boggart
You received the letter from Dumbledore earlier in the afternoon; an annoyed Ravenclaw shoved it into your hand in a crowded corridor when you were between classes. Sirius, who had been in step beside you, moved even closer to hover over your shoulder, his warmth radiating.
“Ooh, another secret message for our resident genius.”
You gave him a quick elbow to the stomach, forcing down a smile when he took a step back and dramatically groaned in faux pain. Remus raised a brow at you.
“Another one?”
“They said something about meeting today for scheduling,” you shrugged, inspecting the paper. It wasn’t McGonagall’s seal this time- it was an intricate pattern stamped into deep violet wax. You raised an eyebrow, breaking the thick seal; the letter was as brief as the last one, but on heavier parchment. The handwriting was elegantly swooping purple cursive, reading:
I hope you have had ample time to ponder your acceptance, or denial, of the internship opportunity at St. Mungo’s over the past few days. Please arrive at the Headmaster’s office at seven o’clock this evening as previously discussed.
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. The gargoyle holds a grudge.
“You haven’t accepted it yet?” Remus asks, astonished.
“Yeah, uh, they wanted me to consider it for a while. It’s a-” you scramble for a second, “-really… intense program.”
“Huh. Well, you’re going to accept, aren’t you?” Sirius asks, rubbing his ribs.
“I’d be an idiot if I didn’t.”
The headmaster’s office is just as it was last week- countless artifacts, intricate detailing, and a roaring hearth. The walls are covered in overcrowded shelves and portraits. Two ornate armchairs stand proudly in front of the dark-bricked fireplace, with two smaller chairs in front of the Headmaster’s desk. The front of the desk is made of carved wood and gold, the surface overflowing with documents, nicknacks, pouches, quills, and ink pots.
Dumbledore sits behind it, lost in the chaos of the desk, spectacles low on his nose as he squints at an obscenely long scroll. You take a few steps in, your footfall light and quiet under the murmur of the crackling fireplace. Your eyes search for McGonagall, but you seem to be alone with the wizard. The headmaster’s gaze flicks up to you, and his lips twitch up to a smile underneath his greying beard.
“I trust Madame Pomfrey has mended your shoulder completely, yes?”
You blink, caught off guard, glancing down at the previously injured arm, “Uh, yeah- yes, sir. How did you…?”
“Very little occurs in Hogwarts that I do not hear or see, my dear. I’m quite the gossip. Sit,” he gestures to one of the midnight blue chairs in front of his desk, placing the scroll down. He rubs his forehead, looking uncharacteristically exhausted. You promptly obey his command, spine straight with tension.
“I’m afraid Professor McGonagall is running behind schedule. She will join us in a moment. However, I’d like to offer my sincerest apologies for the incident you were victim to on Friday,” Dumbledore says, his even tone falling over you like a blanket. His light eyes look sincere, inspecting you with gentle care as he adjusts his glasses.
“Thank you,” you say, a bit taken aback by his kindness, “but it’s no one’s fault. It’s nothing.”
“I take accountability for all injuries on Hogwarts grounds. Your safety is my responsibility. Nevertheless...” he sighs, steepling his fingers, leaning back in his chair, “well, I’m afraid that your statement of 'it's no one's fault' may not be true.”
Your eyebrows furrow, “Sorry, what do you…”
The fireplace begins to spit loudly, orange flame rearing to lick up the brick, multicolor sparks shooting out at an alarming speed- suddenly, the blaze twists into an acid green color, and McGonagall appears, stepping onto the hearth in a swirl of ash and robes. The fire dies down, curling in on itself like a meek animal. The professor in front of it glances around the office, dusting soot off of her travel cloak. She appears frazzled, her bun loose, flyaway hairs framing her tense face. One of her arms is weighed down with what looks like a hefty leather medical bag. Her eyes land on you, then Dumbledore. Her lips stay in a firm, concerned line.
“Hello, Minerva,” the headmaster says. She ignores his greeting, walking to put the bag down carefully on his desk. She sighs, pursing her lips as she takes off her cloak, folding it neatly on the back of the chair beside you.
“I’ll be frank, if you’ll excuse me, dear,” she says, eyeing you wearily, “but the situation is more dire than we thought. There are prying eyes and ears in the castle. I don’t mean to frighten you, but it’s my belief we should be upfront with each other from now on.” When were they not upfront with you? Minerva’s watery eyes are flicking between yourself and the headmaster as she rigidly moves to sit.
Dumbledore folds his hands on the desk, looking contemplatively at you. “Before we continue, I need you to understand that rejecting our offer will not affect our efforts to keep you safe-”
“I’m joining,” you interrupt, unable to restrain yourself. Your head is spinning. You feel drunk with confusion and shock and adrenaline. You ache for more information- the situation is more dire than we thought. He smiles at you gently.
“I had a feeling you would say so,” the headmaster says.
Minerva’s shoulders slump minutely from her typically perfect posture- with relief or dejection, you cannot tell. She remains silent, and when you look over to her, she’s glaring at the leather bag. You swear you see it twitch.
“Minerva has been visiting a friend of ours in London- a specialist in cursed objects.”
You nod slowly, head racing. “Cursed- you think-”
“We know the bludger that struck you was cursed by someone on Hogwarts grounds. Most likely due to your meeting with us,” Minerva says matter-of-factly, gesturing to the bag before sighing, “what a bloody mess. Pardon me,” she nods to you.
You laugh, forced and weak and small in the high-ceilinged chamber; that’s the crudest you’ve heard McGonagall be. It’s yet another jarring moment of clarity. A week ago you complained of boredom. Yet, suddenly, your professors are cursing alongside you, mutually mourning the belief of Hogwarts as ‘the safest place in the world’.
You stare at the bag housing the bludger. A minuscule, guilt-ridden part of you is thrilled. Finally, something interesting- you quickly push that thought down, disgusted with yourself. People are being killed, and you’re on the edge of your seat for entertainment, pleased that you’re in the middle of it. You’re letting a death wish, an ache for approval and validation, blind you to the real reason you’re here. You right yourself, clearing your throat. You want to help, not to die.
Dumbledore sits back in his chair, looking at the fireplace wistfully. "Do not fret- extensive defense charms have been added to this room. We should no longer worry about prying eyes and ears. Observation outside of this room, however, is unavoidable."
“We thought we had more time to prepare you,” Minerva says softly, looking at you with sorrowful eyes. That guilt crawls back up your throat.
“It would’ve happened sooner or later,” you say, blinking, attempting to gather yourself with a breath. “How was the bludger cursed? By who?” you ask, swallowing thickly.
“Gilmore was unable to track the caster, but she was able to decipher the work. It’s crude, dark magic; it was intended to target one individual in particular, to attack when within a certain range. Something like that wouldn’t require skill to cast, just detailed instruction and willpower.”
“So it could’ve been anyone?”
“It appears so,” Dumbledore rumbles, standing to slowly pace in front of the hearth, hands clasped behind his back. “I trust my staff with my life- I believe every member to be of true character. An open mind is respectable, yet a student under the woes of manipulation may be more likely.”
“A student, ” McGonagall says, rubbing her temples. “Good Godric, Albus.”
“Do you remember anything of note the day it occurred? Anyone acting strangely?” Dumbledore asks, looking at you intensely as he walks. You rack your brain: the cold, your breath blooming in front of you, James’s prideful voice, Remus expressing his concern, Sirius looking windswept-
Collins. “There was a student, Collins? They were the one to hit the bludger before it…” you trail off, deep in thought. You barely remember the kid- you’re in very different circles. You’ve never spared them a second glance. “I don’t know them at all, though. I don’t see why they’d do something like this, and it might have just been hit into range by chance.”
Minerva nods slowly, “They’re a fine student, they don’t appear to be dangerous- but I’ll pay more attention to them. Anyone else?”
You squint, shaking your head, memory blurry, “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure the fields were empty except for the people trying out, me, and Remus.”
Dumbledore stops his pacing, turning to face you. “There is little to be done at the moment without attracting suspicion- it’s obvious the guilty party is already watching you.” Goosebumps crawl up your neck. “It’s best if you continue on as normal and learn defensive measures here, while Minerva and I keep a watchful eye on the student body. I’m sorry to say this, my dear, but avoid time alone and stay vigilant. I would have never implicated you in this if I expected such a sudden reaction. I was a fool to think we had more time, or that Voldemort’s power had not yet seeped into Hogwarts’s grounds.”
The headmaster’s shoulders are slumped, the flames behind him casting a halo around his silhouette. His typically lively eyes are stifled behind his slipping spectacles, and his bushy eyebrows are furrowed. You shake your head.
“It’s not your fault,” you assure him. “There’s worlds of evil outside of Hogwarts. It’s bound to spread. I’m glad I can help.”
Minerva wrings her gloves in her lap, “You’re right, my dear. You’re right- that’s why we should begin as soon as possible. Albus?”
“Ah, yes,” he replies, shaking his head minutely, “Come, child.”
He waves for you to stand beside him. Swiftly procuring his wand, he flicks it in the air with flair- a large, ancient-looking golden trunk appears in the middle of his office.
You furrow your brows, “What-” you’re cut off by the clamorous crash of the trunk shaking furiously, the locked lid threatening to break.
“You’ve studied boggarts in Defense Against the Dark Arts, correct?”
Your chest tightens in an odd mixture of curiosity, excitement, and fear. “Yes, sir. A while ago- but I thought they weren’t allowed in Hogwarts.”
“They’re typically not,” McGonagall says, standing against the Headmaster’s desk, folding her arms tightly, “but it’s necessary in this case.” She sounds like she’s attempting to convince herself.
“We’ve acquired a method to sharpen your defensive skills without the danger of reality. However, it is imperative we observe you under pressure first, to gauge for appropriate lessons,” Dumbledore explains calmly. You furrow your eyebrows.
“Without reality…?”
McGonagall nods tersely, “A tonic to put you in a controlled, dream-like state. It’s perfectly safe. The Department of Mysteries uses it for training purposes as well.”
You suddenly feel like a specimen under a microscope, a mouse in a maze. They’re studying you, eyeing every move. The Department of Mysteries deals with the most secretive, dangerous aspects of the wizarding world- what the hell will you be doing? You try to shake away the fear that crawls up your throat.
It’s for the best, you remind yourself, you’re doing what’s right.
You’ll finally have a purpose.
“Are you ready?” Dumbledore says, moving to stand alongside Minerva. Her head snaps to him,
“Don’t you think she needs instruc-”
“I’m ready,” you cut her off, facing the trunk, pushing your shoulders back. You need to prove yourself- you need to show her you’re not a child. He flicks his wand, and the lid flies open.
A red-stained hand grasps the lip of the trunk- you can feel who it is, somewhere deep in your gut, before he even shows his face. Remus’s mousey hair is plastered to his head with thick, congealed blood. He whimpers as rises into sight. His emaciated body is covered in grotesque, deep lacerations, pain twisting his features into something almost unrecognizable. He grips at a deep wound in his abdomen as he stumbles, knees hitting the stones painfully. It’s not real, you tell yourself, fists clenching at your sides. He looks up at you, tears in his hazel eyes, hand reaching out for yours. Your throat feels like it’s closing as you draw your wand.
“You… why didn’t you…” he cries, teeth a slippery red, “You could have…”
You know, deep inside, that you could have helped him. One way or another, this is your fault.
“Ridiculous,” you exhale, your voice weak and shaky.
In a flash of twisting mass, Remus’s bloody body transforms. Sirius looms over you, smirking, his arms crossed, his eyebrow raised. You blink in surprise. He eyes you with disdain.
“What?” he says, echoing voice hovering somewhere between annoyance and pity, “I’d never actually want to talk to you- are you fucking stupid? Obviously, it’s a joke, it’s all a joke,” he laughs humorlessly. “Aw, did Remmy not tell his little-”
“Ridiculous!” you cry, embarrassment hot and leaden in your throat, mortified that your superiors saw something so childish. The feeling disappears in a moment when the boggart shifts once again.
Your mother, a disgusted look twisting her features, slowly pushes up her sleeves, the dark mark proudly on display as she raises her wand-
“You petulant little girl-”
“Ridiculous!”
Your mother’s wand turns into a bouquet of clownish flowers, which she begins to furiously shake in frustration. With a screeching cry, fluorescent petals fly around the office, obscuring her from view; the boggart is reduced to nothing more than a twisting, twirling mass of color. You wrinkle your nose in distaste as you maneuver your wand to spell the beast back into the trunk, the lock clicking with finality. The only sound is the crackling fireplace behind you. You keep your eyes fixed on the trunk.
You’re not sure what you were expecting. Remus being hurt, sure; that’s been the subject of your nightmares for years. But Sirius? You weren’t prepared for the kick to the stomach you felt when you heard his abuse, despite the burning embarrassment of that being one of your worst fears.
Your mother… your mother was another issue. You didn’t want Dumbledore and McGonagall to know about your family, even though one can easily assume your parents’ stances. Your family has pureblood lineage as far back as ancient records hold, your last name gruesomely carved into wizarding history alongside names like Black or Malfoy. Yet, your thoughts still wander to the obvious- why would Dumbledore risk recruiting the child of a death eater?
“Well done.”
You take a deep breath before looking over at the two professors. To your shock, Dumbledore’s eyes are twinkling with pride and intrigue, a small smile gracing his tilted head. Warmth spreads over you at his approval. You mirror his smile weakly.
McGonagall, on the other hand, is as pale as a sheet; she almost looks scared.
“Thank you.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own- it’s too distant, too strong to have come from your weary vocal chords. You feel lightheaded.
“You’re dismissed. We will discuss this with you later. Straight to bed,” Minerva orders shakily.
You can’t find it within yourself to care why she seems so upset. Are you really that freakish to her? What did she expect anyway, for your deepest fears to be clowns? Spiders? The dark? Whatever- you did it, and the headmaster is looking at you with a curious respect, and he doesn’t seem to mind your tainted heritage.
You give her a pleased smile, but she doesn’t return the favor.
---
Remus’s mangled body in front of you, your hands slick and hot and red, your parents’ wicked grins, the dark mark slithering up your forearm- you wake up as if you’re breaking the surface of the Great Lake, gasping for breath, wide-eyed and shivering. Grasping at your arm, you shove the blankets off of your overstimulated body, eyes searching for the tattoo- you slump in relief at your skin’s blankness. Swallowing thickly, you take shaky breaths as you shuffle to rest against your headboard. With the movement, you’re made aware of the sweat that uncomfortably clings your clothes to your skin; you grimace and peel off your shirt, throwing it to the foot of your bed. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to burn the gorey image of Remus out of your mind, pressing your palms into your eyelids. Your head lulls back to hit the wood with a dull thunk, and your heart begins to slow.
Nightmares aren’t new to you. You’ve never been able to sleep well, but after your encounter with the boggart they started happening every night. You feel like a fool- it’s fake, it’s just some beast that pries into your psyche, not a prophecy. You shouldn’t be having night terrors like you did as a child. Nevertheless, you’ve woken up gasping for air for the last few days. The exhaustion has been wearing at you slowly; you’ve been getting headaches, your mood is unstable, and you constantly feel on edge despite your best efforts. It probably doesn’t help that you’re supposed to have another lesson tomorrow. The lonesome anticipation you’re subjected to has been slowly eating you alive. You move a shaky hand to rub against your temple. Your shoulder still aches, a sore reminder of the dark warning someone in the castle sent you.
Collins approached you in the common room earlier in the evening. You were spending your Friday night lounging around with Remus, Sirius, and James; you and Remus were on the overstuffed couch in front of the fire, the other two sitting across from each other on the floor to play chess. Sirius sat in front of you with his back pressed against the base of the sofa; you were peering over his shoulder, watching him poorly strategize. Remus was pretending to read a book, watching the game out of the corner of his eye.
James was loudly celebrating his third win against Sirius when Collins appeared, running their fingers through their straw colored hair, setting their shoulders back proudly. They cleared their throat pointedly, staring at you, inadvertently silencing the boys. Sirius’s head snapped over to the noise, and his face immediately fell into a scowl.
“Hey,” their pale eyes flicked between yours and Sirius’s, “I wanted to say sorry about the, uh…” they trailed off, nodding to your shoulder, uncomfortable under Sirius’s blatant scrutiny.
“Oh, it’s no problem,” you shrugged, shocked at their apology, “it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah- I just hope it didn’t mess up my spot on the team,” they added, immediately redirecting their attention to James and Sirius. You rolled your eyes internally. You saw what Sirius was talking about- their self interest was all-encompassing. They almost remind you of Sirius, actually, if he was even more of a prick. James opened his mouth to respond, but Sirius cut him off sharply,
“Are you serious, mate?” he scoffed. Collins blinked in shock. You raised an eyebrow.
“Er- yeah?” they said, sporting an awkward, confused half-smile. Their eyes searched the room, looking for an out. They didn’t find one.
“Kind of a shite apology for someone who doesn’t want to mess up their spot on the team, don’t you think?” Sirius drawled, sitting up in front of you. It’s almost as if he was shielding you from Collins’ view- you couldn’t see his face, but his shoulders were tense, voice dripping with annoyance, “She spent the weekend in the hospital wing, and that’s all you’ve got? Do you even know her name?”
You shared wide-eyed looks with James and Remus.
Collins gaped at Sirius for a moment, before stuttering at you, “Well- no, sorry, uh, what was it, again?”
Sirius scoffed loudly, shaking his head, turning away from him. A sarcastic grin stretched his face unnaturally. You quickly told them your name. They nodded uncomfortably, eyes round with shock, repeating it back to you, “I really am sorry-”
“See you later, Collins,” Sirius snapped, not sparing them another glance. They huffed, flabbergasted, then stalked away, shaking their head as they went.
“Bye, Collins!” James called cheerily. They didn’t turn around.
You smacked Sirius over the head from your spot behind him.
“What the hell was that?” you hissed. He tilted his head back to look at you, his dark hair falling over your curled up legs, residual anger still flickering in his eyes.
“They’re a prick! Didn’t you see how they were just trying to save face?”
You rolled your eyes, “I don’t care, Sirius, and it wasn’t their fault, anyway.”
“They did kind of deserve it,” James chipped in, “but damn, mate.”
Sirius worked his jaw, shrugging stubbornly.
“I didn’t realize you adopted a guard dog,” Remus teased you, looking back down at his book.
“Certainly smells like one,” James jabbed lightheartedly. Sirius threw a pawn at his forehead.
You don’t think it was Collins who cursed the bludger. They’re a prick, sure, but they don’t seem violent, you’ve never heard them say anything bigoted, and you doubt they’d do anything to mess up their shot at quidditch fame. You almost feel sorry for them, after the verbal beating they got from Sirius.
You stare up at the crimson ceiling of your four-poster, listening to Lily’s gentle snores. You’re not going to be able to go back to sleep. You debate on reading to fill the time, but you feel restless; your legs are aching to move. Carefully pulling back the curtain around your bed, you slip out, cringing at the cold stones underneath your feet. You change into a clean pair of clothes in silence, and you head downstairs on your tiptoes, your shoes grasped in one hand. You reach the portrait, reaching to push it open-
“Boo,” a familiar voice whispers in your ear, breath warm and jarring, hands grabbing your waist. You jump, slapping a hand over your mouth to partially restrain your startled cry, spinning to break away from your attacker’s grasp with ease. You hit Sirius’s chest with your sneakers as he pulls off the invisibility cloak, fuming at his stifled laughter, your face hot.
“Will you stop sneaking up on me?” you hiss, glaring up at him. He’s a lot closer than you thought he would be, your faces inches away, your head tilted up to meet his eyes. He grins down at you, face bright.
“It’s just so easy,” he drawls, smile settling to a smirk. You take a step back, your heel brushing the wall. He’s still too close- you can smell the woody cologne and cigarette smoke on his dark t-shirt.
“What are you even doing awake?” you swallow thickly.
He runs a hand through his hair, “I couldn’t sleep. I was going to go on a walk.”
“So was I,” you say before side stepping him to sit in an armchair. You avoid his eyes as you lace up your shoes. “I’ll stay out of your way-”
“Want to come with me?” he cuts you off, a lilt in his voice, “I was going to check out the Room of Requirement.”
“The what?” you look over your shoulder, brows furrowed. You know the castle like the back of your hand, but you’ve never heard of anything like that.
“It’s a secret room on the seventh floor. I just found it, I was gonna save it to show the boys this weekend, but…” he shrugs, a smug expression on his face. Damn it. Now you’re curious. The last thing you want right now is to be around Sirius, with his mind-fogging cologne and dizzying smile, but you just can’t pass up an opportunity to explore the castle. You huff, crossing your arms and standing.
“Alright. It better be good.”
“Trust me,” he says, grinning, “it is.”