Harry Potter: I am the Legend

As soon as Hoffa spotted the gray wand resting on the fireplace—a slightly rough wand with knotted textures—his eyes welled with tears.

It was his wand, lost for over four years after being taken by the half-blood king, Silby. And now, here it was, lying quietly before him.

"Old friend..."

The cola bottle slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor as he reached out, trembling, to grasp the wand.

But then, something puzzling happened.

The moment his fingers touched it, the wand no longer felt like an extension of himself. The once-familiar bond between wizard and wand was gone. It neither responded to him nor allowed him to cast any spells. In his hand, it felt no different from an ordinary stick.

He swung it experimentally a few times, but the joy of reunion was quickly replaced by confusion.

He examined the wand from every angle. There was no doubt it was his—the unfinished, coreless wand sold to him by Ollivander himself. The deep engraving on its handle confirmed it: a square character, "Seal".

The red lacquer that had once adorned the engraving had long faded, leaving only an ordinary carved mark.

"This is my wand," Hoffa called out.

"Yes, it is," came the calm response from the kitchen, where the older Hoffa was cooking.

"Why doesn't it work anymore?"

No answer. The only sound from the kitchen was the quiet click of the stove turning off.

Frustrated, Hoffa put the wand down and marched into the kitchen. "You must have defeated him. Otherwise, how did you get my wand back?"

"Don't ask too many questions. You'll find out soon enough."

The older Hoffa didn't even look up as he calmly added a handful of chopped scallions to the bubbling pot on the stove. He carried the pot to the dining table, saying warmly, "You must be hungry. Let's eat first."

Watching his older self methodically set out three dishes and a soup on the table before removing his apron, the younger Hoffa clenched his teeth but eventually sat down.

The meal was simple: sweet-and-sour pork ribs, a lamb and radish stew, a fresh vegetable salad, and a few small side dishes.

"Try the ribs," the older Hoffa suggested, gesturing toward the plate on the left.

Still confused, Hoffa didn't refuse. He picked up a rib with his chopsticks and took a small bite.

The tangy sweetness of the glaze and the rich flavor of the meat burst in his mouth, making him chew instinctively. In no time, he had finished the rib, momentarily forgetting his looming sense of doom.

"Have some soup," the older Hoffa offered, ladling some lamb stew into a bowl. The steaming broth was garnished with a sprinkle of fresh scallions, its aroma enticing.

Young Hoffa hesitated for only a moment before taking a piece of lamb from the bowl.

The meat was tender, practically melting in his mouth, its flavor enriched by the radishes and onions. It was a perfect harmony of tastes, so exquisite that it defied description.

He shivered slightly, overwhelmed by the authenticity of the meal. In all his time in this world, he had never tasted such genuine, masterful Eastern cuisine. He had to admit—his older self's culinary skills were exceptional.

Under the glow of this meal, the threat of the temporal flare momentarily faded, and Hoffa allowed himself to savor the first proper meal he'd had in years.

While Hoffa ate, the older man sat nearby, quietly refilling his soup and rice, occasionally eating a few bites himself. The silence between them was unspoken but strangely harmonious, almost like a father and son reunited after years apart.

Outside, the 1994 sunset bathed the world in a soft, warm glow. No air-raid sirens blared, no tanks rumbled, and no planes streaked across the sky. The only sounds were the cooing of pigeons on the rooftop and the chatter of neighbors walking their dogs below, discussing the weather and their children's studies.

Inside, the two men ate in tranquil silence. When the meal was finished, the older Hoffa cleared the dishes and went to the kitchen to wash them.

Now full, the younger Hoffa's worries returned with a vengeance. It had been the most satisfying meal he'd had in years, but with the metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging over him, he couldn't bring himself to relax fully.

Finally, after finishing the dishes, the older Hoffa returned to the table.

The younger Hoffa sat up straight. "Can we talk now?"

As if anticipating his eagerness, the older man raised a hand, a sly smile on his face. "Don't speak yet. How about I ask you a few questions first?"

"What do you want to ask?"

The older man propped his chin on his hand and grinned. "Stay here. Let me be your father."

"What?"

The younger Hoffa was dumbfounded by the sudden suggestion.

"It's been over sixty years," the older Hoffa said with a wistful smile. "I've been through so much, but I've never had a child. No one's ever called me 'Dad.' That's one of my life's greatest regrets. Why don't you try calling me that?"

"Are you serious?!" Hoffa groaned, exasperated. "Can we talk about something important?"

Looking at his older self's mischievous grin, Hoffa felt utterly helpless. Even in this dire situation, his future self still had the energy to joke.

"Don't Be Like That"

Old Hoffa spread his hands in mock indignation. "Come on, we share the same bloodline, the same last name. The only difference is that I'm fifty years older than you. What's so wrong with calling me 'Dad'?"

"You're insane!"

Young Hoffa suppressed his irritation and used the mildest words he could muster.

Undeterred, Old Hoffa pulled a gleaming golden key from his pocket, smiling mischievously. "I have over three million Galleons in my Gringotts account, just waiting for someone to inherit it."

Hoffa's expression instantly softened. "Dad."

Old Hoffa burst into laughter, hearty and unrestrained.

Even young Hoffa couldn't help but chuckle, but his smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. With a sigh, he asked, "Haven't you had enough fun?"

Pulling open his shirt, he revealed a startling sight—his chest, from his collarbone down, had turned nearly translucent. Beneath the faintly glowing surface, an oddly shaped heart thumped rhythmically, visible through the transparent cavity. He rubbed his palm together, and countless tiny crystalline fragments drifted from his hands.

"Given the state I'm in, just tell me—how can I survive?"

Old Hoffa tucked the golden key back into his pocket and casually ran a hand through his hair. "I've studied the power of time extensively. A temporal flare only occurs under one condition: unprotected time travel."

"Unprotected time travel? What does that mean?"

"Time is like a speeding train. Everyone has their designated seat—some at the front, some in the middle, others at the back. If you're powerful enough, you might move between compartments, but you can't exist at the front and the back simultaneously.

"Right now, this timeline has two Hoffa Bachs. But we're not Chloe, and we don't have her unique bloodline laws to protect us. It's impossible for two versions of yourself to coexist. The temporal flare manifests as the universe's way of rejecting this impossibility—too many chaotic futures revolve around you, and the laws of the world won't allow it."

Hoffa frowned, pondering for a moment. "Why can Harry do it and not me?"

"Harry and Hermione had the Ministry's Time-Turner, which acts as a protective mechanism—like an oxygen tank in deep waters."

"Do you have a Time-Turner?"

"No. That kind of tool is too feeble to counteract fifty years of temporal law."

"Then what's the solution?"

"It's simple."

Old Hoffa reached into his pocket again, this time pulling out a Bank of America card, and placed it in young Hoffa's hand. "The PIN is 19940724—today's date."

"What's the point of giving me money?"

Hoffa stared blankly at the card, his face pale and expressionless. "I'm dying."

The older man gently held his hand, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. "Remember this: a person shouldn't die when they can die, but when they should die."

With that, he slowly leaned back and settled into his chair.

Young Hoffa watched him in stunned silence.

The evening sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over the elder's face, giving it an air of quiet mystery.

Calmly, the old man straightened his white T-shirt and sat upright. Then, from the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out a silver revolver.

He smiled—a serene, slightly wicked smile—and looked at his younger self as if sharing a dark joke. Without hesitation, he placed the revolver in his mouth.

"Hey—"

"Hey!!"

An intense sense of foreboding surged through Hoffa. His eyes widened as he leapt from his chair, reaching out to stop him.

Bang!

The sound of the gunshot was sharp but not deafening.

Hoffa froze mid-motion, his outstretched hand trembling.

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon. Neighbors, done with their evening chats, exchanged cheerful goodbyes and leisurely walked their dogs home. The pigeons in the courtyard cooed, waiting for their evening feed.

Inside, the clock on the wall ticked steadily.

A few drops of blood landed on the young man's pale, expressionless face. His wide eyes stared blankly, his complexion ashen as if he'd turned to stone.

1,600 kilometers away, Austria, Nurmengard.

A raven perched atop a towering spire, silhouetted against a red moon devoured by dark clouds.

Inside the long-abandoned topmost chamber of the fortress, a skeletal figure stirred abruptly from its slumber.

(End of Chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09