Harry Potter: The Forbidden Magic Legend Begins with Him

Neville's face clouded with worry.

"Potions class is next," he said.

Hodge pieced it together—Snape, humiliated and in a foul mood, was likely to take it out on someone. That someone was almost certainly Neville, the weakest performer in the class.

"You don't do so well in Potions?" Hodge asked, phrasing it as delicately as he could.

Neville's face paled, and he mumbled, "Yeah."

"Is it because you have trouble remembering things?"

Neville nodded. But that wasn't the whole story. Hodge had seen Neville excel in Herbology, where Professor Sprout's lessons required just as much memorization.

"Does Snape make you nervous too?"

Another nod.

"I've got an idea," Hodge said, a memory flickering in his mind that lent his tone a touch of empathy. "Listen, I used to have a terrible memory too—" Neville's eyes widened in disbelief. "—but it got better. There's a method I learned in Muggle school that might help you. It's from what they call a lab class—basically the Muggle version of Potions!"

"You'll need to prepare in advance. Take a piece of parchment and draw a vertical line down the middle. On the left, list the steps of the potion. On the right, write what should happen after each step—like the potion changing color, making a sound, turning clear, or bubbling. Use those signs to confirm you've done the step right, then check it off and move on. If something goes wrong, ask for help right away to fix it."

The method was simple, but Neville clearly hadn't thought of it. He left, practically bouncing with excitement.

Unlike Neville, who now had guidance, Hodge was making slow progress in his search for a Boggart. It wasn't something he could ask a teacher about, since he planned to tame one in secret.

A breakthrough came soon enough. One evening, Hodge borrowed an old Comet 250 from the house Quidditch team and took it for a shaky spin around the pitch. He'd gotten decent at flying, diving and spiraling upward with ease. February's chill still lingered, so he slowed to a glide, drifting over the serene Black Lake and the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Both places still felt foreign to Hodge.

The Black Lake was dotted with floating ice and snow, its thawed patches dark and murky. He'd heard Cho Chang and her friends talk about seeing a pair of glowing eyes in the water, but he'd never spotted them. The Forbidden Forest was off-limits to students, teeming with dangerous creatures.

A sudden whimpering sound came from below. Hodge looked down to see a hound barking wildly.

He'd unknowingly flown near the gamekeeper's cabin. From above, it was a rugged, oddly shaped wooden hut surrounded by small garden patches. One plot held pumpkins, but with Christmas long past, only sparse vines and a few scrawny pumpkins remained under the snow.

The cabin door swung open. "Oi! Get down here!" Hagrid bellowed, bundled in a thick fur coat and looking cross.

"Hello, Hagrid," Hodge called, landing on a less muddy patch of ground.

Hagrid squinted, recognizing him. "Oh, it's you. Fang, move it—" The hound was overly enthusiastic, and Hagrid had to yank its tail to keep it back, adding, "Don't worry, he doesn't bite. Come in for a bit."

Hodge followed him into the cabin, a single cluttered room that looked like it had been expanded multiple times. Miscellaneous items were strewn everywhere, and Hodge carefully picked his way through.

Ducking a ham hanging from the ceiling, he settled into a small chair. Hagrid moved to a corner where a large bed sat, covered in patchwork quilts. He rummaged through a cupboard, soon bringing out treacle fudge, sausages, and pumpkin juice.

"Ran out of rock cakes," Hagrid said regretfully, setting down the tray. "Eat the sausages first. The fudge needs a quick roast by the fire… I didn't recognize you up there. Thought some troublemaker was trying to fly over the Forest. You training for Quidditch?"

"First-years can't join the team," Hodge replied.

"Oh! Forgot Harry's the exception," Hagrid said, smacking his forehead. "He's doing alright, though. Won two matches already. They say Gryffindor's got a shot at the Quidditch Cup if they win the third—"

"Hagrid, they're up against Ravenclaw next," Hodge said with a sigh.

Hagrid waved a hand dismissively, accidentally knocking Fang over. "Doesn't matter, long as Slytherin doesn't win." His opinion echoed Michael's. He raised his cup, clinking it with Hodge's, then paused, eyeing him suspiciously. "Hang on. If you're not training—"

"Just joyriding! Joyriding!" Hodge said quickly.

Hagrid's bearded face showed he wasn't entirely convinced, but he didn't press further, to Hodge's relief. Getting caught by Filch would've been a much bigger problem.

Wait…

Filch? Hodge's mind started turning.

"…Heard you've been getting a lot of letters lately, something about a paper," Hagrid went on. "I don't get all that. Got expelled in my third year… But Hermione's all over it. She subscribed to that magazine or whatever."

Hodge raised a hand, frowning. "What did you just say?"

"Er, magazine?"

"No, about Filch."

"That old git?" Hagrid looked baffled. Had he even mentioned Filch? But Hodge's serious expression made him think. "Filch… let's see. Christmas gift? Oh, right—Mrs. Norris!"

Hodge leapt up. How could he forget that cat? He'd fed her countless dried fish. "Thanks, Hagrid!" he called, rushing out, leaving Hagrid bewildered. Hagrid glanced at Fang, whose mouth was glued shut with treacle fudge, whimpering softly.

The next day, after promising Mrs. Norris a pile of dried fish, she nodded and led him up a staircase.

"You know where to find a Boggart?" Hodge asked, astonished.

He'd expected it to take days, even with her help. But considering Mrs. Norris had lived in the castle for years, patrolling daily, it made sense she'd know where a wild Boggart might lurk.

"Hang on, I need to grab something," Hodge said, darting back to his dorm to pocket a sturdy little square box. Then, he and the cat wound through the castle, eventually reaching a path Hodge recognized as leading to the North Tower.

They climbed a narrow spiral staircase.

Hodge knew the North Tower's top floor housed the Divination classroom and Professor Trelawney's office. He'd heard about the eccentric, questionable seer but had never met her. As he pondered how to deal with Trelawney, he noticed Mrs. Norris leading him downward.

The stairs grew darker, forcing Hodge to light his wand. Minutes later, Mrs. Norris stopped mid-staircase, meowing at a wall. Hodge raised his glowing wand, barely making out the shape of a door blended almost perfectly into the stone. It looked like an abandoned broom closet, unused for years judging by the marks.

He asked Mrs. Norris to wait outside, his hand finding the subtle handle. Mentally reviewing how to handle a Boggart, he braced himself and pushed.

The door creaked open.

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