Harry Potter: I am the Legend

On the drawbridge atop a cargo ship at the dock, Hoffa let go of Miranda's wrist.

Miranda turned her head away, refusing to look at him. "Sorry, I lost my composure," she said calmly, her face betraying no sign of embarrassment.

"I'm sorry I didn't contact you, but I had no choice," Hoffa said earnestly. "I've made too many enemies, and each one is more ruthless than the last."

"An excuse," Miranda muttered.

"You're my best friend. I couldn't..." He sighed and shook his head. "You don't understand, fate is unpredictable."

Miranda closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her expression had softened. She grabbed Hoffa's wrist. "If that's really the case, do you think I'd be afraid? Or do you think I'm too weak to keep up with you?"

"You're not afraid, but I am. I won't take any risks. So no matter what you say, it's useless." Hoffa looked at the distant, flickering lighthouse. "I will leave England."

Miranda said nothing and lowered her head.

Seeing her sadness, Hoffa felt a deep pang of guilt. After a year apart, their reunion was overshadowed by the looming prospect of separation. In wartime, such helplessness was difficult to express.

He gently patted her chestnut hair and smiled. "Enough about me. You still haven't told me why you're in London."

"My grandfather is back," Miranda said plainly, pulling away from his hand.

Hoffa raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Professor Adebey is back?"

"Yes. He was appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's Defense Against the Dark Arts Division. He arranged for me to intern in London, patrolling the city every day under the pretense of catching dark wizards. But most of the time, all I catch are petty thieves."

"That's still something."

"Is it?" Miranda exhaled a cloud of white mist into the cold night air and shook her head. "Most other Ravenclaws have heavier tasks. But honestly, what I envy the most is you. You're freer than I am."

Me? Envied? Hoffa thought. If anyone else lived through what he had, they'd probably lose their mind.

"Forget it. If you're really set on leaving, I won't stop you. But at least stay until Christmas," she suggested again. "It's only a few days away. If not at Hogwarts, then come to my home. It's just me and my grandfather."

"Christmas..."

Hoffa gazed at the flickering lights across the Thames, lost in thought. Norbert's invitation wasn't so urgent that he had to leave immediately. Staying at Miranda's home would give him time to write a few letters via owl and finalize his plans.

After a moment of deliberation, he nodded. "Alright, I'll stay and spend Christmas with you."

Miranda smiled faintly and held out her hand. "Take me down, I can't Apparate right now."

"As you wish, Miss Goshawk."

Hoffa gave an exaggerated bow, grabbed her hand, and scooped her into his arms. Then he jumped from the hundred-meter-high drawbridge to the ground below. At night, such a height felt no different to him than descending a flight of stairs.

"Show-off," Miranda muttered as they landed. She glanced upward and pushed him lightly. "Hey, don't hold me like that. We're not that close anymore."

Hoffa laughed heartily. After deciding to spend Christmas with a friend, his mood had lightened considerably. He released her and asked, "So, how are you planning to take me home, Goshawk?"

"Just wait and see, Bach. You've never seen anything like this before." Miranda stretched lazily, flicked his forehead with a playful snap, and said, "Follow me!"

Hoffa, holding his forehead and grinning uncontrollably, followed her. For once, he felt relaxed. Outside, everyone seemed like they were plotting against him. But with Miranda, he could finally let his guard down.

At the street corner, he spotted a black Royal Enfield motorcycle parked near a fire hydrant. Its side-valve single-cylinder engine, black leather seat, and round, bright headlamp gave it an undeniable British charm.

"I thought you'd show up on a flying broomstick."

Seeing the motorcycle, Hoffa burst out laughing. "One year apart, and you've gone all punk?"

"Punk?" Miranda looked confused.

"Never mind," Hoffa said, waving it off. Punk was decades away from being a thing, and Miranda wouldn't understand.

Miranda mounted the motorcycle, revved the engine, and pulled out two helmets from the sidecar. She wore one herself and handed the other to Hoffa.

Hoffa wordlessly accepted the vintage-style helmet with attached goggles, put it on, and climbed onto the seat behind her.

The motorcycle's orange headlight lit up as the engine purred to life. They sped through the streets of London, the cold wind whipping past them.

The speed wasn't extreme—only about 60 miles per hour—and Miranda didn't seem like the type to seek thrills through reckless driving. Yet, watching the city lights blur past, Hoffa couldn't stop himself from laughing. He laughed louder and louder, without any clear reason.

"What are you laughing at?" Miranda asked, puzzled.

"Hahaha!"

Hoffa didn't answer. He just laughed, as if he couldn't help himself.

"Seriously, what's so funny!?"

Miranda turned her head slightly, her voice rising with exasperation.

"Hahaha..."

Eventually, Miranda lost patience. She swerved sharply, narrowly avoiding a black Jaguar, and nearly clipped its side mirror.

"Are you an idiot?" Miranda snapped, smacking the back of his helmet. "Stop laughing!"

"Hahahaha!"

Hoffa only laughed harder, even reaching forward to tickle her under the arms. In retaliation, Miranda swerved the bike wildly, drawing stares from pedestrians.

When they finally arrived at an old apartment building near Big Ben, Miranda stomped off the motorcycle like a drunken sailor. She ripped off Hoffa's helmet and kicked his shin.

"You've gone mad!" she scolded.

Hoffa had never seen her like this. In their school days, she'd always been composed, buried in books or scheming.

"Where did you learn to drive like that? Did you get yourself a hooligan boyfriend while I was away?" Hoffa teased.

"Of course! A dozen of them. One per month," she retorted, rolling her eyes and pulling out a set of keys. "Come on."

They approached an old-style brown wooden door covered in ivy. Hoffa glanced at a nearby convenience store.

"Is Professor Goshawk home?" he asked.

"Don't bother. He's been working overtime. He'll be back on Christmas Eve."

Miranda unlocked the door, turned on the hallway light, and called out, "Petty!"

Almost immediately, a pair of tiny pink slippers pattered over. A neatly dressed house-elf in a maid outfit appeared.

"Oh my, Miss has brought a friend!" it squeaked before freezing mid-gasp upon seeing Hoffa.

"Ahh!!"

She rushed back like a whirlwind and, in the blink of an eye, returned with several neatly folded cloths. Her eyes, wide like copper bells, were fixed on Hoffa's clothes as if preparing to face a great enemy.

"Excuse me, sir, if it's not too much trouble, would you mind letting Patty clean you up a bit? It won't take long!"

She spoke quickly, politely, but with an unyielding determination.

Hoffa stood awkwardly at the door.

"No need, Patty. He's a wild man—used to it. Go brew him some tea," Miranda said as she took the cloths from the house-elf and gently pushed her toward the kitchen. "Green tea will do, the kind from the East."

"A wild man! And it's already the 20th century!"

The little elf stumbled forward, her desperate gaze still locked on the stains on Hoffa's clothes. "Even wild men should evolve."

Miranda smirked. "He can't evolve. And stop shouting—primitives don't understand English."

The elf muttered hopelessly, "Seriously...?"

After shooing the house-elf away, Miranda returned to the cloakroom with a bright smile. "Come on in already! Do you need me to hold your hand or something?"

Hoffa rolled his eyes, changed his shoes, and walked into the living room.

He had visited another friend's house before and still remembered how stunned he was by the breathtaking castle. Compared to that, Miranda's home was much more modest, resembling that of an ordinary working-class family.

The living room was a simple square, about sixty square meters, with minimal decorations. A few knitted cushions rested on a European-style sofa, and the fireplace burned quietly with applewood logs. The dining area was slightly smaller than the kitchen, with a polished wooden table suspended under magical chandeliers. Beneath the lights sat a pot of blue hydrangeas. Clearly, Miranda didn't host guests often, as there were only four chairs.

In the kitchen, the house-elf was busy sorting through the cabinets, her ears flapping noisily as she occasionally peeked at Hoffa.

"My house-elf, Adebe, came with me from home," Miranda said casually as she leaned against a dining chair. "Aside from being an obsessive neat freak and a little neurotic, she's mostly fine."

"Servants often resemble their masters," Hoffa chuckled as he watched the busy little elf. "How's your brother doing these days?"

"Do you want to see him?" Miranda teased, adjusting her glasses. "Didn't you snatch my glasses in the car earlier?"

"Sure!" Hoffa beckoned mockingly. "Come on, let me see little Miller and check if he's improved."

Miranda smirked, pushing up her glasses. "If you stay long enough, you'll see him. But for now, forget it."

At that moment, the house-elf approached with a cup of tea and a cup of coffee, placing one before Miranda and setting the other about half a meter away from Hoffa.

"Thank you."

Hoffa picked up the tea and began chatting with his old friend. "I remember... wasn't your home in that county...?"

"Devonshire," Miranda replied, sipping her coffee. "Adebe works at the Ministry of Magic this year. He rented an apartment nearby. Once his term ends, we'll have to move back."

After a pause, she added, "But if his term ends after I graduate, I might consider extending the lease for a few more years. The environment here is actually pretty nice."

"Exactly."

Hoffa gazed out the window and could faintly see the bright lights of Downing Street in the distance—the residence of the current British Prime Minister, Churchill.

He pulled the curtains shut.

"If I were you, I'd just buy this place outright. With the war going on, land prices are dirt cheap. In a few years, this location will be worth enough to feed your grandchildren."

"You're so sure we'll win? This area was bombed by the Germans just a month ago. Even the Muggle Prime Minister's residence took a hit."

"Of course. I'm pretty optimistic. If I were you, I'd buy up every inch of land while no one else wants it."

As he spoke, Hoffa suddenly felt he was sounding a little too much like a businessman. Embarrassed, he scratched his nose.

"Easy for you to say. I don't have that kind of money."

Miranda propped her chin on her hand and smiled. "Even during wartime, property here costs over five hundred Galleons per square meter. Even if we win the war, I could work for ten years and still not afford the attic."

"That's painfully true."

Hoffa laughed, his voice sharp and pig-like, as if nothing had changed through the ages.

Miranda continued, "And what about you? After a year out there, did you make any money? Or were you really scavenging trash every day to survive?"

"None of your business," Hoffa said, rolling his eyes as he sipped his tea.

"Of course it's my business! You started adventuring long before me. If I can't find a job after graduation, I might need to borrow money from you."

"Do I look like a rich man to you, dressed like this?"

Miranda burst into laughter, leaning back in her chair. After catching her breath, she sipped her coffee and said, "Didn't you escort the granddaughter of the wealthiest alchemist back from danger in France? Didn't they reward you with a few thousand Galleons?"

Hoffa froze, and the smile slowly faded from his face. "How do you know all that?"

Miranda hesitated briefly, then drank from her cup, her face returning to normal by the time she set it down. "Never mind all that. You must be exhausted. Let me show you your room."

She climbed the stairs, her footsteps echoing lightly. The house-elf, who seemed to have been waiting for this moment, grabbed a broom and scurried up after them, slippers slapping against the floor.

The second floor felt warmer and more personal. It was clear Miranda spent much time here, with four rooms surrounding a circular corridor. Bird-shaped wind chimes hung at intervals, and a cozy reading nook sat in the center, with a spellbook thicker than Hoffa's head lying open on a table.

Miranda opened a guest room door. "Stay as long as you want—make yourself at home."

"Sure."

Hoffa glanced around. The room was neat and tidy, with gray sheets, a spotless radio, and a polished desk. It was almost too clean, too perfect.

"If there aren't ten assassins hiding under the bed, I might actually get a good night's sleep," he thought, feeling oddly restless.

Then his eyes wandered to a door with "Miranda" written on it.

"Want to peek into my room?" Miranda teased.

"Absolutely," Hoffa replied honestly.

"We're not that close," she laughed.

"Come on, we shared a room in our second year!"

"I was twelve then!" Miranda stuck out her tongue but opened the door anyway.

The room was stark—black and white. Black bedsheets, white walls, black desk, white chair. Anatomical diagrams hung on the walls alongside a few photos of herself—or maybe Miller, since the person in the photos wasn't wearing glasses.

"Disappointed?" Miranda asked.

"No, it's... unique," Hoffa said nonchalantly.

He approached the desk and froze at a photo showing three figures: himself lying in a hospital bed, a girl pressing down on his head, and another girl holding a potion bottle, about to pour it into his mouth.

Hoffa looked away abruptly, his smile vanishing.

(End of Chapter)

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