Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Armando Dippet is set to return to Hogwarts by the end of March. The Ministry of Magic has reinstated the permanent death warrant for the Half-King, whose true identity remains a mystery.

The gentle rustle of newspaper pages reached Hoffa's ears. It was already March, and bright spring sunlight poured into the corridors through the shattered ceiling of the Great Hall. The sky above was a clear, flawless blue. Outside, students bustled about with ladders, moving here and there.

In the hallway, a boy with grayish-white hair leaned on a cane, walking slowly like an invalid. His pale golden eyes were framed by the blue-and-white-striped hospital gown he wore, and his fingernails—thin and translucent as cicada wings—revealed the tender red flesh beneath.

Hoffa was completing his recovery exercises, as prescribed by the school nurse, which required him to walk three kilometers every day.

Beside him walked a girl with short chestnut hair tied into a ponytail and round glasses perched on her nose. Supporting Hoffa with one hand, she held a newspaper in the other, reading aloud intermittently.

Hoffa listened quietly as they walked. Occasionally, when passing students greeted him, he would return a smile. But to avoid too much conversation, he chose paths with fewer people—there were simply too many trying to talk to him.

Speaking too much was still difficult for him.

It had been over a month since his life-and-death battle with Silby, and though Hoffa's complexion was still pale, he had improved significantly.

The pain he had endured this past month was beyond words. When he first woke from his coma, his bones were so brittle they crumbled like chalk at the slightest touch, rendering him immobile. Even speaking caused muscle tears, and his jaw would fracture under the strain. It was the closest he had ever come to death's door.

The extreme blood magic he had unleashed during that battle had transformed his once ear-length black hair into short, gray locks.

Initially, Hoffa thought the gray hair was temporary, but when the new growth came in gray as well, he reluctantly accepted the change. Though it unsettled him at first—reminding him constantly of Silby—he eventually grew used to it.

Thankfully, his youthful appearance had not aged prematurely, which was his only consolation.

This semester, all lessons at the school were suspended. Despite this, most students chose to stay, unwilling to watch their school be left in ruins.

Passing by a collapsed tower, Hoffa observed a group of students levitating rows of stone blocks. Older students waved their wands to cast spells, while younger ones hauled wooden beams on their shoulders.

Beneath the fallen tower, teachers stood with blueprints in hand, gesturing and planning repairs.

The entire school had shifted focus to post-disaster reconstruction. Hoffa thought this hands-on work was perhaps even more educational than traditional lessons, though he lacked the strength to join in. His bones were still only slightly stronger than glass.

Standing at a distance, Hoffa used his cane to nudge a piece of debris aside, revealing some jars for storing specimens. After examining them, he realized they belonged to the Slytherin potions storeroom.

"Poor Slytherin. Their losses were the worst," Miranda murmured beside him.

"How long do you think it'll take to finish rebuilding?" Hoffa asked as he walked.

"Years, at least," Miranda replied, supporting him. "But at least the school wasn't closed. That's already a blessing."

Walking past the wreckage of Hogwarts' main gates—the first line of defense during the explosion—they came upon a crowd lifting a large, brown wooden door to replace the destroyed iron one.

"An oak door," Hoffa thought, a realization dawning on him.

Miranda set down her newspaper, noting, "You protected most of the school's key facilities, but the gates didn't survive. Iron doors are costly, especially now, so the school is settling for oak. Honestly, that's not so bad. At least the school and its students are still here."

"If only I had noticed sooner..." Hoffa murmured.

"Hogwarts' spirit isn't in its stone and mortar," Miranda said softly, helping him along. "Now, keep walking. You've only managed 300 meters today."

"Alright."

As they passed Black Lake, Hoffa paused to catch his breath. Nearby, he noticed a massive patch of overturned earth exposing the foundations of an underground office.

It was Oksivia's office, previously dim and shadowy, now laid bare in the sunlight, untouched since the explosion.

Oksivia had been absent for weeks, tirelessly advocating for Dippet's case at the Ministry and working with other Heads of House to restore the school to normalcy.

Glancing into the exposed office, Hoffa saw only rubble—shattered pottery, broken furniture, and tattered clothing. Just as Miranda predicted, nothing of value remained intact.

But as Hoffa ventured further inside, his cane struck a few sheets of paper. He bent down with difficulty to retrieve them.

It was an old newspaper, its black-and-white photos showing a corpse frozen in ice. The headline reported last year's assassination of the Soviet Minister of Magic.

Recognizing it as Oksivia's cherished keepsake, Hoffa brushed off the dust and tucked the paper away.

"What's that?" Miranda asked casually.

"Just a memento. Help me back up."

Miranda supported Hoffa as they ascended the slope. Nearby, a boy in a wheelchair was being pushed along Black Lake's edge by several Slytherins in green robes.

Hoffa instinctively tensed, but quickly realized it wasn't Silby—it was Tom Riddle.

Dressed in a similar blue-and-white-striped hospital gown, Riddle's condition was as dire as Hoffa's.

While Hoffa's injuries were physical, Riddle's were mental. The dark curses he unleashed during their confrontation had left lasting damage, with healers predicting he wouldn't walk or study properly for at least a year.

Riddle glanced coldly at Hoffa before looking away.

"Want to say hello?" Miranda asked quietly.

Hoffa hesitated, then shook his head. "Next time."

For reasons he couldn't explain, Hoffa felt no desire to confront Riddle—nor did Riddle seem eager to see him. Their uneasy alliance during the crisis had been born of necessity, but their personalities remained worlds apart.

The three-kilometer walk that Hoffa was tasked with took him the entire day to complete, as prescribed by the school nurse. It wasn't until dusk that he managed to finish the assignment.

Back at Hogwarts, Hoffa returned to his hospital room with the help of Miranda.

The room was spacious: on the left, a towering pile of gifts reached human height, while on the right, rows of snacks and letters were stacked neatly. These were all sent by Hogwarts students. Unlike last year, when he'd been injured and ignored, this year Hoffa had become a school celebrity.

He wasn't used to it. If given the choice, he'd still prefer the quiet anonymity of the past.

As soon as he sat down, Hoffa was out of breath.

Miranda, lounging in a chair and reading a newspaper, handed him a glass of water.

(On the front page, Armando Dippet, the headmaster, was captured under the glare of camera flashes, looking haggard as he stated, "Health is my priority. Are these methods correct? No. But my intention was to protect the school. I used only the fallen enemy soldiers, so my conscience is clear. I only hope to protect this place in my final days.")

"Thanks," Hoffa said, taking the water.

"Mm-hmm," Miranda replied, flipping to another page without much interest.

"Does the paper mention when Ocilvia will be back?" Hoffa asked as he heaved his still somewhat stiff legs onto the bed.

"Nope."

Miranda flipped another page, her tone indifferent.

"She's not... not coming back, is she?"

"Don't know. Why're you so eager to see her?"

"I was just asking."

"Heh."

Miranda smirked, her expression unreadable.

At that moment, a clinking noise and the sound of silvery laughter came from outside the door. Hoffa tensed up instantly. He quickly slid his legs under the blanket, pulled it over himself, and whispered to Miranda, "I'm asleep. Got it?"

"Mm-hmm," Miranda hummed absentmindedly.

Moments later, after some superficial chatter with a few nurses, a voice dripping with disdain said, "They don't even have Skelegrow here. Hogwarts really is a dump."

Then, Aglaia came bouncing in with a long vial of potion in hand. Her silvery hair was tied into a bun at the back of her head, and she wore the white coat used for brewing potions.

Under the blanket, Hoffa clenched his hands nervously, closed his eyes, and swallowed hard, pretending to sleep.

The school nurse, Rainer, had warned him against vigorous activity, explaining that his bones were still fragile and would require about a month of recovery. However, the impatient Aglaia had insisted on brewing a batch of Skelegrow for him — the same vile concoction Harry Potter would later drink when Lockhart accidentally removed the bones in his arm.

Hoffa swore it was the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted in his life. Though it looked like water, it tasted like a mix of nitroglycerin, ether, and horse urine. Once was more than enough.

Aglaia came to his bedside and peered at him.

"Oh, asleep again, huh?"

Miranda, still engrossed in her newspaper, lazily replied, "Not today, not ever. The Skelegrow you bring every day? He's been dumping it in the trash."

Hoffa, hidden under the blanket, nearly choked. Miranda, of all people, had sold him out — and worse, she exposed his past offenses too!

Sure enough, in the next instant, the room was bathed in light as Aglaia ripped the blanket away. She stood over him, her smile cold and menacing. "Well, well, Hoffa! How dare you dump my potion!"

Hoffa cowered on the bed, shielding his face. "Please don't make me drink that stuff! Every time I do, I just want to die!"

"No way! You're drinking it!"

Without another word, she grabbed him by the ribs and hauled him up. Hoffa, too weak to resist, and terrified of breaking a bone, had no choice but to sit up reluctantly.

"Miranda, you traitor!" he said, glaring at her.

"Mm-hmm."

Miranda flipped another page of her newspaper, not even looking up.

"You two-faced snake, you backstabber," he muttered bitterly.

"Mm-hmm," she replied again, adjusting her glasses and sinking further into the chair.

"Turncoat... ungrateful..."

"Yup," she said with a faint smile, still buried in her paper.

Before Hoffa could finish his tirade, Aglaia had already begun prying his mouth open with a spoon, trying to force the Skelegrow down his throat.

Unable to put up much of a fight, Hoffa clenched his teeth shut, shaking his head like a toddler refusing medicine.

Frustrated, Aglaia slammed the vial of Skelegrow onto the bedside table and began trying to pinch his jaw open with her fingers. After a fruitless struggle, she turned to Miranda.

"Are you going to help or not?"

"Nope."

Miranda, still reclining, pushed her glasses up and continued reading.

"Hey!"

"If he doesn't want to drink it, don't force him. It's his bones, after all."

Her tone was that of an exhausted husband coming home from work, uninterested in engaging in any argument.

"You..."

Aglaia gritted her teeth and applied more pressure to Hoffa's jaw.

Snap.

A tooth popped out.

"My tooth! I just grew that back!" Hoffa wailed.

Aglaia froze for a moment, then sheepishly withdrew her hand, muttering defensively, "If you'd just cooperate, it wouldn't have come to this."

"Why don't you try drinking that stuff yourself?"

"Fine, fine. Glass-bones. Don't drink it if you don't want to," she grumbled.

After tucking the blanket back around him, Aglaia sighed softly. "Always pushing yourself too hard."

Miranda scoffed, not looking up. "Born to suffer."

Just then, the sound of a bell echoed from outside.

It was the shift-change bell.

Aglaia and Miranda could only keep him company during the day. At night, the school nurse and Potions Master Horace Slughorn took turns caring for him, handling his medication and performing minor restorative procedures.

"Time to go," Aglaia said, glancing at the door.

"Mm-hmm," Miranda replied, folding her newspaper. "Seventh greenhouse. Back to repairs."

"I want to come," Hoffa said. "I'm rotting in this bed."

"Stay put. If you won't take your medicine, you're not going anywhere," Aglaia snapped.

Miranda yawned and stretched as she walked past his bed. Then, with lightning speed, she grabbed Hoffa's jaw and forced his mouth open.

"Quick!"

Aglaia didn't miss a beat. She snatched the vial from the bedside table and poured a generous amount of the foul liquid down Hoffa's throat.

Even someone as battle-hardened as Hoffa was stunned by the ambush, his eyes wide with terror.

As the last drop slid down, the vial made a wet sound as it was pulled away, leaving a trail of sticky liquid dripping from his lips.

Hoffa coughed violently, tears streaming down his face. Trembling with rage and humiliation, he croaked, "You... you... just you wait..."

"Ha-ha-ha!" Aglaia laughed triumphantly.

Miranda smirked. "Wait until you're twenty?"

Giggling, the two girls made faces at him, then ran out hand in hand.

"Dammit..."

Hoffa clutched his throat, coughing so hard his tears blurred his vision. The acrid taste lingered, stinging his tongue and throat.

But as he coughed, his gaze fell on the doorway.

Standing there, instead of the school nurse or Slughorn, were two men. One wore a black robe and a red scarf; the other was tall with reddish-brown facial hair.

It was none other than Albus Dumbledore and Leonard Spencer-Moon, the Minister of Magic.

(To be continued...)

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