Harry Potter: I am the Legend

When Hoffa stepped out of his room, Miranda was wrestling with her tightly laced black corset. The corset was intricately threaded, reinforced with whalebone, and lined with dense stitching.

Though she often called Goshawk an annoying old conservative, by evening, she had obediently changed into a black evening gown with a white strapless bodice. Her chestnut short hair was topped with a pointed Hanning hat, giving her the appearance of a little 19th-century witch.

If Hoffa were seeing Miranda for the first time, he might have thought this look was rather charming and befitting of a young witch from a magical family. However, he had to admit he still preferred her previous punk tomboy style.

"Isn't it too tight?" Hoffa frowned.

"Why don't you try wearing it if it's not tight?" Miranda snapped back.

"Mind if I adjust the material for you? It'll loosen up a bit."

"Huh?"

Hoffa pulled Miranda closer, pressing a hand against her back. Under the effects of transfiguration, the tight linen corset transformed into soft silk, and the whalebone reinforcements turned into nearly weightless sponge.

"It can do that?" Miranda twisted her waist slightly and grinned at him.

"Enjoy it while you can; it'll revert by morning," Hoffa remarked.

"I used to wear this without any trouble in my first year, but now I can barely walk in it," Miranda complained with a frown.

"You were better at pretending back then," Hoffa said indifferently.

The two descended the stairs. The dining hall and lounge below had been magically expanded to more than ten times their original size. Hoffa wasn't surprised—after all, a wizard like Goshawk, who could fit a warship into a bottle, would find enlarging a living room a trivial matter.

In the grand hall, more than a dozen people were present—several elderly men and about ten younger individuals, both men and women. The elderly gentlemen sat on the sofas, while the younger ones stood respectfully behind them.

"Damn, he actually invited those people," Miranda muttered under her breath as she scanned the room. "They're from the Wizengamot."

Hoffa followed her gaze and was taken aback. The elderly men seated by the roaring fireplace looked familiar. He recognized them as the same officials who had led the investigation in Bournemouth on the night of the vampire purge.

Back then, they had worn tattered white robes with crossed chains on their backs, looking incredibly authoritative. Now, however, they wore ordinary Muggle suits and round hats.

"Hoffa, Miranda, come here," Adébé Goshawk, seated on one of the sofas, beckoned them over.

Immediately, all eyes in the room turned towards them. Hoffa took Miranda's reluctant hand and walked forward with a pleasant smile.

The old headmaster stood up solemnly. "Come, let me introduce you." He gestured to the tall elderly man wearing a bowler hat in the center. "This is Mr. Terra Israel, the Chief Executive of the Wizengamot and a member of our Perseus Society."

Hoffa quickly stepped forward and extended his hand. On the elderly man's chest was a finely crafted 'W'—the symbol of the Wizengamot. Hoffa knew that many underground societies existed in Europe, similar to the future Order of the Phoenix or Dumbledore's Army, which Harry Potter would eventually form. These groups weren't limited to wizards or even Britain. Muggles had their own, often formed through shared alma maters and lifelong bonds, creating tight-knit networks of mutual support.

"We meet again, Mr. Bach," the elderly man said kindly, shaking Hoffa's hand.

"You two have met before?" Adébé asked, slightly surprised.

"Yes, back in Bournemouth," Terra Israel said with a smile. "He and Tom Riddle from the Gaunt family worked with me on a mission. I remember it clearly—both are outstanding young talents."

"The honor is mine," Hoffa replied smoothly. "Your reputation precedes you. I regret not having had the chance to properly greet you last time."

"No matter," Adébé said knowingly.

The elderly Terra Israel released Hoffa's hand and turned to Miranda. "You look so much like your mother, except for your eyes—they resemble Nimon's."

Hoffa rolled his eyes internally. Do British people only know one way to compliment someone? Miranda, clearly uncomfortable, shook the old man's hand stiffly and forced a smile. "Thank you."

Afterward, Terra leaned back on the sofa, ceding control of the conversation to Adébé Goshawk.

Adébé didn't waste time. With a hand on both Hoffa's and Miranda's shoulders, he introduced them one by one to each elderly gentleman. Hoffa was cordial and confident, shaking hands and offering polished compliments to every person he met.

Miranda, on the other hand, was tense and spoke little. Every time she was introduced, she merely offered a brief, "Hello."

Once the introductions concluded, Adébé returned to his seat, resuming his conversation with the elders. Their topics ranged from current affairs to the development of young wizards. The discussion wasn't heavy, but it was far from entertaining.

Hoffa, sensing the shift in tone, wisely guided Miranda to stand behind Adébé.

At this point, Hoffa began to piece things together. Miranda must have learned of his whereabouts from Adébé. No doubt, if anyone else had been sent to find him, he would likely be halfway across the world by now.

Miranda noticed Hoffa's knowing smile and turned her head away, biting her lip in frustration.

"Bach," Adébé suddenly called after about ten minutes of small talk.

"Yes?" Hoffa replied.

"I have some private matters to discuss with my old friends upstairs. Would you and Miranda mind hosting the evening banquet?"

Miranda's expression immediately turned furious, but Hoffa nodded calmly. "No problem."

Satisfied, Adébé stood, and the elderly gentlemen followed him upstairs. The younger attendees visibly relaxed as they left.

Once the crowd began to disperse, Hoffa tugged on Adébé's sleeve. "Professor, may I have a quick word with you?" he asked softly.

Adébé nodded and turned to the others. "You go on ahead; I'll join you shortly."

He then addressed the younger guests, "Make yourselves at home tonight. Relax and enjoy yourselves."

As the room cleared out, Adébé turned to Hoffa. "Go ahead, speak."

"Professor, I'm leaving tomorrow," Hoffa said in a polite yet resolute tone. "I think Miranda must have told you."

"Where are you going?"

Professor Adebe didn't seem angry.

"To the Soviet Union."

"To meet that alchemist friend of yours?"

"Yes."

"To make money and continue your underground business?"

"More or less."

Adebe coughed lightly and shook his head. "Bach, forgive me for being blunt, but the wizarding world isn't as simple as you think. Even if you earn a mountain of Galleons, there are things money can't buy. You need connections, relationships, and credentials."

"I understand."

Hoffa smiled, but his chest felt tight.

"These young people are members of the Perseus Society. They're active in the Wizengamot, handling trials and arrests. They're highly capable. If you can befriend them, I'll feel more at ease when you're out there."

The professor lowered his voice, "You need your own team. People who'll work with you. Stop running around aimlessly—it's meaningless."

"I don't like being managed, Professor. And I don't want to manage others either," Hoffa said helplessly.

"You're about to graduate. After Hogwarts, what's left for a wizard? The same as Muggles—get married, have children, and work for the longevity and honor of your family."

Adebe sighed heavily. "You're my most outstanding student, one of the rarest talents in Ravenclaw's history. Honestly, with your abilities, even being an Auror feels like a waste. Nowhere but the Wizengamot can fully utilize your potential."

Hoffa didn't respond. He knew Adebe's words made sense—absolute sense—but the weight in his chest only grew heavier.

Seeing his silence, Adebe continued, "I know you want to fight Grindelwald. You've done a lot underground this past year—we all know it. But let me say this: who doesn't want to see him gone? He bewitched my son and drove Miranda's parents to their deaths. If anyone wants him dead, it's me. But some things can't be done by one person alone."

When Grindelwald's name was mentioned, Hoffa sobered up. He exhaled deeply. "Professor, you're absolutely right. But this isn't a trivial matter. Even if I wanted to join your society, I'd need to discuss it with my friend first—at least write him a letter and explain everything. Don't you agree?"

"Hmm."

Adebe's expression softened slightly. "It's good that you're listening. I was worried that after falling out with Albus, you'd hold deep grudges against British wizarding society."

"I didn't fall out with Professor Dumbledore. I respect him, just as I respect you," Hoffa said gently.

"That's good."

Adebe nodded. "Discuss it, then let me know your decision. For now, go and mingle with the young people."

He patted Hoffa's shoulder and disappeared around the staircase corner, leaving the vast living room to Hoffa and a group of unfamiliar young wizards.

Hoffa stood still for a moment, deep in thought. It wasn't until Miranda pulled his sleeve that he turned around. She looked at him apologetically. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I really wanted to have a simple Christmas with you. I didn't expect Adebe to..."

"It's fine," Hoffa smiled. "The more, the merrier. Look how lively it is." He playfully nudged her toward the dining table.

However, during dinner, Miranda remained unusually quiet, lacking the warmth of a proper hostess. She wasn't familiar with the guests, and Adebe had gone upstairs to talk privately with the older wizards, leaving her with an unapproachable demeanor.

In contrast, Hoffa was unstoppable from the moment he sat down. He enthusiastically inquired about the young guests' families, schools, and hobbies. His charisma and flattery soon eased the group's initial stiffness.

Once they'd warmed up to him, Hoffa began telling grandiose stories. He spoke of giants and dragons, of Germany and Japan, of the past and the future, of Muggle technology and wizarding philosophy. At first, the young wizards were cautious and reserved, but after a few rounds of drinks, they were utterly captivated. With a wanted poster worth half of Norway hanging over his head, everything Hoffa said seemed plausible to them.

After dinner, one of the girls suggested dancing. Hoffa readily agreed.

They switched on Miranda's radio and gramophone, filling the living room with music. The group started dancing energetically.

At first, Hoffa's movements were clumsy, and he frequently stepped on his partner's feet. But his quick wit and boundless energy soon had him mastering every step—waltz, tap, and even Latin dances. By nine o'clock, he was weaving seamlessly through the dancers, engaging with multiple partners.

Laughter and music filled the air. Even the house-elf, Petty, was pulled into the festivities by Hoffa, twirling awkwardly on the floor.

The joyful atmosphere lasted for hours. The young members of the Perseus Society danced until they were red-faced and panting, some even loosening their shirts in exhaustion. The laughter never ceased.

But one person wasn't enjoying herself.

Miranda sat outside the circle, watching the gray-haired boy at the center of attention. The longer she watched, the more her mood soured. He danced with everyone who asked, smiling and carefree, as if he owned the place.

Finally, at ten o'clock, after Hoffa finished an impressive mechanical dance routine, earning applause and cheers, Miranda couldn't bear it any longer.

She grabbed Hoffa's arm and pulled him out of the crowd, leading him upstairs to her room.

(End of Chapter)

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