Harry Potter: I am the Legend

1938

At this time, Albus Dumbledore was not yet the headmaster of Hogwarts. He was simply a professor of Transfiguration, around fifty years old. Yet it was in this year that he did something seemingly insignificant, a small act that would completely alter the future of the wizarding world. He admitted the future Dark Lord, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to Hogwarts, setting him on the path to chase his ambitions.

Hoffa, having read the original novels and once counted himself among their fans, could never have imagined that he would wake up after death to find himself in this world—in 1938 England, no less—facing one of its most iconic wizards.

He had no idea what this signified, but as Mrs. Cole left the room, Hoffa had already backed into a corner, his gaze fixed warily on Dumbledore. He feared the man might cast Legilimency to pry into his mind or wipe his memories with Obliviate.

Neither was acceptable to him. Having just experienced death and a storm of foreign memories, Hoffa's nerves were stretched thin.

But Dumbledore didn't do any of those things. His blue eyes sparkled with curiosity as he regarded the boy before him—a child in an orphanage who somehow knew his name.

Instead of speaking immediately, Dumbledore reached up to unhook the limp, hanging cat from the ceiling. He leaned casually against the rickety desk, his wand laid across his lap as he smiled at Hoffa.

"Ordinary Muggles wouldn't know my name, Hoffa."

He had remembered Hoffa's name perfectly.

"Oh," Hoffa replied dryly. In his past life, he was merely a teenager, and Dumbledore—already over fifty—was a wizard of immense experience. Hoffa had no sense of superiority before him.

"You didn't ask what a Muggle is."

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled with amusement. "What's your full name, Hoffa?"

"Hoffa Bach," he answered with a sigh, deciding it was best to be truthful. Facing someone of Dumbledore's caliber, his safest course was to act like an honest child.

"Bach... Sounds like a French family name," Dumbledore mused, twirling his wand absentmindedly before laying it flat again.

Hoffa's body tensed. He instinctively shrank back, alert for any spell Dumbledore might cast. All he wanted now was for Dumbledore to leave so he could sort out his tangled thoughts and prepare to face his new reality.

Dumbledore seemed to sense his fear. With a subtle flick of his wand, he pointed it at Hoffa.

Hoffa's heart leapt into his throat. He pressed himself against the wall, his mind racing with dread.

Was this it? Would he cast Legilimency? Or perhaps Obliviate?

As tension overwhelmed him—

Bang!

A glass on the desk suddenly exploded, as if responding to Hoffa's intense anxiety.

And then—

Poof!

Accompanied by a cheap crackling sound akin to a poor-quality party popper, Dumbledore's wand emitted colorful streamers that gently floated down like confetti. Glittering sparks accompanied the soft ribbons as they drifted onto Hoffa's head.

Hoffa stood frozen in disbelief, leaning against the wall as the whimsical decorations landed on him.

What... was this? This wasn't in the original books! How was he supposed to react to this?

Dumbledore coughed lightly, putting away his wand as he murmured, "Am I truly so frightening?"

Hoffa said nothing, his gaze darting between the shattered glass and Dumbledore's amused expression. He was utterly at a loss.

"Did Beauxbatons send you an invitation, Hoffa?"

Hoffa shook his head silently.

"Ah, I see... Well, perhaps I'll take my leave," Dumbledore said, adjusting his hat and giving Hoffa a kind smile.

"You may need a change of scenery. And, by the way, I'm quite fond of short-haired cats. Find a better resting place for that little fellow, would you?"

With that, Dumbledore tipped his hat, offered Hoffa a brief wink, and exited the room.

Only after Dumbledore's departure did Hoffa slowly slide down the wall to sit on the floor.

For a moment, his mind felt paralyzed. Eventually, he pieced together his situation:

This was 1938, in London, and he was in the same orphanage as Tom Riddle.

Upstairs, faint, sharp sounds began to echo, like the nibbling of rats on wood. The noise was so faint it might go unnoticed unless one listened closely.

But Hoffa knew exactly what it was.

In 1938, Dumbledore had confronted eleven-year-old Tom Riddle about his bullying of other children while recruiting him to Hogwarts. During this pivotal moment, Dumbledore had used a fiery wardrobe to intimidate Tom, compelling the future Dark Lord to make what might have been his only act of repentance.

Harry Potter's tale was long and intricate, but if one had to pinpoint its true beginning, this might well be it.

After all, if Tom Riddle hadn't attended Hogwarts, he wouldn't have become Voldemort. Without Voldemort, there would have been no orphaned Harry Potter, and thus no subsequent events.

And now, this historic moment was unfolding directly above Hoffa.

Muffled voices reached his ears:

Boy: "I have no money!"

Dumbledore: "That's easy to address. Hogwarts has a fund for students who need assistance with books and robes. Some of your books may need to be second-hand, but—"

Boy: "Where do I buy them?"

Dumbledore: "In Diagon Alley. I've brought your book list and school supply guide. I can help you shop for them."

Boy: "You're coming with me?"

Dumbledore: "Of course, unless you—"

Boy: "I don't need you."

...

The conversation ended about five minutes later.

Hoffa thought that was the end of Dumbledore and Riddle's first encounter, but Dumbledore's voice called out again:

"Oh, and that boy whose room you took? He's a wizard too. If you're familiar with London, perhaps you could help him."

Tom Riddle laughed derisively. "Hoffa? Him?"

Dumbledore said nothing more, shutting the door behind him.

Downstairs, after hearing all this, Hoffa collapsed onto his bed. He wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry. There was no doubt about it—he had magical talent. Dumbledore had just tested him in a completely unexpected way.

No matter how things went in the novels, the current Dumbledore was much sharper and more commanding than Hoffa had imagined. Perhaps it was because he was younger now.

And Voldemort... he was far more terrifying than Hoffa had expected. His predecessor had already been killed by an 11-year-old Tom Riddle, merely for a room. If Dumbledore knew he was dealing with an 11-year-old murderer, he probably would never have admitted him to Hogwarts.

Sprawled out on the bed in a star shape, Hoffa sighed. He instinctively reached into his pocket, wanting to pull out his phone and send a WeChat message to complain about reality. But when he felt his empty pocket, his bitter smile deepened.

There were still more than 70 years until Steve Jobs would release the iPhone 4. The guy was probably just a single-celled organism right now. Hoffa figured he'd better give up on the idea of playing with a smartphone.

After collecting his thoughts, Hoffa picked up the cat Tom Riddle had hanged and buried it in a corner of the orphanage yard.

Staring at the small mound of earth topped with a few pebbles, Hoffa pressed his hand to his chest and whispered, "I'll live well—for both of us."

Not long after, the sound of dinner being served echoed through the orphanage.

Hoffa adjusted his mindset, and the gloom on his face disappeared entirely. He had magical talent and was likely to attend Hogwarts. Wasn't this the childhood dream he had always yearned for in his previous life? With that in mind, what was there to complain about?

On his plate lay a slightly yellowed piece of white bread, two slices of bacon, half a piece of broccoli, and a glass of orange juice.

This was Hoffa's first meal in 1938 London. The orphanage's food wasn't great, just enough to keep the children from starving.

On top of that, British cooks were famously indifferent. Hoffa found the bacon in his mouth unbearably tough.

Before he could force it down, a tray slammed onto the table across from him.

Clang!

Hoffa, with a strip of bacon in his mouth, looked up.

A tall boy with dark hair and pale skin was sitting opposite him. He was strikingly handsome—at least Hoffa thought so, much more than his own appearance in this life. Hoffa looked like an ordinary boy-next-door, while the other boy had the kind of looks that could attract talent scouts just walking down the street.

"Your head healed pretty fast, Hoffa."

The boy narrowed his eyes and spoke softly, his gaze like someone examining a curious new toy.

There was no doubt about it. The handsome boy in front of him was none other than the infamous Tom Marvolo Riddle—the future Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Wizard in European magical history. Fifty years later, people wouldn't even dare to speak his name.

Hoffa disliked him immensely.

Nobody could like an 11-year-old murderer, someone who would stop at nothing to achieve his goals, with no sense of remorse.

But Hoffa wasn't afraid of him. Right now, Tom Riddle wasn't Voldemort. No matter how talented he was, he was still just a child.

Hoffa swallowed the bacon in his mouth and slowly stood up.

"Get lost, Tom."

Hoffa spoke calmly, his demeanor unwavering.

Tom paused, and his face turned deathly pale. A flicker of red light flashed in his eyes, making him look like a snarling beast.

But then something unexpected happened. Tom didn't lash out or use magic. Instead, he smiled faintly and leaned in close, as if his earlier menace had been an illusion.

"You and I are the same kind of people, Hoffa," Tom said, pointing to the other children eating dinner nearby. "Different from those idiots."

Hoffa was stunned.

He could only think that this was, indeed, the young Voldemort—the future ruler of an enormous legion of Death Eaters. This kind of mindset was far beyond that of an ordinary child. One moment, he'd push you off a cliff; the next, he'd try to build rapport. No wonder he'd go on to lead such a massive following.

Honestly, if Hoffa didn't know about the future, he might have been swayed by Tom's charming smile.

"If you're willing to be my friend, I can show you a magical place," Tom continued, even extending his left hand with a gracious smile.

But Hoffa simply sneered at the hand suspended in the air.

"I'll go to Hogwarts on my own, but I won't shake the dirty hand of someone who kills innocent animals," Hoffa said coldly.

The moment he finished, Tom Riddle's young face twisted with hatred.

The orphanage's ceiling lights flickered. The air grew oppressively heavy, and the orange juice in every child's cup exploded simultaneously, prompting a chorus of cries.

Hoffa frowned. What overwhelming magical energy. Though he hadn't formally studied magic yet, he could instinctively feel the terrifying talent radiating from Tom.

Despite his pale face, Hoffa didn't back down. In his previous life, he had been just an ordinary person, but one with principles. It didn't matter that Tom was destined to fail—Hoffa would never shake his hand, even if he was bound for success.

Tom withdrew his hand.

The ceiling lights returned to normal.

Mrs. Cole rushed into the hall in a panic, trying to console the crying children.

Tom had already returned to his calm state.

"I'll be watching you, Hoffa," he said flatly before turning to leave.

His tone was even, but the killing intent was blatant and unmasked.

Hoffa snorted and shook his head, tossing the last strip of bacon into his mouth.

Getting on the Dark Lord's bad side on day one of being reborn—what a way to start!

Truth be told, Hoffa disliked making enemies. In his past life, traditional Eastern teachings had instilled in him the importance of keeping a low profile. It was precisely for this reason that he was so eager to sever ties with Voldemort.

Standing in the right crowd and quietly gaining advantages was the way to go. Someone like Tom, brimming with ambition and defying the world so openly, was bound to meet a bad end.

No matter how talented he was, he'd eventually be taken down—even without Harry Potter.

The thought sent a chill down Hoffa's spine.

Though Voldemort was destined to fail, Hoffa didn't want to become collateral damage in the Wizarding War.

This wasn't Harry's era. Harry's father hadn't even been born yet. Hoffa had no way to ride the coattails of the Chosen One or scavenge opportunities from the course of history.

The Philosopher's Stone, the Chamber of Secrets, Azkaban's prisoner—all those were events from half a century in the future...

For now, Hoffa was in the dark.

The road ahead was a foggy abyss.

(End of Chapter)

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