Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Bang!Miranda shut her room door. Then, she closed the window, blocking out the cheerful laughter and melodious music from downstairs. Instantly, they were removed from the lively atmosphere and plunged into a quiet, unknown world.

"What's wrong?"

Hoffa asked with a smile, cautiously probing. Yet, he felt a bit uneasy—this girl had worn a gloomy expression from dinner to the dance floor, and he couldn't figure out why.

"Did you have fun?"

"Why wouldn't I? Didn't you?"

Hoffa sat on Miranda's bed, looking at the faint blue veins on her neck. Suddenly, he realized he was parched from all the dancing. "Could you pour me a glass of water?"

Expressionless, Miranda conjured a cup out of thin air, tapped it with her wand, and filled it with clear water. She handed the cup to Hoffa, crossed her arms, and leaned against her desk, looking sullen.

Hoffa took a sip of water, his eyes never leaving Miranda. The room was unlit, and the atmosphere felt oddly heavy.

"Can I speak with you alone?"

After a brief moment of thought, Miranda took a deep breath. "Go ahead. You've already dragged me into my room."

"I barely recognize you anymore."

"Huh?"

"I remember when we were at Hogwarts, you'd avoid people like the plague, terrified of being the center of attention—more reserved than I ever was. But now, you join every conversation, dance every dance, and seem to be having such a good time." Miranda started slowly, but her words gained momentum as she paced the room, her complaints pouring out. "Are you Ravenclaw or Gryffindor? What happened in the year and a half you were away? Why have you changed so much? Why do I feel like you're becoming a stranger?"

"This is your home. Should I have sulked and embarrassed you in front of your guests?" Hoffa took another sip of water. "Honestly, I danced for you, yet you barely spoke to anyone tonight."

Miranda grew agitated. "I don't care about those people, nor do I want to please them. I just feel—"

"Feel what?"

"That you don't need me anymore."

Miranda said softly, "You seem happier with them than you are with me. I feel like our friendship won't last much longer. I even feel like tonight might be the last time I see you."

The smile faded from Hoffa's face. He placed the cup back on the desk, loosened his tie, and tossed it onto Miranda's bed. Then, he tugged at the collar of his stiff suit and rubbed his temples in frustration.

"What's wrong?" Miranda asked.

"Merlin's beard, why would you think that?"

"Because that's just how you are. Why else do you never see me during the day and only occasionally talk to me at night?"

"You…" Hoffa sighed, spreading his hands helplessly. "Happiness and feelings are two different things, Miranda. I know you dislike Adebey, but he's still your grandfather. And remember, in our first year, you almost killed me. Was that happy? Yet we still became friends. Feelings can't be replaced. I might have fun with those people, but it's all a façade—it's not real."

Miranda's frown eased slightly, and she rolled her eyes at Hoffa before sitting down across from him. "Is that really true?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

"Then why did you agree to my grandfather's proposal?"

"I couldn't refuse Professor Gorsak. Your grandfather is an influential figure, a pillar of society," Hoffa said plainly.

"So it's just a temporary arrangement? You're planning to leave tomorrow and go your own way?"

Hoffa nodded. "Probably."

Miranda's hands tightened on the back of her chair, her face turning slightly pale. "The past few days, I've been happy. I think you've been happy too. Can't you just stay in England, even if only to consider Adebey's suggestion?"

Hoffa glanced out the window at the moon, paused for a moment, then shook his head. "It's late, Miranda. If there's anything important, we can correspond by letter."

"Liar."

Miranda's brief smile vanished. "You were just talking about feelings, and now you're shutting me out again. Let me warn you, Bach—if you think I'm a fool, then you're an even bigger idiot."

Hoffa sighed in defeat. "Miranda."

"Yes?"

She nodded seriously, her demeanor so earnest that it left Hoffa at a loss for words.

"I'm listening," she prompted.

"Miranda, I'm a dangerous person," Hoffa said slowly after a long silence. "The marks those people left on me run deeper than you think."

"And?" Miranda pressed.

Hoffa hesitated again.

"Can't you just talk to me openly?"

"Is Hogwarts safe this year?"

"Yes, very. We've tightened the rules, improved defenses—it's very secure."

"See? As long as I'm not there, Hogwarts is perfectly fine," Hoffa said.

Miranda laughed—a cold, hollow laugh that faded as quickly as it came. "So, you're saying those strange people are after you, and if you stay away, we'll all be safe?"

"More or less," Hoffa muttered.

"You're so self-centered," Miranda said sarcastically.

"Isn't it true?"

"At least I'm not. In our first year, you came to find me."

Miranda sighed deeply and adjusted Hoffa's collar. "I know Hogwarts can't offer you much anymore. I know about your hatred for Grindelwald. But… I can help you, Hoffa. Many people can."

"The last person who helped me is no longer here, Miranda," Hoffa said stiffly.

"You're letting one snakebite keep you from ever using rope again? The Hoffa Bach I know isn't that fragile. Listen, I loved Aglaia dearly, but I care about you too. Stop running away from us."

"I'm not running. Not at all."

"Then come back. You have a choice, don't you?"

Hoffa slowly shook his head. "Not right now."

"Then when?"

"When she comes back."

"Who?" Miranda asked. "Who are you waiting for?"

"Aglaia," Hoffa said, turning his head away.

Miranda's expression became unreadable. She stood up and paced the room, running her fingers through her hair and tapping the desk. Finally, she faced Hoffa again.

"How can someone as smart as you not see it? Her death wasn't your fault. It was Grindelwald's plan—to break your spirit. You can't let him win. You need to face reality and stop living in a fantasy."

"I know," Hoffa said urgently. "But do you know that girl?"

"Who?"

"The one I brought back from France."

"Oh, LeMay?" Miranda's tone sharpened. "What about her? What's your relationship with her?"

"That doesn't matter. Do you know her ability?"

Hoffa glanced around, then leaned close to Miranda and whispered a few words.

Miranda's face turned pale. "Impossible. No one can travel through time."

"I saw it with my own eyes."

Hoffa stood up, breathing heavily. "Without a doubt, she took me back three days in time. When I was in France, I saw two versions of myself."

"Do you understand the difference between three days and a year, Hoffa?" Miranda also stood up, her expression deeply worried. "No wizard who dared to meddle with time has ever met a good end. Listen, if that woman truly has such power, the only outcome awaiting her is destruction. You must stay away from her!"

"Miranda! I'm not lying to you!!" Frustration turned into agitation as he grabbed Miranda's shoulders. "Have you ever considered that there might just be a tiny chance?"

Miranda turned her head to look at the photo on the table, her fists clenched tightly, unmoving. After a long pause, she spoke in a hoarse voice, almost choking on her words: "And the cost?"

"Cost?" Hoffa froze, his face turning pale. He stammered, "W-what... cost?"

"Such god-like power in the hands of a mortal—there must be a price. I don't believe otherwise."

Hoffa shivered and said with difficulty, "Magical outbursts."

"Magical outbursts? How old is she?"

"Sixteen, about our age."

"A sixteen-year-old with magical outbursts... Do you know what that means? Apart from Obscurials, I can't think of anything else. No Obscurial has ever survived to adulthood. The last known case was Kristen Byerburn. Grindelwald orchestrated everything in New York back then. He was the oldest Obscurial on record, and even he didn't live long."

"Miranda, she's a nun. I know her—she's kind. She's not a monster."

"Then have you thought about this: if she's so harmless, why did Nicolas Flamel send her to France? Why did he expose her to theology? Such power belongs to gods—or even devils—but certainly not humans."

Hoffa couldn't respond. Miranda was a Ravenclaw; intelligence was her defining trait, and wisdom was her strength. But the wiser she was, the harder it was for Hoffa to refute her arguments.

Miranda continued, "Even if you truly go back in time and change Aglaia's fate, then what? Your past will become your future. You'll merely create another parallel world. But in this world—our world—nothing will change. The only difference will be that we've lost you forever. Is that worth it?"

"Isn't it worth it?"

Hoffa grew agitated. He didn't want to consider Miranda's words; he instinctively rejected them. "I've heard these arguments too many times. Stop trying to reason with me. I've already changed."

"And the cost?" Miranda asked again.

Hoffa clutched his head and turned his back to Miranda. The urge to leave London, to leave England entirely, grew stronger and almost uncontrollable. He dashed to Miranda's door, grasping the doorknob, his hand trembling like someone with Parkinson's.

"In our first year, you told me to live in the present. But now, look at you—you're living in the past."

The voice behind him shifted from worry and anxiety to faint mockery. Hoffa slowly turned around. Miranda had taken off her glasses, transforming entirely into someone else—a pale, blurry figure.

"You really know how to break my sister's heart, Bach."

Under the moonlight, he admired his fingers. "Is the boundary between love and indifference so clear? Or have you stopped trusting your own instincts?"

Miller's voice was cold and sharp, entirely different from Miranda's. Hoffa looked at the doorknob in his hand, numb. "Say whatever you want, but it's too late. Lemay has already been taken away by the Ministry of Magic. And the one who sent her there was Fatier. Fatier will definitely use her powers to revive his daughter. That's inevitable."

"Oh, and the cost?"

Miller asked again.

"Don't talk to me about cost!"

Hoffa couldn't bear it anymore. He turned sharply, his gaze cold and intense, like a wanted poster come to life. "I don't care!"

"If you truly didn't care, you wouldn't want to run away so badly."

Miller lowered his hand, clasping it behind his back. "Deep down, you know the cost, but you love her too much to face it. You'd rather hypnotize yourself, pretending to know nothing, pushing that innocent girl into the firepit, and letting others fulfill your wish."

Boom!

Miller's icy voice struck Hoffa like lightning. He trembled violently, the joy of the past few days evaporating in an instant, as if someone had pushed him out of a warm bed and into an ice-filled bathtub.

In that moment, he thought he saw Mans' face—an ambiguous, genderless, ghost-like visage staring back at him: "You're doing this for yourself too, Bach, for some unspeakable purpose."

He released the doorknob and stumbled back onto the bed, cold sweat soaking through his shirt.

Miller's blurry face loomed close to his ear: "Bach, let me remind you. Whether Fatier DeLasses has the same goal as you or not, that girl named Lemay is in grave danger. Adbe told me something—this past year, the Department of Mysteries has consumed nearly all of the Ministry's resources. Nobody knows what they're working on.

But every few days, bodies are carried out of that place, covered with white sheets. Their souls, lives, and magic drained until nothing remains. If not for Britain's inability to endure internal conflict during wartime, the Wizengamot would have intervened long ago."

Hoffa shivered and pushed Miller away. "No, impossible. Her grandfather is Nicolas Flamel. I heard he's the head of the Department of Mysteries. How could he harm his own granddaughter?"

"The last person who lived for centuries turned their entire family into puppets. Have you forgotten?"

A cold wind blew in from the window. Hoffa thought of Sylby, of Mans, of the tubes connected to his body and the flowing crimson blood. He thought of his nightmares.

From the adjacent study, faint voices drifted in. The words were quiet but sharp in the night.

"A deficit of over five million Galleons—is this true?"

"His secretary told me personally. We can't wait any longer. He's completely abandoned his campaign promises."

"We must wait, Gorshak. You can't impeach the Minister without solid evidence."

"Then what? Drag the entire Ministry down for his lofty plans?"

"Let Nicolas Flamel make his move. If something happens to that girl, he'll surely act. Then we can intervene."

Hoffa could hear no more. Reality had shredded his dreams, leaving nothing but jagged edges.

If Fatier wanted to revive his daughter, he would need that miraculous bloodline. He would do the same thing Mans had done—drain Chloe's blood.

Chloe had said her powers could take someone back a week at most. What price would a year and a half require?

Hoffa's throat tightened as he stared at his hands, his mind blank.

"What have I done?"

"If you can't do it yourself, then what was the point of everything you told me?" Miller said, putting his glasses back on, his face becoming clear again.

Hoffa staggered to his feet. "Where is the Ministry of Magic?"

"What are you going to do?"

"At least ask Fatier what he intends to do." Hoffa clenched his fists. "Tell me, Miranda. Where is the Ministry of Magic?"

(End of Chapter)

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