Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Tom Riddle was utterly stunned. When he first received a letter from a Hufflepuff student regarding this task, he hadn't thought much of it—after all, vampires were nothing to him.

However, the sights in this underground city far exceeded his expectations. The most shocking part was the figure before him. He stared ahead with wide eyes, standing amidst a landscape of scattered corpses, only to find his childhood nemesis from the orphanage—and the man was completely naked.

Even for the future Dark Lord, this bizarre scene was hard to process. As he recalled, this individual always managed to do things that defied conventional logic. From first year to third, it had been one incident after another. And now, after all this time, not only had he not changed, but he seemed even more unrestrained.

Hoffa, holding a corpse, was equally astounded. Seeing the well-dressed man behind him in a dark green, perfectly tailored suit, Hoffa instinctively grabbed the nearest lifeless vampire to shield himself.

The man looked like he'd stepped out of an old-fashioned fashion magazine—every inch exuding the aura of someone at the peak of their charm.

Tom Riddle. The Slytherin ringleader. Hoffa never expected it would be him returning instead of Ryan. His "old friend" from the orphanage, the future Dark Lord. It was the first time he'd seen Riddle since second year when he had exhausted himself with a curse and collapsed.

Tom had once been Hoffa's greatest nemesis, killing Hoffa's predecessor in the orphanage and forming a complex, cooperative relationship during second year.

But after experiencing so much life and death, Hoffa had gradually let go of those schoolyard grievances. Sometimes, he even felt a hint of nostalgia.

Now, however, wasn't the time for reminiscence. Falling into the blood pool had dissolved all his clothes, leaving him in an incredibly humiliating state. Among the group of Slytherins present, there were even girls—covering their mouths and watching him as though he were some kind of performance artist.

"Yo, Tom."

Hoffa greeted from behind the corpse he was using as a shield, discreetly moving toward a corner.

"Freak."

Tom's eyes bore into him, the word squeezed through clenched teeth. The veins on his hand gripping the wand bulged, as did those on his forehead, throbbing as though just seeing Hoffa caused his blood pressure to skyrocket.

"Why the hostility? It's been over a year since we last met, and you look like you're ready to eat me alive," Hoffa quipped, shifting the subject as he began stripping clothes from the unfortunate vampire corpse.

Tom surveyed the scene around him. "So, all these vampires…you killed them?"

"Don't say that. Do I look like the type to go on a killing spree?"

"Don't think I don't know!" Tom sneered. "Over the past year, you've been dealing alchemical weapons underground in France and secretly supporting various militant groups. You expect me to believe your hands aren't drenched in blood?"

"Well, someone's well-informed."

Hoffa clumsily pulled on the pants and shirt. The clothing's original owner had been significantly larger, leaving the outfit loose and exposing half of Hoffa's chest.

"Quite the operation. So, you returned to England specifically to take out this group?" Tom asked.

"Not exactly."

Hoffa noted the wary expressions of the Slytherins and felt both amused and concerned. There was no point denying it—Tom had already decided Hoffa had massacred everyone here without the slightest doubt. The other Slytherins would likely think the same.

Though he had survived by sheer luck, Hoffa had walked straight into the trap Mance had laid for him. If word of this spread, he would undoubtedly become a target.

In these tumultuous times, such "feats" were almost a death sentence for someone like him—a lone wolf. Germany showed no signs of weakening, and the future of history remained shrouded in fog. Who could predict if the world might devolve into the bleak vision of The Man in the High Castle?

If the Germans caught wind of this, he'd soon become a target for assassination and ambush. Who knew if the next glass of water he drank would be laced with poison?

The information had to be sealed.

Quickly, Hoffa identified his top priority: contain the news, then figure out how to defeat Mance and rescue the nun.

"Did Professor Slughorn bring you here?" he asked Tom.

"What's it to you?"

Dangerous light swirled at the tip of Tom's wand, ready to unleash a spell at any moment.

"Take me to him. I have something important to discuss."

Hoffa ignored the murderous intent in Tom's eyes. He wasn't yet the deranged Dark Lord of the future and couldn't kill Hoffa outright. If he could convince the Slytherin head to help suppress the news, his safety would be ensured for at least a few years, allowing him to continue his covert activities.

"Not a chance."

Tom flatly refused.

"Why not?"

Hoffa was taken aback.

"You vanished from school without a word. No one knows what happened to you, or where your loyalties lie. For all I know, you've become a bloodthirsty madman. There's no way I'm taking you to the Head of House. Forget it."

He stood tall and spoke with self-righteous fervor.

"Bloodthirsty madman…"

Hoffa's gaze shifted to Tom's hand. On his right ring finger, a black ring gleamed with an ancient, noble aura, despite a visible crack marring its surface.

The Resurrection Stone—the heirloom of the Gaunt family. One of the Deathly Hallows. A future Horcrux.

So, this guy had already driven his uncle insane and slaughtered his father's entire family?

Seeing Hoffa remain silent, Tom's face broke into a cryptic smile. With a flair of elegance, he spread his arms.

"I don't know how you managed all this, but as an old friend, let me advise you to leave this place immediately. Otherwise, when reinforcements arrive, you might find yourself imprisoned by a group of dreadful, long-winded old wizards, interrogated layer by layer."

A grimace of loathing appeared in his eyes. "Those old geezers just love prying into a person's moral compass!"

"Tom," Hoffa sighed, "things here are far more complicated than you think. I need to speak with a Hogwarts professor immediately."

"If you're so stubborn, don't blame me for not warning you."

Tom turned to the Slytherins behind him. "Go. Document everything in this area and call in the members of the Perseus Society." His lips curved into a malicious grin. "Tell them we've found the so-called 'Glory of Ravenclaw'—Mr. Hoffa Bach."

The Slytherins snapped into action. Some Disapparated on the spot, while others pulled old-fashioned wooden-framed cameras with magnesium flash bulbs from their enchanted bags, scattering like wartime photojournalists to take pictures.

Meanwhile, Tom Riddle stayed behind, keeping a cautious eye on Hoffa.

"Aren't you going with them?" Hoffa asked.

"I'm keeping my eye on you. You didn't leave earlier; now, don't even think about escaping."

"Will you take me to Slughorn if I go with you?"

"You won't see anyone you know, Bach. Hogwarts is my territory now."

With only Hoffa and Tom left in the eerie space, Tom dropped his facade. His refined features morphed into something raw and fanatical. He paced, then turned to Hoffa with a sneer.

"In the past, you got lucky. That brat from the Delacour family shielded you, and the professors coddled you. But now?" He chuckled darkly. "Your friends are gone. Who would care about a lone wolf without a family or allies?"

Hoffa's expression darkened.

Tom continued, "I know you, Bach. You'd never stand with me. Ravenclaw arrogance—it's even more infuriating than Gryffindor stupidity. Don't expect any help from me."

"No room for negotiation?" Hoffa asked quietly.

"What leverage do you have to negotiate?" Tom scoffed. "Just a minute ago, you didn't even have clothes and had to strip a dead man."

Hoffa stepped closer.

Tom immediately stepped back, raising his hand. "Don't even think about it. I warn you, don't make a move. This place will soon be swarming with our people. You'll have no way out."

But Hoffa didn't act aggressively. Instead, he leaned in close to Tom's ear and whispered, "That's a lovely ring you've got there. Must've been a real pain to acquire."

The moment he finished, Tom staggered back, his expression as if he'd seen a ghost.

Hoffa shrugged. "Not killing your crazy uncle? Bold choice. Aren't you worried he'll expose your secrets?"

Tom's confident demeanor faltered. His face twisted from defiance to vacant shock, then to murderous rage. Pointing his wand at Hoffa, he summoned a storm of swirling magic. The skies above churned with ominous, green-tinged lightning.

Unperturbed, Hoffa folded his arms. "Just saying, Tom—while the Riddle family wasn't innocent, they hardly deserved to be wiped out."

"Shut up!"

Tom's chest heaved. His veins bulged alarmingly, and his forehead pulsed as if his blood pressure was dangerously high. He hissed through clenched teeth, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"My information might not be as limited as you think, Tom. Want me to tell you where the Chamber of Secrets' entrance is, too? You've been searching for Salazar Slytherin's treasure, haven't you?"

"Enough!"

Tom's complexion turned even grimmer than the poisoned corpses littering the ground. He lunged forward, clamping a hand over Hoffa's mouth, darting paranoid glances around. "Say one more word, and I swear—!"

Some of the Slytherins documenting the scene turned their heads, curious about the sudden proximity of the two.

Hoffa, his mouth covered, could only raise an eyebrow in mock respect.

Pop! Pop!

The distinct sound of Apparition filled the air as a large group of adult wizards materialized in the banquet hall. Most of them wore outfits mimicking everyday Muggle attire—some dressed as soldiers, others as policemen, and one even sported a Beatles-inspired look.

Among them, however, were several older wizards dressed peculiarly. Clad in tattered white robes with crossed chains on their backs, a few bore heavy shackles on their ankles, exuding an aura of superiority and self-importance.

After landing, the casually dressed wizards gasped in astonishment. "Merlin's beard, what happened here?"

One of them crouched down and touched the bodies on the ground, exclaiming, "They're all dead. Who did this?"

"I think they turned on each other," someone speculated.

The wizards dressed in tattered white robes did not participate in the discussion. Instead, they quickly turned their attention to Tom Riddle.

"Riddle, you said you found Ravenclaw's Hoffa Bach?" one of the white-robed wizards asked.

Tom's angry, twisted expression vanished in an instant, as though everything that had just happened was a mere illusion. He immediately wrapped his arm around Hoffa's shoulder in a friendly, familiar manner. "Look, it's the real deal. Isn't that right?"

With a sigh, he straightened Hoffa's clothes. "Honestly, Hoffa, leaving the school is one thing, but to come to such a dangerous place all alone... Thankfully, I found you. Otherwise, if those vampires had caught you, I would regret it for the rest of my life."

The tone, the gesture—it was as if Hoffa were his long-lost brother.

Hoffa held back the bile rising in his stomach, forcing a smile. "Exactly. If it weren't for you, Riddle, I'd have been drained dry by those vampires by now."

The two exchanged a look and smiled, their eyes brimming with unshed tears.

A few of the old wizards in white robes, their chains clinking, frowned at the scene. The leader of the group asked, "Did you do this, Bach? I heard the Slytherins say that when they arrived, you were the only one here."

The old wizard's face was carved with the lines of age and rigidity. Hoffa didn't know who this man was, so he quickly tried to clear himself. "I—"

But before he could speak, Tom interjected in a sharp, indignant tone, "What are you saying, Mr. Israel? I've known Hoffa for over a decade. He wouldn't do something like this. There must be something else going on."

Hoffa glanced at Tom in surprise. His eyes, looking at him with warmth, were as gentle as a spring day in Scotland. If Hoffa were a woman, he might have fallen for him on the spot. But he could also feel the slight trembling of Tom's hand resting on his shoulder.

Hoffa suppressed his disdain, keeping his face neutral as he spoke to the white-robed wizard, "Yes, there's definitely more to this, and I need to report it to Professor Slughorn immediately."

"Can't you tell us?" the white-robed wizard asked, frowning.

"Sorry," Hoffa shook his head. "I just returned to the UK. I'd really like to see my former mentor."

"Fine."

The white-robed wizard relented easily. "Since it's just the two of you, I won't say anything. Riddle, remember to take him safely to the Floating Isle. We'll take care of things here."

With that, he returned to the crowd, giving orders to the wizards in Muggle clothing, directing them to move the bodies, mark them, and set up a perimeter.

As the old wizards dispersed, and no one was paying attention to them anymore, Tom suddenly shoved Hoffa away, as though he had just touched something filthy. He wiped his hands on his waist, then, in a tone only they could hear, muttered in disgust, "Those old geezers…"

Hoffa crossed his arms and sneered, "You really trust me, don't you? Not worried I'll spill everything?"

"Who would believe you!?"

After wiping his hands, Tom glared at him fiercely. "I'll take you to see Slughorn, but I warn you, don't say anything foolish in front of him, or I'll make you regret it!"

(End of chapter)

Want to read the chapters in Advance? Join my Patreon

https://patreon.com/Glimmer09