Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Two days later.

On the northern edge of Sussex, in Little Hangleton, an old train chugged into a dilapidated station, its chimney spewing wisps of smoke.

Dressed in ordinary Muggle attire, Hoffa stepped off the train, his gaze falling on a small village before him. He had searched long and hard for this place, located nearly twenty kilometers away from the nearest city, Bridgwell.

After Nicolas Flamel had revealed the secret of resurrection to him, Hoffa had rushed here immediately. If his suspicions were correct, his old classmate should be somewhere in this village, clinging to life and waiting for the right moment to rise again.

The morning was still young, not yet seven o'clock, but the weather was gloomy. A dense fog enveloped the village, and the muddy streets were overshadowed by low-hanging, oppressive black clouds. In the distance, faint outlines of tombstones could be seen between two steep hills.

The dim streetlights along the cobbled path cast a weak glow on the muddy sidewalks. Faint yellow lights spilled from the windows of nearby shops, filtering through the mist and faintly illuminating the deserted streets.

"So, this is Voldemort's hometown," Hoffa muttered to himself. Strictly speaking, this place was Voldemort's official hometown. But if one were to pinpoint Tom Riddle's true origin, it would be the same as Hoffa's—a shared upbringing at Wool's Orphanage in London.

The village was rudimentary, with hardly any signs of commercial activity—just a tavern, a convenience store, and a fruit stand.

As Hoffa passed the fruit stand, he paused and then stopped.

"How much are the apples?" he asked.

"Five shillings a pound," the vendor replied.

"I'll take a pound."

"Coming right up."

"What about the oranges?"

"Three shillings."

"Are they sweet?"

"Guaranteed sweet—try one."

"Alright, give me a pound of those too."

"Oh, by the way," Hoffa added casually, "is there a place called Riddle Manor around here?"

"Riddle Manor?" The fruit vendor looked puzzled.

"Never heard of it," the vendor said, shaking his head.

A minute later, Hoffa stood on a country path, carrying a woven bag of fruit, his brows furrowed in thought.

He glanced around. Aside from a few scattered lights in the distance, there was no sign of the rumored grand mansion—Riddle Manor. He asked several villagers, but none seemed to know about it, leaving him perplexed.

According to the original story, weren't the residents of Little Hangleton fond of gossiping about the tragedy of Riddle Manor? Why was everyone suddenly acting as if they'd never heard of it?

Unable to make sense of it, Hoffa carried his bag of fruit and continued along the cobblestone path. The farther he walked, the sparser the streetlights became until they disappeared altogether.

After rounding a hill, the streetlights were gone entirely, leaving only the dense shadows of nettles under the moonlight.

In the distance, Hoffa spotted a house half-hidden among twisted, overgrown trees. Its walls were covered in moss, and the roof tiles had fallen away, exposing the rotting beams beneath.

Stopping in front of the dilapidated house, he frowned.

Using his heightened mental senses, he detected an extremely subtle yet malevolent energy emanating from within. It felt eerily similar to the curse magic Tom Riddle had once used against him—Salazar Slytherin's dark arts.

"Could this be the Gaunt Shack?"

After a moment of contemplation, Hoffa identified the house. The realization made him hesitate—should he venture inside?

If this was indeed the Gaunt Shack, then one of the Deathly Hallows, the Resurrection Stone, was said to be hidden here.

Taking a step forward, a sudden rustling sound caught his attention.

A snake slithered swiftly from the branches of a dead tree.

Hoffa spun around, alert.

In the shadow of the tree stood a woman he hadn't noticed before.

She was slender, with black hair coiled neatly atop her head. She wore a purple V-neck dress and heavy eyeshadow that couldn't quite disguise her plain features. In her hand, she carried a woven bag.

The two of them stood silently, staring at each other.

The woman's expression was blank as she gazed at him, unblinking.

Tilting his head slightly, Hoffa walked toward her. The moonlight gleamed off his bald head as he approached.

Glancing into her bag, he saw bottles of milk, some raw meat, vegetables, and a fistful of Muggle banknotes clutched tightly in her hand.

As Hoffa drew closer, the woman instinctively turned her head and stepped back.

"Excuse me, could you tell me where Riddle Manor is?" Hoffa asked politely.

The woman glanced at him furtively, her eyes darting nervously.

Following her gaze, Hoffa looked toward the distant mountaintop, where a sliver of the crescent moon peeked through the clouds.

"That way?" he asked, pointing in the direction.

The woman shook her head.

"Could you take me there?"

Hoffa spoke slowly, inching closer. In the pale moonlight, the woman's skin revealed faint, fish-scale-like patterns.

"Ah—" The woman shook her head furiously, like a rattle drum.

"Why aren't you speaking?" Hoffa moved even closer.

"Ah... ah... ah…" She pointed at her mouth and gestured frantically, shaking her hands. The sounds she made resembled those of a mute person.

"A mute? That's unfortunate," Hoffa remarked.

The woman had nowhere left to retreat and pressed herself against the trunk of a dead tree.

"Why are you out here alone so late? It's dangerous," Hoffa sighed. "Let me escort you back."

Before he finished speaking, the black-haired, slender woman turned and tried to walk in the opposite direction, only to crash straight into Hoffa's chest.

Thud!

She stared at the bald young man before her, her face filled with terror.

Hoffa reached out, grasping her cold arm. With a calm yet unyielding demeanor, he gently slid his hand down her forearm, pried open her slender fingers, and took the woven bag from her grasp.

"Let me carry it for you," he said.

Thud!

Without a word, the woman dropped the bag and darted off, her waist twisting as she ran at an incredible speed. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared from Hoffa's sight.

Hoffa smiled faintly, carrying both woven bags as he strolled leisurely after her.

The woman, meanwhile, ran as if her life depended on it. Her pace grew faster and faster, her legs twisting unnaturally. She glanced back repeatedly, as though fleeing from a ghost.

Hoffa followed her down a path that led to a hillside estate. One side of the road was open heath, while the other was bordered by old yew hedges, beyond which towering trees loomed. The estate had a moss-covered cobblestone path leading to its entrance. Stone pillars flanked the gate, their surfaces adorned with crumbling crests. Apart from the main cobbled road, Hoffa noticed gaps in the hedges leading to hidden trails.

The surroundings were gloomy and decayed, and the mansion itself remained obscured from view.

The black-haired woman stumbled into the open grounds of the estate, where she collapsed and began to writhe in agony. Her body elongated as she struggled, her legs twisting together while her head grew larger and more pointed. Finally, she transformed into a massive snake, nearly ten meters long.

The snake circled the hedge three times before darting through a gap and vanishing.

Hoffa followed her example, circling the hedge three times.

When he emerged, a towering, crumbling castle appeared before him. Bathed in a ghostly gray light, it stood shrouded in dense mist. Its high, square walls were dotted with diamond-shaped windows, dark and lifeless, as if untouched since the seventeenth century. The courtyard was littered with trash and overgrown with shrubs.

Standing beneath the imposing structure, Hoffa understood. Tom had hidden Riddle Manor not only through magic but had also erased the villagers' memories of it.

Still, he felt a twinge of curiosity. How should he face that long-absent acquaintance?

The last time they'd met—at this point in the timeline—Hoffa had stolen a piece of Tom's soul using mistletoe. Surely, Tom must loathe him for that.

Yet, after such a bizarre and tumultuous life, Hoffa found it difficult to harbor hatred for Tom. Instead, he felt a sense of helpless camaraderie.

Rustle.

A sudden hiss pierced the air.

Out of the shadows of the castle lunged a massive black snake. It leaped three meters into the air, its jaws wide open, aiming for Hoffa's neck. Under the moonlight, its scales gleamed menacingly.

Hoffa observed it calmly, puzzled by how Nagini could transform into a woman. When he'd first seen her, he'd been startled. She wasn't an Animagus, yet she bore the effects of some unknown transformation spell—a spell more akin to a curse, uncontrollable and perilous.

Crunch!

The snake's head struck Hoffa's bald head but failed to pierce it.

"Stay still," Hoffa said.

Casually merging the two woven bags into one, he freed a hand and grabbed Nagini by the neck. With a gentle twist, he threw her to the ground.

The massive snake let out a pitiful cry and thrashed violently.

Hoffa, unwilling to completely sever ties with Tom since he needed his help, refrained from harming Nagini further. Instead, he grabbed her tail and dragged her toward the broken entrance of the old castle. Inside was a steep staircase leading down into the castle's depths.

He glanced around at the eerie surroundings—crumbling stone walls, stacks of ancient coffins emitting a musty odor, and shadowy alcoves. Some coffins were leaden, others stone, piled high against one wall, reaching toward the vaulted ceiling hidden in darkness.

Nagini, seemingly resigned to her fate, stopped resisting and let herself be dragged.

Reaching the castle's main hall, Hoffa was abruptly met with a shout from above:

"Petrificus Totalus!"

A blue spell shot out from the shadows on the second floor.

This was followed by a barrage of spells: "Confringo! Stupefy! Impedimenta! Relashio! Avada Kedavra!"

A chaotic burst of multicolored lights illuminated the hall.

When the spells subsided, the hall was in shambles. Smoke and debris filled the air as fragments of stone and wood rained down.

From a second-floor corridor, Peter Pettigrew crouched, wand in hand, peeking through the railings. His watery eyes stared intently at the hall below.

Moments ago, he thought he'd seen a bald youth carrying a woven bag and dragging Nagini's tail into the castle. The scene had terrified him—it was the most bizarre sight he'd ever encountered in his life.

Nagini, a ten-meter-long snake capable of swallowing a man whole, being dragged like luggage? It was beyond comprehension.

When the dust settled, the hall was empty.

"Ha… ha…" Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead, licked his lips nervously, and chuckled. "What's going on? Am I too stressed lately?"

"Peter Pettigrew?"

A probing voice from behind made Peter's face turn ghostly pale.

He froze for a good five or six seconds before slowly, mechanically turning around.

Behind him stood the bald youth, dressed like a regular Muggle high schooler, carrying two woven bags and smiling faintly.

(End of Chapter)

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