Harry Potter: I am the Legend

The vehicle vanished into the distance, and countless green snakes slithered back to Ossivia's feet, coiling up her body and around her neck before finally transforming back into a green necklace.

Standing on the rooftop, Ossivia glanced at the dust smudging her nightgown, rubbed her temples, and revealed a look of exasperation.

Faint curses lingered in the air for about thirty seconds before the distant splash of two Arab men diving into the sea broke the silence.

Everything returned to stillness.

Around her, countless Arabs ran out from their courtyards, gazing upward at the sky, trying to piece together what had just happened.

The girl took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and gradually regained her calm composure.

After a moment of thought, she drew her wand and traced a green pentagram in the air.

With a single gesture, the pentagram spiraled upward and vanished into the sky.

Moments later, the sound of Apparition echoed nearby. A middle-aged man appeared beside her, bowing deeply.

"Miss Romanov."

Ossivia's voice was cold. "Where is the nearest port to Spain?"

"Tangier Port," the man replied respectfully.

Meanwhile, in the narrow alleys of Casablanca's slums, the red Alfa Romeo weaved through the maze of streets. They knew that once they exited this area, they would be clear of the city.

After all the chaos, Hoffa had become quite familiar with the old car, driving it with increasing confidence. But the alleyways leading to the mountain roads were becoming narrower and narrower.

Bang!Clang!

The car smashed through two trash bins blocking the way, bursting out of the alley covered in rotting banana peels. Both side mirrors had been knocked off.

Sylby didn't seem to care about his car's state in the slightest. Looking over at Hoffa, his chest heaved with excitement. "That... that was exhilarating! I haven't felt this alive in years!"

Hoffa said nothing, slowing the car slightly while focusing on recovering his mana through meditation.

The blood magic he'd just used had drained his physical strength significantly, and he needed to regain his balance.

After his initial excitement wore off, Sylby sighed wistfully. "What a shame we lost her."

Driving downhill, Hoffa's expression froze.

A shame? Was this guy out of his mind?

"She's a beautiful girl," Sylby said with a melancholic tone. "And a determined one at that. I just hope she doesn't give up on us so easily."

Doesn't give up on us?

Hoffa gave him a sympathetic glance, thinking, You've clearly never met someone like Aglaia. If you had, you'd know how painful it is to be relentlessly pursued.

The car sputtered as it sped down the slope, winding along the mountain roads of Casablanca.

Hoffa kept glancing behind them, but no one was chasing them.

"However, Hoffa," Sylby said suddenly, "I think I made a mistake."

"What mistake?"

"I didn't pay you enough."

"Oh?"

Hoffa's tired body perked up instantly.

Sylby continued, "When this trip is over, how about becoming my personal assistant?"

Hoffa frowned. "What?"

"I'm serious," Sylby said earnestly. "I think we make a perfect team, like Phileas Fogg and Passepartout. Or Holmes and Watson. So, I'm prepared to offer you 500 Galleons a month."

Hoffa's hands shook on the wheel. "You... you said how much?"

"500 Galleons. Per month. With a year-end bonus, three days off every week, and a half-month holiday during Christmas."

Hoffa gasped. Is this a dream?

But the more he thought about it, the more something felt off. "But... what about my studies?"

"Studies?" Sylby scoffed. "Come on, how much can you earn after graduating from Hogwarts? Working at the Ministry of Magic? Or Gringotts? Listen to me, kid, studying has no future."

He kept rambling, but Hoffa's initially excited heartbeat gradually calmed down. Of course, it's too good to be true.

He could never abandon his studies at Hogwarts.

"Let's talk about it after I drop you off at your destination," he replied dismissively.

Sylby didn't seem to notice the coldness in Hoffa's tone and continued to chatter enthusiastically in his seat.

"Alright, you should seriously think it over in the next few days. Turn right, yes."

He gave Hoffa driving directions while talking. "Still, I feel like it would be pretty boring if it's just the two of us guys on this trip. Now, if we had a beautiful girl along, ah, what fun! Turn left, that's right. It would be so much more interesting."

"But your car only has two seats," Hoffa pointed out blandly.

"Why worry about that?" Sylby said dismissively. "I have a boat waiting at Tangier Port. Just imagine it—long-legged beauties in swimsuits, holding out sunscreen and asking you to apply it for them. Turn right, then left... Yes, Hoffa, you're driving excellently."

"Apply sunscreen? And what would you use to apply it—your tongue?"

For some reason, Sylby's rich and flamboyant tone rubbed Hoffa the wrong way, and he couldn't resist making a sarcastic remark.

As soon as the words left his mouth, Hoffa regretted them. Would Sylby be offended?

Sure enough, Sylby turned to him with a blank look. "What did you just say?"

Hoffa glanced at him awkwardly and pressed his lips together.

"You're a genius! A genius!" Sylby exclaimed excitedly.

"Using my tongue to apply sunscreen—why didn't I ever think of that before? I must try it!"

"I…"

Caught off guard, Hoffa drove over a rock, causing the car to jolt.

The bump made Sylby bite his tongue, and he cried out in pain, "Would you kindly fasten my seatbelt before you keep driving, Mr. Bach?"

Hoffa sighed, realizing that this 50-Galleon task wasn't as straightforward as he'd imagined. Sylby wasn't just physically disabled; his mind worked in truly peculiar ways.

Rubbing his temples to calm himself, Hoffa pulled the car over to the side of the road, got out, and walked to Sylby's side to buckle his seatbelt.

But just as he did, lights flared at the intersection ahead. The blinding glare made Hoffa squint as he shielded his eyes with his hand.

A moment later, a black, vintage Mercedes sped past.

In that fleeting instant, Hoffa caught sight of a strange-looking man in the driver's seat.

The man wore a black suit with black gloves, black sunglasses, and—oddly enough—a golden ring-shaped crown perched on his forehead.

Standing in the dark street, Hoffa locked eyes with the man for less than a second before the Mercedes, trailing a plume of dust, drifted skillfully along the mountain road and sped off uphill.

"What a bizarre look," Hoffa muttered before bending down to finish fastening Sylby's seatbelt.

Once it was done, Hoffa noticed an unusual silence from Sylby. For quite some time, the man didn't speak, only occasionally tilting his head or nodding to indicate directions.

An hour later, guided by the salty sea breeze, they arrived at the brightly lit Tangier Port.

Sylby's documents were in perfect order, and the two British guards at the checkpoint waved them through after a brief inspection.

Even at night, the Strait of Gibraltar connecting two continents was illuminated as if it were daylight. The car pulled into the well-lit dockside parking area.

Sylby finally broke his silence. "Ahem. Let's ditch the car here and fetch my boat."

"Why were you so quiet earlier?" Hoffa asked while parking the car.

"Was I?" Sylby feigned surprise.

Hoffa smirked, retrieving Sylby's wheelchair from the trunk before lifting him out of the passenger seat and placing him into it.

The wheelchair began moving on its own, and Hoffa grabbed Sylby's suitcase as they headed toward the docks.

"Where's the boat? Which one is yours?" Hoffa asked. He couldn't help but think to himself that no one would ever ask him such a question in his lifetime.

Sylby stuck out his tongue and pointed.

Hoffa followed the gesture and saw it—a small, ordinary white motorboat nestled among a cluster of cargo ships. It wasn't the extravagant yacht he'd imagined.

Hoffa, who had never driven a boat before, realized he'd have to wing it for the sake of earning his pay.

After settling Sylby on the boat, Hoffa started tinkering with the controls, trying to figure out how to start it.

Meanwhile, Sylby, now back to his usual self, remarked wistfully, "Crossing the Strait of Gibraltar at night... what a thrill."

His musings were interrupted by the roar of the engine.

Hoffa had managed to figure out the basics of operating the boat, which wasn't too difficult.

Within minutes, the narrow motorboat was skimming across the dark sea.

The water was choppy, with waves rippling under the night wind. The boat bobbed up and down, and the spray occasionally splashed Hoffa's face. Phosphorescent sardines leaped out of the water now and then, shimmering in the moonlight.

Crossing the strait between Africa and Europe at night sounded impressive, but in reality, it was nothing extraordinary. The Strait was only 13 kilometers wide—smaller than some lakes.

There was no fear of getting lost, as the lighthouse on the opposite dock flashed like a beacon, guiding their way.

Amid the sea breeze, Hoffa couldn't resist asking, "So, why were you in Morocco? You look like you've been here a long time."

"Ah, yes," Sylby replied. "I've been here for many, many years."

There was a brief silence.

"Then how did you manage school?" Hoffa asked.

"I never attended Beauxbatons," Sylby said, grinning in the wind. "The teachers there had nothing to teach me. Technically speaking, I'm an honorary alumnus of Beauxbatons, not a student."

"As for why I stayed in Morocco..." Sylby glanced at Hoffa's watch.

"It's because François LeBrun, Beauxbatons' former headmaster, took care of me for a while."

Hoffa raised his eyebrows, intrigued. There was clearly more to the story.

In short, having wealth truly made anything possible.

Even hiring the headmaster of Beauxbatons as a private tutor was within reach. What wasn't possible?

(End of Chapter)

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