Chocolate Pudding
Draco steps into the Great Hall, his stomach twisting with hunger as the rich scent of roasted meat and fresh bread fills the air. The Slytherin table stretches long and orderly, but his eyes land immediately on the cluster of students surrounding Tom Riddle — their postures attentive, their smiles just a fraction too wide.
Nott follows his gaze.
“Seems like the prefect meeting didn’t take long,” he comments.
Riddle, for his part, seems to bask in the attention, a faint smile curving his lips as he speaks. His gaze flickers up as Draco approaches— not quite a welcome, but not a dismissal either.
Draco slides into an empty seat a few places down, forcing himself to focus on the food. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. Despite the eyes darting to him — assessing, judging — he fills his plate with a methodical precision: roasted chicken, bread, and a heap of vegetables.
“Someone’s hungry,” a smooth voice comments. It’s Black, eyes glinting with lazy amusement.
“Let the boy eat,” Abraxas drawls, though there’s a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Draco doesn’t bother replying, just swallows a mouthful of bread and reaches for the goblet. And then the chocolate pudding. Merlin — the chocolate pudding. He can’t remember the last time he was able to enjoy such simple pleasures.
The first spoon is heaven — warm, rich, and sweet. His eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, and he doesn’t care if anyone notices. For the first time in what feels like years, he eats until he’s full.
When he opens his eyes, the atmosphere has shifted. The playful air is gone. A seventh-year — another Black? — strides over, face neutral but eyes flicking to Riddle with a strange sort of apprehension. If Draco remembers right, she is Walburga Black.
“Riddle,” she says, nodding at the rest of them.
“Sit,” Riddle says smoothly, barely glancing up.
The boys beside him shift without being asked, making space as if by instinct. She glides into the seat with practiced elegance, every movement deliberate. her knee-length skirt settles without a single crease, posture immaculate.
Riddle lifts the teapot with a flick of his wand, the liquid pouring in a perfect stream into a delicate porcelain cup.
“May I offer you tea, Miss Black?”, he says.
“Thank you,” she replies, accepting it with a graceful nod.
She takes a measured sip, her lipstick marking the rim. Then she sets the cup down, perfectly aligned with her saucer.
Textbook elegance. Pureblood etiquette at its finest.
“I was just at Merrythought’s classroom. We prepared some Boggarts for the next class,” Walburga says, voice carefully devoid of emotion.
The reaction is immediate and palpable. The casual conversation around them stutters, falters. Avery’s fork pauses mid-air, and even Lestrange — usually so smugly composed — goes uncharacteristically still.
And Riddle’s jaw clenches. It’s subtle, barely a flicker of tension beneath the smooth façade, but Draco sees it. So does everyone else.
There’s a rule in Slytherin, unwritten but ironclad: to show fear is to give others leverage. To have it paraded in front of the entire class? Unthinkable.
Draco knows this. He also knows that the lesson had been conveniently canceled in his own time, thanks to Potter’s doing.
Riddle’s smile tightens, something cold flickering in his dark eyes. He stands abruptly, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from his sleeve.
“I’m afraid I have prefect duties to do,” Riddle announces, voice smooth but a shade too polite. His gaze skims over them, lingering just a fraction too long on everyone’s faces, as if daring them to object. “One of you should inform Professor Merrythought. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”
There’s a beat of silence, uncomfortable and heavy. Even Abraxas — always so unbothered — looks sideways at Riddle, lips pressed thin.
“Riddle, sit down,” Walburga says quickly, eyes fixed on something.
Something dangerous crosses through his eyes at the command, but something in her tone makes him comply.
Draco forces himself not to turn to look at what she’s seeing. Then a shadow falls over the table. It’s a woman — a professor — not old but not young; it’s hard to tell with witches.
She stops directly in front of Riddle, eyes sharp but her smile infuriatingly warm.
“Ah, Mr. Riddle,” she says, tone almost fond. “I do hope you’re not thinking of skipping out on class again. I was so looking forward to seeing your handling of a Boggart this time.”
The tension ratchets higher, a collective breath being held. Riddle’s smile freezes — just a fraction. For the first time since Draco has seen him, Riddle looks… cornered.
“Of course not, Professor,” Riddle replies, dipping his head in false deference. But beneath the table, his hands flex — a quiet betrayal of composure.
Merrythought’s eyes glint.
“Good,” she says lightly. “I knew I could count on you.”
“Then I’ll see you all in class,” she says, her gaze sweeping the table — then landing, just for a beat, on Walburga. “Miss Black.”
With a final nod, she turns and strides away, leaving behind a silence so heavy it presses against the table like a spell no one dares to break.
Riddle’s expression smooths, eyes flicking to Draco just long enough to make his breath hitch. The smile he offers is icy — a promise and a threat in one.
“It seems we’ll all be attending class after all,” Riddle says, voice soft but carrying a weight that has Draco’s skin crawling.
Draco forces another bite into his mouth, but the taste turns to ash on his tongue.
He regrets the pudding now — the richness of it, the warmth, the indulgence. It sits heavy in his stomach, curdling with every glance toward Riddle. The moment Merrythought mentioned the Boggart, the entire table shifted. No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing.
What, exactly, does Tom Riddle fear?
Draco doesn’t want to know. Not really. But curiosity — that same trait that’s gotten him into trouble more times than he can count — burns low in his chest.
He wonders, not for the first time, what form his own Boggart might take now.
Once, it had been easy. The Dark Lord — pale, skeletal, his snake-like face twisted into a smile — the embodiment of everything Draco feared. But now?
He’s not so sure.
Maybe it’s still Voldemort. Maybe it always will be. But there are other candidates now. His parents lifeless, eyes wide and unseeing. A Hogwarts hallway lined with bodies — classmates, friends, people he couldn’t save.
Or worse.
Maybe the Boggart wouldn’t change at all. maybe it would be him — a mirror reflection, wand in hand, expression blank. The version of himself he tried so hard not to see. The one who had done nothing. Said nothing. Watched.
He swallows thickly.
The walk to the Defense classroom is quiet. Too quiet. Their usual clipped footsteps echo off the stone walls, but no one speaks. Not even Black, who always has something to say. Lestrange looks thoughtful, chewing the inside of his cheek. Abraxas keeps glancing sideways at Riddle, like he’s trying to gauge how close the prefect is to snapping.
By the time they reach the classroom, his palms are damp, and the pudding in his stomach feels like lead.
The chairs have been pushed aside. At the centre of the room stands an iron casket, bolted shut — rattling faintly, as though whatever’s inside is impatient.
A Boggart.
Professor Merrythought stands at the front of the room, surveying the students as they gather awkwardly, awkward, and quiet.
“Well, my dear students. Today will be a more hands-on lesson. You are all familiar with this creature from your third year. Can someone tell me something about the Boggart?”
A Ravenclaw raises his hand. "It shows one’s biggest fear."
"Yes, but more than that. This is a NEWT-level class. How does it do so?"
Silence. No one meets her eyes.
She huffs, unimpressed.
Riddle finally answers. "It uses a form of Legilimency. The creature has to be seen before it takes shape.”
Merrythought claps in her hands, delighted.
“Exactly! Three points to Slytherin. Now — Legilimency is a form of mind magic. We won’t go in depth today, but understanding how magical creatures interact with the mind is essential to defending oneself.”
With a hand wave she summons a blackboard and chalk.
“One must face the Boggart for it to manifest. Once it’s seen your fear, it no longer needs your eyes. That’s why they hide in dark places, waiting to strike when you’re unprepared.”
“Only the most skilled in Occlumency can defend themselves using mind magic alone. The Boggart’s magical presence is subtle — easily ignored before it’s noticed.”
“But today, we’ll focus on the non-verbal, wandless aspect of the counter-curse. Practice the Riddikulus spell on these.”
She snips with her fingers, conjuring a table full of everday objects — teacups, quills, books, a broken shoe.
Draco selects a book. It’s blank. Old. The cover is cracked and the spine nearly coming apart.
“The goal of this exercise is to make it humorous,” Merrythought says, noting their puzzled looks. “There’s nothing funny about these objects. That’s the point. You must find a way to make them ridiculous.”
“Professor?” a girl asks — Trace, if Draco remembers right. “The Boggart loses power at the sound of laughter. But is laughter really necessary?”
“A fine question, Miss Trace,” Merrythought nods approvingly. “Laughter is the most effective tool, but not the only one. Amusement will do — anything that breaks the emotional hold the fear has on you.”
She glances around. “Any other questions?”
None. The room stays quiet.
“The most difficult part,” she continues, “is transforming the fear into something harmless. The Boggart only has as much power as you give it. It can never match the original — it is limited by your imagination. Keep practicing.”
Draco looks down at the book in his hand. What transformation would be strong enough to make him laugh?
He pictures it.
A silent Riddikulus.
The book snaps into a pink, fur-covered diary with sparkles on the cover. Big, loopy letters read: Stinky Potter’s Diary. He laughs — just once — and flips open the first page.
It’s perfect. Embarrassing. Petty. But it is Potter.
“Who is Potter?” Riddle’s voice floats over his shoulder.
Draco freezes, then slams the diary shut.
“No one,” he replies too quickly.
Riddle arches a single eyebrow, but before he can press the matter, Merrythought speaks again.
“Gather ‘round, It’s time.”
“Mister Riddle, please step forward.”
“Of course, Professor.”
There’s no hint of hesitation as he walks to the front — his posture composed, movements smooth. Nothing in his expression betrays his unease.
The casket rattles violently as Riddle approaches, responding to his presence like it senses something beneath the surface.
Professor Merrythought flicks her wand. Alohomora.
The lid clicks open with a slow, metallic groan.
And… nothing.
At first glance, there’s no shape at all — just a grey shimmer, a pulsing void, orbiting itself like it’s trying to become something but can’t. It spins in place, silent at first, then crackling with disjointed whispers that don’t quite form words. Like echoes from a forgotten place.
It doesn’t take form. It doesn’t want to. It just isn’t.
Draco leans forward, trying to make sense of it. But the longer he looks, the more his chest tightens. It’s not smoke. It’s absence — not something hiding in the dark, but the dark itself. A presence that feels like a hollow space where a person should be.
And Riddle?
He goes still. Not in fear, exactly — but in recognition.
His posture stiffens. His face drains of color.
Draco watches his eyes — wide, unblinking, fixed on the swirling nothingness. Not just startled.
Terrified.
Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not for anyone else.
Then, with a twitch of his fingers and no wand at all, Riddle casts Riddikulus.
The void twists violently, compressing until it morphs into a pint-sized Dumbledore, tripping over his too-long robes, muttering gibberish about socks and lemon drops.
The class erupts in laughter.
Even Riddle smiles, faint and fleeting.
But Draco doesn’t laugh. Not really.
The Boggart hadn’t shown a creature or a monster. It had shown a void.
Tom Riddle’s greatest fear… is being nothing at all.
It’s almost funny, in a twisted way — because despite the influence Riddle clearly holds in this time, Draco had never even heard of him in his own. With the kind of presence Tom commands, one would expect at least a high-ranking Ministry position. Someone important. Visible.
But no. Draco has never seen him at any social function. Not even at the Malfoy ball — the event for any wizard of status. Not a whisper. Not a name. Nothing.
“Funny, funny,” Professor Merrythought attempts to try to sound reprimand, but the amusement in her eyes betrays her. “Let’s refrain from using teachers or students for the Riddikulus.”
A wave of muttered disappointment moves through the students, some rolling their eyes, others scoffing under their breath. The moment is loud, distracting — perfect.
Draco uses the opportunity to edge further back, hoping that the class will be over before it’s his turn.
“You,” the professor calls out, her voice slicing through the noise.
Draco freezes. He can’t see who she’s looking at.
“Yes, you.” The crowd parts, leaving Draco exposed in the open.
“Me?” he says, pointing to himself.
“New student,” she replies, nodding once. “I want to see how you perform.”
He’d jinxed it.
Draco schools his expression, burying the flicker of panic behind a practiced calm. His limbs feel heavier than they should as he walks to the front of the room, careful not to show hesitation, even though every nerve is braced for impact.
The Boggart begins to stir.
It pulls itself inward first — twisting, contorting, cycling through half-formed horrors. Voices hiss in the air, high-pitched and warped. Familiar.
Please not Nagini. Anything but Nagini.
It listens.
But it’s worse.
The Boggart swells, stretching until it matches his height — then begins to solidify.
It takes shape.
And Draco’s breath catches.
It’s him.
Or it should be.
But this vision of him is wrong — too still, too sharp around the edges. The figure is dressed in Death Eater robes and wears a mask— heavier, more ornate than any he’s ever seen. Not standard issue. Higher rank. Elite. Inner circle. The kind his aunt Bellatrix wore when she was in the mood to play. The kind Greyback never bothered to put on properly.
The figure lifts a gloved and slowly peels back the sleeve.
There it is.
The Dark Mark, bright and glowing. Proud.
Draco stares.
His feet won’t move. His mouth dry. He knows he should cast the spell, do something, but —
The Boggart lifts its head.
Then it reaches into its pocket and pulls out his wand.
No. No, no, no.
It twirls it between its fingers like a toy. The gesture is casual. Teasing. It taps the wand against his chin like it’s thinking, then traces a slow line down the edge of its mask.
The voice that follows is warped — half Bellatrix, half him.
“Does anyone want to play with me?”
"Itsy, bitsy little Draco,” it croons, like a lullaby twisted too tight. “Did you miss me?"
The laugh that follows is high and keening — a sound sharp enough to splinter bone. The figure starts to dance, spinning in wild, childlike circles, the wand still clutched in its hand like a rattle.
That’s when Draco sees it.
The blood.
Just a few drops at first — on the edge of the mask, near the mouth. Then more, trailing down the front of the robe. Spatter patterns. Old and new. Smudged fingerprints.
The walls feel too close. The air too thin. It’s like he is back at the manor.
He’s supposed to think of something funny. Something ridiculous. But his mind is blank. Everything in him screams to run.
His heart slams against his ribs, each beat louder than the last. His vision tilts. The mask is grinning. The blood is still wet.
His wand. It has his wand.
The one Potter has stolen.
He stumbles back — gasping — and bolts.
There’s a shout behind him, maybe Merrythought’s voice, but it’s muffled, distant. The classroom blurs around him as he pushes through the door and into the corridor, boots echoing off stone.
He doesn’t stop until he’s halfway down the hallway, leaning against the wall, gulping air like he’s drowning.
His hands are shaking. No — trembling. He presses the heel of his palm to his chest, willing it to slow down. Willing himself to get a grip, he counts to ten. When that barely helps, he starts listing the ingredients for Pepperup Potion — one by one, steady as he can manage. But it doesn’t drown it out. The Boggart’s voice still echoes in his ears — his own voice, twisted, laughing, and wrong.
The corridor spins. He slides down the wall, chest heaving, fists clenched in his lap. The silence presses in — until someone speaks.
“Hey.”
The voice is soft. Gentle.
Draco jerks upright, startled — expecting Riddle.
But it’s a boy. Tall, broad-shouldered, with kind eyes and a slightly crooked smile. A Hufflepuff.
“I, uh… I saw you running. You alright?”
Draco doesn’t respond. He can’t. His throat is tight, mouth dry. He shakes his head once — barely a movement — but it’s enough.
“Okay,” the boy says, carefully, hands slightly raised like he’s approaching a wild creature. “No worries. Just breathe. In and out, alright?”
He steps closer, slowly, and drops into a crouch beside Draco, not touching him, not crowding him.
“Inhale. Four seconds. Hold. Exhale. Four seconds.”
Draco tries.
It helps. Not much, but enough to bring the floor back under his feet.
“I’m Arthur, by the way. Arthur Diggory.”
Draco blinks. That name—Diggory.
Related to Cedric?
Of course. The same softness around the edges. The same solid, dependable presence.
“I’m—”
“Draco. Yeah, I know.” Arthur smiles, not unkindly. “You’ve made a bit of a splash.”
Draco huffs — halfway between a laugh and a scoff.
“Listen,” Arthur says, after a beat. “I could walk you back to the Slytherin common room if you want. Or… not.”
Draco flinches at the mention. The thought of seeing Riddle — of seeing anyone — makes his stomach twist.
Arthur picks up on it immediately.
“Alright. Other option. Come with me.”
Draco looks up, confused.
“To Hufflepuff,” Arthur says simply. “We’ve got a quiet common room and a stash of Puffroot. You look like you could use both.”
Draco stares at him.
“You’re inviting a Slytherin into your common room?”
Arthur shrugs. “You’re not really one of them, are you?”
Draco doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
After a long moment, he nods.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Arthur stands and offers his hand. Draco hesitates — then takes it.
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, the weight in his chest loosens just a little.