The battle had to be called off.
"What's going on, Kingsley?" Moody's magical eye fixed on Kingsley, sharp and unblinking.
"Someone spotted Sirius Black near Hogsmeade," Kingsley said curtly. Hodge offered a quick farewell, Moody's gruff roar echoing behind him.
As he stepped into the castle's entrance hall, two thoughts swirled in his mind.
First was the spar with Moody. During their duel, Hodge had deliberately mimicked him. Imitate first, then strip away what didn't suit him—that was the plan. Unfortunately, Hodge's real combat experience was limited. In some ways, his projection tactics bore a faint resemblance to Peeves' mischievous antics. The biggest difference between him and Moody, though, was that magical eye. It let Moody cast with pinpoint precision, tailoring spells to his opponent's every move. Beyond that, Moody's sheer battle experience was unmatched—he could read an enemy's intentions with a glance, something Hodge couldn't yet match.
In a real fight, Hodge's strength lay in striking first and fast.
Then there was Sirius Black. As expected, news of his sighting near the school spread like wildfire by evening.
Climbing into bed, Hodge overheard Terry and Anthony betting on which Ministry Auror would catch Black. They bickered over Kingsley versus Dawlish until Michael Corner mentioned "the wooden-leg weirdo," and both shut up instantly. Neither had ever seen Moody, but from other students' whispers, he was "scary-looking as hell."
Hodge settled into the thick curtains of his four-poster bed, pulling out the Marauder's Map. The past two weeks had yielded almost nothing, but he'd started to piece together Peter Pettigrew's nocturnal habits, narrowing down his search. Beyond that, using the map had unexpectedly revealed the daily routines of countless students. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes to think, tiny ink dots would flicker in his mind, tracing hundreds of paths through the castle. It gave Hodge an uncanny feeling—like he could reach every corner of Hogwarts with his thoughts alone.
Not even Dumbledore could do that, could he? It was almost godlike. Yawning, Hodge gripped his wand, the howling winter wind rattling the windows. With a subtle flick of his wrist, silvery light coalesced, forming a miniature version of himself under the blue curtains of his bed.
"Do your thing," Hodge muttered to his projection, then drifted into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Hodge woke refreshed and headed downstairs to find a crowd buzzing around the noticeboard, exchanging excited glances. Approaching, he spotted a massive parchment pinned prominently, boldly proclaiming "Dueling Club." His eyes flicked to the signature—Gilderoy Lockhart's flamboyant scrawl leapt off the page.
This must be Lockhart's attempt at a comeback, Hodge thought, smirking.
Lockhart's luck had taken a nosedive. Sure, Hodge's flying cloak had briefly made him the talk of the school, but that stunt where he got blown away by the wind had ruined the effect. Then, in front of the Minister for Magic and the entire school, Lockhart had accidentally vanished Draco Malfoy's bones, plunging his reputation into deeper trouble. More and more people weren't just questioning his "poor teaching"—they were calling him a complete fraud. Naturally, his books were now dismissed as pure fiction.
What pushed things to a boiling point—Hodge suspected—was a coordinated attack from the Ministry. Rita Skeeter's scathing exposés, Lucius Malfoy's pressure as a school governor, Umbridge's classroom inspections… Lockhart, no matter how arrogant, could feel the invisible noose tightening around his neck. From Umbridge's pointed questions, it was clear the Ministry was not only suspicious but actively investigating him.
Then there was the student rebellion—subtle, but enough to give Lockhart a headache.
Hodge knew the sixth- and seventh-years had completely tuned him out. They'd formed their own little interest clubs (Ravenclaws were especially enthusiastic), and upper-year classes were often half-empty. Fifth-years weren't much better. With O.W.L.s looming—affecting what careers they could pursue—the pressure was immense. If Lockhart tried to "stir up trouble" in Defense Against the Dark Arts, they'd shout him down.
Younger students were less openly defiant, though they grumbled about "learning nothing" and "failing their exams." Still, they mostly cooperated in class. Well, except for the Weasley twins. After the Quidditch match, they'd come to Hodge for advice. Following his suggestion, they drew inspiration from billywig stings and venom, creating a new product called "Vent Sweets." When eaten, the candy made you swell up like a balloon, then zip around the room, deflating with loud "poof" noises as you flew.
Hodge had the dubious honor of witnessing the sweets' effects firsthand, right after checking the Dueling Club notice on his way to the Great Hall for lunch.
"Quite the spectacle," Terry said, grinning.
The twins were eagerly pitching their new product, while in the background, Ron had puffed up into a giant ball, bouncing around the entrance hall. Mrs. Norris yowled and bolted. Hodge, Harry, and Hermione stood at different spots, their faces torn between amusement and pity.
"How'd you convince Ron?" Hodge whispered to Fred.
Fred, watching curious students stop to gawk, smirked as Ron slid down a wall, deflated and wrinkled like a popped balloon. "We promised to use the profits to buy him a new wand. Otherwise, he'd be stuck waiting till next year. I only just found out his wand snapped after hitting the Whomping Willow. He's been taping it together—"
"Genius move," George teased.
"Who'd have thought tape would even work? It's hit-or-miss, though," Fred added. "Since he's too scared to tell his family… Oh, hey! Want details? Ready to order?" He turned to a passing student, whipping out a small notebook.
Hodge got a different story from Harry.
"I offered to lend him money—it's partly my fault, after all," Harry said quietly. "But Ron wouldn't take it. Said he deserved it. That wand's been acting up worse lately, ever since—uh—"
"The slug incident?" Hodge offered.
Harry winced. "Yeah."
Ron, recovered, bounded over cheerfully. "Just checked—ten people have preordered! Seven Sickles per sweet, and a wand costs eight to ten Galleons. Better do a few more rounds to be safe… What if we performed in front of Lockhart? Think it'd sell better?" He didn't wait for Hodge or Harry's input, rushing off to find Fred and George.
Harry fell silent for a moment before changing the subject. "Speaking of Lockhart, you joining the Dueling Club?" He was keen on dueling but didn't believe Lockhart had anything useful to teach.
"I'm going," Hodge said, improvising. "Heard there'll be other assistants. Just pretend Lockhart's not there."
A spark of hope lit up Harry's eyes.
————
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