Harry Potter: I am the Legend

On the mountain road, Hoffa drove silently, his mind a swirl of emotions. Initially, he thought this was just a straightforward 50-gallon escort task: pushing a wheelchair on a leisurely trip to Barcelona and back, easy money.

But when the guy wet himself, Hoffa realized earning money wasn't easy—not even for 50 gold gallons.

Sylby, a disabled man who could only move his head, lacked control over his bodily functions.

After one chaotic night, Hoffa didn't dare let Sylby touch another drop of water. Around 9 a.m., the three of them arrived at a roadside rest stop.

Hoffa planned to buy some food and take a short break before continuing the journey.

However, as soon as he entered the small town, he noticed something off—there wasn't a single soul in sight. The town was in ruins, abandoned, with empty streets. Not a shadow of a person, not even a ghostly figure, could be seen.

The wooden houses were riddled with bullet holes, and craters from bombs scarred the ground. Occasionally, Hoffa caught sight of corpses lying in the shadows.

Some bodies hung from shattered glass windows, clad in faded green military uniforms. Others slumped over rusted, wrecked vehicles, as if fused with the cold metal.

The ground was strewn with rotting, mangled limbs.

The air reeked of death and decay.

Hoffa slowed the car, carefully navigating around a trench, murmuring to himself, "What the hell happened here?"

What the hell happened here?

He repeated the question, his voice trembling. Other than in movies, he had never seen so many remains in one place.

"This country just finished a civil war. There are many places like this," Sylby sighed from the back seat.

"But keep driving. The big cities won't look like this."

Civil war?

Another war.

Confronted with such a scene, Hoffa abandoned his plan to rest. He pressed the accelerator and hurried forward, eager to leave this wasteland behind.

On the way, Hoffa passed many similar desolate towns, along with destroyed tanks and airplane wreckage.

For some reason, Hoffa noticed red swastika symbols on some of the tanks. He couldn't make sense of it.

He was in Spain, so why were there German vehicles here? The Second World War hadn't even started yet. Had this country already clashed with Germany?

Finally, around 11 a.m., signs of life began to reappear in Hoffa's view. People and vehicles came into sight, and the environment around them grew vibrant again.

The oppressive, grim atmosphere faded away as they reached Granada, a city in southern Spain.

Located at the base of the famous Sierra Nevada mountains, the city's ancient buildings rose layer upon layer, hugging the slopes.

Upon entering the city, Sylby seemed to regain his usual liveliness.

He stuck out his tongue, pointing toward a red-bricked palace in the distance. "That's the Alhambra, built by the Moors in the 13th century."

Hoffa glanced briefly at the palace before shifting his attention back to the passenger seat.

He was more concerned about the state of his senior companion. Since that chaotic night, her face had been marked by an expression of utter disgust.

"Are you okay?" Hoffa asked, worry evident in his voice.

"Stop the car," she replied coldly.

The black sedan pulled to a halt by the roadside. Cars were a rarity in this era—practically nonexistent. A black sedan was attention-grabbing enough, not to mention this one was missing a door.

Spanish women passing by cast shocked glances at the tall woman in a green nightgown climbing out of the car, her frosty expression leaving them to imagine all sorts of stories about what had happened inside.

Hoffa rolled down the window and leaned out. "What are you going to do?"

"Buy clothes. Take a bath."

With that, she pulled out her wand and tapped Hoffa's shoulder.

"I've left a traceable magic beacon on you. Don't wander too far with that waste."

She strode off without a backward glance.

Sylby watched as Osivia left, then suddenly asked, "You're a Ravenclaw, aren't you?"

Hoffa was startled. It was rare for someone to immediately recognize that he was a Ravenclaw. Most people assumed he was a Gryffindor.

"Why don't you think I'm a Gryffindor?"

"Gryffindor?" Sylby chuckled, his eyes widening with amusement. "No, trust me, my friend, you're nothing like a Gryffindor—not even a little."

"Fine, I'm a Ravenclaw," Hoffa admitted.

"You remind me a lot of Rowena," Sylby said softly.

Hoffa shrugged. At the moment, his mind was filled with thoughts of food and rest.

For his Slytherin senior, who had a compulsive need for cleanliness, hygiene mattered more than a full stomach.

But not for Hoffa. Dusty and exhausted, he was starving after the previous night's chaos and the long journey that followed. He couldn't wait to eat and then find a hotel to rest.

He decided to start with a meal.

It didn't take long for Hoffa to spot a fast-food restaurant on the street.

Through the shop's windows, he saw an assortment of hams, sausages, cheeses, salmon, squid, barnacles, and other seafood he couldn't even name.

To complete the escort mission, he needed to fill his stomach first.

Hoffa parked the car in front of the restaurant and pushed Sylby's wheelchair inside.

As they entered, a rich aroma hit Hoffa's nose—olive oil, garlic, pepper, and other spices made his mouth water profusely.

He hurriedly pushed Sylby to a window seat, immediately calling out for the waiter.

Hearing him, a red-faced waiter in a white apron turned coldly and approached Hoffa.

"¿Quieres comer algo?"

("Want to order something?")

"Menu, menu!"

Hoffa didn't understand what the man said but gestured for a menu.

The waiter pulled back his hand, avoiding Hoffa, and asked more coldly, "¿Los británicos?"

("Are you British?")

Huh? What did he say? Hoffa didn't understand, so he asked in English, "Can you speak English?"

The moment the words left his mouth, Hoffa sensed something was wrong.

Suddenly, everyone in the restaurant—diners and staff alike—turned their heads to stare at him.

The waiter's face turned completely icy.

Ten seconds later.

Bang!

Before Hoffa could even warm his seat, he was shoved out of the restaurant. Even Sylby's wheelchair was spun around and kicked out onto the pavement.

"¡¿Ves este letrero?!"

("Can't you see the sign?!")

The restaurant owner, dressed in red with a white apron and a chef's hat, stood at the door, furiously pounding on a sign. Hoffa stared in confusion.

"¡Los británicos y el perro no puede entrar!"

("No British people or dogs allowed!")

After shouting, the old man gave Hoffa an obscene gesture, spat angrily on the ground, and stomped back into the restaurant, wielding a frying pan.

Hoffa stood dumbfounded, completely at a loss.

Sylby's wheelchair spun a few times before coming to rest beside Hoffa. Instead of being angry, Sylby was grinning.

"This country's been bullied badly by Britain. Half of their overseas territories were taken by you guys. Speaking English here? Bold move."

"Then what am I supposed to speak if not English?" Hoffa protested.

"Spanish. Or Valencian," Sylby replied casually.

"Valencian? I've never even heard of that!"

Hoffa groaned, clutching his growling stomach.

"Well, you could also speak German," Sylby added.

"What?! Why would I speak German?"

"Have you heard of a Spanish general named Franco?"

"Oh, come on, can you stop with the history lessons?" Hoffa sighed.

"History? This isn't history. Just a few months ago, the Muggle leaders of Germany and Italy helped Franco overthrow the previous government. Now, there are plenty of German troops stationed in this country.

In fact, I saw on the news two days ago that Hitler himself is in this very city for a meeting. If you spoke German, you'd be much more welcomed."

Hoffa's stomach growled louder as he sighed in exasperation.

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