Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"What is Black Mistletoe?"

Hoffa was intrigued. He had seen plenty of mistletoe before; every year at Hogwarts, it was used to decorate the corridors during Christmas, its delicate green and brown strands hanging festively.

But mistletoe was typically a fragile parasitic plant, thin and weak—certainly not black.

"You've finally remembered," the little monster in the glass orb said. "It's a very special magical plant. For wizards like you, it shouldn't be too hard to acquire."

"How special is it?"

"You'll find out if you ask around," the creature replied, spiraling and then curling up. "See you in the next nightmare."

The words sent a chill down Hoffa's spine. What sort of being fed on nightmares? He couldn't fathom it. One thing was certain: he would need to avoid sleeping as much as possible. Perhaps he could replace sleep with meditation, denying the creature any further access to his mind.

Leaving the little wooden hut built by the house-elves, Hoffa stepped into the moonlight. The transformation was immediate—gone was the daytime exhaustion, replaced with boundless energy and sharp clarity, as if he'd consumed a potent stimulant.

Down below, wizards were returning one after another to the skybase on their thestrals, each carrying a rope-bound cluster of low-level blood slaves. Their mouths were sealed shut, preventing them from making a sound.

The house-elves worked like ants, swiftly constructing iron cages to detain the captured vampires. Without their leaders and higher-ranked allies, the vampires were no match for the wizards and had been swiftly subdued.

Further away, the glow of lights marked the presence of reporters standing on crates, interviewing wizards returning from Bournemouth to gather firsthand news.

Pulling his hat low to avoid recognition, Hoffa headed off to find Slughorn to ask about Black Mistletoe. But before he could get far, a sharp voice stopped him.

"Where are you going?"

Hoffa turned to see Tom Riddle watching him intently, his tone as cold as ever. "Why are you still here? Who are you sneaking off to see in the middle of the night?"

Several Slytherins stood at Tom's side. Their expressions weren't openly hostile but clearly carried an air of exclusion.

Hoffa chuckled inwardly. So Tom had been keeping an eye on him all this time, paranoid that he might expose his patricide.

Instead of answering directly, Hoffa shot back, "Do you know what Black Mistletoe is, Tom?"

"What are you talking about?" Tom replied, his expression unreadable.

Clearly, he didn't know. Hoffa decided he would still need to find Slughorn. But just as he was about to leave, a raspy voice came from behind Tom.

"I know, Hoffa..."

"Shut up, you fool!" Tom snarled, immediately turning and snapping at the speaker. "Say another word, and nothing will save you!"

Hoffa shifted his gaze and saw that Tom was holding a chain, leading a familiar figure—Ryan.

The once-proud Hufflepuff now looked utterly battered, his black-and-yellow robes torn and filthy, his tall frame hunched. His face was bruised and swollen, one eye half-closed, and his spirit broken.

Hoffa's heart sank. After Ryan had left to deliver a message, he had vanished without a trace. Seeing him now, it was clear he had suffered grievously under Tom's control.

"What have you done, Tom?" Hoffa asked, his voice sharp.

"You should ask him what he's done," Tom retorted. He grabbed Ryan's chin, forcing his head up. "Caught red-handed fraternizing with vampires in Bournemouth. If I hadn't intervened, who knows what secrets he might have sold to those monsters?"

The Slytherins behind Tom burst into low, mocking laughter, their disdain for Ryan evident.

Watching Ryan's humiliation, Hoffa felt a surge of discomfort. Although Ryan wasn't his subordinate, it felt as though someone close to him was being mistreated.

"He's a Hufflepuff," Hoffa said coldly. "If he's done something wrong, he should be dealt with by Hufflepuff, not you."

"And what business is it of yours?" Tom countered, his voice cutting. "This is Hogwarts' internal affair. Who are you to interfere? Do you think you're some kind of prefect?"

Hoffa stood firm, his unflinching stare silencing the laughter.

With a sharp tug on the chain, Tom yanked Ryan forward. The Hufflepuff stumbled, his shackled hands preventing him from regaining his balance. As he passed by Hoffa, Tom said, "Asked your questions? If you're done, get lost—fly away on a thestral or turn into a bird for all I care."

"Stop."

Hoffa's command was firm.

Tom froze, irritation flashing across his face. "What now?"

"I haven't finished asking," Hoffa replied. "He knows the answer to my question."

Tom narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Just one question?"

"That's all," Hoffa said. "Once I'm done, I'll leave."

Tom hesitated but eventually relented. With a shove, he pushed Ryan forward. "Fine. Ask your question here."

Stepping back, Tom and the Slytherins retreated a few steps, resuming their chatter while keeping a close eye on the interaction.

Hoffa turned to Ryan. Seeing him in such a pitiful state stirred a pang of guilt. He had dragged Ryan into this, confident he could control the situation, only for everything to spiral beyond his grasp. Now, Ryan was paying the price, his suffering greater than Hoffa's own.

"I'm sorry, Ryan," Hoffa said, scratching his head.

Ryan looked at him, his lips trembling. "They're going to burn Gillian alive... and they want me to watch."

Gillian Bowman. Hoffa rubbed his temples, recalling the name of the female vampire. After a moment of thought, he asked, "Do you still trust me? I can get you out of here."

Ryan used his one functioning eye to gaze at Hoffa. Shaking his head, his expression was on the verge of tears. "You're all as cruel as each other."

"Just give me one more chance, mate," Hoffa said urgently, leaning close to his ear. "I lied to you once, but I swear I won't lie to you again."

"Stop with the unnecessary chatter," came Tom's cold, warning voice from the side.

"I know, I know," Hoffa said impatiently, waving a hand to dismiss him. He turned back to Ryan. "Tell me, what is Black Mistletoe? Quickly. We don't have much time." He emphasized the last words heavily.

Ryan stared into Hoffa's golden eyes, as if weighing the credibility of his words. Finally, he nodded. "I can't explain it to you directly. I have to show you."

"Where?"

"The herb warehouse."

Hoffa immediately turned to Tom. "He can't explain it here; he needs to take me to the herb warehouse."

"And what do you need from the warehouse now?" Tom, who had been standing with his arms crossed, straightened, his tone sharp with suspicion.

"A sprig of mistletoe," Ryan replied.

"Just mistletoe?"

Hoffa nodded.

Tom conferred briefly with his companions, their voices low and hurried. After a moment, Tom grabbed the chain binding Ryan and yanked him to his feet. "Fine. Let's go. You're always full of trouble."

The group made their way to the herb warehouse at the skybase. The area resembled the greenhouses used for Herbology lessons at Hogwarts. Inside the wooden planters, various colorful plants thrived, most of them familiar to Hoffa as ingredients for healing and potion-making. Only a few were unknown to him.

Stopping before a crooked apple tree, Ryan pointed to a small patch of green on the branches. "That's what you're looking for."

Hoffa stepped closer, his heart sinking in disappointment.

The tree bore a few delicate, pale green shoots with many soft, slender offshoots. They appeared weak and fragile—nothing out of the ordinary.

Hoffa frowned. He had seen these many times before; during Hogwarts Christmas celebrations, mistletoe like this lined the corridors.

"I need Black Mistletoe. Black," he emphasized to Ryan.

Ryan seemed lost in thought. It wasn't until Hoffa gave him a light push that he lowered his gaze and began speaking, almost as if reciting a legend:

"It is said that during the golden age of the gods, the goddess Frigg blessed her son Balder, making all living things swear an oath not to harm him. Enchanted by Balder's beauty, all things swore to protect him.

"All but one—mistletoe.

"Before Ragnarok, the god of death plucked a sprig of mistletoe and gave it to the god of darkness, Hodr, instructing him to hurl it at Balder. Balder fell, slain by the mistletoe.

"After Ragnarok, the mistletoe that killed the god of light transformed from green to black."

When Ryan finished speaking, Hoffa froze.

Nearby, Tom Riddle burst into laughter.

"Well, I thought you were after something extraordinary, Bach. But there's nothing mythical here—just ordinary household items for wizards."

Ignoring Riddle's mocking tone, Hoffa turned to Ryan and asked, "Is there only one?"

Ryan shook his head. "That's just a legend—not rigorous or verifiable. However, according to the earliest, unedited version of A Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, mistletoe is a parasitic plant that cannot survive on its own. It usually thrives by attaching itself to common trees like poplar, apple, or squirrel wood, inserting its roots into the bark to absorb nutrients, often harming or even killing the host tree. Sometimes, it causes deformities in the tree, leading to its death.

"But mistletoe doesn't only kill plants. In fact, mistletoe can feed on other things as well, including humans. If green mistletoe is used to kill a person, it turns black. Once it has tasted the essence of a soul, it feeds only on souls. Black mistletoe's sole purpose is to destroy souls.

"In the Middle Ages, the church used it to kill ghosts or destroy the souls of heretics. But now, it's been completely abandoned because it's considered inhumane. Even possessing black mistletoe is enough to be convicted of murder."

When he finished speaking, silence enveloped the herb warehouse.

Tom Riddle curiously touched the delicate green plant before him, his eyes gleaming as though he were observing a fascinating new species.

Hoffa stared blankly at the fragile green plant in his hand. Who would have thought that this harmless decoration, often hung innocuously along corridors, could harbor such a dark purpose?

He suddenly understood why Aldo had suggested trying black mistletoe. Mance's body, blessed by Death itself, could survive any injury. The only way to defeat him was to destroy his soul.

"So, for it to turn black, it has to taste a soul?" Hoffa asked hesitantly.

"Exactly," Ryan said softly. "Humans, or any other soul-bearing creatures—centaurs, merfolk, and the like. But make no mistake: black mistletoe is an extraordinarily evil plant."

Though Ryan didn't finish his sentence, Hoffa understood the implication. Killing someone to turn the mistletoe black? He couldn't simply use the mistletoe to kill Mance because physical destruction alone wouldn't harm him. That meant he would have to kill someone else before even facing Mance.

Damn it. Where would he find someone to kill?

"I don't know why you're digging into such obscure knowledge," Ryan whispered, taking advantage of the Slytherins' focus on the mistletoe. "But I advise you not to try. Your Transfiguration skills can conjure hundreds of weapons—why resort to black mistletoe?"

"You're right," Hoffa said, abandoning the idea of using black mistletoe.

The surge of power he felt at night filled him with confidence. He believed that, during the night, he had reached the threshold of a top-tier wizard. If Mance's only advantage was his inability to die, Hoffa didn't think Mance could beat him in a direct confrontation. Besides, Hoffa hoped to capture him alive.

At this moment, Tom Riddle spoke up. "You see? There's no black mistletoe here. Just take a green one and leave."

Hoffa nodded, plucked a sprig of mistletoe, and grinned. "Alright."

Seeing Hoffa's smile, Ryan panicked. He dragged his chains closer and demanded, "You're just leaving?"

"What else?" Hoffa asked, puzzled.

"You said you'd help me!"

"And you believed me?" Hoffa chuckled. "It's not like I haven't lied to you before."

Ryan stared at Hoffa's radiant smile, his face pale as ash. He felt dizzy, nearly collapsing on the spot.

"You bastard!" he shouted, struggling to lunge at Hoffa with his fists raised.

But before he could get close, the chains tightened. He couldn't take another step.

In the distance, Tom smirked, holding the chain firmly and preventing any movement.

"Only fools place their hope in others," Tom sneered. Then, turning to Hoffa, he added with an approving look, "I must say, you've gotten much smarter."

Hoffa shrugged, ignoring Ryan's furious gaze. "Thanks for the compliment, Tom. But I have one small request."

"I'm in a good mood. Go on," Tom replied.

"That female vampire you captured yesterday—I need to borrow her for a few days."

"What?" Tom's grip on the chain slackened. "What do you want her for? Don't tell me you're infatuated with her beauty?"

"Not quite. Nearly all the high-ranking vampires in Bournemouth are dead, and she's the only survivor. I promised Professor Slughorn I'd solve the Bournemouth murders within a week, but that city's a labyrinth. I need someone familiar with the area to guide me."

"Absolutely not," Tom said, rejecting him outright. "She's my catch, my trophy. I decide her fate. Besides, we're about to purge those vampires with fire. Reporters from the Daily Prophet are coming to watch. At this critical moment, you expect me to hand her over? No way."

"Come on, mate!" Hoffa sighed as if chatting with an old friend. He casually unfastened the chain from Tom's hand and pushed Ryan aside like a piece of trash. Leaning close to Tom's ear, he whispered, "Don't think I don't see through you. Inviting those reporters here is all about creating a big headline, isn't it?"

"Get away from me," Tom snapped, visibly uncomfortable with Hoffa's proximity. He tried to push him away, but Hoffa held onto his arm, grinning.

"Burning her and the other low-level vampires—how much fame will that earn you? Such minor achievements won't get you a teaching position at Hogwarts after graduation."

Tom froze, his expression darkening. "How do you know so much? Who's feeding you this information? Or do I have a spy among my friends?"

"Don't overthink it, Tom," Hoffa said, coughing lightly. "You see, I'm no longer the clueless kid I used to be. Here's the deal: hand over the vampire, and I'll take you with me. Once we catch the real culprit, all the credit will be yours. You can spin the story however you like."

"I don't believe in that nonsense about Muggles poisoning vampires," Tom said coldly. "And I certainly don't believe you're doing this out of the kindness of your heart. The best help you can give me is to get lost."

Hoffa looked at him sadly. "Do we really have to end up like this because of a few childhood disagreements? Honestly, I've forgotten most of it."

Tom remained unmoved, dragging Ryan away with a sneer.

"What a shame. I guess I'll just handle it myself," Hoffa muttered. "Maybe after this, I should consider going back to Hogwarts."

"Good riddance," Tom replied curtly, walking further away.

"Back to Hogwarts for what?" Hoffa continued to talk to himself. "Maybe I should try applying for a teaching position. I heard Professor Melrose is retiring from Defense Against the Dark Arts..."

"YOU!"

Tom suddenly stopped as if struck. His reaction was explosive, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He smashed a passing house-elf's crate with a punch and sent the poor creature flying with a kick.

"Hoffa Bach!" he hissed, his voice slithering into a low, serpentine tone. He bit into his own finger hard enough to draw blood, leaving deep, bleeding marks. Then, releasing his clenched fist, he said, "If we go and find nothing, what then?"

"We won't know unless we try," Hoffa replied, spreading his hands.

Tom gritted his teeth, struggling to suppress his fury. "What else do you want? Spit it all out now instead of dragging it out piece by piece."

"Fine," Hoffa said, pointing to Ryan. "Bring him along too."

"Why?"

"Blood supply. If the vampires get hungry along the way, we wouldn't want them starving to death before we reach them." Hoffa's wicked grin widened.

Ryan's face turned deathly pale.

(End of Chapter)

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