Chapter 3: Professor McGonagall and Evelina Selma

Hodge Blackthorn curiously studied the mysterious visitor. She wore a dark green tartan robe, square glasses perched on her nose, with faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hair was impeccably neat, and she carried an air of sternness and formality that suggested she had her own way of doing things.

Hodge had a hunch about her identity.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said politely.

"Good morning. Minerva McGonagall," she replied, giving her wand a flick. The enamel mug on the bedside table promptly somersaulted, transforming into an adorably chubby guinea pig.

"As you can see, I am a witch. You may call me Professor McGonagall."

This was far more impressive than fruit floating in midair.

Hodge held his breath, leaning closer to inspect the creature. There wasn't a single flaw—it was utterly brilliant! The guinea pig even clambered onto his hand, its beady eyes swiveling energetically. After a long moment, McGonagall waved her wand again, and the guinea pig morphed back into a teacup.

Hodge etched the scene into his memory.

Professor McGonagall had made quite the entrance, and the effect was striking. She turned to face the Blackthorns.

"We've corresponded before," she said.

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Blackthorn replied, pulling out a piece of parchment. Her voice trembled slightly as she read, "Hereby dispatching Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall to discuss the enrollment of Mr. Hodge Blackthorn. Albus Dumbledore."

McGonagall nodded faintly as she listened.

"I represent Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," she said, settling into a chair opposite Hodge, alongside his parents. "As is customary, parents or guardians must be present. First, I've demonstrated the existence of magic, which you've now witnessed. Next, we can discuss practical matters—perhaps the school's history or the curriculum?"

Hodge nodded.

"You may ask questions at any time. Hogwarts is the only wizarding school in Britain, divided into four houses named after its founders: Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Helga Hufflepuff. They were the most exceptional witches and wizards of their time…"

McGonagall recounted the history from a thousand years ago with a steady, practiced tone.

"For centuries since, the school has upheld its duty to teach young witches and wizards of the appropriate age how to wield magic." She paused, looking at Hodge, clearly expecting a question or comment.

Hodge thought quickly, weighing his options. He settled on a question that might seem a touch bold but suited a clever kid trying to poke holes in the system.

"Um, I was wondering… do you have books? Or something like that? How do you pass on knowledge?"

McGonagall fixed him with a stare, and from her expression, Hodge knew he'd hit the mark.

"Hogwarts has a library with thousands of shelves and millions of books," she said. "Whether for study or leisure, it's more than sufficient. If you're unsure where to start, you can ask your professors or the librarian for recommendations."

For the next while, the two dove into a lively discussion about the library's collection.

"*Hogwarts: A History*? I'll definitely read it," Hodge said, still buzzing with enthusiasm but realizing it was time to get to the point. He had a mountain of questions.

"You mentioned that Hogwarts has been teaching magic to young wizards of the right age for ages. That's kids my age, right?"

"You're eleven, aren't you?"

"My birthday was in May."

"And you haven't received an owl from Hogwarts."

"Uh—what?" Hodge nearly bit his tongue. He wasn't supposed to know about owls.

"Hogwarts sends its acceptance letters by owl post," McGonagall explained. "Typically, young witches and wizards receive a letter when they turn eleven, confirming their admission. These are usually sent out in July."

"I haven't gotten one, and it's October now," Hodge said quickly, then glanced uncertainly at his parents. "It *is* still October, right? I was out for a few days?"

"One day," Mrs. Blackthorn said. "It's October 26th today, dear."

"That's one reason I'm here," McGonagall said briskly. "Hogwarts has already started its term, and Mr. Blackthorn hasn't received his letter because his name was never recorded in the Book of Admittance."

"What do you mean?" Hodge's father asked.

"Think of it as a magical detection system," McGonagall said. "It lists the names of every child born in Britain with magical ability, noting who they are and when they'll attend Hogwarts."

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Blackthorn asked urgently. "Does it matter if his name isn't there?"

"By rule, those not listed cannot study at Hogwarts," McGonagall said quietly. Seeing their faces fall, she softened her tone. "However, Professor Dumbledore has resolved the issue. He personally added your son's name, approving his enrollment."

Mrs. Blackthorn's tense shoulders relaxed.

Hodge, too, felt a surge of gratitude toward the unseen Dumbledore.

*Thank you, Dumbledore. I'm officially a fan.*

But something nagged at him. Last night, he vaguely recalled seeing a pair of bright blue eyes… Wait—McGonagall had mentioned a magical accident causing an unexpected awakening…

"Professor, can I ask something?" Hodge said, choosing his words carefully. "Does this mean I wasn't supposed to have magic? Like, I only got it because of some freak accident? Could it… I don't know, wear off or disappear one day?"

"Mr. Blackthorn," McGonagall said calmly, "your situation isn't some temporary ailment. Magic is rooted in your blood."

*Magic is rooted in my blood.* Instinctively, Hodge glanced at his mother. Her reaction was odd—she might be the source of his magical blood.

"Am I the only one?" he asked. "The only one causing this glitch in the magic book?"

"So far, yes," McGonagall said.

The hospital room fell silent as Hodge processed this.

Just then, the door swung open.

A round-faced blonde girl poked her head in. "The patient's awake?" she whispered, then let out a small cheer and bounded into the room. Hodge noticed McGonagall's eyes widen.

He guessed they knew each other.

Hodge could tell at a glance that this girl wasn't a patient dropping by. Her outfit gave it away: a green robe like McGonagall's but simpler, almost like a uniform, with a wand-and-bone cross embroidered on the chest—perhaps a hospital insignia? The metal tray in her hands, holding a wide-mouthed glass bottle, confirmed it.

She marched straight up to Hodge, completely ignoring his parents and McGonagall seated against the wall.

"How're you feeling?" she asked.

"Great," Hodge said honestly.

"Really? That's awesome! I'll grab a Healer in a bit—" She leaned down to pour liquid from the bottle into an empty cup, but Hodge could tell her focus was elsewhere. Sure enough, after a few seconds, she leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "So, is it true?"

"What?"

"A Muggle in St. Mungo's! I heard it from the portraits in the hallway—they're always gossiping when things get quiet."

She chattered on excitedly while bustling about.

"It's been *insane* around here. We've barely handled all the patients. I swear every wizard in London's shown up. Dizziness, hallucinations, memory issues, magical surges… even the Healers are having problems."

"St. Mungo's is swamped?" Hodge said, surprised.

"You bet!" she said, her voice rising. "The *Daily Prophet* claimed some dark wizard was running experiments in the city center, but the Ministry shut that down fast. This year's been wild—months ago, someone broke into Gringotts! Huge news! I bet those pointy-eared goblins were furious, but who cares—oh, sorry, I forgot you're a Muggle. How do you go to school normally?"

"Probably not much different," Hodge said, struggling not to laugh. It was hard, especially since he could see the stunned expressions of the three people behind her. McGonagall looked distinctly unamused.

"Huh," the round-faced Healer said thoughtfully. "I've been to a Muggle area once—Trafa-something Square? So many people, it could fit the whole wizarding world."

"Evelina Selma," McGonagall said sharply, finally interrupting what seemed like an endless cross-cultural chat.

"Who?" The round-faced Healer jumped, spinning around. When she saw McGonagall—and realized she wasn't alone—she stammered, "P-Professor McGonagall! Hi, I was just—I was—"

*Slacking off*, Hodge thought.

As if she'd heard him, Evelina fumbled and dropped the tray. Hodge instinctively reached for it. With a loud *clang*, one end hit the floor, but the other stayed suspended, as if held by an invisible rope.

Hodge's hand froze midair.

Evelina stared at him, her eyes wide, as if he were some undiscovered species—a Muggle who could do magic.

"W-Wordless magic?" she gasped.

"Enough, Miss Selma," McGonagall said sternly. "Mr. Blackthorn has awakened his magical ability. You'll have plenty of time to chat later. For now, get back to work."

"What? Oh, right, okay!" Evelina scurried out, looking like she couldn't escape fast enough.

The room fell into an awkward silence, as if Evelina had taken everyone's voices with her.

After a moment, Hodge broke the quiet.

"I was just about to ask—about the magical accident. It wasn't really a dark wizard, was it?"

"Unfortunately, the Ministry hasn't released any findings," McGonagall said. "It could be an extremely rare natural magical phenomenon." She added dryly, "Miss Selma graduated this summer and is interning at St. Mungo's."

"She seems talented," Mr. Blackthorn said stiffly.

Hodge didn't comment. He sipped his potion, staring at the transwatermarked cup, now back to its transfigured form, as if it held the key to an embarrassing joke. Then he mulled over his family's unusual dynamic. His father clearly knew nothing of magic, but his mother wasn't as clueless—she might have lived among wizards before. The word *Squib* flickered through his mind.

Even Hodge himself, by all accounts, wasn't meant for magic. After all—

"Hogwarts started two months ago," he murmured.

McGonagall overheard, mistaking his concern for worry about falling behind. "The school will arrange for professors to help you catch up," she said reassuringly. "But you'll need to work hard yourself."

When it came to finalizing enrollment details, McGonagall was all business, promising a trustworthy student would meet the Blackthorns in Diagon Alley to help them buy school supplies.

With everything settled, McGonagall stood to leave.

"Your acceptance letter will arrive tonight," she said. "I could've brought it myself, but there's no need to rob you of a memorable moment." She sniffed, a touch sentimental. "I still remember the day my owl arrived…"

Hodge quickly became friends with Evelina Selma.

She was mortified about embarrassing herself in front of him, so later that evening, when Hodge convinced his parents to let him wander St. Mungo's halls alone, he spotted Evelina playfully shaking her fist at him from across an older witch.

"Miss Selma, are you listening?" the witch asked, clutching a clipboard.

"Of course!" Evelina said, scrambling to jot down notes.

Once the witch left, Hodge strolled over. Evelina turned away, pretending to recite patient charts. "Room 22, Bed 1: Selbert Snidget, condition: lymph fungal infection, cause: illegal potion trafficking in Knockturn Alley, treatment: Doxycide potion. Bed 2: Yerkes Edmund, suspected Confundus Potion ingestion. Bed 3: bitten by Chinese Chomping Cabbage—why are you still here?"

"I thought you might be curious about odd Muggle jobs," Hodge said casually.

Her eyes lit up.

"Go on, then," she said, trying to sound composed.

"Ever heard of a sound collector? They record weird noises. Or a perfume designer? Sled dog trainer? Wildlife photographer? That's close to anthropology—both involve observing and documenting. Or detectives? They solve all sorts of bizarre mysteries. Want to hear more?"

"What's an anthropologist?" Evelina asked, reminded of her Muggle Studies class.

"Oh, them," Hodge said. "Boring folks who live with unfamiliar groups, eat their food, sleep in their homes, and scribble down anything that seems interesting. Then they go home, write books or articles, and claim they understand the group."

"Let me tell you a joke," he added.

"An naive anthropologist goes to an African tribe for fieldwork. The locals eat a fruit called sago palm, which he struggles to chew. Later, the host serves him peeled fruit pulp, and he tells his friend it's much easier to eat. His friend says, 'Of course—because the host chewed it for you first.'"

Evelina's jaw dropped.

"Chewed with their *mouths*?"

"It's a rustic setup, sure, but it's about their hospitality and culture! Imagine if they kept that tradition—their oral hygiene would be—"

"Ugh!" Evelina bolted, gagging.

Hodge grinned and continued exploring the ward, pausing to eavesdrop now and then. Slowly, he pieced together a vivid picture of life in a magical hospital. But the grim cases—bloody injuries, cursed wounds—reminded him: magic wasn't just fun.

Unconventional as it was, Hodge felt that starting his magical journey at St. Mungo's would be one of the greatest takeaways of his life for years to come.