"It's the effect of the diadem," Hodge said, staring thoughtfully at the tarnished headpiece. "It doesn't directly grant wisdom, but—Ravenclaw used a clever method to unearth thoughts buried deep in the mind."
"Yeah, I never realized I had so many personalities," said a projection that looked a few years older than Hodge himself.
"Don't be daft," Hodge replied lightly. "I think Rowena Ravenclaw's definition of wisdom—at least part of it—was about hosting a meeting of selves in your own head. My magic just happens to make that idea tangible… I can't wait to test its effects. Why not start with that fascinating ancient magic?"
And so, a group of "Hodges" sat cross-legged on the floor, freely exchanging ideas. Hodge had never imagined that these magically conjured facets of himself could offer so many different perspectives, all drawn from his own consciousness. "It's like a sharp, efficient team." "Perfectly in sync." "On the same level." "Such insightful remarks…" the projections praised one another noisily.
The projection beside him smirked. "Yeah, why didn't I think of that?"
Just then, Hodge heard a noise outside the door. He quickly removed the diadem and hid it. One by one, the projections vanished. Madam Pince entered, carrying a tray of biscuits. Her hawk-like nose twitched in surprise at the sight of the lingering projection, but she had little interest in anything beyond books and simply placed the tray on the table.
"If you don't want detention, you've got about five minutes to eat something," she said.
"Thank you, Madam Pince," Hodge replied. With a wave of his wand, the silvery projection—almost like a corporeal Patronus—dissolved into mist. He was starving; skipping lunch to focus on the diadem had taken its toll. He grabbed a handful of bear-shaped biscuits and wolfed them down. A few minutes later, as he followed Madam Pince out, Hodge felt both physically and mentally stuffed.
He hurried to class, but for the first time, he was distracted during Charms and even dozed off. "Something on your mind?" Professor Flitwick asked kindly. Over Flitwick's shoulder, Hodge could see Anthony doubled over with laughter under Michael's Tickling Charm, collapsing to the floor unable to get up—they were practicing Rictusempra today.
"I just feel like there's never enough time," Hodge muttered.
"You're working too hard on your own," Flitwick said, tilting his head. "I heard from Irma that you practically live in the library." Irma was Madam Pince's first name. "I've taught many diligent, gifted students, but I suspect you're not just busy with classwork, are you?"
"Hmm," Hodge mumbled vaguely. He blinked, deciding there was no need to tell the excitable professor about the Horcrux. Instead, he whispered, "Maybe I need a Time-Turner."
Flitwick's eyes widened instantly.
He glanced nervously at the other students' knees, lowering his voice. "Didn't we agree at the tea meeting not to talk about that publicly…?"
"Sorry, Professor Flitwick, I couldn't help myself," Hodge said. Class had ended by now, and Flitwick pulled him aside. "I was thinking, if I could send a message before the attack… or maybe transfer some thoughts… would that work?"
The diminutive professor shook his head vigorously, like a rattle being spun.
"We don't make assumptions," he said sharply. "Investigating the attack is the professors' job. Honestly, you need rest. Get out more. You're too confined."
Hodge thought that made sense. So, in the days that followed, besides studying the diadem and ancient magic, he often wandered near the Forbidden Forest, breathing fresh air and hoping to bump into a certain large black dog. Rita Skeeter's articles had little effect on him, though a few students asked about his thoughts on Muggle "mutants," which he brushed off as trivial. That afternoon, with no classes, Hodge glanced at the Marauder's Map as usual, then decided to take a stroll in the Forbidden Forest—since the map didn't cover that area. On the way, he ran into Harry, who seemed to be waiting for him.
"Hodge, got time this afternoon?" Harry asked. "We could use your help with some spells. Me, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. We're stuck on a few things."
Hodge agreed, sensing the pressure Sirius Black's escape was putting on Harry, especially since tomorrow was the first Quidditch match of the season, and Harry should've been training with the team. Of course, Rita Skeeter's sensationalist reporting wasn't helping matters.
"Did Wood give you the day off?" Hodge asked, curious to know how Harry had convinced the training-obsessed captain. They headed toward the old classroom used by their makeshift club, a disused space that had been fixed up with everything they needed—except for the occasional visits from Peeves.
Harry looked glum.
"All Quidditch practices were canceled," he said. "Wood says it's something to do with the Ministry. They've taken over the pitch as a command post… you know, things are different with Sirius Black still on the loose. They seem to think I'm his target."
The Ministry? Hodge wanted to ask if they'd seen anyone who looked like a toad, but Harry didn't know. They entered the abandoned classroom, which had changed since Hodge last used it to house Cornish pixies. A large cage was now stacked haphazardly on a desk against the wall, covered with a tarpaulin. It reminded Hodge of his brief time with those blue-skinned creatures. Truth be told, he hadn't learned much from them—partly due to lack of time, and partly because the library had so little information on Cornish pixies.
In some ways, wizards knew far less about Cornish pixies than they did about dragons, but considering the enduring popularity of dragon liver, blood, nerves, and hide products, that was probably a good thing.
Besides the cage, the classroom had a dozen cushions scattered on the floor, ready to catch anyone who fell. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were already there.
"Hey, Hodge," Ron said, eyeing him with interest. "So, you're the brilliant teacher with loads of real-world experience? Harry kept that one quiet!"
Harry shrugged. "I wasn't sure if Hodge had time. Fred and George say he's been busy with something big."
Yeah, Hodge was busy studying the Marauder's Map. He grinned at Ron. "You make me sound like some belligerent troublemaker."
"Oh," Hermione said eagerly, "compared to us, you're practically a veteran. If we need guidance, who else would we ask? I mean, your run-ins with Peeves are legendary, not to mention fighting You-Know-Who with magic…"
Harry touched his nose, thinking of his own encounters with Voldemort—probably just him pressing his hand against Quirrell's bare skin. Dumbledore had said it was the protective charm his mother's love left on him, making it impossible for someone as hateful and greedy as Quirrell, who'd sold his soul to Voldemort, to touch him.
Hodge gave Hermione a sidelong glance, feeling her words sounded familiar. Then he remembered—he'd said something similar when asking Lockhart for an autograph.
"I'm no Lockhart," he said firmly.
————
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