~ Support & Read 20 Advanced Chapters Available now on my Patreon!
————
In the unused, abandoned classroom, several torches were fixed to the walls, their flames blazing brightly. The flickering light cast deep shadows from the pile of desks and chairs stacked in the corner.
The glow also played across Hodge Blackthorn's face, making his expression shift between light and shadow.
"So," Hodge said thoughtfully, "my grandparents both died in the Wizarding War, at the hands of Voldemort."
Draco Malfoy's pale face grew even paler, though whether it was from Hodge uttering the Dark Lord's name or the weight of a grudge from over a decade ago, it was hard to tell.
"Then, is there anyone left in the Blackthorn family?" Hodge asked.
"From your grandfather's generation, no one's left," Malfoy said, swallowing hard. "At least, from what I've heard at home, your grandfather's sister had children."
That must be Elaine, the one who wrote me the letter, Hodge thought.
Though Elaine's letter had been warm and enthusiastic, Hodge had still checked with his family first. By his calculations, their reply was probably winging its way over the rugged peaks of the Scottish Highlands right now.
"A-actually," Malfoy continued, "the Blackthorn family is connected to several wizarding families, including some pure-blood ones. They have a long history… and even their own crest. I saw it in my family's Book of Lineage—a black thorn wreathed in flames." He seemed eager to share everything he knew. "And the Blackthorns originally branched off from the Black family. If you count that history, it's even more impressive."
"The Black family?" Hodge echoed softly, marveling at the strange twists of fate.
Malfoy, however, misunderstood his tone and launched into an explanation. "The Black family is one of the oldest, wealthiest, and most prominent pure-blood wizarding families in Britain. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."
Hodge let out a cold laugh.
"…Their history goes back to the Middle Ages," Malfoy went on. "My mother comes from that family." He paused.
Hodge's expression turned peculiar, a smirk tugging at his lips. "So, you and I are distant cousins, then?"
Malfoy's face twitched violently, as if the suggestion was an insult.
Hodge continued, his voice devoid of warmth. "Didn't I read somewhere that the only remaining Black family member is currently locked up in Azkaban, serving a life sentence?"
"The only male member," Malfoy corrected sharply. "Sirius Black. He sided with the Dark Lord." His expression suddenly brightened, his voice slipping back into that familiar, drawling tone. "Oh, you wouldn't want to know the details. He betrayed the Potters—you know, the famous Potter at school. They say Sirius Black was best friends with Potter's father back in their Hogwarts days. Guess friendships don't last forever, do they?" he asked slyly.
"Yeah, just like you, Crabbe, and Goyle," Hodge replied offhandedly.
He was starting to piece together the tangled history, but one question nagged at him: why had the Blackthorns split from the Black family in the first place? When he asked, Malfoy looked uncomfortable.
"Well," Malfoy coughed, "because they opposed the excessive use of dark magic."
"Excessive use," Hodge repeated, noting the unease in Malfoy's expression. It was clear that pure-blood families like his didn't exactly shy away from dark magic. Suddenly, Hodge pulled a pocket watch from his robes.
The outer rim was encircled with black thorn vines, their darkness deeper than the shadows cast by the torches on the walls.
Click.
Hodge flicked open the watch. The slot meant for a photograph was empty.
The watch face was covered by a layer of crystal, but unlike the darker crystal on the cover, this one was pale. Two black hands, shaped like serpent tongues, ticked across the dial.
Hodge wound the spring.
The long and short hands moved gracefully, while the black thorns on the outer rim rotated slowly with each turn of his fingers, resembling a tiny gyroscope. He felt the faint prick of the thorns against his palm.
After twelve turns, he decided it was enough.
He snapped the cover shut, then opened it again.
The hands began to twitch. The watch emitted a soft ticking of gears, and the decorative rim around the dial started to glow faintly. Hodge realized the rim wasn't just a pattern—it looked like some kind of script.
This antique pocket watch had been a gift from Mrs. Blackthorn. He could still hear the bittersweet tone in her voice as she told him its story:
"It belonged to my father. He died in the war, you know. He was a stubborn old traditionalist, so when I left home, I took it with me—partly as revenge, partly as a keepsake."
Hodge and Malfoy stood in silence, watching the long and short hands glide across the dial. The pale crystal over the watch face caught the torchlight, casting a faint blue halo.
When Hodge finally emerged from the abandoned classroom, Crabbe and Goyle stood like statues on either side of the door, motionless.
Malfoy's words had left an impression on him.
Lying in bed that night, Hodge's mind drifted to the moment Mrs. Blackthorn had seen his blackthorn wand. Her face had been a storm of emotions, as if she'd made some private resolution.
He remembered how she'd watched him, dressed in his Hogwarts uniform, standing before the flickering orange flames of the fireplace. When he'd calmly spoken "Lumos," the soft glow from his wand had illuminated her face, giving her an almost dreamlike expression. In that moment, her son had seemed like a figure stepped straight out of a storybook.
That same evening, by the warmth of the hearth, she'd finally opened up about her past.
"I used to crave magic," she'd said. "But I learned it's not everything."
Born into a wizarding family, Mrs. Blackthorn was a Squib. After a long and winding journey, she'd found meaning in life again. She hadn't completely severed ties with the wizarding world, though. There were mutual aid groups, perhaps even contact with Uncle Elaine. She'd even admitted to writing letters to every magical publication she could find in her youth, desperate to prove something. Unsurprisingly, none had accepted her submissions.
But that realization had led young Mrs. Blackthorn to a new path. She discovered she could bridge the magical and non-magical worlds through writing. That was how her first book came to be—and how she'd met Mr. Blackthorn.
Hodge rolled over in bed, staring at the dormitory fireplace. His three roommates were fast asleep.
In the quiet of the night, his ambitions stirred.
Maybe becoming Minister for Magic wouldn't be a bad goal? How would history remember him? A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes, and a sly grin curved beneath his hat, as if he'd just pulled off a perfect prank.
First, though, he'd need to make a name for himself.
————
Supporting me on Patreon to gain early access to advanced chapters and enjoy expedited updates. Your support is greatly appreciated.
pat-reon .com/Dragonhair
(Just remove the hyphen - and space, to access Patreon normally.)