Harry Potter: I am the Legend

As Sylby continued speaking, Hoffa's face grew increasingly pale. He had no clue who Franco was, nor did he know much about Spanish history—such obscure topics were far from his interests.

What truly shocked him was realizing that he was currently in an Axis country.

And, more terrifyingly, the most infamous dark figure in history, Adolf Hitler, was likely less than a kilometer away.

If his "luck" held, he might very well bump into him on the street.

Standing on the streets of Spain, Hoffa swallowed nervously, glancing at the fan-wielding girls passing by. For a moment, he felt a chill down his spine.

This… felt all too real.

Growl… Growl…

But the rumbling of his stomach brought him back to reality. He hadn't eaten in over 30 hours. Axis or Allies, food was food, and he needed some.

Should I just use an invisibility spell to steal something to eat? Hoffa mused.

But the thought was dismissed almost instantly.

No, he didn't want to resort to theft.

He looked down at Sylby, who remarked, "That's the situation. If you keep speaking English, we won't starve to death—we'll get beaten to death first."

"Can't you speak Spanish? Your family…"

"Nope. I'm just passing through Spain on my way home."

"Does Osivia know Spanish?" Hoffa grumbled.

"Hey, I hired you, remember? Besides, even if she does, there's no guarantee she won't hit a wall herself out there."

During their brief exchange, people around them eyed Hoffa with suspicion and discontent. Within the range of his psychic field, he even sensed the presence of one or two adult wizards nearby.

With a long sigh, Hoffa clammed up and pushed Sylby's wheelchair along the streets of Spain.

Sylby was right—the country had just ended a civil war, thanks to **'s support.

Posters covered many of the buildings lining the streets.

One depicted the mustachioed leader smiling brightly while shaking hands with another man—presumably Franco.

Every now and then, soldiers drove past in old green jeeps marked with red swastikas, undoubtedly supplied by Germany.

As these jeeps passed, young men on the sidewalks waved enthusiastically.

Clearly, in this era, ** was just another political party. These people had no idea of the bloodshed and terror they would bring to the world in the future.

Watching a convoy of German jeeps disappear into the distance, Hoffa's mind, fueled by hunger, began racing with unusual ideas.

One peculiar thought lodged itself in his brain like a growing virus.

While he didn't speak German, he was intimately familiar with a German wizard—Schmidt Lutheroff.

So familiar, in fact, that he could recognize Schmidt even if he were reduced to ashes.

He even remembered the exact number of buttons on Schmidt's outfit. Though it was a wizard's robe, it bore a striking resemblance to the uniforms of the German officers on the streets—the only notable difference being the hats.

Eyeing the delectable dishes displayed in a shop window, Hoffa felt his stomach churn with acid. That fleeting idea took root and began to grow.

Finding a quiet corner, he pushed Sylby into an alley behind a clothing store. Once there, he tapped his wand to his own body.

Under the effects of the Transfiguration spell, Hoffa's clothes transformed into the exact replica of Schmidt Lutheroff's uniform—black and imposing, complete with an armband.

He spun in front of the shop window, nodding in satisfaction, then tapped Sylby as well. Sylby's blanket morphed into a matching German wizard's uniform.

Not stopping there, Hoffa tapped the wheelchair, sketching a swastika on its side.

Sylby was stunned. "Wizards really do have it easy," he muttered, marveling at the transformation.

Hoffa, scrutinizing his reflection in the shop window, felt something was still off. He looked too young. Plucking a napkin from Sylby's wheelchair, he Transfigured it into a small, square patch of black felt, which he stuck above his upper lip.

The result was somewhat comical, sending Sylby into a fit of laughter.

Just then, a few rifle-toting soldiers strolled by, cheerfully greeting passersby. Hoffa quickly slapped Sylby to make him stop laughing.

With a flick of his wand, Hoffa transformed it into a military cap, completing his disguise.

Hoffa placed the hat firmly on his head, tilting it low so the brim obscured most of his face.

In the wheelchair, Sylby fell silent, though his face turned red as he struggled to suppress his laughter.

With his transformation complete, Hoffa walked into another Spanish restaurant. Like the previous one, this establishment also displayed a sign opposing the British. However, it appeared to be much more upscale than the last.

This time, before Hoffa even reached the door, a waiter spotted the two of them outside.

The waiter's expression changed instantly, and he ran over, throwing the door open and standing at attention with his hand raised.

"Heil Hitler!"

Hoffa froze for a moment. Fortunately, he had seen enough movies to understand what to do. He quickly raised his right hand in imitation.

"Heil Hitler," he echoed.

Now it was the waiter's turn to hesitate. He glanced at his hand briefly, as if puzzled by something. But he quickly dismissed whatever doubt he had, beaming as he ushered Hoffa into the restaurant.

This place was significantly more luxurious than the earlier fast-food spot. The exterior appeared modest, but inside, the decor was dazzling, with golden embellishments and a massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

As soon as Hoffa entered, nearly half of the young patrons stood up enthusiastically, raising their hands to greet him. Cries of "Heil Hitler" echoed throughout the room.

Hoffa felt awkward but returned the gestures, raising his right hand to each greeting. With every salute he gave, however, someone in the crowd would glance at him with a puzzled expression.

From the wheelchair, Sylby was on the verge of losing it. His lips moved as he hissed a reminder to Hoffa: "Left hand... left hand!"

Sylby spoke so quietly that Hoffa didn't hear him and continued raising his right hand.

The waiter respectfully pulled out a chair and bowed, inviting Hoffa to sit. Once Hoffa was seated, the waiter handed him a menu with both hands, beaming.

One glance at the menu, and Hoffa's stomach growled louder than ever.

This time, however, he had learned his lesson. He didn't utter a word, instead sitting up straight with feigned composure. Pointing at the menu with an air of authority, he selected several dishes—all of which had the highest prices listed.

The waiter smiled even more broadly, scribbling the order with great enthusiasm.

Once the waiter left, Sylby glared at Hoffa and hissed in a low voice, "Are you even European?"

Hoffa blinked. "Huh? What?"

"Left hand! You were using the Roman salute, you idiot! If you run into a real German officer on the street, they'll shoot you on the spot!"

"Left hand…"

Hoffa glanced at his hand, his face paling slightly.

So he'd been using his right hand the entire time? No wonder people kept giving him odd looks.

Before he could respond, the waiter returned. Not only had he returned, but he had brought along a chef who seemed eager to please.

The chef, red-faced and with a thick neck, nodded repeatedly as he spoke at length.

Hoffa didn't understand a single word. Keeping his head low under the brim of his hat, he tapped his fingers on the table, feigning impatience.

Not getting much of a response, the chef turned nervously to Sylby.

When it came to feigning impatience, the French boy was far more practiced than Hoffa. Tilting his head slightly with a sickly demeanor and barely furrowing his brows, he exuded an air of superiority, as if he couldn't be bothered to engage with a mere servant.

The chef instantly fell silent. Taking a wine bottle handed to him by a waitress, he respectfully opened it for the two of them and retreated without another word.

He had come just to serve the wine.

Hoffa maintained a calm exterior but was laughing internally at how deferential everyone was. Judging by their attitudes, even if he were to dine and dash, it seemed unlikely anyone would dare to stop him.

Before long, the waitstaff began bustling back and forth, delivering dishes to their table.

One by one, vibrant and aromatic dishes were placed before them:

A colorful Spanish seafood paella.

A whole leg of lamb, charred and crispy on the outside, tender inside.

Sardines pickled in vinegar with a perfect balance of sour and spicy.

Thick and frothy Madrid-style stew.

Delicate, paper-thin slices of Iberian ham.

Galician octopus served in a copper dish.

Chilled Spanish gazpacho adorned with strawberries and tomatoes in small glass cups.

If it weren't for his "German officer" guise, the ravenous Hoffa might have transformed his wand into chopsticks and devoured everything with reckless abandon.

But bound by his role, Hoffa shakily picked up a knife and fork, eating swiftly yet maintaining an air of refinement. After going without food all night, these dishes felt like heaven to him.

On the other side of the table, Sylby was coughing incessantly, squeezing words through clenched teeth:

"Feed me already! Stop stuffing yourself!"

Out of obligation to his employer, Hoffa began multitasking—forking food into his own mouth with his left hand while feeding Sylby with his right.

The two developed an unexpectedly harmonious rhythm, and before long, most of the food on the table had vanished.

But just as Hoffa stuffed an entire piece of shrimp into Sylby's mouth, the latter suddenly let out a muffled, strangled noise, his head shaking frantically.

Thinking Sylby was choking, Hoffa quickly grabbed a glass of water to hand to him, only for Sylby to jerk his head and stare wide-eyed behind Hoffa.

Hoffa, cheeks still puffed with food, asked, "What's wrong?"

Sylby stammered, "Be-behind you."

Hoffa turned, and his eyes widened in alarm.

Skreeeetch!

The screeching sound of tires echoed as a black, vintage car came to a halt in front of the restaurant. Following closely behind were three green jeeps, fully loaded with soldiers.

The black car stopped, and its doors swung open.

Three tall men, dressed in black military uniforms, shiny leather boots, and bearing silver insignias on their chests and swastikas on their armbands, strode confidently into the restaurant, pushing open the glass doors.

Clink!

The fork slipped from Hoffa's hand, landing on his plate. He suddenly felt lightheaded.

Gestapo!?

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