"I forgot to ask," Hodge said as they finished a game of chess, the dense shadows of the nearby forest stretching across the grounds. The two were heading toward the castle. "You're looking for someone? Who is it?"
"An artist. Someone saw her sketching outside."
Hodge's mind immediately conjured up an image of Lottie, the Hufflepuff first-year.
Hodge and Luna parted ways in the entrance hall. She was off to the Great Hall to search further, maybe ask a few people, while he headed to the Ravenclaw common room to rest in his dormitory. As soon as he stepped inside, Terry pointed at his four-poster bed.
"An owl dropped off a package for you at breakfast. I told it you weren't here—it's on your bed," he said. "Looks like it's from a publisher."
"Thanks," Hodge replied, a thrill of excitement rising in his chest. He'd been waiting for this day. In three quick strides, he reached his bed and spotted a neatly wrapped square package. A glance at the sender's address confirmed it: Mugglemore Publishing. He tore open the wrapping and immediately saw a beautifully designed book. The cover featured a black-haired boy—who bore a slight resemblance to a younger Hodge—sitting by a campfire with a massive, pale orange ghost.
Rummaging further, Hodge found a letter tucked inside the package. He ripped open the envelope, pulled out the letter, and skimmed past the publisher's congratulations and pleasantries to focus on the important bits.
"…The book has been published. Flourish and Blotts has ordered one hundred copies and will display them in their shop window for a week. If sales are strong, they may extend the display. The target audience is families with children. We're currently in talks with foreign booksellers to break into international markets. Reviews suggest the book fills a gap in the market, serving well as both a children's story and a preschool educational tool. More reviews are needed to confirm its success… If sales perform well, we're considering arranging a book signing, likely around Christmas or the summer holidays—the latter would align with families buying textbooks, many of whom have multiple children… On behalf of the publisher, we cordially invite Mrs. Blackthorn…"
Hodge set the letter down, barely containing the joy bubbling inside him.
The book was published. It felt different from publishing a research paper—more people would see it, and it might bring in a decent sum of money. But what mattered most to Hodge was the influence it could wield. He thought of Gilderoy Lockhart, a man who'd built a following through nothing but self-aggrandizement, without ever publicly demonstrating magical skill. Hodge could almost see a Merlin Order of Merit or an honorary membership in the Dark Arts Defense League waving at him from the horizon. Well, maybe that was a stretch…
Speaking of Lockhart, with the first Quidditch match approaching, he'd started pestering Hodge about his research progress. Lockhart had boldly hinted that if a celebrity like himself publicly showcased a student's work, the resulting fame and influence would be unmatched. He was, of course, happy to offer his help—provided it involved nothing more than his signature.
The temptation of "stealing the spotlight on the Quidditch pitch" had fostered a surprisingly good rapport between them.
Hodge couldn't help but muse that he seemed to have a knack for dealing with scheming types like Lockhart—probably because their motives were so transparent. He thought of Quirrell, too. Their interactions had been pleasant enough, despite Quirrell's stammer. The man wasn't above asking a student for advice, and Hodge didn't mind his quirks. If not for Voldemort's interference, they might've even had a proper mentorship.
At dusk, Hodge and Terry headed downstairs for the Halloween feast.
As they reached the entrance hall, they spotted Mrs. Norris perched on the ledge of the hourglass alcove, glaring imperiously at everyone passing by. When her eyes landed on Hodge, her expression softened slightly. Over a year of feeding her dried fish had plumped her up a bit, and her once-dull fur now gleamed faintly under the torchlight.
As Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris shared some mysterious bond with the castle caretaker. Sure enough, they soon heard labored, wheezing breaths, followed by Filch's balding head emerging from the basement staircase. Trailing behind him was a student, looking miserable and clutching a mask tightly in their hands.
Hodge glanced at the mask—it was hideously ugly, complete with jagged fangs.
"I've had enough… wind, rain, mud, filthy footprints… colds, runny noses… rats and bugs lining up… and even on holidays, they don't stop, lurking in corridor corners to scare people…" Filch muttered.
"It's just a mask!" the student behind him protested. "It's a Muggle tradition!"
"Just a mask?" Filch roared, his voice booming. "You've been handing them out everywhere, terrifying people—"
"I just asked some older students to help make the mask more lifelike," the student mumbled, shrinking back.
"Well, you're out of luck," Filch said with a menacing whisper.
"Mr. Filch," Hodge called out.
Filch's sour face turned toward him, his expression freezing before morphing into something Terry couldn't quite describe—a tight grimace that loosened awkwardly, his mouth twitching as if trying, and failing, to form a smile.
"How's that correspondence course I recommended? Jamie says it's going well," Hodge said, steering the conversation.
Filch's demeanor shifted to an unnatural nervousness. He ran a hand over his sparse hair, trying to make it look neater, and straightened his hunched back with visible effort.
"It's… it's going splendidly," he stammered.
Hodge blinked, sensing something off.
"Jamie…" he began, but Filch leaned in eagerly, hanging on his every word. Hodge waved a hand, signaling to the terrified Hufflepuff first-year behind Filch that they could leave. The student pointed at themselves in disbelief, as if to say, Me? Really? A cautious glance at Filch—who ignored them entirely—confirmed it, and they scurried off.
"She has a sweet tooth, doesn't she? Not like you… I wouldn't have guessed… She's retired now, with plenty of time on her hands. I heard she moved near the school where the course is taught. Did you know? You two still write? That's impressive…"
When Filch's eyes betrayed a disturbingly coy expression, Harry, Ron, and Hermione happened to descend the stairs, catching the scene. Ron's jaw dropped, and he rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
"Merlin's beard," he gasped. "I must be dreaming—and it's one of Lockhart's dreams."
"Ron!" Hermione snapped, exasperated.
Harry, meanwhile, felt a pang of unease. Filch's attitude was a stark contrast to how he'd treated him just days ago. Granted, Harry had been in the wrong, sneaking a peek at Filch's correspondence course materials left out on his desk—but they'd been practically begging to be noticed, half-pulled out of a folder! It was basically an invitation.
Thanks to Nearly Headless Nick's timely intervention, Harry had escaped punishment, but now it seemed he was paying the price.
He watched enviously as Hodge and Filch walked into the brightly lit Great Hall. Under Hermione's stern gaze, he trudged toward the basement classroom with Ron and Ginny, headed for Nearly Headless Nick's five-hundredth deathday party.
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