"George Weasley!"

My name was always a hallmark. Really, every day of every hour I sat, thought of as the living Peeves; along with my less handsome and dumber brother Fred. It's the seventh floor, Arithmancy; a sunny day, it is, while the clouds need not attempt to blot the light of the sun. There's a light humming, yes, a humming there is, coming from the boggart's wardrobe at the end of the room. Yet, the Vector bat pays not an ounce of attention toward the rickety closet; I've always found it funny how fear of so very widely feared things or people fades away with experience.

Besides that point in itself, who the hell keeps a Boggart next to their chalkboard?

"Yes, Professor?" I defeatedly murmured the name. "Are you aware of your answer of number four?" the woman testily replied. "Or is it, Mr. Weasley, merely a dirty joke scrawled in a number code only for your brother to see, like so many other homeworks this year?" "No, Professor. Correct me if I'm wrong, which you will," I began, slightly stuttering. The woman was tiny, shorter than Hermione and Luna (which in both respects is a pathetic achievement), and raised her eyebrows expectantly, curling a slight sneer of the left side of her wrinkled mouth.

Hermione dipped her head down in tire. "Twenty-Seven mulplaculured by the routing of 4 is what I got," Professor pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, closing her eyes for a spare moment of solitude. "Approximately!" I added hopefully. Flexibility with this woman was key; she'd hate you more if you insisted on your answer, and she'd hate you the same if you agreed for the sake of fear from confrontation. Honestly, I feel like I'm in a Legilimency class, above anything else!

Hermione darted her hand into the air. And here she went, saving the moment with a curtain, hiding me behind it, made of her intelligence. Was is red? Was is velvet? What did this curtain look like, beside the ugly shade of bossy arrogance?

"This, I'm afraid, is the not the right time, Ms. Granger," said Professor Vector. Hermione meekly lowered her pointed fingers, knocking her bottle of ink over. "Have you shame, Mr. Weasley?" the woman piped. She sputtered and sighed, her voice spilling out into the silence with a sharp coughing noise. I've come to find the woman really did know how to agitate me when she pleased. "Yes, Professor, but for what?" I muttered, loud enough to be heard by the now shrill and hysterical woman. "For cheating!" she shrieked. "For cheating on your homework! I may as well take twenty points from Gryffindor!" she continued her tirade. "I didn't cheat! That's redic –"

"Enough, Mr. Weasley! Thirty points, perhaps, might help you reconsider your behavior?" she snapped. The woman briskly turned on her heel, and faced the alleged wardrobe, while the Boggart tapped inside hungrily. She kicked the closet, quavered, and took a long and deep breath. She coughed again, and rotated back toward the shaken class. "Mr. Weasley," she breathed. I only raised me eyebrow; who know, honestly. Another word might set her off. "Did you write the chart? Did…did you do the chart, my boy?"

Those damn charts.