Content warning - memories of child abuse, trauma, mentioned blood and gore, self-hatred, mention of fantasy racial slur

After the full moon, Hagrid was on his guard as Rhiannon had predicted. Dudley tried to question him about the bones and strange smell, to no avail. All that was left to them was to return to their classes, keep their heads down and hope they’d find out eventually.

That was easy, when one had as many classes as Rhiannon and Hermione did. Their private Transfiguration class, joined also by Ron and a few of their other closer friends, was a highlight, as was Defence Against the Dark Arts despite Rhiannon’s caution about the teacher. Ancient Runes was tough but enjoyable, and Professor Kjartanson was fascinated by and supportive of their idea to build a communication device of some kind using runes, and allowed them to work on it in class as they were usually somewhat ahead of the other students. Hermione had had a hyperfixation on the Futhark in primary school and the knowledge mostly translated, and she’d passed that on to Rhiannon when they lived together in the summer holidays before their first year at Hogwarts.

It was Defence Against the Dark Arts that presented the first break in their schooltime routine. They all showed up to class first thing on the morning of Tuesday the 23^rd of September expecting a regular class, only to find the desks and benches pushed to the sides of the room and a large wardrobe standing where Professor Lupin’s teaching podium usually did. Professor Lupin stood instead in the centre of the room beaming as he welcomed the students in – they shared Defence with Ravenclaw and half of Miremark, luckily the half that included Hermione.

“Alright class! Nothing to worry about, it’s just a Boggart. We’ve been covering those in classes, so as you should know, they like dark, enclosed spaces. The cupboards under sinks, wardrobes, beneath beds, I’ve even met one that lodged itself in my – ahem, partner’s grandfather clock. This one took up residence in the staff-room yesterday, and I asked Minerva if I might borrow it so that you all could have some hands-on practice as a change from all the bookwork. Can anyone tell me what a Boggart is classified as?” Lupin asked the class. Hermione’s hand shot straight up, followed closely by Rhiannon’s. Lupin nodded to Hermione with an encouraging smile. “Yes, Miss Ndiaye-Granger?”

“Non-being, sir,” Hermione replied promptly.

Professor Lupin’s smile brightened. “Wonderful, a point to Miremark. And Miss Potter, you were the next closest – what is a Boggart?” he asked.

Rhiannon winced and planned out her words in her head. Of course she knew what a Boggart was, her foster-father had cleared one out of her bedroom before she’d been able to move into it. “A – sh-ssss-shs-sh-shape-shifter, sir,” she stammered. “Amortal non-being, t-t-t-t-t-t-t-trans-an-ans-forms itself into the worst fear of the one facing it. It-ss-iss-iss- best to have company to face one, they get confused. Common worldw-w-w-w-w-wide, even around non-magical people sometimes.”

Professor Lupin smiled kindly. “Perfect answer, a point to Gryffindor for that. Non-magical folk are favourite targets of Boggarts as they have no defences, there’s a whole task force dedicated to dealing with such situations. Now, as Rhiannon has pointed out for us, we have the advantage over our Boggart here with our numbers. Say one of you fears a shambling headless corpse, and another fears slimy crawlers, slugs, the like. If both of you face it at once, it may well try to combine those fears. Now, half a slug – not so scary.” he explained, to a round of laughter from the class. He laughed along with them, then motioned for it to die down.

“Today, we are going to practice facing the Boggart one on one, in case you ever need to – it is best to have company, but sometimes you may not. The incantation for the charm you need is Riddikulus, but the intent is more important than the words – you need to know your fear, see it, and focus very hard on turning it into something that amuses you. Turn your spider into a balloon, watch it drift away, and laugh – for it is laughter that weakens and eventually beats a Boggart. Now, repeat with me, without wands – Riddikulus!” Lupin ordered, motioning for them all to follow him.

The class repeated the incantation until Professor Lupin was satisfied with their knowledge of it. Neville mouthed the charm, but the Professor was satisfied to let him work silently as he’d already proven to be competent, if not confident, in casting spells nonverbally in other classes. Rhiannon was glad that intent was more important for this charm than correct pronunciation, because the structure of the word tripped her up terribly. At last, Professor Lupin ordered them to line up in single file to face the Boggart. Rhiannon found herself somewhere near the end, with Hermione behind her as a source of comfort and Ron just ahead.

Neville was first in line, and looked ill-at-ease with that arrangement. Lupin comforted him with a hand on his shoulder, his smile kind. “Now, Neville – you’re better at this than you think, but as you’re up first, it seems fair to help you. First things first – what would you say is the thing that frightens you most?” he inquired.

Neville’s face, already pale, went ashy and slick with sweat and he shook his head hurriedly, squeezing his hands tightly at his sides. He muttered something inaudible to even Rhiannon, but clearly Professor Lupin caught it as his smile vanished and his face took on a very grim expression. “Professor Snape?” he asked Neville quietly. Neville nodded miserably. “I think I shall have to speak to Minerva, if that is the case... don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” he reassured Neville quickly, as the boy’s greyish face whitened with panic and he shook his head desperately.

“How could we make Professor Snape funny?” Lupin mused. He then turned and spread his hands to the class, clearly asking for suggestions. Several of Rhiannon’s classmates offered their ideas – swap his shampoo for bleach, put glitter in all his clothes drawers, make Mrs Norris chase the ends of his robes. Someone – Rhiannon didn’t see who – suggested putting him in an ugly dress, complete with hat and handbag to match, and Professor Lupin held up a hand for silence with a shake of his head. “Who said that?” he asked sharply. Nobody dared answer him, but some of the Ravenclaw boys ducked their heads and looked ashamed.

“That, is part of what creates a hostile environment for transgender students. Why is the idea of a man in a dress funny to you? Should he kiss Professor Dumbledore, would that be funnier? No? So you see what is wrong. Do not bring that attitude into my classroom ever again, it will lose you points and earn you detention. Now, Neville – try this,” Lupin told the class firmly, then bent down to whisper something into Neville’s ear. Slowly, a healthy colour returned to Neville’s cheeks and he managed a trembling smile. He nodded, and Lupin stepped back with a proud smile.

With a wave of Professor Lupin’s wand and a muttered incantation, the locks on the wardrobe door fell open with a clatter and the door itself swung open. Out stepped Professor Snape, straightening his collar and sleeves and all on his dignity. Neville backed away, his smile dissipating as he raised his wand and faced the Boggart-Snape bravely. He must have cast the spell nonverbally, for with a sharp crack and a puff of smoke, plants sprouted from the boggart-Snape’s robe pockets. They budded and unfurled blooms of yellow, red and white, and as Rhiannon watched, those flowers opened their throats and began to sing. Very, very loudly.

The boggart-Snape lost its temper and began to swat at the flowers, which grew back only stronger and louder and gradually the boggart sank to its knees, swamped under a forest of trumpeting flowers as the class roared with laughter and even Neville cracked a genuine smile. Professor Lupin ushered Neville to the back of the class with a broad grin on his face. “Well done, well done – very creative there with the trumpet-lilies! Perfect execution, five points to Gryffindor for being the first up and performing so well.” Lupin announced, returning to his place at the head of the class as the Boggart writhed on the floor beneath the weight of the lilies and laughter. “Next up! Take your turn, beat it, and then head to the back of the line!” he ordered them, and gestured with a flourish for none other than Draco Malfoy to take his place before the boggart.

Rhiannon wasn’t sure what to expect. In first year, she might have thought the boy fearless, but now she knew better. And as she watched, the boggart fell still, the lilies vanished leaving a black-robed figure on the floor. It stood, drawing itself up to its full height to reveal none other than Lucius Malfoy. Rhiannon curled her lip, a growl rising in her throat as she remembered how he had faced her that day she had recklessly freed Dobby. Several others of the class shivered or turned away, but none was more shaken than Draco Malfoy. He seemed to shrink beneath the stare of the boggart wearing his father’s shape, as it pointed down at him with an expression of disgust.

“You call yourself a Malfoy? You call yourself a man? You dishonour this family with the company you keep, the way you speak – and your marks! Letting a Mudblood beat you in every subject – the shame! And now look at you – standing there in blue like you can reject our house, our ancestors!” the boggart-Lucius bellowed.

It strode towards Draco, raising its hand as if to strike him, but Draco was faster. He threw up his hand to cover his face and shrank back, but his wand hand came up between him and the boggart. “Riddikulus!” he yelled, his voice almost a desperate shriek. The boggart halted, then staggered backwards, as its flesh and clothes fell to the floor and dissipated leaving only a skeleton standing before them. It straightened itself and then swept an elegant bow, and as Rhiannon and the class watched in disbelief it began to dance a clumsy sort of jig before them. Draco wiped what looked suspiciously like tears from his eyes and covered his mouth with his hand, before bursting out into full-throated laughter while the class and professor alike stared in horror, and the skeleton fell to pieces on the floor.

“Alright – clearly I’ve made a mistake – no, stop, I’ll put it away,” Lupin spluttered, but the class were gripped by a sort of fervour now. Rhiannon understood it, in a grim way, it burned in her own veins as strong a compulsion as the monthly change. Parvati pushed past Professor Lupin to take her turn, and upon perceiving her the Boggart turned from scattered bones into a shambling corpse, loose hanks of black hair hanging over its face. Parvati’s warm copper skin lost its colour and she trembled, shaking her head.

“No. No, I can beat you... you died, we buried you... Riddikulus!” Parvati yelled, jabbing her wand at the boggart. It staggered as if struck, and in another cloud of smoke transformed from a corpse into, of all things, a giant serpent. Parvati approached it and petted it, giggling tearfully as it wiggled and sniffed at her, then took her place at the back of the line still wiping tears from her face with a trembling hand.

More of the class went after Parvati. Some were the more trivial fears – spiders, dogs, clowns, a bean sidhe, but more were deep-seated and born of trauma. Morag McDougal’s uncle, nude and candlelit saying sickening things and grasping for her as she trembled and sobbed, before he was thrown backwards and frozen in glass; a Death Eater masked and robed ordering Gregory Goyle to join him became a bat who was blown away by a storm wind, a child’s body lying on the floor before an ashen-faced Emilia Moon, a brown wolf that could only have been Lavender’s father lying headless at her feet, his head stuck on a pike behind his body and labeled Werewolf. There were too many dead bodies, too many Death Eaters, too much blood and spellfire to count it all after a while as each classmate faced a horrific fear and beat it, albeit with difficulty.

The crowd of shaking students at the back of the class grew, and finally it was Ron’s turn. Rhiannon squeezed his hand briefly but he shook her off and strode forward, grim-faced, to face the boggart himself. Rhiannon hadn’t noticed what it was before, but now she stared horror-struck as it transformed itself into very much the scene she had found in the Chamber of Secrets – Ginny’s body as it had looked last year, long ginger hair spread out and the ends drifting in translucent grimy water, her white school shirt and hands splattered with animal blood. And standing over her, living once again, the figure of Lord Voldemort. Not a youth as he had appeared to Rhiannon, Ron had never seen him as such, but Lord Voldemort as the warped, twisted fragment of humanity the way the wizarding public knew him. Ginny did not stir, and somehow Rhiannon knew she was dead. And with her death, Lord Voldemort had returned. That was Ron’s worst fear.

Rhiannon rushed forward, abandoning her cane – though not her wand - to grip Ron’s hand as he quailed and stumbled backwards. His breath caught in his throat, tears glimmered in his eyes as he raised his wand in a shaking hand. “He- he’s gone. He didn’t come back. She’s still alive. It didn’t happen that way.” Rhiannon whispered to him. “You-you-yyy-you-yyyo-you can beat it, I know you can.”

Ron shook his head and took a trembling breath, steeling himself. “She didn’t die. She didn’t die.” he murmured to himself, like a mantra. “He can’t use her again. Riddikulus, bastard!” he snapped, stepping forward and striking out at Voldemort with the wand he had borrowed from Ginny.

The boggart-Voldemort halted in its’ advance, and suddenly its point-toed shoes were replaced with gaudy blue, pink and white roller-skates, their wheels flashing with rainbow lights. It swore loudly and tripped, sliding across the floor and out of control as Ron’s grim expression spread into a broad grin and he cackled as the Boggart skidded around the floor and crashed face-first. The boggart-Ginny stood up and kicked the boggart-Voldemort in crotch for good measure, and Ron wheezed with laughter. He squeezed Rhi’s shoulder and then pulled her into a tight hug, his breaths still trembling. “Thankyou,” he whispered, before pulling away and gruffly patting her shoulder, and then scuttling to the back of the line before anyone dared make comment.

Now it was Rhiannon’s turn, and she stepped forward with her wand raised. She remembered with a shudder the visions the Dementor had forced on her, memories and imaginings tied up together. She didn’t have a single, solid fear the way others did – her life had been too much of a mess for that. And she feared what the Boggart might show her, show the class...

Professor Lupin came to her rescue, and threw himself between Rhiannon and the boggart. “Here, no!” he exclaimed, but it was no use. The Boggart drew her in like a lodestone, it wanted the more vulnerable target. She shouldered past him and faced it head on, as already it began to hiss softly, repeating the venomous things her aunt and uncle, Dumbledore and even Voldemort had said to her.

“You could have been my monster, to unleash on the school... a beautiful thing it would be, too. That’s the trouble with Basilisks – there’s no blood, no – drama to it. I could have made you mine, given time...” Rhiannon staggered and shook, grasping for her cane, but it was on the floor far behind her. The Boggart had been a nebulous thing when it first faced her but now it took shape – or rather, shapes, as it flashed between some of the worst moments of her life. Ginny on the chamber floor with Tom Riddle standing over her, mocking her – “You could have been my monster, to unleash on the school... I could have made you mine...”. Aunt Marge’s dog, the sensation of cold and terror and pain as the phantom blood of her memories dripped down her arms and legs. Hermione and Dudley, lying side by side in glass cases, headstones set behind them and the glass and stones alike covered in dust while her best friend and cousin lay untouched within. Fire, the reflections of eyes moving within it and a twisted half-shaped werewolf leaping through to strike her as she staggered and fell to her knees. Uncle Vernon beating her as she huddled on the floor, Aunt Petunia shrieking and striking her about the face with a brush as she hacked relentlessly at Rhiannon’s hair that grew back without her control. Dudley’s body torn apart and lying on the fire-torn forest floor, the flames licking at his remains. Rhiannon sobbed brokenly as the Boggart held each image for a moment before flashing to the next, on and on and on in an endless cycle easily as bad as the Dementor had been. Worse – because everyone else could see what she saw. All her shames, all her hurt, all her fear – her weakness.

“Everyone out,” Lupin said as he cleared the room, though Rhiannon heard only dimly. “I’ve made a terrible mistake and I’m sorry, but I have to handle this first – I will apologise to you in full, I promise, but I want to do it properly. Now out – please!”

The Professor returned to Rhiannon’s side, motioning for Ron and Hermione to hang back. By now the Boggart had chosen a single form and it loomed over Rhiannon, at once shocking and unfamiliar in its alienness, but also so horribly recognisable. A werewolf, half-shaped like the kind that had attacked her and Dudley – but it was not them. The remnants of its fur were mostly black and brown, scarred on all four limbs and its underside and neck, the fur of its forehead splashed white – struck by lightning. Its eyes were terrible, amber-green and too familiar, its muzzle and forepaws sodden red with blood. And its feet... it stood over the bodies of her friends, torn to bloody shreds and recognisable only by little scraps of hair, two pairs of glasses crushed and broken on the floor. Hermione’s and Luna’s, side by side and tangled with torn-out hair, black, silver, red and brown alike. All dead. All ruined. All its – her – doing.

Rhiannon had not known, in herself, what her deepest fear was, and it was as much a shock to her as it was to Professor Lupin to be confronted with it. That was the creature she had named Nyx, the culmination of everything she feared and hated about having become a werewolf. The monster. She barely felt that shock though, numb with horror as she was to have it shown. All she felt was the weight of Professor Lupin’s hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “Rhiannon. Come on, Rhiannon, I’ll help you stand.” he murmured. He took her other arm and helped her to her feet where she leaned against him, shaking like a windblown leaf. “You have to beat it, it’s the only way to make it end. It won’t latch on to me, I’m no good to it. You have to beat it yourself.”

Rhiannon shook her head, drawing in on herself. “C-c-c-c-can-can-can’t, can’t, c-c-c-can’t...” she whispered, her breath coming in heaving gasps. She had long since lost control of her sensory jinxes and it was too loud, too bright on her tear-sensitive eyes, the Boggart stank and she choked on it, the smell laden with phantom impressions of blood and animal reek.

Professor Lupin squeezed her shoulder. “You can. Of course you can. This is your fear – only you can beat it. I won’t tell you it isn’t real – fear is as real as anything else, and I won’t downplay your hurt. I am sorry I ever made you face it. But it won’t end for you even if you run away. This is a werewolf. How can you make a werewolf funny?” he asked her quietly. Rhiannon had kept her reservations to herself, but she could not hold them any longer. Professor Lupin did not pry, he never asked her why a werewolf – he just took it in stride and coaxed her through it. She could do it. She could do it – she wanted it to be over, he was right, she had to make it end.

How could she make a werewolf funny? Rhiannon had a lot of personal experience with that. But this was her monster, and she had never been able to quite shake the fear that deep inside, that monster was who she was. There was no way she could make that funny. But a werewolf in general... that she could do. The first thing that came to mind was Dudley. Dudley, that first night they both turned. He took it all in stride, every moment of it, he’d adjusted so well since he had become her unexpected ally that horrible night in June 2002. There was no way he was a monster, even deep down. She had her reservations about herself, but never him. And she remembered that first night, as he gambolled around in the cloudy, barely moonlit night-time with a car tyre swinging from his jaws. If anything could convince her that a werewolf wasn’t inherently a monster... it was Dudley.

Rhiannon raised her wand, facing the thing head on as it drooled blood. You’re not real. Nyx doesn’t look like you. Nyx doesn’t sound like you. Nyx loves my friends too. I made you up and I’ll make you go away. She thought, as if that thought alone could dispel it. “You don’t have to speak the spell, it’s all about intent anyway.” Lupin reassured her quietly. Rhiannon shook her head and curled her lip, her hand trembling on her wand. She didn’t need to speak. She didn’t think she could. But she could beat this thing.

Riddikulus. Rhiannon mouthed the words, determined to watch as the Boggart was forced, under the weight of her own willpower, to transform into something she loved. Something that amused her. And it did, and she managed a teary laugh as the Boggart-as-Dudley cavorted around the room, that same tyre swinging from his jaws – teethmarks and all. Tears streamed down her cheeks and some motion from Lupin had Ron and Hermione come forward to support her on either side. She sagged against Hermione as Ron put his arms around them both.

“Beautiful work. Truly. Fifteen points to Gryffindor, and... I suppose fifteen each for Gryffindor and Ravenclaw and seven for Miremark, since less of you faced it... This was my mistake, and I am so very, very sorry. Mr. Weasley, Miss Ndiaye-Granger, if you would take Rhiannon to the Hospital Wing, and convey my apologies to Madam Pomfrey as well – I’m sure she’ll have a lecture for me in any case and I fully deserve whatever she has to say. You did brilliant work Rhiannon, struggle and all. Now – hospital, rest, go. Thankyou for your assistance, you two.” Lupin told them all. He squeezed Rhiannon’s shoulder once more and shooed the three of them out of the classroom. He didn’t ask why she’d turned her werewolf fear into another werewolf, even a silly one. He had no questions at all, and numb though she was Rhiannon felt a surge of affection for the kind, disheveled man.

Ron and Hermione helped Rhiannon downstairs, as Rhiannon sank deeper into a solid state of shock. “That was... horrible,” Ron whispered, shivering. “I thought mine was bad, but yours... That’s what you see with the Dementors too, isn’t it? That’s why it’s so bad.” Rhiannon nodded dully, and there was a soft thud as Hermione swatted Ron over Rhiannon’s shoulder. “Sorry. That was... sorry. But – ugh, I’ll stop, I’m sorry.” he mumbled.

Hermione giggled softly, but it was a muted sound and she trembled under Rhiannon’s touch. “Er – she went all, no-talky a bit ago,” Ron explained awkwardly, and Hermione squeezed Rhiannon’s hand and shook her head, her hair brushing against the top of Rhiannon’s head as she did so. Finally, the three of them reached the hospital wing, and Ron and Hermione helped Rhiannon into a spare bed as they waited for Madam Pomfrey to attend them.

When the nurse noticed them, the already stubborn set of her face turned very grim, furious. “Oh, I’m going to give that Remus lad a bollocking... You all from the Boggart class? Settle her in there, Hermione, you can stay with her – I’ve got the new special attachments for your spectacles, but I can see you need the rest. Ronald, stay or go, pick one and for Christ’s sake stop hopping from foot to foot, nobody’s dying!” she ordered, directing Hermione into the bed beside Rhiannon’s.

Ron looked like a kicked puppy and settled himself into a chair between their beds. “D’you have, a book or something I could read you? I know I’m not great at it, but I can try, and those – whatsit, with the knights and stuff – those books aren’t so hard.” he suggested. Hermione nodded and Rhiannon slipped down to lie curled on her side in her own bed as Ron rummaged in Hermione’s bag for the latest book they’d all been reading. First Test, about the first girl to openly serve as a knight-in-training in the fantasy realm it was set in. He flipped through for the bookmark Hermione had left, muttering to himself. “Aha – yes. Chapter three, the practice courts, we fell asleep before we got far. Lemme see... ahem,” he cleared his throat and dithered, running his thumbnail along the page to find a line to begin on. “Aha. She’d just chucked him, that’s right.” he muttered.

Ron’s voice took on a slow, careful sort of rhythm as he found his place and began to read. ““See what happens when you get too comfortable, Hakuin?” drawled the Wildcat. “Someone hands you a surprise. If you’d been a hair slower, she’d’ve tossed you.”

“Isn’t it bad enough I am humbled, without you adding your copper to the sum, Eda?” the Horse inquired. “Look at me, youngster,” he ordered. When Kel obeyed, she saw Hakuin’s black eyes were dancing. “Someone has studied in the Yamani Islands.”” he read aloud, his mouth twisting up at the corners at the wry dialogue. Rhiannon did not feel okay yet, not even close, but his voice was grounding, comforting, the sound of family and she closed her eyes and breathed deeply as gradually her shock faded, to be replaced with an empty calm and finally with blessedly dreamless sleep.