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Chapter 7: Defend Yourself

"Usually," Professor Lupin was looking at Clara rather sadly. It was an emotion that she was growing accustomed to since the unfortunate happenings in his class weeks before. It was like everyone knew something about her that she hadn't given them.

For the last three weeks, she had been doing a rather fine job at hiding in the owlery, slipping up the stairs immediately after classes. Food had been hard to come by that first week but she had eventually seen a pair of sixth years tickling the fruit that was beside the Hufflepuff entrance and discovered the kitchen just beyond. From then on, it had been smooth sailing. Clara Deschamp was rather adept at dodging people and she had found that Hogwarts had more than enough hiding places.

The lines in his face deepened for a moment before he turned away, looking at a rather boring chart of incantations behind his desk. "Usually, having a group distracts the Boggart enough so that there are a few seconds of… disorientation." He turned back around and something in his eyes made Clara wince, recoiling into the stiff wood of the chair beneath her. "But… sometimes… a fear is so acute that it just latches on."

Clara took a breath. Then another one, trying to ignore how painful even that was. There was something about the pain - the pain of having it so blatantly laid out to her. That her sister dying. That her parents would inevitably blame her. There was something about it being labeled like that that made it so… wrong. It wasn't just a fear. It wasn't the jitters that you got when you got too close to the edge of a cliff. Or the scream that built inside you when you say the hair on a spider's leg.

It was the truth. It was like having your toes on the edge of that cliff constantly waiting for the rocks to give out. It was what Clara grew with. It was a part of her twisted soul like anything else.

"With all due respect, Professor-" Clara started in, bracing herself with a false smile.

"You've been avoiding your friends." There was something sardonic about his smile - something that made the silver haired girl blink. Heavily, Professor Lupin sat into his creaky chair, a few stray papers fluttering to the floor. "That red haired girl started cursing when you swept out last class. She grabbed Mister Vansteen by the collar and started growling at him like a rabid dog. And then Mister Weasley…" Professor Lupin clicked his tongue sharply. "He's been rather moody lately. I've heard that his Quidditch practices haven't been going so well. Just yesterday Oliver Woods came storming into the castle with a bloody nose. Apparently a stray bludger." The pointed look that he was flashing was enough description for Clara.

It had been fairly easy to avoid Keela and the Vansteens - even the Weasleys who seemed to pop up all over the school. Afterall, Clara only had three classes on off days with them since she had been enrolled in higher level classes otherwise. And of those classes, Herbology was the only one where they were grouped up. All she had had to do was stick rather close to Kenneth Towler. Sure, he hadn't stopped jabbering on but he also hadn't once brought up the boggart - which was all that anyone had wanted to talk to her about for the past three weeks.

"We've talked," the French witch edged, shifting uncomfortably as Professor Lupin's brows raised to nearly touching his hairline. "We have!"

They had not. Aside from the brief exclamations of relief and pity that had occurred upon Clara waking up in the school's infirmary after apparently fainting, she had skidded around corners to avoid them. She didn't want to talk about it. She didn't want to even think about it.

"I haven't only brought you here to inquire about your friends, Miss Deschamp." A folder that was sitting in front of him fluttered open, landing on a rather unflattering picture of her. "You aren't doing well in my class," he said bluntly, making her wince. "You've shied away from every physical demand to use your wand in any in-class work and although your test scores are rather good your essays… are lacking."

Clara spluttered, alarm bells going off in her mind. All of her essays had been at least five pages long! She had gone into mammoth detail on the African erumpent, a creature that they had discussed briefly a week ago.

"You said in your last essay that-" He paused, clearing his throat as he shuffled around a stack of papers. "The African erumpent is a docile creature that has great power - for certain - but is as soft as a kitten. It rarely - if ever - attacks and should be protected. Instead, they are hunted like common beasts of burden."

He looked to Clara expectantly.

"What do you expect me to say, Professor?" Her cheeks had gone a riotous red, her curls frizzing to poof around her face like an angry cloud.

"Erumpents are classified as wizard killers," he said slowly.

"An unjust classification!" she seethed.

"They are not 'soft as kittens' as you so elegantly put it."

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I have been to the planes where some reside and I can assure you that they do not deserve to be labeled as killers. If an animal is poked and prodded, beaten and taunted enough that it lashes out then I would say that the one holding the whip is the killer."

"Their horns have a fluid that can cause anything it impales to explode," he said blandly.

Clara had, unfortunately, had this argument many times before. Mainly with her father and sometimes with his colleagues. All had ended with Clara saying something unreasonable and then being banished to her room for a month.

"How could I forget?" she sniped. "Every year they are hunted down for that very fluid and dismembered for nothing more than their horn. Disgusting."

"Your essays are always like this, Miss Deschamp," Professor Lupin sighed, sitting back in his seat.

"I don't particularly see why portraying animals how they truly are is a detriment."

"It is when you are trying to analyze deadly creatures." Clara's eyes hardened at the term: deadly. Clara Deschamp was a firm believer that there were no deadly creatures. Just ones that were pushed to a point of no return. Something in her expression made Professor Lupin sigh. "Your essay grades are passing, Miss Deschamp. But your class participation scores are bringing you down to nearly failing. You must use your wand and… Defend yourself."

It was that concept right there that had made her shrink back into herself, the earlier rage flickering and dying. She wasn't particularly adept at… defending. At Beauxbaton, it was… Well, there was a softer way to go about defeating against enemies.

"I…" She struggled for a moment, before meeting his gaze almost desperately. "I've been doing the assignments."

"Pulling out your wand and standing there doesn't count, I'm afraid. You must cast some sort of spell against-"

"I don't want to harm creatures that are just reacting to being captured."

Professor Lupin stared at her for a moment before giving a deep sigh, pinching his eyes shut before rising from his seat.

"You're smart, Miss Deschamp. If you keep refusing to protect yourself, however, I'm afraid that you will fail this class." Clara took a deep, shuddering breath, wanting to say more but unable to find the words. Instead, she stiffly got to her feet, bowing her head slightly before she quickly left.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise. Clara had known from the beginning that this would be her least impressive class. If it wasn't already apparent enough, Professor Lupin's constant stare was reminder enough. The feeling had seemed to transcend to all of the teachers. Just the other day Professor Sprout had sniffed as she tried to manhandle a bubotuber while Kenneth squeezed out a copious amount of yellow-green pus.

A gust of icy air blew the french girl's hair into her eyes, making her give a returning sneeze and then hurriedly dig around in her satchel for her yellow and black scarf. It had been left, warm and dry by her bedside every morning.

Snow fell in swooping gusts down around Hogwarts, blanketing the school and threatening to knock any student that was passing outside right over. At the moment, there weren't very many people around at all. Most had gone back to their common areas or were now tucked away in their rooms, doing homework or maybe talking to their roommates. Professor Lupin had told her to meet him directly after her classes had ended which was a bit of a relief for Clara since she was still trying rather hard to avoid everyone.

Clara stopped, staring down at the school ground from a window that was situated at the perfect view to catch the whomping willow, all bogged down with feathery white snow and silent. The sun was starting to set, causing the lights in the school to flicker to life - although candles always seemed to be alight somewhere or other in the school. Nothing like Beauxbaton with its natural light and eery, almost otherworldly white glow.

The truth was that even Clara didn't completely understand why she was being such an utter coward. Maybe, she thought, it was some deep-seated fear that was just awoken inside of her. People had looked at her like that before. When Annabelle first got sick they had gathered around her some days and spoken to her as if they offered their sympathy then maybe - maybe - Those days had been long and hard.

At first, she had believed them. When they had told her that Annabelle would get better, that they would find a doctor to help, that everything would be just fine - She had made herself believe. Admitting that nothing would be better and no one could help would be so much worse than just playing along. It would mean that she would have to accept full responsibility. And she hadn't been willing to - not at first. Not when there may have been some other option.

Seeing them - all of the stares and the whispers - it had brought her back to a place that she had thought she left behind. It ate away at her in a way that she didn't think it would.

"Coward," she whispered softly, her breath fogging the glass for a moment.

"They say he's making his way to France, what I've heard." A boy with a patch of well-kept blonde hair walked past me, his bag nearly colliding with my own. From his robes, he was a Ravenclaw, probably making his way back from the library by the roll of parchment and ink that was smeared through his hand.

"Ah, that's utter tripe," snipped a petite Ravenclaw with severe frown lines marring her face. "Everyone always expects escapees to go to another country. He's probably in some muggle town, living like a pauper. That would be the smart thing to do."

Clara kept her eyes on the window, the amber glow reflecting eerily back at her in the glass. But her ears were peeked, an odd sort of tightness making it hard to breathe. An odd rushing filled her ears as they continued down the hall. Since Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban there had been barely a day that went by that wasn't filled with these sorts of rumors.

"Do yah think that he's gonna go back for Lestrange?" Clara's heart seized at the name, her stomach rolling.

The Lestranges came from a line of pureblood French witches and wizards. Clara shut her eyes tightly. Although distantly, the Deschamps were related to that line. Through blood, this made her a distant cousin to Sirius Black himself. Dizzily, she clutched at the window sill. Her father had told her to never mention this - never speak it to another wizard. The Lestranges, like many other pureblood families liked to keep within the magical ties. It was no different for the Deschamps.

Although distant, her family had kept very close ties with the Lestranges. Even her father's brother - Clara shivered, turning quickly from the window and rushing to the Hufflepuff common area. Bellatrix Lestrange had only married into the family out of convenience. She was just an in-law - But Rodolphus was still alive - still sending constant letters to her family. And Rabastan, his brother was alive as well. All three were tied together in some miserable little web with Rodolphus and Bellatrix tied together in marriage and Rabastan slithering along with them.

If Sirius Black had escaped than that meant that he might be seeking shelter somewhere. If he found out that her family was in England…

"DESCHAMP!" Two shocks of red hair battle the candle light, turning shades of gold and red. George and Fred - Clara winces, pulling up short, her books clenched tightly to her chest. It's a straight hallway. If she was a bit more shameless perhaps she'd be able to bring herself to dash down it - in plain sight. A bigger part of her nudges back against the instinct though - something akin to shame.

Trudging along, dirt and sweat making their hair fly in odd directions, they looked more worn than Clara had seen them. Although, as George got closer she suddenly made out the brooding tilt to his brows and the darkness that had turned his whiskey eyes into burning embers. She had been ignoring them for the past few weeks - why? Because she was embarrassed. Becuase she was scared?

"Have you-"

"I've been ignoring you!" The words burst from her lips so quickly that she jumped, blinking in surprise before barreling on recklessly. George's eyes widened slightly - she was only staring at him. Why was she only staring at him? "I was embarrassed and - and ashamed and I didn't want to have to - to tell you all the awful things - why the boggart-"

Desperately she tried to find the words - something to explain what had happened after that first class. But she still couldn't explain her fear - how the boggart had torn open a part of her and bared it to a class of strangers. How she just wanted to hide from it all. But she couldn't talk about it yet. She couldn't reveal how awful and twisted she was.

So instead she stood there, staring pathetically up at the twins, her fingernails digging at the edges of her books.

"Do you want to watch a practice?" Shock made Clara take a step back, finally tearing her gaze from George to blink up at Fred.

"Practice?" Honestly, she was a bit unsure if she had heard him right.

A sheepish grin lit his face, an odd sort of twinkle flecking in his eyes. Beside him, George sighed, some of that anger dissolving with it.

"We've started Quidditch practice - first game is nearly here." Fred winked conspiratorially, seeming to be oblivious to her utter confusion. "Next one is in a couple of days. Figured since we didn't get the life sucked out of us by that nasty dementor that you might be our lucky charm. You'll come won't you?"

Clara didn't know what to say. She didn't even fully know if they had been mad at her or…? No, she didn't know anything when it came to the Weasley twins, it seemed. George still hadn't said a word, his brows furrowed as he rubbed a hand over his neck.

Dumbly, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak coherently.

"Good." With a smirk, he passed by, leaving George and Clara alone in the long expanse of the hallway.

Seconds ticked by as the silence grew more and more unbearable.

"I'm so sorry, George," Clara finally whispered, unable to take it one more second. His eyes flicked to meet hers, the softenness there taking her breath away for an instant.

"You're too soft, Clara," he murmured, his amber eyes keeping hers. Slowly, he moved to stand just in front of her, his lean figure towering over hers. "You don't need to hide from me. My brother and I are your friends."

Blinking up at him, standing close to him like this made her head seem… fuzzy. Like she had caught a fever. Georges' eyes seemed to burn in the candlelight, his hair falling this way and that.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, dumbly. What else could she say? "I wish I could explain-"

"If we're your friends then you don't need to," he cut her off, looking somehow sad at her statement. Quietly, he continued, "You don't need to explain anything to me, Clara."

Hesitantly, Clara opened her mouth. Then closed it again. There wasn't anything that she could think to say.

Slowly, a smirk curled his lips. "See you at practice, Clara love. Wear something red."

He left her standing there, still blinking up at where he had been.

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