The Research
The next time they met Schofield was carrying a thick bundle of parchment, which he dropped unceremoniously on the table.
“What’s all this?” Tom asked.
“Research,” was Schofield’s terse reply. “Not many books or papers on boggarts specifically, but I found what I could and made notes.”
Tom stared at the papers for a moment, trying to understand them. Looking closer, he saw lines and lines of scrawled handwriting, with some parts underlined or circled. It was so at odds with the way Schofield had behaved the last time that he wondered, briefly, if this Schofield was someone else.
“Quentin Trimble had a particularly interesting paper,” Schofield said, flipping through the pages and tapping on one. “Looked at the frequency with which boggarts manifest known versus unknown fears. So – perhaps it’s something you didn’t know you were scared of.”
Tom nodded.
“I – thanks,” he finally said, glancing over at Schofield. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Schofield waved a hand dismissively. “I was curious myself,” he said. “And – I like research. It was no trouble.” He glanced over at Tom, looking almost nervous.
It felt like an apology, or a peace offering, and Tom took it as one. He cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, pulling the stack of papers towards himself. “Where to start?”
“Well, like I said,” Schofield said, “we need to figure out what it is, first. Do you have any more of an idea?”
Tom shook his head. “I try not to think of it too much,” he said. “It’s not – pleasant.”
“Obviously it’s not, it’s your greatest fear,” Schofield said dryly. “But we won’t get anywhere until we understand what it is. Have you any more guesses, at least?”
Tom could feel the frustration rising in him again. “Tell me what you see, first,” he burst out impatiently. “And how do you make it funny?”
Schofield had gone very still and was looking at him warily.
“I suppose it’s only fair,” he said quietly, half to himself. Then he coughed a little and said, briskly, “I see – my boggart looks like my – my family. Dead.”
He had an odd look on his face as he spoke, like he was about to sneeze.
“Oh,” Tom said. “I – okay.” He felt, oddly, like he ought to apologize – but for what?
Schofield nodded. “It – I couldn’t make it funny,” he said, like the words were being forced out of him. “Best I can do is – you know, cheerful memories. It works.”
Tom frowned. “It does?”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Schofield said sharply. “The – my boggart doesn’t exactly have a lot of bloody comedic potential, does it? And you haven’t answered the question.”
“Because I don’t know,” Tom said, exasperated. “I – I can’t describe it. I can’t guess what it might be. It was like a dirty great white worm or something, all wrapped up, lying on some kind of bed with all these tubes coming out of it. I don’t know what the hell it was. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t know –"
He cut himself off, not wanting to say it. Why the hell was he so frightened of something when he didn’t even know what it was?
But Schofield was looking at him with a new openness in his face. For a moment, he looked a little less insufferable than he had before.
“That,” he said, “that is the kind of detail I was looking for, Blake. Here. Try drawing it.” He pulled out a sheet of parchment and a quill and handed both to Tom.
Tom did his best, but he was a terrible artist. When he had finished, the parchment showed a misshapen lump on a rectangle with various strings attached to it.
Schofield blinked at it. “Is – is that what it looked like?”
“Not even close,” Tom said wearily. “I’m shit at drawing.”
“So am I,” Schofield said, “so – hm. We have to think of something else.”
Tom thought hard for a moment, then snapped his fingers.
“A Pensieve,” he said triumphantly. “There’s one in McGonagall’s office, right? We could – we could use it to revisit my memory of the class.”
Schofield looked at him doubtfully.
“Right,” he said dryly. “I’m sure Headmistress McGonagall would be ecstatic to let two fifth-years use an extremely rare, extremely valuable magical artifact to access their memories just so they can get good marks on their OWLs.”
“Oi, there’s no need for that,” Tom said, stung. “I’m just saying it’d be loads easier, is all.”
Schofield pursed his mouth. “It – certainly it would be,” he said reluctantly. “It’s a good idea, if you ignore the gaping flaw. But there must be other ways to—”
He broke off and looked suspiciously at Tom, who was staring at him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked warily.
Tom looked at him hard. “Just wondering if you’re like this with everyone,” he said, “or if you’re still sore about the ‘Puff comments.”
“And by ‘like this’ you mean a prick?”
Tom snorted. He hadn’t expected Schofield to be that self-aware.
“That’s one way to put it, yeah,” he said dryly. “Look, I’m sorry about making assumptions and shit. Obviously not all Hufflepuffs have to be nice – you’re proof of that.”
“Glad you noticed,” Schofield said, his tone equally dry. “And – for what it’s worth, I’m not a prick to everyone. Just the people who think I’ve got to be a bloody doormat because of the House I’m in. Hufflepuff is about hard work and fairness and loyalty. Not just being nice.”
Color had risen into his cheeks while he spoke, and he stared at Tom challengingly, like he dared him to say something. Tom met his gaze but said nothing, and after a moment Schofield let out a long breath and cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. It reminded Tom of when the barn cats at home got scared or angry and immediately tried to pretend it hadn’t happened, carefully smoothing out their fur and composing themselves. He stifled a smile at the comparison.
“But that’s entirely beside the point,” Schofield continued. “You’ve the right idea with this – we need a way to recreate what you saw so we can figure out what it is. So we could try to use a boggart –”
Tom shuddered at the thought of seeing that thing again –
“—but it would probably be better to try something else first,” Schofield finished. “What do you think?”
Tom swallowed hard in an effort to alleviate the sudden dryness in his throat. He was a Gryffindor. He was a Lion. He did not get scared, and he especially didn’t get scared of household pests, whatever the hell they happened to turn into.
“Getting a boggart would be – it’d be simplest, wouldn’t it?” he said, only half aware of what he was saying. “MacKenzie probably still has the one. That – that way we can both see what it – what it turns into for me.”
Schofield looked at him with narrowed eyes. Tom had a nasty feeling he could see the fear on his face, as much as he tried to hide it.
“Despite what you’ve likely been told,” the other boy said after a moment, “actively seeking out things that scare you doesn’t make you any braver.”
Tom bristled. “Yeah? What’s it make me, then?”
“A reckless idiot,” Schofield responded coolly. “Facing a boggart now, when you still don’t know what it is, would be very stupid. That’s not being brave.”
Tom scowled.
“What do you know about being brave?” he shot back. “You – you can’t even be nice, and that’s easy.”
He regretted saying it even before the words were out of his mouth, even before he saw Schofield’s shoulders stiffen like he had received a physical blow.
The other boy’s face went flat and blank, like the surface of the Black Lake on a cold day. When he spoke, his words were short and clipped.
“I had hoped,” he said, “wrongly, that you were a bit more sensible than your peers in Gryffindor. Or at least a better listener. As it is, if you insist on facing the bloody boggart and scaring yourself half to death again, be my guest. But I won’t accompany you.”
Tom blinked, abruptly wrong-footed. “But it’s – you’re not supposed to face one by yourself.”
Schofield’s face hardened. “Did it ever occur to you, Blake, that facing one’s greatest fear would be unpleasant for other people in addition to you? You think I want to see – see my –”
He broke off.
“We’re done for today,” he said, standing abruptly. “I’ll look at – there must be spells to recreate one’s thoughts, or something similar. I’ll owl my – my family and ask.” For a moment he got that same about-to-sneeze look, but it passed quickly.
Tom watched him. “What about me?”
Schofield gave him a flat look. “Try to find something about memory charms or – or depicting thoughts or something. And don’t go looking for trouble.”