Harry Potter: I am the Legend

On the screen, a faded little bird was trapped in a cage, anxiously hopping back and forth. It seemed desperate to escape, yet no matter how hard it tried, it couldn't break through the cold, unyielding bars. Beyond the cage, something seemed to be there—or perhaps, there was nothing at all.

The silent film continued playing. Hoffa and Miranda sat together on the couch, watching the images unfold. As the scenes flowed, Hoffa's expression gradually turned pale and solemn. Something stirred in his memory, something deeply familiar. It was as if, in a place beyond this dream, he had once sat in front of a television, watching a movie with someone else.

"Hoffa."

Miranda called his name.

He didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the film, lost—like a wandering ghost, like an empty shell that had lost its heart.

After a moment of silence, Miranda stood up, pushed open the door, and left the screening room.

The little bird stopped moving. It perched quietly inside the ornate cage, gazing at the scenery beyond the window. There was a longing in its eyes, a sense of nostalgia. What was it longing for?

"Chirp."

It opened its beak and called out.

That cry struck Hoffa like a thousand Cruciatus Curses, jolting him from his dream with overwhelming force.

The subway rumbled forward, but there wasn't a single person around. The empty carriage swayed, its hanging rings clinking softly against each other. Outside, the rain poured down in endless streams, hammering the glass beside his ear with countless tiny droplets. Beyond that, only a distant, gray jungle of steel and the wreckage of tanks scattered along the roadside.

It felt like he had been asleep for a long time, trapped in an endless nightmare.

In that nightmare, he had a wife. Children. But before the nightmare began, something else had happened. What was it?

Hoffa strained to recall, and fragmented, broken images flickered through his mind—the sun-dappled coast, silver hair, whispers in the wind.

Just remembering those fragments sent a searing pain through him, an invisible agony that made every cell in his body tremble. He clutched his head and doubled over, nausea surging violently in his stomach.

He had no idea how long the pain and convulsions lasted before they finally subsided. When he came back to himself, the train had already stopped at a station. A pleasant female voice echoed through the speakers:

"Welcome to King's Cross Station. Have a pleasant journey."

The lingering pain still pulsed through his body. He forced himself to stand, gripping the seat for balance as he staggered out of the empty carriage.

Outside, the rain continued to fall. Dull thunder rumbled in the dark sky. Small groups of passengers lingered at the station, smoking or chatting. The air was thick with damp, cold mist.

The moisture on his face made him shiver.

He vaguely remembered coming here for a task. But what task? He couldn't recall. Just like the dream—those strange, absurd events—everything had crumbled into scattered fragments.

He patted his clothes, finding nothing of value on him. The only thing he had was a peculiar purple pendant resting against his chest. He pulled it out, staring at it with faint confusion. If he wasn't mistaken, this object was connected to someone.

But who?

He couldn't remember.

Or rather, his mind was utterly blank. There was nothing left to remember.

The feeling unsettled him. He rubbed his temples, desperately trying to recall something—anything. But no matter how hard he tried, nothing about himself came back to him. Only vague, disjointed images. Strange images.

Magic.

Yes, magic.

He held out his palm to catch the falling rain.

But the transformation he expected didn't happen. His hand didn't change. The raindrops didn't change. Everything remained mundane, ordinary. He couldn't sense the slightest trace of magic.

Confusion gripped him. His mind was fractured, yet he clearly remembered gliding beneath a towering structure, explosions in a castle, a dragon soaring over a black lake, endless twisting corridors of time and space—blinding white light.

These blurry images flashed through his head again, triggering another wave of unbearable pain. He clutched his head and bent over. His stomach clenched violently, and in the cold drizzle, he vomited a pool of sour liquid.

Nearby, passersby glanced at him with sympathy. One man stepped forward and asked with concern, "Are you alright, young man?"

"I'm fine. Thank you."

Hoffa forced himself upright and asked, "What year is it?"

The man chuckled. "What kind of question is that? Just got back from the battlefield, huh? My nephew did too. Poor kid—every time he hears thunder, he hides in a cupboard, won't come out. No idea when he'll recover. It's awful."

Sighing, the man shook his head and walked away.

The thunder rumbled on.

Scattered fragments of information surfaced in Hoffa's mind—war, time, magic, London… and King's Cross Station.

King's Cross Station.

His eyes locked onto the station's sign in the distance. A thought surfaced. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

That had been a long, long, long time ago. Or was it just a moment ago? He still remembered—if he could just pass through that station, he would see magic.

Magic.

His thoughts were in complete disarray, his memories shattered into an incomprehensible mess—half real, half illusion, half dream, half nightmare.

But in the midst of all this chaos, magic was the one thing he believed in.

If he could find magic, he might find a way out of this nightmare. He might learn what had happened to him.

This constant pain just from remembering—he couldn't endure it any longer.

Determined, he made his way toward the station, stopping before a familiar brick wall.

Without hesitation, he started running.

He closed his eyes.

And with all his strength, he charged straight at the wall—without looking back.

A dull thud.

The world spun.

Hoffa was thrown backward, landing flat on his back.

His mind went completely blank. At the nearby train station, passengers waiting for their trains noticed the boy ramming his head against the stone wall like an enraged bull. They gasped, covering their mouths in shock. Some hesitantly approached, craning their necks to get a better look at the boy, who now had a swollen lump on his forehead. They couldn't quite figure out what he was trying to do.

Dazed, Hoffa fumbled as he got up from the ground. Instead of passing through Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, he had only managed to make his already confused mind even more muddled with that head-on collision.

This puzzled him. He distinctly remembered that this wall could be crossed. He clearly recalled slipping through this very barrier multiple times, stepping into a wondrous and perilous world of magic.

Unwilling to accept failure, he stood up, shook his head to clear it, and charged at the wall once more.

Thud!

This time, he hit it even harder. Blood from his forehead smeared onto the cracks between the bricks, yet the cold, unyielding wall showed no sign of opening up for him. It remained firmly in place, indifferent to the foolish boy who was now bruised and bleeding.

He got up again, determined to try one more time, but by now, a crowd had gathered around him. Several hands reached out, grabbing him, pulling him back, voices full of concern:

"Young man, what are you doing? Life isn't that bad!"

"The war is over now. Things will get better."

"Stop banging your head, mate. If you really have to go, at least pick a less painful way."

Breaking free from their grasp, Hoffa stared at the stone wall in utter confusion. He finally realized—this wasn't a wall he could pass through.

He politely declined the crowd's offer to take him to a hospital. Holding his bleeding forehead, he wandered out of King's Cross Station in a daze. As he walked, he desperately tried to piece together his scattered thoughts, hoping to extract something useful from his fragmented memory. But nothing came to him.

All he knew was that he was supposed to be a wizard—a wizard with extraordinary magic. And yet, at this moment, he couldn't use a single spell. He was no different from a Muggle.

Muggle?

What was that? Hoffa asked himself.

Then, as if struck by sudden realization—Muggle meant someone who didn't understand magic.

But recalling this one simple fact nearly made him pass out from pain. It wasn't the pain of his wounded forehead but something deeper, something within. A pain that was invisible, untouchable, yet unbearably real.

He had no idea how long he walked before the searing pain inside him finally began to subside. When he stopped, he found himself in a relatively bustling street.

Lining the street were old stone buildings, their perimeters enclosed by tall iron fences. Beyond the fences stood rows of small two- or three-story apartment buildings. Government officials, carrying briefcases, hurried in and out of the apartments. Their expressions were tense as they ducked under umbrellas and climbed into sleek black cars.

Hoffa had wandered here purely by instinct, driven by an unconscious urge while lost in his thoughts. And yet, the sight of these buildings gave him a strange sense of familiarity. Almost... a sense of warmth.

But that very feeling of warmth made him feel nauseous. He bent over, retching, frustration washing over him. When the nausea finally passed, he forced himself to stand and made his way toward a nearby newsstand at the street corner.

The stand was covered with newspapers. Behind it, an elderly man lounged in his chair, smoking a pipe while peering through his reading glasses at a colorful magazine. The cover featured a woman who offered Hoffa a coy smile.

That smile made his scalp tingle.

He casually picked up a newspaper, glancing at the headlines. The pages were filled with reports on returning troops and the ongoing civil war in the Far East. In the black-and-white photographs, tanks and armored vehicles were frozen in place, unmoving.

"Why aren't the pictures moving?"

Hoffa pointed at the still images, directing his question toward the newsstand owner.

The old man, shrouded in a cloud of smoke, peered out from behind the magazine's sultry cover, giving Hoffa a strange look.

"Boy, what did you just say?"

"I said—the pictures. They don't move." Hoffa stated as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

The old man's face twisted in disbelief. "Pictures aren't supposed to move. If they did, they wouldn't be called pictures, would they?"

"...Is that so?"

Hoffa's voice stretched out long and slow, sounding almost... impaired.

The shopkeeper eyed him warily, tapping his own temple. "Kid, are you alright in the head?"

"I don't think so," Hoffa admitted honestly. "I can't remember anything."

"War did that to you?"

The newsstand owner spoke with a hint of sympathy, "I've seen this condition before—shell shock. I think that's what the Americans call it. People who have it tend to act abnormally whenever they hear loud noises."

"Maybe."

Hoffa wasn't sure how he ended up like this, but everyone around him said it was because of the war. Perhaps they were right. He set down the newspaper and asked the owner in front of him,

"Sir, have you ever heard of magic?"

The moment the word "magic" left his lips, Hoffa saw the old man's expression change. A flash of fear crossed his face but quickly disappeared without a trace.

"Young man, you might need to see a doctor. Don't you think?"

The newsstand owner straightened up, speaking with a serious tone.

A doctor.

Hoffa wasn't sure if he really needed to see one.

Maybe he was sick. Maybe his illness was causing his memory to be all over the place.

Before he could say anything else, the newsstand owner grabbed an old rotary phone, turned the dial a few times, and connected to someone. He covered his mouth as he whispered into the receiver, occasionally stealing glances at Hoffa.

Noticing the way the man looked at him, an instinctive unease crept into Hoffa's heart. He set the newspaper down and hurried away from the newsstand.

But he had barely taken two steps when he noticed people following him—some dressed in public service uniforms, standing on the street or inside phone booths, making calls while keeping their eyes locked on him.

There's something wrong with this place, Hoffa thought. His steps quickened, and in his rush, he ducked into a secluded alley.

However, the moment he stepped into the alley, he crashed straight into a thick wall.

No, not a wall—something softer.

Looking up, he realized he had run into a burly man.

At the corner of the alley stood a towering figure in a heavy trench coat. Flanking him were two men dressed like doctors, their faces covered with masks. Behind those masks, their cold, piercing eyes stared at Hoffa.

The burly man removed his hat and gave a slight bow.

"Good day, Mr. Bach. We've finally found you."

"Mr. Bach? Who's that?"

Hoffa asked, bewildered.

The man stroked his chin, then opened the briefcase he carried. Flipping through a few documents, he pulled out a file and placed it firmly in front of Hoffa.

"Hoffa Bach," the man stated. "You've been under our institution's care for six years. A few days ago, due to negligence from our staff, you went missing. Fortunately, after our relentless efforts, we've finally located you."

Institution?

Something clicked in Hoffa's mind. He looked down at the document and felt his expression twist in confusion.

The photo on the paper showed a man with messy gray-dyed hair, an earring, and—most unsettling of all—golden eyes.

But the strangest part? The words printed at the bottom: Patient No. 0 of the British Psychiatric Institution.

To the side of the alley was a store window, its filthy glass reflecting Hoffa's face. He saw himself—black hair, black eyes—nothing like the person in the photo.

"This is me?" He pointed at the image.

The burly man glanced at the file and nodded firmly.

"This is you."

"This is NOT me," Hoffa retorted.

The man raised an eyebrow. "You're saying he's not you?"

"Yeah." Hoffa pointed at his own head. "How could this possibly be me?"

"Oh, that's definitely you. You just had a different style back then," the man replied.

Before Hoffa could argue further, the man snatched back the file and waved his hand. The two white-coated doctors stepped forward, grabbing Hoffa by the arms and dragging him forward.

Panic surged within him. He struggled violently and shouted, "What are you doing? Where are you taking me?"

"Why, to where you belong, of course," the burly man answered.

The doctors dragged him to a black car, its door swinging open. Hoffa was forced into the backseat, where thick leather straps were waiting to secure his wrists. The moment he was inside, the straps were tightened, holding him firmly in place.

The burly man whistled as he climbed into the driver's seat, his head bobbing in amusement. Then, the car engine roared to life, and they sped off.

A deep sense of dread crept over Hoffa. He tugged at the restraints, but they wouldn't budge. He turned to the men and demanded, "Why are you doing this to me?"

"Why?" The burly man let out a chuckle. "Come on, Mr. Bach, don't tell me you have no idea."

"No idea about what? I don't remember anything! What did I do wrong?"

Hoffa's voice grew frantic.

"Oh, you've made a mistake, Mr. Bach. And not just any mistake."

"What mistake?" Hoffa pressed.

The man suddenly swerved the car, narrowly avoiding a passing bus. As they sped past, he turned his head slightly, meeting Hoffa's eyes through the rearview mirror.

"There is no such thing as magic, Mr. Bach."

His voice was firm.

(End of Chapter)

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