Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Hoffa felt like he was about to die.

It wasn't just the searing heat of the sun burning down on him during the day but also some subtle, irreversible changes happening in his body.

Under the bright 1994 London sky, he noticed tiny crystalline structures forming on the surface of his skin. These crystals were growing, spreading gradually. In no time, his right hand's knuckles had turned transparent.

Sister Chloe had once told him that, except for herself, every person's position in time and space was fixed from the moment they were born. If one moved through time without permission, it would trigger temporal flares. The longer one existed in a foreign dimension, the more fragile the logical chain sustaining their existence would become.

The last time he had time-traveled—merely two or three days into the past—he had almost been crushed under the pressure of temporal flares. The powerlessness he had felt against the laws of time still haunted him.

But this time, he had gone fifty years into the future.

As the temporal flares once again sounded their death knell, Chloe was no longer around. Alone, treading unfamiliar ground, Hoffa couldn't think of a single way to save himself.

Go back fifty years? Find Dumbledore? Even if Dumbledore was willing to help, there was no way he could rebuild the Time Arrow machine in just two days.

What could he do if he only had two days to live?

If someone had asked him five years ago what he would do if he arrived in the world of Harry Potter, he would have enthusiastically said something like woo Hermione or defeat Voldemort.

But now, as he stared at the poster for Léon: The Professional in front of him, all he wanted was to order some popcorn, a cold soda, and a burger, then sit in a cinema in the most comfortable position and quietly wait for death.

The most passive time traveler in history—without a doubt.

Thinking about this, Hoffa actually chuckled to himself. It was probably some sort of emotional compensation mechanism—his brain subconsciously trying to prevent him from collapsing under the weight of despair.

"Let's do that, then," he muttered.

He stood up groggily, ignoring the strange looks from passersby, and slowly made his way toward a distant cinema.

But as he shuffled to the cinema entrance, he realized a rather glaring problem: he had no money.

His clothes were still the ones he had borrowed from Miranda's family fifty years ago. After the battles he had been through, they were now tattered and worn. Even if he had once carried some money, it would have been long gone by now.

Sure, he could use magic to con some money or conjure counterfeit bills.

But what would be the point?

Hurting others just before dying—how boring would that be?

He looked at the exquisite, antique necklace in his hand—his only possession. Glancing at the McDonald's nearby, he thought maybe he could trade it for a cold soda.

Walking into the restaurant, Hoffa was immediately shoved out by a surly, snub-nosed, freckled, overweight female cashier. "Can't you see we're busy? Get lost! We don't serve vagrants!" she barked, gesturing to the long queue of customers.

Pushed out through the glass door, Hoffa wasn't angry at all. Instead, he turned and asked, "Did you win the war?"

The woman froze for a second.

"Crazy, are you?"

She waved her dishcloth at him, bits of lettuce flying into Hoffa's face. Her voice turned sharp and cutting as she sneered, "Go ask your teacher or something. You look like some high school dropout with nothing better to do."

Outside the McDonald's, Hoffa sat on a red fire hydrant, holding the necklace and aimlessly watching the cars pass by. By now, the temporal flare on his hand had spread up to his forearm. From his thumb to his elbow, more than half of his limb was now translucent.

Accustomed to the devastation of World War II, Hoffa found this vibrant world he should have been familiar with to be utterly alien.

Britain was still Britain. The movies that were supposed to be made had been made. The inventions that should have been created were all here. The events that were destined to happen had happened.

Germany hadn't won. Even with his death just two days away, Germany still hadn't won. Grindelwald had failed to make the world feel his pain.

It meant his existence was insignificant. The world was the same with or without him.

"How ironic," he muttered softly. "Turns out I'm nothing at all."

SCREECH!

Just as he finished speaking, a loud screech of tires interrupted the street's hum.

A flashy yellow Lamborghini Diablo skidded to a stop in front of the McDonald's.

Its sharp, angular headlights, massive air intakes, and elongated spoiler gleamed under the sun, with exhaust fumes puffing out rhythmically from the rear.

Pedestrians turned their heads toward the sound. Drivers gawked at the wide-bodied beast with envy, while children jumped excitedly, whispering and pointing at the roaring engine.

Despite teetering on the brink of death, despite having just traveled fifty years into the future, Hoffa's dusty memory managed to recall some details about the car. The Diablo—produced in 1991—was one of the top luxury sports cars of the 1990s.

Clunk.

The scissor door swung upward, and a hoarse, cheerful male voice called out from inside the car: "Darling, you're getting off here."

"Huh? I thought we were going shopping on Oxford Street?"

A woman's voice, tinged with dissatisfaction, responded.

"Ah, not today, I'm afraid. I need to pick up a friend."

"Couldn't you have said so earlier? Now where am I supposed to go?"

"Go shopping, stroll around, have some coffee—whatever you want."

The man's tone grew more dismissive.

"I won't."

The woman responded firmly.

"Here, take this. The password is your birthday," the man said casually, placing something into her hand.

"You remember my birthday?!"

The woman exclaimed in surprise.

"Uh, maybe," he replied.

"Hmph! You're so annoying! But I love how indifferent you are toward me. You're such a tease!"

Amid envious stares from onlookers, the couple shared a passionate kiss, followed by a gust of her expensive perfume. A pair of long legs stepped out of the luxury car and strode past Hoffa.

The woman was a stranger—wearing sunglasses, carrying a designer handbag, and surveying her surroundings with an air of arrogance. Her glitzy, radiant appearance screamed, "I'm a supermodel."

Scenes like this were no longer surprising in post-war London. With the war over and the economy booming, wealth was everywhere. It was akin to seeing the ostentatious displays of luxury in 21st-century Shanghai or Beijing. Witnessing such scenes, one might curse the wealthy under their breath or lament their own luck in life before reluctantly walking away, blaming fate for their lot.

Hoffa hung his head low. Neither the flashy car nor the supermodel mattered to him. Nothing mattered—he was dying.

But the sports car didn't leave. It remained parked in front of him, rumbling noisily.

The driver leaned over and called out to the gray-haired boy sitting on the fire hydrant. "Hey! Are you getting in or not?"

A sudden sharp pain shot through Hoffa's arm, causing him to frown.

When the boy didn't respond, the driver honked the horn, and the yellow Lamborghini Diablo let out a loud beep.

Hoffa slowly lifted his head to see the car's open scissor door. Inside, an older man wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap was looking at him. Dressed simply in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, the man cheerfully honked again. "Come on, kid, don't be so gloomy. Hop in."

Hoffa glanced around, but the car let out another disgruntled rumble.

The man sighed. "Who else are you looking at? I'm talking to you."

Passersby stopped and stared in surprise.

No one could reconcile the image of this disheveled, gray-haired, dust-covered boy—looking like he was one step away from begging on a street corner—with the gleaming luxury car before them.

Inside the burger joint, the cashier who had thrown Hoffa out earlier gawked through the glass, her jaw nearly hitting the floor. She couldn't understand why the owner of such a rare car would invite a homeless boy to get in.

Even the tall model, who had walked a few steps away, paused in astonishment. Lowering her sunglasses, she stared at the scene with her lips—painted with expensive lipstick—forming an "O."

Still, Hoffa didn't respond.

The older man in the car shook his head, exasperated. He got out from the other side, revealing a tall, muscular figure with sun-kissed, bronze skin. Taking a few brisk steps, he grabbed Hoffa's arm and, without giving him a chance to resist, dragged him into the car.

Inside the Lamborghini, the starkly simple interior seemed at odds with its extravagant exterior. Hoffa let out a muffled groan as the intense scent of cologne filled the cramped cabin, making his chest tighten. Before he could process what was happening, a wave of sharp pain surged through his body.

He heard faint crackling sounds as he felt crystals forming rapidly in his chest. His existence was becoming increasingly illogical, and under the power of the Time Arrow, his body was disintegrating.

Bang!

The Lamborghini's door slammed shut.

With a deafening roar, the car sped down the London streets.

The acceleration pressed Hoffa back into his seat. Turning to look at the driver—a man in a baseball cap and white T-shirt—he croaked, "What do you want?"

"Aren't you curious about who I am?"

The older man kept his eyes on the road, smiling as he asked the question.

"Who you are doesn't matter to me," Hoffa said slowly, staring at his arm.

Through the car's window, he saw his right arm nearly vanish under the sunlight. It looked like it was made of glass, with faint traces of veins and skeletal structure visible inside.

"Not bad. You've got a bit of the arrogance I had when I was young," the man chuckled, clearly amused.

"Arrogant, are we?" Hoffa retorted weakly, letting out a faint, cold laugh. He didn't believe that some older man driving a flashy car and chasing models could possibly compare to him.

His pride and life experiences wouldn't allow anyone to claim they were similar. But he was too weak to argue and lacked the will to fight back. He resembled a leaf adrift on the currents of fate.

The temporal flares continued consuming his body, marking the countdown to the end of his life.

Screech.

The Lamborghini came to a halt at a red light.

Smiling, the older man pulled off his baseball cap and sunglasses, revealing short, silver-gray hair and a pair of faintly golden eyes.

Resting an arm on the steering wheel, he turned to Hoffa and asked in fluent Chinese, "Am I really so arrogant?"

(To be continued)

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