Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The Minister of Magic stood at the doorway for a moment, exchanging a glance with Dumbledore. It seemed they were silently communicating.

Moments later, the scarf-clad Minister entered first.

For some reason, in that fleeting moment, Hoffa noticed Dumbledore giving him a pleading look, which puzzled him.

The Minister of Magic seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and clasped his fingers together, sitting casually on the bed across from Hoffa. He wore a faint smile as he observed him.

The Minister's demeanor strangely reminded Hoffa of his previous visit to Riddle.

"Minister," Hoffa greeted politely with a slight nod. After all, this was the most powerful man in Britain's magical world; Hoffa didn't want to come across as disrespectful.

"How is your recovery coming along?" the Minister asked with a warm smile.

"Not bad," Hoffa replied cautiously, maintaining a polite smile. Internally, however, he was puzzled. Why had the Minister of Magic come to see him? What could he possibly want?

"Ah, don't be so formal," the Minister said, waving his hand dismissively. He then reached into his coat and pulled out a round chocolate ball adorned with a flower decoration, handing it to Hoffa.

"By the way, I, too, graduated from Ravenclaw. My head of house back then was Professor Adbey."

"Ah, thank you." Hoffa accepted the chocolate ball with a smile, though he was at a loss for words. The Minister seemed amicable, but recalling Dumbledore's earlier expression, Hoffa had a sinking feeling things weren't so simple.

Leonard Spencer-Moon continued, "Lately, everyone at the school has been talking about you. The editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet approached me multiple times, hoping to feature this young hero in the papers. But I declined."

"Uh…" Hoffa hesitated.

The Minister adjusted his collar and shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning sideways in his chair.

"They're curious—curious about the explosion and how a remarkable student like you managed to stop it. If I wanted to, I could easily let you become a star overnight." He gestured dramatically, mimicking a headline with his hands and laughing lightly.

"Just one word from me, and you'd be famous," he added.

Sensing the direction of the conversation, Hoffa spoke quietly, "Minister, if you have questions, please ask directly."

"Ah, how refreshing. Ravenclaw students are always a pleasure to talk to," Leonard praised, leaning slightly forward as he lowered his voice.

"I'd like to know more about the Half-Blood King—his details, his exact identity."

When the Minister asked this, his demeanor suddenly sharpened. His gaze locked on Hoffa with unblinking intensity, his fingers still clasped on his knee.

Hoffa froze, suddenly understanding the significance of Dumbledore's earlier plea. The Minister wasn't here as a fellow Ravenclaw alumnus visiting a junior. He had a purpose.

This realization left Hoffa bitter. Dumbledore had effectively passed this problem onto him. Was it because Dumbledore lacked the standing or authority to block the Minister's visit?

A month ago, Hoffa might have gladly exposed the Half-Blood King's identity, turning him over to Azkaban, the Wizengamot, or the Ministry of Magic. He would have been eager to see others help resolve the problem.

But now, at this critical juncture…

How could he reveal the truth about the Half-Blood King? Principal Dippet had already been imprisoned in Azkaban for three months under suspicion of being the Half-Blood King, nearly leading to the school's closure.

If the Minister discovered that the first headmaster of Hogwarts was alive and a madman to boot, what kind of chaos would that bring to the school? Hoffa didn't know.

He lacked political savvy and negotiation experience, but he knew the world was full of opportunists who would exploit any situation to their advantage.

In this moment, Hoffa found himself in the opposite predicament of the future Harry Potter. While Harry struggled to make people believe the truth, Hoffa now faced the dilemma of whether to reveal it.

Could he allow the school to recover from one scandal only to be thrust into an even larger one?

Reputation. Justice.

The school. The world.

These burdens weighed heavily on Hoffa, rendering him speechless.

Seeing Hoffa's hesitation, Leonard Spencer-Moon spoke softly, "It's alright, child. None of this is your fault. You've done wonderfully."

"Just tell me who the Half-Blood King is," he continued gently. "It'll help us capture him. Wouldn't you agree?"

Hoffa opened his mouth but hesitated again. "I… why are you asking me?" he finally said haltingly.

"Let me rephrase," the Minister interrupted. He uncrossed his legs, leaning closer. "If you don't tell us who he is, we won't be able to give you the recognition you deserve. The Order of Merlin, the Royal Honorary Medal… How can we celebrate a hero who defeated an unknown enemy?"

"I didn't defeat him," Hoffa replied quietly.

"The public doesn't care about that," the Minister said with a smile. "All they want is a good story. You're a Ravenclaw; you should understand that."

Hoffa fell silent.

After a long pause, he shook his head and said with difficulty, "I don't know, Minister. Perhaps you should ask Professor Dumbledore. He knows more than I do."

"You know, don't you?" the Minister pressed, his tone growing sharper. "He targeted you until the very last moment. Why?"

Hoffa shook his head again and said softly, "I don't know why he came after me."

"Why do you think he did?" the Minister demanded.

"Maybe… maybe he just didn't like me," Hoffa muttered.

The Minister's voice turned even more pointed. "He has ties to this school, doesn't he? That day, he attacked with such hatred. Tell me—why?"

Hoffa remained silent for a long time before whispering, "I'm sorry, Minister. I don't know how to answer your question."

The Minister smiled, but the expression was tinged with something unspoken. Straightening his posture, he looked down at Hoffa.

"Turning a blind eye to criminals is not the mark of an exemplary Ravenclaw, Hoffa Bach. You're young. You need to recognize your path."

Hoffa lowered his head, his expression unreadable.

The Minister waited for a moment, but Hoffa remained silent, his head bowed.

"Is that all you have to say?" the Minister asked.

"Yes," Hoffa murmured, still not meeting his gaze.

Leonard Spencer-Moon shook his head in disappointment and prepared to leave. Just as he turned to go, something seemed to cross his mind. He spoke lightly:

"Oh, by the way, while Dippet was in Azkaban, he asked me to pass this along to you. Even though he's out now, I thought I'd still fulfill my promise."

With that, he pulled out a thin paper box from his sleeve and tossed it to Hoffa.

Without another glance, the Minister strode out of the room.

As the door opened, Hoffa caught sight of Dumbledore standing just outside. The older wizard gave him a faint nod before closing the door and walking away with the Minister of Magic.

Looking at the inexplicable box now in his hands, Hoffa leaned back against his pillow, let out a long sigh, and shook his head.

Sylby had truly become a Damocles' sword, hanging precariously over his head—not just because of his terrifying power but also his extraordinarily sensitive identity.

In this turbulent era, Hoffa felt the weight of life's difficulties pressing down on him. Choices abounded, and at times, he found himself making decisions he knew to be wrong, compelled by circumstances only he could understand.

After stewing in mild frustration for a while, Hoffa finally opened the box the Minister had given him. Inside, he found a thin booklet.

Turning to the title page, he read:

[François Lebrun. Research Notes, 1879–1890.]

Hoffa froze. François Lebrun? Wasn't that the creator of his magical wristwatch?

Flipping through the pages, he found dense diagrams of circuits, anatomical sketches, and text crammed with meticulous annotations.

Hoffa's pupils constricted.

This…

This was a notebook on construct technology. Notes detailing the construct techniques related to the Half-Blood King.

What was Principal Dippet trying to convey?

Meanwhile, by the shores of the Black Lake at Hogwarts…

A full moon slowly rose once again from behind the distant Scottish mountains. The gentle breeze swept across the scarred ground, where vegetation had already begun to stubbornly grow back despite the ferocious battle it had endured.

On the rocky beach near the lake, Tom Riddle remained seated in his wheelchair, staring unblinkingly at the distant moon. His gaze was dull and lifeless.

He had been sitting there for an entire day.

Or perhaps an entire month.

Behind him stood a tall Slytherin girl with golden hair, blue eyes, and pale skin dotted with a few freckles.

Watching the dazed Tom Riddle, she hesitated before speaking softly, "Tom, we should go back."

"Quiet."

Tom Riddle's voice was cold and emotionless, his eyes fixed on the distance.

"It's getting late," the girl urged gently, bending down as she spoke.

"Go back by yourself."

"Tom…"

But Tom Riddle continued staring blankly ahead. His youthful, delicate face was as still as a calm lake, showing no sign that he had heard her.

"Tom…?"

"Don't call me Tom!!"

Tom Riddle suddenly roared, his eyes flashing with a crimson glow, his expression twisting into something monstrous.

The girl flinched, instinctively taking two steps back.

Realizing his outburst, Tom quickly composed himself. His tense features relaxed, and his face returned to its usual refined and delicate appearance.

"Sorry," he said softly. "You should go. I'll be fine on my own."

The Slytherin girl stared at him for a moment, forcing a strained smile onto her lips. "Alright… if you're sure."

With that, she slowly retreated. Once she was gone, Tom Riddle, still seated in his wheelchair, suddenly began trembling. His breathing quickened, his body shook uncontrollably.

A vivid image suddenly flashed into his mind.

A man soared through the sky, roaring fiercely, as countless towers crumbled under the weight of his wrath.

The image cut off abruptly. He jolted awake, clutching his head tightly with trembling hands that shook as if afflicted by Parkinson's.

Gritting his teeth, cold sweat poured down his face.

Fragments of memories kept flashing back, as the scenes of that night tore through his mind like shards of shattered glass.

A man walking through molten lava.

A massive blood-red eye etched into the ground.

A spell that split a towering structure clean in two.

The earth-shaking roar, and the shield that shimmered across the sky.

Each memory struck his soul like a hammer, and the swirling emotions within him felt like searing pain, a torment that wasn't his own. It was as though an invisible, oppressive thread bound his spirit, dragging him down into an endless abyss. Down, and further down.

Weakness meant death.

Power.

Unable to bear it any longer, he rolled off his wheelchair and collapsed onto the ground. His trembling fingers clawed at the grass, his breaths ragged and labored. Drool dripped onto the earth as he pressed his forehead against the ground, pounding it with clenched fists.

Power!

Damn it!

As though his cries had been answered by some unseen force, a faint ripple echoed across the distant black lake. He spotted a vague figure on the lake's surface, barely discernible.

A soft, ethereal song reached his ears.

The melody was hauntingly beautiful, soothing yet imbued with a power that resonated deep within his soul, leaving him trembling.

He lifted his head, captivated by the song.

Slowly and painstakingly, he began to crawl toward the lake, inch by inch, his resolve unwavering.

There, a graceful figure reclined on a jagged rock jutting from the lake. She wore a crown and sang to the moon, her voice tinged with sorrow and longing.

Sensing his approach, she glanced at him briefly before diving into the dark lake, vanishing without a trace.

The song ceased abruptly.

Tom Riddle lay sprawled on the rocky shore, dazed for a long while before he regained his senses. He jerked back, trying to retreat from the pebbled lakeside.

As he scrambled backward, his hand brushed against something unusual. Its texture was strange, and when he picked it up, he discovered it was a damp, partially soaked book.

The book appeared waterlogged, its pages chaotic and on the verge of disintegration from both the dampness and what seemed like an explosion. Yet its ancient material wasn't paper, and the writing on it remained untouched.

"Immortality: The Splitting of the Soul."

Immortality?

Flipping the pages, he skimmed through a few lines before shuddering violently. The book slipped from his grasp, falling back into the lake. His legs pushed against the ground as he retreated, his eyes wide with terror, his breath caught in his throat.

For a long time, he lay paralyzed at a distance, staring blankly. Finally, he swallowed hard, his face pale as a sheet, and crawled back toward the book.

Like a startled groundhog, he raised his head, scanning the surroundings. There was no one in sight. The only sound came from the rippling water of the black lake, and above him hung a bright, full moon.

With a trembling hand, he steadied himself and touched the book as if it were a sacred relic.

Then, in one swift motion, he seized it, gripping it tightly as his expression shifted through a range of emotions.

At last, he took a deep breath and resolutely opened the pages.

His eyes devoured every detail of the ancient runes and inscriptions within, leaving no word unexamined.

As he read, a smile slowly spread across his face. His eyes gleamed red, his breathing grew heavier, and an eerie light began to glow on his face. His chest heaved wildly, his excitement uncontrollable.

In the end, he clutched the book to his chest, collapsing onto the rocky shore. Staring up at the sky, he broke into a silent, triumphant laugh.

(End of Chapter)

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