Harry Potter: I am the Legend

A few days later, at 3 a.m.

In the misty swamps south of Newport, Wales, two figures holding lanterns walked side by side, bickering.

"Damn it, coming here this early! I've had it with that idiot Bagman, making us stand guard all night in this dump!"

A man in a tweed suit, holding a gold pocket watch, threw an empty, oversized trunk onto the ground with a thud. Adjusting his awkwardly long rubber boots, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and took a deep drag.

"Can't argue with that. Just one more day, Vast, hang in there," replied another man dressed in a Scottish kilt and a South American poncho.

"Hang in there?"

Vast, the man in the tweed suit, exhaled a puff of smoke, his tone sharp with anger. "Bazil, how can you defend that old fool? He's probably gambling with goblins until dawn, and now he's off somewhere partying with Veela from Bulgaria. How did a guy like him even become Department Head?"

"Shh! Keep your voice down!"

Bazil quickly clamped a hand over his colleague's mouth, glancing around nervously. "Careful, Vast. Don't let anyone hear you. Bagman's got a nasty temper."

Annoyed, Vast pushed Bazil's hand away and adjusted his collar with a sneer. "What's there to be afraid of, Bazil? I earned my spot in the Ministry fair and square. What's he gonna do, fire me? Besides, it's the dead of night—who'd be stupid enough to come here this early?"

"Alright, alright, calm down. Nobody's going to mess with you," Bazil said, patting Vast on the back to smooth things over.

Just as Bazil finished speaking, the faint sound of footsteps echoed from the swamp's foggy distance.

He froze, glancing at his watch. The time read 3 a.m. With a full day left until the Quidditch World Cup, who could possibly be here so early? Could it be a foreign wizard?

Even the irate Vast fell silent. Both men raised their lanterns, their eyes straining to pierce the dense darkness.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

The footsteps were steady and precise, like the ticking of a clock.

From the mist, a tall figure emerged. The man wore an unremarkable gray robe, blending into the fog like any ordinary street wizard. However, what set him apart was the peculiar birdcage atop his head. It obscured his face entirely, with cascading white hair flowing out like a waterfall, almost brushing the ground.

The sight left Bazil stunned. He had never seen such an odd appearance. The man walked elegantly through the swamp, as though he were strolling in a park.

Vast, who usually complained about everything, recovered first. He stepped forward and asked seriously, "Wizard?"

The man with the birdcage nodded slowly.

"Here for the Quidditch match?"

Another nod.

Bazil hastily pulled out a roll of parchment and a quill from his pocket.

"Do you have an invitation?" Vast asked routinely.

The white-haired man shook his head.

"A ticket?"

The man reached for his waist, producing a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it over.

Bazil glanced down. It looked like scrap paper.

He was about to reprimand the oddly dressed man when Vast, to his surprise, nodded and returned the paper.

Bazil blinked, looking closer. Maybe his fatigue was playing tricks on him, but the scrap now appeared to be a pristine ticket.

Relieved, Bazil asked, "Didn't you use a Portkey to get here?"

"Portkey?" The white-haired man tilted his birdcage-clad head in confusion.

"Ah, just asking. Apparating to such a remote location can't have been easy. Haha, please, sign in here," Bazil said, handing over the parchment and quill with a friendly smile.

But the man didn't respond or take the items, leaving Bazil scratching his head in awkward silence.

For reasons he couldn't explain, even through the birdcage, Bazil felt a piercing gaze that unsettled him deeply.

Standing under the moonlight, the white-haired man tilted his head in thought before smiling and asking softly, "Could you tell me where the most crowded seating area in the stadium is?"

The gentle tone made Bazil feel as though he were basking in sunlight. The stars above seemed to shine brighter. Forgetting all about the signature, he began to ponder. "Uh, well…"

But Vast answered first. "The first area's less crowded—mostly foreign visitors. The second area is the busiest. The third area is sparsely populated; that's reserved for Ministry officials."

"Ah, I see. Thank you."

The peculiar man gave a slight bow, then walked away as gracefully as he had arrived, his footsteps precise as clockwork, vanishing into the misty swamp.

It took Bazil nearly twenty minutes to snap out of the blissful trance. Frowning, he muttered, "What a strange outfit…"

"Who knows?" Vast replied, still grinning as he stared at the spot where the man disappeared. "Probably some foreign wizard. Those guys are always eccentric."

"Do you think there's a problem?" Bazil murmured, feeling like he'd forgotten something important.

Crack.

A faint noise came from the mist, followed by a cacophony of voices.

"This way, dear!"

"Oh, damn it! A swamp! My shoes!"

"I told you to be careful!"

"Forget the shoes! Hurry and sign in while it's quiet. We need good seats!"

"Yes, yes, seats first!"

Snapped out of his thoughts, Bazil saw a group of short figures emerge from the mist, hand in hand, lanterns swinging. They looked like something out of a fairy tale—seven dwarfs come to life.

Vast scowled. "Irish leprechauns…"

Before he could finish, the lead leprechaun tossed a battered soda can at Bazil and snatched the parchment and quill. Scribbling illegibly, the little creature laughed. "Your boss got drunk, didn't he? Haha! Betting on Bulgaria to win—let's hope he doesn't regret it tomorrow! Haha!"

With that, they tossed the parchment back, linked hands, and vanished into the fog, laughing all the while.

The commotion left Bazil utterly distracted, while Vast resumed his rant. "A Department Head gambling on the job? I'd bet my wand Bagman won't last long in that position!"

Bazil no longer bothered to respond to his colleague's complaints. In the distance, another crackling sound rang out—a new group of people had just been transported here via a Portkey from some unknown place.

The busy workday had begun at dawn. People from all over the world were arriving nonstop, each speaking with a different accent as they asked questions, signed forms, and returned their Portkeys. The box for collecting Portkeys had already been replaced multiple times.

By the time the clock struck five in the morning, the sky was beginning to lighten, and the stream of visitors had finally thinned. Bazil, however, was thoroughly exhausted, and his companion, Vast, looked even worse—his face dark and sullen, too drained to even curse their boss anymore.

I hope I won't have to pull a shift like this again, Bazil thought.

Crack.

The sound of another Portkey hitting the ground echoed.

Someone grumbled in frustration, "Ugh, I'm getting too old for this. I really can't use Portkeys anymore—every time, I end up dizzy and nauseous."

"Then why did you tag along, old man? I could've come on my own."

"Please! This is Crouch we're talking about. Do you really think you could meet him without my help? Cough, cough. Besides, how could I miss the Quidditch World Cup? You're already here—why waste the opportunity?"

"Enough, just shut it," a young voice snapped impatiently. "You're all so fragile. If you're going, then hurry up! The sun's already rising."

Bazil and Vast straightened up at once.

This time, two figures emerged from the mist—one tall and one short. As they drew closer, Bazil saw that it was a young man and an old man.

The taller one, the young man, had a striking appearance. He stood about 5'10" with a shaved head and a silver earring in one ear. His eyes gleamed faintly gold in the morning sunlight, giving him a uniquely bold and charismatic aura.

But it was his attire that truly stood out. He wore a deep blue wizard's robe with double-layered silver-embroidered shoulder capes featuring eagle patterns. The hem of the robe split into three tails, resembling a bird's feathers—elegant and opulent. He was clearly from some ancient wizarding family.

In contrast, the old man beside him looked downright shabby. He was hunched over, dressed in an old, tattered robe, with a hood covering his head. He clung to the young man for support, trembling as if he might collapse at any moment.

Noticing the young man's noble demeanor, Bazil perked up. While the Ministry had explicitly banned wizards from wearing robes to the match, not everyone adhered to the rules. And those who didn't often warranted extra attention.

"Good morning," Bazil greeted, stepping forward.

The old man wobbled up first. "Good... good morning. My name is Ali Bashir, and this... this is my grandson, Horva Bashir."

"Ali Bashir, Horva Bashir," Bazil repeated as he flipped through his list. "Ah, yes. Walk straight ahead. Field One is about a hundred meters to your left."

"Thank you," the old man said with a polite smile. "You've worked hard." Then, as if his mind had blanked out, he suddenly froze in place.

The bald young man shielded his eyes from the sunlight with one hand while handing Bazil a battered football that served as their Portkey with the other. "Is this the entrance to the Quidditch World Cup?"

"The entrance is further inside. We're just here to collect Portkeys and have visitors sign in," Bazil explained, tossing the battered football into the collection box. "Of course, if you're guests personally invited by the Ministry, you don't need to sign."

The bald young man nodded. "We're here to see Barty Crouch. He invited us. Could you tell us how to find him?"

"I see." Bazil straightened up, searching the list on the parchment. "Barty Crouch... Barty Crouch... Ah, here he is. Walk about half a mile straight ahead to Field Three, at the front."

"Thank you."

The young man bowed politely to Bazil, shielding his eyes from the sun. Then he pulled on the old man's arm. "Come on, stop dawdling!"

The old man snapped back to attention, grumbling, "You should be more considerate, Horva. I'm old—I need proper rest. I can't keep up with you anymore."

"Oh, please," the young man drawled lazily. "You'd outlive me, even if I dropped dead tomorrow."

"Watch your mouth! Are you wishing me dead?"

"In the East, there's an old saying. Ever heard it? 'Only the wicked grow old.'"

"You!"

The two bickered as their silhouettes disappeared into the morning mist.

Bazil frowned, turning to Vast. "Is that any way for a grandson to talk to his grandfather?"

Vast shrugged wearily, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. "Maybe that's just how foreigners are."

No sooner had the peculiar pair departed than another series of crackling sounds rang out in the distance. This time, it was a large group.

"5:07 a.m., arrivals from Stoat Hill," Vast mumbled, barely lifting his head.

Moments later, a crowd emerged from the fog, led by a red-haired man dressed in a golf shirt and old jeans that were a bit too big for him. He had cinched them with a wide leather belt.

"Good morning, Bazil," the red-haired man said, picking up a discarded boot and handing it to him.

Bazil wearily accepted the boot, tossing it into the bin. "Morning, Arthur. Not on duty, huh? Some people get all the luck... We've been here all night. You'd better clear out soon—there's a big group arriving from the Black Forest at 5:15."

"Let me check where your campsite is... Weasley, Weasley..." Bazil scanned the list. "About a quarter-mile ahead. First field. The campsite manager is Mr. Roberts. As for Diggory, your spot is in the second field—ask for Mr. Payne."

"Thanks, Bazil," Arthur Weasley replied with a smile.

He waved to the group behind him, and a lively crowd of boys and girls, some laughing and joking, filed past Bazil and Vast. Two identical red-haired twins stuck their tongues out playfully at the weary Bazil.

Once they were gone, Vast muttered numbly, "What a circus."

"Tell me about it," Bazil sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. "I just hope they don't cause any trouble."

(End of Chapter)

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