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After a long wait, the door finally creaked open from the inside. Quirrell, stammering but with a semblance of warmth, welcomed Hodge.
"B-B-Blackthorn, M-Mr. Blackthorn, w-welcome!"
Hodge stepped into the room. He wasn't the first to visit this office; he'd made a point to ask a few students beforehand. They'd warned him that compared to the overpowering stench of garlic, the damp chill of the place was hardly worth mentioning. Michael Corner had even bet someone that Professor Quirrell's office housed a barrel brimming with garlic juice, used to soak that ridiculous scarf of his. He'd begged Hodge to check.
Hodge surveyed the office's gloomy, shadowy decor, trying not to dwell on scarves or the back of anyone's head. He just wanted to get through this as quickly as possible.
Quirrell clutched a book, his voice tinged with nervous energy. "B-B-Blackthorn, M-Mr. Blackthorn, th-this is f-for you. P-please, sit! L-let me t-tell you a-about—"
To save time, Hodge kindly summed it up for him.
In essence, the first-year Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum focused heavily on theory. It made sense—Hogwarts wouldn't throw new students into battles with monsters or put them in harm's way. So, in a way, Dumbledore's choice of Quirrell wasn't terrible. Quirrell had traveled the world, boasting experiences worth sharing. For first-years, they needed someone who could spin a good story.
The only downside was his dreadful stutter.
Hodge patiently endured Quirrell's halting lecture on four common magical injuries first-years might encounter: accidental potion ingestion, contact with dangerous plants, encounters with hazardous magical creatures, and misuse of a family wand. Quirrell was now droning on about the fifth.
If there was anything more infuriating than listening to a stuttering, by-the-book recitation, it was that Hodge couldn't call it out without causing a scene.
After what felt like an eternity, Quirrell finally wrapped up his overview of several magical world species. Hodge seized the moment.
"Professor Quirrell?" he asked, his tone curious but probing. "You mentioned handling vampires, werewolves, and inferi yourself. That's incredible! You must have had some wild adventures. Could you tell me more?"
"Y-Yes," Quirrell stammered. "L-Last term, I t-took a year to s-study, to g-gather firsthand knowledge. Th-then I t-traveled the world, w-wandering from p-place to place."
He took a moment to list his destinations.
Hodge weighed his options silently, picking what seemed the safest topic—not Albania, not the Black Forest, and definitely not some old hag who might have mistreated him.
Feigning enthusiasm for foreign lands, Hodge pressed, "That's amazing! Does South America have magic too? Is it like Hogwarts?"
"O-Of course," Quirrell replied.
And so, Quirrell launched into a stuttering account of his South American adventures. To Hodge's surprise, beneath the maddening, garbled, and occasionally incoherent words, Quirrell painted a vivid picture of an ancient, mystical, and deeply nature-bound magical world.
There was the Castrobushe School of Magic, hidden deep in the rainforest; rare creatures like venomous unicorns and moonlit beasts; remnants of extinct but enduring Mayan and Aztec magic; and a ball-throwing game rivaling Quidditch in prestige, where players rode giant lizards through mazes of stone and vines.
Hodge listened, utterly captivated.
For a moment, he almost respected the professor. Sure, Quirrell stuttered, dabbled in dark magic, and had let someone—or something—take up residence in him for the sake of forbidden knowledge. But—stop. Hodge reined in his thoughts.
When Quirrell touched on the history of ancient natives resisting Spanish invaders, a sickly pallor crept over his face. "A-Around Machu Picchu, th-there's still m-magical mist t-today, p-proof of their r-resistance…"
Suddenly, he clutched his face, pain flashing through the gaps in his fingers. His gaunt frame trembled.
"P-Professor Quirrell? Are you alright?" Hodge asked, tense. He stood, edging toward the door, ready to bolt.
But Quirrell steadied himself, adjusting the scarf atop his head. "N-Nothing," he muttered. "J-Just an o-old ailment." He seemed to return to normal.
Quirrell resumed teaching.
Hodge exhaled, relieved, but then a chilling sensation hit him. A pair of eyes—not Quirrell's—seemed to bore into him, as if some incomprehensible force, like an invisible specter, watched from above. A few seconds later, the feeling vanished.
Quirrell kept stammering along, as if nothing strange had happened, but Hodge noticed his face had grown even paler, as though he'd aged years in moments.
When Hodge finally left the office, Quirrell's parting words echoed in his mind, paired with the manic, almost feverish grin he'd flashed.
"S-Sometimes, you h-have to m-make sacrifices… T-To fight d-dark magic, you m-must first u-understand it. S-Sometimes, you even h-have to t-touch it, d-deal with it. I s-studied dark magic at s-school, of c-course, p-purely in th-theory."
It seemed Quirrell had indeed made his sacrifices.
Hodge didn't believe Voldemort could just possess any wizard at will. Until his true resurrection, Voldemort was fragile—less than a ghost, lingering in the liminal space between the underworld and the living world, endlessly drifting. He could only take hold if someone sought him out and welcomed him.
Perhaps Quirrell had his own agenda. Imagine—a weakened, bodiless Dark Lord, more vulnerable than ever! What a jackpot! How much arcane knowledge could Quirrell extract from that broken wraith?
A sense of urgency stirred in Hodge. He needed to build his own strength.
As for Quirrell, Voldemort was counting on him to snag the Philosopher's Stone. He'd tread carefully.
The next morning, as students trickled into the Great Hall for breakfast, a flock of owls swooped in, circling the tables to find their owners. Hodge waved at Nyx, whose size dwarfed the average owl.
Nyx dropped a letter into his hands before pecking at his breakfast. Hodge smiled at the familiar handwriting on the envelope, warmth spreading through him. But when he tore it open and read the words, he nearly choked on his porridge.
He glanced at Nyx, who was busy nibbling peas from his plate, confirming he hadn't mistaken the owl. He double-checked the handwriting, then finally accepted the letter's astonishing news: someone in his mother's Squib support group had awakened magical powers!
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