Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The three entered the room one after another.

If Hoffa had thought his hotel room was already quite nice when he first saw it, he now realized that his imagination had been limited by poverty.

This room could easily rival the goblin office he had seen last time at Gringotts. It was massive, with an elegant silver-threaded carpet, towering mahogany cabinets filled with exquisite porcelain, and a black piano tucked into one corner.

Of course, the most striking feature of the room was at its center, where Hoffa saw a young man sitting in a wheelchair.

The young man, about three or four years older than Hoffa, was wrapped in a thick gray blanket and looked around fifteen or sixteen years old. He was handsome, with gray-white hair, gray eyes, and pale skin. The dappled moonlight fell across him, making him look like a vampire who had been deprived of light for years—or perhaps an old, faded shell of a person.

What drew even more attention was the oversized cup at his right side. A long, transparent straw extended from the cup, wound around his neck, and stopped at his lips.

His dull eyes scanned the group, lingering on Hoffa's face a moment longer than the others.

"Are you here for the job too?"

"Yes."

Hoffa kept his head down, thinking how ironic this was. Last year, he and Indor had used this guy's name to scam 5,000 Galleons from Gringotts, and now meeting the real person felt awkward and unsettling.

Sylby opened his mouth, tilted his head, and took a sip from the long straw.

"Sit."

The three of them sat down on the sofa.

"I'll ask a few simple questions," said the boy wrapped in the blanket. "Do you speak Spanish?"

The blond man immediately said, "Yes, I not only speak Spanish, but also Italian, French, Portuguese, German, and even Russian."

The red-haired man frowned, visibly displeased. "I speak four languages: English, Spanish, French, and German."

"And you?" Sylby asked Hoffa.

Hoffa kept his head lowered. "No."

"Then what languages do you know?" the boy asked calmly.

"Chinese and English," Hoffa replied.

Chinese? The other two exchanged incredulous glances and burst into laughter, as if hearing something utterly absurd.

"What's so funny?" Sylby asked in a quiet tone. The laughter stopped immediately. Despite his small stature, the boy had an intimidating presence.

"Why do you want this job?" Sylby continued.

The blond man puffed out his chest. "To improve myself. I firmly believe that the collision of genius with genius produces the most wonderful sparks. In this regard, I'm very confident."

The red-haired man said, "Humanitarian care—helping others. It's something I've always wanted to do. Especially for people with disabilities, I've always felt a deep compassion and believe that encouraging them to live positively is the most honorable thing one can do."

Sylby tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment before shifting his gaze to Hoffa. "And you?"

Hoffa frowned. "I need money."

The other two couldn't hold back anymore and frowned at Hoffa.

But Sylby remained unfazed, asking weakly, "Work experience?"

Hoffa felt slightly annoyed. It was just a job escorting someone to Spain; why did it feel like a presidential secretary selection process?

"Administrative management is my expertise," the blond man said. "It includes financial management and asset restructuring. Oh, and my internship supervisor was British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain, who spoke very highly of me."

The red-haired man cast a sideways glance at him, proudly opened his briefcase, and displayed his credentials.

"I have the world's most authoritative Level 1 Nutritionist, Level 1 Caregiver, and Level 1 Mental Health Doctor certifications. I've also worked for numerous nonprofit charitable organizations. I believe, under my care, Mr. Sylby will experience an unprecedented level of comfort."

As the red-haired man boasted, Sylby tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if lost in thought or suddenly captivated by the intricate carvings there.

Finally, the red-haired man finished listing his impressive resume.

"Sir...?"

"Sir."

"Mr. Spencer?"

Sylby lowered his head, as if snapping back to reality.

The young black girl standing by the door stepped forward and began refilling his cup.

But in the next moment—

The girl suddenly flung the water pitcher at the three of them. With ghost-like speed, she pulled a fruit knife from her pocket and, with a lightning-fast movement, aimed it at the temple of the paralyzed boy in the wheelchair.

The air was thick with killing intent!

The drowsy atmosphere shattered in an instant. Hoffa's hair stood on end. At such close range, there was no time to cast a spell.

He had less than a second to react.

He activated his transformation technique.

Life ConversionLife: 8

Mana: 2

Amidst the searing headache, Hoffa's muscles surged with energy. He kicked the chair aside, launched himself like an arrow, and tackled the girl around the waist, pinning her to the carpet. The two of them skidded more than three meters across the floor.

"What are you doing!?"

Hoffa pressed down on her wrists, shouting in shock.

The knife gleamed coldly—it wasn't a joke. This was a real weapon.

The girl grinned, forming her fingers into the shape of a gun and pretending to fire at Hoffa's head.

"Bang! Not bad, your reflexes are pretty sharp."

Sylby, still seated in his wheelchair, turned his head coldly toward the two young men on the chairs, their mouths agape. Warm water from the pitcher dripped from their faces and onto their laps.

Sylby said, "The door is behind you. You can leave now."

The two, still pale and drenched, stumbled out of the room, not entirely sure what had just happened.

The wheelchair rolled over to Hoffa. He let go of the girl and stood up, frowning. At this point, he couldn't quite figure out the boy in the wheelchair.

The black girl, Nancy, picked up the fruit knife and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Now only Hoffa and Sylby remained.

"What's your work experience?" Sylby asked softly.

"None."

Sylby stuck out his tongue and began sipping from his straw again. After a long pause, he spoke slowly.

"What's your name?"

"Hoffa Bach."

"Are you a wizard?"

"Aren't you?" Hoffa asked. "I heard from Raymond that you're a Beauxbatons student."

Sylby didn't reply, only scrutinized Hoffa carefully.

"Fine, you're right," Hoffa admitted with a nod.

"I'm a wizard."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen," Hoffa said.

"I'm 15 too, but why do you look much younger than me?"

"Short stature," Hoffa replied.

"Even at 15, shouldn't you be staying at home during this time? Doing homework, eating ice cream, maybe writing letters to your girlfriend?"

The wheelchair turned, and Sylby moved to Hoffa's right side.

"Cheap clothes, priced and made for no more than 20 shillings. Worn-out shoes over a year old, yet you're wearing a rare François magical watch. Why are you here at the LeBrun Hotel?"

"Then why did you keep me here?"

Hoffa raised his head and asked directly. The interrogative tone of Sylby's every word made him uncomfortable.

"Curiosity," Sylby said nonchalantly, taking another sip of water. "Among the 49 candidates over the past few days, you're the youngest, yet you reacted the fastest. So, I'm curious."

Hoffa had nothing to say in response. The two fell silent for a few seconds.

"Do you like Mozart?"

Hoffa was baffled. "What?"

"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Do you like his music?"

"Never heard it," Hoffa replied honestly. He wasn't familiar with Western music.

"What about Chopin?" Sylby pressed on.

"No."

"Then why is your surname Bach? Are you related to the German composer Johann Sebastian Bach?"

The string of unrelated questions left Hoffa bewildered. Wasn't this just about escorting someone to Barcelona? Why all these irrelevant inquiries?

"I haven't been exposed to much classical music," Hoffa said dryly.

"You don't like Muggle music," Sylby said sharply.

Hoffa felt annoyed. In his previous life, he had listened to countless great songs, and here this guy was, acting superior just because he had heard a few classical pieces. What did this have to do with the job? Or perhaps he had no intention of letting Hoffa take the job and was just messing with him because of his age.

"Why not talk about the job?" Hoffa suggested. "I just heard someone needed to be escorted to Barcelona, with an escort fee of 50 Galleons. So, I came."

Sylby sipped his water and said slowly, "You don't appreciate art."

Alright, it seemed the job hunt might be a bust. Was he really going to have to sleep rough in Morocco for half a month?

"I like art, but I don't force others to like what I like." With that, Hoffa stood up, ready to leave.

"I'm a Squib," Sylby suddenly said, slowly answering the question Hoffa had asked earlier.

Hoffa paused, surprised, and gave him another look but didn't dwell on it. He nodded and said, "Oh," before continuing toward the door.

"Don't you pity me?" Sylby suddenly called out loudly behind him.

"What?" Hoffa turned, mouth agape. "What did you say?"

"I asked, do you pity me? A Squib, a cripple, with only my head functional?" He squinted as he asked.

"Pity?" Hoffa laughed, confused, and pointed to the ceiling. "Why would I pity you? You're living in a presidential suite!"

Sylby's eyes widened in shock.

The black girl, Nancy, entered the room and, seeing Sylby's expression, hurriedly pulled Hoffa aside and whispered, "Come with me, quickly."

Hoffa stared at her.

She tugged at him and whispered, "Hurry up and leave."

Hoffa muttered, "Weird guy."

"Wait."

Sylby's voice called from behind.

Hoffa turned to see Sylby squinting his eyes into crescents as he smiled. "You're hired."

Nancy's jaw dropped in disbelief.

The wheelchair rolled to Hoffa's side, and Sylby tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing him.

Hoffa couldn't wrap his head around it. "Mr. Spencer, are you serious?"

"Just call me Sylby," the boy said with a faint smile.

Then, turning his wheelchair around, he continued, "My plan is to leave tomorrow, traveling from Casablanca to Tangier Port, crossing the Strait of Gibraltar, through Spain, and back to Barcelona. My family will pick me up there.

If you can escort me safely to the end, not only will I pay you 50 Galleons, but I might consider offering you a full-time position."

Hoffa frowned. "What? I'm just looking for temporary work, not a full-time job."

"Let's talk about that after you complete the task," Sylby said, nodding to Nancy.

She went to a nearby box, took out a small pouch, and tossed it to Hoffa.

Hoffa caught it, opened it, and found it filled with gold coins.

"Since you're a wizard, I'll pay you in Galleons. Here's 25 as a deposit for successfully getting hired. Once the task is complete, I'll give you the rest, maybe even a bonus. For now, help me get back to Barcelona. Do you have any suggestions? If not, come find me tomorrow."

Hoffa weighed the pouch and thought the boy seemed pretty straightforward.

But tomorrow?

He tucked the pouch into his chest and looked at the moonlight outside, pondering.

By tomorrow morning, Ossivia would surely realize he wasn't in his room.

"No," Hoffa said decisively.

"Eh?" The pale boy was surprised. "What's your idea?"

"We leave tonight," Hoffa replied. "Is that possible?"

Sylby paused for a moment. "May I ask why, Bach?"

"Because I'm busy. I have urgent matters to handle when I get back," Hoffa said.

"Oh? What time do you plan to leave tonight?" Sylby asked with interest.

"Immediately."

"Okay."

Now it was Hoffa's turn to be surprised. Was this employer really so easygoing? Even Nancy gasped in shock.

"Sylby!"

"No need to argue. Leaving half a day earlier or later makes no difference. Mind your own business and help me pack. Also, go thank Raymond for his hospitality."

With that, he turned his wheelchair and came to Hoffa. "What are you waiting for? Help me pack."

Hoffa rubbed his chin. He had a feeling this young man was even more eager to leave this place than he was.

(End of Chapter)

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