Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The sound of hurried footsteps came from outside the door. Once they reached the house, the steps stopped in unison.

After about three seconds, a polite knock came from the wooden door, as if a courteous gentleman were paying a visit.

Through the peephole, Hoffa saw a neatly dressed man standing outside, accompanied by several German officers. Strangely, they were at Hoffa's doorstep.

Behind the officer stood two tall figures wearing black hoods, their presence unsettling.

The sight made Hoffa's heart sink—it was the Imperial Wizard Association.

Since Germany's influence in Europe had expanded, the number of German wizards had grown in tandem. These subordinates of Grindelwald had formed a specialized organization. Far from hiding their wizard identities, they actively collaborated with Muggles, ruthlessly hunting down dissenters in the wizarding world.

Their status and the terror they spread were no less fearsome than the Gestapo in the Muggle world.

Yet, these people typically never checked residential areas. Why were they here today?

Knock, knock, knock!

The wooden door sounded again, like the herald of doom.

Hoffa bit his lip, glaring at the shabbily dressed, scar-faced nun. He hissed, "Why did you have to be so loud?"

Covering her mouth, the nun looked apologetic. "Oh dear, sorry about that."

What a disaster!

Grumbling internally, Hoffa didn't stop moving.

There was no time to lose. He clamped a hand over the nun's mouth, grabbed her by her robe, and dragged her into the room. Without giving her a chance to resist, he shoved her under the bed.

"Stay quiet, or you're dead," he growled menacingly.

He hastily drew the bedsheet into place, grabbed some clothes from the wardrobe, and began changing quickly. He then went to the coffee table, collected the money and handgun, placed them in a box, and locked it in the cabinet.

Next, he pulled out a vial of gray, mud-like liquid from a drawer and downed it in one gulp.

Outside, the German officer, after receiving no response, stepped back and nodded to the two black-robed wizards.

One of the wizards stepped forward and drew his wand.

Just as they were about to cast a spell to blast the door open, the wooden door swung open abruptly.

A middle-aged man with black hair, a scruffy beard, and dressed in pajamas stood at the door. In fluent German, he asked, "What's the matter?"

The Gestapo officer immediately gestured for the black-robed wizards to step aside and put on a professional smile. "Hello. Is this the residence of Mr. Herrera Lapal?"

The man was exceptionally tall—tall enough to look down on the six-foot-three transformed Hoffa. He wore the black uniform of the military but bore no insignia or medals.

His skin was reddish-brown, taut and healthy, with lean, whipcord-like muscles visible on his shoulders, arms, and neck. His sharp, angular face was framed by a thin beard along his jawline, giving him the appearance of a razor sharpened by blood.

"Yes, I am Herrera Lapal," Hoffa replied, nodding. The man's imposing appearance reminded Hoffa of the venomous panther he had encountered years ago in the Forbidden Forest.

The Gestapo officer extended a calloused, slender hand. "A pleasure to meet you. I am Colonel Müller Mans of the SS."

(Despite his intimidating presence, his voice carried a surprisingly soft tone.)

Hoffa quickly shook the man's hand. "How can I help you?"

"Ah, we're conducting routine inspections in the area and happened to stop by your home. Would you mind if we came in for a quick chat?"

"This…"

Hoffa pretended to hesitate, glancing upward as if weighing his options.

The towering SS colonel smiled. "It won't take long; we'll be out of your hair shortly."

Hoffa managed a respectful smile. "Of course. Please, come in."

Colonel Mans entered the house with a briefcase in hand, while the two hooded figures remained by the door like grim sentinels.

The SS colonel strolled into the dining area and sat down, removing his gloves as he casually surveyed Hoffa's home.

"Your residence has great taste, Mr. Lapal. I admire your sense of style."

"It's a bit messy—I haven't had time to tidy up," Hoffa said, scratching his head and chuckling awkwardly.

Though the colonel appeared polite, Hoffa knew that anyone who reached such a rank in the SS had blood on their hands—hundreds of lives, at the very least.

Subtly, Hoffa shifted his stance to cover the shattered porcelain on the floor, hoping to conceal any evidence of the earlier scuffle.

"Do you have anything to drink?"

The colonel's eyes lingered on an empty decorative bottle on a shelf. "A bit of pine nut liqueur, perhaps? God knows how many homes I've visited today."

"All out," Hoffa replied apologetically. "Only water left in the house."

(The bottles were purely decorative—he didn't drink at all.)

"No problem, no problem. Drinking less is good for mental clarity."

The colonel spoke with the ease of an old friend.

"Mind fetching me a glass of water, then?"

Hoffa quietly poured a glass of water and placed it in front of the uninvited guest. While doing so, he could feel the colonel's sharp eyes scanning the room.

With exaggerated satisfaction, the colonel drank the water in one gulp, exhaling deeply as if he had been wandering a desert for a hundred days.

Straightening up, he gave a sharp belch and said, "Mr. Lapal, please have a seat. I just have a few quick questions for you."

Hoffa sat down, knowing full well that this Muggle officer was dominating the conversation, leaving him no room to maneuver.

The colonel opened his briefcase, shuffled through several documents, and stopped on one particular sheet.

"Mr. Lapal, what line of business are you in here in Paris?"

"Leather and textiles," Hoffa replied. "I supply a few clothing stores."

"Ah, clothing—how delightful. I'm quite fond of French fashion. Where's your shop located?"

"Seine-et-Marne, though it's on the verge of closing," Hoffa said.

"Seine-et-Marne," the Gestapo officer nodded. "May I see your identification? Just a formality, of course."

"No problem."

Hoffa stood, retrieved a metal box from a shelf, and handed over a set of papers.

Outside the door came the sound of rapid footsteps. They approached the house, only to fall silent all at once.

About three seconds later, a polite knock echoed from the wooden door, reminiscent of a well-mannered gentleman making a visit.

Through the peephole, Hoffa saw a neatly dressed man standing outside, accompanied by several German officers. To his astonishment, they were standing right at his doorstep.

Even more unsettling, two tall figures in black hoods loomed behind the officers.

The sight sent a chill through Hoffa—members of the Imperial Wizarding Association.

Since Germany's influence in Europe had grown, so too had the number of German wizards. These followers of Grindelwald had banded together to form a specialized organization. Far from hiding their magical identity, they worked alongside Muggles, ruthlessly hunting down dissenters in the wizarding world.

Their reputation for terror rivaled that of the Gestapo among Muggles.

Yet, these people rarely conducted inspections in their own territories. So why were they here now?

Knock, knock, knock!

The wooden door echoed again, like a grim summons.

Hoffa bit his lip, glaring at the disheveled, cloaked girl in his room. He growled softly, "Why did you have to make so much noise?"

She quickly covered her mouth and whispered apologetically, "Oh dear, I'm so sorry."

What a disaster!

Cursing inwardly, Hoffa wasted no time. He clamped one hand over the girl's mouth and dragged her inside the room, shoving her under the bed with no chance to protest.

"Stay quiet, or you're dead," he warned her fiercely, the fear in her eyes matching his urgency.

After tossing a blanket over the bed, Hoffa grabbed a few clothes from the wardrobe, changed hurriedly, and began clearing the room. He stuffed coins and a handgun from the table into a box, locked it in a cabinet, and downed a vial of a gray, sludge-like liquid.

Outside, the German officer, who had knocked three times, stepped back and nodded to the black-hooded wizards.

One of the wizards stepped forward, drawing a wand as they prepared to blast the door open.

Just as the spell was about to be cast, the door swung open with a sudden creak.

Standing there was a middle-aged man with a bushy beard, wearing pajamas. In fluent German, he asked, "What's the matter?"

The Gestapo officer stepped forward, pushing aside the wizards. With a professional smile, he asked, "Good evening. Is this the residence of Mr. Herrera Lapal?"

This man was exceptionally tall, towering over Hoffa's six-foot-two frame even in his transformed state. He wore the black uniform of the SS, devoid of any ranks or insignias. His sun-kissed, wiry frame exuded an air of disciplined lethality. Sharp features framed his face, with a trim beard outlining his jawline like a blade dipped in blood.

"Yes, I am Herrera Lapal," Hoffa replied with a slight nod, studying the man. His appearance reminded Hoffa of a venomous predator he had once encountered in the Forbidden Forest.

The Gestapo officer extended a calloused, slender hand. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm Colonel Müller Mans of the SS."

Though his voice was soft and polite, Hoffa knew better than to trust appearances.

He quickly shook the offered hand. "How may I assist you?"

Colonel Mans smiled faintly. "Ah, we're conducting routine inspections in the area and happened upon your residence. May we step inside for a brief chat?"

Feigning hesitation, Hoffa glanced at the sky before responding with a respectful smile. "Of course, please come in."

Mans entered the house, carrying a briefcase. The two hooded figures remained outside, standing like death's sentinels.

Inside, Mans settled casually into a dining chair, removing his gloves and surveying the room with a practiced eye.

"Your home has excellent taste, Mr. Lapal. I admire your style," Mans remarked.

"It's a bit messy—I didn't have time to tidy up," Hoffa chuckled nervously, scratching his head.

Though the officer's demeanor seemed friendly, Hoffa knew better. Anyone who rose to the rank of SS colonel had bloodied their hands countless times.

Standing discreetly on the broken shards from his earlier scuffle, Hoffa hoped to conceal any evidence of the fight.

"Do you have something to drink?"

Mans's eyes settled on an empty decorative bottle on a shelf. "Some pine nut liquor, perhaps? It's been a long day."

"Unfortunately, I'm all out," Hoffa apologized. "I only have water left."

"That's quite alright," Mans said, brushing it off. "Staying away from alcohol sharpens the mind."

Mans leaned back comfortably. "A glass of water would be fine, then."

Hoffa fetched a glass of water, feeling Mans's sharp gaze sweep the room as he did so.

Placing the water before Mans, Hoffa stood nearby, his movements carefully measured.

Mans drank deeply, letting out a satisfied sigh, as if he had been parched for days.

"Mr. Lapal, please take a seat. I just have a few questions for you," Mans said, setting the glass down.

Hoffa complied, tension simmering beneath his calm exterior.

From his briefcase, Mans pulled out a stack of documents, flipping through them until he stopped at a specific page.

"Mr. Lapal, what line of work are you in here in Paris?"

"Leather and textiles," Hoffa replied. "I supply several shops."

"Ah, clothing! I adore French fashion," Mans said with a grin. "Where's your shop located?"

"Seine-et-Marne province, though I'm considering closing it down soon."

"Ah, I see," Mans mused, nodding. "May I see your identification? Standard procedure, of course."

"Certainly."

Hoffa retrieved a metal box from a shelf and handed over the necessary papers.

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