Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"The same, the same, we are all the same~"

"The same birth, the same death~"

"The same mediocrity, the same ordinariness~"

"The same background, the same job, the same life~"

The burly man whistled a tune as he drove, his hands resting casually on the steering wheel. Every now and then, he glanced at Hoffa through the rearview mirror, seemingly amused by his confusion.

Outside, the sky was covered with an unbroken stretch of rain and dark clouds, showing no signs of clearing. The tires carved streaks of water along the road before finally stopping in front of an old church on the outskirts of London.

The doctor unfastened the restraints on Hoffa's wrists and shoved him forward, making him stumble into the church. Throughout the process, Hoffa attempted to resist multiple times, but two fists were no match for four hands. The abilities he once took pride in had vanished without a trace. He couldn't even be sure if they had ever existed.

Had he really remembered wrong?

Doubt crept into Hoffa's mind. Maybe magic didn't exist at all. Maybe he was truly just a patient with a malfunctioning brain. The moment this thought took root, the faint, persistent pain in his head seemed to ease. If magic wasn't real, then everything would be so much simpler.

And yet, despite trying to convince himself, something still felt off. He had come to this place for a reason, for a mission—an incredibly important one.

Before he could unravel his thoughts, he was shoved deeper into the church. The once-holy interior had long since been abandoned and repurposed into what resembled a hospital. Doctors in white coats hurried about, their faces obscured by masks. Some had gloves stained with red—whether blood or something else, Hoffa couldn't tell. Above, soldiers in steel helmets and armed with rifles patrolled the upper floors, their presence oppressive.

"Hey, don't treat me like this! Be careful, or I'll turn you into a bug!"

A loud voice rang out.

Hoffa turned toward the commotion. A bald old man, looking utterly deranged, dashed out from the church's interior. He brandished a wooden stick, pointing and muttering frantically at those chasing him. But his words had no effect.

Within moments, the crazed old man was tackled to the ground. Several doctors pinned him down, pried the wooden stick from his grasp, and injected something into his neck.

Hoffa's eyes widened as he watched the scene unfold. There was something familiar about the old man, but he couldn't quite recall where he had seen him before.

"Bach?"

The old man, restrained and injected, suddenly caught sight of Hoffa. His hoarse voice screamed out in shock, "You're here too?! You're here too?! Why are you here too?!"

Hoffa had no recollection of who this man was, yet his cries were filled with despair and unwillingness, sending shivers down Hoffa's spine. What was he trying to say? Hoffa had no idea.

The doctors swiftly dragged the old man deeper into the church. His cries grew fainter and fainter until, under the drug's influence, he finally succumbed to unconsciousness. Like Hoffa, he was lifted by the doctors and taken away.

Further inside the church, two doctors led Hoffa into a sealed hall surrounded by towering glass partitions. Within the glass enclosure sat a group of young people around his age, all dressed in identical uniforms, quietly waiting on neatly arranged carpets for examination. White-coated men walked among them, asking questions and taking notes.

Among them, a short-haired girl sitting on a carpet noticed Hoffa passing by outside the glass. She stared at him curiously. Sensing her gaze, Hoffa met her eyes.

She wore glasses and had a serene, delicate appearance. Yet the moment their eyes locked, an invisible, excruciating pain nearly caused Hoffa to lose consciousness. His entire body convulsed, an overwhelming urge to flee overtaking him.

His reaction immediately alerted the doctors. They grabbed his arms tightly, preventing any movement. Even the burly man who had brought him here tensed up, instructing the doctors, "Quick! Take him to the recovery center. Do not let him escape again!"

"Understood," one of the doctors responded.

Hoffa had no idea how much time had passed before the pain finally subsided. He sat dazed at a table, staring blankly at the intricate patterns on its surface and his own pale hands.

A doctor in a white coat sat across from him, rhythmically tapping the table. In a detached, procedural tone, he began, "Hoffa Bach, correct?"

"Probably," Hoffa muttered uncertainly.

"You were admitted to this facility three years ago. After that, you escaped. Two years ago, you were spotted on Downing Street in London, and then you vanished again. Now, tell me—"

The doctor straightened, his cold voice sharp. "Where have you been since then? What have you been doing for the past two years?"

Hoffa looked at the doctor in confusion. The man's grave expression only deepened his bewilderment. Where had he been? What had he done? He couldn't remember a thing.

"Speak up! If you refuse, don't blame us for taking harsher measures!" the doctor threatened.

A nurse entered the room, pushing a small cart emitting crackling sparks of electricity—it looked dangerous.

The sight of it sent a chill down Hoffa's spine. Without thinking, he blurted out, "I think... I became some kind of official, got married, had a few kids, and then retired early."

The moment the words left his lips, he froze. His reflection on the glass wall behind the doctor showed a pale, youthful face—far too young for marriage or children. And yet, saying those words triggered a brutal pain deep in his stomach.

Hoffa gagged and vomited a mixture of bile and stomach acid onto the table. The agony was unbearable, forcing him to clutch his head and let out a tortured, animalistic scream.

Hearing his agonized wails, several fully armed soldiers rushed into the interrogation room. They lined up in formation, raising their guns and aiming at Hoffa. However, the interrogating doctor stood up and raised his hand to stop them. Like the soldiers, he stared intently at the wailing young man, as if facing a formidable enemy.

But nothing out of the ordinary happened.

It was unclear how long he had been screaming before Hoffa finally began to recover from the excruciating pain. His entire body slumped onto the chair like a heap of flesh, gasping heavily, his body trembling uncontrollably.

Seeing this, the doctor curled his lips into a faintly mocking smile. He gathered the documents before him and said indifferently, "It seems the disease has taken deep root. He requires the closest supervision. Take him to the treatment ward."

A nurse collected the small medical cart and helped Hoffa up by his shoulders. Accompanied by several soldiers, they escorted him toward a distant ward. Hoffa, his mind muddled and unfocused, stumbled along with the orderlies, eventually arriving at what was called a hospital room. However, opposite the hospital bed stood a blackboard, making the place look like a strange fusion of a classroom and a ward.

The orderlies lifted Hoffa onto the hospital bed and secured his ankles to it. Meanwhile, as they carried out these tasks, several fully armed guards stood nearby, watching him cautiously.

Once the restraints were in place, another doctor entered the room. He sat in a chair directly across from Hoffa's bed. Shortly after, the orderlies filed out, and even the soldiers withdrew, leaving only Hoffa and the doctor alone in the room. The doctor then removed his mask and looked at him with a hint of regret.

Seeing his composed and confident demeanor, Hoffa cautiously asked, "Who… are you?"

"I'm the therapist here. We don't use names," the doctor replied. "We use numbers instead. I am No. 17."

He raised his hand, revealing a clearly tattooed "17" on the back.

Hoffa straightened his posture and asked, "Doctor, have you ever heard of magic?"

The doctor responded, "Exactly. Most of our patients claim they've seen magic. You are ill."

"I am… ill," Hoffa repeated absentmindedly.

"Yes. We have diagnosed many cases similar to yours. When they first arrived at the hospital, they suffered greatly. But as their treatment progressed, they gradually returned to normal. They became free of pain, free of struggle, and eventually…"

The doctor paused for a moment before smiling. "Smooth."

"Smooth?" Hoffa was puzzled.

"That's right, like an object moving in a uniform straight line."

The doctor stood up and drew a straight line on the blackboard. "Believe me, Bach, you will also become smooth in the end—no pain, no struggle. Just like us."

"Really?"

Hoffa looked at the doctor expectantly.

If there was a way to stop this unbearable suffering, that would be wonderful. Right now, even the slightest thought or memory brought him overwhelming pain, making life nearly unbearable.

"Of course!"

The doctor spoke with certainty.

Then, he opened the suitcase he had brought along, took out several thick books, and placed them on the small table in front of Hoffa. "However, to become free of pain, you must read more. These books are part of your treatment plan. You need to cooperate with us."

Hoffa glanced at the books and flipped through them. The covers depicted smiling couples holding children, with golden-embossed titles reading:

On Happiness

The Most Stable Structure

A Smooth Life

Seeing these titles, Hoffa felt confused. He vaguely remembered attending school and reading many books, but the ones he had read before seemed far more interesting than these.

"Read these carefully!" the doctor instructed. "Your path to salvation lies within them."

The path to salvation.

Hoffa absentmindedly flipped through the pages, his head beginning to ache again.

After handing over the books, Doctor 17 prepared to leave.

Seeing him about to exit, Hoffa grew anxious.

Although he had no clear memories, he had a vague sense that he had come to this place for a reason—something extremely important. But if they simply locked him up here, no matter what that reason was, he would never be able to accomplish it.

"Excuse me, Doctor! When… when can I be discharged?"

Hoffa hurriedly asked.

"Discharged?"

The doctor turned around, a strange smile appearing on his face. "Once you pass our assessment, you will naturally be allowed to leave."

"What are the assessment criteria?"

Hoffa quickly inquired.

The doctor's strange smile faded. Impatiently, he said, "First, get rid of all those bizarre thoughts in your head!"

With that, he slammed the door shut and left.

(End of Chapter)

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