Harry Potter: I am the Legend

Over the sea, a pristine white corset slowly drifted down from the sky.

Three speedboats cut through the waves, heading toward an old lifeboat in the distance.

The lifeboat floated on the sea, its hull gently swaying with the rhythm of the waves. Inside the cabin were two women and one man.

On the deck, groans filled the air.

"Ah, ah, ah—"

"Take it easy!"

"It hurts!"

A young girl lay on her stomach, her bare back exposed on the deck.

A woman gently stroked the girl's face, trembling as she whispered, "Hold on, dear. Just a little longer."

Behind her, a young man pressed down on her back with one hand, the other clamped tightly over her mouth. With a sudden, forceful motion, he stabbed.

The girl let out a muffled cry.

Sweat dripped from the boy's chin onto the girl's back.

Three days earlier, in Normandy.

An old Citroën rattled along a dull gray road. The car, dirty yellow with large luggage cases strapped to the roof by rope, bumped and swayed as it moved.

Inside, a gray-haired boy wore a checkered shirt, ripped black jeans, and blue canvas shoes—a completely ordinary Muggle outfit.

In the passenger seat sat a nun wearing a black-and-white headpiece. A vicious scar marred her face.

The two were none other than Hoffa and Chloe, having left Paris not long ago. They had rented a beat-up car, likely passed through countless hands, and were now driving toward Normandy. From there, they planned to cross the English Channel to reach England.

The car's radio played an obscure wizarding talk show. The nun curled up in her seat, half-heartedly listening to the German wizarding station.

"...Welcome to the Night of Monsters Story Hour. I'm Oren Bryan. Today's story is about Leviathan, an ancient magical creature.

Legend has it that Leviathan and its kind lived in the lightless depths of the ocean. However, Leviathan was an anomaly among its kin. A magical beast yearning for the light and warmth of the ocean's surface.

One day, it wished upon a wizard in its clan to see the sun.

The wizard granted its wish, giving it the ability to float on the ocean's surface. But there was a warning: Leviathan had to return to the depths before sunset, or it would be forever forsaken by its kind.

Leviathan agreed.

At dawn, it surfaced for the first time from the deep.

That moment, it was overwhelmed by the breathtaking beauty of the sun and daylight.

It stared at the sun, entranced, even as it sank beneath the horizon. It failed to return to the depths.

Day after day, Leviathan lingered at the surface, captivated by the sun's brilliance. Until one day, it realized its mistake and tried to return.

But its companions were long gone. Everything it knew had faded into oblivion over time.

Forgotten by death itself, Leviathan now drifts alone on the vast ocean, endlessly repeating its monotonous, solitary existence, waiting..."

Click.

The car's radio was switched off by a drowsy Hoffa.

He gripped the steering wheel tiredly, resting an elbow on the window and propping his chin with his fist, looking every bit the seasoned driver.

"What are you doing? I was listening to that story about this area!" Chloe complained, annoyed.

"You've been listening to this nonsense all day. Do you even remember half of it?"

"How would you know what I remember?"

"Because you only listen to it out of boredom," Hoffa replied flatly, hitting the nail on the head.

"Ugh, you're so dull."

The nun turned her head, fiddling with her fingers in boredom. "The weather's great today, isn't it?"

"Mm."

"I like sunny days like this," she mused, seemingly to herself.

Hoffa didn't respond. After a while, she suddenly asked, "By the way, what's the name of your friend, the one we're borrowing the boat from?"

"Frank. Frank Dean."

"What does he do?"

"He's a smuggler."

Hoffa yawned. "Why do you care? All you need to do is sit back and wait to return to England."

"How old is he? Your age?"

"Hah, he's twice my age."

"I figured. It's rare to see someone your age out here running around." Chloe spread her hands and sighed.

At that moment, the car jolted violently, as if it had hit something on the road. The tires let out an ominous hiss, and the steering wheel shook uncontrollably.

Screech.

Hoffa pulled the car over to the side of the road.

They were now in a forested area. The ground was a dusty yellow-brown dirt road, flanked by towering rocks and slopes. Dandelion seeds drifted lazily through the air.

Chloe looked at the stretch of forest and asked, "Are we in Normandy?"

"Not yet. Still a ways to go. But it looks like there's an issue with the tire."

He opened the door and got out to check.

Inspecting the road, he saw that it was littered with small, sharp metal shards. A few pieces had punctured the left front tire of their old Citroën, shredding it.

Hoffa picked up one of the shards, studying it closely. A sense of foreboding washed over him. This wasn't an accident; it was a trap.

Could it have been those German wizards? He wasn't sure.

However, Hoffa believed that members of the Imperial Wizarding Association wouldn't resort to such crude and vulgar tactics.

At this moment, Chloe also opened the car door and stepped out. Seeing the scattered metal shards on the road, she let out a small gasp and crouched down to inspect the damaged tire.

"Who would do something so despicable?"

"Wait here for me," Hoffa said to Chloe.

Grasping a vine, he climbed up the hillside. Reaching the top, he could see the vast, endless sea in the distance. Along the shore, a cluster of low houses formed a settlement, barely discernible at a glance.

Back at the car, Chloe was still crouched on the ground, trying to clear the metal shards from the road. Hoffa pulled her up and retrieved their luggage from the car roof.

Then, he leaned into the car, turned the ignition key, and placed a brick on the accelerator. The Citroën roared to life, sputtering on its ruined tire, and sped off down the road, scattering the metal shards as it went.

The dust kicked up by the car made Chloe cough. Straightening herself after the fit, she asked, "Hey, we're not driving anymore?"

"No," Hoffa replied, gesturing to the nearby woods. "I'm worried the German wizards might track us using the tire marks."

"We'll walk to the shore. If all goes well, my friend should be somewhere nearby."

Three hours later, the two trudged through layers of coastal forest and arrived at the settlement Hoffa had seen earlier.

It was Le Havre Port.

Legend had it that the famous Impressionist painter Claude Monet spent his childhood here, drawing inspiration for many of his works. In the modern era, this place would become one of Europe's largest ports.

But not now.

The Le Havre Port of this time was a war-ravaged coastal town.

Due to its crucial geographic location, this unremarkable port had become one of the key turning points of World War II—Normandy's landing point.

That turning point, however, was still a year away. Even so, the town was already devastated by the fires of war.

Ruined, ancient buildings stood like abstract sculptures, haphazardly stacked together. Among the ruins were scattered corpses of soldiers and animals. The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder and decay, evoking images of Picasso's Guernica.

This place was firmly entrenched on the front lines, far worse than Paris in its destruction.

"Your friend… lives here?" Chloe asked softly, her uncertainty evident.

Hoffa didn't respond.

Would Frank be here? He wasn't sure.

The first time Hoffa had met him, Frank had been selling voodoo potions around Normandy.

Frank Dean was one of the rare smugglers who managed to establish connections with chaotic resistance organizations outside Europe. He had miraculously tracked down certain supply routes, building stable relationships in over a dozen cities. Through these intricate and clandestine networks, alchemical devices and potions flowed into isolated countries.

Frank sold everything—potions, firearms, watches, switchblades, lighters. Bigger items like tank parts, ships, and metal supplies were also within his repertoire.

"Let's go. We'll look around first," Hoffa said, leading the way toward the town, his steps guided by faded memories. Chloe, despite her doubts, followed him.

After walking along the coast for ten minutes, the road narrowed significantly. The path was flanked by dilapidated shacks and filthy, tattered tents. Some of the tents rested on jagged rocks, where stiff soldier corpses could be seen lodged between the stones.

The soldiers' bodies were hung on stone pillars in twisted postures, exuding an eerie air of warning and command.

As the sea wind howled, Hoffa approached one of the stone pillars and observed the soldier closely. The man wore a khaki jacket, marked with the blue, white, and red emblem of the Third French Republic. He was a French soldier.

"The bodies haven't decomposed yet. They must have died recently," Chloe whispered.

Hoffa closed his eyes, running a hand over the stone pillar. Shortly after, a spiral tentacle carving appeared, circling the pillar. It was this magical carving that had pinned the soldier firmly in place.

"These soldiers were killed with magic," Hoffa murmured. "Transfiguration spells."

"Was it the German wizards?" Chloe's expression grew grave.

Hoffa shook his head silently. He was new here and unfamiliar with the situation.

Skirting the ruins, the two reached the harbor of Le Havre Port.

Walking along the dock for about ten minutes, they spotted a boat moored there. It was about twenty meters long, its hull patched with metal plates and painted in faded white. The vessel resembled a ramshackle adventure ship ready to set sail for Skull Island from Manhattan.

Here, they finally saw signs of life: a group of men hauling coal and wooden planks on their backs. They were shirtless, their faces etched with despair. Iron chains bound their feet, and coal dust darkened their skin.

Nearby, several armed thugs dressed in tattered jackets stood atop wooden crates, their rifles slung over their shoulders as they watched the workers from above like predators.

At that moment, a frail, emaciated man carrying coal collapsed heavily to the ground, spilling black lumps of coal everywhere.

"Damn it, you lazy worm!"

With a snarl, one of the armed thugs jumped down from the crate, pulling out a whip. He raised it high and lashed it down onto the man with a sharp crack.

"Get up and get back to work!"

The man didn't cry out. Instead, he curled into a ball, trembling slightly as he endured the blows.

Chloe covered her mouth in shock. She could no longer maintain her composure. "What kind of people are these?!"

"Who are you referring to?"

"Who do you think I'm talking about?"

"The ones beating others are likely private raiders," Hoffa explained calmly. "They scour the post-war wastelands, collecting wealth. The ones being beaten… those are probably their slaves."

"Slaves?" Chloe's voice rose in disbelief. "Are you serious?"

"Doesn't it look like it?"

The armed thugs heard their voices. The one who had been whipping the slave tucked away his whip and strode toward them.

"Hey, you two, what are you doing here?"

The overseer had the appearance of some kind of African primate. His bulging muscles rippled across his shoulders and arms. His reddish cheeks, large mouth, and crooked eyebrows only added to his menacing demeanor. His deep, gruff voice demanded attention.

Chloe stepped forward and blurted, "Hey, are you the guy named Frank?"

"Don't mess this up," Hoffa warned, pulling Chloe behind him. He turned to face the ape-like thug. "I'm looking for Frank, your boss."

To Hoffa's surprise, the man immediately drew his gun and pointed it at his head. "Where are you two from?"

The thug's strange behavior puzzled Hoffa, but he cautiously raised his hands. "Paris."

"What's your business here?" the thug demanded.

Annoyed, Hoffa retorted, "Why don't you just go tell Frank Dean I'm here? I don't want any trouble. Do you understand?"

"Sorry, that's not happening," the man replied coldly. "I suggest you turn around and go back where you came from."

Hoffa's expression turned icy. Without another word, he stepped forward and grabbed the barrel of the gun. The weapon, made of sturdy redwood and engraved with an eagle emblem, bent in his grip as if it were made of soft metal.

Boom!

The gun exploded in his hands.

Hoffa released the ruined weapon, letting shards of metal clatter to the ground. "Pointing a weapon at its maker? That's hardly polite," he said calmly.

The armed thug stumbled backward, blood dripping from his face and arms where the shards had cut him. He raised his hand and blew a sharp whistle.

Whaaaaaat!

It was as if he had stirred a hornet's nest.

Suddenly, countless black gun barrels emerged from every direction, all aimed at Hoffa and Chloe.

Behind each weapon stood an armed thug, their eyes cold and unyielding.

Surrounded, Hoffa stood his ground in the open and bellowed, "Frank! Come out and face me!"

(End of Chapter)

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