October 25, St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries
"There's a patient here, unconscious! Take him to the fifth floor—no, wait, the boy needs a private Muggle ward. Room forty-seven—"
"Get two people over here."
"Hey, Arthur? What brings you here? Got some free time from work? Just kidding, put that wand away…"
Hodge Blackthorn felt surrounded by a crowd, their voices a chaotic buzz. His eyelids were too heavy to lift. A beam of white light hit his face, and then someone forced a fiery liquid down his throat.
"Not that—" he mumbled.
His body thrashed, but his limbs felt like they were filled with lead.
"Don't worry, we'll take care of you," a gentle voice soothed.
A sudden crash of glass rang out.
The same voice gasped in surprise. "Oh, Merlin! Look at that! It's—Magical Awakening!"
When Hodge regained consciousness, his head throbbed as if it might split open. He forced his eyelids apart, his gaze trailing along the crisp white bedsheets to the half-open door of his hospital room. Through the gap, he could vaguely make out his parents speaking in hushed tones with someone.
His doctor, maybe? Hodge guessed wildly, his view obstructed. All he could catch was a glimpse of a long, white beard.
"…Not just a gas explosion, Mrs. Blackthorn. As family, you and your husband deserve to know the truth."
A memory flashed unbidden in his mind. It was Friday night. He'd been visiting the Sherlock Holmes Museum when, on his way home, a sudden blast of air knocked him off his feet… Were they discussing the cause of the accident? Was that a doctor's job? Could someone, anyone, help with this splitting headache?
His mind was a chaotic mess—not the dull, foggy kind, but a frenetic, hyperactive storm. Memories surged uncontrollably, as if his brain were a fireworks display gone haywire. No one should have this many memories flooding in at once. It felt like his head might actually explode.
He had to do something. With every ounce of willpower, Hodge clung to his last shred of clarity. He was only eleven—his life was a blank canvas, yet to be painted with color…
Think of the future. His ambitions. His dreams.
The raw energy of Primal Scream's Loaded, Oasis's Live Forever, the music revolution just waiting to be born. And beyond that—finance, the internet, global trade, Oxford or Cambridge, economics courses, computer labs… His thoughts began to smooth out. If his mind had been a box of tangled yarn before, he was now carefully following the thread, untangling his memories.
The conversation outside continued.
"…A friend's daughter was caught in the blast too. She's in the room next door."
A fellow patient? Maybe he'd visit her later. No, that wasn't the point…
Hodge forced himself to focus, imagining a vivid future—his career, his life. In that moment, something miraculous happened in his brain. Memories and fantasies, two streams that should've stayed separate, were twisted together by some strange force.
In the blink of an eye, Hodge constructed a not-so-distant future. From the day he left the hospital, it wouldn't be long before he shone at school. His adapted plays would take the stage by storm, and his time in the computer lab would lead to victory in a coding competition…
It was all fake, of course—pure imagination—but it felt so real, as if he'd truly lived it. He could even feel the ache in his fingers from hours of typing, hear the squeaky hum of a printer.
Fragments of memory, real or invented, stacked together like building blocks, shaping into whatever he wanted. This wasn't normal. Daydreams weren't supposed to be this vivid.
A raised voice snapped him out of his reverie—his mother's. "Sir, that's impossible! You know people like us…"
"Squib lineage… occasionally shows throwback traits. I know a magician whose card tricks are so flawless they're indistinguishable from magic. I'd love to introduce you…"
Squib? Magician? What were they talking about? Still half-lost in his fantasies of forging a grand legacy, Hodge glanced toward the door.
The white-bearded man's silver whiskers quivered as he spoke, his half-moon glasses glinting. For a split second, their eyes met, and a spark of surprise flickered in the man's blue gaze.
The door gently clicked shut.
"Remarkable, Mrs. Blackthorn," Albus Dumbledore said thoughtfully outside the room. "His magical aura is almost brazenly unguarded, which is why it manifested so clearly… Your son has just lived a rather extraordinary life."
"What do you mean?" she asked, glancing nervously at her Muggle husband.
Mr. Blackthorn adopted a pensive expression, though he was holding up remarkably well—no hysterics, no flailing. Perhaps it was because of his wife's work. More than once, he'd wondered how he'd react if the bizarre magical world she wrote about turned out to be real.
Now that hypothetical was reality.
"A natural Occlumens," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "A rare magical gift. Some say it's only good for escaping reality, but I disagree. Your son, for instance… he seems to enjoy creating futures."
The Blackthorns looked utterly baffled.
Humming a little tune, Dumbledore seemed in high spirits. "Your son has regained his ability to cast magic—an undeniable fact. The question now is: what's next?"
When Hodge woke the next morning, his body felt completely restored.
His sense of smell returned first. He pinched the soft blanket draped over him, catching the faint scent of sun-warmed fabric. The subtle tang of disinfectant reminded him he was in a hospital room. Then, a fruity aroma drew his attention. Turning his head, he wasn't surprised to see an enamel mug and a basket brimming with oranges on the bedside table.
It was a bright, sunny day. Beams of light slipped through the curtains, painting glowing stripes across his bedsheet. He stared at them for a while, piecing together yesterday's events—everything tied to magic.
Hodge bolted upright.
He sat there, thinking. Slowly, a fierce longing quickened his pulse. If it wasn't a dream—if he was right… Hodge reached out, his fingers inches from the vibrant oranges in the basket.
He focused hard.
After a few seconds, it wasn't enough. He pushed himself to imagine the oranges floating. His fingertips grew warm, as if something coursed through his veins. Glancing nervously at the door to ensure no one was coming, he extended his arm again, his fingers nearly brushing the oranges' vivid hue.
One orange twitched.
Hodge leapt off the bed.
He stared at his hands, speechless with excitement. He'd done it—he'd used magic. The gloom of the past few days vanished. Now, the most urgent thing was to master this magic before it slipped away.
So when the Blackthorns pushed open the door, they weren't entirely surprised to see Hodge tilting his head, directing a cluster of oranges to float in midair, spinning in lazy circles.
The door's creak broke his focus, and the oranges dropped, scattering across the floor.
His parents' expressions were a mix of shock and wonder. Mrs. Blackthorn clutched her chest, her hands twisting together, torn between astonishment and joy. Mr. Blackthorn's reaction was more curious—shock gave way to calm, then settled into the practical, problem-solving tone typical of an engineer.
"Well, kid, looks like you've got a handle on things. That's half the battle. Your mother and I were just outside discussing how to break the news…" He stepped aside, revealing a tall, dark-haired woman with her hair pinned in a tight bun. Her sharp eyes gleamed behind square glasses, radiating an intimidating presence.
"She has some opinions about your future career path."