Lupin's Boggart Class with the Third Year Slytherins

Thanks to Pippin for beta-reading.

 

As a new teacher at Hogwarts, Lupin had been given a long parchment listing all the students by name, year, and House, with the other professors’ comments about the students. He had been working on matching names to faces at every meal since the Arrival Feast, but it was much easier to get to know the students in the small groups in which they attended class. Now it was the Slytherin third-years’ turn.

 

They meandered into the Defense classroom. Lupin knew that Draco had made them all laugh with his jibes at the new professor’s patched robes: “He’s clearly not good enough at Defense to earn a living at it. I didn’t think a Defense teacher could be worse than Lockhart, but Lockhart could at least write books about it. Well, those who can, do. Those who can’t, write books, and those who can’t even write get jobs from Dumbledore because he feels sorry for them.” They all followed whatever fashion Draco led, so it wouldn’t do to seem concerned about punctual arrival to class: that might seem like respect for the teacher.

 

“”Put your books away. We’re not going to use them today,” Professor Lupin directed the class.

 

“Maybe he can’t read either,” Draco whispered to Pansy, who laughed. Lupin heard them quite well: one (maybe the only) compensation for being a werewolf was extraordinarily good hearing. Lupin looked at Pansy and she hastily pretended to be coughing. Even the students who didn’t mind getting detention for out and out breaking a rule, like by having private conversations in class, didn‘t want their parents to be owled about it.

 

“We’re going to have a practical lesson today,” the professor continued.

 

“Not practical enough to feed or clothe him, or put money in his pocket,” Draco whispered to Greg this time. Greg looked confused.

 

“About Boggarts. Who knows what a Boggart is?” Lupin glanced over his students. He saw on their faces that most of them did know, but no hands were raised. Organized disrespect. He could get them to respect him quick enough by taking away House points or giving them failing marks on a few essays, but Lupin hated to be feared. Earning their respect would be much harder work, but that was what he had chosen.

 

“Mr. Goyle.” Greg looked even more confused at having been called on. “Mr. Goyle, please tell your classmates what a Boggart is.”

 

“It’s, it’s.” Lupin wondered if Goyle always had a stammer, or was this just nervousness. The notes had said that he never spoke in class and was far from a clever student. “It’s a bloke who, who hides in the closet and he, he scares you.”

 

“Five points to Mr. Goyle,” smiled Lupin. “He touched all the essential points, that Boggarts’ habit is to hide in dark places such as closets, and desk drawers, and cellars, and that their only power is their victim’s own fear. Who would like to explain how a Boggart scares its victim?” Another glance over the class, still no hands were raised. “Miss Bulstrode?”

 

“It looks like what ever you’re scared of.”

 

“Five points to Miss Bulstrode. Her answer was exactly correct. The nature of Boggarts is to assume the appearance of whatever most frightens their victim. That is why the best way to approach a Boggart is with a group of people. This is a case in which the adage, there’s safety in numbers, is accurate. Can anyone explain why?” Another glance over the class, still no hands were raised, but some expressions were softening. They liked the points and the compliments, maybe some of them even liked having a teacher who knew the subject matter, but they didn’t want to cross Draco.

That girl must be Amanita Lestrange. Anyone who had ever seen Damiana Lestrange would recognize this child as her daughter. Poor kid, it wasn’t her fault that her parents were psychopaths. “Miss Lestrange?”

“Erm,” Amanita was not used to speaking unless she had something to say. “It tries to take on the appearance of what scares the person, and it tries to take on the appearance of what scares the other person, and it swi.. – it gets confused what to look like!”

 

“Excellent.” Lupin smiled. He always enjoyed seeing the light bulb go on above a person’s head. The light bulb must be something like an onion or a tulip bulb that glows when placed on the head of a person who understands what he or she is saying; Herbology had not been Lupin’s best subject.

 

“Five points for Miss Lestrange. In addition, it is possible to defeat a Boggart even when one is alone. The great weapon against Boggarts is laughter. Now, we’re in luck, because recently Mr. Filch found a nest of Boggarts in one of the dungeons, and I have transported one to this classroom, where it is now hiding comfortably in a desk drawer. If I open that desk drawer, it will probably look like two hundred homework essays that I have to read and mark before breakfast.” He threw in a self-deprecating smile. “But for each person it will be something different. I’d like one person to walk through the procedure with me. We’ll all get a chance to try it, but who would like to go first? Anyone? It helps to be a person with a good sense of humor. Who has the best sense of humor in this group?”

 

The students weren’t so much whispering to each other, with his eyes right on them, as whispering to themselves: “Draco. His jokes are funny. They always make me laugh.”

 

“Mr. Malfoy. Please come to my desk.” Draco scowled and slouched up to the front. He couldn’t have had any idea how much he looked like James Dean in the REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE poster, despite being different in every respect from having white hair to wearing wizarding robes. “What are you frightened of?”

 

“Well,” drawled Draco. “At this time, I’d say ‘tis hippogriffs.” He patted his bandaged arm and the other students laughed. Lupin felt torn between smiling and frowning: the boy was very good at giving the impression that of course it was perfectly reasonable for him to fear the monster that had attacked him, that he was being very brave to joke about it, but Lupin knew that Draco had gone out of his way to provoke the attack, had sniveled like a baby when injured, had played up his injury for everything he could, and was now maneuvering to get poor old Hagrid fired and that magnificent hippogriff executed.

 

“And what would make a hippogriff look funny, so you would laugh?”

 

“If it were beheaded and skinned and cut into chops and roasts like a cow!”

 

“Would that actually be funny, Mr. Malfoy, causing you to laugh in amusement, or would it merely be a satisfying vengeance, causing you to laugh in triumph?”

 

Draco scowled again. “Triumph. I like triumph.”

 

“And the way to triumph over a Boggart is with humor. Do you suppose that if the eagle portion of a hippogriff were changed to a duck, so that it had a big duck bill instead of a beak, and big webbed feet instead of talons, that would be a funny sight?”

 

Students were smiling at the image. Even Draco smiled against his will, and nodded.

 

“Take your wand in hand and keep that image in your mind. I will release the Boggart and step aside. It will take the appearance of what you fear. Aim the wand at it and concentrate your mind on forcing it into the new shape. When you feel laughter welling up inside you, channel the laughter through your wand while saying this incantation: Riddikulus! Let’s all practice saying the incantation.” Lupin gave a hand signal for “now”.

 

“Riddikulus!” echoed about half the class.

 

“Ready,” said Draco, wand in hand. Lupin pulled the drawer open and a blur rose from it so fast that no one could see what it looked like. Then suddenly Lucius Malfoy was standing in front of Draco, glaring down at him, eyes burning with anger and lips tightened. Students, shocked, whispered to each other. A number of them knew Mr. Malfoy, but only as the distant but gracious host of an annual fête and a model of elegance, so they were shocked to see him in a rage.

 

Draco was more than shocked: he was damn near terrified. After his habitual reflex cringe at his father’s anger and the punishment to follow, he remembered that this was not really his father, but a Boggart. Draco worried what his father would think when he found out that the whole class and a shabby professor had learned that what Draco feared most in the world was his own father. Would Father think he had disgraced the family by giving the impression that Father was cruel to him? Oh, Merlin, Father hates any disgrace to the family…

 

“Draco,” Lupin was standing beside him and speaking in the extremely calm voice one might use when speaking to a small child or a dangerous animal. “Your plan will still work. Put a duck bill and webbed feet on him, maybe some yellow fuzz like a baby duckling. Close your eyes a moment if that helps you from the image. Your heartbeat is fast because of adrenaline, the same adrenaline that gives you energy when you’re running a foot race or playing Quidditch. Take that energy and channel it into your wand. Duck bill, webbed feet…”

 

Laughter started with one girl’s giggle and spread to the whole class. Draco heard the laughter and opened his eyes to see Mr. Malfoy with duck bill, webbed feet feet, webbed feet hands, and yellow feather down around his bill and his eyes, and even Draco laughed at the sight, laughter rushing out of him in relief.

 

“Channel it through your wand,” Lupin reminded Draco, his calm voice sounding as if even he were trying to repress laughter.

 

“Riddikulus!” said Draco, and Mr. Duck Malfoy (Mr. Mallardfoy?) went pop!

 

“Mr. Crabbe!” said Lupin, and Vin strode nervously to the Boggart, wand in hand. The Boggart became Professor McGonagall, about to say a few direct words about the red-marked homework in her hand. Professor Boggart McGonagall’s clothes vanished, and she tried to hide her wrinkled old body behind the homework parchment. Riddikulus! Pop!

 

“Mr. Goyle!” Greg’s Boggart was six feet of parchment, blank except for a header indicating that it was a homework assignment for Professor Binns, six feet describing all the committees and subcommittees of the Warlocks' Convention of 1709. Greg rather shakily pointed his wand at the parchment and it became covered with extremely rude sketches of Professor Binns. Lupin considered how popular this lesson was going to make him with his colleagues, first Snape in the Gryffindor class, now McGonagall and Binns, and the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs still to go. Greg’s belly laugh sounded like a troll’s. Riddikulus! Pop!

 

“Next!” Pansy stepped up. The Boggart became an IV stand, like St. Mungo’s used to drip nectar, ambrosia, amrita, ichor, and water of life into the veins of desperately ill patients. There was a hospital patient’s chart hanging on it: Pansy Parkinson’s chart, showing that she was dying painfully like her mother. Pansy was pointing her wand at it, but she was gently shaking all over. Draco stepped beside her protectively. “Make it rusty, like it was thrown out,” he whispered to her. “Turn the IV bottle into a hat and the tubing into Christmas lights. Rusty, hat rack, Christmas lights, good. Put some Christmas presents under it.” The spectacle of a thrown-out rusty IV stand turned into a hat rack and used as a Christmas tree sent even Pansy into giggles. “Through your wand!” Draco reminded her. Riddikulus! Pop!

 

“Next!” Someone pushed Blaise Zabini up. His Boggart was Draco giving him the finger and turning his back, which caused the real Draco to laugh in delight at being perceived as so powerful. Blaise pointed his wand and Boggart Draco shimmered, but transformed only into Draco looking enraged at having been mocked.

 

“You’ve successfully discovered that the first image helped the Boggart.” Lupin used that very calm voice again. “Try another image. Try making it a different person.” (God forgive me, thought Lupin to himself, encouraging these children to pick on each other.) “Pick a funny person.”

 

Blaise’s Boggart turned into Neville Longbottom and, trying to give him the finger, accidentally stuck it up his own nose instead. Gales of rather nasty laughter followed. Riddikulus! Pop!

 

Millicent Bulstrode. Her Boggart was an owl, carrying a card. Lupin recognized that card, although not everyone would. It was the form letter that Department of Magical Law Enforcement sent to next of kin who were needed to give a pro forma identification of a corpse in the morgue. Probably Millicent was afraid of losing her mother the same way she had lost her father. She clenched her teeth and jabbed her wand toward the owl. It turned pink and the card now read APRIL FOOL! Riddikulus! No pop. The Boggart was changing back to normal owl colors.

 

“Try making it sing. Make it sing a funny song,” Lupin suggested. Millicent was clenching her eyes as well as her teeth, but she nodded. The owl began hooting, as rough as a raven’s caw, an absurdly out of tune version of HAPPY BIRTHDAY. Millicent smiled and proclaimed “Riddikulus!” The Boggart went pop!

 

“Miss Nott!’ Lupin was getting scared himself, of what Amanita would see, with parents like hers. Most of the others had come up with such messes, and these kids were only thirteen years old… At least Regina Nott had a nice mother.

 

Regina’s Boggart was a troll dressed in traditional bridegroom wedding robes and carrying his club. He grabbed at Regina with one hand while the other was lifting the club to swing it at her. Regina’s expression looked terrified but determined. She pointed her wand and the troll’s clothing vanished. Revealing a huge, warty, troll erection. Regina screamed and turned to run. Lupin felt like screaming himself: he could imagine what the parents would say about this! The troll started to turn into an irate parent as Lupin approached with wand raised, but Pansy had been faster with her wand. The troll’s phallus fell off and hit the floor with the sound of crashing rocks. The troll looked down, saw the situation, and started to cry. It blubbered. Riddikulus! Pop! Pansy put down her wand with a self-satisfied expression.

 

When Regina had tried to run away, she had run straight into Morag MacDougal. Morag had immediately put her arms around Regina and given her a motherly hug, patting her shoulders and murmuring at her comfortingly. Millicent had turned her back on them in disgust, and watched Pansy instead. Now that the action was over, she quietly asked Pansy: “Why is Reggie’s worst fear being raped by a troll? I can think of a lot worse things.”

 

“It’s not a troll,” Pansy leaned close to whisper to Millicent, but Lupin could still hear. “She’s afraid of being forced into marriage like her big sister.”

 

“Stupid! Aunt Tenny got a good husband – Vinnie’s dad; Vinnie will look just like him when he grows up.”

 

“A little shrimp like Reggie might feel differently about big, strong men than a big, strong girl like you does,” Pansy whispered diplomatically.

 

Oh, Selene’s long-lost maidenhead! Lupin thought to himself. Might as well get it over with. “Miss Lestrange!”

 

Amanita’s Dementor was almost an anti-climax. She started breathing hard and her face whitened at the sight of it, but she took a clearly intentional deep breath and held it for a while, then jabbed her wand toward the Dementor, and its robe fell off, revealing Cornelius Fudge wearing boxer shorts and sculpted gloves. Boggart Fudge looked extremely embarrassed and even Lupin laughed. Riddikulus! Pop!

 

One student left. That was Morag MacDougal. Lupin could guess that her fear was that her fellow Slytherins would discover that she was Muggle-born. Snape had somehow persuaded them that she was a Pureblood who had been raised in hiding, and surely they would make her life a misery if they learned the truth. Lupin was curious as to how a Boggart would make itself look like that fear, but he really didn’t want to be the person responsible for revealing that particular secret: he could too easily understand how urgently she wanted to conceal it.

 

“I’m afraid we’re out of time,” Lupin told the class, with artificial regret in his voice. He stepped over to the Boggart, which turned into a growling wolf with bared fangs. Lupin pointed his wand at it and said “Riddikulus!” almost casually. The Boggart went pop! and exploded into a thousand wisps of smoke. There was nothing left of it. “With practice, you’ll be able to destroy Boggarts, as I just did, not merely to defend yourself against them. Five points to everyone who defeated the Boggart – that’s everyone except Miss MacDougal. For homework, read the chapter on Boggarts and summarize it for me... to be handed in next class meeting. Miss MacDougal, I will arrange another opportunity for you to practice with a Boggart. Class dismissed.”

 

The Slytherins slowly picked up their books and quietly straggled into the corridor. Some were looking thoughtfully at all their classmates; some were conversing with just one other in very hushed tones. Draco and Pansy were so caught up in their conversation that they weren’t even moving toward the door

 

“Your father will pleased,” Pansy insisted. “He’ll be proud that you’d rather die or be tortured than for him to have a bad opinion of you. That just shows how much you respect him.”

 

“It’s okay for you; you rescued Reggie and looked like a hero!”

 

“Oh, yeah, sure. After everyone saw me fail my own Boggart, I could do hers. And I just know that everyone will talk about it and all the boys will say it means I’m a castrating bitch, and then no one will ever want to marry me!”

 

“You didn’t fail your Boggart. You just aren’t as good at thinking up jokes as I am, but you did the magic yourself. Poor Reggie, what will her father say about her screwing up the Boggart and running away?”

 

Pansy giggled. “He’ll say it’s okay as long as she got the points anyway.”

 

“But suppose it’s on the end of term exam, or the OWLs?”

 

“Serves him right for marrying a Hufflepuff. I admit Mrs. Nott is a good cook, but you can hire cooks, and how can you expect very much from the children?”

 

Draco made a dismissive gesture. “They’re all Purebloods. That’s what matters. Come on, let’s go to lunch.”

 

Lupin watched them leave the classroom and shook his head. He wanted to feel sorry for these Slytherin kids for the tough blows that life had dealt them already, the traumata reflected by their Boggarts, such as the death of parents. Even the ones who seemed to have fairly commonplace childish fears, about schoolwork or unpopularity, had appeared desperately distressed about it. He wanted to like them for the way they stood by each other, helped each other, comforted each other, like that little conversation just now of Pansy and Draco massaging each other’s egos. And then they turned around and reminded him what hateful little beasts they were to everyone outside their little clique. What a messed-up bunch of kids.