Chapter 22 – Boggart revelations
The next day, when the last of the classes had concluded and the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon, the group convened once more within the comforting walls of the Room of Requirement. Its mutable interior had transformed into a makeshift war room of sorts, complete with a large wooden table strewn with various papers, books, and quills.
Daphne stood at the head of the table, her fingers tracing the edge of a worn piece of parchment. Her blue eyes held a determined glint, contrasting with the soft, blond curls cascading down her shoulders.
"We need to focus on those who were closest to the Potters," she began, her voice resonating in the hushed room. "Jingles could be a child of any of their friends. Our best bet is to delve into their histories." She glanced around, catching the focused gazes of her friends.
"Longbottom, McKinnon, Pettigrew, Lupin, and Black." Daphne went on, each name echoing in the room. Her gaze hardened a bit as she added, "Given the circumstances, it seems unlikely that Jingles is a Longbottom. It wouldn't make sense for the family to separate their children. The others... their lines are either almost or completely wiped out, and information about them is scarce. However, no matter how slim our chances might seem, we must investigate each family thoroughly."
The room hummed with renewed resolve, the air tingling with anticipation.
Daphne considered for a moment, tapping her finger on the table. "It might still be worth it to approach Neville about this," she eventually mused, glancing towards Harry.
Harry picked up on the hint and responded, "I agree. Tracey and I could talk to him during Care of Magical Creatures tomorrow." He glanced at Tracey, who nodded in agreement with the plan.
Daphne's eyes sparkled at the suggestion, and she swiftly turned to Hermione. "While they're doing that, maybe we could use our free period to reach out to the Daily Prophet. They might be able to provide us with copies of old newspapers from the time in question."
They all nodded in agreement, the weight of their task pressing down on them. There was a pause before Daphne spoke again, "Harry, I think it would be best if you write a letter to the goblins at Gringotts. You being the last of the Potters might motivate them to divulge any relevant information."
Harry nodded, his emerald eyes serious behind his glasses.
Tracey looked thoughtful, rubbing her chin. "I could write to my father," she suggested, "He's quite knowledgeable about the old families, he might know something about the Potters and their allies."
Daphne nodded at Tracey's suggestion, her eyes lighting up with renewed hope. "That's a great idea, Tracey," she agreed, "Your father's knowledge could prove invaluable."
With their strategy session concluded, the group transitioned into their usual routine of studying and practising. The room, shifting according to their needs, transformed into a vast space filled with makeshift dummies and obstacles.
Harry had always been their cornerstone, a beacon of strength in the tumultuous world they found themselves in. His proficiency in duelling, sharpened by numerous skirmishes, often led the charge during their practice sessions. Yet, with the integration of Jingles into their drills, the dynamic shifted.
Jingles, with his uncanny understanding of magic, brought a unique perspective, focusing more on synergy than individual prowess. He challenged them to break out of their silos, to work as a cohesive unit rather than as a collection of individuals. His guidance had them considering new strategies and reassessing their approach to their training sessions.
Harry's strength, Hermione's intellect, Daphne's cunning, and Tracey's vivacious spirit - Jingles worked on harmonising these qualities, turning their collective abilities into a synchronised arsenal. Their practice sessions became less about personal skill and more about how they could complement each other, about how a defensive charm from one could set up a counter-attack from another.
It was a new approach to their training, and it felt like a breath of fresh air. They weren't just learning new spells or perfecting their casting, but they were understanding each other on a deeper level, learning to anticipate each other's moves and adapt in real-time. It was challenging, pushing them out of their comfort zones, but it was also invigorating and rewarding in a way their individual training hadn't been.
Their practice sessions were no longer just about improving themselves, but about strengthening their bond as a team, about transforming their collective skills into a formidable force ready to face whatever came their way.
But the real surprise came from Tracey. Normally an able duellist, her performance had skyrocketed this session. Her usually bubbly demeanour was replaced with intense focus and determination, which translated into precise, powerful spells that left everyone aghast. Her every movement was sharp and calculated, her wand a blur as she deflected spells and counter-attacked with impressive skill.
As the day gave way to twilight, the group finally took a break, panting and flushed, but immensely satisfied. Hermione turned to Tracey, her eyes sparkling with admiration. "Tracey, you were on fire today!" she exclaimed, a broad grin spreading across her face. "What's gotten into you?"
Tracey, her black hair tousled and a layer of sweat highlighting her determination, flashed a confident smile. "I'm not going to sit idly by when Sirius Black finally shows up," she declared, her voice ringing with conviction. "I won't be a burden to you guys. Instead, I want to be the one who protects you!"
Her words echoed in the silence that followed, instilling a sense of renewed determination in each of them. They were swept up by her fierce enthusiasm, and Harry felt a swell of pride. 'I'm glad she's on our side,' he thought.
As she settled back into her seat, Tracey shot Harry a suggestive wink. Harry, caught off-guard, could feel a warm blush creeping up his cheeks. The room filled with a shared sense of camaraderie and purpose, each one determined to face whatever the future held, together.
~~~o~~~
After parting ways with Daphne, Hermione, and Jingles, Tracey and Harry commenced their journey towards Hagrid's outdoor classroom. The sun hovered high above the sprawling Hogwarts grounds, casting an inviting warmth over the cobblestone path that snaked its way through the lush greenery. The distant hum of conversation from other students grew fainter with each step they took away from the castle, soon replaced by the peaceful twittering of birds in the treetops.
Harry, typically a beacon of determination and curiosity, now carried a far-off expression. His gaze was less focused, skimming across their surroundings. His eyes skimmed the path lined by a host of trees, scanning the shrubbery closely. Every so often, he seemed to peer more intently into the dense undergrowth as if searching for something unseen. All the while, the soft breeze tousled his black hair, giving him an air of calm concentration.
Tracey, who had been watching him with growing curiosity, finally broke the silence. Her tone was filled with gentle concern as she asked, "Harry, what are you searching for?" She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her brown eyes studying his profile.
Harry seemed to snap out of his reverie. His green eyes met hers, the longing within them undeniable. "It's that dog," he confessed, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the strap of his school bag. "The large, black one. I was hoping I might spot it again."
Tracey's brows drew together in a thoughtful frown. She recalled the mysterious dog Harry had mentioned before, a creature that seemed to show up at the most unusual times. "When was the last time you saw it, Harry?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and concern.
A faint smile touched his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Towards the end of the summer," he admitted, his gaze shifting to the sprawling grounds spread out before them. His fingers fiddled with a loose thread on his robe, betraying his unrest.
Tracey paused, her eyes softening with understanding. She tilted her head, studying his downcast expression before venturing, "Maybe it decided to move on, you know? With all the students back, the grounds are noisier... and a lot more chaotic. It might've sought out somewhere quieter."
Harry sighed, a resigned smile pulling at his lips. His shoulders sagged slightly as he nodded, his gaze lost in the green expanse. "Maybe..." His voice was barely a whisper, the sombre tone bouncing off the tranquillity around them.
Seeing his disheartened mood, Tracey reached over to pat his arm in a comforting gesture. "Cheer up, Harry. You never know when it might pop up again," she reassured him, her own smile hopeful.
He looked at her, appreciative of her attempts to console him, and nodded again, his own smile regaining some of its usual vigour. With that, they continued their journey, their figures shrinking in the distance as they headed towards the hut of their friendly, giant professor.
As they neared the large wooden structure nestled at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, they found Neville already there. His gentle, familiar face was a pleasant sight, a silent reassurance of the quiet expertise he brought to their group. Neville had an innate understanding of magical creatures that was almost uncanny. His experience with herbology had translated flawlessly to the Care of Magical Creatures class. Without his careful attention, their project involving the maintenance of a group of flobberworms would have surely gone awry.
When the rest of the class trickled in, Hagrid stood with a broad grin on his face, a spark of excitement in his eyes. The towering half-giant cleared his throat, a rumbling sound that echoed slightly in the chilly air.
"Today, we're going to be doin' somethin' a bit different," he announced, motioning for everyone to follow. With an intrigued murmur, they collectively ambled after him towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest. As they stepped into a large clearing, the sight that greeted them was nothing short of astonishing.
Three majestic hippogriffs stood proudly in the sunlight that filtered through the tree branches. Their large, eagle-like heads and horse-like bodies shimmered as they moved, radiating power and grace.
Hagrid turned back to the class, his eyes shining with pride. "Today," he said with an air of satisfaction, "we'll be learnin' how to interact with these beauties right here." He pointed towards the textbook they had all brought with them. "Page 159, it'll tell yeh everythin' yeh need to know 'bout Hippogriffs."
Tracey, her eyes wide in awe of the beautiful creatures, quickly opened her book and started to read aloud for their group. Her voice carried well, filling the clearing with information about the Hippogriffs - their behaviours, habits, and tips for interacting with them. The excitement in her voice was palpable, and it spread throughout the group like a spark in dry grass. Today promised to be an exciting class.
The momentary hush that followed the cease of rustling pages felt almost reverent, as though they were in the presence of something ancient and awe-inspiring. Hagrid's jovial voice cut through the stillness as he introduced them to the magnificent creature standing tall and regal in the midst of the clearing. "This here is Buckbeak," he stated, brimming with pride. His fond gaze swept over the Hippogriff, an affectionate smile tugging at his lips. "Ain't he a sight?"
In response to Hagrid's loving praise, Buckbeak ruffled his silver-grey feathers, giving an almost disinterested shake before returning the gamekeeper's gaze with its piercing, inquisitive eyes. The mixed species creature was indeed a sight, its blend of equine body and avian wings glistening under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves.
Hagrid then turned his gaze back to the class, his smile fading slightly. "Now, remember wha' we've jus read," he instructed, his tone sobering. "Hippogriffs can be dangerous if they feel disrespected. They're proud creatures, they are."
His announcement hung heavily in the air, the undercurrent of danger causing a ripple of apprehension to sweep over the students. It was palpable in the way their eyes widened, the nervous shifting of feet, the clasping and unclasping of hands. When Hagrid asked for a volunteer, the silence that fell over the class was more profound, punctuated only by the distant twittering of birds and the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze.
Seconds felt like an eternity as no one stepped forward. The light in Hagrid's eyes dimmed, the smile on his face faltering. Harry, observing this change, felt a surge of resolve. He couldn't stand the idea of disappointing Hagrid, who had brought them this wonderful learning opportunity with so much enthusiasm.
"I'll do it, Hagrid," Harry heard himself saying, pushing past his own nerves. His voice came out more tremulous than he intended, but the wide grin that returned to Hagrid's face made it worth it.
"Good on ya, Harry," Hagrid encouraged, clapping his massive hand on Harry's shoulder, a jolt of confidence radiating from the contact.
With one last reassuring look at Hagrid, Harry inhaled deeply, focusing his attention on the creature in front of him. The critical detail - the respectful bow - was firmly in his mind as he slowly lowered himself, mimicking the deep, elegant bow he had seen in old Muggle films. As he did so, Hagrid's voice floated to him, "Lower, Harry. Take your time. Wait fer Buckbeak's response."
Bowing as low as he could without breaking eye contact, Harry held his breath, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm in his chest. Every second was agonising, each tick a reminder of Buckbeak's watchful gaze, until, finally, the Hippogriff bowed back. The feeling of relief that flooded Harry was almost euphoric.
With the first hurdle crossed, Harry carefully rose, extending his hand towards Buckbeak, who immediately drew back, a low rumble emanating from its throat. The sudden withdrawal felt like a blow, but before Harry could panic, Hagrid's calm and steady voice soothed his anxieties. " Give 'im some space, Harry. Let Buckbeak come ter yeh."
Doing as instructed, Harry pulled his hand back and stood in place, waiting. It was a tense moment, one filled with anxious anticipation, before Buckbeak, after a few heartbeats of uncertainty, extended its beak to sniff his hand. Harry allowed it, holding his breath until the Hippogriff seemed satisfied. With cautious optimism, he then reached out, running his fingers gently along Buckbeak's head.
In response, Hagrid's booming applause echoed in the otherwise quiet forest, soon followed by enthusiastic claps from the class. Even in his triumph, Harry couldn't help but notice the small group, Malfoy and his minions, who withheld their applause, their faces twisted into expressions of disdain and envy. But at that moment, bathed in the sunlight and the warmth of his friends' applause, Harry didn't particularly care.
"Good on ya, Harry!" Hagrid bellowed, his accent thickening in his excitement as he lumbered over to Harry and Buckbeak. His mammoth hand clapped Harry's shoulder, the vibration running down his spine as he chuckled warmly, his eyes twinkling with a light that made Harry feel both proud and anxious at the same time.
Moving to Buckbeak, Hagrid reached into the pocket of his moleskin overcoat and pulled out a large chunk of raw meat. Buckbeak eyed the treat eagerly, then leaned in to snap it up, making Harry step back reflexively.
"Right then," Hagrid began, dusting off his hands on his coat and turning back to Harry. "Yeh should be able to ride him now, shouldn' yeh?"
Harry blinked, the words processing slower than they should have. Ride? The immediate surge of fear was like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown over his head. He'd been content with just not getting pecked to death by the majestic creature, and now Hagrid wanted him to do what?
Before his shock could transform into words, Hagrid's large, calloused hands were already gripping his sides, hoisting him onto Buckbeak's back with an ease that belied his size. Harry's heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat matching the wild rhythm of his thoughts. His hands clung to Buckbeak's feathery neck, holding on as if his life depended on it, yet mindful to keep his grip as gentle as possible. The last thing he wanted was to offend Buckbeak now.
Then, without warning, Hagrid's hand landed on Buckbeak's back with a resounding slap that echoed through the clearing. The next thing Harry knew, the ground was retreating rapidly as Buckbeak sprang into action. The powerful wingbeats propelled them into the air, the sudden sensation of flight making Harry's stomach drop.
His initial instinct was to squeeze his eyes shut and pray for it to be over, but the familiar feeling of the wind in his hair, the sense of freedom that came with soaring through the sky, helped him to relax. Harry was no stranger to flying, but this was unlike anything he had ever experienced. There was no broomstick to guide, just the feel of a living, breathing creature underneath him.
He found himself relaxing into the rhythm of Buckbeak's flight, the steady beat of his wings against the wind, the effortless glide as they rode the currents. It wasn't long before a thrill, wild and untamed, coursed through Harry. His heart sang with the joy of the flight, his fear dissipating as the reality of the situation sunk in.
He was flying on a Hippogriff. And it was incredible.
As Buckbeak made his way around the castle, Harry could feel the wind whipping through his hair, the rush of cool air against his face, and he couldn't help the wide smile that spread across his features. The fear that had gripped him earlier now replaced with an unadulterated sense of elation. Every dip and dive Buckbeak took only made the smile on his face widen. The castle grounds below them seemed to rush past in a blur of colours, and for that moment, he felt an unparalleled sense of freedom.
Eventually, Buckbeak began his descent back towards the clearing where Hagrid and the rest of the class were waiting. The ground rushed up towards them until they gently landed, Buckbeak's claws crunching onto the grass. Once more, Hagrid and the class erupted into applause, their cheers filling the air.
"Alright now," Hagrid said, booming voice carrying over the commotion, "I don' reckon we all have time fer a joyride like Harry. But in yer groups, I want yeh all ter pick a hippogriff an' try ter befriend it. Yeh'll 'ave ter take turns, seein' as we only got three 'o these beauties."
He then turned to Harry, giving him a hearty pat on the back, "Yer group should give it another go with a different hippogriff. I'm sure yeh'll do well."
Nodding, Harry led the way towards the other hippogriffs, Tracey and Neville following close behind. As they approached, they noticed the majestic creature eyeing them warily, it's beady eyes gleaming under the sun. They were careful, following what they had learned, and soon enough, they had another hippogriff bowing to them.
The class continued on smoothly, the rest of the students managing to befriend their assigned hippogriffs, some with more difficulty than others. But then it was Malfoy's turn. His group sauntered forward with an air of overconfidence that did not bode well. The tension in the clearing was palpable as they approached Buckbeak.
Malfoy stepped forward, his arrogant demeanour visible even from a distance. "This thing isn't dangerous at all," he scoffed, throwing his arms out in a dismissive gesture.
Buckbeak, the majestic creature he had been referring to so dismissively, ruffled its feathers, an ominous sound echoing throughout the clearing. The hippogriff's beady eyes narrowed, its wings flapping menacingly, the sharp talons on its front legs looking more menacing than before.
The class collectively held its breath as Buckbeak lunged forward, poised to strike. Yet, before any harm could be done, Hagrid stepped in, positioning his large frame between the provoked creature and the sneering boy. Harry wasn't entirely sure whether it was out of respect for Hagrid or fear, but Buckbeak backed down, its wings fluttering less threateningly.
Taking advantage of the momentary calm, Hagrid grabbed a piece of raw meat from a nearby bucket and launched it far into the distance. Buckbeak's attention was immediately drawn to it and he bounded off in pursuit, temporarily diffusing the tense situation.
Hagrid then whirled around to face Malfoy, his eyes, usually sparkling with kindness, were now hard and severe. A stern, no-nonsense expression was etched into his craggy face as he rebuked, "Yeh've no right to disrespect a hippogriff, Malfoy." His deep, booming voice resonated throughout the clearing, cutting through the crisp morning air like a sharp knife.
Hagrid's gaze hardened on Malfoy as he continued, "If I hadn't intervened just in the nick of time, you could've been gravely injured, or worse." His tone was chilling, a stark contrast to his usual joviality. "Such behaviour will not be tolerated, Malfoy. Twenty points from Slytherin!"
A murmur swept across the class, the severity of the situation finally dawning upon them. The tension was thick, and even the usually brash Malfoy seemed taken aback by Hagrid's sternness.
Pinning Malfoy with a stern glare, Hagrid warned, "Should yeh disregard my instructions again, yeh will find yehself serving detention."
With that, Hagrid shifted his attention from Malfoy, his steely gaze sweeping across the rest of the class. "Listen 'ere now, everyone," he began, the silence amplifying his every word. His eyes bore an intensity that communicated the seriousness of his lecture.
"In this class, we'll be learnin' how to handle a host of creatures from the wizardin' world," Hagrid's voice boomed, resonating deeply in the hushed quiet. "Remember this: some of these creatures wouldn't think twice about killin' yeh if they felt threatened or if yeh handle 'em wrong."
Hagrid paused momentarily, allowing his words to permeate the thick silence that shrouded the class. The enormity of his statement lingered heavily, punctuating the importance of his subsequent statement.
"And that's exactly why," Hagrid resumed, his eyes scanning the class, each student holding their breath in anticipation, "it's crucial, absolutely vital, that yeh pay heed to my instructions to the letter."
The weight of his words hung heavily in the air as he concluded the day's lesson. The usual chatter and laughter that followed the end of classes was noticeably absent as the students, shaken by the day's close call, quietly collected their things and filed out of the clearing.
The journey back to the castle was quiet, each student lost in their thoughts after the day's eventful class. Harry, however, saw this as an opportune moment to approach Neville with something that had been on his mind. Daphne had carefully strategized an approach for this conversation, and Harry trusted her judgement.
"Neville," Harry began, his voice cautious yet friendly. Neville looked up, surprise flickering across his face. It was rare that Harry initiated a conversation.
"I found out recently that our families... the Potters and the Longbottoms... we're allies," Harry continued, looking at Neville intently. "Did you know about this?"
Neville nodded slowly. "Yes, I did. The Longbottoms and the Potters have been allies for generations," he replied, his voice steadier than Harry had expected.
The next words left Harry's lips with a trace of sadness. "Then why didn't you ever mention this? We could have been friends earlier, Neville."
Neville looked taken aback. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, his usually shy demeanour even more pronounced. "I... I figured you already knew, Harry," he stammered, "And... and that you just didn't... didn't like me, like everyone else..."
He trailed off, then asked in a barely audible whisper, "Do you... do you really consider me a friend, Harry?"
But before Harry could respond, it was Tracey who broke the silence. "Of course we do, Neville," she said, her voice full of warmth. "We wouldn't just ask anyone to join our group in Care of Magical Creatures."
Her words were followed by a sly wink and a playful nudge in Neville's direction, which caused him to blush a light shade of pink. His response was an awkward chuckle, a smile slowly spreading across his face as the weight of Tracey's words sank in.
"You know, Neville," Harry began, shifting his gaze back to the taller boy, "our mothers were friends back in school."
Neville looked genuinely surprised, his eyes wide. "Really? I... I didn't know that," he admitted.
Taking a deep breath, Harry then tiptoed around the question he'd been meaning to ask. "Neville... What happened to your parents?" he asked carefully, "I mean, I know you live with your Gran..."
A shadow seemed to cross Neville's face at the question. His eyes flickered to Tracey, and Harry quickly followed his gaze. Understanding dawned on him. "Don't worry about Tracey, Neville," Harry reassured him, "She can keep a secret, despite how it may seem."
Tracey pouted, a playful glint in her eyes. "Oi!" She gently punched Harry's shoulder, causing him to chuckle.
Neville nodded slowly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. "It was just a few days after You-Know-Who fell... My parents, they were attacked," he began, his voice wavering slightly. "They were brave, fought with everything they had, but it was two against four... They... They didn't stand a chance."
He swallowed hard, pausing to collect himself before continuing, "They didn't die though. They... they suffered something worse. They were tortured into insanity." His voice broke, and Harry felt a pang in his chest. "They're at St. Mungo's now... They don't remember who they are, they don't even know who I am... They can't function... They're not... they're not really 'them' anymore."
Tears welled up in Neville's eyes, and Tracey wasted no time pulling him into a comforting hug. "Neville," she whispered, "That's so horrible. I'm so sorry."
When she released him, Harry stepped forward, clapping a reassuring hand on Neville's back.
After Neville had calmed down, he wiped his eyes and turned to look at Harry. "Why are you interested in this, Harry?" he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.
Harry drew a breath, preparing himself to answer. "Well, we're actually looking into the close friends and allies of my family. Trying to find someone."
Neville's confusion seemed to deepen, his eyebrows knitting together. "Find someone? Who?"
Harry swallowed, looking directly at Neville. "The night my parents were killed, there was a boy. He was a bit older than me, present at Potter Cottage. We're trying to find out who he is. We think he must be the child of a close friend or ally of our family."
Neville's expression softened as understanding dawned on him. "I see... so that's why you came to me. You thought I might know..." His face fell slightly as he shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't. But, it's not likely they're pureblood. Pureblood families tend to rely on their own protective wards, and they typically have castles or manors of their own."
Harry's eyes widened at Neville's casual mention of castles. "Castles?" he echoed, looking baffled.
Tracey couldn't resist chuckling. "Yes, Harry. The oldest and most powerful pureblood families used to have castles. But I don't think there are many of those families left these days."
Harry nodded slowly, taking in the information. "Neville," he began, changing the subject, "we have a study and training group. Would you like to join us?"
Neville looked taken aback. "I... I wouldn't be much help," he stammered, looking down at his feet.
Tracey's bubbly persona took over, her eyes sparkling as she cut in. "That's nonsense, Neville! You're the best in Herbology in our year, and certainly no slouch in Care of Magical Creatures. Plus, having more boys around would be fun!" She finished her sentence with a playful wink, leaving Neville blushing and stuttering. It was clear that the possibility of being part of their group was a prospect that appealed to him, despite his initial hesitation.
Harry rolled his eyes at Tracey's enthusiasm, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He turned back to Neville, saying, "We usually meet after dinner, sometimes right after classes end if we're up for it. Today, we'll be meeting after dinner. We meet on the seventh floor, opposite the Tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."
Neville nodded, the tips of his ears turning pink from the attention. "Alright. I'll... I'll be there," he said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. It was clear that he was excited about the prospect of joining their study group.
As they made their way back to the castle, the tension that had been hanging in the air began to ease. They slipped into more comfortable small talk, discussing their classes, their professors, and even the incredible flight Harry had taken on Buckbeak. The traumatic conversation they had just had about Neville's parents felt like a distant memory, replaced by the comfort of their newly formed friendship.
Tracey was full of animated stories about their Potions professor, Professor Snape, drawing laughs from Harry and Neville with her dramatic impersonations. Harry shared his experiences with Quidditch, explaining the rush he felt when he was flying and Neville listened intently, fascinated by Harry's descriptions.
It was clear that they had managed to turn a difficult day into a moment of bonding and camaraderie, and Harry felt a pang of happiness as he realised that they had managed to form a closer friendship with Neville, something he'd wanted since he learned about their families' history together. As they made their way back to the castle, a sense of anticipation filled the air. They were all looking forward to the study group meeting later that evening.
~~~o~~~
Just after dinner, Harry, Hermione, and Neville were walking through the castle's dimly lit corridors together. They were engaged in light-hearted banter, the echoes of their laughter punctuating the rhythmic clatter of their shoes against the stone floor.
Upon reaching the seventh floor, the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy came into view. It was an unremarkable sight, yet it held an almost magnetic attraction for their little study group.
Harry stopped before it, his eyes scanning the empty corridor. Hermione, seeing Neville's bewildered look, smiled knowingly and said, "They must already be inside."
"Inside where?" Neville asked, his eyes darting around the corridor in search of any door or hidden entrance. "There's no room here."
Hermione, her smile widening, simply said, "Just wait and see."
As she paced back and forth three times along the same stretch of the corridor, a door materialised out of nowhere. It was tall and wooden, the grains in the timber swirls of dark brown and black, and had a curved, ornate handle that shone softly in the faint light.
Neville's eyes widened in astonishment, his mouth falling open. "So, that's where you've all been hiding," he exclaimed, causing Harry to cast him a confused look.
Neville quickly explained, "Your group's absence has been noted. We all knew you were up to something, but no one could figure out where you lot kept disappearing to."
A chuckle escaped Harry's lips, and he pushed open the door. They were greeted by the warm, inviting atmosphere of the Room of Requirement. It had transformed into their usual cosy study setting, with the crackling fire, comfortable chairs, and book-strewn tables. Jingles was lounging lazily close to the fire, his tail flicking absentmindedly.
Over by one of the tables, Daphne and Tracey were hunched over a stack of old newspapers, their brows furrowed in concentration. They looked up as Harry, Hermione, and Neville entered, their faces lighting up at the sight of their friends.
The room was filled with a comfortable energy, a place where they could be themselves away from the prying eyes of their peers. It was a sanctuary, and Neville was now part of it.
As Hermione's gaze fell upon the scattered newspapers, her brows shot up in surprise. "The Prophet responded that quickly?" she asked, her tone carrying an undertone of disbelief.
Daphne turned from her discussion with Tracey, her smile playing on her lips as she shared a look with Harry. "Well," she began, her words thick with humour, "Apparently if you write to them 'in behalf of Harry Potter,' they'll move heaven and earth to cater to the Boy-Who-Lived's wishes."
She let out a chuckle as she finished her sentence, her eyes sparkling with mirth. Harry adopted a somewhat annoyed face at the mention of his title, causing Hermione to stifle a giggle behind her hand.
Deciding to change the subject, Harry cleared his throat and shifted his attention back to Daphne and Tracey. "Why did you two leave dinner so early?"
Tracey, always the more expressive one, burst into laughter at the question. Wiping an amused tear from the corner of her eye, she shook her head and replied, "If you had to sit at the Slytherin table and listen to Draco's endless whining about Buckbeak, you would have done the same. He just wouldn't shut up about how dangerous Hippogriffs are and how Hagrid should be punished for introducing them to us. It was absolutely maddening!"
Hermione, ever the empath, adopted a concerned expression. "Do you think there's any chance of him actually causing trouble for Hagrid?" she asked, her brow creased with worry.
Daphne, however, quickly waved off Hermione's concerns. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms over her chest and said with a dismissive flick of her wrist, "Draco is all bark and no bite, Hermione. He loves to create a fuss, but he seldom follows through. He won't do anything."
A sense of relief flooded Hermione's features at Daphne's confident assurance, even though Harry wasn't entirely convinced that Malfoy wouldn't cause any trouble.
Daphne redirected their attention back to the task at hand, pointing to the newspaper stacks that littered the table. "These are all the editions we could find dating back from 1979 up until the end of 1981," she explained, her fingers lightly tracing the edges of the worn-out papers.
Harry furrowed his brow at the statement, casting a confused glance at the small stack of papers that lay in front of them. "Why are there only a few?" he asked, trying to suppress the feeling of disappointment that threatened to creep in.
It was Tracey who answered this time, a teasing smirk tugging at her lips as she pointed to a much larger pile that sat in the corner of the room. "Oh, Harry, those are just the ones we managed to sift through. We still have all of these to look at," she chuckled, her eyes dancing with amusement at Harry's startled expression. They were in for a long night, it seemed.
Clearing her throat, Daphne caught their attention once again. "Our main focus right now is to skim through the headlines, looking for any mention of the McKinnons, Blacks, Lupins, and Pettigrews."
Neville, however, appeared slightly confused at the instruction. He turned to Harry, his brow furrowed as he asked, "Wait, were the Potters allied with the McKinnons?"
Harry shook his head in response. "I don't think so," he said, remembering the limited information he had received from the old family records. "But my mother was friends with Marlene McKinnon, so it wouldn't hurt to check."
Hermione chimed in then, her gaze falling on the stack of newspapers. "The McKinnons, however, will probably only be mentioned in the 1979 editions, if at all. Their entire family was wiped out early that year," she reminded them sombrely.
The warm light of the enchanted fireplace danced upon the faces of Harry, Hermione, Neville, Daphne, and Tracey. Each sat in their own sphere of silence, bodies hunched over heaps of old newspapers, their eyes flickering across faded print in their quest for knowledge. On a plush pillow near the fireplace, Jingles lay sprawled, blue eyes narrowed as he manipulated a levitated newspaper with a flicker of magic, flipping through pages with an air of feline concentration.
The only sounds in the room were the soft rustling of papers and the crackling of the fire. The atmosphere was heavy with focus and anticipation, as they each strained to pick out familiar names from the countless articles detailing events from 1979 to Halloween of 1981.
Suddenly, the monotonous drone of turning pages was interrupted by a loud slap against the wood of the table. The sound echoed through the room, causing all heads to snap towards the source. Tracey had slammed her newspaper onto the table, her black hair framing her face as she leaned forward, eyes wide with discovery. "Got it!" she cried, a triumphant grin stretching across her face.
Everyone abandoned their papers, pulling themselves up from their hunched positions to gather around Tracey. Harry was the first to reach her, his green eyes scanning the headline that had Tracey so animated. His heart sank as he read the grim words - "McKinnon family wiped out by You-Know-Who".
A shared sense of dread hung in the air as the group huddled together, reading through the article. It made no mention of any children, merely listed Marlene McKinnon and her parents. It felt like they had hit a wall, the cold truth of the headline chilling their hopes.
Disappointment shadowed Harry's face, his green eyes dull as he prepared to suggest they abandon the McKinnon lead. But before the words could escape his mouth, Daphne, her expression thoughtful, began shaking her head, the action causing her blonde hair to sway gently.
"No, we shouldn't be too hasty," she said, her voice calm yet assertive. All eyes turned towards her, the previous gloom momentarily forgotten. "In times of war, not all births are publicly acknowledged."
Harry blinked at her, surprise clear on his face as he met her intense gaze. His mouth opened to ask for clarification, but Daphne continued speaking, a solemn look in her blue eyes. "I strongly suspect that very few were aware of your existence, Harry, until after the events of Halloween 1981. This article only accounts for the bodies found and provides a brief description of the McKinnon family. But it's unlikely Marlene was a mother, considering her marital status."
The room fell silent again, Daphne's words hanging in the air like a challenge. Harry's lips pressed into a thin line as he pondered her words, his mind spinning. Daphne was right. They couldn't just write off possibilities based on the limited information in the articles.
With a renewed sense of determination, the group dispersed once more, each returning to their respective mounds of newspapers. They resumed their quest, their bodies hunched over again as they sifted through the secrets of the past, the flickering candlelight casting shadows of their focused expressions on the walls.
The room was once more saturated with the rustling of old newspapers and the occasional heavy sigh of frustration. However, it wasn't long before Harry made another discovery, one that sent a fresh wave of shock and surprise through the room.
Harry's fingertips brushed against an archived piece laden with the formidable power dynamics of the wizarding world's politics. It detailed the historical actions of the Black family, with an emphasis on the recent ascendancy of Orion Black to the title of Lord Black. The article explicitly noted that Orion had just inherited the mantle following the death of his father, the stern and commanding Arcturus Black.
The core of the exposition revolved around Orion Black's contentious legislative proposal, a law aimed at preventing Muggleborns from becoming Aurors. This news was hardly unexpected to Harry, for his knowledge of the Black family - particularly about Sirius Black - had painted a vivid picture of entrenched bigotry. The shocking part wasn't the mere fact of Orion's prejudice but rather the nearness of his success.
The detailed voting statistics outlined in the article showed a legislative assembly sharply divided - far more than Harry had imagined existed within the magical world. It was a jarring realization of his own ignorance about the political mechanisms of the wizarding world.
Harry cast the newspaper aside and turned to Daphne, his green eyes seeking answers. "Daphne," he began, his voice low, "can you tell me more about this?" He gestured to the newspaper, pointing out the article. His friends gathered around, their gazes curious as they scanned the text.
Once they had all read the piece, Daphne leaned back, her face composed, her mind obviously running through years of knowledge. "It's a complex system, Harry," she started, her voice steady. "At the core, we've got two primary factions – the Light and the Dark."
Before Daphne could continue, Neville interjected, his voice tinged with a touch of naivety. "Good and evil" he said, his face glowing from the firelight.
A soft laugh escaped Daphne's lips as she shook her head, her hair swaying slightly. "Oh, Neville," she said, her voice warm with amusement. "You do speak like the true heir of a Light house." The atmosphere in the room felt lighter for a moment, her laughter echoing off the stone walls. "But no, these factions are not as black and white as good and evil."
She continued, her gaze fixed on the group. "If they were inherently evil, wouldn't the Ministry have arrested all of the Dark faction members by now? But you see, to the Dark faction, the Light ones are the 'evil' ones. They believe they're preserving our traditions and the ancient laws that keep the old families in power. They fear Muggleborns taking control."
Daphne paused, giving her words a moment to sink in. "Then you have the Light faction. Yes, they often work to improve the lives of Muggleborns, but their main goal is to dismantle the power of the Dark faction. It's not always about bettering lives as much as it's about power play."
Neville opened his mouth to protest, but Daphne cut him off. "Before the war, the Grey faction held most of the power," she continued, her voice quieter now. "However, in times of conflict, people tend to flock towards the extremes - Light and Dark. The Grey faction has been virtually nonexistent since the war. Houses like the Davis' proclaim themselves to be Grey, but in truth, they side with whom they align most closely, which currently is Dumbledore's block of the Light houses."
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the crackling fire, and the distant rustle of parchment. Tracey, the ever effervescent girl with her inky black hair shimmering in the firelight, was unusually silent. She sat next to Daphne, her head bowed as she listened intently. Her usual spark seemed to have dimmed, replaced by an intensity of focus that was rare for her.
Daphne returned her attention to the newspaper article, her slim fingers tracing the lines of text as she navigated the labyrinthine politics of the wizarding world. The flicker of the fire cast dancing shadows on her sharp features as she continued her explanation.
"Orion Black, the patriarch at that time, was a fervent supporter of the Dark Lord," Daphne elucidated, her eyes never leaving the page. "In his view, more Aurors meant more enemies — particularly if those Aurors were Muggleborns. His proposal of this law was a calculated strategy to suppress those who would stand against him."
She paused, looking up to meet Harry's stormy green eyes. "His voting block had his back. Some were in agreement with his sentiments, while others were simply too frightened of his wrath to oppose him."
Harry shook his head, his brows furrowing in frustration. He ran a hand through his unruly black hair, the emerald of his eyes darkening as he wrestled with this new knowledge. "This system..." he began, his voice barely above a whisper. The conviction behind his words vibrated through the room, resounding off the stone walls. "It's utterly broken."
Daphne simply nodded, her clear blue eyes reflecting the flames of the hearth. There was a solemnity in her gaze that echoed Harry's sentiment. Their shared frustration seemed to settle heavily in the room, the reality of the broken system hanging like a spectre above them.
Then, a soft hiss broke the tension-filled silence. Jingles, the black cat with his eyes as brilliant as a summer's sky, was speaking in the tongue of serpents. Harry leaned in, focusing all his attention on the feline. To the others in the room, it was an unintelligible whisper, but to Harry, it was a call to action.
"Harry," Jingles began, his voice barely more than a rustle of dry leaves, "when the time comes, you must work to mend this broken system. The political clout that you'll come to possess could very well be enough to dismantle and reshape this antiquated power structure."
The room fell silent again as Daphne, with help of their connection, translated Jingles' cryptic words. Her voice was low and clear, carrying the weight of the cat's wisdom to the rest of the group.
Hermione was the first to respond. She sat straighter, her brown eyes shining with determination in the soft light. Her usually unruly hair seemed to frame her face like a halo in the warm glow. "I couldn't agree more," she declared, her words laced with resolve. "This system, it needs to change. And we," she looked around the room, her gaze meeting each pair of eyes, "we need to be the ones to change it."
In the stillness of the room, their common decision took on an almost solemn weight. Each one of them silently nodded their agreement, the shared understanding weaving an invisible thread of unity among them. It was a rare, profound moment that lingered in the air, filling the room with a quiet gravity. Then, with the abruptness of a fireworks' crack, Neville's bewildered voice cut through the serene atmosphere.
"Hold on a moment... Jingles can talk?" He blurted out. A myriad of emotions — surprise, curiosity, confusion — flickered across his round face. He looked like a person trying to solve a puzzle without having all the pieces.
A laugh bubbled up from Harry, a warm sound that filled the room. He glanced over at Neville, his green eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "Ah, Neville," he started, leaning back in his chair, "That's one of those long stories we have yet to share with you."
Launching into a concise explanation, Harry painted a vivid picture. Jingles wasn't merely a house cat with an unusual gift of magic; instead, he was a being of a different sort entirely. On that fateful Halloween night of 1981, when the killing curse had run rampant, the soul of the unknown toddler had been inexplicably transferred into the body of the Potter house cat. The specifics remained a mystery, but this working theory seemed to make the most sense.
Neville sat still, his mouth agape as he tried to process this revelation. "Blimey..." he muttered, his brow creased as he tried to wrap his mind around this strange tale.
Tracey, her bubbly energy momentarily tamed by the seriousness of their discussion, broke into laughter. "Oh, Neville," she giggled, leaning forward to playfully ruffle Jingles' dark fur. Her chestnut eyes sparkled with mischief. "You should see him in action during our training sessions. Our Jingles here easily outstrips us all."
Her words ignited a ripple of laughter through the room, relieving some of the earlier tension. Once it died down, they all turned their attention back to the stacks of newspapers, once again immersing themselves in the hidden history of the wizarding world.
After another eternity of rustling papers and silent reading, it was Jingles who found the next significant piece of the puzzle. With a deft flick of his paw, he turned over a page to reveal a bold headline from late 1981. "Power Vacuum – Black's Fall from Grace," it declared ominously.
The room was filled with hushed murmurs as they read about the demise of Lord Orion Black, the incarceration of his heir, Sirius Black, and the subsequent disappearance of the Black family from the political landscape. The power vacuum that their downfall had created sparked a burning curiosity among the group. Who had taken up the mantle of the fallen house?
Daphne cleared her throat, all eyes turning towards her as she began to fill in the gaps. "The Malfoys capitalised on the situation," she explained, her blue eyes serious as she looked around at her friends. "When he comes of age, Draco will not only become Lord Malfoy but also Lord Black, since his mother is a Black."
A collective gasp echoed through the room, their faces mirroring the realisation of the extensive power Draco Malfoy stood to inherit. The thought was sobering, grounding them once more in the reality of their world and the changes it was bracing for.
As the hands on the clock continued their unrelenting march towards midnight, the group methodically sifted through the remaining newspapers, their hope of finding anything more about the McKinnons or the Blacks fading with each passing minute. The Pettigrews and Lupins, two other names on their list, remained as elusive as ever.
Neville, his brow furrowed in contemplation, finally broke the silence that had settled over them. "I'm not sure about the Lupins, but I think the Pettigrews aren't purebloods," he mused. His words hung in the air, an unsaid implication that perhaps the reason they hadn't found anything about these families was due to their lesser status in the pureblood-centric society.
Hermione, her fingertips drumming on a newspaper, agreed. "Well, it was worth trying, at least. And we've learned something from it." Her words held a note of optimism, a testament to her enduring spirit.
Suddenly, Tracey shot up from her chair, her face illuminated by a spark of realisation. "Guys, curfew is approaching. We should get going," she warned, looking around at the group. Her gaze lingered for a moment on Jingles, who nodded in understanding and leapt down from the table to accompany them.
As they collected their belongings and discarded the strewn newspapers, the silence that filled the room was one of quiet acceptance, a mutual understanding of the task ahead. Saying their goodbyes, Harry, Hermione, and Neville left Daphne, Tracey, and Jingles, each of them heading towards their respective common rooms.
The corridors were dim and echoing as the three Gryffindors moved towards their tower. Harry turned to Neville, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. "Sorry about your first session, Neville," he said. "It's usually more structured than this. We revise, read ahead, and train — either by sparring or practising spells."
Neville waved it off with a dismissive hand, a soft chuckle escaping him. "Don't worry, Harry. It was nice spending time with you all." His voice held a warmth that made Harry smile in response.
At this, Hermione turned to Neville, a wide grin adorning her face. She was about to say something when Harry cut her off, playfully telling her not to smother Neville with homework already.
The remainder of their journey to Gryffindor Tower was filled with soft laughter and light-hearted teasing, a stark contrast to the intensity of their earlier discussion. Their camaraderie was a beacon of hope in the looming darkness, a testament to the strength of their bond. After all, they were in this together, and they would face whatever came their way as a united front.
~~~o~~~
The Great Hall was alive with noise and activity the next morning. The high ceiling was bewitched to mimic the clear, blue sky outside, which contrasted sharply with the dimly lit interior. The noise of clattering utensils and murmuring students filled the air, creating a pleasant din of conversation that was intermittently interrupted by the cawing of owls as they flew overhead, delivering post.
At the Slytherin table, Daphne, Tracey and Jingles were enjoying a quiet breakfast. Tracey was talking animatedly about one of her classes, while Daphne listened attentively, a slice of toast in one hand. Jingles, perched between the two girls, was busily devouring a bowl of cooked beef, his pink tongue darting out to lap at the juicy morsels.
Suddenly, the familiar flutter of wings drew their attention skywards. An elegant tawny owl was swooping down towards them, a letter clutched in its talons. It landed gracefully in front of Tracey, dropping the letter on her plate before giving her an expectant look. Tracey obliged, feeding it a piece of bacon, which the owl accepted with a hoot of gratitude before flying off.
Picking up the letter, Tracey recognised the familiar handwriting of her father. As she unfolded the parchment, Daphne leaned in to read along, her eyes scanning the lines of text. Jingles, uninterested in the letter, continued with his breakfast, a purr of contentment rumbling from his throat.
The letter was brief, but the contents caused Tracey's eyes to light up with excitement. Her father admitted that he didn't know much about the Potters or their allies, but offered to answer any questions he could. He proposed that instead of doing this through letters, he and Mrs. Davis would visit Hogsmeade during the first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, which conveniently fell on Tracey's birthday - the 26th of September. They would reserve a table at the Three Broomsticks, and discuss everything in person.
An uncontrollable grin spread across Tracey's face as she folded the letter back up. Her parents were coming to visit her! And they might even bring some insight into Jingles' true identity. And, if they were coming in person, there was a good chance she'd receive a big present as well.
Daphne, watching her friend's happiness unfold, couldn't help but return the smile. "That's wonderful, Tracey," she said, patting her friend's arm. "I'm excited for you."
With the excitement of the news settling, the two girls returned to their breakfast, their conversation now filled with plans for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. Meanwhile, Jingles, having finished his bowl of beef, settled down to nap, a soft purr of satisfaction escaping him.
After their breakfast, the remnants of which Jingles was happily lapping up, Tracey turned to Daphne and asked, "So, what's our first class today?" Her voice held a mix of anticipation and dread, a common enough sentiment among Hogwarts students during the morning.
Daphne grimaced slightly before responding. "Defence Against the Dark Arts." Her tone was clipped, her expression stony. It was clear to anyone that knew her that she was not looking forward to interacting with Lupin.
Tracey nodded, understanding her friend's reluctance. After a moment of thought, she suggested, "Let's wait for Harry, Hermione and Neville outside the Great Hall. We can go together." She shot Daphne a quick smile, in an effort to lighten the mood.
"That's a good idea," Daphne agreed, reaching out to gently nudge the napping Jingles awake. The little cat blinked up at her, let out a yawning mewl, and then jumped into her arms, purring happily. With that, the two Slytherin girls stood up, making their way out of the Great Hall.
Outside, the chatter of students was less pronounced, the echoing hallway feeling empty in comparison. The pair stood by the large double doors, exchanging quiet conversation and occasionally glancing back at the entrance.
They didn't have to wait long. After about five minutes, Harry, Hermione and Neville finally appeared, exiting the Great Hall amidst a group of other Gryffindors. Spotting Daphne and Tracey, they quickly made their way over.
"Morning," Harry greeted them, grinning. Hermione and Neville echoed his sentiment, the latter looking particularly cheerful. With their group assembled, they started towards the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, ready to face whatever the day had in store for them.
Arriving at the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the group was immediately struck by the alterations made to the room. The desks and chairs that normally occupied the majority of the room were now pushed to the sides, leaving a vast space in the middle of the room. At the centre stood a slightly trembling wardrobe, emitting an eerie atmosphere that had Jingles twitching in Daphne's arms.
Lupin, already in the room, looked up from his notes at their arrival. He greeted them with a warm smile and indicated the wardrobe in the centre. "Gather around, please," he instructed, as they were early. The five students complied, forming a semi-circle around the shaking piece of furniture.
One by one, the rest of the class trickled in, exchanging puzzled glances and whispers at the sight of the rearranged room and the odd piece of furniture. When the last student had arrived, Lupin clapped his hands together and began the lesson.
"Inside this wardrobe, we have a boggart," he announced, causing a ripple of intrigue to spread through the students. He paused before asking, "Can anyone tell me what a boggart looks like?"
As expected, Hermione's hand shot into the air almost instantly, and Lupin's smile widened slightly as he called on her. Without hesitation, Hermione responded, "Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when it's alone, Professor. They take the form of whatever the person confronting them fears the most."
"Excellent, Miss Granger," Lupin commended, nodding approvingly. "Ten points to Gryffindor. That's correct."
He then launched into an explanation of how to defend against a boggart. The spell, he said, was Riddikulus. The intent was to force the boggart into a situation where the fear it represented would be made laughable or ridiculous. The key was to use your laughter as a weapon.
When he finished explaining, Lupin called Neville to the front. There was a brief, low murmuring conversation between the two, with Lupin occasionally glancing at the still shivering wardrobe. The class looked on with anticipation, awaiting the practical demonstration of the Riddikulus charm.
With a confident flick of his wand, Lupin unlocked the wardrobe. The door swung open to reveal a chilling figure, the image of Professor Snape, stepping out of the shadows, his black robes billowing. The sight of the boggart as Snape, bearing down menacingly on Neville, had the class draw in a collective gasp.
But Neville, much to everyone's surprise, stood his ground. Gathering all his courage, he firmly enunciated, "Riddikulus," and gave his wand a firm flick. Instantly, the image of Snape was transformed. His usual dark robes morphed into a flamboyant dress of an old lady, complete with a large, ridiculous hat adorned with a stuffed vulture — the exact image of Neville's grandmother.
A wave of laughter echoed through the classroom, breaking the tension and replacing it with mirth. The sight of the strict, intimidating Potions Master in such a ludicrous getup was too much for the class.
Capitalising on the students' high spirits, Lupin called for them to form a line in front of the boggart. Harry's group found themselves clustered together towards the back of the line, with Hermione first, followed by Tracey, then Harry, and finally Daphne at the end.
As the students took their turns and the line began to shuffle forwards, Lupin's gaze fell on Jingles, still nestled comfortably in Daphne's arms. The professor politely suggested that Daphne place Jingles on his desk, so as not to confuse the boggart when it came her turn.
Daphne's eyes narrowed slightly, suspecting Lupin was just pleased to create a distance between her and Jingles, but she made no comment. Holding Jingles securely, she walked over to the teacher's desk and gently set him down, the cat giving a small meow in protest. Patting him reassuringly, Daphne then returned to her spot in line, her gaze lingering on Jingles before focusing back on the boggart.
The line of students was steadily dwindling as each one took their turn facing the boggart. The room resonated with the echo of laughter and the nervous anticipation of what would come next. Fears were being bared open, providing a glimpse into the private vulnerabilities of each student. There was an odd sense of camaraderie growing as they all shared this rollercoaster ride of emotions together.
Hermione was next. She confidently stepped forward, her brown eyes sparkling with determination. Harry watched from the sidelines, admiring his friend's courage. The boggart before her began to shape-shift, transforming into a glaring, red envelope. A Howler. The voice it emitted was harsh, stating in an echoing tone that Hermione Granger was expelled from Hogwarts. A gasp spread across the room at the boggart's reveal, but Hermione remained unwavering.
She raised her wand with a slight smile. "Riddikulus," she pronounced clearly. The Howler instantly morphed into a tiny figure complete with a microphone and a funny-looking moustache. The harsh voice was replaced with a comedic one, cracking jokes and making everyone laugh. Hermione's fear had transformed into something hilarious and harmless. As she walked back to her place, her cheeks were flushed with the triumph of victory and the sheer delight of laughter. She caught Tracey's eye and winked, as if she challenged her.
Now, it was Tracey's turn. Harry watched her curiously as she moved forward. He realised he had no idea what Tracey's deepest fear could be. He had seen her display various emotions, but never any kind of deep-rooted fear.
The boggart began to transform, turning into a small, confined, dark room. It was eerily similar to the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys' that Harry knew all too well. The memory of it sent a shiver down his spine. He looked at Tracey, her face turning a shade paler. Her usual mischievous sparkle was replaced by a veil of anxiety. He instantly understood. Tracey was claustrophobic.
She raised her wand, her usual jovial voice shaky as she said, "Riddikulus." The dark, confined room morphed into a circus tent. It was small on the outside but surprisingly spacious inside. The class let out a round of soft laughter, the relief palpable in the air. Tracey's face relaxed into a relieved smile, and the room sighed in collective relief.
Tracey walked back to her place, her usual swagger slightly subdued. As she passed by Harry, she leaned in, her warm breath tickling his ear. "You got this, Harry. Don't disappoint me," she whispered, her voice filled with playful confidence. With a swift wink, she moved away, leaving Harry with a renewed sense of determination, ready to face his own fears. The classroom was buzzing with a mix of apprehension and anticipation as Harry prepared for his turn.
A ripple of apprehension spread through the room as Harry stepped forward. His body was still, yet his mind was anything but, dancing through his past, touching each corner of his memory, probing for his deepest fear.
Images of the Dursleys flashed through his mind like jagged lightning strikes. He saw Uncle Vernon's hand, large and rough, striking him across the face. He remembered the long, cold nights in the cupboard under the stairs, every tiny noise in the house amplified in the claustrophobic space. But as bitter and painful as those memories were, they didn't constitute his deepest fear.
His mind's eye flicked to Voldemort, the snake-faced murderer of his parents who had tried to end Harry's own life more times than he cared to count. Even the thought of that face sent a shiver coursing down his spine like a droplet of ice-cold water. Yet, as heart-stoppingly terrifying as the Dark Lord was, he still did not embody Harry's ultimate fear.
His heart gave an anxious thud as he remembered the encounter with the Dementors. The black robes, the skeletal hand, the bone-chilling cold that seemed to leach the very warmth from his soul...and the hopelessness. The absolute conviction that he would never experience joy again. The memory clutched at his heart with an icy hand. Yes. That was it. The Dementors, the epitome of his fear.
The boggart transformed, taking the ghastly form of a Dementor, gliding ominously towards him. A collective gasp filled the room. The aura of dread emanating from the boggart, although an imitation, was palpable. The hairs on the back of Harry's neck rose as he steeled himself, raising his wand in a defiant gesture.
Drawing a shaky breath, he steeled his gaze, fixing it on the creature. His voice was steady, more so than he felt, as he uttered the incantation, "Riddikulus". The sight that greeted them then was the antithesis of the horror moments ago. The boggart morphed from the terrifying Dementor into a frail, old man struggling to keep himself upright. The transformation was so absurd that it was impossible to keep a straight face. The class burst into laughter, the previous tension evaporating into a wave of jubilant relief.
As the laughter subsided, Harry made his way back to the end of the room. His eyes met Daphne's, and she gifted him an encouraging smile, her eyes twinkling with pride. He reciprocated it with a small nod of gratitude.
Once he rejoined his friends, he noticed that Tracey's face was unusually sombre. She was silent, her brow furrowed in deep thought. Harry was about to ask her what was wrong when realisation dawned on him. It was Daphne's turn next.
A cold knot of worry twisted in his stomach. He knew Daphne well, perhaps better than she would admit. Her boggart would undoubtedly take the shape of her father, the man who had abused and neglected her for years. He silently hoped, prayed even, that Daphne had the strength to face this confrontation.
Daphne was caught in a vice grip of anxiety as she stood at the head of the class, facing the boggart. Every muscle in her body tightened, bracing for the inevitable shape it was about to take. The person she despised and feared the most, the shadow that loomed large over her life, casting darkness where there should have been warmth and love.
The boggart swirled, its form coalescing, solidifying into the silhouette of a tall man. The class fell into a hushed silence, cut by the acrid mockery of her father's voice. It was him in all his imperious glory, his stern gaze filled with an icy, derisive scorn that she knew all too well.
"Ah, Daphne," the boggart sneered, "You insignificant girl. I often wonder where I lost my way with you." His nose crinkled in disdain, and the icy eyes swept over the gathered students. "Look at the company you keep. No self-respecting pureblood would ever associate with such... vermin."
The boggart's words, each one a sickeningly accurate imitation of her father's, sent a shock of pain through Daphne. Each sentence was a slap, each word a stab wound. But she was determined not to break. She tried to remind herself that this was nothing more than a boggart, a manifestation of her deepest fears. She had to fight back, had to show that she wasn't as weak as he always made her out to be.
Her mind scrambled, desperate to find some way to twist this horrific situation into something laughable, but she was met with a blank wall. There was nothing remotely funny about the man standing before her, nothing funny about the years of emotional abuse and constant belittling she had endured at his hands.
With a shaky voice that mirrored her trembling hand, she uttered the spell, "Riddikulus!" But the boggart remained unchanged, the spitting image of her father still standing there, his mocking smile spread across his face.
Undeterred, the boggart pressed on. "Maybe it would be best if you vanished," he taunted, his words cruel and sharp. "Astoria could fill your shoes. She's not an absolute disgrace, unlike you."
His words twisted like a knife in her heart. She could feel the hot prick of tears welling up in her eyes, but she fought to keep them at bay. With one last feeble attempt, she whispered, "Riddikulus," but her voice was barely a whisper, lost amidst the chilling laughter of the boggart.
"And there it is," the boggart sneered. "You're nothing but a failure, Daphne. Not fit to carry the name Greengrass." The words echoed around the room, striking her like a physical blow. Each one confirming her deepest fears and insecurities.
The room seemed to expand around her, the stares of her classmates feeling like piercing needles. A hot tear trickled down her cheek as her wand slipped from her hand, the sound of it hitting the stone floor ringing ominously loud in her ears. With a choked sob, she crumbled to her knees, the weight of her father's words and her inability to banish the boggart pressing down on her like a crushing wave. The humiliation, the pain, the raw vulnerability—it was all too much. Her father, even as a boggart, had succeeded in breaking her once again.
Harry felt a surge of helplessness well up within him, his heart clenching at the sight of Daphne's breakdown. He was on the verge of stepping forward when Professor Lupin started to move, his face etched with concern. But to everyone's surprise, someone beat both of them to it.
A flash of black fur and defiance, Jingles the cat, usually found nestled in Daphne's arms, streaked across the classroom floor. He had left the safety of the teacher's desk to stand between Daphne and the boggart. A protective wall, a beacon of courage against the monstrous manifestation of her father. He hissed at the boggart, tiny body vibrating with fierce determination.
The boggart flickered and morphed, reshaping into a sight that left Harry stunned. Standing there now was a quartet of familiar faces - Hermione, Tracey, Daphne, and himself - all glaring at Jingles with distaste.
"Jingles, we should have never become friends with you," the boggart-Hermione declared, her tone cold, the warmth they were used to completely absent. Her form then stepped back and dissolved into nothingness, leaving Harry flabbergasted.
Boggart-Tracey stepped forward, her usual flirtatious smile twisted into a sneer. "I must have had a lapse in judgement agreeing to be friends with you." Her words echoed around the room before she, too, disappeared into thin air.
Harry could see the scenario unravelling, a potent understanding washing over him. The fear that Jingles harboured was not of them, but of losing them, of them turning their backs on him.
The boggart-Harry was next. "You're a freak, Jingles," he spat out, a word Harry had personally been victim to, one that resonated with bitterness and pain. "I wish we had never met." As his words lingered in the air, he too stepped back and evaporated.
All that was left was boggart-Daphne, her usually warm eyes cold and uncaring. As she began to speak, Jingles' calm facade did not falter. But Harry knew, he knew how much the words would hurt him.
"Jingles," boggart-Daphne began, her voice laced with venom, "This whole thing was a mistake. Especially..." But before she could complete the sentence Jingles swiftly lifted his paw and silently cast "Riddikulus".
The image of the boggart twisted and morphed until the familiar figures of Daphne, Harry, Hermione, and Tracey reappeared. However, the scene was far from terrifying.
The four of them were huddled around Jingles, who sat in the centre looking both bewildered and unimpressed. They started to fuss over the cat, cooing and speaking in exaggerated, high-pitched baby talk.
"Who's a good boy, then? Is it you? Yes, it's you!" the boggart-Hermione gushed, her eyes wide with faux adoration.
"Are you the prettiest kitty? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!" boggart-Daphne joined in, making a show of scratching an imaginary spot behind Jingles' ears.
Boggart-Harry and Tracey weren't to be left out of the spectacle. They chimed in with their own outlandish praises, their dialogue escalating in absurdity.
The classroom could hold back no longer, the laughter came like a tidal wave. Students were clutching their sides, giggles and chuckles bouncing off the stone walls. The previously sombre mood had been replaced with laughter and camaraderie.
In the aftermath of the boggart confrontation, Daphne collected herself from the floor, her hands gripping tightly onto the wand that Jingles had retrieved for her. Her fingers brushed against the silky fur of the black cat, a small smile pulling at her lips for his courageous act.
Gathering his composure, Lupin banished the boggart back into the wardrobe with a well-practised wave of his wand. His eyes then turned towards Daphne, who was trying her best to mask her discomfort.
"Miss Greengrass," he called, fishing out a small parcel wrapped in silver foil from his pocket. He extended the chocolate towards her, his voice carrying a soft note of concern. "Have some chocolate. It'll help. Nothing like a bit of sweet to lighten the mood."
With a slight nod, Daphne accepted his offer, the bustling of the class momentarily forgotten.
After ensuring Daphne was alright, Lupin then turned to address the rest of the class. With an air of weary authority, he raised his voice, "Class dismissed."
The pupils quickly collected their belongings, the cacophony of their chatter and the shuffling of their feet filling the room as they filed out.
As soon as they were outside, Tracey wasted no time in pulling Daphne into a comforting hug, her arms encircling the other girl tightly. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice laced with worry.
Daphne gently pulled away from the hug, offering Tracey a small but reassuring smile. "It was my fault," she admitted, her voice almost a whisper. "I was so focused on everyone else, that I didn't think about what I would do when it was my turn."
Her eyes found Jingles, who was padding alongside them, his tail curling and uncurling. She bent down, her fingers gently stroking his sleek fur. "I'm sorry, Jingles," she said softly. "I promise, I'm not going anywhere."
Hermione, Harry, and even Tracey echoed her sentiment, each taking a turn to reassure the small cat of their loyalty. Jingles purred, a rumble of contentment that vibrated through Daphne, his gratitude washing over their connection like a soothing balm.
