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The old wizard, Clive, didn't say a word, only nodding curtly at the duty wizard with a strictly businesslike air.
The two of them crossed the empty hall and stepped into the elevator heading downward. Hodge stared at the ornate golden grille door in front of him, mentally rehearsing passages from Understanding Your Mind: only those skilled in Occlumency could seal off feelings and memories that contradicted a lie.
He wasn't here to lie, but he was preparing just in case. Occlumency wasn't only useful against Legilimency—it could also shield against various other mind-disrupting magical techniques.
But the elevator soon came to a halt.
"Level One, Office of the Minister for Magic and Support Services," a hollow female voice announced.
The golden grille rattled open. Clive stepped out, standing aside to gesture for Hodge to follow. With no other choice, Hodge exited the elevator. His suspicions grew stronger—this was all Umbridge's doing. They hadn't encountered anyone else on the way except security personnel, and the thick carpet muffled their footsteps entirely. No one in the Ministry would know he'd been here or how long he'd stay.
Umbridge could work her schemes freely, prying for the answers she wanted.
As it happened, Hodge also wanted to get some answers out of her. This was likely his best chance, though it came with the risk of interrogation. From what he knew, Umbridge wasn't skilled at dueling—she preferred to wield her authority to crush others. Before coming, Hodge had asked his parents to send a message to Dumbledore.
It might not be enough, though. He'd have to manage his time carefully…
When he noticed the portraits lining the corridor walls, an idea sparked in Hodge's mind.
He stopped in his tracks, his voice booming, "This isn't right." The old wizard shot him a puzzled glance.
"What's not right?"
"The location's wrong! I heard it—this floor is for the Minister and support staff. A minor infraction by an underage wizard hardly warrants dragging the Minister into it, does it? The letter I got was from the Improper Use of Magic Office. Tell me, was it Umbridge who told you to sneak me in here?"
The old wizard replied dully, "There aren't many people in the Ministry. Ms. Umbridge is happy to take on some extra work…"
"So you admit it! You're admitting to breaking protocol!"
The nearest portrait yawned, its occupant blinking sleepily. Soon, another figure slipped into the frame, and the two began whispering to each other.
"I—"
"You've dragged an underage wizard, guilty of a first-time offense, to the Ministry for questioning—on Christmas Day, no less, right in front of his family! According to the Ministry's own rules, a warning would suffice! So why am I here? And did I even break the rules?"
Hodge advanced, his voice rising.
"My grandparents—Horton Blackthorn and Maureen Blackthorn—died heroically during the Wizarding War, killed by Voldemort himself! Don't tell me you haven't heard the Blackthorn name, even if my mother never attended Hogwarts! A month ago, my uncle sent me letters teaching me some magic. He even invited me to spend the summer with him to learn the family's magical heritage. Do you think I don't have the right to study these things during the holidays?"
The old wizard, backed against the wall, was speechless.
The murmurs from the portraits grew louder, and a few doors along the corridor cracked open, as if their occupants were straining to hear more.
To be precise, Uncle Elaine hadn't mentioned anything about "family magic" explicitly—he'd only invited Hodge to visit in his letters. But there was no denying they'd discussed the ancient tomes passed down through the Blackthorn family for centuries.
That was enough. It didn't stop Hodge from embellishing a bit, especially since the Trace law was riddled with loopholes.
Pure-blood manors ignored the law entirely.
Wizarding families—even those living in Muggle neighborhoods, even when parents weren't home—faced lax oversight.
Only in areas with no wizarding presence was the Ministry's vigilance strict, labeling them "high-risk zones for magical contamination."
Hodge's outburst targeted those exact exemptions.
The corridor fell silent. The old wizard clutched his chest, gasping for breath as if struck by a sudden ailment. At that moment, an office door swung open, and out stepped a short, stout woman.
She wore a pink cardigan, her wide, sagging face marked by heavy bags under slightly bulging eyes. Her neck was barely visible, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a toad at first glance.
She took a few steps forward, revealing the polished mahogany door behind her, which bore a sign:
Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic
Then, with an exaggerated, girlish gasp, she asked, "I heard shouting—what's going on, Clive?"
Umbridge played the part of someone completely unaware of the situation.
But in the next instant, her voice turned sharp and scolding. "Didn't I tell you to invite Mr. Blackthorn politely? Did you not explain things clearly?" Before Clive could utter a word, she enthusiastically pulled Hodge into her office and slammed the door shut.
Bang!
Outside, the old wizard stood frozen, at a loss. After a moment, he trudged away, his heavy footsteps swallowed by the thick carpet, leaving in utter silence.
Inside the office, a different scene unfolded.
"Please, have a seat."
Hodge was about to sit when Umbridge cooed, "Oh, not there, dear." She pointed toward the desk.
So Hodge left the sofa and settled into the chair positioned in front of the desk. He surveyed the room—if it had been a little girl's bedroom, he wouldn't have been surprised. Lace curtains, decorative cushions, and an entire wall covered with plates painted with frolicking kittens. But knowing this was Umbridge's office, he felt only a chill.
Umbridge had returned.
She placed a plate of pastries and a glass of juice on a tablecloth adorned with ruffles and floral patterns.
Umbridge sat across from him, separated by the desk, her face wreathed in smiles.
"Try some—they're my favorites."
"Thank you, but I just had Christmas dinner. I haven't even digested yet."
"Then have some juice. You must be thirsty."
Hodge picked up the glass and held it.
"Well then," Umbridge began, clearly pleased, "let's get to business."
"About the improper use of magic, I've already—"
"No, no, dear," Umbridge interrupted. "That's not what we're here to discuss."
"That's why I was brought here," Hodge said.
"Very well," Umbridge said kindly. "Let me put it another way: what we discuss next will determine the outcome of another matter. The two are connected, I'm sure you understand."
Hodge didn't argue, but he made his stance clear. In truth, he also wanted to know what Umbridge knew.
She took his silence as compliance and asked cheerfully, "Mr. Hodge Blackthorn, on October 25, 1991, you were involved in a magical accident, weren't you?"
"That's right."
"You were taken to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries?"
"Yes."
"And that's when your magic awakened?"
"I only found out afterward. If I recall correctly, I was unconscious at the time." Hodge shrugged, and a bit of juice sloshed out of the glass. "So I'm afraid I can't be much help."
"No, Mr. Blackthorn, no." The round, bulging eyes behind the desk fixed on him. Umbridge's voice was soft, almost syrupy. "What matters is what happened after you woke up…"
"Besides awakening your magic, what else unusual did you notice?"
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