The Blackthorn family's old manor stood in the village of Willowmere, surrounded by a grove of willow trees. Over two hundred years ago, the estate's original owner purchased the woodland, built the house, and planted a ring of blackthorn shrubs around it. The locals, many of them elderly, called the place Thornhaven, as it sat upstream of a small, shimmering pond fed by a creek.
The residents of Willowmere took great pride in the manor.
Rumor had it that the Blackthorns were a branch of some grand noble family, forced to relocate to this remote, godforsaken corner of the world due to murky political intrigues best left unspoken. When the Blackthorns first arrived, they funded the construction of a splendid cobblestone road—wide enough for two horse-drawn carriages to pass side by side! The village sheriff at the time insisted on renaming the village after the Blackthorns, but the family patriarch politely declined.
Years later, when a plague swept through the village, claiming the old sheriff's life and plunging the community into panic, it was the Blackthorns who stepped in. Leveraging their connections in London, they secured a supply of life-saving medicine. At the new sheriff's urging, the villagers kept the matter hush-hush to avoid outside attention. A monument was erected to commemorate the event, but the Blackthorns insisted the late sheriff's name take precedence. The villagers, in turn, hailed the family's noble character.
That was decades ago. With urban development, the town hall rebuilt the roads and merged several nearby villages into a single township. The Blackthorn family, through generations of growth and division, had scattered. After the elderly Blackthorn couple passed away, their daughter married and moved far off, leaving only the branch descended from old Mr. Blackthorn's sister in the area. Even they had relocated to the town for modern conveniences, returning to the old manor only occasionally to escape the summer heat.
Or so they claimed.
The real reason the Blackthorns kept their distance was to conceal their wizarding heritage.
When Hodge Blackthorn read about this history, he couldn't help but marvel quietly. His family was practically a textbook example of wizards blending seamlessly into a Muggle community. The timing of their settlement in Willowmere coincided perfectly with the enactment of the International Statute of Secrecy, a law many disregarded at the time, leading to no shortage of grim tales. Thanks to their sterling reputation, however, the Blackthorns' peculiarities were easily brushed off as aristocratic eccentricities.
A family member vanished and rarely returned? Off to study in the big city. A drunkard got lost in the flowerbeds and slept against the manor wall? Just the quirks of a sprawling noble estate—besides, didn't they pay for the trouble? A child spotted wearing a black robe? Hush now, that's a closely guarded family secret. Everyone knew the London elite relied on families like these to maintain their grip on power.
Over time, though, the Blackthorn name lost its luster.
Some ten years ago, after the elderly couple succumbed to illness, the villagers held a spontaneous memorial. Afterward, the Blackthorn name faded from dinner table conversations. The locals turned their attention to the wider world, discussing news from the television—protests in far-off Liechtenstein stirred more interest than local lore.
So, when Hodge arrived, his presence barely caused a ripple.
Except at the general store, where a wizened old man studied him closely.
"You're Elaine's boy?" the man mumbled.
"That's right. I'm Hodge."
"Hodge… that's nice," the old man said, his wrinkles softening. "I watched your mother grow up, though I only saw her a handful of times. She was frail as a child, you know. The old Blackthorns went to great lengths for her… Saw her again at their funeral. Heard she's a big writer now?"
"Yeah," Hodge replied.
The old man was lost in nostalgia, so Hodge didn't elaborate.
This exchange happened on his second day in town. He'd already spent half a month at the manor and even took a detour to poke around Number 12 Grimmauld Place. As expected, he found nothing. He called out to the Black family's house-elf—Kreacher, or something like that—and thought he heard the door creak, as if the elf were peeking out. But there was no response, not even when he dropped Headmaster Black's name.
Fair enough. Headmaster Black, for all his presence, was long dead.
Two weeks later, unable to resist Uncle Elaine's enthusiastic invitation, Hodge arrived at the Blackthorn manor. He was immediately captivated by the library. Uncle Elaine showed him the spell to unlock the hidden study and let him rummage through the books at his leisure.
From what Hodge could tell, Uncle Elaine was a lively, restless man who loved to talk. Perhaps a flaw, if you could call it that, was his dislike of being interrupted. Elaine preferred to dominate the conversation, spinning endless tales without pause. Hodge recalled his mother's odd description of him: Talkative, but a good sort. He could see why. For a Squib, unable to wield a wand, enduring Elaine's one-sided chatter as a child must have been exhausting. Still, Elaine's job as a tour guide suited him perfectly.
After settling in, Hodge joined a peculiar venture called the "Terror Tour," a wizarding travel agency specializing in thrilling, macabre short trips. Headquartered at 59 Diagon Alley, it was where Hodge had sent letters to reach Elaine, who was rarely in one place for long. The agency's destinations lived up to its name: vampire castles in Transylvania, zombie trails in Northern Ireland, even the supposedly deadly Bermuda Triangle. For extra flair, the company boldly disclaimed responsibility for any injuries sustained during their tours.
Hodge was initially curious about the zombie trail, but upon arrival, he was sorely disappointed. It was just an ordinary wooded path, enchanted with Muggle-Repelling and Protective Charms. The "zombies" were actors in period costumes, whom Elaine described to a group of tourists as tragic souls who'd escaped wizarding authorities to find peace. They'd even formed communities and families—like the Jacobs and Gales, who were always bickering.
In private, Elaine confided the truth to Hodge. The Ministry of Magic had planned to destroy these zombies, but a group of activists protested, arguing they deserved the same rights as centaurs, house-elves, or trolls. Annoyed, the Ministry corralled them into this enchanted enclave. The Terror Tour agency later acquired the site, paying a nominal fee for zombie management rights.
"We dress them up, change their outfits with the seasons and holidays. You wouldn't believe how much work that takes," Elaine grumbled.
"Vampires are easier to deal with. Seven Sickles and a glass of Bloody Lilith (a vampire cocktail), and you'll get a gentlemanly vampire flashing his fangs for the tourists. If you're lucky, he might even regale you with tales of his ancestors' glory days…"
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