates me." Chloe still seemed uneasy.

"Tell him you were someone I saved from being eaten in the werewolf's room. That might make him treat you a bit better."

Chloe nodded at this suggestion, but Hoffa sensed she had more on her mind.

"What are you really thinking?" he asked.

After a moment of thought, Chloe looked up at him. "What does killing feel like?"

Hoffa froze, completely unprepared for such a question. He didn't know how to respond.

Back when he left Hogwarts, broke and desperate, he had sunk into a swamp of misery. To survive, he adopted a cold, ruthless approach to making money. During one month alone, he had killed two men and one woman, earning a sum that, a year earlier, would have seemed laughable to him.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

"I'm Jewish," Chloe began. "No matter how chaotic my faith has become, I can never condone the idea of someone being a living, breathing killing machine."

"God's loyal voice, huh?" Hoffa scoffed. "Even the Crusaders waged wars. I don't think your ideals will affect me."

"While many believers justify violence as a form of punishment, I must admit that's a misinterpretation. Nowhere in the Bible or Christian texts is such a thing recorded," Chloe argued.

"I'm an atheist," Hoffa said with a shrug. "I've never had dealings with the church."

"So none of this matters to you?" Chloe asked.

Hoffa wanted to dismiss her with a laugh, but her pale violet eyes, like transparent glass, reflected his face. For a moment, he was speechless.

A strange frustration bubbled within him, and he turned away, unwilling to continue the conversation.

Fortunately, the tension between them was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a figure by the roadside—a figure in a black leather jacket, swaying unsteadily as it stepped into view.

Hoffa, seated on the bench, quickly nudged Chloe.

"It's time. I'm back."

Two days prior, Hoffa must have sensed something. He first strolled toward a nearby mall, pretending to browse the glass display cases. Through the reflection, he confirmed the presence of a tail, then quickly shifted his gaze toward the source, but saw nothing.

For safety, his past self circled behind a tree and vanished into thin air.

Watching his disappearance, Chloe anxiously whispered to Hoffa, "Your sixth sense is sharper than a woman's."

"Don't worry," Hoffa reassured her. "Even if he senses something, he can't find me. Stick to the plan."

"Anything I should watch out for?" Chloe asked. "You've lived through this—you should know what to do."

Hoffa immediately recalled how Chloe's small mistake of removing her shoes upon entering had tipped off the Gestapo. He wanted to warn her but swallowed the words.

By this point, every move felt like treading on thin ice. Any deviation could spiral into an unpredictable outcome. Perhaps saying nothing was the safest choice.

They reached the house. Leaning against the door, they pressed their ears to the wall. Time passed agonizingly slow under the oppressive tension.

Inside, the static of a television program buzzed faintly. His past self was on the verge of falling asleep.

Outside, the two of them exchanged glances and nodded silently. Hoffa placed a hand on the doorknob, and with a soft click, the lock disengaged under the influence of a transfiguration spell.

Chloe slipped through the door, while Hoffa moved to the opposite side of the house, ready to act as needed.

As expected, about three minutes later, there was a loud thud from inside—Chloe had been caught by his past self.

No time to lose. Hoffa darted to the window, aiming to retrieve his gloves while Chloe kept his past self occupied.

But as he approached, he heard the roar of engines. A convoy of sleek, black Mercedes-Benz cars sped into view, their headlights cutting through the darkness.

His heart sank. The cars bore bright red flags emblazoned with the swastika, and they were followed by five or six heavy armored vehicles.

The Germans.

The convoy rounded the corner, their headlights blazing straight toward the house. Hoffa instinctively dropped to the grass beneath the window, concealing himself.

The vehicles halted barely fifty meters from the house.

The headlights dimmed, and wave after wave of black-robed wizards emerged silently. They raised their wands, casting defensive enchantments over the area. Soon, both the wizards and the vehicles seemed to vanish, though Hoffa could see they had only dispersed, positioning themselves strategically in the shadows of trees, rooftops, and other vantage points.

Hidden in the grass, Hoffa was taken aback. He had assumed there were only three pursuers—a Muggle and two wizards. But judging by this scene, it appeared the entire contingent of German wizards stationed in Paris had mobilized.

And they were shrewd, staying just beyond his detection range, their cautious approach reflecting their seasoned skill.

Three figures stepped out from behind the defensive wards and strode confidently toward the house. Hoffa recognized them instantly—they were the same individuals who had interrogated him that fateful night.

A knock echoed on the door.

Inside, his past self shoved Chloe under the bed on the second floor, secured his enchanted gloves and money, and downed a Polyjuice Potion. He had no idea he was surrounded.

Watching from outside, Hoffa clenched his jaw. The situation was escalating. If this wasn't resolved, his past self might not survive the night.

Without hesitation, Hoffa ghost-walked up the wall to the second floor and yanked Chloe out from under the bed.

Dust-covered and indignant, Chloe hissed, "You're so heartless!"

"That's not me," Hoffa muttered tersely.

He peered out the window, then turned to the cabinet. Opening it, he retrieved the box containing his magical gloves. He slipped them on, pocketing the money as well.

"How's it looking?" Chloe asked, her tone hopeful. "Can we leave now?"

"You did great, but we're not done yet," Hoffa said quietly.

"What? Why not? Your body won't hold out much longer."

Ignoring her protests, Hoffa pressed an ear to the door. Downstairs, his past self was engaged in a tense standoff with Gestapo Colonel Müller Mans.

After a moment's thought, Hoffa grabbed Chloe and ghost-walked them out of the room.

On the street, Chloe trailed after him, shouting, "What are you doing? Why aren't we leaving?"

But Hoffa didn't respond. He dashed to a nearby phone booth, ducking inside. From there, he could see the house in the distance as he dialed a number.

The call connected quickly.

"Hello?" his past self's voice answered.

"Put Müller on the line," Hoffa commanded in fluent German.

As he spoke, the temporal distortions in his body surged. The shimmering transparency crawled up his neck, and his entire arm holding the receiver had nearly disappeared.

Chloe watched him nervously from the side.

The Gestapo colonel's voice came on the line. "Who is this?"

"Hoffa Bach, Colonel Müller. The person you're looking for is with me."

A tense silence followed, broken only by the colonel's sharp inhale.

"Oh, interesting. How did you get this number?"

"That's irrelevant. If you want Chloe LeMay, you'll follow my instructions."

Beside him, Chloe's face contorted in shock. She grabbed Hoffa's collar, her furious glare practically screaming, "Are you insane?"

Breathing heavily, she leaned closer to listen to the call. When she heard the voice on the other end, she snatched the receiver from Hoffa.

"Release those Jewish prisoners!" she shouted into the phone.

Hoffa froze in disbelief.

"Very well. Where are you? I'll come to you," Müller replied smoothly.

"I'm at 36 University Street, phone booth. Come and get me!" Chloe snapped before slamming the receiver down.

Turning to Hoffa, she sneered, "Happy now? He'll definitely come."

Hoffa was dumbfounded. "You just gave him our real location?"

"And you think calling him was a good idea?" Chloe fired back, her anger boiling over. "Do you even know what kind of monster he is? Lies won't work on him!"

Before she could finish, the air around them warped violently. A dozen black wizards apparated into the vicinity, their presence accompanied by blinding headlights and the screech of tires as more vehicles closed in. Danger was hurtling toward them.

(End of Chapter)

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