Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Two wizards stood at the door, Hoffa facing the Gestapo officer. Inside the house, the phone rang incessantly, and the Gestapo officer's expression flickered between uncertainty and suspicion.

"May I answer that?" Hoffa asked cautiously.

The SS colonel, his face grim, gave a slight nod.

Hoffa walked to the phone and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Put Müller on the line," said a curt voice in German.

Hoffa glanced at the scowling colonel beside him, confused, then handed him the receiver.

"It's for you."

The SS colonel hesitated, then took the phone warily. "Who is this?"

The voice on the other end said something inaudible.

The Gestapo officer frowned. "Strange. How did you get this family's number?"

After a pause, his expression turned sardonic. "What's your offer, then?"

Silence followed.

The officer sighed, his tone tinged with mockery. "Ah, not serious, are you?"

Suddenly, a sharp female voice rang out from the phone. Whatever she shouted caused the Gestapo officer's face to darken instantly.

"Where are you? I'll come get you right now."

After a few more muffled words, the line went dead.

The Gestapo officer hung up and took a deep breath before turning to Hoffa with a cold smile.

"A misunderstanding, Mr. Lapal. Sweet dreams and a pleasant life."

Without giving Hoffa a chance to respond, he pushed the door open and left.

The two wizards from the wizarding association cast Hoffa a frosty glance before following the Gestapo officer out. With measured steps, they departed Hoffa's house.

As the German officers responsible for the search exited, a heavy silence settled over the room. Hoffa's bones creaked as his body shrank and thinned, his hair fading to gray.

The effects of the Polyjuice Potion had worn off. He sat motionless at the table, staring at the old-fashioned telephone before him as if willing it to reveal its secrets.

In these times, there was no caller ID, no redial option.

If there had been, he would have traced the call to find out who had phoned him.

The caller hadn't wasted a single word. They knew there were German officers in his home and, perhaps, his precarious situation. Otherwise, they couldn't have defused the crisis so effortlessly.

But this didn't bring Hoffa relief or gratitude.

Instead, it filled him with an overwhelming sense of unease. If his every move was under someone's watchful eye, did he even have any secrets left?

This thought made him extremely uncomfortable.

Restlessness gnawed at him until he finally stood up, frustration bubbling over. He switched off the light and strode to his room. Lifting the bedframe with one hand, he muttered, "No matter what, I'm dragging that thieving girl out of here."

He intended to interrogate her, expel her—or both.

Yet, when he peered under the bed, it was empty.

Not even a shadow remained.

A sense of foreboding crept over him. He hurried to the wardrobe and checked the box where he stored his magic amplification gloves.

Gone.

Every last item—the gloves, the money, even the pistol—was missing.

Staring at the empty box, Hoffa punched the wall, cursing aloud:

"Damn it! I knew it!"

Losing the money wasn't too big a deal; most of his assets weren't in cash. But the magic amplification gloves were the culmination of over a year's work. Without them, his combat effectiveness was halved.

He began tearing through the house, searching high and low for the elusive thief. Yet it was as if she had vanished into thin air.

"What a mess of a day this has been," he muttered, sitting on the bare mattress and rubbing his temples in frustration. He tried piecing together some useful insight from the chaos, but no matter how hard he thought, nothing added up.

Outside, a thunderstorm began.

Rain poured in torrents as lightning occasionally illuminated the room. The streaks of water on the windowpane reflected the flashes of light in eerie patterns.

Hoffa stripped off his clothes and lay flat on the hard mattress.

The storm pummeled Paris, and each thunderclap echoed through the house, its vibrations casting fleeting shadows on his retinas.

Exhausted from the day's madness, Hoffa drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams plagued by fragmented memories—some good, some terrible.

By morning, the storm had passed. Hoffa, disheveled and sporting dark circles under his eyes, climbed out of bed and let out a weary sigh as his gaze fell on the empty box.

After washing up, he stepped out of the house and made his way to the Seine.

Norbert, wearing sunglasses and reading a newspaper, was waiting on a wooden bench at the street corner.

Hoffa approached, greeting him half-heartedly.

"Morning. All set?"

"Yeah, all set."

Norbert folded his newspaper with a snap. "I'm planning to take you to Yaoundé. Once we're there, no one will be able to find you. Wait—what's with that look? You look like you've been hit by a truck."

"Got robbed," Hoffa said grimly.

"Everything I had was stolen."

"Robbed?" Norbert stared at him, dumbfounded.

"What kind of master thief could steal from you? Aren't you supposed to be a wizard who excels in perception and mental acuity?"

"Enough. Don't rub it in," Hoffa said, forcing himself to stay composed. "Yaoundé—where is that?"

"Africa. There's a tribal militia there willing to pay top dollar for our weapons. We need to deliver them by the fifth."

"What's today's date?" Hoffa asked offhandedly.

"September 1st," Norbert replied. "You seriously can't even remember the date?"

Hoffa froze for a moment.

If it were any other year, he'd be boarding the Hogwarts Express today.

The thought made him feel a fleeting pang of nostalgia, but he quickly shook it off.

"Let's go. The sooner we leave this place, the better," he said calmly. "This place doesn't suit me—it's cursed."

The two made their way to a port on the northern bank of the Seine-et-Marne, planning to set sail from there.

When they arrived, Hoffa noticed the port was crowded with people, shoulder to shoulder. They carried large bundles, their faces etched with confusion and fear.

These were Jewish refugees being rounded up to be deported from France to Germany.

The docks were lined with transport ships, and soldiers in black leather coats stood watch, armed and alert. Under the soldiers' supervision, the Jews filed onto the ships in an orderly queue. Their fates were clear: concentration camps and, eventually, death.

"These people will face judgment someday," Norbert sighed.

"Judgment? By whom?" Hoffa smirked, his tone dripping with cynicism.

Norbert leaned in and whispered, "Not by you, so don't get any ideas. Once we're on the ship, we'll leave all this behind."

As they turned to leave, Hoffa's toe nudged something on the ground. Looking down, he saw a glass vial—a syringe, to be exact, with faint traces of magical energy still clinging to it.

Curiosity piqued, he bent down, picked it up, and sniffed it.

Years of magical training and expertise in alchemy immediately revealed what the syringe had contained.

"A potent magic-replenishing potion? What's this doing here?" he murmured.

"What?" Norbert asked.

Hoffa's eyes followed the ground. To his surprise, similar syringes were scattered every few steps.

Following the trail, he came upon a group of German wizards in black robes near the riverbank. They were injecting these syringes into the necks of disheveled Jewish Muggles, one by one. Only after the injections were they allowed to proceed.

Crates full of unopened vials of magic-replenishing potions were stacked nearby.

The bizarre scene left Hoffa speechless.

What were these wizards doing? Why inject Muggles with magic-replenishing potions? Muggles had no magic to replenish—injecting them with this was utterly pointless.

Norbert, who had followed, gasped under his breath, "What kind of lunatics waste money like this?"

Before he could say more, he clammed up and hurriedly pulled Hoffa away from the strange German wizards.

Beyond the troop carriers used to deport the Jews, a few smaller passenger ships were docked. These vessels only traveled between German-occupied territories and Axis-aligned nations; none were bound for Allied countries.

As Norbert prepared to board one of the ships, a group of armed soldiers approached.

"Wait."

Seeing the inspectors, Norbert skillfully produced a set of documents. But the soldiers waved them off.

"Boarding is suspended today. Come back later."

Hoffa frowned slightly.

Norbert protested, "What do you mean? It was fine just a few days ago!"

"A few days ago was a few days ago," the soldier snapped impatiently. "We're searching for an escaped fugitive."

He slapped away Norbert's attempted bribe.

"Come back in a couple of days."

Norbert and Hoffa exchanged a glance. "Fine, fine, a couple of days it is," Norbert said with a forced smile.

Once they were away from the docks, Norbert rubbed his chin, visibly puzzled. "What's going on? Why would the Germans suddenly shut down the port?"

Hoffa thought back to the Gestapo officer who had come knocking the night before. "They're looking for someone."

"Looking for someone? Who? You?"

"No, not me. A woman."

"A woman?"

"Yeah," Hoffa said, gesturing toward his eyes. "A woman with cataracts."

"Cataracts?" Norbert echoed, raising a brow.

"What exactly are you talking about?" Norbert asked, his face full of doubt.

"I—"

Hoffa was just about to share his wild encounter from the previous night when a vaguely familiar figure caught his attention.

Across the bridge, a nun in a monastery robe hurried past with her head lowered. The sight of the robe made Hoffa immediately shove Norbert aside.

"What's wrong with you?" Norbert asked, startled.

"Wait here for me," Hoffa said. Without hesitation, he bolted across the bridge, covering the distance in a few strides. The nun sidestepped into the bustling crowd and disappeared.

"Stop!"

Hoffa didn't care about startling people. He forcefully parted the crowd with his hands, determined to catch up.

The nun, seemingly oblivious to the commotion, continued forward. However, the thick crowd slowed her pace considerably.

It didn't take long for Hoffa to catch up. Grabbing her shoulder firmly, he spun her around.

"Hey!"

The nun jumped in surprise, twisting her head sharply to look at him.

A sinister smile crept across Hoffa's face. Although it had been dark the night before and the woman had worn heavy, chaotic makeup that obscured her features, the distinctive scar on her face left no doubt in Hoffa's mind.

There was no mistake—this was the same woman who had broken into his home the previous night, stolen his magical gloves, and made off with ten thousand francs.

Seeing the shock on her face, Hoffa grabbed her wrist tightly.

"Got you," he said triumphantly.

The young, scar-faced nun froze momentarily, then struggled to free herself.

"Hey, who are you?" she demanded.

"Keep pretending!" Hoffa sneered. "Do you think I'm stupid? I'm telling you now, unless you return what you stole from me, you're not going anywhere today!"

The commotion drew the attention of nearby passengers waiting to board ships.

The nun's expression turned panicked as she glanced around. She tugged harder and hissed, "Let go of me!"

Realizing she had no intention of returning his belongings—and not even the slightest hint of guilt—Hoffa grew increasingly furious.

He yanked her arm. "Look at you, dressed as a nun, acting so innocent—it's disgusting!"

"Are you insane?" she snapped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Hoffa chuckled in disbelief.

As the surrounding crowd grew larger, he restrained himself, worried that causing too much of a scene might attract the German wizards, which would only complicate things.

Lowering his voice, he said, "Listen, if you're short on money, I'll give you a thousand francs. But give me back my gloves. They're useless to you."

Slap!

Before he could finish, she responded with a loud, stinging slap.

Her face flushed with anger as she shouted, "Are you crazy? I didn't take anything from you!"

The onlookers murmured in surprise, clearly entertained by the spectacle.

Stunned by the slap, Hoffa's expression darkened. He opened his eyes wide, glaring at her.

"Fine," he said coldly. "You asked for this."

He tightened his grip and dragged her into a nearby alley.

"Let me go! Let go of me! Help, someone help!" she screamed, struggling fiercely.

A few spectators exchanged uneasy glances. Two men seemed about to intervene but were held back by their companions.

Perhaps it was the times—when life was cheap and everyone prioritized their own safety. Or maybe it was Hoffa's intimidating aura, or even the nun's unremarkable appearance.

Either way, no one came to her rescue.

Hoffa pinned her against a wall with ease. "Scream all you want. If you don't give me back what's mine, no one's coming to save you!"

"Who are you? What do you want?" she sobbed.

"Give me back my gloves. Take them, and I'll leave. I won't even look at you again."

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

Hoffa nodded slowly. "Sure. That's exactly what Durant said too."

"Who's Durant?"

"You've never told me the truth, have you? Fine, you leave me no choice."

Hoffa reached into her robe's pockets, searching them.

The scar-faced nun panicked, tears welling up in her eyes. She began to plead, "Please, let me go. I didn't take anything!"

Her expression seemed genuine, but recalling her behavior the night before, Hoffa was convinced she was acting. Either that, or he was blind.

Cursing her theatrics inwardly, he flipped her around to search her waist.

At this, the nun broke into loud, wailing cries.

"Pervert! Let me go!"

Just as Hoffa was about to reach her waist, a sharp voice rang out from a distance.

"Stop that!"

Hoffa froze mid-motion, turning toward the source of the voice. He wanted to see who, in these times, still cared enough to intervene.

At the entrance to the alley stood a tall figure in a gray robe, her head shaved.

It was a woman—the same Ministry of Magic employee Hoffa had encountered yesterday: Delphina.

"Chloe!"

Delphina strode briskly toward them, her eyes scanning Hoffa in disbelief.

"Mr. Bach," she said sharply.

"What are you doing here?" Hoffa asked quietly.

"That's my question to you," Delphina replied. "What on earth are you doing to her, Mr. Bach?"

Hoffa released his grip. The scar-faced nun immediately collapsed to the ground, clutching her knees and sobbing uncontrollably.

Pointing at the nun, Hoffa asked, "What's your connection to her?"

Delphina didn't answer. Instead, she crouched down and comforted the crying nun.

"What happened, Chloe?"

"He… he assaulted me," the nun sobbed.

"Assault you? Please!" Hoffa scoffed, nauseated. "Give me back what you stole, and we'll part ways. I don't care where you go!"

"Chloe, did you take something from him?" Delphina asked gently.

"Lies! He's slandering me!"

The nun stood, her red, tear-streaked face contorted in anger as she jabbed a finger at Hoffa. "I've never even seen you before!"

Hoffa crossed his arms, laughing incredulously. He had never encountered anyone so skilled at lying—it was Oscar-worthy.

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