Harry Potter: I am the Legend

For a long time after that, Hoffa disappeared from everyone's sight. After a friendly farewell with Miller in London, he vanished with Aglaia somewhere in Britain, leaving no trace.

Their lives settled into a simple rhythm of travel. Mornings were spent having breakfast at street markets, the smooth concrete counters polished to a marble-like sheen. After eating, they lingered by the stalls reading newspapers, the air filled with the fresh scents of sweet oranges and light tea, bathed in warm sunlight.

They swam at the beach, playing in the waves until the sun chased them back to the cool, secluded comfort of their hotel room, where they napped beneath the slow rotation of a wooden ceiling fan.

Afternoons were for wandering the labyrinth of narrow streets branching off bustling city avenues, or hiking up distant hills. At sunset, they lay on the beach, calling each other's names into the fading light. Evenings were spent dining at seaside restaurants and sipping wine in the courtyards of white-walled inns, the moonlight dancing along the edges of the waves.

Sometimes Hoffa would talk endlessly, rambling without a clear topic, like an old storyteller. Aglaia spoke little; she preferred to hold him and listen. But Hoffa had learned to cherish the few words she did say.

The world grew quieter. In many cities abroad, it felt as though the world was asleep—still functioning, yet eerily silent. It wasn't unusual to spend an entire day without hearing another voice.

It was as if they were the last two people in the world who could speak.

But that wasn't such a bad thing.

They sat in an empty concert hall in Vienna, staring at a stage where no performance would take place, experimenting with every instrument they could find, creating melodies and noises just for themselves.

In France, they visited the Louvre. Aglaia mischievously drew tiny turtles on the marble chest of the Venus de Milo, swapped the Sphinx's head with that of the Winged Victory of Samothrace, and doodled circles on the Mona Lisa's enigmatic face.

One afternoon in Milan, Hoffa carried a camera while Aglaia tried on every outfit in the city's largest fashion center—artistic, intellectual, innocent, seductive, trendy, vintage. Outfit after outfit, photo after photo, until Hoffa had filled an entire album. They developed the photos in an underground studio in Berlin but left them behind, taking only the memories.

Weeks passed. They traveled all across Europe before returning to Britain.

One morning, Hoffa suggested a walk.

They strolled along the Thames, eventually reaching a small café near the subway line, its concrete archway adorned with seashells spelling out a single word in childish handwriting:

"Romanticism."

Aglaia chuckled at the sign. "Do you drink coffee?"

"Sure."

Hoffa nodded, linking his arm with hers as they entered the café.

Inside, a cashier quietly washed white porcelain cups. Soft music played from a radio beneath a hanging spider plant, the melody faint and familiar to Hoffa, though its name escaped him. Not that it mattered.

Aglaia guided Hoffa to a window seat, slipping her hand into his. Her warmth was a comforting anchor.

"You nearly finished a whole bottle of Horseshoe Tequila last night," she said softly. "Is something bothering you?"

Hoffa nodded, staring at her hand, the pink sheen of her nails almost translucent.

"Can you tell me?"

She flipped her hand to hold his, palm down, just as the server arrived with menus, interrupting the moment.

Aglaia let go, scanning the menu as morning light streamed through the wooden window frames, casting golden stripes across her slender arms.

Hoffa couldn't take his eyes off her. He had seen countless faces on his adventures, but none etched into his soul like hers. Faces of strangers had blurred together, meaningless in their anonymity. But Aglaia's face was different.

With her, there was meaning. A name. An identity.

After ordering coffee, Hoffa sat up straight.

"Aglaia, let me tell you a story."

She rested her chin in her hand, playfully tapping his chest. "Since when do you tell stories?"

Hoffa smiled, tapping his temple. "It's all up here. Want to hear it?"

"Of course. What's it called?"

"The Arrow of Time."

"The Arrow of Time?" she echoed, curious. "What's that?"

Hoffa glanced outside, fiddling with his cup. Beyond the unglazed wooden blinds, the morning sun lit up a dry fountain, flower-shaped tiles, and a dusty Volkswagen Beetle.

"A long time ago, when I was in Paris, I felt like someone was watching me."

He began recounting his adventures across time and space—his dealings in arms trade, encounters with mystical nuns, surreal dreams, ruthless officers, vampiric cities, Aglaia's father lost to darkness, and terrifying adversaries lurking in the shadows.

As the sun climbed higher, casting fleeting shadows, Hoffa's voice remained steady. Aglaia listened, her initial calm fading into tears.

When the story ended, Hoffa sipped his coffee, silently waiting.

"The past... it can't be changed, can it?" she whispered, choked with emotion.

"I'm sorry, Aglaia. I couldn't save Fatir. His soul was consumed by the mistletoe."

"I don't blame you," she sobbed, covering her face. "I just... I wish I could've helped you."

Hoffa gently held her hand, offering no words of comfort, just his presence, steady and unyielding. When her sobs subsided, he continued.

He spoke of relentless time flares, his own death in old age, alliances with dark forces, compromises, Grindelwald's schemes, his fate at Hogwarts, six thousand cycles in the underworld, the deaths of the Crouch family, and his defiance of destiny.

Outside, a subway train rumbled past, cutting the story short.

Aglaia wiped her tears, managing a small, hopeful smile.

"You haven't told me how the story ends."

"I'll leave that for someone else to guess," Hoffa replied, stretching as he stood. "Though I think this story isn't over yet."

Aglaia stared at him, then at the approaching train, realization dawning. The color drained from her face, and her voice trembled.

"You brought me here to say goodbye, didn't you?"

Hoffa exhaled softly, as if releasing his very soul.

"Yes."

"You're going back? Fifty years into the past?"

"Yes."

Hoffa shrugged, tracing his fingertips across the table as he smiled. "I still have a few loose ends left in the past, waiting for me to resolve them."

Aglaia clenched her fists, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, they were filled with sorrow. "But do you know your fate? What if you never come back? What if your life is forever trapped within these fifty years?"

Hoffa answered calmly. He had long known the answer. "Then I'll just live like a normal person—eat, study, sleep."

"What about us? What about me?"

Aglaia gripped the table, forcing herself to stand, her voice trembling with despair. "Are you tired of us?"

Hoffa shook his head. "I love you, Aglaia, more than anyone else."

"Then why?"

She suddenly lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him, her hands gripping his waist like iron clasps.

"Why can't you stay in this timeline? We could be together—go shopping, eat ice cream, watch movies, do all the things that make us happy." Her voice choked with emotion. "Why does it have to be you? Why can't someone else go instead?"

Hoffa gently wiped away her tears. His face showed little expression, only the sunlight reflecting in his obsidian-like eyes, shimmering like a galaxy.

"In third grade, I once asked you what life was. Back then, I didn't understand anything. But now, I do. Life is a game for the brave and a tragedy for the cowardly.

There is too much original sin in this world, too much in humanity—ugliness, poverty, loneliness, inadequacy, death. Facing this cold reality requires immense courage. Perhaps few can do it, but I believe I can. Because that is the meaning of my existence."

"Then take me with you," Aglaia pleaded, clutching his arm so tightly her fingers nearly dug into his flesh.

Hoffa shook his head. "I can't. Can you understand me?"

"I understand you, but I can't accept it. If this is how it ends, why did you save me? Why did you go to the Underworld to find me? Why bring me back, only to leave me alone in this empty, unfamiliar timeline?"

"There are still so many beautiful things in life—"

"Don't reason with me! I only want you!"

"I'm here. I always have been."

"Will you come back?"

"I will."

"Can you promise me that?"

Looking into her tear-filled eyes, Hoffa thought of the past and the future. He thought of his younger self, of that enigmatic smile, of the strange and varied paths he had walked, of the unpredictable fate that lay ahead.

Finally, he lowered his head and kissed Aglaia's lips.

"I promise."

Aglaia smiled through her tears, wrapping her arms around his neck, holding him tightly.

The subway train approached from the distance and came to a brief stop.

Hoffa let go of the girl in his embrace. The doors opened before him. He stepped forward, blending into the bustling crowd like an ordinary commuter.

Before the doors closed, he turned back one last time.

Aglaia stood at the station, crying as she waved to him. Her silver hair danced in the wind, bleached by the sunlight—just like the first time they had met.

He smiled calmly and waved back.

The train doors shut, and it began to move.

The carriage swayed gently as people came and went. Hoffa found a seat by the window.

The subway entered the tunnel, plunging into darkness. Occasionally, a bright light flickered past—an overhead lamp, a maintenance sign. The black glass reflected his own face, staring back at him.

Before he could fully take in his own expression, the darkness faded, replaced by endless, radiant sunlight.

Outside, a wide asphalt road stretched ahead. A red double-decker bus sped past. Pedestrians strolled leisurely, chatting. Colorful balloons floated in the air. Luxury brand stores lined the streets. A boy skated down the steps on his skateboard. A couple kissed by the roadside.

The shifting scenery reflected on the subway window, imprinting itself on Hoffa's face. Whether it was the deep, dark tunnels or the sunlit parks of the city, he simply watched in silence.

Before he knew it, tears were streaming down his face.

The overwhelming emotions transformed into acceptance. The loneliness that once cut deep became warmth.

He knew—this was the serenity of facing fate alone.

This was the ultimate romance gifted to him by the universe.

"Why are you crying?"

A soft, curious voice spoke beside him. It was a young boy, looking up at him as he handed Hoffa a tissue.

"Because I'm happy," Hoffa replied, his voice catching.

"Why would you cry if you're happy?" the boy asked.

"Then what should I do when I'm happy?"

"You should smile!" the boy said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Is that so?"

Hoffa wiped his tears away and smiled. "Then take me with you."

The train arrived at its next stop.

A flood of well-dressed men and women carrying briefcases rushed in, their expressions blank, their gazes empty, as if they were sleepwalking.

Yet among them, two figures stood out—a boy and a middle-aged man.

The boy had messy hair, round glasses, and a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. His face showed traces of worry and unease. The middle-aged man wore striped pants and an old jacket, curiously touching the subway handrails.

"Mr. Weasley, if I'm found guilty, will I be sent to Azkaban?" the bespectacled boy asked anxiously.

"What are you thinking?" The man chuckled. "The wizarding world isn't that lawless."

"Then what's the worst that could happen?"

"Hmm, you might get expelled from Hogwarts. That would be the worst-case scenario," Arthur Weasley said thoughtfully. "But don't worry, that won't happen."

Yet Harry couldn't shake his anxiety. This was a trial at the Ministry of Magic—few had experienced it, and even fewer had endured it. He doubted Arthur truly understood how he felt.

Just then, Harry sensed someone watching him. He turned his head.

Leaning against the glass at the corner of the carriage was a slightly older boy. In the sunlight, the boy gave him a small nod and a gentle smile—calm and kind.

Harry froze. The boy looked ordinary, yet his smile had an inexplicable warmth, as if it could soothe anyone who saw it.

His bright black eyes were like birds soaring freely in the sky—boundless and unrestrained.

And somehow, just by looking at him, the upcoming trial seemed a little less terrifying.

"Mr. Weasley, look," Harry tugged on Arthur's sleeve, wanting him to see the boy.

But when he turned back, the seat was empty.

The strange boy had vanished without a trace.

(End of Time's Arrow)

(End of Chapter)

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