*942*
*Outskirts of Paris, France*
Inside an abandoned factory, massive iron chains hung low from the ceiling. The yellowish-brown walls were infested with mold, spreading like a rash. A variety of weapons adorned the mold-covered walls: from small handguns and daggers to larger submachine guns and assault rifles.
Scattered across the floor were sheets of parchment, some whole, others crumpled into balls. Each was covered in mysterious and intricate designs.
In the corner, dim light fell on a wooden desk. The desk held fragments of scattered components and a black metal glove.
An old-fashioned radio on the desk played a melancholic German song, Lili Marleen.
"Vor der Kaserne
Vor dem großen Tor
Stand eine Laterne
Und steht sie noch davor
So woll'n wir uns da wieder seh'n
Bei der Laterne wollen wir steh'n
Wie einst Lili Marleen."
Listening to the song, the boy sitting at the desk looked somewhat perplexed.
He gazed out the window at the rain pelting down, convinced there were unfamiliar yet eerily familiar eyes watching him.
This unsettling feeling of being watched had lasted several minutes, making it impossible for him to focus on his work.
After another five or six seconds, he could no longer resist. Standing up, he opened the window and glanced outside but saw nothing.
"Am I overworked?"
Muttering to himself, Hoffa rubbed his temples and returned to his desk.
The radio continued to play Lili Marleen, but Hoffa reached out and switched the station. The German song gave way to an English news broadcast.
"August 28th, Wizarding Daily, live updates from the Muggle battlefield. Widespread persecution of European Jews continues, with anti-Semitic activities growing within France. The Ministry of Magic reminds everyone to remain vigilant and strengthen defensive measures."
Click.
The hand reached out again, fiddling with the dial.
The English broadcast reverted to German:
"August 27th: The Imperial Wizard Association has confiscated three private weapon factories in the northern region. The association reiterates to all listeners: possession or use of unregistered weapons and alchemical creations is strictly prohibited. Violators face fines exceeding 5,000 Galleons or even the Dementor's Kiss."
Click.
The station switched once more, and German turned back to English.
"Breaking news: British Minister for Magic Leonard Spencer-Moon is set to announce his resignation at the end of this month. His successor will be Fatiel DeLaces, who previously served on the Wizengamot in 1923."
Bang!
The radio knob spun wildly, distorting the already unclear broadcast into a chaotic static of electromagnetic noise.
The quill stopped scratching on parchment, its tip resting on the paper and bleeding ink into a dark blotch.
Growing irritated, Hoffa switched off the radio. He leaned back in his chair, running his hands repeatedly through his hair, his agitation palpable. The lingering sense of being watched returned, leaving him restless.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
A knock came at the door.
Hoffa heard it but didn't immediately respond.
Thud! Thud!
The knocking persisted, louder this time.
"I'm coming!"
Hoffa stood abruptly, feeling slightly dizzy as he walked to the door. He slid open the peephole on the battered iron door.
Outside stood a stout man in a raincoat, holding a large woven bag.
It was Norbert Hagg.
Seeing him, Hoffa's irritation eased slightly. He unlatched the chain and opened the iron door.
The stout man squeezed inside and shoved the woven bag into Hoffa's hands.
"This damned weather—once it starts raining, it never ends," Norbert grumbled loudly, taking off his rubber boots and pouring out the rainwater.
"Were you followed?" Hoffa asked, locking the door as he cradled the bag.
"No," Norbert replied, grabbing a water jug and gulping it down. After wiping his mouth, he added, "Don't lock the door—we'll need to go back out soon."
Removing his raincoat and rubber boots, Norbert tapped himself with his wand. Steam billowed from him like a locomotive engine.
"Go out again? What for?"
Through the mist, Hoffa noticed fresh bruises and cuts on Norbert's right eye and cheekbone.
"Just some business to take care of," Norbert said nonchalantly, flipping through the parchment scattered on Hoffa's desk.
"Merlin's beard! You're really determined to master alchemy, huh?"
"Where have you been?" Hoffa interrupted, placing the supplies on the table.
"Buying supplies took this long?"
"The East End. I took on a job," Norbert replied, picking up another jug of water.
"Me or us?"
"Us, us," Norbert replied nonchalantly, waving dismissively as he drank directly from the jug.
Hoffa crossed his arms, his expression darkening. "My magical amplification glove isn't fully perfected, and you want me to head out now?"
"Stay in this place any longer, and you'll rot," Norbert retorted, pulling open a drawer from a cluttered cabinet. He rummaged through the disorganized mess of components and retrieved a ragged roll of tissue paper, wiping his bruised cheekbone.
Hoffa watched coldly.
Norbert said, "This job can't be done without you."
"Don't change the subject. Did you botch another deal?" Hoffa's tone was sharp.
"Rubbish!"
Norbert pulled a transparent plastic bag from his pocket and tossed it at Hoffa. Catching it, Hoffa looked inside: ten rolls of francs, tightly bundled with rubber bands, their colors vibrant.
"The deal was a resounding success. This money will last us through next year."
Hoffa barely glanced at the bag of Muggle currency before tossing it aside. "Then care to explain this?" He pointed at Norbert's bruised face.
The steam dissipated, and Norbert, irritated, replied, "On the way back, I accidentally ran into a couple of old hounds from Berlin. They roughed me up pretty badly. And—"
"And?" Hoffa prompted.
"They work for Durant."
"Durant? The Wolf of the East End?"
Hoffa frowned. "The German broker?"
"Exactly. That idiot who stole our weapons. He knows I've been looking for him and decided to make the first move."
Norbert wiped his face and spat on the ground.
Hoffa chuckled. "Clever of him."
"Clever but reckless. Did you know? I finally got a lead on him. Back in March, he bought a bar in the East End, specifically hiring women fleeing from the Jewish quarter."
"So what are we waiting for? Let's go."
Hoffa picked up the black and red mechanical glove from the pile of components.
The metallic glove was menacing, with exposed copper wires and red paint. Taking a purple crystal from his pocket, he inserted it into a slot.
As he donned the glove, it emitted a series of mechanical clicks and clacks, adjusting and enclosing his right hand. Soon, a faint green glow emanated from the glove, and the magical power gauge on the back of his hand pointed to 1X.
The magical watch gifted by Headmaster Dippet had been destroyed two years ago during a battle. Fortunately, by the end of his second year, Dippet had provided him with books on construction techniques. After over a year of study, Hoffa had begun crafting his own magical amplification devices.
Norbert grabbed a handgun from the wall and tucked it into his waistband.
The two stepped out into the night.
Late August in Paris brought a mixture of heat and rain.
The evening sky was dim, and light drizzle fell steadily. Under the broken streetlights, swarms of mosquitoes danced in the damp air, thick enough to obscure the weak light.
Massive, heavy pipelines snaked ominously through the rain-soaked streets. The war's insatiable demand had turned the world into a sprawling network of factories.
As they walked, Norbert chatted about their recent work.
"The leader of France's underground anti-war organization sent a letter today. They want to pre-order 500 alchemical firearms. I was thinking maybe it's time to hire a few extra hands."
"If you trust them, go ahead," Hoffa replied.
"When we're back, get in touch with Frank. Have him ship the raw materials by sea."
"Alright."
Hoffa nodded absently.
"Tell Frank I need pure, untainted metals and potions—not subpar trash in dirty old containers," Norbert continued, his tone growing insistent.
Hoffa nodded again as they walked, half-listening. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and turned around abruptly.
On the crude, rain-soaked cement road, he spotted several figures in black robes. Through the rain, they were dragging a struggling young woman, forcing her into a black Mercedes sedan.
Norbert saw it too and immediately grabbed Hoffa. "Don't get involved. It has nothing to do with us."
The car doors slammed shut with a loud bang and sped off into the rainy night.
Hoffa slowly turned his head back. "It's nothing. Go on."
Norbert continued, "Once we get back the weapons that idiot Durant stole from us, we'll recover at least five thousand Galleons in costs. If Durant refuses to return them, we'll take him out and strip him clean. That guy's pretty loaded, after all."
As Norbert rambled, Hoffa suddenly thought of something and interrupted, "Are any of Grindelwald's men using our weapons?"
"No," Norbert replied, glancing around cautiously before lowering his voice. "Kid, I don't know what crazy idea is brewing in your head, but I'm warning you—don't even think about crossing the Imperial Wizarding Association. That's a colossus you can't afford to mess with."
"The checkpoint," Hoffa said, cutting him off.
Norbert looked up. They had arrived at a heavily armed checkpoint. Parked around it were heavily armored tanks, and tall, continuous walls lined with barbed wire loomed overhead. A squad of fully armed German soldiers manned the gate.
Norbert's expression immediately shifted. In the mid-20th century, after the collapse of the Third French Republic and before the establishment of the Fourth Republic in 1946, this area remained under German occupation. To enter the city center, one had to undergo inspection by German soldiers.
As they approached the checkpoint, a soldier stopped them, speaking in German. "Out this late? What's your business?"
"Visiting family in the city," Norbert replied, chuckling nervously. Discreetly, he slipped a roll of marks into the soldier's hand.
The soldier accepted the marks but continued scrutinizing Norbert coldly. "Papers," he demanded.
Norbert pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it over. The soldier gave it a cursory glance and handed it back, then turned his gaze to Hoffa, who stood with his head lowered.
"And his?" the soldier asked.
"He's my son," Norbert quickly replied, forcing a smile. "Just arrived from Hamburg. His papers are still being processed."
Hoffa's lips twitched faintly. He was no longer the clueless boy who understood nothing. After living in such perilous times for so long, he had made German a necessary skill.
"Son?" The soldier looked skeptically at their physiques and addressed Hoffa directly. "Raise your head."
Hoffa raised his head and smiled faintly. In that moment, the golden light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by ordinary black pupils.
The soldier holding his rifle stared at Hoffa in the rain for a moment before finally waving them through.
"Go on."
The checkpoint gates opened, and the two walked out.
Screech!
Suddenly, a deafening noise shattered the night.
The dark sky was abruptly illuminated as a blazing fireball surged into view, accompanied by the grating sound of grinding treads. A burning Panther medium tank emerged from the distance, tearing through the darkness like a rampaging, dying beast determined to drag everyone it encountered into hell.
Danger prickled Hoffa's senses.
Without hesitation, he lunged at Norbert, knocking him to the ground.
Boom!
The blazing tank, seemingly from nowhere, crashed violently into the checkpoint. The collision triggered a chain reaction, as the ammunition stored in the checkpoint ignited alongside the tank's payload. The resulting explosion tore through the area, instantly sucking the oxygen out of the air.
Shards of flaming debris flew in all directions. Hoffa raised his hand and conjured a shield. The fragments struck the shield but failed to penetrate it. Even so, the immense shockwave hurled both him and Norbert several meters through the air.
His chest tightened, and he gasped for breath. A sharp ringing in his ears left Hoffa momentarily deaf, while the night turned as bright as day.
But in an instant, the blinding brightness was swallowed by darkness once more. Everything dissolved into chaos, leaving behind only scattered cries for help.
Staggering to his feet, Hoffa's eyes glowed gold again. He took in the scene: the checkpoint's walls had been half-destroyed by the explosion's aftermath, and a few guards shoved him forcefully.
"Go! Get out of here!"
One of them grabbed a radio, screaming, "Checkpoint B136 under attack!"
The chaos of the night consumed everything.
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