Harry Potter: I am the Legend

To leave the underground city, one must head toward the exits located at the tops of its towering buildings, beyond the illusory sky created by magic.

At present, the once chaotic dungeon had been fully subdued by the wizards. Chains secured groups of low-level blood slaves, their crimson lust subdued as they were herded toward the exits in clusters.

After striking a deal with Hoffa, Tom didn't bother with whether Hoffa could Apparate or not. He vanished in a wisp of black smoke, leaving behind only a faint trace of his departure.

In the past, Hoffa might have been bewildered, clueless about where Tom had gone.

But now, with his seemingly enhanced vision, he could pinpoint Tom Riddle's location with uncanny precision. His eyes locked onto Riddle, now standing by an underground exit hundreds of meters away.

He prepared to transform into a Thunderbird and soar upward. Yet as soon as he pushed off with his legs, a gust of wind surged past him. Before he realized what had happened, he found himself leaping from the ground to the top of the cathedral in a single bound—a distance of at least fifty meters. The speed and power of the jump even shocked him.

Perplexed, Hoffa touched the grotesque three-ring scar on his chest. He hadn't paid it much attention earlier, but under the night sky, his body felt brimming with vitality. This wasn't magic but pure physical strength.

Testing his newfound abilities, he bent down, looked toward the artificial sky above, and propelled himself upward with force.

Boom!

The building's rooftop cracked open under the sheer force of his jump.

When he regained his bearings, Hoffa found himself standing by the exit.

Tom Riddle, noticing Hoffa's sudden appearance beside him, frowned and asked, "How did you Apparate without triggering any magical energy fluctuation?"

"I…" Hoffa's eyes darted, and he smirked. "Energy-efficient and environmentally friendly. You wouldn't understand."

"You're insane."

Tom dismissed Hoffa with a curt retort before turning to leave.

"Where to next? More Apparition?" Hoffa asked, following him.

"No need. German Muggles and wizards have a secret alliance. They fire artillery at any location with magical activity. I'd rather not Apparate straight into a cannon's line of fire."

"Didn't you just Apparate earlier?"

"Bournemouth is under a Ministry of Magic concealment spell. The Germans can't detect magic here. But outside, we'd better tread carefully," Tom sneered. "How have you survived this long without knowing that?"

Hoffa didn't respond, though he recalled a Ministry official mentioning something similar when they sent him to deliver Chloe long ago—a memory buried in the past.

Tom led Hoffa to an abandoned train station outside. He whistled sharply, and several black, hairless beasts descended silently from the sky. These skeletal creatures, with wings sprouting from their gaunt frames, resembled starved black horses.

Thestrals.

They were magical creatures visible only to those who had witnessed death.

Tom mounted one, which reared its front hooves and took to the skies. Hoffa followed suit, climbing onto another Thestral to trail behind him.

Despite their sleek appearance, riding a Thestral felt like sitting on protruding steel spikes—an uncomfortable experience. If not for the need to adapt, Hoffa would've preferred flying on his own.

"Who are those people? The ones carrying chains?" Hoffa asked, breaking the silence mid-flight.

"White-robed wizards of the Church."

Tom's reply was curt.

"The Church? When did Hogwarts start working with Muggle churches?"

"How should I know? Don't ask me. Just remember, they're fanatics—stubborn, rigid ascetics. That's all you need to know," Tom snapped, irritation evident.

Hoffa remained silent, though curiosity still tugged at him. "Why hasn't the Ministry of Magic intervened?"

"The Ministry? Ha!"

Tom laughed mockingly. After a pause, he cast a derisive glance at Hoffa. "Ever since your father-in-law took office, the Ministry has turned into a haven for idlers. Who knows what they do all day?"

His voice grew sharper. "Why? Do you care? Planning to marry into a pureblood family to change your last name? Oh, wait—my apologies. That little girl is dead now. What was her name again—"

"I don't want to talk about it, Tom."

Hoffa's voice was calm, devoid of any visible emotion.

"Can't understand why you came back. Isn't the world outside Hogwarts far more exciting?" Tom continued, unabated. The mask of the model student he wore at school had completely dropped, revealing his caustic nature. "Hey, tell me—did you make a fortune smuggling weapons out there?"

"You killed your father," Hoffa cut him off flatly.

Tom's face darkened instantly, like he'd swallowed something foul. The rest of the journey passed in silence.

Riding the Thestrals, they ascended through the night's thermal currents. By the time they reached an altitude of five kilometers, it was nearing 3 a.m.

Here, amidst the clouds, the air was thin, and the landscape resembled a realm of towering mountains made entirely of vapor.

The Thestrals stopped, their massive chests heaving like bellows as they exhaled thick white mist from their nostrils.

Hoffa watched as Tom dismounted mid-air, stepping onto a thin cloud. The vapor wobbled slightly before stabilizing, supporting his weight.

"Come on. Just don't wander beyond the clouds," Tom said, then added with a touch of irritation, "Why am I even warning a birdman?"

Rolling his eyes, Hoffa pushed off his Thestral and stepped onto the cloud. The sensation underfoot was soft, like cotton, but it held firm.

Tom moved ahead into the mountainous cloud formations. From the outside, the clouds were dark and foreboding, but within lay a bustling, illuminated hub of activity.

The structures, built primarily from wooden crates, formed corridors and buildings.

Hoffa observed students in Slytherin-green robes bustling about, carrying supplies, feeding the Thestrals, and practicing spells. House-elves darted through the crowd with remarkable agility, balancing crates on their shoulders as they stacked them neatly into corridors.

The scene resembled a giant floating anthill in the sky.

Despite his concerns for Chloe's safety and his own uncertain fate, Hoffa couldn't help but marvel at the sight.

This must be the depth of Hogwarts' resources, he thought. This airborne fortress could transport wizards anywhere, evading both enemy wizards and Muggle detection.

Once inside the cloud base, Tom's usual venom and sarcasm vanished. He greeted the students amiably and even dismissed minor accidents with a smile.

Hoffa, however, pulled the hood of his tattered cloak over his head. For various reasons, he preferred not to be recognized by his former schoolmates, a sentiment that transported him back to a time he wished to forget.

As they ventured deeper, Hoffa noticed that the elves had switched from carrying wooden crates to steel bars. They moved in orderly lines, assembling cages from the bars.

Ahead, various creatures were confined in the newly constructed cages. Some roared, others whimpered.

Among them, Hoffa spotted ghouls crawling on all fours, werewolves wailing as they clung to the bars, gelatinous Grindylows writhing, and a merperson repeatedly ramming a water tank. The merperson's sharp teeth and gill slits made each strike a display of fury, despite the tank's enchanted blue runes reflecting its attacks back.

When Hoffa reached the frontmost cage, he recognized a familiar figure:

Gilia, the vampire they had captured earlier. She lay motionless in a corner, her face pale and gaunt, her once vibrant hair now brittle and lifeless.

Noticing the two approaching, the woman glanced at Hoffa briefly before curling up into a ball, hugging her knees.

Riddle looked at the cage with disdain. "These are all the creatures we've captured from across Britain. If you ask me, these useless experiments should have been dealt with long ago. Keeping them here is a waste of resources."

"Then why don't you handle it?"

"Hogwarts isn't run by one house, you know. Your red-bearded headmaster has a peculiar fondness for these things."

His tone was laced with sarcasm and scorn, brimming with contempt and arrogance.

Hoffa understood Riddle's disdain. In his eyes, only pure-blood wizards were truly human. As for Muggles or magical creatures, they were no different from livestock to him.

"Where's Ryan?" Hoffa asked, recalling his friend who had gone to deliver a message but hadn't returned.

"You mean that Hufflepuff?"

"Yeah."

"Locked up. He's under inspection—I have a few things to ask him." Riddle stood in front of the vampire's cage, speaking casually.

The woman in the cage suddenly lunged forward, clawing toward Riddle, but as soon as she touched the bars, an electric current jolted her back. She trembled violently, her body twitching uncontrollably.

Riddle glanced at her disinterestedly before turning back to Hoffa. "Let's be clear: I don't care where you heard those rumors, but if you dare say a single word in front of Slughorn, I'll kill you. Do you understand? I mean it."

Hoffa nodded. "If you think you can."

Riddle sneered, flipping his cloak dramatically as he strode down the corridor, pushing open a half-closed iron door at the end.

The room was shrouded in thick smoke. Through the haze, Hoffa saw his former Potions professor, Horace Slughorn, reclining on a chair. He was as rotund as ever, his shirt buttons straining against his bulging stomach. However, he seemed ill, with a transparent tube attached to his arm for an infusion. His pale face stared listlessly at the ceiling, resembling a melancholic walrus.

A few older Slytherin girls were busy brewing potions nearby, their cauldrons bubbling with steam—the source of the smoky air.

"Professor, look who I've brought!"

Riddle knelt gracefully beside Slughorn's chair, his demeanor suddenly warm and refined.

Slughorn turned his weary head. Upon seeing the young man standing nearby, his eyes widened in surprise. With effort, he sat up, fumbling for his glasses, which he perched on his nose to get a better look.

"You?! Bach?"

He tossed aside the glasses. "What are you doing back here? Come, come, let me have a look at you!"

Hoffa felt a lump in his throat. The old professor had been a bit snobbish at school, but he'd always been kind to him. Though he'd left Hogwarts, it didn't mean he despised everyone there. In truth, he missed the people and moments from school dearly.

He approached the chair as all eyes in the smoke-filled room turned toward him. Slughorn's gaze sparkled with excitement as he struggled to sit up. The pale hue of his face flushed with color.

"Yuli! Yuli, where's my pipe?"

One of the older Slytherin girls, a striking young woman stirring a cauldron, turned and replied coldly, "You're not allowed to smoke yet, Professor."

"Oh, come on! Look who's here, Yuli. Can't I have a little joy at a time like this?"

The girl gave Hoffa a quick glance, fetched a tray of candy from a drawer, and set it between Hoffa and Slughorn. Her tone remained frosty. "Enjoy."

Slughorn smacked his lips, sinking back into his chair like a deflated balloon. "Fine, fine. If only I could mark your final grades with an F."

The Slytherin girl elegantly removed her mask, packed up her tools, and left the room. But not before leaning down to kiss Riddle on the cheek—a gesture both cool and tender, earning her some envy.

Once the room was down to just the three of them, Riddle grinned and pulled a finely crafted meerschaum pipe from his pocket, handing it to Slughorn.

"Don't let Yuli find out, Professor," he said with an easy charm.

Slughorn's eyes gleamed as he accepted the pipe, pointing a chubby finger at Riddle indulgently. "You! If every Slytherin student were like you, my job would be so much easier."

He took a puff from the pipe, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a blissful sigh, finally coming down from his earlier excitement. Relaxing into his chair, he resumed the air of a dignified Slytherin head.

"Tom, fetch two more chairs," Slughorn instructed with authority.

Tom Riddle gracefully waved his wand, conjuring two plush armchairs. He sat down, interlacing his fingers with a courteous smile. "If I'd known Bach was here, I might've taken the task of searching Bournemouth myself. After all, we've been the closest of friends since we were in diapers."

Ignoring Riddle's nonsense, Hoffa approached the armchair and supported the chubby professor's plump arm. "What happened, Professor? Are you hurt?"

"Oh, that damned gargoyle! Last time in Birmingham, a cursed spell from a dark wizard broke my leg." He exhaled a puff of smoke, lifting his robe to reveal a heavily bandaged thigh. "But that rascal didn't get off lightly either—I turned him into a frog and bottled him up."

Slughorn then gave Hoffa a scrutinizing look, his tone carrying both curiosity and concern. "And where have you been? Not a single letter from you. Albus mentions you often, always sounding regretful."

"I've been traveling, picking up odd jobs. With the lockdowns, it's been hard to communicate with the school." Hoffa spoke with a hint of guilt. "I came to see you because I have some critical information to share."

Seeing the seriousness on Hoffa's face, Slughorn straightened in his chair. The smile on Tom Riddle's face faded, and his eyes lowered.

Slughorn made no move to dismiss Riddle, and Hoffa didn't mind the future Dark Lord hearing his strange and absurd tale.

By the fireplace, Hoffa recounted the events briefly to Slughorn, though he altered the ending. He didn't mention Mans piercing his chest or his subsequent encounter in the blood pool. Instead, he said he was knocked unconscious.

When he finished, the room fell into a heavy silence. Even the sound of the professor puffing his pipe ceased. After a long pause, Slughorn finally exhaled a smoke ring.

Pfft!

Tom suddenly burst out laughing, scattering the smoke ring. "Are you saying a Muggle officer poisoned all the wizards and vampires in Germany? And that officer was German himself?"

"That's correct."

"Impossible. That's absurd." Tom shook his head emphatically. "Do you take us for fools, Bach? At least put some effort into your story. Vampires poisoned to death? That's preposterous."

He stood up, poured himself a cup of tea, and continued, "No one's going to blame you, Bach. Those were despicable criminals. Killing them is no loss. The Ministry of Magic might even award you a Merlin's Knight badge."

Hoffa ignored Tom, focusing instead on the Potions professor.

Slughorn's expression was grave. After a moment of reflection, he spoke slowly. "It's not entirely impossible. Vampires aren't truly immortal. If the dose of poison is strong enough, they can indeed die. But your claim that the Muggle officer survived being stabbed in the chest—that I can't understand."

"Neither can I," Hoffa admitted, lowering his head and touching the glass vial at his waist. He didn't mention anything about ancient deities, unwilling to be labeled insane. That wasn't why he had come. "Regardless, I don't want to be blamed as the perpetrator of this underground massacre. I wasn't responsible. I'm asking you, Professor, to temporarily block news from this city."

"This is why you came to see me?"

Slughorn gave Hoffa a deep look. "Afraid of being targeted by German wizards?"

"Yes."

"You know, you could just admit it, Hoffa. Have you considered returning to school? We could protect you; no one would dare harm you."

Slughorn twisted his bulky frame, his eyes gleaming. "And if you're not fond of Albus's policies, I could pull some strings to transfer you into our house."

Ahem!

Tom, sipping his tea nearby, turned green and began coughing violently. Hoffa quickly stood up to interrupt Slughorn.

"No need, Professor. I have other matters to attend to—tasks that can only be done outside."

"What's more important than your life?"

Slughorn puffed on his pipe, clearly displeased. "Forgive my bluntness, but you're a remarkably talented wizard—perhaps one of the best I've ever taught. Yet even the most gifted wizards face peril in these times. You need protection, Hoffa."

"Can you help, Professor?"

Hoffa didn't answer his question, only looked at him expectantly.

The rotund Slytherin headmaster leaned back by the fire, studying the gray-haired boy in front of him. Realizing he couldn't persuade him, Slughorn sighed deeply, setting his pipe down.

"It's a tough situation, Bach. If all we have is a pile of bodies without a clear culprit, reporters from the Daily Prophet, Ministry spokespeople, and the public won't be satisfied."

After a pause, he added, "Even if what you say is true and I help cover it up, what about that officer? He has a mouth, doesn't he? He could go around telling people you're the murderer. Word spreads, and eventually, no one will know the truth."

"Unless... I bring him back." Hoffa spoke slowly.

"Bring him back?"

Slughorn looked at him in astonishment.

"Are you saying it's all true? That someone actually poisoned wizards and vampires to death?"

"Yes. He's not a wizard and can't Apparate. He managed to enter the dungeon but may not have escaped. So, he must still be hiding in the vampire's lair. If I find him, everything will be resolved."

Hoffa's words came in a rush. "I just need a few days. Please help me, Professor."

"You're not thinking of pinning the blame on a random Muggle, are you?" Tom said icily. "That would be despicable."

"I'll capture him alive and bring him to you. Then you can stab his chest yourself to verify my claims."

Seeing Hoffa's resolute expression, Slughorn slowly reclined in his chair. Stroking his triple chin, he pondered. After the tobacco in his pipe burned out, he finally looked up.

"Fine. I'll give you one week. For one week, I won't report what happened in Bournemouth to anyone. But if you can't find the culprit in that time, I'll have to inform the school. What Hogwarts decides then will be out of my hands."

(End of chapter)

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