The Library
"I, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, bestselling author:
Hereby grant Hodge Blackthorn special permission to enter the Restricted Section of the library to study materials, including Rowena Ravenclaw's notes, in recognition of the student's outstanding performance and aptitude in Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Madam Pince, the librarian, set the note down with a look of clear reluctance, her eyes fixed on the flamboyant, looping signature scrawled at the bottom of the parchment.
"Come with me," she snapped, storming off toward the depths of the library. Hodge followed obediently, trailing her from one end of the room to the other. They passed through the familiar general stacks and arrived at a place he knew all too well—the Restricted Section, cordoned off by a simple rope barrier.
The bookshelves here were dim and weathered, exuding a musty, decayed odor that spoke of their age.
Perhaps this was the true, original face of the Hogwarts library.
They wove carefully between the shelves, taking care not to touch the books. Some had gilt titles that had flaked off their spines, leaving only scattered letters behind. Others were marred with unsightly stains, and a few looked downright sinister just from their covers. As Hodge passed a brown bookshelf, a chill brushed his ankle. Glancing down, he saw a large book, bound in what looked like brass, writhing against the chains that held it. The chains clinked and clattered as the book thrashed, and a ghostly, translucent hand reached out from its pages, grasping at him.
"Careful," Madam Pince warned. She flicked her hand, and the chains tightened sharply. The ghostly hand retreated, and the brass-bound book fell still.
They continued onward, the room narrowing until it felt more like a slightly wider corridor. Hodge glanced around, noticing that the neat ceiling and stone walls had given way to rough, reddish-brown earthen walls, lit only by a few flickering torches that seemed ready to fall.
Madam Pince stopped at the end of the path, where a wall blocked their way. Unlike the uneven, pitted surfaces of the surrounding passage, this wall was relatively smooth.
She began muttering an incantation under her breath.
Hodge's mouth fell open in surprise. After a faint, tickling rustle, the gray plaster on the wall peeled away, revealing an ancient stone door with a bronze eagle-shaped knocker. Hodge's expression turned odd. He'd seen a design like this before—where was it? The door had no handle or keyhole, only the eagle knocker. The answer was obvious.
He saw it every day.
"Is this the room Rowena Ravenclaw built?" he asked, though the question was slightly off, given that the entire castle was constructed by the four founders a thousand years ago. What he really meant was ownership.
"Correct," Madam Pince replied.
She tapped the knocker, and the eagle's beak promptly opened.
A voice, strikingly similar to the one at the Ravenclaw common room entrance, asked, "Who comes?"
Madam Pince muttered, "Irma Pince, Hogwarts librarian." But Hodge suspected her words didn't matter, as she knocked again, and the door swung open automatically.
The gentle, musical voice sighed, "Very well, it seems urgent—enter."
Hodge was utterly astonished. Could Rowena Ravenclaw still be alive? Would they walk in to find a serene, bookish woman gazing at them? His heart raced, but logic reminded him that Ravenclaw had died long ago. Even her ghost appearing would be unlikely; meeting her in person was impossible.
The room was empty.
It was small, its contents visible at a glance: a filing cabinet, a wide desk, a single chair, a simple bed, a tall standing mirror, and an antique kettle. In some ways—Hodge felt a bit guilty for the thought—it resembled a tidier version of Hagrid's hut.
A quiet flame burned on the ceiling.
"Ravenclaw's notes are in the cabinet," Madam Pince said. "They cannot be borrowed, so you must read them here. You may bring parchment and a quill to take notes, but you absolutely must not damage anything—these are historical artifacts. I'll check the room before you leave each time."
She rattled off a litany of rules, many of which sounded like they'd been invented on the spot. Her tone suggested that any violation would land Hodge in a dark cell, repenting for a full year.
She explained how to open the door, then left.
The door clicked shut behind her. Alone, Hodge felt a long-forgotten sense of calm wash over him.
This feeling was entirely different from the classroom. It was akin to the awe he'd felt when he first stepped into Ollivanders' wand shop or attended the midnight house gathering, but now it was stronger. He was immersed in a quiet, mystical magical atmosphere, as if the world around him had faded, disconnected from reality.
Hodge tried to hold onto that sensation.
Unknowingly, he had already come a long way in exploring magic tied to memory and emotion. The deeper he delved, the more he realized that unique emotions were the most precious thing—techniques and spells paled in comparison.
In this serene atmosphere, something stirred within him, giving him a gentle push. Hodge raised his wand, its tip tracing a slow circle to gather magical energy. He had a strong feeling this spell would be different. As the memory imprint in his mind mingled with the magic coursing through his wand, the room fell silent. A brilliant white light flooded the space, and from it stepped a figure—someone who looked eight or nine parts like Hodge, but taller: a vision of his future self.
Hodge studied the figure quietly. After a moment, as if sharing a single thought, they both raised their wands—one real, made of blackthorn wood with a thestral tail hair core, ten and a quarter inches long; the other, identical in appearance but shimmering silver. They spoke in unison.
"Lumos."
Two soft beams of light illuminated each other.
"So—I did it?" Hodge asked, a hint of excitement in his voice.
"That's for you to decide," the projection of his future self replied.
"How long can you stay?"
"I don't know. I was hoping you'd tell me."
"Come on, you don't know anything? Are you still a work in progress or what?"
"To be precise, I'm just a fragment of memory infused with magic—a fleeting reflection of your current state of mind, given form by your spell. I'm not much different from Lockhart's enchanted portraits."
"That's not true," Hodge corrected instinctively. "Portraits can't cast spells."
"Theoretically, neither can I," the projection said with a grin.
Hodge stared, suddenly feeling that this version of himself had a bit of a mischievous streak. Could he really turn out like this? No way—this was just a magical construct, an effect of the spell.
Hodge sat cross-legged on the floor, patting the ground beside him.
"Come on, let's talk. I've got a ton of questions for… well, myself. Ugh, that sounds so weird…"
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