"I want to warn you, Lupin—Neville Longbottom is in this class. I advise you not to entrust him with anything important; he won't cope. Unless Miss Granger whispers in his ear what to do."
Lupin looked quite surprised.
"And I was hoping Neville would be the one to help me today. I'm sure he'll do a great job."
The chubby Gryffindor boy in question turned redder than a tomato—how does he manage to change color like that?
Snape slammed the door loudly as he left, and Lupin, with a slight smile, approached the wardrobe with mirrors on its doors that stood near the middle of the staff room. As soon as the professor neared it, the wardrobe began to rattle and twitch, as if something were trying to break out. This seriously unnerved the students in the front rows.
"It's just an ordinary Boggart," the teacher reassured everyone. "So there's nothing to be afraid of."
This explanation didn't help much, and many continued to eye the wardrobe warily.
"Boggarts like the dark," Lupin went on. "They're most often found in wardrobes, under beds, in drawers beneath sinks. I once found one in a grandfather clock case. This one only arrived here yesterday—I asked the Headmaster to keep it for our lesson today. Can anyone tell me what a Boggart is?"
Only Hermione raised her hand. Once again, I noticed her tendency to answer every question, whether prompted or not. Naturally, Lupin chose her—she was the only volunteer.
"A Boggart is a creature that changes its appearance. It turns into what a person fears most."
"Wonderful—even I couldn't have answered more precisely."
Lupin's praise made my sister blush visibly. Does she really crave approval from "authoritative" adults that much? She doesn't react this sharply to praise from peers. Interesting. I also wonder how she plans to address the "problem" with me.
While I pondered the social nuances of my existence, Lupin finished introducing the Boggart and taught us a spell to counter it—*Ridiculus**. This spell should transform the Boggart into something humorous, eliciting positive emotions in the wizard and neutralizing the Boggart's effect—or rather, its influence. From what I understood of this immaterial creature in Hagrid's bestiary, it's akin to a spirit, something necromancers often dealt with in my memories. You can combat them in various ways—beyond necromancy, light of a specific wavelength, fire as an aggressive medium, and energies like life, death, or order work well against such entities.
"*Ridiculus**!" everyone repeated in chorus after Lupin, practicing the wand movement without wands.
I joined them, of course. Whatever experience my fragments hold, it's incomplete, and I must study the local school of magic—at least in hopes it'll bridge me to some of the hidden knowledge in my soul.
"*Ridiculus**!" we chanted again, waving empty hands.
"Excellent," Lupin said, satisfied with the visible progress. "But that's the easy part. The magic word alone won't help you. That's where I need your help, Neville. Come here."
The boy timidly approached the professor, who stood a couple of meters in front of the wardrobe. It shook, Neville trembled, and the Slytherins quivered—this time with stifled laughter. Lupin whispered something to Neville, who nodded, and then the moment of truth arrived.
"What do you think he'll get?" asked Anthony, standing nearby.
"Snape—what else?" Justin shrugged, trying to seem unfazed, though his pallor and distinctive face gave him the air of a frightened yet proud movie villain. But he was right.
As soon as Neville—shaking and clutching his wand—nodded uncertainly, Lupin waved his hand, and the wardrobe opened. Nothing burst out of the inky darkness within, but a moment later, a Boggart in the form of Snape emerged, glaring menacingly at Neville. The boy shook even harder, paling to match the chalk on the board. I watched with keen interest. It's not nice when children "suffer," but my vast experience tells me one thing—children will "suffer" one way or another. Such is the path of growing up.
The Boggart-Snape was about to make a threatening move toward Neville.
"Ri—*Ridiculus*!" the boy cried out in panic, but nothing happened. "Ridiculus**!"
The second attempt was a bit more confident, and it sufficed—the Boggart-Snape suddenly found himself clad in a green skirt suit, a hat with a stuffed vulture perched atop it, and a pink handbag hanging from the crook of his elbow.
The students erupted into laughter, filling the staff room with a deafening roar. Even some Slytherins couldn't suppress grins. I couldn't help but notice the faint, venom-laced smile on Daphne—the blue-eyed brunette I'd now be working with in Potions, thanks to Snape's decree. Well, I don't mind. Without even realizing it, I moved toward her with an elven step—silent, barely stirring the air, as odd as that sounds.
"Having fun?" I whispered softly, just loud enough for her to notice, prompting her to mask her face with indifference and turn to me.
"Granger," she replied just as quietly.
"Greengrass."
At Lupin's command, Neville was replaced by Parvati Patil—now I'd at least know the name of that Indian Gryffindor girl with a twin in Ravenclaw. The Boggart, still in transfigured Snape form, morphed into a movie mummy, swathed in bandages. It stretched out its arms and lurched toward Parvati, but she cast *Ridiculus**, and the bandages on its legs unraveled, tangling them. The mummy crashed to the floor with a thud, its head rolling away.
"And what's the reason for your gloating?" I continued my hushed conversation with Daphne, unnoticed by the others.
"I'm afraid the reason for my hypothetical gloating has nothing to do with you."
"So you'll stay silent?"
"Oh, I'll speak," the girl said, slightly tilting her nose upward. "But that doesn't mean you'll hear what you want."
"*Ridiculus**!" Another shout from a student transformed the Boggart into something humorous, sparking more laughter from the class.
"You clearly have some kind of conflict," I pressed on.
"An unfounded assumption."
When your lifespan exceeds a thousand years, you inevitably meet someone who reminds you of another. Daphne feels familiar to me. To be fair, some other students I've spoken to also trigger a faint sense of déjà vu—minor details, subtle echoes. Everything seems interwoven somehow.