CW: Implications of abuse (physical, sexual, verbal, psychological)
Friday morning at breakfast, gossip was buzzing amongst the third years in Ravenclaw and Slytherin. They had their first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson first thing, and rumor was that the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had encountered something dramatic and done a practical exercise during their first class earlier in the week.
"None of them will say what it was, though," Tracey huffed. "I bet that's why class was cancelled on Wednesday, so Lupin could have the others go first. He knew it'd be very unlikely that Ravenclaws and Slytherins wouldn't be more willing to share secret information, regardless of what vague promises were made."
"It was enough to make the Gryffindors love Lupin already," Hermione said. "They're going on and on about how he's the best professor ever. It's got to be something crazy, for the Gryffindors to enjoy schoolwork."
"It's not like we're going to actually fight a Dark creature in class," Daphne pointed out. "Right?"
"Dumbledore's already hired Hagrid, who got a student mauled the first day," Draco drawled. "Who knows what kind of madman he hired for this?"
"We could be fighting a Dark creature," Blaise mused, drumming his fingertips on the table. "There are small ones, like doxies and the like. But that wouldn't be dramatic, really – and the Gryffindors are the ones saying how exciting the whole thing was. They wouldn't be excited for doxies."
"Well," Millie said, shrugging. "We'll find out soon enough."
Professor Lupin wasn't there when they first arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The Ravenclaws and Slytherins all filed in, taking their seats and taking out their books, looking around curiously. Many had their wands out.
Professor Lupin finally entered the room a little late. He smiled vaguely and put his shabby case on the desk. His robes were still faded and tattered, but he looked at least a little healthier, and a little less frail.
"Good afternoon," he said. "Please put all your books back in your bags. Today's lesson will be a practical one. You need only your wands."
There was a murmur as books were quickly stuffed back into bags. It seemed the rumor was right.
"Right then," said Professor Lupin. "If you'd follow me."
He led them down the corridor, around the corner, and down another corridor before stopping right outside the staff room door.
"Inside, please," he bid them, opening it and standing back.
The staff room was a long, paneled room full of old, mismatched chairs. There was light filtering in from large windows on one side of the room, dust motes drifting in the sunbeams. Professor Lupin closed the door once everyone was inside, and he beckoned the class toward the end of the room where there was an old wardrobe. Hermione noticed that the area around the wardrobe had been cleared, with all the nearby chairs pushed away, and the suddenly wardrobe gave a violent wobble, banging off the wall.
"Nothing to worry about," said Professor Lupin calmly. "There's a boggart in there."
Most of the class looked confused and worried by this, but Hermione let out a snort of laughter and rolled her eyes. She quickly covered her mouth, but Professor Lupin had heard and turned to her.
"Do you have something to offer, Miss…?"
"Granger, sir," Hermione supplied quickly. "And no, not really – only that it makes a lot more sense now why the Gryffindors loved this lesson so much."
A faint smile came to Lupin's face. "Did they…?"
He refocused his attention as the wardrobe rattled ominously again.
"Boggarts like dark, enclosed spaces. Wardrobes, the gap beneath beds, the cupboards under sinks – I even met one that had lodged itself in a grandfather clock."
Hermione wondered at his choice of words. 'Met' a boggart was an interesting thing to say.
"—first question we must ask ourselves is, what is a boggart?"
Hermione's hand went up, along with a few from Ravenclaw. Lupin picked her.
"It's a shape-shifter," she said. "It can take the shape of whatever it thinks will frighten us the most."
"Couldn't have put it better myself," said Professor Lupin, and Hermione smiled. "So the boggart sitting in the darkness within has not yet assumed a form. He does not yet know what will frighten the person on the other side of the door. Nobody knows what a boggart looks like when he is alone, but when I let him out, he will immediately become whatever each of us most fears… ah, Miss Granger, you have a question?"
Lupin looked somewhat puzzled by Hermione's hand in the air, but Hermione wasn't to be deterred.
"Sir," she said, "if no one knows the natural form of a boggart, how do you know that this boggart is male?"
Lupin blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"It's just, I thought boggarts were amortal," Hermione went on. "Non-beings, really, created from high concentrations of magic near Dark objects or places. I didn't think they reproduced normally – being non-beings and not really alive at all – so I'm just surprised that they can be sexed."
Now Professor Lupin looked mildly annoyed.
"It was a turn of phrase," he said. "I was using 'he' instead of 'it' to help personify it – do not mistake it, a boggart is a Dark being to be encountered." He looked down at Hermione dismissively. "But to be technical about it, boggarts neither male nor female."
"Oh…" Hermione fought the urge to recoil in on herself, embarrassed. Her face grew hot, and Lupin's annoyance seemed to dissipate some once he realized she hadn't just been being pedantic and snide.
"So the boggart is sitting there in the dark," Lupin continued. "This means we have a huge advantage over it…"
Hermione didn't pay as much attention to Lupin as he called on Terry Boot for the next question. The implications of the situation were slowly dawning on her. The Gryffindors had done a practical exercise in class. And if they were learning about boggarts...
She looked up at Blaise, who had wide eyes, and to Draco, who looked horrified. They could all anticipate what was coming next.
Hermione bit her lip, watching the others.
"He's not," Daphne breathed, her voice low. "He's not going to make us all go together, is he?"
"Didn't you hear him?" Tracey said grimly. "'It's always best to have company when you're dealing with a boggart' so it becomes confused."
"And the previous class was okay with this?" Pansy said, her voice shrill even in her whispers.
"The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs probably have simple fears," Hermione guessed. "Spiders, mummies, banshees…"
The Slytherins exchanged a collective look of dread.
"—practice the charm without wands first. After me, please… riddikulus!"
"Riddikulus!" the class said together.
"Good," Professor Lupin said. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough."
Professor Lupin went on to detail how they would each need to imagine the thing that scared them the most, and then how to make such a thing funny to them. The charm would force to boggart into the funny shape, provoking laughter, thereby weakening the boggart.
"I would like all of you to take a moment now to think of the thing that scares you most, and imagine how you might force it to look comical…"
Hermione bit her lip.
What scared her the most in the world?
Her first thought was being publicly disclaimed from being a New Blood, but that didn't feel quite true. She had been anxious about such a thing for a while, but with her coven and previous successes backing her up, it wasn't nearly as much of a worry. Did she fear Voldemort? Or Tom Riddle escaping the diary and spilling her secrets, perhaps…?
None of those quite rang true, either. They didn't quite resonate in her gut in a horribly anxious, dreadful way like she imagined a person's worst fear would resonate. And she knew there were things she had been afraid of – she remembered being terrified of her parents dying as a child, staying up late anxious and worrying long into the night in stomach-sickening way.
But what scared her now…?
What was her deepest dread?
Hermione continued to ponder, wondering.
"Everyone ready?" Lupin asked. "Here, let's all line up…"
The Slytherins cast horrified looks at each other. Hermione put her hand up.
"Professor?" she asked. "Do you intend us to do this exercise all together, in front of everyone?"
"Yes." Professor Lupin looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Did you not hear when I said the best way to face a boggart was to take a friend?"
"Oh, no sir, I heard you," Hermione said hurriedly, "but there's a rather large difference between taking 'a friend' to see your deepest fear and having it displayed in front of the entire class."
Professor Lupin stared down at her.
"It'd be one thing if we all had simple fears," she said, "but we're rather older than that. This has the potential to be such an invasion of privacy, sir. Imagine the horror if it was someone's turn, and, say, their abusive stepfather appeared, holding a whip in his hand." Hermione's eyes implored him. "Is it possible for you to cast a privacy shield or something, and you can be in the front with each of us as we individually have a go? That way, there would still be more than one person facing the boggart at a time, but no need for embarrassment in front of everyone else."
The Slytherins all looked at her with gratitude and relief. The Ravenclaws were looking quizzical. Lupin looked down at Hermione, his face inscrutable.
"The previous class did not have any issues," he said finally. "They all faced the boggart bravely, with the support of their classmates behind them. I believe your class can do the same."
He ushered them into a line, the Slytherins exchanging looks of dread. There was a bit of a tussle for spots toward the end – all of the Ravenclaws ended up before the Slytherins in line, none of whom were eager for this to happen.
"Everyone ready?" Professor Lupin asked.
Hermione felt her heart lurch. She still had no idea what she'd even see.
"Everyone, step back, so Terry can get a good shot," said Lupin. "On the count of three, Terry," said Professor Lupin, pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. "One – two – three – now!"
A jet of sparks shot from the end of Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open, and tiny Professor Flitwick stepped out, shaking his head and giving Terry a disgusted look.
"You've failed everything," he told him. "Everything, Mr. Boot. You are a disgrace to the house of Ravenclaw."
"Riddikulus!" Terry cried.
There was a noise like a whip crack, and Flitwick stumbled; suddenly he was growing very, very tall, as if he were made of gum and being stretched out very long and very thin.
There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, "Next! Forward!"
Mandy Brocklehurst was next. The boggart rounded on her, and there was a whip crack, and a man and woman who were very clearly her parents were looking at her with disappointment.
"You're being held back a year?" her father said. He shook his head. "I can't believe my daughter—"
"Riddikulus!" cried Mandy.
With an abrupt crack, her parents had turned into muggle clowns, complete with balloons and bright red noses. Mandy laughed, and Lupin gestured to the next student who stepped forwards, and the clowns became a muggle zombie.
Hermione watched grimly as the line shortened. It wouldn't take much longer now, she guessed.
Indeed, after a few more Ravenclaws had gone, Padma Patil stepped forward, her mouth set in a tight line.
The boggart cracked, and suddenly there was an Indian man standing there, wearing a red tunic with a wide cream-gold sash wrapped around his waist and thrown over his shoulder, holding a large golden censer on a chain. His eyes blazed, and he advanced on Padma, speaking very rapidly – but Hermione didn't recognize the language, and she couldn't make out any of the words.
It was clear Padma did, though, and she stumbled backwards, horrified.
"R-Riddikulus!"
The Indian man suddenly sprouted six more arms, making him look like some horrific octopus-man, but Padma laughed, and the boggart stumbled.
"Good! Next!"
Anthony Goldstein was next. With a crack, the boggart turned into his own body, collapsed on the floor, half-naked and with whip marks all over him. It looked up at him, croaking.
"Why couldn't you just pretend to be normal?" it gasped, eyes wide and bloodshot. "This is all your fault—"
"R—r—riddikulus!" Anthony stuttered.
With a crack, the bloody Anthony became a balloon, and the wheeze of laughter Anthony managed was more from relief than humor.
Professor Lupin frowned. "Next!"
Michael Corner was next. The boggart turned into a smart-looking woman with Michael's nose and hair, advancing on him while holding a dress, her eyes flashing. She started opening her mouth, and Michael's eyes flew wide open with panic.
"Riddikulus!" Michael screamed.
Abruptly, his mother tripped and fell down, air deflating out of her like a large balloon. Michael laughed, but he hurried after Anthony, frantic. He looked petrified, and he was shaking a bit still.
It was the start of the Slytherins. Crabbe and Goyle were the next two, with identical fears – a large man, presumably their father, advancing on them with a hot brand outstretched, the brand in the shape of a skull and snake. Crabbe managed to get his father to turn into his mother, while Goyle's father just grew fatter and fatter, which made him laugh.
The Slytherins all watched grimly, though the Ravenclaws seemed horrified at the brand. Most of the Slytherins at least knew what their fear represented, Hermione figured, even if she doubted the Dark Lord would literally brand his followers instead of magically.
Lupin looked more worried as the line grew shorter. He seemed to realize that those of them with the worst fears had tried to put their turn off as long as possible.
"Next!"
Hermione kept trading places with people in line. She still didn't know what her own fear was. She reached a stonewall at Theo, who was at the back, and he absolutely refused to go before her.
Tracey's fear was herself, grown sick and weak from breast cancer. Tracey stared at the image of herself, middle-aged and in a hospital bed, gasping for breath on a ventilator. Her wand wavered.
"R—r—riddikulus!"
There was nothing that could make it funny; the hospital bed started rapidly spinning and spinning in place, and Tracey fled to the end of the line.
Pansy was next. A crack, and it was a woman who was undeniably her mother, looking prim in fancy robes but with a face that resembled a pug's. She was holding a paper and shaking her head.
"Another one, turned down," she spat. "Can't you do anything right? We're not going to take care of you forever – you're going to end up a two-knut Knockturn-Alley whore at this rate—"
"Riddikulus!"
Pansy's mother's robes began to shorten, her hair growing messy, and when Pansy laughed, almost cruelly, Hermione realized she'd had to imagine her own mother as a prostitute in order to laugh.
Millie was next. With a crack, the image turned into a very tall, large man, who slowly advanced with an unhealthy gleam in his eyes. He had a similar chin to Millie – not her father, perhaps, but some other relative.
"Millicent," he purred. "You've grown up to be such a fetching young woman, haven't you…"
Hermione felt sick to her stomach as she watched Millie shudder. With a cry of "Riddikulus!" the strange man fell over flat, dead, and Millie's laugh was almost manic, unhinged.
"…next!"
Daphne's fear was a man in what looked like a cross between medical scrubs and robes, with the crest of St. Mungo's embroidered over the breast. He was holding what looked like a small stirring rod in his hand, the end of it glowing red.
"I'm so sorry, Daphne," he told her, genuine pain and empathy in his voice. "I wish the test results were different, I really do. But unfortunately, we do see this happen – especially if there is a history of familial problems—"
Daphne's "Riddikulus!" was choked, and the healer blew up into confetti. Daphne fled to the back of the line with tears streaming down her face, the Ravenclaws murmuring to themselves, shifting uncomfortably.
There was a crack as Draco advanced to the front of the line, and the confetti coalesced into Lucius Malfoy, arms folded and sneering with disgust.
"Can you do nothing right?" he hissed. "Some son of mine you are, unable to accomplish even the most basic of tasks…" His eyes glowed with malice. "It seems you are in need of a harsher lesson, Draco…"
Lucius Malfoy withdrew his wand, and Draco's "Riddikulus!" was panicked and frantic. It still worked, though – Lucius Malfoy was suddenly clad in the robes of a beggar, his hair filthy and matted. "I am so disappointed, Draco," he said, and Draco laughed, his laugh high and frantic, the image of a homeless Lucius Malfoy trying to be imposing too funny for him to handle.
Lupin was growing visibly anxious as the line shortened. "Next!"
Blaise stepped forward reluctantly, and there was a crack.
His mother appeared, resplendent in a house robe of violet silk and reclining on a chaise lounge. She was holding a large goblet of wine.
"Blaise, Blaise, Blaise," she tsked, shaking her head. "I've always been honest with you and treated you like a grown-up – and the fact is, you've grown quite boring for me, really. I think I'm rather done with this." She gave him a sympathetic smile. "You understand, don't you, dear? I think the woman who lost her son in a terrible accident would have quite a beautifully tragic appeal…" She beckoned him closer, her eyes glinting. "Come here, darling… it will all be over soon…"
Hermione felt like she couldn't breathe.
"Riddikulus!"
Blaise's mother abruptly grew horrific, warts and boils sprouting all over her body, robes bulging as tumors pushed outward, and Blaise just stared at her, not laughing.
"Granger! Next!"
Blaise managed to tear his eyes away from the horrifying sight and make his way to the back of the line as Hermione stepped up, gnawing at her lip, her wand in her hand.
CRACK!
At first, Hermione thought the boggart had vanished.
There was no sign of it anywhere – nothing in the air, no shade of Voldemort, no angry Dumbledore, no evil Tom advancing on her, nothing – and Lupin looked alarmed.
"It couldn't possibly have gotten away," he protested. "It's not in a boggart's nature—"
But Hermione was tuning him out, advancing slowly, eyes sharp and her wand out. Maybe the boggart had presumed she was scared of loneliness, or of the concept of being nothing? Maybe a deadly insect on the floor?
As she looked around, her eyes snagged on a copy of a newspaper, left haphazardly on one of the teachers' plush armchairs. To her surprise, the masthead wasn't that of the Daily Prophet, but that of The Guardian. She moved closer, the headline and photo above the fold coming into view.
Hermione's heart stopped at the sight.
The photo was in color, taken from a distance. It was a bright, fiery, mushroom-shaped cloud, the top of the mushroom cloud wide and flat, almost dome-shaped, and the fire of it cast the rest of the sky into sharp relief in stark blacks and reds. It was similar to a photo she'd seen in her muggle history books long ago when they had studied World War II, but horribly, horribly different. The headline above the image was stark:
LONDON GONE
Hydrogen bomb leaves 6 million dead;
Hundreds of thousands more injured with radiation poisoning
She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe.
Her eyes wide and huge, Hermione darted toward the chair, her eyes rapidly scanning the article. Her heart was pounding in her chest as phrases like 'unexpected attack' and 'armed retaliation' and 'mutually-assured destruction' jumped out at her, and she felt like she couldn't breathe, her eyes frenzied as she scanned the paper frantically, the horrible mushroom cloud of fire practically glowing off the page.
Without really realizing it, Hermione began to scream.
She could vaguely feel Lupin's hands on her shoulders, trying to pull her away, but Hermione fought him off, hysterical sobs coming out as she screamed. Hermione couldn't think, couldn't hear, only scream, her shrieks filling the small staff room. She clutched the horrible paper to her, screaming, and it was only when Lupin finally cried "Stupefy!" from behind her that she let go as she fell headlong into blackness.