Harry Potter: I am the Legend

An hour later, under the cover of night, two figures emerged, spiraling down from the air onto a neatly cobbled path.

The two figures were Hoffa and Aglaia.

Aglaia casually tossed a broken water cup into a nearby trash bin—a Portkey from St. Mungo's Hospital that had brought them here.

The lingering dizziness from the Portkey made Hoffa feel slightly nauseous. Standing on the dense cobblestone path, he raised his head to look around.

In the moonlight, a massive manor loomed in the darkness. It had pointed spires and walls covered in ivy, sitting imposingly on a hillside. The atmosphere was grand and austere.

"Is that your home?" Hoffa asked.

"Mm-hmm," Aglaia nodded.

"Kneeling for a hug," Hoffa joked with a grin.

"Do you really want one?" Aglaia asked seriously.

Feigning a bow, Hoffa pretended to kneel but was promptly kicked aside by Aglaia. The two burst into laughter.

Before Hoffa could properly admire the traditional castle, a lively yellow figure darted toward them like a bolt of lightning, bounding to their side.

It was a poodle—what would later be commonly called a toy poodle.

Aglaia squatted down and happily hugged the poodle around its neck. "Hi, Buster. Did you miss me?"

The poodle barked twice, then squirmed out of Aglaia's arms and placed its front paws on Hoffa's leg.

As Hoffa reached out to pat its head, the poodle suddenly hugged his leg tightly and began energetically humping it.

While doing so, it stared directly into Hoffa's eyes, as if silently asking, Is this good for you?

Hoffa froze, his leg trembling as if struck by lightning.

Aglaia quickly pulled the poodle away, standing with her hands on her hips and scolding, "Buster, what do you think you're doing?!"

Buster whimpered pitifully, still gazing at Hoffa, its lower body twitching.

"If you keep this up, I'll have you neutered tomorrow!" Aglaia declared coldly.

Buster seemed to understand. It curled up, let out two sorrowful howls, and stopped moving its hips.

Hoffa rubbed his temples in exasperation. After Aglaia finished berating the dog, she picked it up in her arms and said, "Let's go. You've got a lot to do."

"What are we doing?" Hoffa asked.

"First, I'm taking you to change your clothes," Aglaia replied, pointing at Hoffa with one hand while holding the poodle with the other. "You can't go around in your work uniform."

Hoffa didn't argue further. The two walked along the cobbled path up the hillside, slowly making their way into the manor. Along the way, Hoffa noticed wizards Apparating to the location.

Many of them cast curious glances at Hoffa. Still wearing his plain blue-and-white work attire, he stood out sharply against the formally dressed wizards around him.

Inside the manor, a servant opened the door for Hoffa. Aglaia pushed him toward an elderly man dressed as a butler.

"Help Mr. Bach change into something appropriate, Rem. Once he's dressed, bring him to me."

The lean, impeccably dressed butler adjusted his glasses, bowed silently, and displayed flawless professionalism.

Following the butler into a dressing room in the grand house, Hoffa saw maids and attendants bustling about in an orderly manner. The scene resembled the set of Downton Abbey.

The butler soon returned, carrying a stack of clothes. Unfolding them, he said, "There are no boys your age in the castle, but fortunately, Mr. Delaces left behind plenty of clothes. Though the style is a bit dated, they should fit just fine."

The butler continued, "Mr. Bach, do you have a preference for the style?"

"Just call me Hoffa," he replied.

"Very well, Mr. Bach."

Hoffa sighed. "Whatever you think is best."

He stretched out his arms like a resigned servant girl.

The butler said no more and quickly dressed Hoffa in an elegant, vintage black suit.

Once dressed, Hoffa looked at himself in the mirror. He appeared polished and refined, yet his mind wandered to the day two years ago when he went to Gringotts to swindle money. This challenge felt just as sudden as that one.

Entering the grand hall of the castle, Hoffa could only describe the place as "lavish beyond measure" and a testament to the excesses of capitalism.

The magically enhanced ceiling featured floating, ancient crystal chandeliers, their light dazzling. The murals on the domed ceiling rivaled the thirty-year masterpieces of Michelangelo. Massive vaulted arches were adorned with sculptures of six-winged angels.

Servants moved about, placing countless silver platters on ice-filled stations.

The opulence left Hoffa feeling uneasy. Looking at the servants holding doors for him, the red carpet illuminated by bright lights, and the well-dressed crowd of strangers nodding politely to one another, he couldn't help but lament the stark disparity between the rich and poor.

Just that afternoon, he had queued up on a street corner to buy a sandwich, and now he could sample fifty types of seafood.

Even with the Second World War raging outside, the people here wore warm, cheerful smiles as if living in an untouched utopia.

Reflecting on the chaos of Black Friday, which had sparked the war, Hoffa saw a sense of hollowness beneath the dazzling light around him.

At that moment, he felt a sharp gaze on him from within the crowd.

He stopped walking.

The owner of the piercing eyes was a middle-aged woman with long black hair, stunningly beautiful yet exuding an intimidating air. Dressed in a black evening gown, she carried herself with an imposing presence, surrounded by admirers. Her gaze seemed to dissect Hoffa.

It didn't take much imagination to guess her identity.

Hoffa felt that his friend's mother was not particularly pleased to see him.

He averted his gaze, and the butler standing on the staircase softly said, "This way, please."

Following the spiral staircase upward, Hoffa saw portraits and paintings lining the castle walls. They appeared to depict the castle's past inhabitants.

As they reached the third floor, the sound of conversations from below faded, and the surroundings grew quiet. The subjects in the paintings gradually transformed into the familiar figure of a certain girl.

Hoffa walked along the wall, looking at the photos one by one. Through these pictures, he could clearly see Aglaia's growth, from a chubby-cheeked little girl to a slender-faced young woman.

But as he looked closer, he noticed a peculiar detail.

Aglaia was a girl with Veela lineage, yet in all the photos, Hoffa couldn't find any other women with Veela traits.

In the rows of photos on the wall, the only person always standing beside her was a poised, black-haired woman with an elegant demeanor—the same one Hoffa had seen downstairs.

Though Aglaia's mother was stunningly beautiful, her appearance bore little resemblance to Aglaia's, and she clearly had no Veela lineage.

This realization made Hoffa frown. Unable to hold back, he asked the butler, "Where's Aglaia's father?"

"Mr. Delaces is away on a business trip," the butler replied indifferently. He stopped in front of a door, gestured politely for Hoffa to enter, and then stepped back.

However, before Hoffa could step inside, a group of older teens came down the hallway.

One of them, a blonde girl, spotted Hoffa and called out,

"Hey, Bach!"

Hoffa turned to look. The speaker was a blonde girl with a heart-shaped face, wearing a blue robe. Her pale face was dotted with a few freckles. She extended her hand warmly.

"Long time no see."

"Hi," Hoffa replied cautiously. "And you are...?"

He had no recollection of ever meeting this girl, who seemed a few years older than him. Her familiarity baffled him.

"Sherlock, Aglaia's sister. After what happened last semester, it's impossible not to know you," she said with a grin.

"Oh, oh," Hoffa chuckled awkwardly, feeling a bit out of place.

Sherlock—wasn't that usually a boy's name? Hoffa thought to himself. Aglaia had never mentioned having a sister. Nevertheless, he politely shook her hand.

Sherlock, seemingly unfazed, began introducing the others:

"This is Delphina, just graduated from Beauxbatons, and this is Carlson, fresh out of Durmstrang."

Carlson, a youth with an air of arrogance, was dressed in an elaborate golden robe. His dark hair was neatly combed, and he extended his hand with an almost condescending grasp of Hoffa's fingers.

"What's your last name, Hoffa?" Carlson asked.

"I…"

"His last name is Bach," Delphina, the tall girl, interjected before Hoffa could answer. She extended her hand for a handshake as well. She had delicate features, wore a gray linen robe, and—most strikingly—was bald.

"I've heard about you. The student who cast that remarkable Shield Charm, right?"

"Uh, no, I didn't know I had such a reputation," Hoffa said with a nervous laugh, giving Delphina a second look. Her bald head made her stand out, but there was something vaguely familiar about her.

"Bach? Sounds like a Muggle surname," Carlson said, puzzled.

Hoffa didn't respond, and the two girls didn't pursue the matter further.

"Want to come downstairs and grab a bite?" Sherlock asked casually.

"But I still need to wait…" Hoffa gestured toward the door.

"It's fine; this is Aglaia's home. She's not going anywhere," Sherlock laughed. "Come on, let's head down. We can eat while we wait."

Hoffa glanced at the room door. Though reluctant, he followed out of politeness as the group headed downstairs into the grand hall.

The moment they reached the hall, another group of teenagers, about a dozen in total, swarmed over. They all seemed well-acquainted, greeting each other warmly.

Carlson, as if in his element, immediately mingled into the crowd like a fish in water.

"Oh, Julian, long time no see!" he exclaimed, slapping another boy on the shoulder. "How's the painting coming along?"

From his pocket, Carlson took out a box of cigars, offering one to Julian.

"Not bad," Julian replied with a smile. "Too bad Paris is off-limits now. I'm planning to head to America soon."

Carlson lit Julian's cigar, and both puffed out smoke rings.

"Really?" Carlson asked, draping an arm around Julian's shoulder and casually picking up a glass of wine. "Julian is a wizard abstract painter, very talented."

"Is that so?" Delphina quipped. "Who paints anymore? Cameras can capture someone as real as life itself."

"Exactly!" someone else chimed in, and the group burst into laughter. Even Julian, the painter, joined in, though his smile seemed forced.

"Oh, have you heard? The Minister of Magic, Leonard Moon, just hired a new secretary," someone said, changing the subject.

"Isn't that normal?"

"No, but this secretary…"

The conversation drifted away like a flowing stream.

Hoffa, uninterested in art or politics, gazed upstairs, hoping Aglaia would come down soon and rescue him from this awkward situation.

"Mr. Bach… Mr. Bach?"

It wasn't until someone called his name that he snapped out of his thoughts.

It was Sherlock, smiling at him. "What's your political stance?" she asked with a teasing grin.

(End of Chapter)

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