Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"You lost!"

In the quiet of the night, at the mouth of a rain-soaked alley, Mans brushed off his clothes with his skeletal arm. "You're no match for me."

He glanced into the distance, where a faint glow of dawn was breaking through the sky. Daylight was approaching. Picking up the raincoat and weapon from the ground, Mans pressed the muzzle of his Mauser pistol against the fallen boy's mouth, deciding to blow his brains out the moment dawn arrived.

Seconds ticked by, and Mans maintained his stance, finger on the trigger. The night wasn't over yet, but he could see the boy's nearly unrecognizable, beaten face slowly mending. The broken nose straightened itself, bruised eyes fluttered open, and the cracked lip gradually healed.

"Not resisting anymore?" Mans moved the gun slightly away, speaking as if to a friend. "If you ask me, you could still fight."

The boy, lying in the rain, nodded faintly.

"You don't seem to care at all. Isn't death scary to you?" Mans asked curiously in the final minutes before dawn.

The boy shook his head slowly.

"Why aren't you speaking? Daylight is almost here—if you stay silent, you'll die soon." After a moment of thought, Mans' face softened, a rare expression. "If you have any last wishes, tell me. I might fulfill them for you."

The boy hesitated, his lips moving without producing sound. Out of respect for his opponent, Mans leaned closer, putting his ear near the boy's mouth.

"Sorry," the boy whispered so softly it was almost inaudible.

"Sorry?"

Why was he apologizing? Mans straightened, frowning, sensing the apology wasn't directed at him.

At that moment, the storm clouds dispersed, and under the first rays of dawn, Mans saw a reflection in the puddle beneath him—a shadow of another person silently standing behind him.

The suppressed shadow of death that had lingered during the fight erupted into full force, spreading like wildfire.

"Haah!!"

Mans shouted, hoping either to scare off the figure behind him or dispel his growing fear.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl, almost to a standstill. The shadow in the puddle remained unfazed and moved slightly.

Thwack.

Mans felt a sharp black spike pierce through him before it was swiftly withdrawn. The excruciating pain it brought transformed into a death signal, piercing through the heavens.

Miles away.

In a silent incense-filled room, a man sat cross-legged in meditation on a cushion, his long white hair cascading down to his waist.

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, and he reached for a black wand, pointing it into the void.

Six burning candles appeared in the room.

But one of the flames developed a small black dot at its center, which grew rapidly, consuming the flame entirely.

"Hee-hee, ha-ha-ha-ha~"

An eerie, childlike laughter echoed faintly in the meditation room, like the mischievous giggle of a child reveling in a successful prank.

The white-haired man stared in shock as the extinguished flame released wisps of blue smoke. For a moment, he even forgot to breathe.

Back in the alley near the port of Bournemouth, Mans clutched his chest desperately. From the wound caused by the spike, streams of black mist poured out, spreading rapidly as if his body contained not blood but ink-like gas.

He immediately looked back but found nothing behind him.

The one who killed him had either fled or concealed themselves.

"Impossible! This can't be happening—I broke it! It's impossible!!"

He twisted his neck frantically, trying to rewind time, but the black smoke coursing through his body made even controlling his movements impossible. He slumped against the wall, convulsing, writhing, and struggling.

"Damn it!!"

"Why!? Why!?"

"I did everything I could!"

Losing control entirely, he roared with confusion and despair. "Who? Who is it!?"

There was no answer. The tiny black hole in his chest spread throughout his body. He could feel something gnawing at him—bit by bit, it devoured his soul. Each bite stripped away a fragment of his memory, a piece of his sanity.

Under the crushing weight of death, he broke down completely. "What should I do? What should I do!?"

His gaze fell on Hoffa, lying on the ground, as if seeing a final lifeline. Crawling desperately, he threw himself onto Hoffa, gripping his shoulders.

"Tell me who it is! Tell me who killed me!"

Hoffa lay there, his eyes fixed on the first rays of sunlight and the fading moonlight. He ignored Mans' frantic pleas. The moment he destroyed the mistletoe, he had already understood everything.

After so many clashes, Hoffa had come to understand the character of the Muggle before him. Because he understood, he couldn't help but feel a deep, indescribable sympathy. Without the most stubborn desire to survive, how could such terrifying control arise? But all of it had crumbled in the face of the time he'd manipulated so easily.

"Tell me what you want—I can give you anything!" Mans pulled Hoffa up, slamming him against the wall. His overwhelming regret made his words rush out. "Tell me who killed me. I can help you kill Grindelwald. I can even rewrite history. I can do anything you want, as long as you tell me!"

Silent.

The boy turned his head away, lips pressed tight, saying nothing. His eyes held only sorrow and sympathy.

"Tell me!"

"Tell me!"

"Tell me!"

Mans screamed, his voice trembling with a sob.

"You know, don't you?"

"Please."

"Please..."

The voice grew softer until it faded completely.

Hoffa remained silent, not saying a word.

Finally, Mans lowered his head and released his grip. In that moment, all sense of order completely unraveled. Confusion consumed him as he leaned back against the waterlogged corner of the wall, staring blankly at the sky. "Is my vision truly so narrow?"

He muttered to himself.

The black smoke in his chest spread to his head, drifted across his cheeks, and gradually dissipated into the night sky. When the smoke finally vanished, his body collapsed entirely, shrinking into a thin, emaciated figure. His skin clung tightly to his bones, his hair dry and lifeless, resembling a corpse that had been dead for years.

As the sunlight of dawn crept over the horizon, a few cloaked street cleaners appeared on the streets of Bournemouth. In the distance, the faint sound of an air-raid siren echoed. No one realized that the city's true savior had already become one with it.

An overwhelming exhaustion washed over Hoffa. He leaned against the wall, sitting next to Mans' small, blackened remains. They looked like two workers resting on bricks after a long day's labor, preparing to light cigarettes.

It was finally over.

No one could stop him from taking Chloe back to London.

No one could prevent him from fulfilling his long-held vow.

Yet, an inexplicable sense of aimlessness overtook him. After everything he had endured, he wasn't even sure what he truly wanted anymore.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

Turning his head, he saw the nun—Chloe—standing beside him, drenched and trembling uncontrollably.

"Chloe..."

Hoffa looked at her, his heart a swirling mix of emotions.

With a soft thud, Chloe knelt in the water, staring blankly at Mans' shriveled remains. After a long moment, she turned her head away and asked Hoffa with a trembling voice, "Am I going to hell?"

"No," Hoffa said gently, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pressing his forehead to hers. "You won't. You absolutely won't."

"What does it feel like to kill someone?" she asked, her tone far heavier than when she had posed the question in Paris.

Hoffa paused, then answered seriously, "It makes you realize that humans aren't as noble or sacred as we think—no different from animals, livestock. If you get used to it, you become numb, indifferent to life and death."

"Then why are there executioners if it isn't something good?" Chloe pushed Hoffa away, staring straight at him.

Her questions grew sharper, and Hoffa found it increasingly difficult to meet her gaze. He turned his head aside and replied, "Some souls are destined to burn—either to warm others or to scorch them.

For the greater good, for survival, sometimes sacrifices have to be made. That's the purpose of prisons, the rationale behind capital punishment."

"You have a point," Chloe said, her voice filled with pain. "But I often wonder—those murderers, those deranged individuals, those brutal tormentors—if not for their past suffering, their own traumas, would they have turned out this way? If no one listens to them, if no one offers them redemption, won't there only be more of them? Doesn't this endless cycle of life and death have no end?"

Hoffa was at a loss. He opened his mouth but couldn't find the words to respond.

"Look at me, Hoffa," Chloe said, her voice trembling.

He met her gaze, only to see a faint silver glow rising in her eyes—the telltale sign of magic spiraling out of control.

"I think," he began hesitantly, "that perhaps no one can truly answer your questions. Only God can."

"I don't want to hear from God right now," Chloe said, her voice laced with fear and uncertainty. "I just want to hear from you. Talk to me. Say something."

Hoffa fell into deep thought. In that moment, he recalled Adebai Gorshak, Albus Dumbledore, the Void Dragon, the lessons he'd learned at his magical school, and all the pain he'd endured. Suddenly, clarity struck him.

"When I was at Hogwarts, Rowena Ravenclaw once told me to seek the light in the darkness.

I think the world will always have darkness, just as there will always be night. But some people surrender to it, while others find hope within it and fight on.

If you ask me, it's not about bad luck—it's about the choice to resist or succumb."

As he spoke, he looked up, his fiery gaze meeting Chloe's silvered eyes. "If you believe there's something good to be done in this darkness, then go do it—especially if it brings light."

In an unremarkable, shadowy corner, an invisible flame passed from one person to another. Chloe stared at Hoffa in awe. For the first time, she glimpsed the soul of the man who had traveled with her for so many days.

"I understand now," she finally said, nodding. She removed her red hair tie, took off her nun's hat, and stood.

Hoffa knew what she intended to do, yet he hesitated. Rising to his feet, he said, "Let me go with you. I can take your place—"

He stopped mid-sentence, knowing full well that the events to come were beyond his power to change. She was destined to return to the past, to save the children of refugees, to guide him in abandoning the black mistletoe, and to ultimately end his nemesis.

Chloe shook her head and turned toward the heart of Bournemouth. Alone, she walked into the distant darkness, toward the inevitable cycle Hoffa already knew awaited her.

(End of Chapter)

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