Harry Potter: The Forbidden Magic Legend Begins with Him

Hodge didn't bring the Boggart back to the dormitory—letting that thing loose would be no laughing matter. Instead, he stashed the small wooden box in the abandoned classroom where the Whimsy Club often met, sealed it with a charm, tucked it deep inside a cabinet, and locked the cabinet door with another spell for good measure.

For the next week, Hodge couldn't believe how much that little box weighed on his mind.

During that time, he caught wind of something peculiar: Harry and his friends were trying to convince other students to stop mocking Professor Quirrell's stutter. "He's got it rough enough as it is," Hodge overheard Ron say to a student at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall one morning.

Strange words coming from Ron, of all people.

In Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ernie Macmillan had his own theory.

"I reckon it's got something to do with Professor Snape," he said, shooting Hodge a knowing look.

Hodge scribbled a couple of notes, then casually asked, "What don't I know about—oh, the enemy of my enemy is my friend?"

"Something like that," Ernie said with conviction. "Think about it—they've never gotten along. I know it's mostly Snape picking fights... but he's a professor, isn't he? And he's not exactly chummy with our Quirrell."

He glanced cautiously at Quirrell, who was at the front of the classroom, then lowered his voice. "Snape's been in a foul mood lately. First, he made a fool of himself at the Quidditch pitch—Harry practically snatched the Snitch right under his nose, and you know those two don't get along. Then, somehow, Snape injured his leg. Rumor has it Harry snuck into the staff room to gawk at the spectacle. And recently, Neville's been shining in Potions class, which has clearly robbed Snape of some of his usual fun."

Hodge listened to Ernie's gossip, gathered from all corners of the castle, with an odd expression. He could just imagine the Ravenclaw common room's whiteboard starving for these juicy tidbits.

Until Neville's name came up. "What happened with him?" Hodge asked.

Justin Finch-Fletchley leaned in from the back row. "Longbottom's been on fire. He's pulled off two A's in Potions in a row. I reckon for Snape, that's as good as a teaching failure."

An A meant passing—behind Outstanding and Exceeds Expectations, but still firmly in the "competent" category. For Neville, that was practically a miracle.

Up at the front, Professor Quirrell was still stammering through his lecture.

"…Y-you can use the Sm-Smoke Charm to create a cloud of magical fog that doesn't easily d-dissipate. It w-works underwater too, to c-confuse aquatic creatures…"

Someone shouted, "But then we wouldn't be able to see either!"

Quirrell's face flushed red. "T-true, but if you're trying to escape…" He launched into a story about a swamp in Montenegro.

Below, Justin sighed dramatically. "I don't know why we're sitting here," he said, glancing out the window. "The snow's melted. A walk by the lake would be so much better… What are you doing, Hodge?"

"Taking notes," Hodge said calmly.

Justin looked horrified, as if Hodge had just consulted a troll for homework help. "You're not the only one Quirrell's fooled. I mean, not every oddball is secretly a genius—there's only one Dumbledore."

"I'm not saying that," Hodge cut him off before he could dig into the "dark" history of Hodge's past interactions with Quirrell. Trying to be fair, he added, "Some of his stuff is actually decent. And, you know, for exams, you've got to jot down something to revise."

Ernie took the advice to heart, grabbing his quill and focusing intently on the lesson.

It didn't last long. His eyes soon glazed over. "Am I hallucinating, or is that Professor Binns up there?" he mumbled, staring blankly.

Hodge glanced at Quirrell's pale face. "Hard to say."

The other students were slumping in their seats, and it wasn't their fault. First-year Defense Against the Dark Arts was more about broadening horizons and teaching concepts than actual spellwork. So far, Hodge had learned exactly two spells: one to shoot sparks and another to make a loud bang.

Honestly, the effects were decent enough—if you needed to call for help. But ever since Filch caught some poor sod practicing them in the corridor, first-years had shelved both spells.

When the bell rang, the students jolted awake, scrambling out of the classroom toward the Great Hall for lunch. Hodge joined the crowd, mentally calculating how much free time he had before Transfiguration. He figured he could slip by the abandoned classroom to check on things.

"B-Blackthorn, w-wait a moment," Quirrell called from the doorway. Once most of the students had cleared out, he said warmly, "It's b-been a while, I m-mean, since our t-tutoring in my office…"

Hodge's expression turned odd.

Was this Quirrell a Boggart in disguise or what?

No, that was absurd. Just a coincidence. Unless his next words were…

"I kn-know some m-magic."

Hodge fought the urge to bolt.

"Of c-course, you're d-doing wonderfully," Quirrell went on. "P-Professor Flitwick and P-Professor McGonagall have s-said as much… They s-speak highly of you…"

Hodge listened patiently, finally piecing together Quirrell's point.

"You're interested in my essay?" Hodge clarified, adding, "Professor Quirrell?"

"Y-yes, exactly. Your ideas are v-very insightful. I-I've had some thoughts myself l-lately," Quirrell stammered, delicately expressing his desire for a magical discussion. But as for visiting his office, Hodge wasn't keen.

The last time they'd had a private chat, Quirrell's sudden "episode" had startled him. And, though it was just a fleeting moment, Hodge was certain he'd caught Voldemort's attention.

"I've been swamped," Hodge said evenly. "Professor Flitwick's been very invested in the essay's progress. He's even come to the club for hands-on guidance. Plus, I've got letters to answer."

"N-no problem," Quirrell replied. "We can d-do it after class, l-like when you used to t-turn in assignments."

Hodge didn't hesitate long before agreeing. No need to seem overly hostile toward Quirrell. As he left the classroom, he clutched a few sheets of parchment—Quirrell's notes on his essay.

No traps detected yet, but he'd stay on guard.

After lunch, Hodge sat on the steps outside the castle's entrance hall, gazing at the Black Lake in the distance.

He'd read Quirrell's notes several times over and came to a shocking conclusion: Quirrell was genuinely interested in discussing his ideas.

Quirrell. Quirinius Quirrell.

A bold, talented young wizard who'd been so dazzled by Voldemort's mastery of dark magic that he'd willingly served him.

In other words, Quirrell's initial reason for joining Voldemort was to become stronger.

Sneaking into Hogwarts to steal the Philosopher's Stone didn't conflict with his behavior today. After all, Hodge's core argument in his essay was about constructing a powerful mental image—whether it was a future version of yourself gripped by intense emotion or someone familiar, like the giant Andros in Hodge's mind.

And Quirrell? Didn't he already have a certain powerful figure to emulate in his head?

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