Harry Potter: I am the Legend

On this day, Hoffa woke earlier than ever before.

Flying has always been a dream of humanity. Now that he was a wizard, Hoffa naturally harbored ambitions of soaring through the clouds. Especially in 1938, when airplanes were not yet as common as they would become later, learning to ride a broomstick not only promised greater convenience but also added a valuable survival skill. After all, the Muggle air forces of this era weren't as terrifyingly precise as they would be in the future, and wars were still primarily fought on land.

The morning dining hall buzzed with unusual excitement as a group of typically reserved Ravenclaws animatedly discussed Quidditch stories.

Breakfast at Hogwarts was lavish: fried eggs, bread, vegetable or fruit salads, sausages or bacon, coffee, tea, milk, butter, jams, juices, and other grains or porridges.

But Hoffa, preoccupied with thoughts of flying class, ate lightly, worried he might fly too fast and get sick. He settled for just a sausage and a little porridge.

Students from wizarding families bragged loudly about their flying experiences.

William Carlson, another of Hoffa's dormmates, spent the morning recounting his family's illustrious history of flying. He even claimed his father had evaded planes during World War I while riding a broomstick.

Meanwhile, Taylor Smith, another dormmate and a Muggle-born student, listened with wide-eyed admiration. For Muggles of this era, flying was almost an unattainable dream unless they joined the Royal Air Force.

The Ravenclaw students were relatively composed compared to the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables, where groups of boys burst into bouts of loud laughter. At this time, Quidditch was still largely seen as a boys' game, with few girls participating.

After breakfast, the group hurried out of the hall to a grassy field near the Quidditch pitch.

It was a clear day with a gentle breeze. The grass rippled softly underfoot. Beyond the field lay the Forbidden Forest, where dark trees swayed in the wind.

This class was held together with the first-year Slytherins, who were already on the field. A row of broomsticks lay neatly arranged on the ground. Tom Riddle stood among a group of students, chatting and laughing. When he noticed Hoffa, he gave no indication of recognition.

Since arriving at Hogwarts, the tension between Hoffa and Riddle seemed to have vanished. They now behaved like strangers, showing no signs of their orphanage rivalry or even knowing each other.

Hoffa understood Riddle's immense ambition. He wasn't the type to waste energy on petty provocations like a Malfoy.

Before long, their teacher arrived. Hoffa had already heard about him during breakfast. The flying instructor, Pario Leo, was a former Beater for the Irish team in the 1920 Quidditch World Cup. That year, the team had reached the semifinals—a remarkable achievement.

Pario was a tall, long-limbed man with curly brown hair and a lively demeanor.

Seeing the new students, he blew a whistle.

"What are you waiting for? Line up by height!"

The crowd burst into noisy activity, as the eleven-year-olds jostled and shoved each other to find their places.

Pario quickly lost patience and stepped in, rearranging the students himself, pulling them apart and placing them in new spots.

Hoffa initially stood beside Miranda, but Pario separated them since Hoffa was half a head taller. He was pushed next to someone else.

Of course, it was Aglaia again.

They were about the same height.

Aglaia huffed coldly as Hoffa was placed beside her.

The previously pleasant sunshine and gentle breeze had put Hoffa in a good mood, but now, standing next to Aglaia, he felt completely out of sorts.

Once the students were lined up neatly by height, Pario looked visibly pleased.

He blew his whistle again and instructed, "Hold out your right hand above your broomstick and say, 'Up!'"

"Up!" everyone shouted.

Hoffa extended his hand and commanded, "Up!"

Nothing happened.

He tried again, raising his voice.

"Up!"

It still didn't respond.

Hoffa was baffled. What was going on?

He glanced around and saw that some students' broomsticks had obediently risen into their hands almost immediately. For instance, Tom Riddle, standing across from him, barely spoke before his broom flew straight into his hand.

His dormmate William wasn't lying either; his broom also jumped eagerly into his grasp.

Some students had slower responses. Their brooms wobbled lazily on the ground, rolling back and forth as if reluctant.

For example, Miranda's broom hesitated, moving up slightly before falling back down. But at least it moved.

Hoffa's broom, however, remained utterly still.

Unwilling to give up, Hoffa tried twice more. Still no reaction.

"Muggle," came a mocking voice beside him.

Hoffa turned to see Aglaia smirking smugly at him. She stood with her arms crossed, not even attempting to summon her broom.

In response, Hoffa spoke the only words he had said to her all week: "What are you so smug about? Yours hasn't moved either."

"Oh? Is that so?" Aglaia drawled, clearly savoring the moment.

Then, with a mocking glance, she extended one hand above her broom without saying a word.

With a sharp swoosh, the broom leapt eagerly into her hand. Hoffa could almost feel the broom's enthusiasm to be ridden by her.

Staring in disbelief, Hoffa turned back to his own broom.

"Up!" he commanded again.

The wind stirred the frayed twigs of his broom, but it remained lifeless, as inert as a dead fish.

His face darkened, and he raised his hand.

Pario Leo noticed and called out, "What's wrong, kid?"

"Professor, my broom is broken," Hoffa replied.

All eyes turned toward him. Pario frowned, stretched out his hand from afar, and said, "Up!"

Instantly, Hoffa's broom shot out of his reach and into the teacher's hand like a bolt of lightning.

Pario examined it and said, "What are you talking about? This broom is in perfect condition." Then he tossed it back to Hoffa.

Hoffa reached out again. "Up!"

Nothing.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Aglaia's laughter rang out like silver bells, sweet yet infuriating. Hoffa clenched his teeth, glaring at her as she mockingly declared:

"A flightless wizard, a true landlubber. Someone entirely devoid of flying talent. Such people are rare in history, but you, without a doubt, are one of them. Flying in Britain and across Europe is a time-honored and elegant art. Quidditch is a prestigious social sport, representing the exceptional individuals destined to lead. And you—"

"Shut up! No one asked you to speak!" Hoffa snapped, his face ashen.

Abandoning any pretense of civility, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at the broom on the ground.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" he cast.

Under the influence of the levitation charm, the broom reluctantly floated into the air. It trembled pitifully, as though dreading its new owner, but Hoffa grabbed it tightly.

He could feel the broom's resistance, but he refused to let go.

Then, something unexpected happened.

Aglaia raised her hand.

Yes, she raised her right hand high into the air and announced loudly, "Professor Pario, Hoffa is cheating! He cast a spell on his broom."

The once-rowdy field fell silent.

Every head turned to look at Aglaia and Hoffa.

Hoffa was stunned. Reporting him? That was one of the most universally despised actions in any world. Yet Aglaia had done it without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Did she think the world revolved around her? Why was she sorted into Ravenclaw?

Pario walked over to Hoffa, displeased. "Did you really cast a spell on the broom?"

"Yes," Hoffa sighed.

"What spell?"

"The Levitation Charm," Hoffa replied.

Pario took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Casting spells on a broomstick during a Quidditch match is a serious offense. Did you know that?"

"I didn't," Hoffa answered blankly.

"I'll let it slide this time since it's your first offense. But you're done with this class for today—just watch from the sidelines," Pario said regretfully.

Hoffa tossed the broom aside, pocketed his wand, and strode off to the side, folding his arms in silence.

Life, as unpredictable as ever, had caught Hoffa off guard again. He wasn't Harry Potter; he had no talent for flying. Nor did he have any knack for Quidditch, not even knowing its rules.

On the field, Pario whistled and demonstrated proper broom-riding posture to the students.

The students took off one by one. Some wobbled awkwardly in the air, while others zipped around swiftly. Among them, Aglaia stood out as the best flyer. She didn't even need to hold the broomstick's handle—her arms were crossed, and it seemed as though her sheer will controlled the broom's every move.

Above them, the sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds. Hoffa leaned against a tall tower, a blade of grass in his mouth, watching the others fly overhead. For the first time, he felt entirely out of place in this world.

Aglaia had a point. In the wizarding world, Quidditch was a sport for the naturally gifted. It was like those Ivy League sailing competitions in his past life—not something you'd be invited to unless you were part of the elite.

Deep down, Hoffa understood why the broom had refused him earlier. He didn't want to play Quidditch; he only wanted to fly.

The rules of Quidditch seemed utterly ridiculous to him, especially the part where catching the Golden Snitch could overturn an entire game. It was pure individual heroism and made no sense at all.

By comparison, he found himself preferring Muggle soccer, where every player was important.

In that moment, Hoffa thought of many things, including the story from his previous life about Hermione arguing with Professor Trelawney during Divination class. Trelawney dismissed Hermione's efforts because she lacked a natural gift for Divination. The truth was, logic and intuition couldn't coexist in perfect harmony. Hermione could never be a Seer, just as Hoffa could hardly become a Quidditch star.

Talent was rare in the world, especially in sports.

In his past life, Hoffa had always been awkwardly average in athletics, watching from the sidelines as others played. Coming to the wizarding world hadn't changed that.

If he had a small talent for Transfiguration, that was enough. Why be greedy? There were many ways to fly, and he didn't need to fixate on just one. Right now, what he needed to do was focus on studying and developing his skills.

Only those who survive the coming war will have the right to pursue their own happiness. Winning or losing today, or trying to be the king among a bunch of 11-year-olds, was meaningless.

Having come to terms with this, Hoffa calmed down. He spat out the blade of grass, clasped his hands behind his back, and walked off the field.

In the sky above, Aglaia continued flying. Yet her gaze remained fixed on Hoffa, who sat in the corner.

Getting the better of Hoffa felt deeply satisfying to her. Ever since she had met him, she had suffered setback after setback—particularly on the train, when her attempt to deduce his identity had backfired spectacularly. It had been mortifying.

Today, she'd finally had her revenge.

But seeing Hoffa walk away so calmly left Aglaia feeling as though her punch had landed on a cloud.

(End of chapter)

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