Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Inside the Ministry of Magic office.

Fathier took a deep breath to steady his emotions. Quickly, the fleeting hint of sentiment on his face was replaced by cold indifference. With a wave of his wand beneath his long cloak, the walls of the room rumbled and slid apart, revealing a hidden black passageway. Striding purposefully, he entered the passage and soon arrived in a chamber illuminated by a golden chandelier.

Inside the room, a tall, bald woman was standing beside a red-haired girl whose arms were stretched out in a cross shape. The woman was carefully fastening strange silver metallic ornaments onto the girl's joints. The ornaments were etched with intricate, arcane patterns.

"You said all you needed was a little blood. Why are you attaching all these bizarre things to me?"

The red-haired girl immediately questioned Fathier upon seeing him enter.

"These were all developed by your grandfather. I don't fully understand their purpose either. When this is over, you can ask him yourself," Fathier replied nonchalantly.

"Fine."

The girl gritted her teeth and kept her arms extended, allowing the tall woman to continue placing the metal pieces on her body.

Fathier paced around the room, watching as the ornaments gradually took shape on the girl. A trace of anxiety began to creep into his heart. That person's unexpected refusal had pushed everything dangerously close to spiraling out of control.

"Too slow," he muttered.

Taking a step forward, he pushed Delphina aside and began attaching the ornaments himself, his movements rough and hurried.

"You're hurting me!" the girl snapped when he pressed a circular mithril rune piece onto her wrist.

Fathier ignored her complaints, his expression remaining cold and unyielding.

"Do others know what you're trying to do?" the girl asked, her arms swaying under his firm handling. "You're the Minister of Magic. Shouldn't you be prioritizing the safety of the people? And now, at such a critical moment, you're planning to return to the past. Is this really the right thing to do?"

"This is none of your concern," Fathier said curtly, his tone as rigid as his expression.

"Hey!"

The red-haired girl suddenly jerked her arm free.

"This is about saving your daughter. I suggest you treat me with a little more respect."

"That's Hoffa Bach's idea," Fathier replied flatly. "He just didn't have the nerve to tell you directly. If you're unwilling, you're free to leave. I'm merely doing him a favor."

The two stared at each other for a moment. The girl stood frozen, her fists clenched and lips tightly pressed together. Her defiant expression gradually gave way to a look of resignation. She let out a soft "Oh," then silently extended her arms once more.

Fathier stepped forward and continued attaching the alchemical devices to her body.

Suddenly, the ground trembled. The golden chandelier above swayed, dislodging dust that fell to the floor. Amid the commotion, a faint roar echoed.

"Fathier!"

All three of them looked up simultaneously as the voice reverberated through the floor and into their ears.

"What's going on?" the red-haired girl asked Fathier urgently. "That sounded like Hoffa."

"It's nothing," Fathier replied coldly.

With a wave of his wand, he sealed off all vibrations and sounds.

"You're not going to check it out?" The girl's eyes widened in disbelief.

Fathier remained silent, his hands continuing their work undisturbed.

"Wait, could it be that he doesn't want you to do this?"

The girl suddenly pulled away, stepping back to maintain a distance from him. "I agreed to help, but you're being far too secretive. I need to know what's happening."

"Don't move!" Fathier roared.

He stormed forward and grabbed her arm. Every muscle in his face seemed carved from stone under the stark light of the chandelier.

"You're lying," the girl whispered, her voice trembling.

Then her expression shifted. "No, it can't be. You're lying!"

She wrenched her arm free and bolted for the door.

But she barely took two steps before—

"Imperio."

With a cold and merciless incantation, the Imperius Curse shot from Fathier's wand, striking the girl clad in silver ornaments.

Her frantic and terrified expression turned blank. Under the spell's influence, she swayed unsteadily, smiling vacantly as she stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor.

Fathier lowered his wand and addressed the motionless, tall woman nearby.

"Pick her up."

Obediently, the bald woman approached and hoisted the red-haired girl to her feet.

"You're back," the girl muttered incoherently, clinging to the woman's wrist and giggling foolishly. "You're so silly."

Disgust flickered across Fathier's face. "Silence!"

The girl's voice vanished, though her lips continued to move soundlessly. Fathier turned to the bald woman beside him.

"Is the Arrow of Time ready?"

"You mean now!?"

The woman seemed momentarily surprised.

"There's no time left. That girl's friend is far more troublesome than I anticipated."

"But the machine isn't fully prepared yet," she said softly, her tone deferential.

"I don't need it to be fully prepared. I only need it to serve my purpose," Fathier said coldly, pressing the final piece of metallic ornament onto the girl's forehead.

"Is it ready?"

"Technically, yes," Delphina answered hesitantly.

Sensing her hesitation, Fathier's gaze darkened. He lifted his wand and tilted her chin up with its tip, speaking in a dangerous tone.

"Do you also think what I'm doing is wrong?"

His piercing blue eyes were filled with suspicion and doubt. The oppressive magic radiating from him made it difficult to breathe.

"No, I don't," Delphina replied calmly, her head held high. "Light in the universe is merely an illusion. In the end, everything will be consumed by darkness and chaos. What you're doing isn't wrong. After all, in this world, only a dark king can defeat another dark king."

"Only a dark king can defeat another dark king?" Fathier repeated softly.

Fateel chuckled self-deprecatingly and shook his head. "You really are something. But in the year you've followed me, this is the first time I've heard you say something so profound."

"I don't like to talk. I prefer to act," Delfina replied calmly, her voice steady under the wand pointed at her.

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Fateel let out a cold laugh and lowered his wand. "You've done well. Come with me—we'll take her to the Department of Mysteries. I'm going to put an end to this cursed fate."

"I'm not going," said the tall bald woman. She crossed her arms and stood firm.

"What?" Fateel's momentary goodwill dissolved into a sharp, dangerous glare.

"You know me, Minister," she said with a sigh, raising her slender fingers as though in surrender. "I'm not a fighter. I'm good for offering strategies or editing documents. But Hoffa Bach? Not a chance. Even a thousand of me wouldn't be enough to face him."

After reaching the Department of Mysteries, a deep stillness settled over everything.

The shadow dragon had vanished, and the gargoyles from the earlier chase did not follow. Instead, Hoffa found himself in a dark room surrounded by twelve identical black doors. They bore no markings, no handles, and whenever he moved, the doors rotated ceaselessly, making it nearly impossible to discern which one to choose.

This place triggered an old memory for Hoffa. He recalled that Harry from the future had encountered this very challenge. At that time, Harry had companions to help him search each door one by one. But Hoffa was alone, and brute-forcing his way through was clearly not an option.

After a moment of thought, he closed his eyes and focused on the transformation he had undergone earlier—the sensation of his body merging seamlessly with the night. This shapeshifting ability, almost indescribable by magic, felt as instinctive as the flow of blood in his veins. He understood what the god of the night required of him.

Suddenly, Hoffa's hand turned blade-like, and he plunged it into his own chest, gripping his heart. Pain wracked his body as blood seeped into the three rings around his chest. His face turned pale as he withdrew his hand, and his body disintegrated into a swarm of nightingales that scattered in all directions.

The black doors began to spin wildly, trying to obscure his vision. But the hundred nightingales flew through all twelve doors simultaneously.

The sensation was surreal. Through the shapeshifting magic fueled by his blood sacrifice, Hoffa saw through a hundred pairs of eyes at once, each revealing a unique scene behind the doors.

In one room, countless brains floated in jars. Another housed octopus-like creatures drifting in darkness. A third room featured tables and chairs animatedly chatting and playing cards atop humanoid statues. Yet another displayed massive hourglasses, each dropping tiny figures—some cheering, some wailing—instead of sand.

As the images overwhelmed Hoffa's mind, he noticed one room where a tall, ancient, and decayed archway stood. It emanated a peculiar beauty, though it appeared worn and unsupported by walls. A tattered black curtain hung over the arch, fluttering as though recently disturbed.

At the sight of the archway, all the nightingales vanished, except for the few that landed before it. They chirped, merging back into Hoffa's human form.

He stood in a dimly lit rectangular room. The center was sunken, forming a massive stone pit about twenty feet deep. Surrounding the pit were steep rows of stone benches, and Hoffa stood at the very top. The benches descended sharply to a stone platform in the center of the pit, where the archway loomed.

Hoffa stared at the archway, transfixed. For a fleeting moment, he saw another version of himself step through it, smiling and waving.

"Hey!" a voice snapped him out of his daze. He instinctively stepped forward, but the vision disappeared. Startled, he stepped back, wiping cold sweat from his brow.

The sight of himself walking through the arch was more terrifying than the searing pain he had endured moments before. He couldn't forget that Harry's beloved godfather, Sirius Black, had fallen beyond this very arch. Yet here he was, seeing himself.

What could it mean? He didn't dare dwell on it.

"Tick-tock. Tick-tock."

A faint ticking sound echoed in the room.

Gritting his teeth, Hoffa turned away from the archway and followed the ticking sound.

The passage led him into a narrow corridor filled with countless clocks—grandfather clocks, travel clocks, and all manner of timepieces—hung from brass pipes no thicker than a water pipe. Each clock displayed a different time, ticking incessantly.

Walking through the corridor reminded Hoffa of Mance. The room where Mance had drawn Chloe's blood also had clocks, though far fewer than these.

As he walked, something cracked beneath his foot. He looked down to see he had stepped on a broken skeleton, dry and withered, its mouth agape in a silent scream. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Mance in his final moments.

But this corpse was coated in verdigris, blending almost seamlessly with the cold, mechanical surroundings.

A sense of foreboding clawed at Hoffa. Could the thing he dreaded most be happening again?

The further he walked, the more skeletons he saw, all crushed beneath the brass mechanisms like laborers buried beneath the Great Wall they were forced to build.

The ticking of the clocks grew louder, becoming a cacophony, until it reached the grandeur of a symphony.

Finally, Hoffa emerged into a vast, stadium-like chamber, its floor sunken nearly a hundred meters.

At the center of the space hovered a massive orrery, its celestial components rotating slowly. Each rotation unleashed bursts of lightning that illuminated the chamber with immense power.

Below the orrery, countless wizards worked diligently, scribbling notes on parchment. To their left was a platform the size of a basketball court, where a colossal clock stood. It was circular, with a single hand and two directions: "Forward" and "Backward."

The clock's scale was marked by gleaming golden stars, each representing a year, from one to fifty. Below it was a steel lever, seemingly the mechanism to activate it.

Intricate alchemical structures connected the clock to the orrery, linking the two into a single, monumental apparatus.

Above the clock, a gilded English plaque proclaimed its name:

Arrow of Time 

(To be continued...)

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