Before the conversation could continue, a distant explosion erupted again, accompanied by intense gunfire and the sound of a firefight. The soldiers wasted no time, raising their weapons and firing blindly into the darkness as though battling an unseen beast.
"Get up, quick!"
Hoffa anxiously kicked Norbert and extended his hand.
"Apparate!"
"Damn it..."
Norbert scrambled to his feet in a fluster and grabbed Hoffa's wrist.
The sky was illuminated once more by firelight. Without hesitation, Norbert grabbed Hoffa's arm in return.
Crack!
With a sharp crack, the two disappeared from the scene, leaving behind a group of soldiers firing their weapons wildly into the darkness. The orange-yellow bullets streaked through the air like countless flashes of lightning.
In the city.
Norbert and Hoffa stumbled out of their Apparation. The air was now filled with the wailing of air raid sirens that echoed throughout Paris.
Pedestrians scattered in all directions. The streets were littered with trampled fruits and vegetables. Nearby, warhorses tied to poles reared and neighed in terror.
Soldiers rushed to leap into jeeps, their glaring searchlights cutting through the night. A dozen military vehicles sped down the streets, kicking up billows of dust.
"Move! Hurry up!"
Norbert urged Hoffa forward.
Hoffa hastily followed, struggling to keep up with Norbert, who darted ahead like a shadow.
With practiced ease, Norbert led Hoffa through the winding streets, eventually slipping into a narrow alley. There, he opened the heavy wooden door of a church and shoved Hoffa inside.
The moment the door closed, the blaring sirens outside became muffled and distant.
The corridor they entered appeared to have once been a passageway used by a Catholic church for transporting goods. It was dimly lit and eerily quiet.
Leaning against the door, Norbert took several deep breaths before kicking over a nearby trash bin in frustration.
"These damn Muggles! Can't we have a moment's peace?"
Shredded paper scattered as Norbert fumed in the corridor.
Hoffa watched his irate companion and fell into contemplation. It was already 1942—by now, the Muggle conflict should have shifted toward the Soviet Union. Why had the fighting suddenly erupted here again?
After a moment of thought, he still couldn't piece it together.
Meanwhile, Norbert continued his tirade. "Great, now that we've Apparated, what if the stationed German wizards detected us?"
"Detecting us doesn't mean they'll find us immediately," Hoffa reassured him. "We still have time to move."
"Move? Again? Where to this time? The South Pole?" Norbert retorted sarcastically.
Hoffa chuckled. "Even if it's the South Pole, we still need to retrieve the stolen weapons first. Lead the way."
The two ventured deeper into the narrow corridor. It wasn't entirely deserted—before long, they came across a man sitting on a chair, sipping a beer. The man, a Black individual, gave Norbert a casual nod as he passed.
As they progressed, the corridor grew more crowded.
Some of the people loitering there were disheveled and menacing, their eyes filled with hostility. They drank loudly or polished their weapons—clearly individuals who thrived in the underworld.
Others, dressed like priests in monastery robes, stood on wooden crates delivering passionate eulogies, preaching faith and religion.
When the two reached a bend in the corridor, a tattooed Black man with a pair of blades at his waist and an assault rifle slung across his back appeared from the other direction.
"Hey, Hoffa. Hey, Norbert," the man greeted in English.
"Yo, Gump," Hoffa replied with a brief nod.
"Did you see that explosion outside just now?"
The burly Black man looked shaken as he asked.
Hoffa nodded. "Saw it."
"It's been ages since there was fighting. Why did it start again tonight?"
"It's wartime. Fighting can break out anywhere," Hoffa replied.
"Fair enough," Gump mused, before asking curiously, "Where are you two headed so late?"
Hoffa didn't answer.
"We're looking for Durant," Norbert replied instead.
"You're after him too?" Gump seemed surprised.
"What, someone else is looking for him as well?" Norbert asked.
"I heard the British Ministry of Magic has been sending people to find him lately," Gump explained.
"The British Ministry of Magic is after Durant?" Norbert's eyes widened.
"That's right," Gump said. "Just a couple of days ago, one of my men met a British wizard at the train station. She got off and immediately asked about Durant's location."
Norbert instantly grew wary. "What's the story there?"
"How would I know?" Gump shrugged. "I'm not interested in your British affairs—it's none of my business."
With that, he turned and disappeared down a hallway branching off the corridor.
After the Black friend left, Norbert's expression became clouded with uncertainty. "The Ministry of Magic is looking for Durant. What do you think?"
Hoffa pondered for a moment, frowning.
"Durant is a coward. If the Ministry is following the trail to find him, he'll likely spill the beans about our illegal arms manufacturing."
Norbert asked, "The Ministry knows you're here. What do you think they want?"
"Who knows? But either way, we need to find him before the Ministry does."
Half an Hour Later
Hoffa and Norbert emerged from the tunnel one after another.
They found themselves in the 20th arrondissement of the city.
The rain had stopped, and a massive half-moon hung high in the sky.
Under the deep blue and black hues of the French night, towering churches and monasteries loomed ominously. The peculiar statues adorning their ancient spires cast strange, surreal shadows.
The chaos of the outer city hadn't reached this area yet, leaving it relatively calm. Only occasional gunfire, faint and firecracker-like, could be heard from afar—commonplace in wartime.
The two bypassed the ruins of a bombed-out monastery and arrived at a rundown bar in a secluded corner of the city.
Flickering neon lights illuminated the entrance, where several armed Black men were checking the crowd coming in and out.
Hoffa flexed his arm, and his magic-amplifying glove transformed into a rat. The creature leaped from his palm and darted into the bar, disappearing among the guards.
As Hoffa and Norbert approached, the armed guards immediately glared at them menacingly.
"Hand over your weapons."
Norbert drew his pistol and handed it to one of the guards.
Not satisfied, the guards pressed them against the wall and frisked them thoroughly.
Neither Hoffa nor Norbert resisted, raising their arms and enduring the near-airport-security-level pat-down. Once cleared, they were allowed into the bar without further issues.
Inside, the air was thick with a strange and pungent smell. A group of red-faced white men exhaled clouds of smoke, filling the room with a choking haze. Scantily clad waitresses with heavy makeup weaved through the crowd, their faces bearing numb smiles.
In the center of the bar was a dance floor, where several Black and white women danced topless around poles, their feet surrounded by scattered francs and marks.
Hoffa was unperturbed by the scene. He crouched among the moving legs of the crowd, pretending to tie his shoelaces.
From the shadows, a black rat emerged, leaping back onto Hoffa's arm and transforming into his magic-amplifying glove.
As Hoffa stood, Norbert leaned close to him and whispered, "Wait here. I'll find Durant and signal you. He doesn't know you, so we can catch him off guard."
Hoffa nodded silently and made his way to the bar counter, while Norbert disappeared into the crowd.
Behind the counter, an elderly, stooped Black bartender polished glasses. Seeing Hoffa approach, he asked habitually, "What'll it be?"
At that moment, a tall woman emerged from the shadows and sat beside Hoffa.
"Whiskey, please," she said.
"Same for me," Hoffa added.
The bartender served two glasses of whiskey on the rocks. The tall woman smiled as she took her glass and clinked it against Hoffa's.
"Good evening," she greeted in French.
"Good evening."
Hoffa replied with a perfunctory smile, touching his lips to the whiskey before setting the glass back down.
"You seem young," the woman remarked with a smile.
"Not too young," Hoffa replied politely.
"Where are you from? Out for some fun alone?"
France, or more specifically this bar, had a reputation for its open atmosphere.
"Work, not fun," Hoffa answered simply, maintaining an air of honesty and distance.
"What kind of work takes you to a bar?" The woman placed a curious hand on Hoffa's shoulder.
Hoffa glanced at the hand, then at its owner—a bald woman with striking features, high cheekbones, and large eyes. She wore gray clothing and was undoubtedly attractive, which only made Hoffa suspicious. Beautiful women rarely approached strangers so boldly.
"You're quite nosy," he said slowly.
The bald woman wasn't offended. She shrugged and withdrew her hand. "You're quite cold."
With that, she picked up her glass and moved away.
Hoffa paid little attention to the encounter, but after she left, he felt an inexplicable sense of being watched. He turned to look but saw no one staring at him. Everyone seemed lost in their own worlds of alcohol and indulgence.
Shaking his head, Hoffa dismissed the feeling as overthinking.
The bar buzzed with activity, and Hoffa sat quietly on a high stool for half an hour. His stillness, unremarkable to most, caught the attention of the bartender.
The old man's gaze grew wary as he studied the strange young man before him.
The young man sat on a high stool, his eyelids drooping as his fingers rhythmically tapped the table. In front of him was a glass of whiskey on the rocks, the amber liquid now watered down as the ice melted, leaving the glass covered in a web of condensation.
Since entering the bar half an hour ago, he hadn't spoken much. He responded to others' attempts at conversation with indifference, and the glass of whiskey he'd been served remained untouched.
The bartender grew increasingly wary.
Most patrons here were flushed, smoking cigarettes, grumbling about life and the war, and exuding a sense of drunken lethargy. On occasion, even those feigning an air of mystery would reveal their true selves when approached by a beautiful woman.
Having worked here for years, the bartender had developed a sharp eye for spotting those genuinely out of place versus those merely playing a role.
The young man before him, despite his youth, exuded an unusual clarity and detachment. He was clearly one of those rare individuals who didn't touch alcohol. But then, what was someone like him doing in a bar?
Finally, the bartender couldn't hold back any longer. He set down the glass he'd been polishing for what felt like the hundredth time and said casually:
"Life's a mess these days. Slaughter, bombings, deaths every day. Makes you wonder, when will it all end?"
Hoffa responded, his head still drooping, "What's it to you?"
"Why wouldn't it matter?"
The bartender replied with a hint of insinuation, "The world's dangerous. If you want to live a little longer, you need to keep your wits about you."
"Just endure it. A few years of patience, and maybe you'll be free."
Hoffa's tone was distracted, his thoughts preoccupied with why Norbert was taking so long to find Durant.
"Are you waiting for someone?"
The bartender probed further, hitting the mark.
"Ah, maybe."
"You're not drinking?"
The bartender gestured toward the untouched whiskey in front of Hoffa.
"Do you have to drink in a bar?" Hoffa asked, his tone lifeless.
"Don't you?"
The bartender motioned with his dark lips toward the lively chaos around them.
At that moment, a male customer stormed onto the dance floor and began passionately kissing one of the strippers. He was likely wealthy, as he hired others to spray champagne in celebration. The dancer screamed, but her voice was drowned out by the champagne's effervescent spray.
The bartender chuckled, "See? That's normal."
Irritated, Hoffa pulled out a few franc notes and slid them across the counter, hoping to shut the bartender up. But before he could complete the gesture, the bartender slammed his hand down on Hoffa's.
Bang!
Pinning Hoffa's hand, the bartender leaned in and growled, "Don't play games. You're not here to drink, are you?"
Hoffa glanced at the bartender's dark hand pressing on his, then smirked mockingly. "What's this? Your bar monitors customers' intentions now?"
The bartender's face darkened with hostility. He reached under the counter, where an old pager sat. "Do you know whose territory this is?"
Noticing the bartender's movement, Hoffa couldn't be bothered to care. Tilting his head lazily, he said, "How much did Durant pay you to be so loyal to him?"
The bartender picked up the pager, staring at Hoffa without blinking. "Come here. We've got a suspicious character."
As he spoke, though, something felt off. The young man in front of him was watching with an amused expression.
When the bartender glanced down, he realized, to his horror, that he was inexplicably holding a liquor bottle to his ear as if it were a phone.
This absurd scene startled him so much that he dropped the bottle like it was electrified and reached for the hunting rifle hanging on the wall.
Before he could brandish the weapon, a loud, guttural roar echoed from above.
ROAR!
Accompanying the roar, a figure crashed through the second-floor railing like a cannonball, shattering wood and glass as they plummeted into the dance floor, landing amidst a pile of broken bottles.
Shards of glass scattered, while playing cards and paper money floated gently down like confetti.
The entire bar froze in shock at the sudden commotion.
The strippers cowered behind the poles, trembling. Champagne trickled from the lips of stunned onlookers, and card players clutched their hands in a daze.
For three seconds, silence reigned.
Then, the servers, plates in hand, screamed and scattered, igniting chaos.
In mere moments, the bar descended into utter pandemonium.
The bartender lunged for his hunting rifle, but Hoffa sprang to his feet, landing a punch squarely on the man's nose.
The bartender, unable to even disengage the rifle's safety, crumpled to the floor, blood spurting from his nose as he passed out.
Hoffa darted into the epicenter of the chaos.
There, in the wreckage of splintered wood, Norbert lay sprawled on his back. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle, blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and five massive claw marks marred his chest as though he'd been mauled by a beast.
Alarmed, Hoffa crouched down beside him.
"Hey, old man, what happened?"
"Cough... cough... I'm fine."
Norbert glanced sideways at Hoffa, struggling to prop himself up.
"Durant... he's a werewolf."
(End of Chapter)
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