Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Dumbledore spotted the young man coming around the corner and exclaimed in surprise, "Bach?"

"Good evening, Professor," Hoffa replied calmly.

"Why aren't you back in your dormitory? It's past curfew," Dumbledore asked, frowning but without a hint of anger.

"Something happened, and I need to discuss it with you."

"What is it?"

"I have three roommates—"

"Wait, let's talk in my office," Dumbledore interrupted, glancing around cautiously. "Coincidentally, I have something to ask you as well."

Hoffa hesitated briefly, then nodded. "Alright."

Dumbledore led the way, with Hoffa following behind. They walked in silence, yet Hoffa felt a rare sense of ease, as though a parched traveler in the desert had stumbled upon a lush oasis.

They reached the third-floor office.

Dumbledore's office was just as it had always been—wooden cabinets, a mahogany desk, and several gleaming silver instruments rotating gently on the table. Fawkes, the phoenix, perched on a gilded stand, straightened up happily at Hoffa's arrival, letting out a soft trill.

Hoffa settled into a chair and greeted Fawkes with a slight nod.

With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore lit the fireplace, filling the room with warmth. In the firelight, his usually towering figure appeared slightly hunched, perhaps worn down by the rigors of his long travels. He walked over to a cabinet, retrieving an amber-colored glass bottle. Opening it, he poured a small amount into two glasses.

For some reason, this gesture reminded Hoffa of his Transfiguration teacher, Jakob Bohan.

As he poured, Dumbledore asked, "I've heard that you've gained significant influence among the students lately."

Hoffa nodded slightly and replied softly, "I suppose so."

"I'm pleased that you're willing to take on responsibility," Dumbledore said, placing one of the glasses in front of Hoffa.

"Thank you." Hoffa took a sip of the drink, its flavor warm and smooth.

Leaning back in his chair, Dumbledore's joints creaked audibly. "However, I've received feedback from the other Heads of House. They've observed that the students seem increasingly restless and lack any genuine drive to study."

"Hmm." Hoffa set the glass down. "It does seem that way."

"What do you think is causing this?" Dumbledore asked, fingers interlocked as he leaned forward.

"Causing what?" Hoffa looked puzzled.

"I mean, why is there such restlessness in the school now?"

Hoffa wasn't sure why Dumbledore was asking him. Wasn't the restless atmosphere simply a product of the external environment? What did it have to do with him?

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Maybe it's the pressure—war outside, and the heavy workload here every day."

"Hoffa," Dumbledore interrupted, "you haven't managed them well."

Silence enveloped the office. Hoffa looked into Dumbledore's blue eyes, unsure how to respond.

Dumbledore sighed and massaged his temples. "Hoffa, you're no longer an ordinary student."

Hoffa replied, "I don't feel that way."

"You need to feel that way," Dumbledore stated firmly, straightening up and interlocking his fingers again. "Listen, Bach. With the outside world eyeing our school closely, as the only wizarding institution in all of Britain, you should be helping me shoulder this burden."

"I…"

"Why not try setting an example for them?"

"I…"

"Hoffa, this is your responsibility. You need to be more assertive."

Dumbledore's unwavering words left Hoffa momentarily dazed. He even heard a faint, mocking laugh from deep within himself. Shaking his head vigorously, the sound vanished.

"What's wrong?" Dumbledore asked, frowning at him.

Hoffa took a few breaths, calming himself before opening his eyes. "Can we not discuss this for now?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Dumbledore asked.

"I have some personal questions to ask, Professor," Hoffa replied.

Dumbledore picked up his glass from the table and took a sip. "What personal questions?"

"I…" Hoffa began, but as he raised his head, his mind once again wavered.

Although Hoffa had spent the past six months longing to meet Dumbledore and speak with him privately, when the moment finally came, he found it difficult to articulate his thoughts. It wasn't just hard to describe; it was also deeply embarrassing.

"Go ahead, Bach," Dumbledore said, his fingers interlocked. "I'm listening."

"Professor, I… I'm in pain," Hoffa said with difficulty.

"Why are you in pain?" Dumbledore asked.

"I feel like… something is wrong with me mentally," Hoffa admitted hesitantly.

"Something wrong mentally?" Dumbledore blinked in surprise. "At your age?"

"Yes. I keep having nightmares—there's this strange, grotesque figure, and I always see these vibrant, multicolored faces. I also hear things I shouldn't be hearing."

"A grotesque figure? Multicolored faces? Strange sounds?" Dumbledore's eyes widened, his expression puzzled.

Hoffa nodded. "And I… I've lost interest in what my friends are doing. Even the routine tasks at school feel… too mechanical."

Dumbledore frowned thoughtfully. "Did someone put you up to this, or is it your own perspective?"

"It's my own perspective."

Dumbledore scrutinized Hoffa with his piercing, almost X-ray-like gaze for a moment. "When did this start?"

"This year."

"What kind of dreams are you having?"

"Falling from a great height."

Dumbledore froze, his lips twitching slightly. "And what do you hear?"

"I don't know—I can't remember."

"Is it just dreams?"

"Maybe… I'm not sure."

Dumbledore sighed, pushing aside the glass in front of him. "Do you know what I think, Hoffa? I think you're not busy enough."

Hoffa looked up in shock. That wasn't the answer he had expected.

"I dream too," Dumbledore continued. "Wizards are still human; we're influenced by our subconscious. Just last night, I dreamed someone gave me a pile of wool socks. But I keep myself busy—so busy that I forget about such things."

He sighed again. "There's little we can do in these times. Once we get through these years, things should improve."

After a pause, he added, "Hoffa, you need to work harder."

It felt as though an invisible boundary had been crossed, as if a string in Hoffa's chest had snapped.

Dumbledore was so close, yet he seemed impossibly distant. Hoffa could see every speck of dust on the professor's auburn beard, but an overwhelming sense of alienation enveloped him.

Work harder.

Still not enough effort.

Is it that I'm not trying hard enough?

Dumbledore stood up and patted Hoffa's shoulder. "Don't worry. Don't overthink it. Go back and get some rest."

Hoffa glanced at the hand on his shoulder, then at the blue eyes beneath Dumbledore's glasses. Any trace of excitement or energy he'd felt drained away as if consumed by a black hole. A deep sense of disinterest settled over him.

"I see. I understand now," he said softly.

Standing up, Hoffa turned away, his expression cold. He walked out stiffly, like a frozen slab of beef, utterly devoid of feeling.

"Wait, Bach."

Dumbledore called out to him.

"What is it?"

With his hand on the doorknob, Hoffa turned his head slightly.

"You started to say something about your three roommates earlier. What was it?"

Hoffa stared at Dumbledore for a moment.

"Nothing. Good night, Professor."

With that, he left Dumbledore's office.

How he returned to the Ravenclaw Tower that night was a blur.

All he remembered was a sleepless night, with his roommates nowhere to be found. He sat alone in the room, the cold wind from outside billowing the curtains, making them dance incessantly.

The pale crescent moon hung high in the sky, and fragments of disjointed conversations flickered through Hoffa's mind.

Overthinking.Not working hard enough.

The chasm between ideals and reality widened once more. He closed his eyes as the curtain brushed against his face, like a gentle caress.

His thoughts began to deepen, as if a divine hand had split open a Mariana Trench within his mind, dividing the oceans of reason and emotion.

He started to comprehend things that had eluded him, gaining insight into the limitations of wizards—and of humans.

Everyone in this world was preoccupied with their own matters: fame, honor, resources, society, the school. Even someone as wise as Dumbledore was not exempt.

Human consciousness was merely an evolutionary accident. Without it, life would continue, driven by instinct alone. Excessive observation and introspection offered no benefit to existence itself.

He shouldn't be like this. A salmon wouldn't concern itself with how other salmon perceived it—because it was pointless.

He should radiate positivity, project high value, and exude invincibility. He should act as a leader within his community.

He should be like William—manipulating others' hormones and dopamine, reveling in youth, embracing the opportunities bestowed upon him, and enjoying his status at Hogwarts.

All he needed was to earn a lot of money, defeat many opponents, find a mate like a salmon, spawn, replicate his DNA, and then face death without regret.

But why think so much?

Why did life feel increasingly burdensome?

Why did all of this fill him with such exhaustion?

He didn't know. He despised himself for feeling this way.

The next day was Christmas Eve.

He left the dormitory, deciding to grab something to eat to sustain himself.

The lavishly decorated Great Hall was unexpectedly quiet. What should have been a lively gathering was sparsely populated. Only small groups of students huddled together, glancing around nervously.

The staff table was completely empty.

As Hoffa entered, the scattered students, as if finding a source of stability, quickly gathered around him.

"Bach, where have you been?"

One student asked, still visibly shaken.

"Our friends have disappeared."

The news startled Hoffa for about 0.1 seconds, after which he calmly sat down at the table and served himself a bowl of pumpkin porridge. His heart remained unmoved. If the Ministry of Magic were to arrive at that moment and shut down Hogwarts, he doubted he would resist.

Someone anxiously scratched their head. "They were in the common room playing chess, and then—poof—they vanished."

"I heard singing, and the next thing I knew, my dormmates were gone."

"Last night, I saw a line of animals running through the corridor, and as I watched—"

"Enough."

Hoffa interrupted coldly, cutting them off.

"I'm eating."

Hoffa's indifference left the other students stunned. They grew anxious and began to chatter nervously, trying to persuade him.

"How can you act like this?"

"They're your friends! Help us find them!"

"Yeah, Bach, stop joking around."

"Come on, help us look for them!"

"You're so skilled; it'll be easy for you to figure it out."

Hoffa remained seated, unmoving, exuding an aura of unapproachability. Time passed, and the frantic pleas gradually quieted.

The crowd surrounding him dispersed little by little, stepping back and retreating from him.

When their hopes faded, they were replaced by an indescribable disappointment. Not a single person stepped forward to ask Hoffa what was wrong. Instead, they cast sharp, disappointed glances, like blades cutting through the air.

That disappointment spread like a plague throughout the school.

After finishing his breakfast, Hoffa left the hall.

Anyone who saw him instinctively avoided him.

He wandered aimlessly through the school, his energy depleted to the lowest point.

To be honest, he had no idea where he should go. He felt like a relic of the past, as outdated and purposeless as a 21st-century pager.

At that moment, he thought of the Room of Requirement on the eighth floor—a place where he could hide himself along with everything else he wanted to conceal.

He walked to the tapestry on the eighth floor. On it, a troll clumsily twirled a ballet baton, looking utterly ridiculous and foolish.

Hoffa stood motionless as time seemed to shift and flow around him.

In that moment, he felt an uncanny overlap with a bespectacled boy who would stand here fifty years later.

It was here, for the first time, that Hoffa truly understood the difference between himself and Harry—the fundamental difference between a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw.

Lions are social creatures, but he was not. The solitary nature ingrained in an eagle's soul made his existence at this school profoundly difficult.

He didn't even have to pace three times. The sheer intensity of his desire to hide caused the smooth door to appear. He opened the door to the Room of Requirement.

Sunlight streamed in through high windows, illuminating hills of discarded objects like miniature mountains. Snowflakes drifted in, settling on the peaks of the piled relics, leaving scattered white spots.

But Hoffa's gaze did not linger on the centuries-old forbidden items amassed in the room.

Instead, his eyes were drawn to a pair of hazel-brown ones that stared unblinkingly back at him.

It was the black-and-white-faced cat.

This time, it was perched atop the rusted head of an armored knight, as if it had been waiting for Hoffa all along. It let out a soft "meow."

(End of chapter)

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