EDITED: October 3rd, 2021.

Thank you, rtruji49 and Givihe for following! I hope new and old readers enjoy this chapter and remain safe!

13 - What You Fear the Most

Three days later after the incident in Hagrid's class, Malfoy showed up at last with a cast and a handful of complaints. We were halfway through double Potions when the door opened and he shuffled inside, trying to look like some sort of Atlas (and failing). Had it been another person, Snape would've given him detention for daring to come late; instead, he let the blonde settle next to Pansy Parkinson with a look that could've been of concern.

"How is it, Draco?" simpered Pansy. "Does it hurt much?"

"It comes and goes," said Malfoy, wincing as he sat down on the stool. "I consider myself lucky. According to Madam Pomfrey, another minute or two... I could've lost the arm."

I snorted. I could imagine Poppy saying that to scare him; she liked being spiteful occasionally.

Back in first year, when Ron had been bitten by Norbert the dragon, she'd given me a lecture about the Ministry's classifications for beasts. After that, I'd leafed the entire book out of curiosity. In a way, Malfoy's injury had been grave. But Hippogriffs were classified as Class XXX—or more literally, 'a competent wizard should cope'. Then again, nothing about Malfoy screamed 'competent'.

Other than drowning out Malfoy's voice, I found Potions to be remarkably calm for once. Making the Shrinking Solution wasn't as complicated as I thought, and Marie's notes in my books helped me along. Aiding Hermione with the Polyjuice Potion last term had been a huge ego boost, too; compared to that, every potion seemed easy as pie.

However, when I returned with our ingredients, I found Malfoy sitting on my stool. My cauldron had been pushed aside to make place for his. The stark contrast of colours—mine rusty and his shiny—made my hackles rise.

"Move," I told him brusquely.

"Professor Snape has assigned me to this seat, Barton," said Malfoy, smirking. My temper escalated at the sight of my recently sewn satchel lying carelessly on the floor, away from the table.

"The hell he did," I hissed. "Now, move." To make my point, I grabbed that fancy satchel of his— admittedly cool—and threw it to the other side of the table.

"You've got some nerve, Barton," Malfoy sneered. Then he raised his good hand—

I slapped it down to the table, pressing just the right amount for him to not complain. The sound was so loud it still caught everyone's attention, including Snape's.

"Problem, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape drawled, eyes narrowed.

I pressed down harder. The blonde winced, but he didn't look at Snape. Brave of him or smart—I didn't miss the way he analysed his wrist and my fingers squeezing tightly.

He looked me right into the eye and smirked. Smirked, as if he had an advantage over me.

Heat crawled up my neck as fury slowly took form. And I wanted to beat it down badly because it was the sort of anger that made my magic lash out. But this was Malfoy. Didn't he deserve to get a taste of what he was dealing with? It would teach him right; it would frighten him to know that I, Voldemort's granddaughter, was more than displeased with him.

"Nothing, sir. Just a slight disagreement over techniques."

The classroom—no, the Slytherins—gave an inaudible sigh. I saw it on the way their coiled muscles suddenly relaxed, leaving nothing but blank stares. Whatever Malfoy had stated with those words, it seemed it wasn't something to worry about. Even Snape came to that conclusion, nodding and turning his back on us.

The Gryffindors were unaware. They were all staring at me, waiting for the burst, waiting for the fight.

A fight I wasn't willing to start this time around. I did not wish to bruise my knuckles. Oh, the want for pain was there, it would always be, but today... I just felt tired. So, so tired.

Tired, but not stupid. I dropped Malfoy's hand but kept my eye on him. A warning.

Malfoy moved to another seat.

"Leave it, Ron," I said, pointedly.

The redhead frowned. "But—"

I shot him a look. I must've looked murderous because he quickly gathered all the new roots and shoved them to Malfoy's side of the table.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "Sir, I'll need this shrivelfig skinned."

"Potter, you can skin Malfoy's shrivelfig," said Snape, giving Harry the look of loathing he reserved just for him. At that, I did not intervene. I'd wasted that card with the reclaim of my seat and with Ron.

Harry took Malfoy's shrivelfig and skinned it as fast as he could before he flung it back across the table at Malfoy without speaking. Malfoy's smirk returned full tilt.

"Seen your pal Hagrid lately?" he asked us quietly.

"None of your business," snapped Ron without looking up.

"I'm afraid he won't be a teacher much longer," Malfoy said in a tone of mock sorrow. "Father's not very happy about my injury—"

"Keep talking, Malfoy, and I'll give you a real injury," Ron snarled.

"—he's complained to the school governors. And to the Ministry of Magic. Father's got a lot of influence, you know. And a lasting injury like this—" he gave a huge, fake sigh, "—who knows if my arm will ever be the same again?"

"Pity," I said calmly. "Then again, Ministry of Magic Classifications did say that Hippogriffs should be handled by competent wizards." I saw him scowl.

"Get into your own business, Barton," he snarled.

I raised my eyebrows. "You took the words out of my mouth, Malfoy."

"So that's why you're putting it on," said Harry. "To try to get Hagrid fired."

"Well," Malfoy said, whispering, "partly, Potter. But there are other benefits too. Weasley, slice my caterpillars for me."

I heard Snape saying, "Orange, Longbottom. Orange. Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours? Didn't you hear me say, quite clearly, that only one rat spleen was needed? Didn't I state plainly that a dash of leech juice would suffice? What do I have to do to make you understand, Longbottom?"

Neville looked like he would burst into tears any second now. It fuelled the boiling anger.

"Please, sir," Hermione said, "please, I could help Neville put it right—"

"I don't remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger," Snape said coldly.

My sanity snapped.

"He's doing what he can with the pitiable explanation you gave!"

The vials closest to him exploded. Snape swiftly stopped the liquids from mixing on the floor, lifting his wand as he led to a new set of empty vials.

"Detention, Barton. For the whole term. And if I wanted to hear your opinion, I'd ask."

I scoffed. "As if. Anyone's opinion could hit you on the head and you wouldn't still care, sir. You'd still be the hard-headed teacher that's got the lowest rates of grades in the whole school."

"Five o'clock, starting today!" he snarled, his cloak billowing as he whirled on Neville. "Longbottom, at the end of this lesson we will feed a few drops of this potion to your toad and see what happens. Perhaps that will encourage you to do it properly!"

I snarled. The knife was in my hand soon, and I walked forward, arm thrust forward, ready to sink the blade in Snape's chest—

I drew in a sharp breath.

The knife was close to my fingers. The blade was pointing in Snape's way. It was so, so tempting to just pick it and—

I shoved it toward the boys. Breathe in, breathe out.

"Hey, Harry," said Seamus Finnigan, whose table was behind ours, "have you heard? Daily Prophet this morning—they reckon Sirius Black's been sighted."

"Where?" Harry and Ron asked quickly. I kept breathing heavily, but my attention was solely on Seamus.

"Dufftown," Seamus said, looking excited. "It was a Muggle who saw him. 'Course, she didn't really understand. The Muggles think he's just an ordinary criminal, don't they? So she phoned the telephone hotline. By the time the Ministry of Magic got there, he was gone."

"Not too far from here..." Ron said, looking significantly at Harry. When he turned around to continue, though, he stopped. "What, Malfoy? Need something else skinned?"

I glanced over. Malfoy had the oddest of expressions. Like he couldn't decide whether to feel exultant or sorry. In the end, his lips stretched into that ugly smirk of his.

"Planning to catch Black single-handed, Barton?" he said. "I would if I were in your shoes. I wouldn't sit here, acting like a good girl, when I could be out there looking for him."

"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Ron snapped.

"Don't either of you know?" Malfoy breathed, his pale eyes narrowing between Harry and me.

"Know what?" said Harry flatly.

Malfoy gave a sneering laugh, joy dancing in his cold grey eyes.

"This is fantastic. I can't wait to see your faces when you find out the truth... you just wait."

Almost jumping on the table, I grabbed Malfoy's green tie and pulled harshly, our faces so close that our noses were touching.

And he still wore that bloody smirk!

"You'll find out who I am, Malfoy," I hissed. "And the day you do, you will regret every. Single. Thing." I released him

Snape's voice carried on: "You should have finished adding your ingredients by now; this potion needs to stew before it can be drunk, so clear away while it simmers and then we'll test Longbottom's..."

"This is a family matter, Barton," Malfoy whispered. "And if you were a true witch, you'd take it into your hands."

I seethed, thinking. He didn't say things just because. But it would have to wait.

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

Everyone around me was talking, laughing, even doing some ridiculous spells to waste time until Professor Lupin arrived. It was going to be our first class with him.

I was curious to see if he was any good. Our last two DADA teachers had been a mess: Quirrell, for starters, had been one of Voldemort's followers (not to mention having said Dark Lord on the back of his head), and Gilderoy Lockhart was a phony who'd lost his memory when he'd tried to erase Harry's and Ron's. So far, Lupin looked promising. The way he'd acted on the train, both during and after the Dementor attack, spoke highly of his skill.

The door opened, and the man of the moment strolled in. Professor Lupin smiled as he put down his briefcase on his desk.

"Good afternoon," he said. "Would you please put all your books back in your bags? Today will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands."

The class started whispering.

"Right then," said Professor Lupin when everyone had packed their things, "if you'd follow me."

Lupin led us out of the classroom into a deserted corridor and as we rounded the corner, we came face to face with Peeves. The poltergeist was hanging upside down in front of us, stuffing bright pink bubble-gum into the keyhole of one door.

When we neared, Peeves looked up. He grinned.

"Loony, loopy Lupin," he sang. "Loony, loopy Lupin, loony, loopy Lupin—"

It was surprisingly disrespectful of Peeves. He never messed with the teachers. But Lupin was smiling at him.

"I'd take that gum out of the keyhole if I were you, Peeves. Mr. Filch won't be able to get into his brooms."

His only answer was Peeves blowing a wet, loud raspberry, followed by his cackling. Lupin sighed and pulled out his wand.

"This is a useful little spell. Please watch closely."

Raising his wand, he said, "Waddiwasi!" and pointed it at Peeves.

It happened quickly. One moment, the chewing gum was on the keyhole, the next second, it had shot straight down to Peeves' left nostril, and he started to splutter. Peeves gave a loud shout and whirled around, yelling curses as he zoomed away.

I was impressed.

"Cool, sir!" Dean Thomas said in amazement.

"Thank you, Dean," said Professor Lupin, putting his wand away again. "Shall we proceed?"

We set off again, the class looking at Lupin with newfound respect. He led us to another corridor and raised a hand for us to stop, right outside the staff room door.

"Inside, please," said Professor Lupin, opening it and standing back.

The room, full of mismatched and broken chairs, was already occupied. Snape looked up from whatever he was writing, the sneer on his mouth got much nastier than it was. He stood up.

"Leave it open, Lupin. I'd rather not witness this." Just as he was at the doorway, he turned on his heel and said, "Possibly no one's warned you, Lupin, but this class contains Neville Longbottom. I would advise you not to entrust him with anything difficult. Not unless Miss Granger is hissing instructions in his ear. And I don't think I should warn you of Miss Barton; the apple didn't fall far from the tree. She has the bad habit of speaking out of turn whenever it pleases, and when that doesn't work, she resorts to violence."

The small, pleasant smile that had appeared on Professor Lupin's face became fixed after I was mentioned.

"Well, Severus, I was hoping that Neville would assist me with the first stage of the operation," said Lupin, "and as for Miss Barton, I think both of us can come to an arrangement?"

He looked over, and with an exaggerated nod, I said, "Yes, Professor."

Snape's glare intensified. He was the only teacher I didn't address by that title. His lip curled and without another word, he shut the door violently.

Lupin wasn't quick enough to hide the amused smile on his face as the class turned to him. Clapping his hands together, he said, "Now then...", gesturing to the other end of the classroom, where there was nothing but an old, rattling wardrobe. It banged off the wall, and its movements became more aggressive as we approached.

"Nothing to worry about," Professor Lupin was quick to reassure. "There's a boggart in there."

I took a sharp intake of breath. Quite frankly, facing Snape's sudden desire to see me dead was better than being here.

"Ouch!"

I removed my foot from Harry's. His glare melted into confusion when he looked at my face. "What's wrong?"

I didn't want to answer; thankfully, Lupin spoke up.

"Boggarts like dark, enclosed places: wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks—I've even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock. This one" —he tapped the rattling wardrobe gently with his wand— "moved in yesterday afternoon, and I asked the headmaster if the staff would leave it to give my third years some practice."

He smiled at us; the answer mustn't have been good, judging from the slight drop of his lips, but he swiftly recovered. "So, the first question we must ask ourselves is—what is a boggart?"

Hermione's hand flew up.

"It's a shape-shifter," she said, glancing at the thing containing said creature. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us most."

"Couldn't have put it better myself," Lupin said. Hermione went slightly pink. "So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a Boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears. This means that we have a huge advantage over the boggart before we begin. Have you spotted it, Harry?"

Bewildered, Harry faltered as he replied, "Er—because there are so many of us, it won't know what shape it could be?"

Hermione stopped jumping; disappointment flashed across her face.

Lupin was nodding. "Precisely. It's always best to have company when you're dealing with a boggart. He becomes confused. Which should he become, a headless corpse or a flesh-eating slug? I once saw a boggart make that very mistake—tried to frighten two people at once and turned himself into half a slug. Not remotely frightening. The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart off is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. We will practice that charm without wands first. After me, please... Riddikulus!"

"Riddikulus!" we all repeated.

"Good," said Lupin. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville."

It was hard to tell who was shaking more—Neville or the wardrobe. I understood his fears, but his walk—like that of a man heading for the gallows—seemed a tad ridiculous.

"Right, Neville," Professor Lupin said. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"

Neville mouthed something but no sound came.

"Sorry, but I didn't catch that, Neville," Professor Lupin said cheerfully.

Neville's usually calm brown eyes went wide, gazing around the room as if searching for someone to help him. Twice he caught my eye, but I only gave him a thin-lipped smile. I was sorry I couldn't be of help to him, but I was more worried about what would happen once Neville had his turn.

At last, he whispered, "Professor Snape."

I gritted my teeth at the round of laughter that followed. Lupin hadn't laughed either; he looked thoughtful, scratching his chin, but there was a spark in his eyes that said he had an idea.

"Yes... he seems to frighten everyone... Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"

"Er—yes," Neville said nervously. "But—I don't want the boggart to turn into her either."

"No, no, you misunderstand me," Professor Lupin smiled. "I wonder—could you tell me what sort of clothes she usually wears?"

Looking startled, Neville said, "Well... always the same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top. And a long dress... green, normally... and sometimes a fox-fur scarf."

"And a handbag?" Professor Lupin prompted.

"A big red one."

"Right then. Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"

"Yes," said Neville uncertainly, plainly wondering what was coming next.

"When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees you, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," Lupin said. "And you will raise your wand—thus—and cry 'Riddikulus' —and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with that big red handbag."

I couldn't picture Snape wearing women's clothes. From day one, I couldn't remember him wearing anything else than his black robes.

"If Neville is successful, the boggart is likely to shift his attention to each of us in turn," Professor Lupin said. "I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical..."

I was scared of many things: spiders, stains on clothes, a possible bout of vertigo, and most recently, the sight of blood. I couldn't wait until my period days were over. But if I thought about it, I knew what truly scared me. It had festered since the day I found out Sirius Black was my uncle. But I didn't know how the boggart would interpret it. I couldn't imagine a way of changing the fact to something funny.

My stomach coiled.

"Everyone ready?" Professor Lupin asked. "Neville, we're going to back away. Let you have a clear field, all right? I'll call the next person forward... Everyone back, now, so Neville can get a clear shot—"

Neville pushed up the sleeves of his robes and held his wand at the ready.

"On the count of three, Neville," Professor Lupin said, pointing his wand at the wardrobe. "One— two—three—now!"

Professor Lupin threw his hand out, the sparks shooting out of his wand hitting the wardrobe's lock. It immediately burst open, and a familiar man stepped out.

It was Snape all right, nearly identical to the one that had left minutes ago. His eyes were focused on Neville alone as he strutted to the boy, his hand reaching into his robes.

Neville backed up—and then, shaking his head, he pointed his wand at the boggart.

"R—r—riddikulus!"

A loud cracking noise whipped across the classroom; Snape bent backward, as if he'd been hit, and when he straightened—

I burst laughing.

It was like Neville had described. The evil teacher was wearing a long, green, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and he was swinging a huge crimson handbag. The boggart paused, confused at the laughter around him; Professor Lupin shouted for Parvati to go forward.

Her face set, she walked confidently, and Snape rounded on her. There was another crack, and where Snape stood was a bloodstained, bandaged mummy; its sightless face was turned to Parvati and it began to walk toward her very slowly, dragging its feet, stiff arms reaching out for her.

"Riddikulus!" Parvati cried.

A bandage unraveled at the mummy's feet; it became entangled, fell face forward, and its head rolled off.

"Seamus!" Professor Lupin roared over the laughter.

Seamus darted past Parvati.

Crack! Where the mummy had been was a woman with floor-length black hair and a skeletal, green-tinged face—a banshee. She opened her mouth wide and an unearthly sound filled the room, a long, wailing shriek that made my blood run cold and which hurt my ears—

"Riddikulus!" Seamus shouted.

The banshee made a rasping noise and clutched her throat; her voice was gone.

Soon, the room was full of crack sounds, each of them meaning different fears of students. A rat, a rattlesnake, one single bloody eyeball, and in Dean Thomas' case the distant relative of Thing, the hand from The Addams Family.

"Riddikulus!" yelled Dean. There was a snap, and the hand was trapped in a mousetrap.

"Excellent! Ron, you next!"

Ron leapt forward.

Crack! I was among those who screamed as the giant spider, six feet tall and covered in hair, advanced on Ron. He froze for a beat but raised his wand, bellowed, "Riddikulus!" and the spider's legs vanished. Its body rolled over and over until it stopped before my feet.

"Anya, go on!" encouraged Professor Lupin, though he didn't seem so sure of himself.

For a beat, the boggart twitched. It rolled backward, and a resounding crack announced its change.

The murmurs started. The first voice that rose was Lavender's.

"She's gotta be joking—that boy's gorgeous!"

Tall, thin. Dark-haired and pale. A smile that had the girls behind me swooning, the boys making disgusted sounds, and my fingers shaking.

His eyes were clearly different coloured. Clearly empty as he spoke.

But the voice that came out wasn't his. It was mine.

"We are the same."

My heart thumped against my will. My legs felt like jelly; like if I took a step forward, I would fall. Tears of frustration stung my eyes, and I covered my mouth before I could answer the mirage.

"What will you do, Anya Barton, when all your friends turn from you?"

I closed my eyes tightly. Took a deep breath. And recalled the time Harry had first attended St. Louise's Vendredi des films.

"Riddikulus," I murmured, then repeated the incantation louder, "Riddikulus!"

Riddle disappeared in a wave of mist, leaving behind a small monkey dancing with an umbrella in circles and singing Singin' in the Rain.

Everyone else was laughing. I wasn't, but with my head high, I made my way to the very back of the room. I vaguely registered that Harry's boggart turned into a Dementor briefly and Lupin's into a silvery-white floating orb.

"Anya."

My neck made this tiny sound as I turned abruptly. I ignored it, frowning at the piece of chocolate that was almost touching my nose. Lupin backed awkwardly.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to scare you, but class is over."

"You didn't scare me."

"I know I didn't." He gestured over his shoulder. The wardrobe was once more shaking, the boggart back inside. "Would you like to talk about it?"

"I already got a therapist, thanks." But I remembered then my intention of interrogating him about Black. I held back a frustrated sigh as I accepted his chocolate. "It was embarrassing, okay? I mean, everyone's fears were monsters, and mine was a pretty boy. I won't live this down for days."

"Yes, but nobody knew that was the man that goes by Voldemort nowadays." My eyes shot to him, shocked, but Lupin surprised me again. "If the boggart had to choose a person for me, it would've been Fenrir—" His own eyes widened.

I didn't recognize the name. But I plunged on before he could close off.

"This is twice this week my fears get dragged up for everyone to see." I ate the chocolate and started pacing around Lupin. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and assume you know what happened last year. I'm going to take another wild guess by saying you know Sirius Black is my uncle. Well, put those together and... I've got a lot of issues. I keep thinking, you know. What if that's me? Black's not the first in the family to be nuts, so what if that's where I'm going as well? Even Trewlawney's bloody tea leaves said it—I'm destined for misfortune! But is that really all there is to me? Am I bound to follow my family's steps?" I stopped before the wardrobe. It was shaking madly now, clearly feeling someone on the other side. And despite it, I could still see my distorted reflection on the broken glass of its door. "Are Harry and I meant to be enemies?"

Lupin cleared his throat.

"Well, that was... a lot. I'm no expert, but have you tried writing all this down, Anya? I mean... it appears to me you can't tell your friends, clearly."

I stepped away from the mirror and looked back at him.

"Can't. I have to force myself to write class notes—the boys are terrible at it and Hermione won't lend me hers for more than five minutes."

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. Lupin reached for his briefcase and opened it on the desk he was leaning against. Next, he took a quill and parchment out and started writing.

He wrote and wrote and wrote until he reached the last part of the roll. He used his wand then to cut it into small strips of paper, around a dozen or more, that he bunched together.

"Here."

I approached him and took the pile gently with both hands. I read the one on top.

"Like I said, I'm no expert. But bottling it all up doesn't help you—it doesn't help anybody. So, these are for when you feel like you can't keep it in. Do with this time whatever you want. Go and take a stroll; lock yourself in the girls' bathroom; or... you can come around my office for a talk." He cleared his throat. "Whatever you need, Anya."

"Why?" I whispered, holding close all the excuses he'd painstakingly written. All the permissions that stated I was busy helping him for extra points, all with the space where the date and time should be blank. All signed by him, essentially taking the blame.

He just smiled.