Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Staring at the thinning hair on his forehead, the aged face with a pink lipstick mark left by some model, and those golden eyes identical to his own, Hoffa froze.

For a moment, he was stunned, followed by a dizzying sense of disorientation.

"Me!?"

His left arm crystallized rapidly, faster than ever before. Ignoring the shock and pain, he lunged forward, grabbing the old man's face as if trying to tear it off.

The old man didn't seem surprised. Smiling faintly, he pushed Hoffa away with one hand, put his sunglasses back on, and started the Lamborghini.

Hoffa slumped into the passenger seat, his chest heaving violently. A torrent of words surged in his mind, but none made it to his lips. He wasn't a fool—he realized countless possibilities the moment he saw those golden eyes.

He wasn't dead.

He had traveled back in time.

He had lived to his sixties and bought a luxury car.

As he instinctively glanced at the rearview mirror, the woman had already vanished.

"Who... who was that!?"

His voice trembled with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "Was that... my daughter?"

The old man glanced at him with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. "Daughter? Ha, you're thinking too much. I'd never have a gold-digging daughter like that. Just a greedy girl, that's all."

"Me!?"

Hoffa didn't know how to respond. After confirming that the person in front of him was indeed himself fifty years into the future, he momentarily set aside his fear of death. In its place was a barrage of questions.

"I know you have a lot to ask, but now's not the time," the old man said, chuckling as he patted Hoffa on the back. "Let's grab something to eat first."

The roaring Lamborghini sped through a narrow alley, turned a few corners, and finally parked in the plaza of a residential complex.

The surrounding area was dotted with villas with sloping roofs, their exteriors a tasteful gray-blue. Small lawns and gardens adorned the ground floors, and an iron fence lined the entrance, marking it as an upscale neighborhood.

After parking, the old man got out, spinning the car keys around his finger. He carried none of the air of a successful man. Away from the luxury vehicle, he seemed surprisingly ordinary.

Following his older self, Hoffa couldn't help but touch his own thick, youthful hair as he noticed the old man's sparse gray strands.

Damn it, will I really go bald one day? he fumed internally. If I have the money for a Lamborghini, couldn't I at least afford hair treatments?

A few middle-aged people walking Labrador retrievers approached from afar, likely future neighbors. They greeted his older self warmly, and the old man returned their smiles, playing the part of a friendly community member.

"Mr. Bach, back again?"

"Yes, good evening, Mr. Hebbes."

"Been out shopping?"

"Hehe, no, just brought my son back for a few days."

The old man then pulled young Hoffa close, draping an arm around his shoulders with a mischievous grin. "What do you think? My son's quite handsome, isn't he?"

"Wow, it's my first time meeting Mr. Bach's son," one of the neighbors exclaimed, seemingly unfazed by Hoffa's tattered, filthy appearance. "Full of energy, isn't he?"

Hoffa's facial muscles twitched as he endured the old man's arm around him. Despite the suffocating temporal paradox, he held his tongue.

But questions kept bubbling up. What had happened over these fifty years? How did I return here? What became of Sylbie? Where are the people I once knew? And most pressing of all: with less than half a day left to live, how did I survive beyond that?

Overwhelmed by questions, Hoffa remained silent as the old man led him to the entrance of a record shop. Once inside, the old man flipped a "Closed for Today" sign on the door.

The store was packed with vintage vinyl records and cassette tapes. Posters of movies and band promotions adorned the walls—figures like Michael Jackson and Freddie Mercury. The modern interior confirmed that the shop's owner was none other than his older self.

Hoffa had a million sarcastic comments on the tip of his tongue but held back. Instead, he asked, "You bought a Lamborghini with the earnings from running a record shop?"

(He thought better of it and didn't say, Can I even afford a Lamborghini by running a record shop?)

The old man smiled faintly, as if reading his thoughts. "Not confident in yourself, are you?"

"Cut the nonsense," Hoffa snapped, frowning. "You obviously know what happened. Tell me how I go back!"

"Running the shop is just a hobby," the old man replied with a grin, dodging the question. "Come, let me show you my other business."

He led Hoffa through the shop's back door, opening it to reveal his residence. The living room featured a modest rectangular red wooden table surrounded by six cushioned wooden chairs. At the fireplace, the old man tapped on a brick, causing the wall to split and slide open.

Simultaneously, his plain white T-shirt transformed into a simple brown wizard's robe.

They walked through a stone corridor, sunlight filtering through blinds overhead. Hoffa raised a hand to shield his eyes.

The air was thick with the scent of herbs. Behind rows of glass cases were bundles of mint, wild garlic, thyme, yarrow, rushes, palamo, king's leaf, coltsfoot, chamomile, bay leaves, and more. In one corner, shelves held copper vats filled with potion ingredients like bat spleens and eel eyes.

Several witches in pointed hats browsed behind the counters. A few young wizards manned the registers, weighing items on brass scales, haggling with customers, or waving their wands to package goods.

The scene starkly contrasted with the modern record shop they had just left—it was like stepping into another world. It turned out that the older version of himself not only ran a record shop but also operated a potions store in Diagon Alley, separated merely by a wall.

"Boss."

"Boss."

When the older Hofar entered, the wizards behind the counters immediately stood up and greeted him respectfully.

"You can all head home for the day," the older Hofar said with a warm smile. "I have a guest to entertain, and the store will be closed for a few days. Take some time off."

The younger wizards exchanged surprised looks but soon grinned. "Alright, boss, how long's the vacation?"

"I'll let you know when it's time to reopen. I'll send you a message via owl."

With that, the older Hofar handed a Temporarily Closed sign to one of the wizards and instructed them to prepare for closing. The staff began tidying up, disposing of the day's trash, apologizing to lingering customers, and locking up before leaving the potion shop.

Once everyone had left, the older Hofar turned to his younger self, smiling. "See? Isn't this life leisurely? Selling potions during the day, listening to Muggle music in my free time..."

"And wooing women fifty years younger than yourself?" the younger Hofar quipped, squinting at him.

The old man smirked. "Are you insulting yourself?"

"You wish," the younger Hofar replied, glaring. "I don't think I'd ever stoop that low."

"Ah, youth," the older version drawled, his voice lazy and unconcerned. "But everything I've experienced, you will too. Sooner or later, you'll become just like me."

Patting his younger self on the shoulder, he added, "Go upstairs and clean yourself up. You look like a mess."

"What?!" The younger Hofar raised his now entirely transparent hands. "You're telling me to take a bath right now? Do you even understand the situation we're in?"

"Calm down," the older one replied with a faint smile. "It's just a time flare. Look, I'm still standing here, aren't I? Nothing's going to happen. Go on."

An hour later, Hofar sat in a bathtub, hugging his knees as water streamed down his body, washing away the grime and blood. At the same time, translucent fragments flaked off his skin and dissolved into the water.

Perhaps it was because fifty years had passed, or because he was standing too close to his future self, but this time, the time flare's intensity was far worse than it had been in Paris decades ago.

As he sat there, his thoughts turned to Chloe. His negligence had cost her life. And then there was Sylvie—his ambition was now laid bare, casting Hofar fifty years into the future. Fifty years! What kind of "earth-shattering" schemes could someone like Sylvie accomplish in that amount of time?

Could it still be undone? He stared at his reflection in the mirror—a partial figure with only half a shoulder remaining. The weight of Mount Tai seemed to crush him.

But then he thought of the older Hofar, calm and collected, as though nothing was amiss. Could it be that his future self had grown strong enough to heal even the wounds caused by the laws of time?

He wasn't sure. Maybe it was possible.

After his bath, he found a fresh set of clothes laid out in the hallway—his favorite casual outfit. He had to admit: no one knew him better than himself.

When he came downstairs, the soft sound of chopping reached his ears.

To his surprise, the older Hofar was wearing an apron in the kitchen, slicing vegetables with expert precision. His focus was sharp as his knife moved deftly over the cutting board, which was piled with cabbage, lamb, potatoes, peas, white radishes, lettuce, turnips, and other ingredients, along with herbs like rosemary, basil, cumin, and oils. A stainless-steel pot on the stove bubbled away.

Seeing this, the younger Hofar couldn't suppress his irritation. He was on the brink of obliteration, and this old man had the leisure to cook.

Unable to bear it any longer, he stood at the kitchen door and asked coldly, "If I die in this timeline, wouldn't you cease to exist as well?"

"Yes."

The older Hofar nodded calmly, pulling a chilled bottle of cola from the fridge and handing it to him. "Sit down for a bit. I've prepared three dishes; they'll be ready soon."

Staring at the floating cola bottle, the younger Hofar finally relented. Snatching it, he flopped into a chair.

If the older version wasn't worried, there was no point in him panicking. Out of curiosity, he wandered around the house, trying to piece together what his future self had been up to over the past fifty years.

The place wasn't large. Compared to the flashy Lamborghini and the two elegant storefronts, this single-person apartment was plain—smaller even than Miranda's home. The decor was simple, with the only adornments being a few blue porcelain vases, reflecting a typical Ravenclaw's minimalist taste.

As he rounded a corner, the chirping of birds caught his attention.

It turned out to be a flock of pigeons perched on the eaves, returning from their day's flight. They fluttered down into hanging cages, their eyes fixed on a corner.

Following their gaze, Hofar noticed a bag of corn nearby.

"Can I feed them?" he called out.

"Don't give them too much," the older Hofar replied from the kitchen. "They've already eaten plenty in the square. I usually feed them before bed."

The younger Hofar hesitated but decided against feeding the birds. Instead, he scowled at them. "What are you staring at? I'm not your master!"

The pigeons cooed louder, even dropping a few white splats.

Hofar snorted, turned, and walked away.

After circling the apartment, he found no traces of his past—no photos of friends, no letters, nothing. What he did find were rows of neatly lined-up liquor bottles, which sent a chill down his spine.

Why was there nothing here?

Where were his friends? Had their fates changed? Did Harry Potter still exist in this world?

With such questions in mind, he searched more thoroughly.

When he reached the fireplace, he noticed a soft blue cushion resting on the mantelpiece. Atop it lay a single wooden stick.

The moment he saw it, his remaining eye lit up with hope.

It was his wand!

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