January passed in a blur. Perhaps because the Christmas holidays had eaten up part of the month, Hodge Blackthorn barely noticed it was already the end of the month when he snapped out of his daze. That morning at breakfast, a flock of owls swooped into the Great Hall as usual.
Hodge instinctively looked up, scanning for Nyx's familiar shape, and didn't notice a long-eared owl dropping a neatly wrapped rectangular package right above him.
He opened it to find the latest issue of Charms Quarterly from the publisher, along with a letter from the editor. He flipped through the magazine first, noting it was identical to the sample Professor Flitwick had shown him. Then he unfolded the editor's letter, read it, and fell into deep thought.
"Your article got published?" Terry Boot asked through a mouthful of sausage.
"Yeah, wasn't easy," Hodge replied, passing the magazine to him. Anthony Goldstein snatched it first, flipping to the article he'd already seen in draft form. Soon, the magazine was being passed around among their classmates.
"What's the editor's letter say?" Michael Corner asked.
Hodge waved the letter lightly. "Some encouraging words, a suggestion to keep researching along these lines, and a reminder not to forget to reply to people's letters."
"Letters? Someone sent you mail?" Terry glanced at the table, confused, seeing no envelopes.
Michael, more interested in Quidditch than academic chatter, slurped his porridge and mumbled, "The magazine just went on sale, right? I bet by the next Quidditch match, you'll have a pile of letters."
"When's the next match?" Terry's interest shifted.
"Two weeks from now, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff," Michael said without hesitation. "Last time, Harry nearly fell off his broom. This time, Professor Snape's refereeing, and everyone's curious to see how that goes…"
He frowned. "Honestly, I don't know who I want to win. After Easter, we're up against Gryffindor—they're tough. But if Harry's team loses too badly, no one's stopping Slytherin. And I really don't want to see Slytherin strutting around all smug."
After his little speech, Michael clapped Hodge on the shoulder as he left, mouthing "a pile of letters" with a grin.
And he was right.
Over the next week, subscribers to Charms Quarterly began reading Hodge's article. Letters started arriving from people intrigued by his work, discussing its contents. The responses were varied—some agreed, some criticized, others offered new ideas or asked for more case studies.
Hodge did his best to reply to each one.
Many were particularly curious about the comic strip he'd included with his article. Two publishers even wrote, asking for the full set of drawings for internal review. Hodge responded politely to those as well.
All in all, the article brought him a small wave of fame. But like a gust of wind, the students' attention soon shifted to the next shiny thing.
As for the article's quality, a brief comment in the Daily Prophet summed it up: "A Hogwarts first-year offers a fresh perspective on magical studies. We look forward to seeing more from him in the future."
The short review calmed Hodge's restless excitement. Compared to the enthusiastic, excitable Professor Flitwick or the magazine editor who'd published his work, the Daily Prophet's comment reflected a more general public view.
They were more interested in Hodge himself.
The son of a Squib, heir to an ancient family bloodline, awakened to magic through a magical accident, and—on his very first day at Hogwarts—helping the Boy Who Lived save a fellow student from a troll. Ron Weasley and Evelina Selma's roles in the incident were glossed over in the narrative. Evelina, incensed by this, sent a letter expressing her "outrage" and demanded a bag of kitchen-made dried fish as "hush money." Terrified, Hodge quickly complied.
Ron, meanwhile, was green with jealousy. When he learned there'd be follow-up articles, he couldn't resist offering advice.
"You could, you know, name names," Ron said seriously. "I wouldn't mind if you leaked… er, what's the word? Privacy. But if you could make me sound a bit cleverer, that'd be great. It's easy—just swap my data with Hermione's…"
For the sake of student privacy, Hodge had used numbers instead of names in his article, formatting it much like a St. Mungo's medical report: "Student No. 1's first activity… second activity…"
"You only participated in two activities," Hodge pointed out bluntly.
Ron grumbled, "Got held up by Quidditch. Three practices a week—" He stopped under Hodge's skeptical stare and tried to justify himself. "It's Harry's training, but as his best mate… I think… if Gryffindor wins two matches in a row, and then crushes the third…"
Hodge wasn't exactly rooting for him. Gryffindor's third match was against Ravenclaw, and though Michael had said Ravenclaw had no hope of winning the House Cup, Hodge still had house pride.
By now, it was the day after the Quidditch match, and February had arrived. A few days of cold rain left the castle and grounds damp and chilly.
Hodge got the full story from Neville, who'd arrived at the Quidditch pitch later than planned due to muddy paths. The match was already over by the time he got there, but the deafening cheers and applause told him everything.
"New record!" Neville beamed, practically bouncing with excitement. According to him, Snape had barely lifted off the ground—his broom wasn't even warm—when the Golden Snitch zipped past his greasy hair. Harry, hot on its tail, executed a flawless deceleration and turn, landing smoothly with the Snitch clutched in his hand.
"I beat Crabbe and Goyle," Neville added proudly.
Hodge gave Neville a once-over, relieved to see no obvious injuries. That was good—it meant Neville hadn't tried using his fists, which was Crabbe and Goyle's territory.
"How'd you manage that?" Hodge asked.
"When the match started, Malfoy and his goons came over to stir trouble. Malfoy was mocking Harry, then Ron's family, and things got heated. They started fighting, and—well," Neville gave a shy smile, "I was about to jump in, but then I remembered I had my wand. Freezing Charm and Petrification Charm, one for each. I only know those two."
"So the others went one-on-one?" Hodge asked, intrigued. "Who won? Oh, I'm betting Ron. He's got five brothers. Draco Malfoy? I doubt he's ever thrown a punch."
"You're right," Neville confirmed.
"What happened to Malfoy?"
"Like you mentioned in the Whimsy Club—"
"Oh, I can picture it," Hodge said, chuckling at the mental image of Malfoy's pale face bruised and battered. It was oddly satisfying.
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