The date was July 16th, and the sky was as gloomy as a wilted eggplant.
Yawning, Hoffa woke up early and walked along a path surrounded by lush green trees, heading toward the grayish-white castle in the distance.
For some reason, work always seemed to be associated with drowsiness. He hadn't even stepped into the office yet, but just seeing the castle far away made Hoffa yawn incessantly.
On his way, he noticed some repairmen reminiscent of Edward Scissorhands trimming plants into all sorts of shapes. There were also elderly wizards, their faces as wrinkled as avocados, hobbling down the path with peculiar medical devices attached to them.
Saint Mungo's Hospital, established in late 16th or early 17th century by Mungo Bonham in London, is the wizarding world's primary—and perhaps only—comprehensive hospital for magical injuries and illnesses. Its emblem is a wand and a bone crossed together.
After greeting several nurses, Hoffa reached his first-floor office.
Upon entering, he saw patients with all manner of bizarre magical afflictions. Some had an arm growing out of their heads, others were running around with lizard tails, and a particularly peculiar one was encased in ice, mumbling inaudibly.
Visitors bustled about, inquiring about room numbers and floors, while healers in emerald green robes hurriedly walked past.
In the reception area, a desk labeled "Enquiries" stood prominently.
Sitting down at his desk, Hoffa soon found himself facing a man whose head was covered in dense foliage, his expression one of utter despair.
Startled by the color of his hair, Hoffa asked, "How can I help you?"
"Write me a note. I've been cursed with a Green-Head Hex," the man said dejectedly. "My hair has turned into leaves."
"Alright," Hoffa replied efficiently, pulling out a form and jotting down a few words.
"Go to the Curse Reversal Ward, fifth floor, and look for Dr. Board. Fill out your name here."
"How much will it cost?" the green-haired man asked miserably.
"Thirty silver Sickles for inpatient treatment, ten if you don't stay overnight," Hoffa answered. "By the way, how did this happen?"
"My wife cheated on me, and I confronted her lover… but I lost," the man explained succinctly, a sorrowful tale that nearly brought tears to Hoffa's eyes. Handing over thirty Sickles, the man took the form and walked toward the elevator.
Watching his dejected silhouette, Hoffa suddenly felt that life wasn't so bad after all.
Yes, this was Hoffa's job.
At Saint Mungo's, his responsibilities were simple: assign beds to various patients, allocate them to different wards, and manage bed placements during emergencies to prevent chaos and mishaps.
Though essential, it was an extremely demanding role. Especially during wartime, bed management became a grueling task.
Hoffa hadn't wanted this job, but it was the only position that didn't require the use of a wand.
When Hoffa initially agreed to intern at Saint Mungo's at Aglaea's suggestion, his goal was simple: earn rewards from the system, particularly magical fragments or profound knowledge granted by the system.
However, upon arriving, he realized he had underestimated the situation.
The system had indeed given him a prompt when he entered Saint Mungo's, but the hospital's vastness was overwhelming.
The hospital spanned six floors above ground and three below, totaling nine levels. Aside from the top floor's semi-public tea room and shops, most areas were off-limits to outsiders.
The underground potion labs and experimental zones were entirely inaccessible to an intern like Hoffa.
This realization frustrated him. A month had passed, and his exploration progress was at 30%, with no improvement. How long would it take to reach 100% and claim his reward?
By the time Hoffa recognized this problem, it was already too late—Aglaea had gone home.
She hadn't even told him what her family did at Saint Mungo's, leaving Hoffa without any solid excuse to quit.
But tonight was Aglaea's birthday, and he planned to use the occasion to resign from this tiresome job. With the rest of the summer break, he hoped to find a smaller wizarding site, ideally something as compact as Platform Nine and Three-Quarters—where a few steps could earn him the system's rewards.
Just as he sent off the unlucky green-haired man, another figure appeared at his desk, tapping it impatiently.
Hoffa looked up, expecting another patient, but it was not.
Standing before him was a short, rotund, bald man in a suit. He looked more like a Muggle manager than a wizard. His stubby fingers were clasped over his chest, making him resemble a portly, aging penguin.
The man glared at Hoffa with a critical gaze, as if trying to find fault in his attire.
"Good morning, Mr. Bolton," Hoffa greeted cautiously.
The man's name was Cregan Bolton, head of the hospital's logistics department, responsible for potion and herb allocation. Hoffa blamed this man for at least 50% of his recent nightmares.
Predictably, Bolton pulled out a document.
Smack!
He slammed it on the desk, his expression sour.
Glancing at the document, Hoffa knew exactly why he was here.
"You approved Hannah Kent's admission yesterday?" Bolton demanded.
"Yes, Mr. Bolton," Hoffa replied.
"At thirty Sickles a day?"
Hoffa hesitated for a moment. "…No."
"Imbecile!"
Bolton jumped to his feet, his large belly shaking. Just as in Hoffa's nightmares, he stormed over, fury evident.
"What did I tell you? Thirty Sickles a day is the standard! If they can't afford it, they don't get in!"
"She's a Muggle. How would she get Sickles?" Hoffa countered.
"Muggles don't have pounds?" Bolton retorted, waving his arms animatedly.
"Or do you not understand the basics of currency exchange? Good grief! Day after day, this nonsense continues. Do you enjoy making me come here every single morning?"
Turning away, Hoffa frowned in irritation.
Cregan Bolton was the one responsible for evaluating his internship. This man's greatest hobby wasn't flirting with nurses or gossiping with coworkers—it was finding faults in Hoffa's work.
Hoffa still remembered his first day when Bolton publicly questioned his qualifications and whether he was fit to interact with wizarding patients.
"Your eyes look... kinda scary. Maybe you should see a doctor about that first?"
That was the first thing he said to him.
There was a rumor going around that this man's seventh-grade-graduate nephew had wanted this job but was accidentally bumped out of contention by him, which explained why he seemed to take an instant dislike to him.
However, Hofar didn't bother verifying the rumor. He thought it unnecessary. But during his month-long internship, this annoying man had indeed managed to make himself thoroughly unpleasant.
"Look at me!"
The short, stocky man barked.
Hofar turned his head, speaking rapidly, "She was cursed with a venomous tentacle hex by a Dark Wizard and caught a nasty case of dragonpox. By the time the Misuse of Magic Squad brought her here from the Ministry, she was practically dead. How could I have stopped to ask her for money?"
"Pay first, then get admitted!"
The man spat out his words through gritted teeth, emphasizing each one. "That's the rule. The hospital's rule, Bach!"
Hofar silently squinted at the man's bulbous, wine-colored nose.
Cregan Borton continued, "I just checked that ugly woman's bill. Her treatment cost seventeen Galleons, and she doesn't have a single Knut to her name! All she's got is two pounds and fifteen pence!"
Hofar replied, "The regulations for my job state that if a Muggle is cursed, I must resolve the issue unconditionally and promptly. I don't believe my actions violated any codes."
"That's for normal times!"
Borton nearly jumped out of his chair.
"I told you on your very first day, we're at war, you fool! Do you have any idea how tight our bed space is? Do you know how much a single bed is worth in Galleons right now?"
Borton's stubby fingers rapped loudly on the desk.
"We're a hospital, not a charity! Don't let me see any more unauthorized Muggle admission slips on my desk. Got it?!"
Hofar fought the urge to turn this man into a punching bag and reluctantly nodded.
"Idiots, what kind of people are these?" Borton muttered as he jumped down from his chair and stomped towards the door. "Stubborn as a mule, can't get through to them no matter how you try."
His voice faded around the corner, leaving a few early-shift nurses glancing at Hofar sympathetically.
Hofar stared silently at the form on the desk.
This was exactly why he hated going to work. Once the initial excitement wore off, he was left facing all kinds of insufferable bosses. Compared to them, even Tom Riddle seemed tolerable.
Under normal circumstances, Hofar might have argued with this penguin-like man.
But tonight, he planned to bid Aglaea farewell and set off in search of other wizarding mysteries.
At this critical juncture, he didn't want to sour relations with the hospital staff. After all, someone else had introduced him to this job, and he didn't want to make things awkward for them.
Ding-dong.
The hospital's revolving door turned, and a wizard with a bandaged arm walked in toward Hofar.
He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and prepared to begin another day of reception work.
Before he knew it, it was lunchtime. Rubbing his tired eyes, Hofar poured himself a glass of water, gulped it down, and prepared to grab some lunch from a nearby street vendor. He felt like a day at work drained him more than fighting ten Dark Wizards.
Hofar wasn't fond of the hospital's cafeteria food. He always felt it was odd eating with people who had heads growing out of their hands, and he dreaded the chance of bumping into Borton, the penguin-man, which would ruin his appetite.
Exiting St. Mungo's Magical Hospital for Maladies and Injuries was similar to passing through the barrier at Platform 9¾. One simply needed to walk through a glass pane, arriving at a dilapidated, deserted warehouse.
Passing through the warehouse brought him to the Muggle world.
At that moment, the Muggle world was fraught with tension and devoid of much color.
Military trucks roared down the streets, raising choking clouds of dust. Soldiers, wearing helmets and carrying standard-issue weapons, marched along the streets on patrol.
Due to the fall of France, the loudspeakers on the street repeatedly broadcast the stammering voice of King George VI, Albert Windsor, of Britain:
"At this grave moment... perhaps... perhaps at the very brink of national survival... I address my people, my people... whether at home or abroad... with this message... we are compelled into conflict... we must defend ourselves and our nation... we shall... we shall prevail."
Hoffa spent two pence on a newspaper and walked to a lunch vendor on the street corner.
Here, groups of war refugees queued for food, their clothes tattered, their expressions dull and filled with despair.
If it weren't for the fact that this was London, Hoffa might have thought he was in Mumbai. The city was a stark contrast to the bustling metropolis it had been two years ago when he first arrived.
History always progresses, but it also spirals upward—and now, it was at a low point of civilization.
After buying a simple pickle sandwich, he ate his meager meal while reading the newspaper.
Germany had already taken France and was now planning a war against Britain. The paper was filled with scathing criticisms and endless verbal battles.
Times were tough.
Hoffa swallowed the less-than-appetizing sandwich, folded up the newspaper, and sighed. The unease left by the absence of his wand grew stronger within him.
He had to resign soon and start searching for a new hidden magical sanctuary.
After finishing lunch, just as Hoffa was about to return to the hospital, an old-fashioned horse-drawn carriage suddenly stopped outside the dilapidated factory near the hospital entrance. Several Ministry of Magic employees jumped down from the carriage, carrying a stretcher.
A horse-drawn carriage?
Hoffa was taken aback. This was highly unusual. Wizards typically traveled to St. Mungo's Hospital using Floo powder or Apparition.
Using such an ancient mode of transport—did this mean the patient could no longer endure any form of magical transport?
Spotting Hoffa in his hospital work uniform, they urgently waved at him.
"Hey, sir, lend us a hand!"
Hoffa quickly approached, and what he saw made his heart skip a beat. Thanks to his experiences over the past two years, he managed not to flinch at the sight of the poor soul on the stretcher.
It was a Muggle soldier whose body was only half intact. He was dressed in a teal military uniform, but it looked as if a sharp blade had sliced him diagonally. His thigh and right forearm were gone, and there were three deep slashes across his abdomen, revealing faintly moving internal organs.
The wounds were still emitting a faint greenish smoke, the charred flesh looking as if it were being seared by a hot iron.
The soldier lay on the stretcher, his chest rising and falling faintly, a pitiful sight.
"Quick, get him to a healer!"
One of the Disaster and Accidents Department members grabbed Hoffa by the collar, shouting anxiously, "This Muggle soldier has been bitten by a dragon!"
(End of Chapter)
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