Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The sudden disappearance of her friends left Aglaea both shocked and furious. She stood in silence for about thirty seconds before storming over and grabbing Fatir by the collar.

"Hey, say something! What on earth is going on?"

"Mental dreamscape," Fatir replied, prying her fingers off his clothes. "We were just under the influence of a powerful mental field created by a wizard. It affected our minds. As for the others in the group, I'm afraid they've already been assimilated into its psyche."

"What does that mean?"

"When a wizard's mental strength reaches a certain level, they can alter the environment around them and even synchronize your thoughts with theirs," Fatir explained, his gaze fixed on the castle across the lake. He muttered, "Such power is exceedingly rare."

Mental dreamscape.

Shapeshifting. Dragons.

She felt like she was on the verge of understanding something, yet the thought remained elusive and unclear.

After a moment's reflection, she asked, "What's this guy trying to do? Why take the students and dragons?"

"How should I know? Do you think that person is me?" Fatir replied coldly before turning to the campfire. He began quickly packing up his gear, clearly preparing to leave.

"What are you doing?" Aglaea asked.

"I'm going to find those students immediately," Fatir replied without looking up. "It's my responsibility."

"Take me with you," Aglaea said without hesitation.

Fatir froze mid-motion. He raised his head and looked at her, finding her face full of resolve.

He shook his head. "You need to leave. This isn't something you can get involved in."

"Leave? And go where? Back to school?"

"Go home, Aglaea. Go home."

Fatir scanned the surrounding darkness, his tone resolute. "Tell your mother to send you to America. Never return to Europe again."

"Forget it," Aglaea snapped, rejecting the idea outright.

Fatir, however, wouldn't relent. He stared at her, his voice firm. "Listen to me. Don't be so stubborn. This isn't something a child should meddle in."

Child.

Aglaea froze, her clenched fists trembling with the effort. A vein bulged on the back of her hand, and a mocking smile appeared on her face.

"Do you think sending me off to some so-called 'safe place' while you stay here doing something dangerous makes you feel noble?"

Fatir's expression faltered slightly, caught off guard.

Aglaea continued, her tone sharp. "You've been teaching at Hogwarts for two months, and you've barely said a word to me. Now that my friends are gone, you suddenly decide to act like a caring father. What's going through your mind?"

Fatir stood in silence, rooted to the spot.

"Oh, I get it," Aglaea said, folding her arms with a sarcastic smirk. "You didn't talk to me before because you were afraid of upsetting the other students. Afraid it might disrupt the stability you dream of maintaining. Am I right?"

Fatir rubbed his temples, took a deep breath, and sighed. "You're a clever witch, Aglaea, but Europe isn't the place for you right now. In a land torn apart by conflict, your wit won't help you survive. Listen to me—go home. Tell your mother to send you to North America."

"Let me remind you of something," Aglaea interrupted sharply.

"We've only met twice. Altogether, we've spent less than two months in each other's presence, and we've exchanged fewer than thirty sentences in our entire lives.

"So."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Don't try to dictate my life. I know what I'm doing."

The forest around them was pitch black. The occasional droplets of water dripping from the treetops landed coldly on their necks.

The two stood locked in a standoff. For the first time in two months, father and daughter truly faced each other as direct family. Yet, neither could convince the other.

For a While, Fatir Muttered: "You and your mother really are alike."

"Don't play the emotional card with me," Aglaea interrupted her father again.

"My thought is to write to the Ministry of Magic or the school. I think there's a conspiracy behind the disappearance of the dragons and students. We need reinforcements."

"No."

Fatir's refusal was swift and decisive. "There isn't a single person outside that I trust."

"Unbelievable. I can't even write to my mother?"

"No. She has nothing to do with this. Don't drag her into it."

Aglaea pressed, "Then what's your plan?"

"No plan. I'll track him down. While that wizard influenced your mind, I marked him during the brief exchange. He won't escape me."

"Really?"

"You don't have to believe me," Fatir said plainly.

Aglaea sneered. "Sounds impressive, but what if you can't handle him when you catch up? What then? It's just the two of us."

Fatir replied calmly, "For a wizard with mental power this extreme, their physical body must be correspondingly weak. That's the natural order. Once we find their physical form and destroy it, their mental field will collapse on its own."

Meanwhile, inside the castle, Hoffa sat at the center of a chaotic dining hall, the table laden with half-finished food and spilled drinks. He stared at the flickering green flames above him, his golden eyes dim and lifeless.

Around him, a crowd of young men and women swayed and danced in a raucous celebration. The party was loud, chaotic, and unrestrained—a typical indulgence of youth.

Hoffa despised such hedonistic entertainment. It weighed on him, filling him with exhaustion and unease.

A Gryffindor girl he didn't recognize squeezed next to him, holding out a cup of oak-aged wine. "Want to dance?"

Hoffa frowned in distaste but took the wine. With a stiff, forced smile, he downed it in one gulp. The smile felt like a mask—rigid and fragile, barely holding in place.

"No thanks. I already have a partner," he said.

"Oh? Where is she?" the girl asked.

"She went to the bathroom," Hoffa deflected, "She'll be back soon."

"Whatever," the girl muttered, rolling her eyes as she stood and walked away.

Moments later, another girl approached with a similar question.

Before Hoffa could answer, William slouched over, leaning against the girl's shoulder. "Come on, man. Loosen up! It's a party. Don't be so uptight. The headmaster's not here tonight… hic..."

His Halloween makeup had been smeared or licked off, leaving him looking neither human nor ghost.

Hoffa's expression turned cold. "You're enjoying yourself, aren't you?"

William paused, confused. "Why not let yourself have some fun?"

The words struck a nerve. Hoffa pushed William and the girl away, walking briskly out of the hall. The intense gazes of the revelers followed him in confusion.

Outside the hall, his forced smile vanished, replaced by exhaustion.

He had thought that by contorting his facial muscles into a smile, he could change his emotions and blend into the students' festivities.

But it was futile.

Behind the mask, he felt a bone-deep loneliness.

Loneliness in a crowd.

He couldn't help but wonder: Was this the school he had once dreamed of?

He even began to doubt if everything he had done for this school was worth it.

Why, after growing accustomed to magic, did this place feel no different from an ordinary European high school?

He longed for a quiet corner to read a book. He wanted to talk to Miranda. He even started to miss the days of adventuring with Aglaea.

Though Aglaea was best at causing trouble and creating headaches for him, he now wished he could go back to their first year, to the days when they clashed in Potions class.

The flickering firelight on the walls cast shifting shadows across his face. His silhouette stretched long on the wall behind him.

By the time he reached the seventh floor, the heavy weight of his mood began to lighten slightly.

Just then, a faint whisper brushed against his ear.

"Hmph, so self-important."

"Who's speaking?"

Hoffa was startled. He turned his head to look around but saw nothing. The noblewomen in the portraits, sensing his gaze, quickly fell silent, curiously watching him.

Perhaps it was the wine from the hall, but the corridor and magical staircases ahead began to ripple like water. Vibrant colors swirled across the steps like a kaleidoscope, dazzlingly beautiful.

Rubbing his eyes, Hoffa saw the ripples slowly fade. He quickly checked his mental sea. Everything was normal—no strange faces appeared.

"Maybe I've had too much to drink," Hoffa muttered, irritated. "Damn fools."

Amidst the whispering portraits, he crossed a narrow bridge and arrived at Ravenclaw's eagle knocker. The eagle spread its wings:

More important than life,

More terrifying than death.

The poor abandon it,

The rich endlessly seek it.

The miser would give it up,

But the spendthrift clings to it.

After reciting the riddle, the eagle knocker waited silently.

Hoffa was stumped. The eagle had never asked such a difficult riddle before. Typically, the harder the riddle, the less welcome the eagle was to the visitor.

"Is it saying it doesn't want me here at all?" he thought, pacing the narrow bridge while massaging his temples, trying to solve the riddle.

More important than life,

More terrifying than death.

The poor abandon it,

The rich endlessly seek it.

The miser would give it up,

But the spendthrift clings to it.

"Damn it. What kind of riddle is this?" He couldn't figure it out.

"If only Aglaea were here," he thought. "She's never been stumped by a riddle."

Just as he was lost in thought, a soft voice spoke beside him. "What's wrong? I can sense your frustration."

Hoffa turned and saw a boy about his height standing behind him. The boy wore the same Ravenclaw blue-green robes, with black hair and dark eyes. His appearance was unremarkable.

"Stuck on the eagle's riddle?" the stranger asked.

Hoffa stared at him, trying to recall if he had seen this boy before. Ravenclaw students were few, and if they had met, he should have remembered.

"I can't solve it," Hoffa admitted. "Do you know the answer?"

"I don't," the boy replied, smiling. "But I know this—you don't belong here."

"Then where should I go?" Hoffa asked absentmindedly.

"Anywhere. Roam freely on an adventure. It's better than mingling with mediocrity at Hogwarts."

Hoffa chuckled dryly. "I'm just here to grab something from the dorm. Now, move aside."

"Still lying to yourself?" the boy said with a playful smile.

Hoffa whipped his head around to glare at him. The boy looked familiar, but Hoffa couldn't place him. It was as if they'd met before, but the memory eluded him.

"Who are you?" Hoffa asked. "I've never seen you at school."

"Oh, I'm nothing," the boy said, grinning as he extended his hand.

What nonsense, Hoffa thought. He had no intention of shaking hands with this strange boy and only wanted to return to the common room.

"Why won't you shake my hand?" the boy asked earnestly.

Hoffa frowned. He'd never met someone so oblivious. Couldn't the boy see he wasn't in the mood for conversation?

Seeing the boy insistently holding his hand out, Hoffa reluctantly suppressed his irritation and gave him a perfunctory handshake.

But when he tried to pull his hand back, he found it locked in place as if gripped by an iron vice. He tugged again, but it wouldn't budge. His expression turned serious. He knew his own strength—no ordinary person, not even a strong adult, could restrain him like this.

This was anything but normal.

The stranger stepped closer, leaning in to whisper in Hoffa's ear, "I know what you're thinking. Don't you find those people so out of line?"

Then he pulled back, locking eyes with Hoffa, his gaze piercing.

"And what business is it of yours what I think?" Hoffa snapped, his anger rising.

"Of course it matters to me. Why don't we go down there and kill them?"

"What?"

Hoffa was utterly shocked. "What kind of madness is that?"

"Life is but a few decades. If you can't live it on your own terms, then what's the point of being alive?"

The boy spoke softly. "A hundred years from now, we'll be gone, and all rules and morals are just illusions. Why live so repressed?"

"Get lost."

Hoffa tried to shove him aside, irritated by such antisocial thoughts emerging at Hogwarts. A suppressed fury began to rise within him.

"Let go," he said firmly.

"Go on," the stranger replied.

"What if I refuse?" Hoffa asked.

The boy raised his left hand and held up three fingers. "I'm doing this for your own good."

"Are you out of your mind?"

The boy's fingers dropped to two. "That's the one thing you've said that's correct. The answer is yes."

Hoffa's face darkened completely. It was bad enough being out of place in the hall, but now even heading back to the common room had to involve running into such a strange person.

"Why pretend to be like everyone else? You'll only make yourself miserable," the boy said.

"I won't say it a third time—scram."

The boy tilted his head slightly. "It seems we can't communicate with words anymore."

As soon as he finished speaking, his expression turned ferocious, eerily resembling Hoffa's own when he had beaten his superior at St. Mungo's.

He grabbed Hoffa's right arm and slammed him against the narrow bridge with immense force. The sheer strength felt overwhelming, like being gripped by a full-grown dragon. Hoffa was hurled into the air like a yoyo, swung over the bridge, and sent plummeting down.

Panic consumed him. In that split second, all his magical control vanished—no ghostly steps, no transfiguration, no activated state. He was utterly powerless.

The sensation of weightlessness hit him like a muggle falling from a skyscraper. The wind roared in his ears, and the fear of death consumed him. Everything felt terrifyingly real.

Just as he was about to hit the ground, he woke up drenched in cold sweat.

His heart pounded like a war drum, relentless and deafening. His chest heaved, and the adrenaline left his lips parched.

It had been a nightmare. He didn't even know when he had fallen into it.

Around him, the noisy hall remained unchanged, a banquet of chaos with scattered plates and cups. Though it felt like he had gone far, he realized he had never left his seat.

In front of him was still a goblet, and a Gryffindor girl playfully rested her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, want to dance?" she asked with a distant, ethereal voice.

Hoffa grabbed the cup from her trembling hand and downed it in one go. Most of the liquid spilled, and he tasted nothing.

The girl, assuming he agreed, laughed and pulled him to the center of the hall.

Around them, the students cheered and clapped.

But after only a few steps, Hoffa slipped on a puddle of wine. He lost his balance and crashed to the floor, shattering a row of dishes in a humiliating fall.

Gasps filled the hall, quickly replaced by laughter.

"Bach's had too much to drink!"

"Hey, Hoffa, get up!"

"Come on, man, don't be such a mess! Haha!"

Boys and girls rushed over, fumbling to pull him to his feet.

The moment he stood, he wobbled again, nearly collapsing once more.

An overwhelming terror engulfed him—a fear of mental annihilation, of losing himself. It was so paralyzing that he could barely stand.

Pushing away the helping hands, he scrambled out of the hall in a frantic crawl and sprinted toward Dumbledore's office, disheveled and desperate.

"Hey, where are you going?" William called after him.

"Wait up! Let's leave together!"

But Hoffa didn't answer. He had to find Dumbledore.

(End of Chapter)

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