Five years slipped by in the blink of an eye.
Hodge Blackthorn lay sprawled lazily beneath the willow by the Black Lake, letting the warm summer breeze wash over him. Compared to five years ago, he had shot up in height and carried himself with an effortless masculine confidence that turned heads among his classmates without him even trying. Of course, it wasn't just the handsome face. Over the past few years Hodge had steadily published papers on everything from Charms to Transfiguration, Potions to Defence Against the Dark Arts; his research footprints were practically everywhere in the wizarding academic world. What truly stunned the public, however, were his breakthroughs in two fields widely considered obscure backwaters.
The first was memory magic. Last summer, Hodge had personally healed Frank and Alice Longbottom, whose minds had been shattered beyond repair at the end of the First Wizarding War. In the same sweep he cleared St Mungo's entire ward of patients suffering memory-related damage. Afterwards, he gifted a handwritten spellbook to his close friend Evelina Selma. With the full backing of the Hospital Director, the now-senior Healer Selma established a brand-new department—the Memory Damage Ward—dedicated exclusively to treating loss of memory and personality caused by spells, trauma, or accident.
The second discipline left many who didn't know the full story gaping in disbelief: Hodge possessed an almost unnatural gift for Divination. That in itself wasn't particularly strange—Professor Trelawney had, after all, taught the subject at Hogwarts for decades and produced perhaps three students in all that time who showed genuine talent. What was strange was that Hodge had correctly predicted the winners of the final matches in the European Cup, the British and Irish Quidditch League Cup, the French Quidditch League Cup, and the Quidditch World Cup itself. Overnight he became a celebrity. People came from far and wide begging for tips, but Hodge turned them all away. Professor Sybill Trelawney, cheerfully declaring herself his mentor, happily took their Galleons instead. With her earnings she vanished off to the Far East for months and came home laden with exotic teas and little temple souvenirs.
This naturally irritated Potions Master Horace Slughorn. Everyone knew the plump, walrus-moustached, retired-but-rehired professor loved collecting useful and influential people—preferably while they were still rising stars. Slughorn had an uncanny nose for talent; he could spot a future somebody while they were still in school and would lavish them with invitations to the Slug Club in hopes of future favours.
The result? The two professors bickered endlessly over whose "favourite protégé" Hodge truly was. According to Hodge's private tally, Slughorn had been predicted (by Trelawney) to suffer "blood injury" at least twenty-seven times, to be poisoned by "toxic candied jackfruit" twelve times, and to experience "general bad luck" thirty-seven times. None of these prophecies, needless to say, ever came true.
On the contrary, Hodge suspected the old man still had many healthy years ahead of him.
That was a huge relief, because ever since Slughorn realised that Hodge had only joined the Slug Club to get his hands on those secret personal recipes, he had guarded his private knowledge like a dragon on a hoard. Unless it was Christmas or one of his lavish parties, Hodge rarely got the chance to pry anything out of him—and then immediately run off to discuss it with Snape.
That was another sore point for Slughorn: Hodge had never shown the slightest ambition to become a Potions Master. At most he saw himself as a highly skilled craftsman in the art. He held himself to exacting standards and never turned down a new formula, but besides Slughorn's famous network, Hodge had channels of his own. Bill Weasley, now a senior curse-breaker at Gringotts, could pull ancient potion manuscripts straight out of the bank's vaults with ridiculous ease. Many of those recipes had long been superseded by modern potions, but a few had never appeared in any historical record and therefore had never been analysed, refined, or improved.
Armed with exclusive sources, Slughorn had no choice but to grumble about "that sly little fox" under his breath while still collaborating with Hodge and Snape. The two papers Hodge published on reconstructing lost ancient potions had come out of exactly that reluctant partnership.
All in all, life without Voldemort hanging over everyone's heads was exceedingly comfortable for Hodge Blackthorn.
He was right in the middle of these pleasant musings when an extremely grumpy voice interrupted him.
"So this is where you've been hiding."
Hodge propped his head on one hand. "Congratulations, Harry."
"Congratulations for what?" Harry snapped.
"I chatted with Professor Marchbanks on my way out of the exam hall. She was singing your praises. Barring accidents, your Transfiguration N.E.W.T. is in the bag."
That only made Harry angrier. He dropped onto the grass beside Hodge and ground out through clenched teeth, "Professor McGonagall says you're planning to stay on at Hogwarts after graduation?"
"Er…" Hodge blinked.
"You lied to me," Harry said, sounding genuinely hurt. He still remembered how many times Hodge had promised they'd go reform the Ministry together—only to bail at the last second.
"Of course I haven't forgotten," Hodge said, coughing lightly. He looked a little embarrassed. "Have you ever heard what happened when Dumbledore was younger? They tried to make him Minister for Magic multiple times, and every time he turned it down."
"Please don't tell me," Harry muttered, staring at his own hands as if weighing whether strangling Hodge was worth the paperwork, "that your grand plan is to become Headmaster of Hogwarts… McGonagall's only been in the job a few years. You expect me to twiddle my thumbs at the Ministry for the next couple of decades waiting for you?"
"No, no, of course not," Hodge said with an awkward laugh. "Dumbledore's example isn't quite right anyway. Think about it—why was Voldemort so desperate to come back to Hogwarts? Because students are impressionable. Easy to influence. You can raise an army without them even noticing." Seeing Harry's face darken further, Hodge hurriedly changed the subject.
"Do you know where Dumbledore disappeared to this time?"
"No idea," Harry lied through his teeth. "He vanishes for months every year. Supposedly visiting some reclusive old friend." He had a pretty good guess where the old headmaster actually went.
"Ron's put in his application to be an Auror too?"
"He said he'll give it a try. If it doesn't work out he'll go help Fred and George at one of their shop branches." Harry paused. "Speaking of which—did you know they're planning to launch a line of Voldemort memorabilia?"
"Of course. It was my idea," Hodge answered without hesitation.
Harry's eyes went wide.
"Muggles have these toy soldiers made of tin—except they come in opposing armies, and apparently they've turned the concept into electronic games now. I thought it might come in useful someday…"
"Is that something you actually foresaw?" Harry asked, curious.
"Oh, no." Hodge studied Harry carefully. A hazy, shifting aura flickered around his friend, full of indistinct silhouettes. Harry suddenly felt as though Hodge could see straight through him.
"If I were you," Hodge said seriously, "I'd head back to the Gryffindor common room right now. There's a surprise waiting."
At Hodge's sudden grin, Harry's gaze darted everywhere at once. He'd seen Hermione and Ginny acting suspiciously secretive this morning; if whatever Hodge had "seen" involved Ginny, then…
He couldn't sit still any longer.
"…Of course," Hodge added lazily, savouring Harry's rapidly changing expressions, "it might not happen for another few months. You know how fuzzy I get with this sort of thing."
Harry was livid. This time he genuinely wanted to punch that unfairly handsome face.