Harry Potter: I am the Legend

After meeting with his former Potions professor, Slughorn, Hoffa managed to secure a temporary information lockdown. Though the agreement lasted only a week, it was enough to give him some relief.

As long as the information didn't leak immediately, he would have time to unravel Mans' conspiracy. Regardless, to bring Chloe back, he would eventually have to catch that man.

Tom Riddle seemed to have matters to discuss with Slughorn, so Hoffa didn't linger. He bid farewell to his old Potions mentor and walked out of the convalescence ward.

By now, dawn had arrived, and the distant sky was beginning to lighten. A faint weariness washed over him—a peculiar mix of fatigue, aversion, and a sensation of weakening power. It made him want to retreat back into the dim comfort of Slughorn's room.

What's happening? Hoffa shielded his eyes and stared at the rising sun. The morning sun felt intolerably glaring, almost like a wailing child, and he found it unbearable. The light seemed much harsher than usual.

The more he stared, the harder it became to keep his eyes open.

His exhaustion grew stronger, his vision blurred, and his strength waned at an alarming pace. Huffing and puffing, he sat down on the ground, tugging at the collar of his shirt. The three-ring scar on his chest, once vividly red, had now faded to a dull, almost lifeless hue.

Even an idiot could figure it out—after his rebirth in the blood pool, he had developed certain vampire-like traits. While he thrived at night, he couldn't endure sunlight. Everything had reversed.

"Damn it!" he cursed aloud. "What good is being strong at night if I'm useless during the day?"

Any excitement he felt from securing Slughorn's help vanished. He had thought his ordeal in the blood pool had granted him divine power, but now it was clear this power came with severe limitations.

If his nighttime strength inevitably came with daytime weakness, he'd rather go back to his old, balanced self.

As the sun continued to rise, the drowsiness became overpowering. By the time it was high in the sky, Hoffa was yawning uncontrollably, too weak even to lift his head.

A house-elf accidentally bumped into him, scattering a pile of boxes. The elf quickly apologized profusely. Hoffa helped it up, yawning as he muttered, "Hey... can you... get me a room? I need... to sleep."

The house-elf straightened up immediately. "Of course, sir!"

Moments later, a group of house-elves appeared, stacking boxes like building blocks. They quickly assembled a small makeshift cabin, complete with a bed made of wooden crates. They even thoughtfully laid a soft blanket on it.

The newly built shelter smelled faintly of sawdust, but Hoffa didn't care. The moment he collapsed onto the bed, his eyes shut on their own.

Lying there, he cursed Mans in frustration for turning him into this half-human, half-vampire abomination. Just before falling asleep, he muttered with bitter determination, "You just wait... I'll get you..."

When Hoffa opened his eyes again, he was standing at London's King's Cross Station. He had reverted to his eleven-year-old self. The sky was pouring rain, and he was pushing a trolley loaded with luggage. The passersby around him were all hazy and indistinct.

He couldn't recall how he had gotten there, nor did he question it. All he knew was that today was September 1st—Hogwarts' opening day. He needed to pass through Platform 9¾ to catch the train to school.

He pushed his trolley forward, but just as he was about to crash into the wall, the trolley scattered, spilling everything on the ground. He fell as well.

When he stood up, he realized he had bumped into a girl.

The scene felt eerily familiar. Hastily, he went to help her up. When he saw her face, he was stunned—she had Chloe's face, with wine-red hair.

"Are you okay?" he stammered, feeling something was amiss.

"I'm fine," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She wrung her hands nervously and stood there with her toes pointed inward.

Hoffa bent down to pick up her things. She crouched down as well, helping him gather the scattered items. Once they had finished, they passed through the stone barrier together and boarded the train to Hogwarts.

Time skipped ahead.

A month later, Hoffa was on the Hogwarts grounds, trying to ride a wobbly broomstick. He watched enviously as others soared gracefully through the air.

The years flew by.

On the Quidditch field, Hoffa, now confident and skilled, swung a bat with all his might. A Bludger shot forward like a missile, curving perfectly into the distant goal hoop.

"250 to 90! Even catching the Golden Snitch won't change the score! Ravenclaw's legendary player, Hoffa Bach, has once again brought his team to the brink of the championship!" the commentator shouted, his voice ecstatic.

Soaring through the air, Hoffa basked in the crowd's cheers. Among them, he spotted a red-haired girl covering her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears of joy.

Time passed again.

This time, Hoffa lay by the fireplace in a cozy living room, a bottle of wine in one hand. His left leg was stretched out, wrapped tightly in bandages.

"I think it's time to be realistic," he said, melancholic.

The red-haired woman kneeling by the coffee table was changing his bandages. She looked uneasy. "You can't keep playing Quidditch forever. One day, you'll get seriously hurt."

"So what?" Hoffa took a swig of wine, brooding. "I don't want to work for Gringotts or the Ministry."

"But we have no choice," she said, gripping his hand. "Maybe I could talk to my family. They own a potion shop in Diagon Alley."

"Enough!" Hoffa slammed the table in frustration. "Do you think I want to live off your parents?"

Time sped up again.

Now he sat at the counter of the potion shop, lazily wiping cauldrons. A young boy stood before him. "Dad, I want a brass cauldron this year."

"Why? Everyone else uses pewter."

"Who said so? All the Slytherin kids have brass ones!"

"Then earn the money to buy it yourself."

Angrily, Hoffa tossed aside his cloth.

The boy burst into tears.

Time continued to fly.

Decades later, he sat on a hospital bed in St. Mungo's. A doctor in a white coat looked over a long list and said, "Stage-two dragon pox. Luckily, it was caught in time, or it could have been fatal. Do you want treatment?"

"What's the cost?"

"One thousand Galleons," the doctor replied after a pause. "Per week."

Hoffa glanced uneasily at the middle-aged red-haired woman outside the door and the tall young man standing beside her. A heavy sense of oppression settled over him.

Time skipped forward again.

Hoffa, now gaunt and frail, sat in a wheelchair with a paper crown perched on his head and several ribbons draped over his shoulders. Before him stood a group of laughing men and women, some wearing pointed red hats, others holding confetti poppers, and a few slicing a cake on the table.

A middle-aged man in the crowd held a child in his arms, raising a glass. "To the greatest father in the world, happy seventieth birthday!"

"Happy birthday!"

Everyone raised their glasses in unison.

The scene triggered a memory in Hoffa's mind. Long ago, he had a vague dream about a group of vampires raising glasses to celebrate a father's birthday. The hazy recollection left him irritated, feeling as though his aging mind was betraying him more and more.

"I need some air," he said.

The middle-aged man in the crowd set the child down, stepping forward to push Hoffa's wheelchair, but Hoffa waved him off.

A few minutes later, Hoffa rolled himself onto the roadside. Watching children laughing and riding their bikes past him, he felt a deep sense of emptiness. It seemed as though his entire life had been a blur, and everything he had gained wasn't what he truly wanted.

Honk!!

A jarring horn blared behind him.

He turned to see blinding headlights speeding toward him—a young biker on a motorcycle, failing to brake in time while taking a sharp turn.

"What the—"

Bang!

The curse stuck in his throat as he was struck by the motorcycle. The impact sent him flying, his spine cracking audibly as the wheelchair's wheels were flung skyward. His head collided with the ground, and everything went black.

"Damn it!!"

Hoffa jolted awake, gasping. The dimly lit room smelled of freshly cut wood, and a lone oil lamp flickered in the corner. It was the little shack the house-elves had cobbled together for him.

The dream lingered, painfully vivid, as if he had lived through an entire lifetime—a pathetic, frustrating life that ended in a ridiculous accident. The crushing loss and disorientation blurred the lines between dream and reality.

Realizing what had happened, Hoffa leapt from the bed, snatched up the glass orb at his waist, and glared at the creature swirling inside it.

"Was this your doing?"

The creature within was awake, spinning gleefully. "I told you, your nights from now on will either be spent drinking blood or enduring nightmares. You chose nightmares."

"But that was daytime!" Hoffa growled, clutching the orb.

"To you, it is night. You have been blessed by the Night God but cursed by the sun. Day and night are now reversed for you."

Hoffa glanced outside; the sky was dark, yet the night was as clear as day to his eyes.

"Am I going to have a nightmare every time I sleep?"

"Only if you sleep," the little creature replied promptly.

Furious, Hoffa grabbed a wooden plank and pointed it at the orb, his hands trembling. "Why?!"

"Every time someone experiences emotional turmoil in a nightmare, my power grows," it answered smugly.

"And you claim I'm not your disciple?!" Hoffa raised the plank, ready to smash the orb.

The creature showed no fear. "I saved you. Without the shelter of my nightmare realm, the sun would have reduced you to ashes. Would you destroy me over one dream?"

"But you have no right to invade my mind!" Hoffa shouted.

"Nothing special about it," the creature said indifferently. "If I may say, that was quite a boring nightmare."

"You—!"

Hoffa hesitated, lowering the plank. He realized the creature was right; the nightmare had been dull and mundane. Yet, that ordinariness was what made it so terrifying.

"Damn it." He tossed the plank aside and threw the orb back onto the bed.

On the bedside table was a glass of iced water left by a house-elf. He gulped it down, gradually calming his racing heart.

After regaining his composure, Hoffa unbuttoned his shirt and stared at the jagged scar on his chest. "So I can't recover? I'm doomed to live like a vampire, hiding from the sun?"

"Nothing is irreversible. You're still young, with many paths ahead of you," the creature said.

Hoffa felt a sliver of relief and buttoned his shirt. "The Night God saved me, yet you're the one who benefits. Even to me, that seems shameless."

"I can answer your questions, should you have any," the creature replied calmly. "Believe me, I've seen into the hearts of billions and hold infinite secrets. Trading a nightmare a night for my companionship is a bargain."

"Last time, I asked how to defeat Mansus, and you didn't answer. What big talk will you spout now?"

"That's because you already know the answer," the creature said.

"I know? How could I know?" Hoffa was baffled. "If I knew, I wouldn't have let him pierce my heart!"

He suddenly fell silent, deep in thought.

He recalled a moment from his previous nightmare, when the man named Aldo had warned him about Mansus's power. Hoffa had not taken the warning seriously enough, leading to his costly mistake—almost losing his life.

Before Aldo died, he mentioned something cryptic: "If he's beyond your strength, try black mistletoe."

"What is black mistletoe?"

(To be continued...)

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