Chapter 5: A Mother’s Memories

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The sunlight was once again blocked by the buildings behind them as they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron, though now the sun slanted from a different angle.

The Blackthorns hurried forward. Hodge's father took the large birdcage, glancing at the owl inside. "You've been gone nearly four hours," he said.

"There was so much to see," Hodge replied, a touch apologetic.

Mr. Blackthorn clapped him on the shoulder, chuckling. "Ten more minutes, and your mother would've mustered the courage to storm in after you. She let slip she can see that magical pub."

Mrs. Blackthorn rolled her eyes at him.

Back home, after dinner, Hodge eagerly showed them his school supplies: a cauldron, a set of glass phials with matching powders, a telescope, a brass scale, and, of course, the most important item—his wand.

Hodge spun an exaggerated tale about the wand shop owner, painting Ollivander as a prophetic figure. He mimicked grand declarations, claiming Ollivander had said things like, "I deem Hodge Blackthorn worthy of great deeds and bestow upon him this wand!" When he mentioned "blackthorn" as the wand's wood, Mrs. Blackthorn's fingers twitched faintly.

Hodge then pulled out three coins to show them.

"This is wizard money?" Mr. Blackthorn marveled. "Look at this, dear. Here."

"And this," Hodge added.

He darted to the living room and switched off the lamp, leaving only the flickering orange glow of the fireplace. Having already changed into his wizard robes and hat, Hodge stood with the firelight at his back, his steps steady, as if he'd stepped straight out of a storybook.

"Lumos," he whispered.

His wand emitted a soft, glowing beam.

A dreamy expression spread across his parents' faces.

After a long moment, Hodge flicked the light back on.

"I have a gift for you, Mum," he said, pulling a book from his bag: The Raven of Fog City and the Heart of Stone.

The cover featured a girl with striking chestnut curls, holding a magnifying glass as she studied a parchment scroll. Behind her stood an enchanting astrolabe, slowly turning, its light catching the parchment and refracting into wondrous symbols.

At the bottom, a small line of text read: The greatest magic is letting people from different worlds see the same starlight. Emily Wood.

"Emily Wood" was the name Mrs. Blackthorn had used before marriage.

The book, of course, was her own work—her first published novel.

"I found it in a secondhand shop," Hodge explained. "The owner probably got it from a broker. The cover's enchanted, so I bought it. Isn't it amazing? To think our worlds are connected like this…"

Mrs. Blackthorn took the book, her heart a tangle of emotions.

She ran her fingers over the cover again and again, lips trembling, as if caressing a fragment of forgotten time. She dimly recalled that afternoon at seventeen, when a Ministry of Magic official handed her a document.

"Miss Blackthorn, these are your new papers."

The still-wet ink of "Emily Wood" had replaced her old name. She rubbed her bare finger, almost feeling the texture of the parchment from that day. It had all seemed so unreal, like a dream. But when her gaze fell on Hodge, that feeling vanished.

Her expression hardened with resolve.

"My real name was Irene, Irene Blackthorn," she said. "I come from the Blackthorn family, an old wizarding line…"

Hodge nodded to himself. That explained why her maiden name matched his father's.

Mrs. Blackthorn rose and went to the attic. After a while, she returned with a dusty old elmwood box. Hodge and his father quickly cleared the tea table of textbooks to make space.

She set the box on the table.

Opening it revealed a collection of small trinkets. A few sparked memories for Hodge, like a miniature broom. His heart skipped—a broom? His mind flashed to the flying broom shop in Diagon Alley. He also spotted a yellowed, hand-drawn comic about a man named Andros and his adventures.

Childhood memories flooded back.

Mrs. Blackthorn lifted an antique pocket watch from the box. With a trace of nostalgia, she handed it to Hodge.

"It's yours now."

Hodge took it curiously, its surface warm to the touch. The watch was adorned with a large black gem that dominated the front, encircled by thorny black vines, their sharp spines rising like a cluster of burning black flames.

The flames seemed to lick at the golden crown and chain above.

Click.

Hodge snapped it open. The space for a photo was empty, leaving only a small indentation.

"It belonged to my father," Mrs. Blackthorn said, her voice heavy with sorrow. "A stubborn old man, a rigid traditionalist. He died in the war. So when I ran away from home, I took it with me—partly as revenge, partly as a keepsake."

Her eyes glistened.

Hodge suddenly felt the watch grow heavier in his hands.

"Our family was once great," she said, glancing at his blackthorn wand. "The black thorn was our symbol. But the last two or three centuries have been unkind, and when they learned I was a Squib, you can imagine my parents' disappointment—"

"Squib?" Hodge's confusion was clear.

Mrs. Blackthorn caught his look. "A Squib is someone like me—born to a wizarding family but unable to cast spells," she explained. "It's a vivid but derogatory term, like a firecracker that fails to spark."

"I'm sorry, Mum," Hodge said quickly.

"It's fine. The word's common enough. If you hear it at school, don't take it too personally. Many use it out of habit, passed down through generations. What matters is spotting the ones who wield it with malice." She wiped her eyes.

"Imagine being a Squib—or a Wandless, as we sometimes call ourselves; there's even a support group—during a wizarding war. I was terrified to leave the house, like I had some incurable disease, or worse. My parents avoided mentioning magic, or the Dark Lord, or how many died the day before. And I pretended I didn't care, but that was far from the truth."

"So I fled to another world, pretending to be a rough country girl named Wood."

"You don't seem rough at all," Mr. Blackthorn interjected. Hodge nodded vigorously.

Mrs. Blackthorn smiled and continued. "The Ministry didn't care about people like me during the war. As long as I didn't cause trouble, they left me alone. I signed a secrecy agreement and came to London. After sorting out the paperwork to prove I 'existed,' I lost all my courage and hid in a rented room. When I had just one week's expenses left, I realized I had to find a way to earn money."

"As a writer?" Hodge asked.

She was a writer now, under the pen name Emily Wood.

"Not at first," she said, thinking back. "I told my landlady I was looking for work, and she handed me the newspaper she was reading. She was a kind woman. The back had job listings, and I saw a herb shop hiring. I thought, maybe I could manage that…"

"The competition wasn't fierce. Most applicants couldn't tell rosemary from lavender, but I had some knowledge. I worked there for three months. Once, I spotted poisonous cherry laurel among a pile of dried bay leaves."

She recounted the memory with a hint of pride.

"That job got me through the hardest times," she said wistfully. "After that, I started learning new things—not just how to use a travel card or memorize Tube maps, but how to embrace this new life. I found purpose, even made a few friends."

"I once craved magic," she said softly. "But I learned it's not the only thing that matters."

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