"Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2, Breaking with Banshees, Traveling with Ghouls, Holidays with Hags, Wandering with Trolls, Voyages with Vampires, Wandering with Werewolves, A Year with the Yeti—is this a series or something?"
That morning, Mrs. Blackthorn was reading through Hodge's second-year booklist at the breakfast table.
"Wait a second," she said, looking up at Hodge before glancing back at the list with a puzzled expression. "The last few books are all written by the same person—Gilderoy Lockhart. Is he famous or something?"
Hodge, slathering jam on a piece of bread, took a bite and said dryly, "You've hit the nail on the head."
After breakfast, the family piled into the car and drove to Diagon Alley. Soon, they parked across from Charing Cross Road, and Hodge hopped out first, leading the Blackthorns toward the Leaky Cauldron.
His parents, visiting for the first time, looked a bit nervous.
"We're at our first stop, the Leaky Cauldron, a famous spot. It's been around for about five hundred years," Hodge said, slipping into the role of tour guide with ease—thankfully, he'd picked up a thing or two from Uncle Elaine.
"Hello, Tom, could we get three of the drinks Muggles loved before the Statute of Secrecy kicked in?"
Behind the bar, old Tom, all wrinkles and missing teeth, flashed a grin and got to work. Moments later, he slid over two frothy, golden drinks bubbling with a sweet aroma and a steaming cup of tea.
"Mead, with a little extra kick to soothe nerves and lift spirits," Tom said with a bow.
"Oh, thank you," Mr. Blackthorn said politely. He took a cautious sip, and the effect was immediate—his tense shoulders relaxed, and the faint crease in his brow smoothed out.
"Is there magic in this?" he asked.
Tom, ever the gracious host, replied from behind the counter, "You've got a keen eye, sir. There's a pinch of ground Billywig sting in it."
"Oh, er… what's that?"
"The stinger of a magical insect," Mr. Blackthorn raised an eyebrow. Tom's smile turned slightly mischievous but reassuring. "No worries, sir, I guarantee it's harmless."
By the time the glass was empty, Mr. Blackthorn was chatting with Tom like they were old mates.
"This mead's unlike anything I've tasted. I'd pair it with some blue cheese or maybe dried apricots. From a, what's the word, Muggle perspective, raw liver might work too… Well, cheers…"
In the small courtyard behind the pub, Mr. Blackthorn leaned in and whispered to Hodge, "How'd I do?"
Hodge gave his dad a thumbs-up.
As the bricks in the wall parted to reveal a cobblestone path, Diagon Alley unveiled a glimpse of its magic.
Hodge didn't miss a beat, continuing his guide routine. "Please, Mr. and Mrs. Blackthorn, stick close to avoid getting lost. Our next stop is Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. You're in luck—your guide's covering all expenses today! Anyone fancy an ice cream?" he added with a flourish, feeling flush from the advance he'd received from signing a contract with Obscurus Books.
Mrs. Blackthorn played along, grinning. "What do you think suits me?"
"A velvet gown, no question," Hodge replied. "And for Dad," he said, eyeing his father up and down, "a black high-collared robe with gold trim—understated but classy."
Both Blackthorns burst out laughing.
When they stepped into Madam Malkin's, their eyes sparkled with anticipation. Madam Malkin greeted them with a warm smile. "Here to get robes for your son?"
"No, it's for them—a gown and a dress robe," Hodge corrected.
Madam Malkin blinked, her prepared pleasantries faltering. "Oh… well, then, right this way." She pulled out pins and a measuring tape, which promptly began zipping around the Blackthorns on its own. Madam Malkin jotted down measurements as the tape whizzed about.
"How about this one? It suits your elegance perfectly," she said, presenting a wine-red gown. The dress floated forward as if worn by an invisible figure, swishing its skirts and striking poses. From the corner, a black dress robe and a top hat zoomed out, the robe bowing and tipping its hat. To the Blackthorns' astonishment, the two garments began a lively dance together.
Hodge didn't even haggle over the price—the performance alone was worth it. Both sides left the shop satisfied.
Emerging from Madam Malkin's, the Blackthorns looked transformed, radiating sophistication. When Mr. Blackthorn paused to eye something at a vendor's stall, the merchant addressed him with newfound respect.
"Good sir, care for some fresh dragon liver? Only twelve Sickles an ounce!"
Mr. Blackthorn's eyes widened. "Real dragon liver? You can sell that? Is it edible?"
The vendor looked flustered, a touch of panic in his eyes. "Of course it's real! It's, er, edible with the right preparation. I'm sure your house chef can handle it."
Mr. Blackthorn glanced at Hodge, puzzled.
Hodge stifled a laugh, pointing at his father's gold-trimmed robe. Stepping forward, he asked, "What kind of dragon liver is it? Romanian Longhorn? Swedish Short-Snout? Not Peruvian Vipertooth, I hope—that liver's so toxic even apothecaries won't touch it."
The vendor's forehead beaded with sweat. Hodge knew he'd called the bluff.
After some haggling, Hodge snagged a pound of the so-called Peruvian Vipertooth liver for seven Sickles an ounce. The Blackthorns watched, fascinated, as Hodge winked at them. The trio hurried off, and not far down the street, they saw the vendor frantically packing up and bolting.
"Stop right there!"
A young witch with bubblegum-pink hair sprinted past them, agile and determined, shouting, "Last warning—I'll cast a spell!"
The vendor didn't look back, diving headfirst into a fireplace blazing with green flames. What followed was chaos.
Bang! "Ouch!" "Who's that?" "Get out of the way!"
A boy tumbled out of the fireplace, red-haired and freckled—Fred Weasley. Before he could stand, his twin brother spun out of the flames, crashing into him. The two rolled across the ground in a heap.
"Operation one, off to a rough start," George Weasley groaned, rubbing his head.
"Operation two, I've got a bad feeling about this," Fred added.
The Blackthorns stood among the crowd, watching the comical scene unfold. It only got more theatrical as more redheads popped out of the fireplace, one after another, adding to the absurdity.
"Move aside, kids!"
"Has anyone seen Harry?"
"No idea—ask Ginny, her eyes are glued to him. Who hexed her?"
"How can you talk about your sister like that?"
While the Weasley family bickered, Hodge ushered his parents away.
The noise faded as Hodge picked up the pace. He stopped at a stationery shop for parchment and ink, then grabbed some cosmetics at Madam Primpernelle's Beauty Potions. By the time they reached Flourish and Blotts, a massive banner featuring Gilderoy Lockhart's beaming photos loomed over a crowd, with a line already snaking out the door and around the corner.
Hodge checked his watch—good, still some time before the signing.
Minutes later, he emerged with a towering stack of textbooks, relieved to have beaten the rush. After stowing their purchases in the car, Hodge fibbed about meeting a classmate and sent his parents off. Once they were gone, he slipped back into Diagon Alley, checking the time again—half an hour until the signing.
He decided to head over early to snag a good spot.
But then, at a table outside the ice cream parlor, he spotted a young witch with violet hair. Recognizing her face, Hodge veered over and slid into the seat across from her.
"Hey, good to see you," he said with a grin.
Tonks, still fuming from her failed chase, was mid-bite into a strawberry ice cream. At his words, she looked up, glanced around, and pointed her spoon at herself, utterly confused.
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