Harry Potter: I am the Legend

In the middle of the dock's open space, dozens of private armed thugs aimed their guns at the young man with gray hair standing in the center. The tense atmosphere was punctuated by the sound of safety catches clicking into place.

Hoffa stood protectively in front of Chloe, his expression grim.

"Wait, wait! Don't! Don't get excited!"

A nervous voice rang out, drawing closer.

Hoffa turned his head toward the source of the voice. It was a woman in her early twenties.

She wore a black embroidered coat and a matching hat. Her black hair was tied into a ponytail with a white ribbon. Her skin had a sickly pallor, tinged with exhaustion, yet it was smooth and full, giving her the appearance of a fragile but stunning porcelain doll.

"Frank's a woman?" Chloe exclaimed in shock.

"No, could you shut up for a moment?"

Hoffa turned to the young woman and gave a slight bow. "It's been a while, Mrs. Dean."

Cough. "Matthew," the black-haired woman said to the overseer, "this is Mr. Bach, a friend of Mr. Frank. Tell them to put away their weapons."

The overseer, named Matthew, touched the blood streaking his face from the earlier explosion, then waved his hand in irritation. The armed thugs grudgingly lowered their guns.

"Thank you."

The black-haired woman breathed a sigh of relief. "It's been a long time, Mr. Bach. And this is?"

She gestured toward the nun.

"Chloe, a friend of mine," Hoffa replied. "We've come to see Frank."

"To see Frank…"

The woman's expression grew distant, as if lost in thought. Hoffa waved a hand in front of her face, snapping her out of it. She forced a hollow smile, the kind worn by someone who hadn't slept for days.

"Alright, follow me."

As the woman turned to lead the way, Hoffa whispered to Chloe, "Frank has a wife named Mary. She handles various errands for him."

"Those slaves—are they her doing?"

Chloe was still fixated on the issue.

"No," Hoffa said softly, warning her. "Listen, Frank isn't an ordinary Muggle. He's a wizard operating in the gray areas, ruthless to the core. Using these refugees as labor means nothing to him—it's no different from how pureblood wizards use house-elves."

He patiently explained, though it was clear these words didn't resonate with Chloe, who had grown up in a convent.

"It's the 20th century! How can people still openly enslave others?" Her voice quivered with outrage.

Hoffa found her naivety exasperatingly amusing. He had gotten along with the nun fairly well over the past few days, but she had an infuriating habit of fixating on trivial issues.

When they first set out, she had insisted on finding safe homes for stray dogs they encountered, wasting an entire day. Later, she wanted to bury every corpse they came across.

Hoffa had nearly gone mad. This was 1942—corpses lined the roads like plastic bags in the 21st century. If they buried each one, the war would be over before they reached Britain.

"Slavery has nothing to do with the era. Where there's demand, it exists. And if it exists, it's deemed reasonable."

Chloe fell silent, then, after a pause, said icily, "Are all your friends like this? I thought Hogwarts graduates would associate with better people."

"This isn't a convent," Hoffa replied sharply. "Don't let your temper flare here. Frank isn't a kind-hearted priest. Upset him, and we won't get a ship."

"Fine, fine, I get it. Stop nagging."

Irritated, Chloe turned away, folding her arms.

Hoffa sighed inwardly. He resolved not to let her meet Frank directly—if they did, they'd end up fighting on sight.

Frank's residence was tucked behind a warehouse near the docks, a domed stone-brick structure with gray fabric stretched taut over thin steel cables. The porch had doors at both ends, and fluorescent lights hung intermittently from the plywood ceiling, though most were broken. The damp air was filled with the smell of ash and concrete.

Mary politely opened the door for the pair, but Hoffa turned to Chloe. "Don't come in. Wait here for me."

Chloe huffed, crossing her arms as she stayed put.

Hoffa followed Mary into the dimly lit room. Hundreds of candles burned, their wax pooling into layered formations on every surface. In the center stood a massive stone table, upon which lay a black marble coffin.

Hoffa hadn't expected his first sight upon entering to be this. He turned to Mary, puzzled.

"I don't see Frank."

Mary motioned with her lips toward the coffin. "There."

Following her gaze, Hoffa stared at the coffin, then turned back to her mechanically. "What are you saying? Where is Frank?"

"He's in there," Mary replied, her pale face twisting into a mournful expression. "You've come at a bad time. He died yesterday."

An oppressive silence fell over the room.

"Excuse me," Hoffa said stiffly. "What did you just say?"

"You can see for yourself."

Mary turned away, grief etched into her features.

Hoffa stepped forward quickly, stopping beside the marble coffin.

The name Frank Dean was inscribed on the lid. Inside the green-tinted glass of the rectangular chamber, an old brass lamp cast its light over Frank's weathered face.

Frank Dean, forty-five years old, lay surrounded by withering plants. His body was emaciated, resembling that of an eighty-year-old man, his skin marked with scales-like tattoos.

Frank was dead?

Hoffa had imagined countless scenarios—Frank refusing to lend him a boat, Frank being excessively greedy, or even Frank siding with the Germans. But this?

He never imagined that the person he had written to just last month would be dead by now.

This thought inexplicably made Hoffa want to laugh.

From the first moment he met this man, he had been immersed in endless smuggling and shady dealings. A cunning and cautious character, he was well-known among the gray wizards for his skills.

Neither sooner nor later—just now.

What to do now? Without a boat, his plan to go to England seemed like a pipe dream.

Hoffa's gaze shifted to Mary, Frank's grief-stricken wife. Since he was dead, it seemed only natural to discuss borrowing the boat with her. But as the words formed, he hesitated. Asking for a boat right after someone's husband had died felt far too blunt, even for him.

"How did he die?"

He asked in a somber tone.

"I don't know. Something dreadful happened while he was at sea. When his crew brought him back, he was already like this."

As she spoke, Mary covered her mouth with a handkerchief, trying to stifle her sobs. She gestured toward Frank's body.

Hoffa's gaze fell on the midsection of the corpse. Beneath the clothes meant to obscure it, Frank's body was split cleanly in two.

Hoffa's heart skipped a beat.

Such a precise cut—could the one responsible be nearby?

"My condolences, madam," he said softly, patting the widow on the shoulder in an attempt at politeness.

"It's alright. Mr. Bach, was there something you needed?" Mary asked through her tears.

"Oh, it's like this. I came here to—"

Before he could explain, a loud gunshot rang out from outside.

Bang!

It shattered the moment, halting Hoffa's plans to borrow the boat.

Screams and angry shouts followed: "Drop the gun, you incompetent savage!"

Both Hoffa and Mary's faces changed at the sound. Hoffa quickly left the dimly lit room, abandoning the young widow, and rushed outside.

Outside, chaos reigned. Unopened packages of biscuits and bread were scattered across the concrete dock, and a group of scrawny children scrambled on the ground like a pack of dogs, fighting desperately to shove food into their mouths. Some were so frantic they ate dirt along with the food.

Nearby, a group of armed men brandishing guns tried to pull the children away. One of them, a brutish man resembling a baboon, grabbed a child by the collar, lifted him up, and slammed him onto the ground.

Chloe, a nun, was frantically trying to push the armed men away, but her efforts were futile. The baboon-like man didn't hesitate; he shoved her hard, sending her sprawling.

Bang!

He fired another shot into the air, trying to intimidate her. But Chloe scrambled to her feet, her fury undiminished. She stood her ground before him.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded.

The man spat on the ground viciously. "I should be asking you that! What are you doing on my turf?"

"I'm distributing a bit of food to them! What's it to you?"

"Here, if I say no one eats, no one eats!"

"You think you're Caesar or something?"

"You—!"

"Enough!"

Hoffa's gaze fell on the children scrambling for food. It didn't take much to figure out what had happened.

This overly maternal nun clearly hadn't heeded his warnings. The moment he left, she had stirred up trouble.

Hoffa stepped forward, pushing the overseer aside and shielding Chloe behind him.

"Keep your woman under control!"

The armed man, furious, pressed his forehead against Hoffa's in a menacing gesture.

Hoffa was seething. At that moment, he was equally fed up with both Chloe and this baboon-like man. But he still needed to borrow the boat, so he couldn't afford to make an enemy of the smugglers. Instead, he glared back fiercely.

At that moment, the young widow, Mary, stepped out, gasping at the chaos. Covering her mouth in shock, she quickly retreated back inside.

Chloe noticed her and turned to confront her.

"Why don't you control your men?" Chloe asked sharply, angering the armed thug even more.

"Uh… I… well…"

The twenty-year-old widow, facing this fierce younger girl, stammered and couldn't form a coherent response.

"Can't you see these kids are starving? How can you just stand by?" Chloe accused her, her moral outrage palpable.

"I… I didn't…"

Mary's face darkened with shame, her expression filled with regret for her negligence. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked to her men for support.

Matthew, the baboon-like man, puffed out his chest and stood protectively in front of Mary.

"Crazy woman! Why should it matter to you whether we care if they live or die?" he snarled at Chloe.

He sneered, "It's not our fault they ended up like this, and we didn't force them to live here."

Hearing this, Mary breathed a sigh of relief, her face relaxing slightly. After composing herself, she managed a faint, bitter smile.

"Matthew, that's not the right thing to say," she murmured.

"Mary."

"You… you go ahead with your work. Leave this to me."

Matthew snorted dismissively, raising his thumb in a mocking gesture toward Chloe and Hoffa before leading his men away in small groups.

After they left, Mary, visibly embarrassed, grabbed Chloe's wrist apologetically and said nervously, "It—it was my oversight. I'll be more careful, madam."

"You could at least give them some help. You don't seem to be short on food."

"Y-yes, it was my mistake," Mary stammered.

"That man Frank—who was he to you?"

"H-he… he was my husband," the widow replied haltingly.

(She was speaking to Chloe, but her eyes occasionally glanced at Hoffa.)

The nun seemed ready to say more, but Hoffa silently grabbed her and, without allowing any resistance, dragged her to a corner, forcibly distancing her from Frank's resting place.

Around the corner, the armed thugs who had left earlier were gathered, smoking cigarettes. As Hoffa and Chloe passed by, the baboon-like thug deliberately slammed his shoulder into Chloe and loudly jeered, "Jesus above, how does someone like her even survive to this age?!"

The group burst into laughter, their mockery echoing in Chloe's ears as she turned back in anger.

When they reached a quiet corner of the dock, Chloe shook off Hoffa's grip, her chest heaving with frustration.

"What's your problem?" Hoffa said, exasperated, like a father scolding his rebellious daughter. "Didn't I tell you not to meddle?"

Chloe glared at him silently, her expression clearly accusing him of being no better than Frank.

"What's with that look?"

She turned her head away, refusing to answer.

"If this is how you're going to be, then maybe we should part ways here," Hoffa said, a hollow threat he didn't mean.

"I never begged you to take me along!"

"Oh, really?" Hoffa's eyebrows shot up. "You're quite something, aren't you?"

"Couldn't you at least stand by me for once?"

"And if I do, and we can't borrow the boat, who's going to take responsibility?"

"I thought you and that Frank guy were closer."

Hoffa thought to himself, Frank's dead. What good is a strong relationship now?

Just then, faint footsteps sounded from behind them.

Hoffa turned quickly.

It wasn't the thugs, but a few scrawny children. They lurked in the shadows of nearby buildings, their hollow eyes gleaming with hunger.

"War orphans," Hoffa sighed. These children, displaced by the war, had no one to care whether they lived or died. Frank had likely kept them around as bargaining chips to exploit their parents.

Hoffa reached into his pocket, causing the children to stir nervously. Some shrank back in fear, while others covered their heads as if expecting harm.

But what Hoffa pulled out wasn't a weapon—it was a chocolate bar. He held it out, motioning for them to take it.

At the sight of food, the children rushed forward, grabbing the chocolate and stuffing it into their mouths without even unwrapping it. After devouring it ravenously, they looked up at Hoffa with wide, hopeful eyes, silently asking for more.

Hoffa patted one child's dry, yellowing hair and said gently, "That's all I have. Come back tomorrow."

Hearing this, the children whispered their thanks, glancing back repeatedly as they shuffled away.

When Chloe turned back to Hoffa, her gaze was noticeably softer. She no longer seemed as hostile as before.

Hoffa said, "Why did you have to provoke them?"

"I don't even want to ride on their boat," Chloe replied. "These people are awful—they don't even spare the kids."

Hoffa shook his head. "Once the war is over, you'll have plenty of chances to save them. But right now, none of us can afford to care."

"But—"

"No buts. We're not here to do charity work. German wizards are still hunting us. We have to leave this land as soon as possible. Do you understand?"

Chloe pouted, clearly unconvinced.

(End of chapter.)

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