Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"Only a pure objective can be the sole truth."

Her words reached Hoffa's ears, but he no longer knew how to respond.

At that moment, it felt as if he was suddenly thrust into a weightless, substance-less vacuum. Blinding white light surrounded him from all directions, making it impossible to see anything.

He couldn't sense his body or discern where he was. He couldn't perceive the existence of anything. It was a bizarre, disorienting experience.

The unfamiliar sensation unsettled Hoffa, but he quickly recalled the words of the masked man: "Only your objective is real."

His objective was the Disillusionment Charm.

The Disillusionment Charm.

As soon as the thought emerged, the surrounding white light seemed to react instantly.

A beam of light detached itself from the brilliance and merged with Hoffa.

"Disillusionment" (Dīs·luh·zhun·muhnt).

Mysterious, intricate syllables echoed in his mind before he could fully grasp the meaning of the incantation.

The surrounding light suddenly began to take form. Gravity returned, and matter began to manifest.

Gradually, the light faded, and his surroundings began to emerge.

Clang! Clang!

The tolling of church bells mingled with the sound of birds flapping their wings as they startled into flight. Voices of bustling crowds, the rumble of wooden wheels rolling by—these sounds filled Hoffa's ears.

The world before him became clearer.

When he finally adjusted to his surroundings, he realized he was no longer in the dim basement where he had been. He wasn't even at Hogwarts.

Hoffa now stood on a busy, bustling street.

The sky was cloudless, the morning sun bright. Sleek black carriages, pulled by four horses each, occasionally sped down the street. The gas lamps on the carriages clinked with a rhythmic jingle.

The last time Hoffa had seen such carriages was in his previous life while watching Pirates of the Caribbean.

Around him, people wore black top hats and suits, checking their pocket watches. Women dressed in exaggerated yet antiquated Victorian-era dresses roamed the streets with baskets in hand, resembling maids or cooks.

These maids and coachmen were surrounded by tall, grand villas, their lofty entrances and ornate doors boasting opulence. Circular arched windows and stone-carved corners exuded aristocratic grandeur.

The intricately designed carvings on the columns and window ledges, coupled with the towering spire of a distant church, made it clear—this wasn't 1938.

If someone had told Hoffa it was 1839, he might actually believe it.

Upon closer inspection, he realized that even his body wasn't his own.

He was now clad in a tattered gray robe, wearing a colorful feather necklace around his neck and bone-beaded bracelets on his wrists—a shaman's attire through and through.

More astonishingly, he had transformed into a Black man. He looked like an African wizard, possibly brought to Europe through the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade.

Hoffa was utterly dumbfounded.

He tried to move but couldn't.

The Black wizard stood in the shadow of a tavern's wooden sign at the street corner, seemingly waiting for something.

Just then, an elegantly dressed old man emerged from a villa across the street. Several coachmen hurriedly opened the carriage door for him.

As soon as the old man boarded, the carriage rumbled away.

The moment the carriage departed, Hoffa moved—but not of his own accord.

It felt as though there were two souls inhabiting this Black wizard's body: one was Hoffa, the other the original owner.

This realization helped Hoffa understand his situation a bit better. It was as if he were playing a first-person shooter, and upon dying, he switched to spectating through a teammate's perspective.

However, what he was experiencing seemed to be the memories of this Black wizard.

The wizard hurried along the street corner and stopped beside a villa. He glanced up at the sculptures adorning the high facade of the grand house, his eyes glinting with a sharp, dangerous light before he turned toward a narrow alley nearby.

Then, after confirming there was no one around, the Black wizard swiftly climbed the villa's decorative carvings, moving with remarkable agility.

Perching on the window ledge, he pulled out his wand—an odd, curved wand resembling an iron hook—and tapped it against the window.

"Alohomora."

The window swung open with a bang.

Without hesitation, the Black wizard slipped inside. Watching this, Hoffa understood immediately—this man was a thief, a wizard thief.

The room was filled with items that were clearly of great value: ornate gold watches, exquisite porcelain pieces above the fireplace, and more.

Even more striking, lying on the floor was a completely naked European woman, surrounded by fine silk and scattered empty wine bottles.

She was sound asleep.

This must have been the mistress of the old man who had just boarded the carriage. They had likely been indulging in some playful rendezvous here earlier.

Yet the Black wizard paid no attention to any of it—neither the woman nor the valuable objects. He began searching the room hastily, as if looking for something far more important.

Hoffa spared the woman only a brief glance before focusing his attention elsewhere. She was attractive, but having lived through the 21st century, Hoffa found little novelty in her appearance.

His concern lay with the unfolding situation.

Undoubtedly, the scroll handed to him by the masked man at the school was a device similar to Tom Riddle's diary or a Pensieve.

It had recorded real events and was now allowing Hoffa to witness them firsthand, seemingly to convey some critical message.

But how was this connected to his pursuit of the Disillusionment Charm?

After searching for some time, the Black wizard failed to find what he was looking for.

In frustration, he drew his wand again and began pointing it around the room—at the bookshelf, the porcelain, the floor, and even at the woman on the ground.

Suddenly, when his wand touched a marble globe, the globe spun slightly.

The Black wizard quickly put away his wand and leaned down to examine the globe closely.

Finally, he gave it a firm twist. The globe emitted a series of clicking sounds.

From beneath the luxurious mahogany floor came a loud rumbling noise.

A secret mechanism—an hidden door!

The door revealed a pitch-black void, so dark that it seemed to lead to an uncharted abyss.

The sound of the opening mechanism began to rouse the intoxicated woman lying on the floor. Slowly, she stirred from her slumber.

The Black wizard, however, didn't notice. He appeared exhilarated as he quickly approached the secret door, lighting his wand. But the moment his wand illuminated the darkness—

Grrr!

A low, menacing growl echoed from the shadowy passageway.

A sense of extreme danger swept over Hoffa.

The feeling was peculiar, as though it emanated directly from his own heart—as if he and the Black wizard were one. Acting on instinct, Hoffa felt an intense urge to retreat.

In that instant, control of the Black wizard's body shifted to Hoffa. He took a single step back.

Just one step.

The aura locked onto him.

Suddenly, a massive, crimson tongue—nearly five meters long—lashed out from the darkness like lightning. It pierced straight through the Black wizard's chest—and through Hoffa's as well.

An overwhelming, searing pain tore through Hoffa's consciousness. It was not an illusion. It was horrifyingly real.

His chest had been impaled!

Blood spurted forth in violent gushes.

The Black wizard—or rather, Hoffa—collapsed onto the floor.

In the background, the woman's terrified screams rang out, mingled with the sound of shattering bottles. Darkness swallowed everything.

Hoffa didn't have time to think. He exhaled sharply—and then, instantly, he died.

...

It could have been a second or a century.

Clang! Clang!

The sound of church bells mingled with the fluttering of startled birds reached Hoffa's ears. Around him, people chattered, wheels rumbled.

Hoffa awoke from the excruciating pain.

In front of him was the same bustling street as before, bathed in morning sunlight.

A coachman driving a black carriage clattered by, the gas lamps on the carriage jingling rhythmically. Nearby, an early-rising cook, basket in hand, haggled over fresh produce at a wooden street stall.

Everything seemed peaceful and mundane, a tranquil slice of daily life.

Hoffa was stunned. What was going on?

The memory of his inexplicable death just moments ago was still vivid—the helpless sensation of blood pouring from his chest was horrifyingly real. The despair brought by the pain still left his chest feeling tight and stifled.

He tried to catch his breath but found he couldn't.

That was because control over the Black man's body was no longer his. 'He' was standing once again under the wooden tavern sign, eyes cold and scanning his surroundings.

And then, the nightmare resumed.

At the entrance of the grand villa, a portly old man pushed the door open and stepped out. He was dressed like a Muggle parliamentarian, his face bearing the bluish pallor of a hangover and the irritation of heading to work early.

He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and the vehicle rolled away.

As the old man left, the Black wizard moved. He headed into the narrow alley—his movements identical to before.

Damn it!

Hoffa wanted to stop him, but how could a bodiless entity prevent this man from walking straight to his death? Hoffa had no idea.

Inside the alley, the Black wizard reached up, grabbing the protruding ledge of a Roman column, and swiftly climbed to the upper floor.

Hoffa panicked. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, could only watch helplessly.

"Alohomora."

The wizard pulled out his wand and opened the window once more.

He leapt into the room. It was exactly the same as before—the scattered wine bottles, the sleeping beauty lying sprawled on the floor, even the drool trickling from the corner of her mouth...

The Black wizard found the globe and opened the hidden passage again.

The deep growl emerged from the darkness once more.

And, just as before, control was handed to Hoffa at that moment.

"Oh, crap!"

Letting out an instinctive curse, Hoffa bolted toward the window, desperate to escape. He wasn't about to endure that agonizing death again.

But fate had other plans.

The massive crimson tongue shot out from the dark passage once more, moving like lightning. It caught up to Hoffa in an instant, pinning him to the window frame.

The woman's screams and the sound of shattering bottles gradually faded away.

Game Over.

...

Clang! Clang!

The church bells tolled again, and Hoffa found himself back at the starting point.

In front of him was still the same bustling street.

The cheerful chatter of cooks.

The hurried footsteps of coachmen.

For a moment, Hoffa couldn't quite process what was happening.

Once again, as the groggy parliamentarian begrudgingly stepped into his carriage, the Black wizard decisively and unwaveringly led Hoffa into the shadow of death.

"Damn it!"

Now Hoffa fully understood, and he was so furious he wanted to curse out loud.

This was actually a real sensory-based game!

A tech that humanity in the 21st century hadn't yet perfected had somehow been invented by wizards in 1938.

There was no doubt about it: within each iteration of this scene, Hoffa would gain roughly three seconds of control.

Within those three seconds, he had to make the correct choice to avoid death. Otherwise, he would repeatedly endure the agonizing pain of dying.

That masked figure had warned him to bear the consequences. What kind of magical artifact had she used on him? Even Tom Riddle's diary in the original story didn't have such a capability.

And who on earth kept a massive magical beast in their villa? What exactly was the Black wizard trying to steal? Did the historical version of him survive in the end?

But there were no answers to these questions.

As the Black wizard scaled the villa, opened the window, entered the room, and activated the mechanisms, control was once again handed over to Hoffa.

Life or death hung in the balance.

A low growl echoed from the dark passage.

Hoffa wasn't stupid. He immediately recalled the mysterious incantation he had been reminded of in the white light—Disillusionment.

A chilling sense of danger made his scalp prickle. This time, Hoffa didn't try to run. He quickly made the Black wizard draw his wand.

"Disillusionment!"

In an instant, magic flowed from the wand, coursing through Hoffa's entire body like a bucket of icy water poured over him.

Hoffa's form began to blur—this was indeed the Disillusionment Charm.

Unfortunately, it was Hoffa's first time using it, and his pronunciation and movements were far from perfect.

He didn't fully vanish; he only managed to partially obscure his form.

Even so, the crimson tongue seemed somewhat thrown off by the magic. It veered slightly but still struck, piercing through Hoffa's left ribcage and tearing through his lung and stomach.

It lingered for a moment before retracting like lightning.

The pain was excruciating!

Tears streamed down Hoffa's face as he gasped sharply, collapsing to his knees. Instinctively clutching at the gaping wound in his chest, he wheezed painfully like a broken bellows. Stomach acid seeped into his chest cavity—he was dying of suffocation and poisoning. The agony was worse than a quick death.

Beside him, the woman screamed, throwing anything she could get her hands on at Hoffa.

Through his dimming vision, Hoffa saw a massive lizard slowly emerge from the dark passage. Its head was the size of a small car, with three bulging eyes and scales bristling like jagged blades—a cruel, chameleon-like predator.

The next moment, the lizard opened its enormous maw, its tongue snapping out to drag Hoffa into the cavern of razor-sharp teeth.

(End of Chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09