Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"Careful, Gilbert. Put that blasted rat down," the old man scolded, his tone filled with disapproval as he watched the brash young man in front of him.

"Rats here can grow this big?"

The rough, blond-haired youth held up a squeaking rodent, roughly the size of two fists.

"Everything here is larger than elsewhere," the old man muttered irritably, staring at him. "The last time I came here with a colleague, a dog the size of a lion bit his arm clean off. We never managed to reattach it."

"Maybe Grindelwald created it," Gilbert said nonchalantly, tossing the rat into the air and kicking it down into the sewer. "Who's stronger, him or You-Know-Who?"

"The fact that you can call him 'You-Know-Who' but casually say Grindelwald's name speaks volumes," a middle-aged man with a bag slung over his shoulder quipped as he approached from the stone steps.

Gilbert pursed his lips and shifted his gaze toward the far distance.

It was the entrance to Nurmengard's highest level. In the glow of their wands, crooked, jagged English words could be seen carved like slithering serpents into the dark tower's blackened facade:

"For the Greater Good."

"For the greater good... What is the greater good?" Gilbert asked.

"The most evil wizards often harbor the most sinister goals—take You-Know-Who, for example. But Grindelwald is an exception. Records rarely mention his obsession with wealth or power. Instead, he was driven by a profound and unfathomable pursuit of the soul. To this day, his reasons for launching that devastating wizarding war fifty years ago remain a mystery," the old man said, his tone as dry as a history professor's lecture.

"A loss is a loss. Dumbledore defeated him. Who cares about his motives?" the middle-aged man remarked dismissively.

"Well..."

The aged professor leading the group neither confirmed nor denied the comment. "Even so, I believe something significant happened in the final moments of that dark wizard's life—something that led to large gaps in historical records. We've been left unable to fully understand that era."

"So that's why you're doing this, Professor Witt—bringing us to the place where he spent his last days in captivity?"

"After all, we are scholars of magical history. Diligent research never hurts."

The trio stepped into the abandoned tower one by one. The cawing ravens suddenly went silent, leaving only the rhythmic thrum of what sounded like a heartbeat drum and the crunching of their footsteps. Weeds grew wild beneath their feet, while an inexplicable mist hovered just above the ground. The tower walls were crumbling in places, with large sections of stone and brick missing. Moonlight streamed through the gaps in the roof, casting eerie, shifting patterns that unsettled the soul.

"Are we sure he's really dead?"

A cold shiver ran down Gilbert's spine as dark clouds covered the moon. His earlier bravado about kicking rats had vanished entirely in the tower's sinister atmosphere.

"Uncertain. Albus Dumbledore only said he was imprisoned; he never mentioned his ultimate fate," the middle-aged man replied with a shrug, smirking. "Scared already, intern?"

"Could he still be alive?" Gilbert asked, his voice tinged with fear.

"Mark, stop scaring him," the old professor said, visibly annoyed. "I've been here five or six times already. There's no one left. The Austrian Ministry of Magic stopped supplying this place after 1945. Even a god would've starved to death in that time."

"Then why are we even here?" Gilbert exhaled a breath of relief but rolled his eyes at the same time.

The darkness around them was as thick as spilled ink, with nothing but the rustling of spiders scuttling along the barren ceiling.

As one man reached up to scratch his head, his hand brushed against a cold, rusted iron cage. Startled, he jerked his hand back as if electrocuted.

Fragmented, disjointed images flashed through his mind—a bald woman slumped in a wheelchair, a red-haired man consumed by despair, and countless smiling wizards lying unconscious on the ground. Were these visions real or just remnants of a terrible nightmare? The thought brought an immediate throb of pain to his skull.

At the same time, faint footsteps echoed beneath the floor.

"What's that sound?"

Voices drifted up from below, along with the clattering of rolling metal cages.

"This wasn't here last time. Is this... a birdcage?"

"It's thicker than a birdcage. It looks more like a prison cell. Look, Mr. Mark, there's a hole underneath."

"What is it for?" someone asked, puzzled.

"I think it looks like a helmet..."

"Don't be ridiculous. Who would put a cage on their head?"

Amidst the voices, a figure began to rise.

The spiders nesting above scattered as the man's head broke through their web. Clutching the rusty cage encasing his head, he staggered to his feet, dislodging bits of dry, crumbling debris from his frame. His grip tightened, but the cage remained fastened, squashing two unlucky spiders that had wandered too close to the bars.

"Nightmare... a nightmare," he rasped, his voice hoarse as he leaned against the wall, inching forward step by step over the stone tiles.

Down the corridor illuminated by wandlight, a group of wizards in pointed hats bent low, inspecting the cage-like helmet on the ground.

"Has anyone else been here?"

Mark pulled out a magnifying glass from his bag and inspected the metallic structure, muttering, "No magical traces, no charm residue—it doesn't feel like a magical artifact."

"Nurmengard has been abandoned for decades. Other than us historians, who else would come here?" Gilbert asked, hunching his shoulders.

"Probably something left behind by Nurmengard's staff. The outer wards are still operational, aren't they?" Mark replied. Picking up the peculiar cage-like helmet, he blew off the dust and chuckled. "Didn't you call this a helmet earlier, Gilbert? Why not try it on?"

"No way! Only an idiot would do that," Gilbert retorted, clutching his arms in refusal.

"I'll give you extra credit." Mark smirked, waving a camera temptingly.

"Why don't you wear it yourself?!"

"I already graduated." Mark laughed.

"Enough, both of you," the bearded professor interjected with a frown. "Whoever left it behind, let's not touch it recklessly. We'll take it back for study."

"Shame." Mark shrugged, tossing the heavy helmet-like cage to Gilbert. "Here, you hold it. I'm going to take some photos."

While the others busied themselves with their tasks, Gilbert held the bizarre cage, its size slightly larger than his forearm. As he stared at the openings, an inexplicable urge crept over him.

He wanted to try it on.

The urge was irresistible, like popping bubble wrap, pulling out a loose nail, or stomping on a soda can.

Finally, after a few seconds of mental struggle, he gritted his teeth and decided to give it a try.

Taking a deep breath, he crouched down and slipped his head inside.

The moment Gilbert put on the strange birdcage-like helmet, he felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.

Then, everything around him changed.

The once-empty Gothic corridor was suddenly filled with countless figures. They were clad in old-fashioned black military uniforms. Some leaned against the walls, others hung from the ceiling, and a few lay sprawled at his feet, staring at him with bulging, lifeless eyes.

Without exception, each one of them wore the same bizarre helmet—a cage-like structure encasing their heads.

The horrifying and surreal scene caused Gilbert to let out a startled cry. Cold sweat dripped down his face as he hastily removed the cage from his head.

"Professor Witt!" he called out in terror.

"What is it?"

The elderly professor turned to face him, while the middle-aged man who had been taking photos also stopped and looked at Gilbert curiously.

But Gilbert said nothing more. Once the cage was off his head, the eerie vision disappeared completely. The hall was empty again, save for broken Romanesque columns and rusted chandeliers. Not a single figure was in sight.

The professor, impatient at being interrupted, frowned. "Stop making a fuss. Hurry up and take photos and document everything. We might uncover the missing historical records from fifty years ago in the wizarding world."

With that, he resumed jotting down notes, while the middle-aged man shrugged and returned to his photography and sampling.

Only Gilbert stood frozen in place, his heart racing wildly. Was everything he saw just a hallucination? He wasn't sure.

He glanced down at the peculiar helmet in his hands. After a moment of hesitation, trembling slightly, he put it back on.

This time, the disturbing scene reappeared. The countless soldiers with caged helmets were back, motionless and seemingly lifeless.

But now, something was different.

In the dimly lit corridor, a figure slowly descended the stairs.

It was a gaunt, skeletal man, his body draped in tattered robes too worn to discern their original color. His high cheekbones gave him a deathly visage, and his head was encased in the same birdcage helmet, locked at the neck with a rusted padlock. Long, white hair flowed from the cage, trailing along the floor.

The man's hollow eyes were fixed intently on Gilbert.

Panic consumed Gilbert. He ripped the helmet off and flung it aside, but this time, the pale-haired man didn't vanish. He remained there, standing on the stairs, one hand on the wall, staring silently at Gilbert.

"Professor Witt! Look!" Gilbert raised a trembling hand, pointing at the figure.

"What now?" The professor was clearly annoyed by the interruptions, but when he followed Gilbert's gaze, his expression changed.

He, too, saw the skeletal figure on the stairs.

The pale man resembled a ghoul, his head imprisoned in the cage, his skeletal frame cloaked in shadowy robes.

"Who are you?" The professor raised his wand, pointing it at the eerie figure.

The middle-aged man dropped his camera in shock and drew his wand as well.

"Who am I?" The pale man stared at his hand, as if asking himself the same question.

"Are you a staff member of Nurmengard?"

The professor, shielding his two students, cautiously retreated while keeping his wand aimed at the figure.

"Work... yes, I still have work unfinished," the man murmured, his eyelids slowly lifting as he repeated, "Unfinished work..."

As he spoke, shadows on the walls began to stir. From within the darkness, figures began crawling out—men with their heads locked in cages, their emaciated forms resembling corpses risen from their graves.

"Master..."

"Master..."

"Master..."

The crawling figures murmured as they approached.

More and more emerged from the shadows, their grotesque appearance sending chills down Gilbert's spine. Just moments ago, this place had been empty.

Terrified, he clung to his professor's robe, inching backward step by step.

"Master!"

"Master, please save me!"

One of the cage-headed figures crawled to the pale man's feet, lifting its face to plead.

Amid the swirling mist, the skeletal man raised his hand. His fingers elongated and branched, transforming into antler-like structures. He placed his grotesque hand on the pleading figure's head.

The sharp antler tips pierced through the cage, puncturing the man's skull with numerous holes.

No blood flowed, as if the figure had been drained of life long ago. Strangely, the man's face showed no pain, only a profound sense of relief.

"Run... run!"

With a heavy thud, the pierced figure collapsed. The professor, sensing imminent danger, shouted frantically at his students to flee.

The three of them stumbled and scrambled, shoving each other in their desperation to escape.

The pale-haired man didn't move to stop them. He stood silently, watching their frantic retreat.

But in his panic, Gilbert tripped over an uneven floor tile. Before he could get up, he saw the shadows on the walls extend and branch out like antlers.

In an instant, the antler-like hands reached his professor and the middle-aged man, piercing through the back of their heads and exiting through their foreheads.

Neither of them had time to scream before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

"Professor Witt! Senior Mark!"

Gilbert cried out in despair, his mind racing as he pieced together the pale man's identity. Terror overwhelmed him as he whispered the name tremblingly.

"Gri... Gri... Grindelwald?!"

Urine trickled down his legs, pooling on the floor.

The pale-haired man looked at him, a faint glimmer of clarity returning to his hollow eyes. Ignoring the crowd of caged figures clawing at his legs and begging for death, he stepped toward Gilbert.

His long white hair trailed through the urine as he crouched down before the trembling boy.

"Poor child," Grindelwald said softly, placing a hand on Gilbert's shoulder. His tone was gentle yet chilling. "Do not fear. I will wake you from this nightmare."

(End of Chapter)

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