The Boggart
It was a cool September day, but the stone walls in the Defense classroom was still warm with the vestiges of summer. Combined with the crowd of fifth-years standing in the room, the overall effect was stifling; Tom wished they could get it over with so he could lounge around in the afternoon sun, or practice a few new maneuvers for the upcoming Quidditch match.
At the front of the room, Professor MacKenzie stood next to an ancient-looking wardrobe that occasionally shook and spasmed like something inside was trying to get out.
“Now,” said MacKenzie, looking keenly at the class. “You are all familiar with boggarts, yes?”
Most of the fifth-years nodded, but Tom grimaced.
“As part of your OWL exams,” MacKenzie continued, “you will have to successfully defend yourself against a boggart. Mr. Filch happened to find one hiding in one of the cupboards and was kind enough to provide one for a, let us say, review. Now. Who can tell me what the spell is to defeat a boggart?”
Predictably, half a dozen Ravenclaw hands shot into the air. Tom rolled his eyes.
MacKenzie glanced over the crowd. “Richards.”
“The spell is Riddikulus,” said the Ravenclaw girl eagerly. “And you’ve got to make it – the form that the boggart takes – funny somehow, sir.”
“Yes, very good,” MacKenzie said dismissively. “Five points to Ravenclaw. Though it should be noted that thinking of something cheerful has also been shown to be effective. Now, if everyone will please form a line – an orderly line, there is no need for pushing – we can begin.”
In the chaos that followed, which involved a great deal of pushing and muttered hexes – at least among the Gryffindors – Tom ended up in around the middle of the line. Just in front of him was Charlie Cooke, the closest thing Tom had to a best mate since Joe had graduated. Charlie looked back at him.
“You haven’t done this before, right?”
Tom shook his head. “Had a cold in third year and missed the lesson. MacKenzie gave me three effing feet on boggarts and other household pests to make up for it.” They spoke in low voices, and with the dull roar of the other students taking on the boggart, they could not be heard.
Charlie shuddered theatrically. “At that point I’d’ve taken the feckin’ boggart instead. What d’you think it’ll be for you?”
Tom thought for a moment. “Not sure,” he said. “Maybe – rats? Hate those little buggers.”
Charlie nodded. “Mine’s clowns,” he said with another shudder. “Can’t stand ‘em. I think I made it deflate like a balloon last time – that worked alright.”
Just the thought of that made Tom chuckle. “Maybe I’ll make a – a big rat trap for ‘em,” he said contemplatively. “Or – tie all their tails together or something.”
“That could work,” Charlie said. “Best think of it quick, though.” The two of them were by then near the front of the line.
“Right,” Tom said. “Good luck, mate.”
Charlie gave him a grin and turned toward the cupboard, where the boggart was whirling around in a colorless, shapeless mass. As he stood there, the mass began to twist and distort into an inhumanly tall clown dressed in colorful rags with crudely applied face paint.
Tom couldn’t repress a shudder at the sight. The clown loomed over Charlie and grinned down at him, seeming to grow ever taller and thinner.
“Hiya, Charlie,” it said in a horrible high-pitched voice. “Come with me, why dontcha? We’ll have lots of funnnnn.”
“Fuck off, Pennywise,” spat Charlie. “Riddikulus.” He pointed his wand at the clown and it stared at him in shock before starting to deflate like an enormous balloon.
“Nicely done, Mr. Cooke,” said MacKenzie. “Though we could have done without the profanity.”
Charlie shrugged and scratched at his face. “Just part of my charm, I guess,” he said cheekily, before walking off to join the group of students who had already faced their boggarts. He looked back and gave Tom a thumbs up.
Tom nodded sharply and walked up to the cupboard, where the boggart was still deflating.
He could do this. He could handle some rats, no problem.
When the boggart saw him, it crumpled into the same shapeless grey blob it had been and whirled around in the air for a moment before resolving itself into –
Into –
Tom blinked. It wasn’t a rat. It wasn’t a giant rat, or a swarm of rats. It was – well, he wasn’t quite sure what it was. It looked like a large, oddly shaped whitish bundle that was lying on a bed. There were odd little tubes and strings connected to the bundle, that floated off the sides of the bed and faded into nothingness.
And it was – it was the scariest fucking thing Tom had ever seen.
But he couldn’t say why. It was right at the edge of his mind, on the tip of his tongue – if he could only figure out what it was, then maybe he could think of a way to make it funny. But he couldn’t. He could only stare blankly at the thing, even as it grew more and more dreadful to look at. He had a horrible feeling that if he looked away, even for an instant, the thing would – it would get him. It was watching him, even without anything like eyes.
He could faintly hear his name being called, and willed himself to look away, to raise his wand, to do something. But he was frozen, half with confusion and half with rapidly growing fear.
As he kept staring at the thing he thought he could hear faint beeping, as of machines. The beeping grew louder and louder until it was deafening.
Then, abruptly, someone was stepping in between Tom and the thing, so he could no longer see it. He could faintly hear voices around him, but it was nearly drowned out by the ringing in his ears.
“Get him back,” someone was saying, and then hands were pulling Tom backward and leading him to a stool, away from the thing.
“You’re alright,” he heard someone else say, “you’re alright, mate.” It might have been Charlie.
Tom sat down heavily on the stool, still staring in the direction of the wardrobe. He had to make sure the thing wasn’t still there.
“Here.” MacKenzie stood next to him, holding a small glass vial. When had he gotten there? “A Calming Draught. You were hyperventilating.”
Tom shook his head, or tried to. “’M fine,” he mumbled. “Don’ need it. I’m okay, Professor.”
He heard MacKenzie sigh exasperatedly. “See me after class,” he said. He placed the vial on the table next to Tom with a pointed look before walking back to the crowd of students.
Tom didn’t try to hear what he was saying to them. His mind was too full of the memory of that – that thing his boggart had turned into to pay attention to anything else.
---
Later, when the other fifth-years had filed out – Tom had studiously ignored the looks they sent his way – he sat in front of MacKenzie’s desk, staring at the floor.
“Thomas Blake,” MacKenzie said, scanning through a stack of papers on his desk. “Younger brother of Joseph Blake, is that correct?”
“Yes sir,” said Tom listlessly. It was routine by now. “He finished last year, sir.”
MacKenzie nodded absently. Then he set down the stack of papers and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Blake,” he said, “I would like to apologize, first.”
At that, Tom looked up and blinked. “I’m sorry? Sir?”
It was a struggle to meet MacKenzie’s piercing eyes without lingering on the scar beneath them – a stray curse from the Battle of Hogwarts years before, some said, though no one had dared to ask.
“I see now,” MacKenzie said gravely, “that I was – greatly remiss in allowing you to miss the boggart practical in your third year, which left you unprepared for today’s lesson. And for that, I must apologize.”
Tom, horrifically, felt a lump rise in his throat. He must have still been shaken up by the encounter. His face began to burn.
“It – that wasn’t your fault, sir,” he managed to say. “It was – I wasn’t expecting it, either.”
MacKenzie nodded. “Sometimes our fears can surprise us,” he said in a low mutter. For a moment his eyes had a distant look in them, before they focused back on Tom.
“Nonetheless,” he continued, “I was irresponsible, and you have paid for it. I am sorry, Blake.”
Tom stared at him. What were you supposed to say to that?
MacKenzie looked at him for a moment longer, then cleared his throat again and shuffled his papers.
“Professor Longbottom tells me you’ve a talent for Herbology,” he said abruptly. “Is that true?”
Tom blinked. “Well, I – I dunno about talent, sir. I’m good enough at it, I suppose.”
Herbology was – well, it was bloody brilliant, really. Probably his favorite class, if he had to be honest. It reminded him of home, working with the earth and seeing life begin. But it was also the most blatantly ‘Puff class at Hogwarts, so it didn’t do to seem too enthusiastic about it.
MacKenzie nodded. “As I suspected,” he said. He had a contemplative look on his face.
“As it happens, Blake,” he continued, “I’ve a student who – requires assistance with Herbology, and is good enough, to use your terminology, with Defense. It’s rather unorthodox, but I wonder if you would be amenable to a kind of mutual tutoring, with the two of you assisting each other with your respective subjects.”
Tom opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I,” he said, “I – is it not possible for – for you to help me with this, sir?”
He felt foolish even before MacKenzie shook his head. “I’m afraid my schedule will only get heavier, Blake,” he said. “And this arrangement would allow the two of you to create your own schedule and plans of study. What do you think?”
Tom swallowed the anxiety in his stomach at the thought of someone else seeing him fall to pieces. It was bad enough his Housemates knew about it; his face still burned at the memory of everyone seeing him completely fuck up a third-year spell.
“I – thank you, sir,” he began, “I just – I don’t know if I have the time for it. With – with Quidditch practice and studying for OWLs and everything – I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”
MacKenzie nodded, looking doubtful. “Of course you are free to find your own assistance, if that is what you prefer. I was merely offering an alternative.”
“And I – I’m very grateful for it, Professor,” Tom said quickly. “I’ll consider it, with my schedule and everything. Um. Thanks again, sir.”
MacKenzie nodded. “That’ll be all, then, Blake,” he said, turning back to his papers. “Let me know if you change your mind. Dismissed.”
“I will, sir.”
Tom had no intention of doing anything of the sort.