Harry Potter: I am the Legend

"Who... who are you?"

Peter Pettigrew collapsed on the ground, his voice trembling as he asked.

Hoffa lowered his head, examining this original character from the canon storyline he encountered fifty years later. The experience felt oddly refreshing. He observed a snaggle-toothed, short man clutching his head in disbelief, staring at him.

Moonlight poured through the ancient window panes, casting three slivers of light on Peter Pettigrew's face. His sparse, lackluster hair was disheveled, with a bald patch on top. His wrinkled, grimy skin gave the impression he hadn't bathed in decades, reminiscent of an unkempt old cleric.

"I'm looking for Tom Riddle. Is he home?"

Hoffa released Nagini's tail, and with a few quick slithers, she darted across the dust-covered floor tiles.

"H-he..."

Peter forced a smile that looked more pained than reassuring, beads of sweat dripping from his bulbous, greasy nose.

"I-I don't know who... who you're talking about, sir."

Hoffa crouched down. "Tom Marvolo Riddle. The greatest Dark Wizard. Voldemort. The Dark Lord. Surely you know him?"

"I... I don't! I don't! I'm just passing by—just passing by!"

Peter frantically crawled backward, leaving marks on the dusty floor. But with the corner of the wall behind him, he had nowhere left to go.

"Liar. You clearly know."

Hoffa's face hardened.

The moonlight outside the manor was suddenly shrouded by clouds, casting Peter's face into darkness. At that moment, he extended his wand, which transformed mid-air into a dagger.

"Die!"

He roared.

Clang!

The dagger struck something hard but didn't penetrate. Hoffa grabbed it with a resigned expression, pried it from Peter's hands, and watched it morph back into a wand.

The clouds dispersed. Peter, staring at Hoffa's eerie golden eyes, let out a short, piercing scream.

"Ah!"

With that scream, his body rapidly shrank, and in an instant, he transformed into a tiny gray rat, darting frantically forward to escape.

Thud!

He crashed headlong into a wall that appeared out of nowhere, nearly knocking himself senseless.

As Hoffa picked him up again, Peter's body convulsed violently, twisting and writhing until he shifted back into his human form.

This was a situation Peter had never encountered before. His prized Animagus transformation had been undone silently, as if it were nothing. Hoffa's grip on him felt as unyielding as an iron clamp. He couldn't believe it—was he really no more challenging to handle than a sack of potatoes?

Hoffa stepped back and pinned Peter upside down against the wall. Thin, spindly fingers emerged from the wall, wrapping around Peter and immobilizing him.

"I'm looking for Tom. Take me to his room," Hoffa said with feigned patience.

"Who... who are you?"

"I'm Tom's friend. Sort of," Hoffa replied with a wry smile. "Let's just say... barely."

"You've got the wrong... wrong place. There's no... no Tom here."

Peter, dangling upside down, rolled his eyes desperately, his face turning crimson. Cold sweat dripped from his chin to the floor below.

"What are you so afraid of?" Hoffa sighed. "I'm not going to eat you. Just take me to your master—Voldemort."

But his reassurances had no effect. Peter merely shook his head wildly. Hoffa wondered why everyone seemed so unwilling to have a proper conversation with him. Did he look that terrifying?

Hoffa crouched again, intending to persuade him further. But seeing this, Peter burst into tears, snot and tears streaming from his face in a pitiful display.

"Don't... don't kill me! The Potters were Sirius's doing! The Longbottoms—Barty Crouch Jr. and Bellatrix did that! I had nothing to do with it! Please don't hurt me!"

Looking at the sniveling man on the verge of breaking down, Hoffa had an idea. He rolled up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo of a black serpent etched on his arm.

"Look, Peter. I'm really not here to hurt anyone."

Peter's terrified face gradually shifted to one of astonishment. He stared blankly at the young man before him.

At that moment, a raspy voice drifted through the air:

"Who's there?"

The sound was ethereal and echoed in the dilapidated hall, each syllable punctuated as if strung together like bouncing beads.

Thud.

Peter fell from the wall.

"Do we have a guest, Wormtail? Bring them to me."

The voice, drifting closer and closer, felt like a breeze brushing past their ears, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

Peter stood up, his eyes fixed on Hoffa's arm. Licking his lips, he remained puzzled, as though unable to comprehend why someone so young would bear the sacred mark of the Dark Lord.

Hoffa handed him back his wand, reminding him: "Lead the way."

Peter jolted, took the wand, wiped it on his trousers, and hesitantly led the way, glancing back every few steps.

Hoffa followed, observing the ancient and crumbling manor. Despite its dilapidation, it exuded a sense of former grandeur. The massive beams crisscrossing the ceiling, dusty suits of armor, and ancient decorations hinted at the wealth and prestige of the Riddle family.

On one wall hung an enormous, eerie comedy mask carved from ancient oak, its grotesque grin surpassing even the haunting images of Valhalla. Opposite it hung an equally massive tragedy mask. Between the two masks dangled a colossal iron chandelier, draped in cobwebs, suspended from the ceiling.

Even Tom Riddle, who despised his paternal lineage, would have to admit that his ancestral home was far more aristocratic than the decrepit Gaunt shack.

Through gothic corridors, Peter led Hoffa to a study on the top floor. He opened the door.

The room was dominated by leather and oak, with stone accents. The sole light source was a fire crackling in an enormous twelve-foot-wide fireplace, its bronzed surface polished by years of smoke and time. The fire offered little warmth despite its glow.

In front of the fireplace stood a wide, ornate chair. Beneath it coiled Nagini, her long tail trailing across the floor.

Sensing their presence, Nagini turned her head, glanced at them, then quickly retreated behind the chair.

"Who's there, Wormtail?"

The voice came from behind the broad chair.

"Y-your other servant... master," Peter stammered, glancing nervously at Hoffa.

"Is it Bellatrix? Or Barty?"

The voice asked softly, with a hint of eagerness.

Standing in the shadows, Hoffa remained motionless. Peter Pettigrew had already retreated, but out of the corner of Hoffa's eye, he noticed a concealed purple snake slithering along the ceiling, motionless as if it were a statue watching him intently.

"Who is it?"

The voice in front of the chair sounded puzzled.

"It's me, Tom," Hoffa replied with a tinge of emotion. "Long time no see."

Silence.

Even though the chair's back obscured his view, Hoffa could sense the man stiffening.

For a long moment, the hall was eerily quiet, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire.

After what felt like an eternity, the chair emitted a teeth-gritting creak as it slowly turned around.

Hoffa finally saw the face of his old classmate. Despite being mentally prepared, he couldn't help but tense.

Tom resembled a shriveled infant. Bald, with skin that seemed scaled and dark red like dried blood, he looked like raw flesh beneath a torn scab. His spindly arms and legs appeared fragile, and his face was grotesquely disfigured as if doused in acid. There were no lips, only a gaping, twisted hole above which sat two dull, blood-red eyes.

Those eyes locked onto Hoffa, cycling through disbelief, astonishment, and confusion before settling into a grim expression that promised an oncoming storm.

"It's you," Tom hissed through clenched teeth, his voice seething with unrestrained hatred. "Hoffa Bach!"

The dimly lit hall seemed to grow darker. The fire in the hearth flickered weakly, and the oppressive atmosphere swallowed everything—Tom, Nagini, Peter Pettigrew—until all sank into a suffocating stillness.

Nagini, who had been resting by the chair, slithered into a corner. Meanwhile, the purple snake from the ceiling coiled down and slid beneath Tom's chair.

The air grew so heavy it felt as though it could drip.

Amid the tension, Tom Riddle broke into an eerie laugh. "You haven't aged a day."

"You're younger than I am—practically a baby now," Hoffa remarked.

"Yes, times have been tough," Tom said with a humorless chuckle. "Even your hair is gone."

Hoffa smiled faintly. "So is yours."

The flames roared back to life, giving the illusion that all animosity had dissipated.

Hoffa set down the woven sack in his hand and stepped forward.

That single step triggered the snake under Tom's chair to strike like a meteor, darting straight through Hoffa's body before crashing into the wooden door behind him, blasting it off its hinges.

Smoke and dust filled the air as Peter Pettigrew, hiding behind the door, let out a terrified scream and bolted away.

"Kill him!"

Tom Riddle's high-pitched scream echoed in the hall.

Nagini lunged from the shadows, her fangs bared, sinking into Hoffa's body—only for his figure to dissolve into a hazy illusion.

"You've grown slow, Tom," Hoffa's voice came from the side of the hearth as his form materialized there. He sighed. "I'm not here to fight you this time."

As soon as he finished, countless stone hands erupted from the ground, grabbing Nagini and the purple snake and pinning them firmly to the floor. The serpents struggled, but the hands held fast, mummifying them in place.

"There's nothing to talk about," Tom growled, his distorted face twisted with rage. Each movement seemed to drain him as he gripped the chair, glaring at Hoffa with desperation and hatred. "Who told you where to find me? Was it that old fool Dumbledore? Or Lucius Malfoy, the spineless traitor? Speak!"

Hoffa shook his head. "Neither."

"You won't outmaneuver me!" Tom spat, his voice trembling with fury. "You may have killed me once or twice, but one day, I'll make you pay the ultimate price!"

Hoffa crouched down, his golden eyes locking onto Tom's blood-red ones.

Tom, now trembling uncontrollably, tried to curl into himself, his body shaking with fear. But beneath the hatred burning in his eyes lay an undeniable undercurrent of terror.

Hoffa lowered his gaze and sighed.

"If I wanted you dead, do you think I'd waste this much time talking? You're weaker now than you've ever been."

"I don't need you to remind me!" Tom roared, his voice shaking. "If you're not here to kill me, then what do you want?"

"I want something from you," Hoffa said calmly.

"You're delusional! You'll get nothing from me!" Tom screamed.

"I want the Resurrection Ritual of the Peverells," Hoffa stated, ignoring Tom's resistance. "In exchange, I'll give you the Philosopher's Stone from Nicolas Flamel."

Silence.

The hall fell into an uneasy stillness.

Tom's enraged, fearful expression slowly gave way to confusion. His blood-red eyes, once wide, narrowed into slits as he scrutinized Hoffa, searching for the truth behind his words.

After a long silence, Tom Riddle's cold voice broke the tension: "What do you want with the Resurrection Ritual? Aren't you alive and well?"

Hoffa didn't answer, his gaze fixed firmly on Tom.

The two locked eyes in silence for a moment until sudden realization dawned on Tom's face. His expression shifted to one of surprise and comprehension. "Could it be… you want to resurrect that… what was her name again? Your Ravenclaw girlfriend?"

"Aglaea," Hoffa replied resolutely.

Tom burst into shrill, high-pitched laughter, a manic cackle that caused his frail body to roll into a ball on the chair.

"Hahaha! Hahaha! Pathetic! Utterly pathetic!" he wheezed between breaths, his voice dripping with disdain. "Pathetic! Fifty years, fifty years have passed since I last saw you—half a century! You possess unparalleled power, unmatched mastery of transformation, the potential to obtain anything you desire… Yet your vision is so narrow it revolves around a single woman!"

No longer fearful, Tom used his thin, feeble legs to shakily push himself off the chair. Standing unsteadily, he pointed a trembling finger at Hoffa, his anger erupting:

"Why can't you be like me? Why can't you think about conquering the world? Why can't you be a real man, a normal man, and take everything—women, wealth, power—all of it will be yours once you rule the world! Are those things not a thousand times more valuable than a lowly half-blood Veela?"

"People are different, Tom," Hoffa replied calmly, unfazed.

"Yes, different indeed," Tom sneered, his blood-red eyes blazing as he gasped for air. "That's exactly why I hate you, Hoffa Bach. It's not because you killed me once—no, it's because you're not like us. From the beginning, you've been an anomaly, a freak.

"But let me tell you this: the world has no place for freaks. It has no tolerance for your so-called equality or compassion. The way you live—no one will ever understand or accept it!"

Tom collapsed back into his chair with a thud, glaring at Hoffa with smug satisfaction, as though he'd discovered his greatest weakness. "Go on, then! If you want the Resurrection Ritual, if you want the secrets of human transmutation, kill me! Threaten me with death! Do it!"

Tom's lips curled into a twisted grin as he mocked, "Can you do it, Ravenclaw? Can you do it, Hoffa Bach?"

Hoffa stood silently, taking a step back.

Tom laughed even harder, the sound echoing maniacally. "Look at you, look at you! You Ravenclaws, so high and mighty, always end up begging Slytherins for help! Begging someone you despise and refuse to acknowledge!"

Suddenly, his laughter turned into violent coughing. He gagged, spewing a puddle of foul-smelling white fluid that reeked of rot.

"Wormtail!" Tom called weakly, slumping against the chair. "Wormtail!!"

Peter Pettigrew scurried over, trembling, and supported the frail Dark Lord. From his pocket, he pulled a filthy handkerchief and nervously wiped Tom's mouth. "M-Master, please, don't get angry. There's still some in the bottle. If you're hungry, I can—"

"Silence, you fool!"

Tom ignored Wormtail's babbling and instead pointed at Hoffa. "Do you know who this man is?"

"M-Master, I… I don't recognize him," Peter stammered, glancing at Hoffa.

"Don't recognize him?!" Tom's red eyes widened with excitement. "Then let me enlighten you! This is Hoffa Bach—a man who saved Hogwarts three times! A man who could save the world! The greatest master of transformation in history! The last glory of Ravenclaw! A living legend!"

"Oh… is that so?" Peter wiped the sweat off his brow, forcing a feeble smile. "Well, that's… quite impressive."

"Get out!" Tom bellowed suddenly, his voice sharp and commanding.

Startled, Peter released his grip and retreated awkwardly, his steps faltering as he disappeared into the shadows.

Tom, trembling, wiped the corner of his mouth and smirked bitterly. "Do you see that? People like him are the most common in this world—the most mediocre. They don't care about legends or what you've done. They only want power, women, and wealth. They're impervious to love and hope and can only be subdued by violence. And given the chance, they'll become more violent than anyone else. The only way to deal with people like that is to crush them with a thousand times more violence!"

"Why are you telling me this? It has nothing to do with our deal," Hoffa said, his expression calm. "I'm offering the Philosopher's Stone in exchange."

"The Philosopher's Stone?" Tom sneered mockingly. "To hell with the Philosopher's Stone."

His outburst subsided, and for the first time, his voice softened. Looking at Hoffa with disdainful amusement, he said, "I'll give you the secret of the Peverells. I might even give you the Resurrection Stone, Hoffa. My dear Hoffa, of course I will. After all, those things are dead—mere objects."

"And the price?" Hoffa asked.

Tom's voice took on an almost gentle tone. "You know it already. Since the first day at the orphanage, my stance has never changed. All I ask is—"

"All you ask is what?"

"All I ask," Tom's voice suddenly grew fierce, "is that you join me! Stand by my side, wholeheartedly, sincerely. Change yourself and become one of us!"

"That's all?" Hoffa raised an eyebrow.

"You think you can impale me with mistletoe again?" Tom roared. "I'm telling you, without me, you'll accomplish nothing! You'll die alone, forgotten, trampled on, and despised by the mediocre masses!"

Silence.

Hoffa gazed at the furious Riddle without a word. Then he turned, walked to his bag, and picked it up. Setting it down before Tom, he pulled out an apple and began peeling it, the sound of the skin falling faintly audible.

At last, he held the peeled apple out to Tom.

"I won't."

(End of Chapter)

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