Hodge sat on the bus, one arm wrapped around a kraft paper bag stuffed with all sorts of snacks and candies.
He'd been late getting back by a few days, so it was probably a good idea to bring something to soften the inevitable scolding.
Outside the window, the walls lining the street were plastered with vibrant graffiti. One depicted a hippie-looking figure with lightning crackling from their fingertips, sending a group of chubby policemen scattering in a panic. Huh, pretty realistic, Hodge thought.
Then he noticed the slogan scrawled beside the graffiti: Support Northern Ireland Independence, Resist British Tyranny.
Er…
Was this based on a real person? Someone significant, maybe? Even as the bus rolled past the street, Hodge couldn't glean any more details. He glanced around and noticed a pair of siblings bickering in the seats across the aisle.
"Let the thunder shatter the darkness!" the younger one declared dramatically.
"Shut up, Andrew," his sister snapped.
The boy, about six or seven, curled his hands into claw-like shapes, waving them menacingly in front of his sister's face. A moment later, a newspaper came down over his head, pushing him back into his seat. Andrew sulked, peeling the paper off his face and grinning at a huge photo printed on it.
He muttered under his breath, "Let the thunder…"
Tap, tap, tap. Someone knocked on his head, like rapping on a door. Andrew turned to see a grinning guy—Hodge—who held out a fist. The next moment, the fist opened, revealing a handful of colorful chocolates.
Hodge pointed at the newspaper with his other hand. "Trade?"
Andrew rubbed the back of his slightly sore head, eyeing the tantalizing candies just inches away. He swallowed hard. "…Deal." He was in the middle of losing his baby teeth and hadn't had sweets in days.
Hodge took the newspaper and began reading closely.
The massive photo on the front page caught his eye—it was almost an exact replica of the graffiti he'd just seen. The article mentioned a name: William Pietro, a former rebel who'd been locked up in prison until one day he suddenly awakened a "lightning-based superpower," broke out of his cell, and escaped.
Further down, the paper listed other "superpowered" individuals and their feats. To Hodge, these abilities seemed like wizarding bloodlines forcibly awakened and locked into specific forms. For example, a group of bank robbers was led by someone with the power to "unlock any lock"—basically a real-world Alohomora. These people hadn't received any wizarding education and didn't know a single spell, yet they could instinctively wield abilities eerily similar to magic. Hodge had a theory: magical talent wasn't evenly distributed. Some wizards had a knack for sensing magic, others excelled in dueling, and some were naturals at Transfiguration. If you traced it back far enough, they probably all had an ancient wizard ancestor skilled in a similar kind of magic.
Could these "superpowered" people, with enough effort, break through the limitations of their bloodline gifts?
Back home, Hodge enjoyed a hearty meal with his family. Afterward, they lounged comfortably on the sofa, discussing events from both the Muggle and wizarding worlds.
"That man, Volde—" Mr. Blackthorn began, but Hodge cut him off.
"Don't say that name. The Dark Lord cursed it so he can track anyone who speaks it."
Mr. Blackthorn let out an incredulous tsk. "Sounds like something out of a myth."
"It's just magic," Hodge said. "I'll be able to do it someday too. For the past decade or so, the Dark Lord was powerless, so people could throw his name into operas without issue. But now… I'm not sure what state he's in."
Maybe the next time they crossed paths, it would be the fully restored Voldemort.
"You fought him?" Mr. Blackthorn's tone turned serious, and Mrs. Blackthorn's brow furrowed with worry as she looked at Hodge.
"No choice," Hodge said. "It's a grudge spanning three generations."
"You're only thirteen," Mr. Blackthorn stressed, still keeping his composure, though barely.
Hodge paused, caught off guard.
Mr. Blackthorn continued, "You've always been mature for your age, but you're still just thirteen. And now you're up against some vicious dark wizard, like the hero in a teenage adventure story…"
Hodge chuckled. His father seemed surprisingly open to this, probably because his mother was a fantasy writer.
He decided to share part of the truth. "Remember the accident two years ago that awakened my magic? Since then, I've been getting… glimpses of the future. Memories, you could say. And magic, of course. Everything comes with a price. I can't pretend I don't know what's coming. Besides, I'm not the one leading the charge. There's Professor Dumbledore, there's Potter—the one destined to face Voldemort in the prophecy—and the Ministry's Aurors who've fought in the Wizarding War. I can't just run away."
A heavy silence fell. Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorn exchanged a glance.
Mr. Blackthorn shifted the topic. "You mentioned a prophecy. Is it what I'm thinking? And the name Potter… I've heard it somewhere…" He looked at his wife. "The Boy Who Lived?"
Mrs. Blackthorn nodded slightly.
"Alright, tell me about him," Mr. Blackthorn said. "Sounds like he's the real protagonist."
Hodge could tell his parents weren't fully convinced by his explanation, but they knew their headstrong son well. Instead of arguing, they chose a gentler approach, and Hodge was grateful for it. So, he began recounting the events of Harry Potter's first two years…
A week later, Hodge met Harry at a café in a town neighboring Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry, dressed in worn-out clothes, looked distinctly out of place in the elegant setting.
"Er, what've you been up to?" Harry asked first.
"Loads," Hodge said, rubbing his temple. "I've been digging through newspapers at the library, met up with Evelina Selma, and exchanged a few letters… You?"
Harry hesitated. He really didn't want to talk about life with the Dursleys. His favorite time was late at night—not because writing essays like "The Pointlessness of Burning Witches in the Fourteenth Century—A Discussion" by flashlight was particularly atmospheric, but because the Dursleys were asleep. During the day, he avoided the house, hiding in the flowerbed outside the living room window. It kept him out of Vernon and Petunia's sight while letting him catch snippets of TV news through the window—a perfect compromise.
"I've been… gathering intel," Harry said. "From the TV." He'd actually found something useful, thanks to his flowerbed hideout. Just the day before, a news channel had reported a string of stories about a "superpowered freak" breaching bank security and getting caught two streets later by police.
Truth be told, Harry was worried. Too many "anomalies" might expose real wizards to Muggle scrutiny.
Vernon and Petunia were even more paranoid. Compared to some clumsy bank robber, they were hiding a real magical "freak" in their home—one who'd been educated at Hogwarts and was set to return there. The Dursleys lived in fear of Harry's identity being exposed, imposing all sorts of restrictions on him. Vernon had even secretly printed out a photo of the bank robber and interrogated Harry, demanding to know if he recognized the man.
"You're sure? You're absolutely certain this isn't one of your teachers? Or some vendor, or the parent of one of your freak classmates?" Vernon had spat, practically foaming at the mouth.
Harry had reassured him repeatedly that he didn't know the man and that no police were about to storm their house to arrest them as accomplices. There was some good news: to keep Harry's secret under wraps, Vernon had firmly rejected his sister Marge's request to visit her "precious nephew."
Thank Merlin. The smell of dog on Aunt Marge made Harry want to gag.
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