Facing your fears
As Harry finally gets to explain to them, Sirius Black is apparently after his head. Lupin believes he’s innocent of the crimes he went to Azkaban for, but can’t attest to his state of mind now. Twelve years in Azkaban does not a well-balanced man make. Harry’s ready to believe Lupin right off the bat and is fully on board with his father’s best friend being the one that tragically took the fall for the real traitor, a man by the name of Peter Pettigrew. It’s all very dramatic. Arthur’s not sure what to think. There are a thousand possible truths up in the air here. They need more information they can trust. At least Harry’s happy.
Arthur thinks he’ll be happy to be out of the infirmary, but he almost isn’t when he takes one step out of the place and is immediately hounded. Where did all these preteen girls come from, the woodwork? There are even a few from upper classes asking him if his arm’s alright (yes), if it’s true he broke it in six places (no), if he knows how brave he is for jumping in front of Creed like that (what?). He can barely get to class through the crowd of them. Some of them pull pens out and sign his bandages without asking (you’re supposed to sign casts, not bandages, he’ll throw these out before long). It takes a fantastic distraction from the Weasley twins to disperse them. They are invaluable allies to have.
He makes it to lunch, and then he and the skeleton crew have their first lesson with Lupin. Harry’s near vibrating in his seat with excitement, pulling smiles from everyone, even Draco. Amongst friends, Arthur just about manages to forget the fanclub he seems to have picked up, but they haven’t forgotten him. Arthur spends most of the trip to Defense ducking behind pillars to avoid them.
Arthur doesn't realise how worried he is until he gets to the classroom and finds it in completely reasonable order. No mounted Zouwus, no framed awards, no bullshit. The room is ringed with glass domed specimens, properly kept for observation. The light glows through them– golden amber, pickled claws, polished bones, clear-scaled wings– each with a purpose. Posters with intricate hand-drawn diagrams plaster the walls, and all the subjects portrayed are relevant and well-presented. This guy might actually know what he’s doing.
Lupin shows up a minute or two after everyone’s seated. He’s a shade less pale than he was, his endless sea of freckles brightened by his warm brown colour scheme. A couple square meals have done wonders for the man.
"Good afternoon," he says in his soft timbre. There is a pleasant roughness to it that makes Arthur think he must’ve had a few smokes in his day. "Would you please put all your books back in your bags. Today's will be a practical lesson. You will need only your wands."
A few curious looks are exchanged as the class aquiesces. A practical defence lesson? They haven’t had one of those yet, discounting the great pixie catastrophe of second year.
Surprising them further, Lupin actually leads them out of the classroom and down the hall. There’s a brief encounter with Peeves, who ends up with the chewing gum he’d been sticking into a keyhole up his left nostril, courtesy of Lupin. That gives the class a bit to talk about. Arthur takes note of it himself. Interestingly, Peeves went straight to taunting Lupin when he saw him, reverting to a jeer that almost sounded familiar rolling off his tongue. Peeves doesn’t usually bother staff members, but he was only too happy to stick it to Lupin. Perhaps they knew each other from Lupin’s school years.
He leads them off to the staffroom, which most students haven’t yet seen. It’s nothing special, just a furnished room of mismatched chairs and a kettle. Lupin ignores the children looking around as if it’s the forbidden ninth wonder of the world and heads straight for the large mahogany wardrobe in the corner where the staff probably keep their spare robes. He settles beside it, masterfully concealing a smirk when it wobbles as if something’s hit the inside and a few students jump.
"Nothing to worry about," he promises calmly. "There's a boggart in there."
Arthur uncrosses his arms at once. A boggart? That’s pretty serious for third years. Boggarts aren’t things that you face before graduating, and then you don’t really see them outside of specialised competency training. If Lupin’s going to use one to teach a third-year class, he’d better be as competent as he presents.
‘Don’t worry, this is completely optional,’ Lupin says, raising his voice slightly over the alarmed buzz of hissed discussion his words have inspired. He looks over them all seriously and makes sure he’s heard. The whispers die down as they turn back to listen. ‘You are under no obligation to do this. A boggart is no joke, but this is an opportunity to learn how to deal with one in a safe, regulated environment. There is no shame in bowing out of this activity, but I highly recommend going for it if you think you can. There is no risk to you, and there’s nothing quite like beating your demons.’ Finally, a hint of the regular humorous twinkle in his eyes returns, and Arthur notes that it takes nothing from the surety he’s injected his audience with. If he can back it up, Arthur might like this guy.
To Arthur’s complete shock, Harry raises his hand and asks what a boggart is. Arthur can count on one hand the times Harry’s raised his hand, and each of them occurred after much deliberation and with the reasoning that there was no other option than to ask directly at the time. This time, Harry could’ve easily whispered his question to his friends, or waited for context clues to provide him with an answer. Merlin was already leaning in to explain when he’d thrown his hand up.
Ooh, Lupin had better be an honest-to-gods angel, or he won’t deserve Harry’s adoration and Arthur will have to handle him.
Lupin’s called on Hermione to answer Harry’s question and is now giving a quick rundown as to the nature of boggarts. Once that’s done, he gets to the crux of the lesson.
‘The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing. We will practise the charm without wands first. After me, please ... Riddikulus!’
‘Riddikulus!’ the class chimes back.
‘Good,’ the professor lauds. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in. Now, if you’d like to be brave and try your hand at the boggart now, please step to the front. Otherwise, shuffle back, but make sure you can still see. If any of you want to give it a go, but maybe not in front of your friends, no worries– my office hours are up on my door, you can come see me anytime and you’ll get your go. Fear can be very personal; be sure of yourself before you make a decision. And one last thing,’ Lupin waits for everyone to look at him before levelling them again with a serious look. ‘If I hear of anyone taking advantage of what they see here today, there will be severe consequences. We’re all in this together, understand? Be respectful. Agreed?’
A chastised murmur. Lupin frowns.
‘We’re not doing a thing until you’ve all agreed. So, agreed?’
This time the class speaks up more surely. He keeps their attention for a pregnant moment. Then he melts back into jovialness. ‘Alright then. Make a line!’
Hermione exchanges a look with the boys and heads off to the front of the class. She’s the first one to make her decision, everyone else hovering around uncertainly. Harry’s face screws up with determination and he’s the second to follow her. Ron battles with himself, but in the end he trails after.
Arthur looks to Merlin. It would probably be best to know what their boggarts would be in the event of encountering one so they aren’t completely blind-sided. Having said that, if they step up and meet the thing in front of a class of high-schoolers, it’s not gonna be a spider or a failed test they face. Even if they take Lupin up on his offer of office hours, he’ll still have to be present to observe, which could lead to questions about the form the boggart takes. Boggarts are great for weeding out abused or traumatised kids, and if their manifested fears are suspicious, there will be an investigation.
While they think about it, Draco moves off to the back of the room to watch. After a few more moments’ contemplation, they follow. They’ll just have to deal with it if it comes up.
‘You guys aren’t doing it?’ A surprised Neville asks, cautiously shuffling closer with a few anxious glances at Draco, like he might bite.
‘Nope. It’s a bit heavy for first thing in the morning,’ Arthur says casually, shifting to let Neville into their little group. He sends the boy a smile and Neville sends a heartened one back.
‘I thought for sure you guys would try. Especially you, Arthur,’ he admits. Arthur shrugs. ‘I… I was thinking…’ he sends another half-glance Draco’s way. ‘Maybe I’d try later… in private, you know.’
‘That’s the spirit, Neville!’ Arthur cries, throwing an arm around the boy. Will Longbottom never cease to amaze him? Just as he’s reflecting that no, probably not, Neville, with the hesitance of a deer approaching a lion, nods shakily to Draco.
‘Do you… think you’ll t-try at some point, M-Malfoy?’
Merlin positively beams. Arthur tries to hold in a shout of disbelief, just managing not to crush Neville in his pride. Draco, for his part, looks as if he’s been whacked in the face with a live fish. His eyes are wide as saucers, mouth gaping at Neville for long enough that the poor boy starts stuttering apologies.
‘S-sorry, I shouldn’t have asked, don’t worryIdidn’tmeanto–’
‘I think,’ Draco interrupts, ‘I’d rather not know myself that well.’ Now it’s Neville’s turn to stare. Draco doesn’t tolerate that for long either, jutting his chin out importantly. ‘Well? What about you, Longbottom? Why don’t you go now?’
Neville immediately turns his face to the floor, shuffling his feet and shrinking. He mumbles self-consciously, and Arthur’s delight wanes.
‘Nevermind. That was insensitive. Apologies,’ Draco says stiffly, looking deliberately forward. He fakes casualness well, but Arthur can see the tension in his shoulders.
‘N-no problem,’ Neville bumbles dazedly, staring at the side of Draco’s face like he fell from the sky. They all sit in the shock for a minute, until Draco gets sick of being goggled at and shoots Neville a side-eye that sends him reeling for anything else to look at.
The class is surprisingly uneventful after that. The boggart takes the form of a snake, a bat, a rather horrific clown, and in Ron’s case, a giant spider. They’re all still laughing at it flailing around in its ill-fitting roller skates when Harry steps up.
The boggart stalls. It flickers through several fractions of things– a half-formed cupboard with a slanted roof, like it’s in an attic or under some stairs. The keyhole blooms into a bulging eye, and the pupil melts into a slit in a blood-red iris that Arthur unhappily recognises. Then the door frosts over into the sliding door of the Hogwarts express, and the latch turns. A grotesquely glistening, dead black hand emerges like impending doom from the crack, slowly widening…
And then it folds into itself, a cloud cover pulling back to reveal a cratered crystal ball, the surface opaque– wait, Arthur’s an idiot. That’s the moon. Lupin’s jumped forward.
‘Riddikulus,’ the professor intones lazily. Arthur is sorry to see a seemingly good man so accustomed to fear, but it certainly qualifies him for his job. He did well to step in when he did. Harry seems fine, although a little shocked to have been pulled out of intensity so fast. He blinks as Parvati finishes the creature off with one more Ridikulus and it pops like a balloon, leaving only the smell of ozone behind.
‘R– sir? What happened?’ asks Harry.
‘That, Harry, is what a confused boggart looks like. Normally, it takes multiple people or many rapid-fire shifts to get it to that state, but I think you just stumped it. Then again, it was working overtime with the whole class. At any rate!’ Lupin claps his hands together and looks over the class proudly. ‘Well done everyone! Let me see... five house points for every person to tackle the boggart -- ten for Parvati because she did it twice... and five each to Hermione and Harry for answering questions earlier. Homework, kindly read the chapter on boggarts and summarise it for me, to be handed in on Monday. That will be all."
The class piles out, buzzing excitedly about the lesson. Even those who only watched seem to have caught the contagious cheer. Harry looks a little bummed, though.
‘Psst, Potter. What’s wrong?’
Harry looks up at Draco and shakes his head. In another moment though, he comes out with it. ‘Why’d professor Lupin step in front of me? Did he think I couldn’t take it?’
‘He seems far too good a judge of character for that,’ Draco sniffs. Harry’s cheeks heat, even as the slytherin puts his nose in the air and marches forward, feigning disinterest.
‘Ask him about it later,’ Merlin suggests. Harry hums.
👁️🗨️🚪
Time rolls on quickly. Draco would like to take each day away from home as a distraction, but he just feels like he’s dragging out his own doom. It’s so easy to feel hopeless. He can’t see a way out, really– not one he likes. He’s scared. Even as he grows more and more sure of himself by the day, he is scared to change like he’s been changing all year. He’s as excited as he is scared of what will never be the same. What terrifies him most is that he has no control over it. He’d like to say he knows what he’s doing, taking this stand, but he doesn’t. He can’t wholly predict the far-reaching implications of this, or the consequences they will have. Are having. He tries and tries to reason out every possible future, makes plans A through Z and then A.1 through Z.1., and still he feels like he’s walking blindly over a cliff.
He does not know what the right thing to do is. And there is no course of action he can take that will make it so he does.
He’s almost glad when his mother writes him about it. Almost. It should be a relief to end the endless stretch of waiting for the axe to fall, but he feels sick. In fact, he throws up. Twice. The second time, Poppy catches him, and she’s worried. He doesn’t know what to tell her.
Mum’s heard that he’s stopped cutting his hair. She’s going to visit this weekend. She’s not bringing father.
On Friday night, Draco asks Merlin to come by his dorm again. He reads to the little black cat well into the night out of self-preservation. Merlin must sense something’s wrong, because he doesn’t try to get him to sleep.
‘Mum’s coming today,’ he admits just before the dawn breaks. ‘About…’
Merlin shoots up in place, blue eyes wide and unblinking. He pats his paw in a worried stutter against Draco’s hand, sees that Draco’s barely holding it together, and slides in between his arms. Draco doesn’t even have it in him to feel pathetic about breaking down and crying into Merlin’s fur until well after he’s settled. Even after the fact, he feels he has bigger problems than his own patheticness.
Draco doesn’t go to breakfast. Merlin smuggles him a scone, and he almost gets half of it down. It tastes like cardboard.
‘Whatever happens, Draco,’ Merlin says as seriously as he’s ever said anything, ‘you have us. You have somewhere to come back to, and people who love you no matter what. Okay?’
Draco memorises those words, in that order, and the exact way Merlin says them. He repeats them until they’re tattooed on the inner walls of his brain. He’s almost feeling half alright when he meets his mother in the visitor’s courtyard. He watches as closely as he’s ever watched her for her reaction on seeing him. She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes widen and mist over, stance freezing slightly, shoulders rising imperceptibly with a silent intake of breath, but she does not flinch.
Draco keeps watching as he crosses to her. He wants to run to her, run away, he doesn’t know. He loves his mother. She has to accept this, or… he doesn’t know what he’ll do.
She doesn’t say anything until he’s there in front of her. He doesn’t say anything either. Her eyes rake over him just as his rake over her for signs, things she doesn’t want to miss. Then, hesitantly, her hand raises to brush a lock of hair behind his ear.
‘Keep your hair out of your face, Draco. You’re too handsome to hide. Chin up,’ she coaches, like nothing’s changed. Draco complies before she’s gotten the order out. She smiles, tight-lipped, and gives a short nod of approval. Then she takes his hand, and they walk.
She takes him into Hogsmeade, asking him about schoolwork and how his new friends are, if he’s being treated well. He tells her everything except what he should. Then again, she isn’t asking. Maybe they’re both afraid. They go to Brews and Stews, like usual, snickering at the tackiness of Madam Puddifoot's as they pass– like usual. They sit at their usual table in the back and order their usual elderflower tea with the rose almond biscuits they both like. He asks her if he got her velvet evening dress tailored the way she wanted, and which of her shoes would be best to wear it with. She tells him that he must be extra careful of how his hair falls if he’s going to keep it long, and that he should consider trying it in tied back styles. She says she’ll have more suitable hair products and a range of ribbons sent to him. He tells her that the new DADA teacher seems genuinely decent, despite the state of his robes (honestly, mum, they’re appalling) and he’s glad Harry’s met someone who knew his parents.
‘Are they being good to you, Draco?’ she asks, covering his hand with hers. ‘Your new friends?’
Draco nods, smiling. ‘They’re hardly what father would call decent company, but they are good, mum. Really good. They make me happy. They’re there for me. I’ve really needed that, lately.’
He looks up and meets her eyes. Hers flicker down to the table, and a small, sad sigh escapes her.
‘Tell me why you stopped cutting your hair,’ she says with no particular tone. Her hands have tightened around his, so he can’t pull away. He swallows.
‘I had my potions tested, and found out what they did. What they were for. Em and Poppy helped me wean myself off them safely… and I don’t take them anymore.’
A tiny gasp. Draco makes himself look up at her. Her eyes are wide, almost afraid. Concerned. Like he’s said something outrageous and she needs to correct him before anyone else hears. But she doesn’t. She blinks away the wetness in her eyes and nods shakily.
‘Is that a final decision you’ve made, or are you still thinking about it?’ she asks.
Is he still thinking about it? Draco wants to scoff, but it’ll come out a sob. All he’s done is think about it. He’s thought about it ‘til he’s been sick, and he’s gotten nowhere, ‘cause he doesn’t have all the information he should have to make a decision.
‘Honestly mum, I… I don’t know. But I want the choice. If I keep taking those potions, I won’t have the choice. Some of the effects are already irreversible. I think… that’s what I’m most angry about. I understand why he… why you did it. I just wish you’d told me. I wish I was told who I was before I was told who I had to be.’
Narcissa nods. Her lip stiffens against two tears that roll silently down her cheeks, one after the other. It breaks Draco’s heart. Despite himself, he runs his thumb over her knuckles. When she looks back up at him, it’s with a profound respect, a boatload of love, and if he’s not mistaken, pride.
‘I worried that you would find out too late, and resent us for it. That you would be unhappy. Draco, you should know… if it’s not what you want to be… then don’t be it. Your father thought that this was the best thing for you, but you have a right to disagree. If something else would make you happier, do that. Even if it makes your father unhappy, Draco, do it. I am behind you.’
Draco’s breath shortens. He stares back at his mother with wide eyes in absolute astonishment. He never dreamed he’d hear something like this from her. Directly opposing his father. Behind his back.
‘Are you serious?’ he gasps. His mother’s eyes curl up into crescents, twinkling brightly as a crystal lake. She smiles at him adoringly, and her grip is so tight now he feels he might break. His first tear falls.
‘I don’t care what you are, my dragon. You are my child. I will always love you,’ she pronounces with staggering conviction.
Draco flies out of his chair and into her arms, burying his face into her neck. Her hand comes up to stroke his hair. She kisses the side of his face.
Draco returns to Hogwarts with an unfathomable weight lifted from his heart. He cannot stop beaming. He tells his mother about the bracelets, the dresses Merlin bought him, the research he’s done on Veela. She promises to buy him his own makeup kit– it’s about time he had one, although she’d been planning to wait for Christmas. In fact, she says, next time she visits they’ll go on a proper shopping trip, and they’ll get whatever he likes, so he should give some thought to any new styles he’d like to try. She’ll get in touch with her designers.
She does remind him, before they part, to be careful. This is still a political world, and they, as Malfoys, are big players. If this is what he wants, he’s going to have to be smart about it. She also reminds him that she loves him, and that he should write once a week.
Draco watches her go and hopes, one day, to be as beautiful as her.