Harry Potter: The Forbidden Magic Legend Begins with Him

"What… what is that thing?" Neville's teeth chattered.

It was hard to blame him. The boggart-dragon's long tail whipped dangerously close to his chest, splintering desks and wooden cabinets in its path. Amid the flying debris and swirling dust, a massive, menacing shape loomed, taking up nearly two-thirds of the room.

Neville could barely make out that it was a winged, black reptilian creature.

"Professor Quirrell, he—"

He looked as good as dead—no, definitely dead. What had Quirrell done to provoke Hodge? Yet, Hodge's face showed no trace of relief. He pulled Selma and Neville back toward the broom closet, calmly watching the creature's movements.

The boggart-dragon's size was overwhelming, and the battle had erupted so suddenly that Hodge felt oddly powerless to intervene.

Good thing he still had his voice.

"Kill him!" Hodge commanded.

Razor-sharp black spines scraped deep gouges into the wall, then lashed toward Quirrell's position with a heavy thud. A massive, curtain-like wing studded with spikes sliced down like a blade, filling the corner with terrifying chopping sounds.

Neville swallowed hard.

"Isn't this… a bit much?" he asked uneasily.

"Neville, don't be fooled. That's not Quirrell—it's Voldemort," Hodge said.

"What?!"

Unlike Neville's wide-eyed shock, Quirrell was in an utterly pitiful state—disheveled but still alive. He used some unknown spell to block the near-fatal attack, then shouted frantically. Ropes sprang from the walls, ceiling, and even thin air, weaving like a spider's web to entangle the boggart-dragon's massive form.

But the dragon's body bristled with sharp bone spines. With a single thrash, it shredded most of the ropes.

"Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!" Quirrell yelled, his face streaked with blood, his clothes torn, and a deep gash across his abdomen.

"Master, save me—"

"Fool!" Voldemort's voice screeched from the back of Quirrell's head. "Use the Killing Curse!"

The chaos had erupted too quickly. Even with Voldemort's experience, he couldn't identify the creature. A real dragon? Impossible. Transfiguration, then? Absurd—a first-year student couldn't possibly perform magic of this caliber, not even McGonagall could.

Quirrell waved his wand, conjuring a black shield, then his wand began to glow with an ominous green light.

Hodge didn't hesitate. "Breathe fire."

A torrent of flames erupted. At the same moment, a blinding green light illuminated half the empty classroom.

Hodge and Neville held their breath. The fire hit the shield, then flowed around it like water, splashing onto Quirrell. He screamed in agony, rolling on the floor. But his Killing Curse struck the boggart-dragon, and the once-ferocious Norwegian Ridgeback froze. Its horned, spike-covered head seemed to lose color, fading instantly to gray.

Under the stunned gazes of Hodge, Neville, and Selma, the dragon's head crumbled to ash.

"Hodge!" Neville pointed at Quirrell.

Selma craned her neck to look, gasping. The flames on Quirrell had mysteriously extinguished. His face and body were covered in blisters, but oddly, there were few burn marks.

Quirrell panted heavily, too weak even to curse.

"It's that boy! He's controlling it—kill him!" Voldemort's shrill voice rang out. "No, let me do it! I'll kill him myself!"

"Master—" Quirrell's face twisted in fear.

"Do it!"

"Yes… yes, my lord."

Quirrell seemed to transform into someone else entirely.

His eyes turned a vivid red, his pupils vanishing, and a powerful aura radiated from him. But some of his blisters burst, blood streaming down, making him look like a figure carved from gore.

After today, Voldemort might need to find a new host. No wonder he was so furious.

"Come back," Hodge said to the boggart, his face tinged with regret.

The plan had gone off course—maybe for better, maybe for worse.

He'd intended to join Harry's trio in their adventure, but things had shifted. Like a small pebble tossed into a deceptively calm but turbulent lake, he'd created ripples. Voldemort had taken notice of his talent, plotting to deal with him before stealing the Philosopher's Stone. In Voldemort's mind, handling a gifted first-year was child's play, a light snack before the main course. Clearly, he'd never tried Hagrid's rock cakes.

Voldemort had stumbled, and it might even disrupt his larger plans.

As for Hodge? He hadn't wanted a direct confrontation, but Voldemort's attempt to possess him left no room for negotiation. He'd had to change tactics and take Quirrell out decisively.

He couldn't destroy Voldemort—no one could, not even Dumbledore—but without Quirrell's body, Voldemort was nothing. What Hodge hadn't expected was that even with the boggart-dragon, a near-perfect ambush hadn't been enough to finish Quirrell.

It wasn't fair to say, since Quirrell had Voldemort's help. But Hodge only cared about results.

Time to let Dumbledore clean up.

"Into the broom closet," Hodge said to Neville. The stone door behind them opened silently—Hodge didn't have a key, but a simple Alohomora did the trick. Neville quickly pulled Selma into the cramped closet.

The boggart-dragon held its ground to the last, and though only half its body remained, it raised a massive hind leg to stomp Quirrell.

But the blow was easily blocked.

A terrifying force shook the room. Hodge's head throbbed painfully, a chilling presence stabbing into the depths of his mind.

His Occlumency kicked in, repelling the intrusion.

"No—" Voldemort's voice howled, Quirrell's face contorting grotesquely.

Bang!

The stone door slammed shut, thanks to Neville yanking Hodge inside. They were now in the dim, cramped broom closet. Neville, sweating profusely, saw the strange beast defeated, Hodge clutching his forehead, and Selma unreliable. It was up to him.

"Think, Longbottom, think," he muttered, smacking his head.

Frantically, he lit his wand, then hurriedly cast a spell to seal the stone door.

He wasn't naive enough to think a door could stop Voldemort, but it was something.

Neville ignited a broom in the corner, heedless of the risk of suffocation. His face hardened with resolve, ready to face death. Then, inspiration struck.

He stared at the wall opposite the door. What was behind it? Another room? A passage?

"Bombarda!"

The wall didn't budge.

"Bombarda! Bombarda!"

Neville was near tears, but not for himself.

"You did well, Neville," Hodge said suddenly. Neville looked at him, overjoyed. "Hodge, you're okay? Brilliant! I've got an idea—"

"I saw," Hodge said, rubbing his forehead and pointing at Neville's hair, which smelled singed from the close-range blasts. Selma's hair was the same. "Breaking these walls isn't easy. The whole castle's under magical protection."

Neville scratched his head. Then, black mist seeped through the door's cracks.

"Don't panic," Hodge reassured him. "You've seen its other form."

A boggart couldn't die—you just had to know how to handle it.

As he spoke, the mist crawled up Hodge's outstretched arm, coalescing. Soon, a shrunken, menacing head—ten times smaller—formed behind him.

Neville gaped, then realized this was the creature's true form.

Hodge cast spells around them, making the walls and door shimmer with magic.

"Will it work?" Neville asked hopefully.

Hodge replied calmly, "Depends if he's willing to waste time on us."

Neville pressed his ear to the door, his eyes sharp. "I hear chanting."

"Don't get too close."

Hodge watched the door for any signs of damage. If it faltered, he'd send the dragon in again, but he wasn't at his best. One slip, and a Killing Curse wasn't a joke.

He knew he'd thoroughly pissed off Voldemort this time.

Despite his exhaustion—the brief battle had drained his strength and magic—he stayed alert, casting a Reviving Charm on Selma every few seconds. She stared at him with burning eyes.

Finally, a clear, melodic voice broke through.

"Hodge?"

She was free of the spell, fully awake.

"Where are we? What's that behind you? Oh, wait—" Her face paled in the firelight as memories returned. "Oh, Hodge, I'm so sorry! It was Quirrell—he cursed me when I wasn't looking—"

"Calm down, Evelina," Hodge said. "I'm not blaming you. Quirrell was after me. You were just caught in the crossfire. Now, help me out. Use everything you learned at St. Mungo's. I'm about to pass out, but I can't sleep yet…"

Selma sniffled, took a deep breath, and raised her wand with precision. Healing spells flowed over Hodge.

He felt like he was soaking in warm water, utterly relaxed. He gave her a thumbs-up, and she flashed a radiant smile.

The lingering pain, like a bone-deep parasite, slowly faded. Hodge split his focus, keeping some awareness on the outside while pondering the situation. Voldemort despised him now—that was certain—but he had bigger priorities, like the Philosopher's Stone.

After some thought, under Neville and Selma's curious gazes, Hodge called out loudly:

"Peeves!"

A brief silence followed. Then, a loud, grating pfft announced Peeves, floating midair, arms wrapped around his knees, grinning cheekily.

"Well, well, well… what's this? A little party for the poor sods?"

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