Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The Thestral glided over the British Isles, tirelessly flapping its wings as it carried Hoffa across the English Channel, all the way to Paris, France.

At dawn, the clouds dispersed, revealing the Eiffel Tower below. Hoffa gazed down from the sky. He had once traveled this path with Chloe. After Grindelwald orchestrated Aglaea's death, he had hidden in France for a time.

During that period, he learned some French and also cruelty. However, he hadn't stayed in France for long, nor did he know Beauxbatons' exact location. But wizarding schools, like Hogwarts, would hardly be built in conspicuous places like Paris.

Sure enough, the Thestral flew past the Eiffel Tower without pause. From dawn until dusk, Hoffa crossed the entire span of France. The Thestral's sharp spines nearly chafed his legs raw.

By dusk, the landscape below changed, giving way to rolling mountains—the Pyrenees at the Franco-Spanish border. The mountains were carpeted in yellow-green vegetation, with lush forests and the distant blue ocean, creating a picturesque view.

The scenery felt familiar—not in the way landmarks like the Eiffel Tower did, but with a unified style of natural beauty.

Though the view was stunning, Hoffa had no heart to appreciate it. Instead, he clutched his head and closed his eyes on the Thestral's back.

Even after regaining his memories, his headaches hadn't lessened. Seeing places he wished to forget or recalling his own mistakes would still trigger relentless pain.

He had been here during his second-year summer vacation and again in nightmares. This was Sylby's hometown. If he could, he'd avoid returning—this landscape only reminded him of his unforgivable sins.

Fortunately, the Thestral didn't linger. It suddenly ascended, soaring into thick clouds—far denser than any Hoffa had seen before. Within the mist, his vision turned pure white. Soon, the Thestral stopped flapping its wings, folding them as it stood steadily atop the clouds.

Hoffa glanced at the Thestral's hooves. The creature impatiently shook its body, urging him to dismount.

He jumped down. The cloud beneath his feet felt solid despite its ethereal appearance.

He realized he'd experienced such a place before. Three years ago, when returning Chloe to Britain, he had seen Slughorn's cloud-based base—similar walkable clouds.

But that was before magic had begun to wane. Now, with magic fading, it was remarkable that Beauxbatons could maintain such a structure.

"Thank you for your hard work," Hoffa patted the Thestral's sharp head.

"Hmph." The Thestral snorted coldly, turned away, and leapt off the clouds, disappearing without a glance back.

Hoffa chuckled. "Cold creature."

Carefully, he walked across the clouds. He was thousands of meters above ground. If the clouds collapsed, he wasn't sure if a Thunderbird would save him again.

Luckily, his fears remained unfounded. As he advanced, the clouds thinned, revealing white tiles and blue-and-white arches forming a long colonnaded bridge.

Hoffa touched the cloud-patterned railing, watching the drifting clouds below. A faint joy welled within him—he enjoyed such lofty places.

Crossing the cloud bridge, he reached an enormous platinum gate. It towered so high he couldn't see its top, only clouds swirling above. Massive wings and cloud motifs adorned the gate, rendering Hoffa minuscule beneath it. He couldn't make out the intricate carvings.

He pushed the gate without expectation. As expected, it remained firmly locked.

This left him in a dilemma—should he knock or call out? He knew neither would work. No public building would open for a lone caller, and Beauxbatons would be no exception.

How could he enter? Did Beauxbatons have secret passages like Hogwarts? He scanned the surrounding clouds but doubted such features were common outside Hogwarts.

While he puzzled over his predicament, a gentle melody drifted into his mind. Following the sound, he soon discovered its source.

Beneath the towering academy walls, a group of Beauxbatons girls in blue uniforms played violins and cellos. Among them, a middle-aged man leaned against the clouds, cranking a hand organ while nodding along to the music.

The man had black-and-white hair, neatly trimmed beard, and wore a white split robe revealing a hint of chest muscle—rather flamboyant in appearance.

Hoffa was surprised by the harmonious scene. Compared to the nearly fallen Hogwarts, this place seemed a paradise, still filled with music.

The man sang:

"A cottage in the storm, A fireplace in the cold night, An island in the whirlpool— Unseen, unheard, Storm, rage on, Time, roar on, Hermit, how long can you endure? The uninvited guest is arriving."

The music was light, gentle, and strange—indescribably captivating. Hoffa waited silently with his cross sword in hand.

When the final note ceased, the man turned, spotting the youth on the bridge. Dressed in a black hunting suit, carrying a leather-sheathed cross sword, Hoffa radiated a killing aura.

The man paused, stroked his beard, and smiled poetically at the musicians. "The wandering leaf is destined to return home. The distant bloodline awaits the welcome of brothers and sisters. Ah, look—who has arrived?"

With elegance, he closed his hand organ and approached Hoffa.

"Hello," Hoffa greeted in French, bowing slightly. "Are you Headmaster Pierre?"

"Certainly not. I am Don Quixote, Beauxbatons' History of Magic professor. Headmaster Pierre informed me that an important wizard would visit today. I thought it would be Albus Dumbledore—but it's you. A pleasure to meet you, Hoffa Bach."

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