Slytherin's Warning

7 - Boggarts

Boggart
By Christiano Lark

Tell me, Darling what you fear
Is it dread shapes in the dark?
-Just the moon, drawing near

On this April night so clear
Windows wide and faint dog barking
Tell me, Darling, what you fear

Not what you'd expect, my dear
Not the shadows at the park
-Just the moon, drawing near

I saw a boggart, first of the year
-See the full moon's rising arc?
Tell me, Darling, what you fear

I will tell you-trust your ears
A wolf bit me when night was stark
-Just as moon was drawing near

I should not have allowed you here
Teeth gave me my own Dark Mark
I'll tell you, Darling, what I fear
-Just the moon, drawing near

--page 44, Full Moon: An Anthology of Werewolf Literature

The next full moon arrived almost before Draco was aware of it. "I'd like you to stay with the Longbottoms again. I've heard a rumour that my house is being watched."

"And you didn't think to mention this before now?"

"Hopefully it will be sorted out in a few weeks. I assume you can now Apparate yourself there and back again?"

"Yes," Draco said.

"Then why don't you come home... not the day after the moon, you've seen by now that not only am I not much use on those days, I'm also more likely to get visitors. But the next day, the 20th, come back anytime. Apparate straight into the house, just in case it is being watched."

"If I come back."

"Yes, of course," Lupin said, sounding distracted.

When Draco arrived, "Nev" came running out of the house to meet him. "Guess what?"

Draco couldn't keep from sneering, "I couldn't possibly imagine." At Neville's hurt look, he said, "Fine. What?"

"Your new wand is here!"

"What?" Draco stopped dead in his tracks.

"The wandmaker sent Gran a message that she didn't want to send it by owl, too many owls are being intercepted. But Remus doesn't have his house on the Floo Network, and I guess she knew you'd be coming here. It arrived a couple hours ago."

They hurried into the house, where Mrs. Longbottom was waiting, holding a thin box. Draco took it and carefully opened the lid. His new wand.

He'd almost forgotten the warmth that tingled inside the fingers when picking up one's wand the first time. A rush of magic washed over him, but instead of hummingbirds or shooting stars spitting out the end, a simple blocking shield formed for a few moments, then dissolved.

"Wow," said Neville. "It's pretty rare to have a nonsolid spell like that come out when you test a wand, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Mrs. Longbottom agreed, not sounding nearly as impressed. "Mr. Elliott seems to have a knack for Defense."

"The wandmaker said almond is good for self-protection," Draco said, determinedly not thinking about what else the old witch had said about it.

"Appropriate for these times, then," said Mrs. Longbottom. "Mr. Elliott is of age, correct?" while giving Draco a sharp look.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

Not addressing him, she said, "Neville, he can try it out in the dueling room."

"Your house has a dueling room?" Draco asked when she'd walked away.

"Yeah. My dad convinced her to install it when he was in the Auror Academy. I've been practicing in there, just casting spells and such. But it will be a lot more useful practicing with someone."

They didn't spend all that much time dueling each other, however. They mostly cast spells at training dummies, Neville to practice his spell work and Draco to get used to the feel of his new wand. He was annoyed to find that Neville's spells were stronger in terms of sheer power, especially when cast with emotion behind them, and Neville was also far too fond of practicing his Patronus, in Draco's opinion. He'd never been too concerned about fending off Dementors before; they answered to the Dark Lord. But Draco was by far a faster spellcaster, and faster on his feet to boot.

They stayed in the dueling room until it was time for supper and by unspoken agreement returned there after eating as well. As they trudged up the stairs to bed, Draco initiated conversation for the first time. "Do you have any brooms? Mr. Lupin doesn't, and I've missed flying."

Neville's face reddened. "Sorry. Gran thinks I'm too clumsy to be allowed to fly."

Draco supposed he ought to give the other boy some kind of reassurance, as "Nev" seemed to consider them friends, and that seemed the kind of thing friends did. But he had no idea what to say, so they finished the trip in silence. Draco slept well that night, and only looked out the window at the moon once.

The next day Neville decided to explore the closed wing of the house and asked Draco if he wanted to come along. Draco saw no alternative but to agree. It was eerie walking through the silent rooms, somehow made worse by the charm that kept the furniture free of dust and the windows clear. Draco sensed a sort of malevolence from the rooms; that they were waiting for long-absent Longbottoms and wanted him gone.

He paused to examine a stained glass window in one of the rooms, while Neville walked ahead into the adjoining room. It was a fine piece; Draco knew enough abut the process to know that creating moving-picture stained glass was notoriously difficult, but the unicorn in the window lightly tossed its head, light shining through the glaze of gold and green and rose. From the next room, Draco heard a choked cry, then "Riddikulus!"

When he reached the other room, a bizarre sight met his eyes. Neville stood in the room's center, wand raised. Cowering before him were Master Snape (in a dress, with a handbag and a hat with a stuffed vulture on it) and Draco's Aunt Bellatrix--before Draco's eyes shrinking into a doll with his aunt's features. "Riddikulus!" Neville shouted again, though his tone carried more ferocity than amusement.

But it was enough. The two figures flew back into the wardrobe Draco only now noticed, and with a flick of his wand Neville locked the door. "A boggart," Neville unnecessarily explained.

"I can see that. Who are they?"

Some of the strain left Neville's features, though he still looked tense. "The woman was Bellatrix Lestrange." He didn't explain who she was, having already done so during Draco's last visit. "This is the first time she's been part of my boggart. The man was Professor Snape."

"The professor you don't like, right?"

"It's more than dislike. I hate him. He's a Death Eater. He killed the Headmaster. He's nearly as bad as You-Know-Who to me." For a little while Neville seemed lost in his own thoughts, then noticed Draco's lack of response. "Let's get out of here, maybe go back to the dueling room. I'll tell Gran about the boggart later."

Sleep didn't come quite so easily that night. Draco's mind kept returning to his own boggart third year. He wasn't completely sure what it would be, as Lupin didn't have the Slytherin students confront the boggart individually as he had in the other classes. The excuse he'd given was that the Gryffindor third years had destroyed the boggart "in their enthusiasm," and he'd been unable to locate another.

All the Slytherins had seen through that flimsy excuse, of course. Well--Crabbe and Goyle hadn't, but everyone else had. Clearly it was another example of a teacher prejudiced against Slytherin House, who believed the Slytherins incapable. That, combined with Lupin's shabby clothes and Master Snape's obvious dislike, was enough to turn the whole house against the new teacher before the first day of classes was over.

But Lupin had talked about boggarts, and asked the class to imagine their worst fears. Almost unbidden, an image rose in Draco's mind. He saw a crowded party, full of respectable purebloods, but no one acknowledged him. It was as though he was invisible, and also mute, because although he asked questions and demanded answers, even tried to strike one of the partygoers, none of them noticed his presence. Even his own parents, exchanging idle small talk with the Minister, never turned around.

Now, lying in his comfortable guest room, the same scene played out in Draco's mind. He had no idea how to make the chilling isolation funny. It was all Lupin's fault for not teaching the Slytherins properly.

The next day after a late lunch Draco Apparated home to Lupin's cottage. Lupin wasn't in the main room or the bedroom or bathroom. Draco knocked on the office door once and then again louder, but there was no answer. After some time, Draco concluded that Lupin wasn't home. A frisson of fear went through him--what if Lupin was dead?--but he pushed the thought away and studied the office door.

This was his chance to gather intelligence on the Order of the Phoenix. Raising his wand, he incanted, "Alohomora!" Nothing happened. Draco tried another unlocking charm, then another, and when he tried the most complex one he knew, a small sign materialized on the door, reading, "I asked you to not go in this room." The sign didn't say Draco's name, be it his true name or his alias, but it was obvious Lupin was addressing him. Draco flushed, feeling chastised.

That afternoon he tackled the runes essay again, using his former textbook as a reference. Eventually he gathered that the Dark Lord somehow set up interconnecting runes of power and protection, then siphoned off the magic making them up. Runes, wrote Doge, were not meant to be used in this way. Most of the runes the Dark Lord used were so powerful because they weren't meant to be contained in a single human body. The Dark Lord managed to contain them, but the magic began to warp his body; stretched him, his long, thin arms and fingers no longer quite in the correct proportions. Around this time people began to notice his eyes had a reddish tint, more pronounced when he was angry.

Draco's Glamour fell in the mid-afternoon on August 22nd. While it was nice to see the correct features in the mirror again, without the disguise Draco felt acutely vulnerable. Jacob Elliott was inoffensive, already a victim of the war. Draco Malfoy was hunted by the Light and the Dark.

He still read the newspaper, but was getting tired of reading about Death Eater attacks, and that seemed to be all the paper covered these days. And he was in a sour mood after reading about the Quidditch League being disbanded. Between dead players and players joining one side or the other, there weren't really enough people on the teams for full games. And no one was going to see the matches anyway.

Lupin returned that night, Apparating directly into the cottage's main room, holding a bowl of something that smelled delicious. He looked, as always, like a man with one foot already in the grave. Draco silently got up from the sofa and Lupin sank down onto it, eyes slowly closing. Draco rescued the bowl--of stew?--before Lupin lost his grip on it, and put it on the table.

It looked like Lupin had been beaten, not only by a werewolf (himself or another?) but by people as well. He breathed shallowly and though he'd opened his eyes slightly when Draco approached, he didn't appear to be truly aware of his surroundings. Sighing, Draco conjured a blanket--a tasteful one, not like those atrocious ones he'd seen after the last two full moons--and covered the older man.

That night, he dreamed of the respectable party again, but this time Lupin was there too, bruised and weak, and no one acknowledged him either. Lupin made eye contact with Draco and nodded, and Draco felt a crushing relief that someone could see him. He woke with a start out of the dream, feeling confused and wishing he knew what it might mean.

The next morning, Lupin was more alert. "I'm glad to see you made it back safely," he told Draco, ad Draco frowned.

"I can't say the same for you. What happened?"

"The last two months I've gone to speak with groups of werewolves about the war. The group last month was disinclined to join either side, but as it turned out, the pack I went to speak with this month had already decided to ally themselves with Voldemort. Needless to say, they weren't very pleased with me."

Going in amongst a group of wild werewolves struck Draco as incurably stupid, even if one was already a werewolf. "You're not going to go again, are you?" he asked.

"I've been persuaded not to," Lupin agreed. "The stew is from Dora, by the way. You're welcome to have some, though I have to warn you that cooking does not appear to be one of her natural talents."

"You've been staying with her?" Draco felt angry at the answering nod; here he'd been imagining Lupin dead in a forest somewhere, and he was at his girlfriend's house.

"Thank you," Lupin said, examining the conjured blanket, but Draco did not respond as he stalked away.

It was at supper a few days later when Draco finally decided to speak up about the topic weighing on his mind. "Longbottom came across a boggart when I was there," he offered.

"Oh? And was it still Severus?"

"Him and Bellatrix Lestrange."

Lupin put his fork down, looking thoughtful. "Did you have to face the boggart as well, then?"

"No, Longbottom drove it back on his own." When Lupin nodded and picked up his fork again, Draco felt his irritation swell. "It's a good thing too, since you never taught my class as well as you did his!"

Lupin looked surprised at that. "When I was in school the Slytherin students did not battle a boggart until their fifth year. I followed my former professor's practice."

"Because you think we weren't as good as the other houses!"

"Not at all. I was quite impressed by the students of each house, especially considering how little my predecessors taught. But your house's strengths are different, Mr. Malfoy. The Hufflepuffs prize friendship and loyalty. I knew they would help and support each other. The Ravenclaws are always eager to test themselves and analyzed their fears. The Gryffindors--well, for most Gryffindors of that age, the greatest fear is a physical threat of some kind; a spider, a Banshee... I count myself fortunate that the boggart did not turn into a werewolf for any of them. Gryffindors are comfortable challenging their fears or acting despite their fears. I was not remotely surprised when they finished the boggart off.

"I am certain your class could have defeated it, Mr. Malfoy. But I believed that your class would be uncomfortable revealing your worst fears. Was I wrong?"

Draco opened his mouth and closed again. "No...."

"Slytherins don't tend to have the same kinds of friendships that the other houses prize. Rather, you have alliances with likeminded people. To reveal your greatest fear to someone you're not an ally of would be extremely poor tactics. But by Fifth Year, you are for the most part mature enough to understand that if you use the knowledge of someone's boggart against them, they will return the favour. Besides, it's often a subject on the O.W.L.s."

Draco cleared his throat. "So... it wasn't because you thought we were incapable?" he clarified.

"Not at all. I am no seer, so it would be difficult for me to somehow think you were behind the other houses before we even had our first class."

"Oh." And some of Draco's righteous anger drained away. He only poked at his potatoes a little longer before excusing himself.

On September 1st the Prophet ran a story about the Hogwarts Express running as usual, except for the three teams of Aurors accompanying it and the Emergency-Authorized Portkeys for the students deemed at "high risk." Draco wondered a little at not getting a Hogwarts letter during the summer, but then decided McGonagall must have seen to it that his name was removed from the Hogwarts list of students. Stupid really, since they could have put a tracking charm on the owl and followed it to him. But McGonagall was a Gryffindor, so what could one expect?

Potter and the Weasel and the mudblood were not going back to Hogwarts. The writers at the Prophet seemed torn about whether to declare Potter was going after the Dark Lord or whether to claim the three were running away. In typical Prophet fashion, they had various articles with each interpretation of Potter's absence, sometimes even within the same issue.

He'd received a letter from Longbottom the last day of August. The other was going back to Hogwarts, and Draco had the sense that Neville was going off to his own death. Draco knew the battle would not be finished until Potter was dead and Hogwarts broken under the Dark Lord's hand. Though the tone of the letter was light, Draco read between the lines and saw that Longbottom had much the same thoughts. But his closing was direct: "And if Hogwarts is attacked, I will be one of the people defending it." Not if, Draco thought. When.

On September 12th Draco and Lupin were eating lunch when with a rush of warmth, a small silver animal, a wolf, materialized on the table. Smaller than a Patronus yet still resembling one, it lasted only until Lupin looked upon it before dissolving into mist. "I have to go," Lupin said, the color draining from his face, and before Draco could ask a single question he Apparated, leaving Draco alone with their half-finished meal.

The Order had summoned him--that much was easy to guess. Had the Dark Lord merely waited for Hogwarts to fill with students before attacking it? Or was the attack elsewhere? Or was it not an attack at all, but some other Order business? The hours stretched out and Draco was unable to concentrate on his book or the spells he was working on. Surely he would know, would somehow feel it in his heart if Hogwarts fell.

An indeterminable amount of time later, Lupin Apparated home again with a crack. His expression was grave and his robes were slashed in a long line across his chest, the fabric near the injury bloody.

"What happened?" Draco asked, his voice low. He followed Lupin into the bedroom and watched as the other man took out a clean shirt and robe.

"Death Eaters tracked Harry and his friends to an abandoned house in Suffolk, and thirty of them attacked." He shook his head. "Three against thirty. They sent a cry for help to Dora, and she alerted the rest of the Order."

"Potter is dead?"