Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Bitten by a dragon?

Hoffa was startled by the terrifying wounds on the Muggle soldier. Quickly taking control of the situation, he barked out orders:

"You, go register him immediately! And you, carry him inside! I'll go contact a healer."

Seeing how composed the young man was, the group of Ministry of Magic employees seemed to have found a pillar of support. They busied themselves following his instructions.

Hoffa rushed through the glass walls and back into the main hall of St. Mungo's Hospital. He pulled out a stack of forms from beneath a desk and began frantically filling them out, preparing to arrange surgery for the injured soldier.

The Ministry employees carried the stretcher inside, drawing gasps from the surrounding nurses, who quickly gathered around.

After finishing the paperwork, Hoffa pushed through the nurses and approached the Ministry workers.

"Take him to the second floor, to the Magical Creature Injuries ward. Find Healer Smethwyck, now!"

But just then, a cold voice interrupted from the edge of the crowd.

"Hold on."

Hoffa turned his head and saw a short, stocky man parting the crowd and walking toward them. It was none other than his supervisor, Cregan Boten, the same short, penguin-like man who had lectured him that morning.

"Wait a moment," Boten said.

Hoffa turned back, ignoring him. This was a matter of life and death; he had no interest in wasting time arguing.

But his attitude only seemed to provoke Cregan Boten further. Narrowing his eyes, Boten sneered, "What are you doing, boy? Who authorized you to issue an admission form without approval?"

Hoffa remained silent. He had already decided to resign that evening and didn't want to escalate the conflict.

Seeing the soldier's breathing grow weaker and more labored, Hoffa urged the Ministry employees, "Hurry, take him to the second floor. Don't worry about anything else!"

The Ministry workers had just begun to move when—

"Who dares move?!"

Boten screeched like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. In a fit of rage, he snatched the admission form from Hoffa's hand, startling the Ministry employees holding the stretcher.

The short, thick fingers tore the form away.

"I don't care what injuries he has. Did you follow protocol?" Boten stepped closer, emphasizing each word: "Did. You. Follow. Protocol?"

Spittle nearly sprayed onto Hoffa's chin.

Hoffa snapped, "He's about to die! Can't you see the state he's in?"

Boten's face darkened. Leaning in close, he hissed, "Listen, boy. I don't care who sent you here. If you're working at St. Mungo's, you follow the rules. Learn that!"

With that, he shoved Hoffa aside and planted his hands on his hips. Turning to the Ministry employees, he demanded, "What's your relationship to the patient?"

The employees hesitated, clearly caught off guard.

"We're just following orders," one of them stammered.

"And where are the patient's family members? Why aren't they here?" Boten continued self-righteously. "This isn't child's play. We need a signed liability waiver before proceeding with the surgery."

Family?

The Ministry employees exchanged helpless glances, unsure how to respond.

Hoffa couldn't stand it any longer. Boten's dithering and bureaucratic nonsense were practically criminal negligence. Grabbing Boten by the collar, Hoffa snarled, "He's a Muggle—a Muggle soldier! Do you expect a conscious Muggle to come to St. Mungo's and sign your forms?"

"What kind of attitude is this?"

Boten glared at him, his nostrils flaring with rage.

Hoffa tightened his grip, lifting the stocky man slightly off the ground. Boten's eyes widened in shock.

"What are you doing?!" he demanded.

Hoffa's voice was icy. "Arrange the surgery. Now."

"Is that a threat? Do you want to be fired?"

"Fire me, then."

Their tense standoff was abruptly interrupted by one of the Ministry employees. "It's too late," he said quietly.

Hoffa froze and looked at the speaker.

The employee explained, "He's dead."

Hoffa released Boten and crouched down, pressing his fingers to the soldier's neck. The Muggle, who had been bitten in half by a dragon, had taken his final breath. His wide, unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling, and his chest no longer rose and fell.

The surrounding nurses sighed softly and began to disperse. In wartime, such tragedies were all too common.

Hoffa stood, head bowed, silent.

Boten frowned and ordered, "Take the body away. Let the logistics department handle it. Don't let this disrupt normal operations. And remember, we're not accepting Muggles right now. Don't bring just anyone here."

The Ministry employees murmured their acknowledgment, their spirits visibly dampened.

Boten adjusted his tie, sneering at Hoffa in a low voice. "Learn something, will you?"

The remark was like a spark to a barrel of gunpowder. Blood rushed to Hoffa's head, and adrenaline surged through his veins. Tilting his head slightly, he said coldly, "He didn't have to die."

"Didn't have to die? Who doesn't die?"

Boten smirked. "Do you know about France? About Belgium? About Poland? People are dying every day—thousands upon thousands. Are you going to save them all? Can you?"

"You're responsible for this," Hoffa growled, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

"Responsible? Me? For what?" Boten scoffed. "Who's going to take responsibility for Mr. Bohan? For the shareholders? For the medical expenses? Let me remind you, ever since you started here, this hospital has lost at least eight hundred Galleons because of your unauthorized approvals—"

SMACK!

Boten's neck was suddenly gripped tightly.

He looked up to see Hoffa's golden eyes glaring back at him, blazing with a terrifying intensity. To his shock, the boy standing before him seemed to grow taller.

Before he could process what was happening—

BANG!

A heavy punch slammed into Boten's face, knocking his nose askew.

He didn't even have time to react before another blow sent him sprawling to the ground.

THUD! THUD! THUD!

Hoffa grabbed Boten by the legs and swung him like a club, smashing him left and right. Amid the chaos of flying debris, Boten let out a sharp, ear-piercing scream before collapsing like a deflated balloon.

Under the horrified gazes of everyone present, St. Mungo's apothecary, Cregan Boten, was beaten into the floor by his own intern. His teeth scattered across the ground, and his limbs twisted into unnatural angles.

Breathing heavily, his face flushed with fury, Hoffa glared at the two craters left behind. Tossing aside a broken shoe in disgust, he spat on Boten's battered form. "You think I'm here to serve you? Go eat dirt!"

Three hours later.

On the hospital's fifth floor, Hoffa sat on a bench, staring at his hands. He didn't blink, as if trying to understand why he had done what he did.

Yes, he had hated his boss—deeply. The resentment had been building for a long time. But this level of violence? This was new.

Was it really the first time?

A sudden headache reminded him of his last brutal fight with Silby, a battle where violence had also escalated beyond control. Wasn't that the same? He questioned himself.

But he quickly shook his head. No, no. This was different.

"I was doing the right thing," he thought. "These people had it coming. They deserved it."

That thought made him feel slightly better, but deep in his subconscious, a vague unease began to stir.

What is guilt?

What truly defines sin?

He stared blankly at the bustling crowd, his gaze unfocused, as though he had been torn away from the world around him.

Suddenly, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

Startled, Hoffa snapped out of his daze and turned to see a middle-aged woman in a white coat. She wore a mask and held a file in her hand, her gaze fixed on him. Without a word, she grabbed his shoulder and pushed him toward the director's office.

"Director Bohan specifically asked to see you. Go in," she said.

Handing Hoffa a stack of black-and-white prints, she turned and left.

Hoffa glanced at the sheets. The images showed Cregan Boten wrapped entirely in bandages like a mummy, his condition so dire it was almost unbearable to look at.

Attached were two full pages of medical examination reports.

Rubbing his forehead, Hoffa let out a sigh.

The inevitable always comes.

He regretted it—not beating Cregan Boten to a pulp, but agreeing to Aglaea's proposition so hastily. He was never cut out for working in such an environment.

Only heaven knew what awaited him behind that door.

(End of Chapter)

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