The Ravenclaws had been nursing a growing sense of jealousy for days. Since the start of the term, the Gryffindors—led by an unusually boastful Ron Weasley—had been parading through the corridors, regaling anyone who would listen with tales of their "legendary" encounter with a shapeshifting terror. According to them, Professor Lupin's class was the only one actually worth the ink in their quills.
"He made a Boggart turn into Snape in a lace hat!" Ron had shouted across the Great Hall earlier that morning.
Naturally, the Eagles were eager to see if the "Little Lions" were exaggerating or if the scruffy Professor actually had some teeth.
"Alright, everyone," Professor Lupin said, his voice cutting through the hushed whispers as he surveyed the room. "If you're ready to put the theory to the test, please follow me."
The class scrambled to their feet, a mixture of academic curiosity and genuine nerves filling the air. Lupin led them out of the classroom and through the winding stone corridors of the second floor. They were just rounding a corner near the trophy room when they spotted a familiar, hovering nuisance.
Peeves the Poltergeist was upside down in mid-air, busy trying to plug a keyhole with a wad of chewed-up bubblegum. He looked ready to drop a handful of moldy chalk on the nearest student, but as the group approached, his grin didn't just fade—it curdled.
Most of the students assumed Peeves was terrified of Lupin. After all, the rumors of the Professor shooting a Wadiwasi gum-bullet up the ghost's nose were already Hogwarts lore. But Allen knew better.
As the crowd passed, Allen locked eyes with the poltergeist. For a split second, the image of a cold, dark corridor and an iron spear pinning Peeves to a wall flashed between them. The memory of Allen's "gentle" interrogation from the night before was still very much a fresh trauma for the spirit.
Peeves let out a strangled, high-pitched yelp, dropped his gum, and did a somersault through the nearest solid wall, fleeing as if the Bloody Baron himself was on his heels.
"My, my," Lupin noted, looking mildly surprised. "He seems even more flighty than usual today. Perhaps he's finally learning some manners."
The Ravenclaws looked at Lupin with newfound awe, though a few observant ones—like Michael Corner—noticed that Peeves hadn't looked at the Professor at all. He'd been staring straight at Allen Harris.
They reached the Staff Room shortly after. It was a long, stately room filled with mismatched armchairs and heavy wooden paneling that smelled of old parchment and pipe tobacco. It was empty of faculty, the other teachers having cleared out to give Lupin the space he needed.
"The Professors were kind enough to let us borrow their lounge," Lupin explained, closing the door behind the last student. He gestured toward the far end of the room, where a tall, ornate wardrobe stood in the shadows.
Suddenly, the wardrobe didn't just shake; it bucked. A loud, rhythmic thump-thump-thump echoed through the room, as if something inside was trying to kick its way out.
The front row of students scrambled back, several of them nearly tripping over the mismatched chairs.
"Don't be alarmed," Lupin said, his voice steadying the room like an anchor. "There's simply a Boggart inside. It moved in yesterday afternoon, and I thought it would be a shame to let such a perfect teaching opportunity go to waste."
Despite the Gryffindors' stories, the reality of a rattling, possessed-looking wardrobe was a different beast entirely.
"Oh, no," Padma Patil whispered, her face pale. "Professor Trelawney warned me. She said the tea leaves showed a 'cloaked shadow' in my path this week. This is it. I'm going to die in a staff room."
Marietta Edgecombe wasn't doing much better; she was staring at the vibrating handle of the wardrobe with a look of pure, unadulterated dread.
"Boggarts thrive in the dark," Lupin began, stepping toward the center of the room. "The more cramped and neglected the space, the better they like it. I've found them in the gaps under beds, inside grandfather clocks, and once, rather unpleasantly, in a hole under a kitchen sink. They are the ultimate squatters."
He turned to the class, his gaze searching. "But before we open the door, we need to understand our opponent. Who can tell me: What exactly is a Boggart?"
As if on cue, thirty heads turned as one toward the back of the room.
Lupin followed their gaze and let out a soft chuckle. "Well, Allen, it seems your reputation precedes you. Would you care to enlighten us, or should I start deducting points for excessive reliance on a single classmate?"
Allen stepped forward slightly, his expression calm. "A Boggart is a non-being, a shapeshifter. It doesn't have a true form of its own. Instead, it sifts through the mind of the person in front of it and instantly becomes whatever that person fears most."
He paused, his mind drifting to the darker implications of the creature. "It's classified as a Dark Creature not because it's inherently murderous, but because it feeds exclusively on the psychic energy of human terror. It doesn't defend itself; it hunts for the sake of the hunt."
Lupin nodded slowly, looking impressed. "A very clinical, very accurate assessment. Five points to Ravenclaw for a definition that belongs in a textbook."
The Eagles beamed. They liked this teacher. He was poor, yes, but he valued brains over bravado.
"So," Lupin continued, "the Boggart in that wardrobe currently has no shape. It's sitting there in the dark, wondering who is on the other side of the wood. When I let it out, it will try to terrify each of you in turn. It is a master of the jump-scare."
The students shifted uncomfortably. No one liked the idea of their private nightmares being broadcast to the entire class.
"However," Lupin said, holding up a finger, "we have a massive advantage. Does anyone see it?"
Again, eyes drifted toward Allen.
Lupin laughed and shook his head. "No, no! Ravenclaws are supposed to be the wits of Hogwarts! Surely someone other than Mr. Harris can see the flaw in the Boggart's plan when it's facing a room full of people?"
Michael Corner raised his hand tentatively. "Is it... because it'll get confused? If it looks at all of us at once, it won't know which fear to pick?"
"Exactly!" Lupin said. "If I stand before it with a dozen people, it might try to be a giant spider and a headless ghost at the same time. You end up with a ghost with eight legs or a spider with a top hat. It becomes... well, not very scary at all."
He began to pace, his voice growing more animated. "The spell to repel a Boggart is simple in theory, but it requires a very specific type of mental focus. You cannot just hate your fear. You must mock it. You must find the one thing about your nightmare that is inherently ridiculous."
"The incantation is Riddikulus," Lupin instructed. "Let's try it without the wands first. After me... Riddikulus!"
"Riddikulus!" the class shouted in a ragged unison.
"A bit more heart in it! Riddikulus!"
"RIDDIKULUS!" The second attempt was loud enough to make the wardrobe jump again.
"Good. Very good," Lupin said. "But the word is only the trigger. The true weapon is your imagination. You must force the Boggart to take a shape that makes you laugh. Laughter is the only thing that truly destroys a Boggart's power."
He looked around the room. "Now... who wants to go first? Who's brave enough to lead the charge?"
The room went dead silent. The rattling of the wardrobe handle seemed to grow louder in the absence of voices. Padma looked like she was going to faint, and Michael was suddenly very interested in the dust on his shoes.
Allen moved to step forward. He didn't want the momentum to die, and he figured he could handle whatever the creature threw at him.
But Lupin put a hand out, stopping him. "Not yet, Allen. I have no doubt you could banish this Boggart with your eyes closed, but if you go first, the rest of the class might not learn to find their own strength. You'll be our 'closer'—the one to finish it off at the end."
Lupin looked at the remaining students, his disappointment starting to show. "No one? Truly?"
He sighed. "Alright. Everyone, take a moment. Close your eyes. Think of the thing that keeps you awake at night. The thing that makes your blood run cold. And once you have it... think of how to make it funny. Give the monster a tutu. Give the ghost a squeaky voice. Make the impossible... pathetic."
Allen closed his eyes with the rest of them, but his heart wasn't beating with the normal fear of spiders or heights.
He started to search his mind. What did he, Allen Harris—a soul who had already crossed the threshold of death and returned—truly fear?
Was it the return to that cold, dark void?
Was it the exposure of his secret? The idea of Dumbledore or the Ministry finding out that he was an anomaly, a glitch in the natural order of life and death?
He tried to visualize it. What would the Boggart show? Would it be his own mangled body from the car accident in his previous life, twisted and bleeding on a rain-slicked road? Or would it be a version of himself that was nothing but an empty shell, a hollow man with no purpose?
The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he became. His fear wasn't something as simple as a snake or a teacher. His fear was existential. It was the "Truth" of his existence.