"Indeed, though it's hard to tell at times, she's definitely a living person," Hodge said with a tinge of regret.
He glanced at Harry, thinking of the potential troubles awaiting him, and launched into an exaggerated description of Umbridge's appearance, drawing gasps and wide-eyed looks from the circle of students around them.
"There's actually someone like that?" Terry Boot let out a surprised "tsk."
"Shh," Hermione hissed, gesturing subtly to avoid catching Professor Sprout's attention. As if rehearsed, everyone in the group promptly ducked their heads, pretending to scribble notes.
"So, the Ministry came to you because they suspect you know something about a magical mishap," Harry summarized, a hint of relief flickering across his face.
They had just stepped out of the Herbology greenhouse, and Harry shivered, tucking his chin against the biting wind.
"I told you Hodge had nothing to do with it," Ron said smugly, using a cryptic phrase only Harry and Hermione would catch. "Satisfied now?" Realizing his tone might've sounded off, he quickly added with mock outrage, "I mean, the Ministry's just awful, aren't they?"
Hodge's expression darkened with exasperation. He could guess why the trio had huddled around him—they'd probably misunderstood something, perhaps linking the magical mishap to the Philosopher's Stone and were now fishing for insider gossip.
But right now, he had a bigger problem on his mind.
"Have any of you heard of Sebastian Sallow?" Hodge tossed the question to the trio, though he didn't expect much from Harry or Ron, who were, like him, hopeless at theoretical studies. As expected, both turned to Hermione.
Hermione furrowed her brow, racking her brain for any memory of the name.
"I think I've come across the surname Sallow somewhere…" she mused. "But Sebastian? I'm sorry, I'm drawing a blank. Any more details?"
"He was probably from Dumbledore's era," Hodge offered.
Hermione rattled off a list of book titles like she was reciting a menu. "These are ones I've read that cover the most notable wizards of the last century or two. You could check them out. I'll help when I have time—idle hands and all that."
Harry, unable to contribute due to Quidditch training draining his every spare moment, gave a rueful shrug. Still, he thought Hodge had picked the right person—Hermione was the only one he knew who read magical dictionaries for fun.
As their discussion wound down, Harry piped up, "This Sebastian… he's not tied to some incident or vault, is he?"
"If you're comparing him to Nicolas Flamel," Hodge said, noticing Harry's face pale, "don't worry. I overheard something before Christmas—you lot were looking for Flamel, weren't you? Anyway, they're not the same."
"How so?" Harry asked, a bit sheepishly.
"Nicolas Flamel is the greatest alchemist of recent centuries, so his work attracts dark wizards like moths to a flame. It's like chess—pawn against pawn, king against king. The most powerful dark wizards chase the most valuable treasures…"
Hodge's tone carried a warning as he continued, "But Sebastian Sallow? He might very well be one of those top-tier dark wizards himself." His voice dropped, grim and heavy, startling the trio. "If he's still alive, that is."
"So, he's dead?" Harry asked.
"That's what I'm trying to find out," Hodge said, cutting himself off.
In the days that followed, Hodge was stretched thin, juggling four tasks at once: regular classes, tracking down Sebastian Sallow's whereabouts after leaving Hogwarts, reading The Mysteries of Memory, and scouring the castle for a boggart.
Yes, a boggart.
This wasn't a whim. It was a decision born from gradual inspiration, pieced together after sifting through layers of information.
So, what exactly was a boggart? According to Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, a boggart was a "non-being."
A "non-being," sometimes called a non-human spiritual phenomenon, was reluctantly classified as a magical creature. The categorization was a compromise, as their existence defied conventional definitions of life and death. Non-beings were born from human emotions and fed on them.
Under the right conditions, they multiplied like fungi.
Hodge had already encountered one non-being: Peeves, the castle's mischievous poltergeist. Another example was the dementors, the guards of Azkaban. These non-beings couldn't be truly destroyed—only driven off with spells or diminished to an unobservable state by positive emotions. But never assume they're gone for good; given the right conditions, they'd reappear in time.
As for boggarts specifically, they had the ability to shapeshift, transforming into whatever their observer feared most. This meant they could sense a wizard's thoughts in a subtle, almost imperceptible way.
And, as it happened, Hodge had recently learned a technique for giving form to thoughts.
One evening in the library, Hodge sat surrounded by open books: The Mysteries of Memory, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, Directory of Notable Modern Wizards, Wizarding Genealogies, and Andros the Invincible—the last for a follow-up essay he was preparing.
After a dizzying bout of thinking, he leaned back, intending to stretch, and instinctively took in the titles of all the books at once.
A stream of ideas clicked into place. He had a plan.
In his mind, he conjured the image of a towering giant. Raising his wand, he pressed its tip to his forehead, treating the thought as a separate entity. With focus, he tried to draw it out. With the wand's aid, a silvery, web-like thread of thought materialized for the first time, clinging to the wand's tip.
Hodge stared, captivated, at the delicate silver strand.
Unfortunately, he had no Pensieve or other vessel to store the memory. After a long moment, he waved his wand, intending to disperse it. But the next second, the silver thread flew into the air, spreading rapidly into a translucent mist that shifted into… a colossal, gleaming golden giant.
The giant let out a deafening roar, shaking the entire library. Students looked up, bewildered, searching for the source of the noise. The giant, as if to prove its existence to Hodge—or perhaps to play a prank—vanished just as quickly as it had appeared.
That was the scene Madam Pince rushed in to find: a dissipating cloud of mist and Hodge standing there.
Under the threat of her furiously waving feather duster, Hodge had no choice but to pack up and leave at top speed, trailed by Madam Pince's booming recitation of library rules, his own repeated apologies, and the hushed murmurs of other students.
Some, catching on belatedly, whispered that Peeves had finally broken the unspoken truce and targeted the library—the last bastion of peace in the school.
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