The next student stepped forth to confront the boggart. He left the safety of the crowd and stood before the wardrobe and waited. He waited for those heavy doors to slam open, for that creature to emerge, garbed in whirlwind and cacophony, and clothe itself in what it deemed to be his deepest fears.
He waited, and instead he met silence.
For some, the boggart had rushed, howling, from those doors with a fury unmatched. For others, it emerged, sinister as a looming shadow. For others yet, it strode forth in familiar forms, in faces they held dear or detested with all their might. For him, however, those doors remained firmly shut.
He turned, helpless, for further instruction, only to find that none seemed to have even registered his presence. His fellow students carried on with their distractions and even the professor seemed too preoccupied with other matters to take heed. He turned back, stymied, to face the great, oaken edifice. And he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The seconds passed, bleeding into minutes. Then one minute became two and two became five until, finally, the lull garnered the audience's attention. For the first time, they acknowledged the latest contestant of this peculiar trial.
All-in-all, he—Caelus, one of his housemates supplied—was rather unremarkable. A boy of average height, wearing the standard Hogwarts robes, trimmed in yellow. Dull, topaz eyes, a slight slouch to the shoulders and a blank, placid expression which had been the source of several spurious rumors regarding his intelligence—or lack thereof—within his house. He was forgettably mundane, with unnaturally ashen locks being his sole defining feature.
He shifted, either in impatience or discomfort, and took a tentative step forward. His wand, which seemed to be a simple twig that had been stripped of all but a few errant leaves, was not held aloft. It trembled at his side for a moment before finally slipping through his fingers and clattering to the stone below. Another step, more certain this time.
He moved as a man enthralled, drawing ever closer until he stood right before the great wardrobe. He lifted a hand and delicately, tenderly, stroked the old, oaken paneling. A shiver seemed to ripple through him and he took a shuddering breath, stumbling, before grasping the handle. It swung open smoothly, invitingly, and when, at last, it had been thrust fully ajar, its contents exposed to the world, what emerged was…
Nothing.
The boggart was nowhere to be seen. That terrible creature, which had worn the faces of their darkest terrors, had vanished without a trace, leaving nothing but the bare interior of an old, foreboding closet.
Immediately, frenzied murmurs rose with renewed fervor. Where had it gone? Was it still in the room garbed in some form unseen, watching? Waiting? Or perhaps it had scuttled off to other oft-overlooked spaces to bide its time until another unwary victim stumbled upon it. Some more snide conjectures even posited that the boggart was still there, and that the boy was simply too dull to carry any fears that it could take advantage of.
Whatever the reason, the clamor was silenced when a dull thump reclaimed their attention. The boy had finally shifted, placing a heavy boot on the inside of the wardrobe, his foot hovering on the threshold between the world proper and the confines of that space. Mesmerized, perplexed, horrified, they watched as he pulled himself into its aged, oaken embrace, the spacious confines allowing him to fit comfortably within.
Like trembling spiders, his hands skittered across the smooth surface, fingers tracing every inch of the rich, deep grain. He nestled against the wood, inhaling deeply and releasing a throaty sigh before turning and pulling at the doors.
The darkness of the interior deepened as they moved. His form became indefinite, his silhouette melding with the shadows. His skin, already pale, took on a ghoulish complexion against the inky depths. His breaths grew deep, labored, his cheeks flushed. Golden eyes, once so dull, now shone with a terrible light, a voracious longing for something burning feverishly behind a glassy stare. All the while, that haunting rapture never left his face. Those nearest could hear, however slightly, vague mutterings. His lips fluttered, the whispers lilting and harsh as they flitted upon unwilling ears, the words coherent yet nonsensical.
"Design, capacity, tactility, build quality. This is a wonderful closet. This scent? What is this scent? Not sandalwood, no. Pine? No. It's not natural. Not organic. Wonderful artifice. Mothballs? Candle wax?" Another throaty, trembling breath, "Ooh, this staleness of dust and age. Could there be a more perfect closet? How I want to immerse myself in this scent. Completely, utterly, totally."
He spoke with an eloquence none had ever heard from him before, with a frenetic passion bordering on obsession. The way his eyes flicked to and fro unnerved them, his gaze sweeping without so much as a dismissal, as if he had lost sight of the crowd entirely and was staring at some place far, far away. The ramblings rose gradually in volume and intensity, a terrible mantra repeated, until, finally, the wardrobe doors clicked shut and the room was plunged into merciful silence.
None spoke. None moved. None even dared breath too loudly, lest he emerge once more. For an interminable age, the room hung in limbo, all eyes fixated upon the accursed thing which had claimed the center of the room. If a boggart had, somehow, still existed in that wardrobe before, there could be no doubt that it had now been subsumed by a greater evil. A blight had stained the earth, an unhallowed scar gouged deep into the very soul of this place.
Someone cleared their throat and the class collectively jumped.
"Well, I think that will be all for today's lesson," Professor Lupin said. Though he strove to keep his voice level, the strained undertones were difficult to miss. "You may all leave."
Amidst the languid, dazed shuffling that followed, a student spoke.
"Professor," she asked, "Aren't…aren't you going to get him?" She waved helplessly at the ominous sentinel, its doors looming. A foreboding challenge, a forbidden dare.
"I'm." Lupin's voice squeaked an octave higher than he would've preferred, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sure that won't be necessary. I'm sure Mister Caelus will, erm, re-emerge when he is ready. Now, off you go."
The students filed from the room in silence, their hearts heavy and their minds abuzz. Something unspeakable had happened in that room. They had borne witness to something no person ought to have seen. Something profane and beyond the grasp of common humanity.
As the last student left and proceeded down the hall, she turned to find that Professor Lupin had waited a moment before drawing his wand. He squared his shoulders, marshaled what remained of his resolve, and began tracing intricate patterns into the air, his lips chanting a solemn incantation.
The stone about the door came to life, molding and shifting like soft clay. It crawled over wood and metal, closing over the entrance and sealing the room with a terrible finality. When it was done, nothing was left to remind of the sordid affairs of that day but smooth stone.
Lupin turned, his face paling upon noticing his audience.
"It has to be this way," he mumbled by way of excuse. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Half an hour later, the wardrobe door swung open once more. Caelus stepped from it, hopping the short distance down to solid ground clutching a gleaming, golden trophy. At some point in that darkness it had manifested in his hand, a crystallization of impeccable morality. He nodded in satisfaction.
"It's a good closet."
Was this a shitpost? Probably. I regret nothing.