Harry Potter: I am the Legend

For the next three days, Hoffa stayed in the tower without leaving. Ever since he refused Pierre's request to join Beauxbatons, Pierre had not shown him any kindness, sending only the most basic food through house-elves—just a piece of white bread and a cup of plain water each day.

Pierre probably thought this would make Hoffa suffer and regret rejecting him. However, Hoffa was almost grateful—if he had to eat three more days of the so-called "hometown delicacies," he might have gone insane on the spot.

Despite the cold attitude from the higher-ups, Hoffa's popularity among ordinary students remained strangely high. Every day, large crowds of fanatical supporters gathered outside his tower, making him afraid to step outside.

He had no idea what was happening at Hogwarts. Sylby had taken his Time Power with the Nightmare God, yet there had been no news. The unsettling tranquility weighed on him, filling him with dread.

After three days of walking on thin ice, Beauxbatons' anniversary finally arrived. At dawn, Hoffa came down from the tower early, hoping to find Nicolas Flamel. He still remembered Flamel telling him that if he ever encountered trouble in France, he could seek him out.

Indeed, the older the wiser—Flamel had likely anticipated his predicament.

For the celebration, Beauxbatons' walls were adorned with garlands and colorful ribbons, with twinkling magical stars hung everywhere. Hoffa had attended a few Christmas parties at Hogwarts in his youth, but the atmosphere there was always mysterious and somber. Decorations at Hogwarts gave off a subtle "Bride of the Skeleton" vibe. Beauxbatons, however, was different. The same decorations turned the school into a giant cream cake topped with colorful candles—overly sweet and cloying.

Inside the Beauxbatons Hall, seats were arranged meticulously, though there weren't many—reserved for distinguished guests. Olim was directing students to arrange the chairs in decorative shapes. When she saw Hoffa, she greeted him warmly.

"These are seats for prominent alumni, Hoffa. Maybe you'll be sitting among them," Olim teased.

Hoffa showed no interest. "Are only these seats arranged? What about the students? Are they joining the celebration?"

"Their places are outside. The hall can't fit everyone," Olim explained. "Besides, they're responsible for the welcoming ceremony and musical performances."

Hoffa headed to the fountain plaza outside the hall, which was far more spacious. The sealed Gate of the Sky was visible in the distance. Students had built an archway decorated with garlands near the elevators, flanked by musical ensembles. It seemed the distinguished guests would enter Beauxbatons via the elevators.

After confirming where Nicolas Flamel would appear, Hoffa found a fountain bench in a corner and quietly observed.

As time passed, more people gathered. Students wore long formal robes, holding garlands and ribbons, clapping and swaying by the arch. Teachers stood with Principal Pierre on the fountain platform, waiting silently.

At eight o'clock, a tall, handsome student stepped onto a nearby platform, clapping to attract attention.

"Now, let us welcome the esteemed alumni—representative of the ancient and noble French magical family, the Sanguine Iris family, Duke Vincent Picocque!"

Amidst drums and cheers, a tall middle-aged man in luxurious robes descended from the elevator, smiling and waving to the crowd. The Beauxbatons professors greeted him with handshakes and kisses on both cheeks.

After the Duke's arrival, the student announced the next guest: "Next, we welcome the 608th graduate of Beauxbatons, former three-time Minister of Magic of France—Madame Zoë Robert!"

Cheers and applause followed.

An elderly lady with silver hair, holding a small handbag, descended with the help of several women. She waved weakly, and a few teachers, under Pierre's orders, hurried down to assist her to the platform, where she exchanged cheek kisses with the principal.

More guests arrived one after another. The student kept announcing names, while Hoffa waited patiently. Finally, after the tenth guest, the student declared:

"To our surprise, a legendary figure has graced Beauxbatons' anniversary! Let us welcome the greatest alchemist in history, the living fossil of the wizarding world, one of Beauxbatons' board members, and the creator of the Fountain Plaza—Nicolas Flamel!"

Whistles and exclamations filled the air as drumbeats thundered.

Teachers gasped and looked at Principal Pierre, who stroked his beard smugly, stepping down with his cane to greet Flamel personally.

Hoffa watched Flamel—dressed in an ancient yet flamboyant collar robe, like a figure from a Rembrandt painting. He was a far cry from the plain old man in London.

Clothes indeed made the man. Hoffa mused that Flamel in formal attire looked quite dignified. He clapped along with the crowd. So Flamel was one of the board members—no wonder Don Quixote had mentioned him. Perhaps Dumbledore's mission could succeed if Flamel vouched for him.

Surrounded by teachers, Flamel ascended the platform, greeting the other guests with a smile.

Hoffa stood from his bench, walking up the steps and pushing past two wizards who tried to stop him. He tapped Flamel's shoulder from behind.

Flamel, shaking hands with Madame Zoë, turned and froze at the sight of Hoffa. Apologizing to Zoë, he said, "Excuse me, I have a matter to attend to."

Zoë, hard of hearing, mumbled vague responses. Pierre, however, noticed Hoffa and Flamel's departure, his expression flickering.

Leading Flamel away, Hoffa explained, "Dumbledore sent me to convince Pierre to aid Hogwarts. But he refused to even read the letter."

"Pierre's rejection isn't surprising," Flamel sighed. "Of the three great schools, only Beauxbatons remains intact."

"What about your stance, Flamel?"

"Albus spoke to me as well. I share his view. The magical world is fragile—we must unite to restore confidence in magic."

Hoffa exhaled in relief. "Do you have a plan?"

Flamel whispered, "I've prepared a speech. After Pierre's address, I'll speak. I'm confident they'll change their minds."

Hoffa relaxed completely. Dumbledore had sent the wrong person—Flamel could have accomplished the task without him.

Seeing Hoffa's relief, Flamel patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, leave it to me. You look like a nervous wreck—nothing like a young man. Go enjoy yourself. French girls are passionate, you know. If I were your age..."

A shadow fell across Hoffa's face as the sky darkened abruptly.

Hoffa's smile froze. He slowly stepped away from Flamel, facing the archway.

To applause and cheers, a woman in a wheelchair was pushed forward, smiling graciously. On her lap lay a wand and a crystal ball.

Hoffa's pupils contracted violently, his palms numb from shock.

Sylby had been invited. Damn Beauxbatons leadership—damn Pierre. Was he mad or just a fool?

Pierre was even exchanging cheek kisses with Sylby, as warm as ever.

Hoffa's heart plummeted, his mind racing. Why was Sylby here?

Beside him, Flamel paled. "It's her... How did she get here?"

"You saw her?" Hoffa murmured.

"Yes." Flamel's face grew solemn. "She gave Chloe to Fatir."

"Perhaps you don't know—Fatir was killed by her. I saw it with my own eyes," Hoffa whispered.

Flamel's mouth fell open.

"And four years ago, she orchestrated the Hogwarts explosion."

Sweat beaded on Flamel's forehead.

"Your journey ends here," Hoffa said coldly.

"What?"

"Leave immediately, gather as many people as possible. A battle of historic proportions is about to erupt."

Flamel inhaled sharply, the murderous glint in the young man's eyes making him shudder.

"What about you, Hoffa? No one here knows you. If I leave, who will help you?"

Hoffa's face was expressionless. "You must leave, Flamel. Your existence is far more important than you realize. If anything happens to you, the very logic of my existence will collapse. Go prepare."

Flamel was stunned.

"This is an order, Flamel," Hoffa interrupted firmly.

The calm words fell into Nicolas Flamel's ears like a thunderclap, leaving him stunned. That vague sense of awe resurfaced, as if some indescribable force connected him to the young man before him, stripping him of the courage to object.

After a brief moment of contemplation, he lifted his head and said, "I'll wait at the station in the Pyrenees for twelve hours. If you don't make it back by then, I'll have no choice but to issue an obituary."

"Don't jinx it, Flamel," Hoffa said.

Once the decision was made, Nicolas Flamel wasted no time. Using the excuse of needing the restroom, he left the scene.

Hoffa stared intently at the woman in the wheelchair, while Sylvie's gray eyes casually swept across the venue, finally locking onto Hoffa in the corner. She offered a faint smile.

A chill ran down Hoffa's spine as if he were facing a formidable enemy.

Boom!!

A thunderous cannon blast echoed.

Tensed to the extreme, Hoffa flicked his hand, and his palm transformed into five razor-sharp feathered blades.

But it was merely the signal marking the start of the festivities.

Hand in hand, pairs of Beauxbatons students—both male and female—streamed out of the castle in a long, connected line. Led by their dance partners, they ran and leaped joyously through the hall, past fountains, across the grand auditorium, and down corridors. As they passed, more students eagerly joined them, swelling the procession.

Sylvie couldn't suppress her amusement at Hoffa's battle-ready stance.

The crowd swirled past him, their hands clasped, dressed in elaborate and vibrantly colored attire, twirling and leaping like blossoming flowers in full bloom.

Hoffa felt as though he had fallen into an invisible vortex, unable to advance or retreat.

His feathered blades retracted, turning back into fingers.

His face darkened.

Sylvie was now leaning back in her wheelchair, eyes closed, gently rocking her head, seemingly immersed in the lively atmosphere.

Fire juggling, stilt walking, tap dancing—

A dazzling array of traditional performances unfolded.

But Hoffa's vision had narrowed to a singular focus—nothing remained in his sight except the woman in the wheelchair. At this moment, he was calculating the probability of assassinating Sylvie right then and there.

Time ticked away rapidly. As the ten o'clock chime of Beauxbatons rang through the sky, the welcome ceremony concluded, and the distinguished alumni, surrounded by the students and faculty of Beauxbatons, made their way into the auditorium.

Like a magnet, Hoffa followed the wheelchair from a careful distance—never too close, never too far.

Inside the grand hall, the headmaster of Beauxbatons began his speech for the centennial celebration.

"Esteemed alumni and honored guests, welcome to Beauxbatons' tenth centennial celebration. Over a decade ago, when the dark wizard Grindelwald launched a large-scale invasion of the European wizarding world, our society was plunged into prolonged turmoil and uncertainty. However, just last year, through the combined efforts of wizards across Europe, Grindelwald was finally expelled, ushering in two years of peace.

In this monumental victory, Beauxbatons and the wizards under its banner played an undeniably crucial role. Now, with the evil forces of Germany subdued, we—the defenders of justice—have endured hardships but ultimately emerged into an era of hope and new beginnings.

And all of this is thanks to the spirit bestowed upon us by this great institution—our magic, our traditions, and our rich history. This centennial celebration is the perfect moment to honor these very traditions."

Standing atop the high platform, Pierre spoke passionately.

The hall erupted in thunderous applause. Each time Pierre paused, the silence was swiftly filled with claps of admiration.

After careful consideration, Hoffa decided to make his move.

But before that—

The students had to be cleared out.

Olym, a prefect, was applauding enthusiastically when she suddenly felt a tug at her waist.

Turning around, she found herself facing a serious-looking Hoffa.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There are too many people gathered here. It's not safe," Hoffa said bluntly.

Olym was taken aback, then frowned. "Not safe? What are you talking about? Hoffa, don't question our capabilities. Our security measures are top-notch."

"Do you remember the Titanic?" Hoffa asked.

Olym's expression darkened. "Hoffa, stop talking nonsense. How can a Muggle ship be compared to Beauxbatons? Our school has stood for over a thousand years."

Hoffa remained calm. "I'm not blaming you, Olym. I just want you, as a prefect, to be prepared. Have lifeboats ready—just in case. I'm saying 'if' something happens, you'll at least have a plan. It's your responsibility, isn't it?"

"Ugh, you're impossible," Olym rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Fine, fine! Tell me what you think I should do."

"There are too many students outside. If possible, I want you to evacuate them," Hoffa said.

Olym's eyes widened in shock. "What?! Are you insane, Bach? Our headmaster is giving a speech, and you want me to clear out the students? Do you expect him to speak to an empty hall? If I—"

"Olym! There's no time!"

Hoffa pleaded.

"No way! Absolutely not!" Olym waved her hand dismissively, frustrated. "You're trying to embarrass the headmaster! If I listen to you today, I might as well leave France forever."

(Pierre: "Although the wizarding world faces some minor challenges, causing doubts about magic among certain individuals and wizards, I assure you that everything is under control. While other wizarding schools are struggling, Beauxbatons, due to its long-standing policy of independence, has played a pivotal role in these times.

Esteemed alumni, dear students—crisis brings opportunity. If we navigate this crisis wisely, Beauxbatons' influence will only grow across Europe and the world. If there is any place that represents the future, without a doubt, it is—Beauxbatons!")

As his impassioned speech echoed through the hall—

A massive blue tapestry of a celestial pegasus unfurled from the wall behind him.

The hall erupted into thunderous applause.

Hoffa felt his head pounding. The crisis was imminent. But without cooperation, whether he took the initiative or was forced into action, the consequences would be devastating. The wizarding world could not afford another catastrophe. He could not allow more destruction.

Then, suddenly, a voice spoke.

"Olym, listen to him."

Hoffa looked up in surprise.

Standing beside him was a middle-aged man in a white, split-tailed trench coat. His expression was solemn as he stared at the blue tapestry.

"Olym, Bach is right. Joy is always followed by sorrow. My accordion cannot play cheerful tunes today. If even art feels sadness, then reality cannot be as bright as it appears."

Gazing at the hall full of applauding guests, he murmured, "There must be something I'm not seeing—but my accordion sees it."

Olym's skeptical expression shifted at once. "My god, Don Quixote—you sense something wrong, too?"

"Of course, Olym. I never lie. And art never lies," Don Quixote said.

Without hesitation, Olym grabbed his wrist, turned to Hoffa, and asked, "Hoffa, where do you think we should evacuate the students?"

Hoffa hadn't expected this flamboyant history professor to step up when he was on the verge of despair.

Quickly, he replied, "As far as possible. If nothing else, at least move them to the outer clouds. I don't know what's going to happen, but you must prepare for the worst."

"Alright."

Olym agreed.

Then, she and Don Quixote swiftly left the hall.

At the center of the hall, Pierre's speech finally came to an end. He cleared his throat and announced, "Now, I would like to invite the esteemed wizard, the greatest alchemist of all time, and a dear friend of Beauxbatons—Nicolas Flamel—to deliver his speech."

A round of applause erupted.

But when the applause faded, no one stood up.

The audience glanced around in confusion, searching for Flamel.

Yet, in the midst of the silence, he was nowhere to be found.

Pierre frowned, his expression darkening. He felt awkward—Flamel had confirmed his attendance in advance, so where had he disappeared to?

Just as an awkward silence settled in, a voice chuckled lightly.

"Flamel is old now—perhaps he's stuck in the restroom, unable to stand up."

All eyes turned to the woman in the wheelchair.

In a slightly hoarse yet magnetic voice, she said, "Headmaster Pierre, Flamel might be in the restroom a bit longer. While we wait, why not let me say a few words? I also have a speech—very short, I promise it won't take much time."

(End of Chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09