Monday, September 6, 1993
(Remus Lupin)
The Defence classroom filled gradually, the low murmur of voices rising and falling as students took their seats. I stood by the desk, offering quiet greetings as they entered, noting postures, expressions, the small tells of nerves or confidence. First lessons always revealed more than people realised.
When I reached the register, my eyes betrayed me.
"Potter, Harry."
He looked up at once, green eyes meeting mine, and for a moment the room seemed to tilt. James's face stared back at me; not exact, no, but close enough to stir memories I'd rather not examine so early in the term. Same messy hair. Same instinctive alertness. Lily's eyes, thank Merlin.
"Here, Professor," he said.
I forced myself to nod and move on, schooling my expression before anyone noticed the pause.
Once attendance was finished, I closed the register and addressed the class.
"Good morning. Today's lesson will be… somewhat different from what you may be expecting."
That caught their attention.
"This will be a practical lesson. Hands-on." I gestured towards the far end of the room, where an old wardrobe stood against the wall. It shuddered faintly, just enough to be noticeable.
Several students stiffened.
"Before we begin," I said mildly, "does anyone care to guess what's inside?"
Dean Thomas raised his hand. "A Boggart, sir?"
"Correct," I replied. "Three points to Gryffindor."
A ripple of interest spread through the room.
"Now," I continued, "who can tell me what a Boggart is?"
Hermione Granger's hand shot up immediately, of course.
"Yes, Miss Granger."
"A Boggart is a non-being," she said promptly. "No one knows how they're born. They're shapeshifters that take the form of whatever their victim fears most."
"Precisely," I said with a small smile. "Another three points to Gryffindor."
She looked pleased but tried not to show it too obviously.
"Boggarts feed on fear," I went on, pacing slowly. "Which means the best way to defeat them is not strength or aggression, but humour. Laughter weakens them."
I wrote the incantation on the board.
[Riddikulus.]
"This charm forces the Boggart to assume a shape you choose; ideally, something ridiculous. The more absurd, the better."
I had them practice the pronunciation and the wand movements a few times until I was sure they had it right.
"Now then. Who would like to go first?"
There was a pause.
Then, to my surprise, a hand rose from the Slytherin side.
"Yes?" I said.
Daphne Greengrass stood. "Professor… I've heard from students who took this class last year that Professor Lockhart allowed them to face the Boggart in private, so their fears wouldn't be exposed in front of everyone. Could we do the same?"
For a moment, I simply looked at her.
That… was a remarkably considerate suggestion. And an entirely reasonable one.
"Of course," I said after a beat. "That's perfectly sensible. Thank you for bringing it up, Miss Greengrass."
A visible wave of relief passed through the classroom.
I turned to the rest of them. "If anyone else would prefer to confront the Boggart privately, you may do so."
Every single hand went up.
I must admit, I hadn't expected that.
For a moment, I simply stood there, looking out at a classroom full of raised hands, Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff alike, all unanimous in their desire not to bare their deepest fears in front of their peers.
I felt a faint, rueful smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
"Very well," I said at last, inclining my head. "That seems… decisively settled."
The students relaxed almost instantly, shoulders loosening, several exchanging relieved looks.
"Very well," I said. "If you'll all step outside the classroom and line up in the corridor, we'll proceed one at a time. Miss Greengrass will be the first, so please stay behind."
There was a brief shuffle of chairs and bags, then the room emptied, leaving only myself, the wardrobe, and Daphne Greengrass.
The silence settled quickly, broken only by the faint, tell-tale rustle from inside the wardrobe as the Boggart shifted, sensing a new mind, a new fear to probe.
I had to suppress a smile.
The wardrobe gave another quiet shudder.
I raised my wand, ready to intervene if necessary, and reminded myself, once again, that teaching was about trust as much as knowledge.
And this year, it seemed, I'd been given more of it than I expected.
I glanced at the door once more before casting a few quiet privacy charms, subtle but effective. Old habits die hard.
"Well," I said gently, turning back to her, "whenever you're ready, Miss Greengrass."
As she took a steadying breath, something else lingered in my thoughts.
Lockhart.
When I learned he was also a professor I had been expecting something very different. Bravado, bluster, shallow theatrics. What I hadn't expected was consideration. Or foresight. Or practices that would still echo through the students a full year later.
Yet here it was.
They'd learned that fear didn't have to be a spectacle. That vulnerability didn't need an audience. And they trusted that precedent enough to ask for it again, calmly, reasonably, without embarrassment.
I found myself quietly impressed.
Merlin help me, I thought wryly, Gilderoy Lockhart might actually be a better teacher than I gave him credit for.
Even now, his methods were shaping the way these children approached their lessons, how safe they felt in a classroom, how willing they were to learn rather than simply endure.
I filed the thought away as Daphne stepped forward, wand in hand, shoulders squared.
"Focus," I reminded her softly. "And remember, you control the image. Not the other way round."
She nodded.
And as the wardrobe door creaked open, I watched closely, not just as a Defence professor, but as someone now keenly aware that teaching left marks long after the lesson ended.
Some, it seemed, for the better.
…
(Gilderoy Lockhart)
I had just reached the infirmary doors when I very nearly collided with a small figure stepping out.
"Oh!" she gasped, stumbling back a half step.
I caught sight of green-trimmed robes and instinctively slowed, my reflexes kicking in before we could clash.
"I'm sorry, Professor, I didn't see you there," the girl said quickly.
I smiled at her, immediately recognising her. Dark brown hair neatly brushed, pale skin, and blue eyes that seemed… muted, as though the world had dimmed them slightly.
"No harm done, Miss Greengrass," I replied easily. "I didn't see you either, so we're even."
Astoria Greengrass relaxed visibly at that.
"What brings you to the infirmary?" I asked, keeping my tone light. "Nothing serious, I hope?"
"I'm fine, Professor," she said quickly, almost too quickly. "Just routine check-ups. Please don't worry about me."
She gave a small, polite smile, the sort children from influential families perfected far too early, and dipped her head.
"See you next class."
And then she was gone, her steps soft and careful as she disappeared down the corridor.
I lingered a moment longer than necessary, watching her retreating back. There was something about her, something fragile, like a porcelain figurine placed too close to the edge of a shelf.
I shook my head, dispelling the unease, and pushed open the infirmary doors.
"Poppy!" I announced cheerfully, spreading my arms as if I'd arrived to brighten her day. "You look positively radiant this morning. Have I told you how wonderfully Hogwarts' infirmary is run under your watchful care?"
Madam Pomfrey didn't even look up from the chart she was reviewing.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Gilderoy," she said flatly.
I grinned. "Ah, but you smiled."
She huffed, finally meeting my eyes. "What do you want?"
"Straight to business, then," I said pleasantly. "I was wondering if you had a spare vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Aurora's been struggling to get proper rest lately."
She studied me for a moment, suspicion warring with fond exasperation, then reached for a cabinet.
"I'll give you one," she said, pressing the vial into my hand, "but only because it is for Aurora, and also because a lack of sleep makes people reckless."
"Your concern warms my heart, I'll make sure to tell Aurora," I replied solemnly.
She snorted.
As she turned back to her work, I hesitated.
"Poppy," I said more quietly, "I passed Astoria Greengrass on the way in."
Her hand stilled.
The change was immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable.
"…Ah," she said after a moment.
"That bad?" I asked gently.
She frowned. "Poor girl."
I sighed softly. "Blood malediction?"
Her head snapped up. "How did you…?"
"The signs are there," I said calmly. "If she were a Muggle, I'd say anaemia without hesitation. But magicals don't suffer from mundane illnesses quite like that."
Pomfrey's expression softened into weary resignation.
"How long?" I asked.
She looked away. "It's difficult to say with certainty. A decade, perhaps two… and only because the Greengrasses can afford the very best treatments and potions. Without that?" She shook her head. "Five years, at most."
I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.
"Have blood transfusions ever been considered?"
She blinked. "Transfusions?"
"Muggle medicine uses them regularly," I explained. "Replacing weakened blood with compatible, healthy blood. Magic complicates matters, of course, but if you could find someone compatible in both blood and magical resonance…" I paused. "It might help. Even if only a little."
Pomfrey was silent for a long moment.
"…It's unconventional," she admitted slowly. "And it would require extensive research. Permissions. Safeguards."
"But it's worth exploring," I said quietly. "An extra few years could mean everything."
She exhaled and finally nodded.
"Perhaps," she said. "I'll look into it. And I'll contact her family, see if they're willing."
I inclined my head. "Thank you, Poppy."
"No, thank you, Gilderoy," she said solemnly.
As I turned to leave, the weight of the conversation lingered heavier than any duel or demonstration ever had.
Some battles, I reflected, weren't fought with staffs or spells.
And those were always the hardest ones to win.
…
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