The atmosphere in the Staff Room had shifted from cold dread to a strange, frantic sort of electricity. Allen forced himself to stop spiraling into his own thoughts. Overthinking was a Ravenclaw's greatest strength, but right now, it was a liability. He took a deep breath, centered his mind, and began to observe his classmates.
It was a study in human fragility. Some of the students had their eyes squeezed shut so tightly their faces were turning red. Others were clutching the fabric of their robes as if they could disappear into the wool.
"Don't come any closer... just stay back, please..."
Allen's sharp ears caught Padma Patil's frantic whispering. She was practically vibrating with terror, her gaze fixed on the wardrobe as if she expected a literal demon to burst through the wood.
"Is everyone feeling ready?" Professor Lupin asked. His voice was remarkably gentle, lacking the sharp, demanding edge that most Hogwarts professors used when things got intense.
Allen wasn't entirely sure if 'ready' was the right word, but he remembered Lupin's earlier promise: he was the anchor. He would be the last one to face the creature. Despite the creeping cold in his chest, Allen's pride flared—he was confident that no matter what manifested, his magical repertoire was more than enough to crush a Boggart into dust.
"Who's going to be our trailblazer?" Lupin surveyed the room.
Michael Corner took a hesitant, shaky step forward.
Allen had always respected Michael. Most people just saw him as another quiet Ravenclaw with messy black hair, but Allen remembered the time Michael had stood his ground against Draco Malfoy. When Malfoy and his goons were trying to corner Luna Lovegood in the courtyard, Michael hadn't hesitated to step in, ignoring the threats of 'Pureblood' retaliation. He had a spine of tempered steel when it mattered.
"Excellent choice, Michael! Everyone else, give him some breathing room," Lupin directed, ushering the class toward the walls. "Step back, clear the floor—let's give Michael the stage."
Allen watched Lupin closely. The Professor hadn't checked a seating chart or asked for an introduction. On the Hogwarts Express, their meeting had been brief and chaotic. For Lupin to accurately name every student in the room meant he had spent his nights studying the faces and files of his pupils.
He's a good man, Allen thought. He cares about the job in a way most people who end up in this cursed position don't.
The room fell into a heavy silence as Michael stood alone in the center of the floor. His knuckles were white where he gripped his wand, but his feet didn't move an inch toward the exit.
"On three, Michael," Lupin said, his own wand leveled at the wardrobe's brass handle. "One... two... three... Go!"
A spark of red light leapt from Lupin's wand, striking the lock. The door didn't just open; it flew back on its hinges with a violent crack.
Out stumbled a nightmare wrapped in rot. It was an ancient mummy, its linen bandages stained with dark, dried blood that looked centuries old. From the gaps in its wrappings, two pinpricks of baleful red light glowed with a hungry intensity. It didn't walk so much as shuffle, its stiff, withered arms reaching out toward Michael's throat.
Michael looked paralyzed. The creature was only five feet away, its dusty, death-heavy scent filling the air.
"Michael! Do something!" Padma shrieked from the sidelines.
The shout seemed to snap the spell of fear. Instead of flinching, Michael actually stepped into the creature's space. He thrust his wand forward, his voice cracking but firm: "Riddikulus!"
There was a sound like a whip cracking. Suddenly, the trailing bandage around the mummy's left ankle snagged on nothingness. The creature's momentum carried it forward, and it went down with a heavy, comedic thud. Its head, apparently not attached very well, popped off and rolled across the floor like a bowling ball, wearing a look of immense confusion.
The tension in the room snapped like a dry twig, replaced by a ripple of nervous laughter.
"Padma! Your turn!" Lupin called out.
Encouraged by Michael's success, Padma gritted her teeth and sprinted past him. With a loud Pop!, the fallen mummy vanished. In its place hovered a floating skull. It wasn't a clean, white bone; this thing was covered in leathery, shriveled skin of a sickly purple and green hue. Its eyes were pits of black coal that seemed to suck the light out of the room.
"What is that? Why is it that color?" Michael asked, wiping sweat from his forehead as he retreated.
"It's a jungle skull," Allen answered quietly, his eyes tracking the Boggart's movement. "A trophy cursed with necro-magic. Very rare, very nasty."
The skull let out a dry, rasping hiss and launched itself at Padma like a cannonball. It was fast—impossibly fast. It bounced off her chest and clipped her head, sent her stumbling back. Her perfectly pinned princess bun disintegrated, sending dark hair cascading over her face in a mess.
"Riddikulus!" Padma screamed, more out of annoyance than fear now.
Snap! A thick, heavy fishing net materialized around the skull. It thrashed and snarled inside the mesh, and then, in a crowning moment of absurdity, it let out a loud cluck and laid a large, speckled egg.
The classroom erupted. The pure silliness of a cursed skull acting like a broody hen was enough to banish the lingering shadows.
"Lisa Turpin, step up!"
Lisa was a ball of nervous energy. She rushed the Boggart before it could even finish transforming. A female ghost emerged, draped in a tattered white burial shroud. Her hair was a matted, oily black that dragged across the floor like a train. She had no eyes—just hollow, weeping sockets.
The ghost opened its mouth, and a sound tore through the room—a banshee-like shriek so high and sharp that Allen felt the vibration in his teeth. It was the sound of pure grief turned into a weapon.
Lisa recoiled, her hands flying to her ears. "Ri—Ri—Riddikulus!"
The ghost's shroud vanished, replaced instantly by a bright, neon-green grass skirt. A colorful lei of tropical flowers dropped onto its head, and the terrifying shriek turned into the rhythmic clinking of a ukulele. The ghost started to do a clumsy hula dance.
The Boggart was losing its grip. It began to cycle through forms rapidly as students stepped up. A giant python turned into a long string of sausages; a fire-breathing dragon became a tiny, hiccuping lizard that blew bubbles; a swarm of red ants turned into a pile of sparkling confetti.
Then, a giant brown gorilla materialized. It was a behemoth, nearly eight feet tall, with a chest that glowed a bruised, angry purple. Its paws were the size of dinner plates, and it let out a roar that shook the glass in the windows.
"That is the most hideous thing I've ever seen!" Padma yelled, shielding her eyes.
"Riddikulus!" Anthony Goldstein roared back.
The gorilla began to shrink at a dizzying speed. Within seconds, it was no bigger than a kitten, wearing a diaper and clutching a baby bottle, looking up at Anthony with wide, watery eyes.
Lupin checked the room. Only one student remained.
"Allen," Lupin said, his voice dropping to a more serious register. "Come forward and finish this for us."
The Ravenclaws held their collective breath. To them, Allen was the gold standard—the student who never failed, who knew every spell, and who walked with a confidence that bordered on the supernatural. They were dying to see what could possibly frighten the "Great Allen Harris."
Allen stepped into the circle of light. Subconsciously, his mind slammed shut. He didn't even think about it; the walls of Occlumency rose up like iron shutters, shielding his inner world from the Boggart's psychic probe.
The Boggart hesitated. It spun in a dizzying blur.
Snap! It became a grandfather clock with hands spinning backward. Snap! A pile of rotting gold coins. Snap! A patch of blood-red mud. Snap! A giant, slimy snail that trailed silver ink.
It couldn't find a foothold. Allen's mind was a fortress, and the Boggart was a thief finding every door locked and bolted. It began to spin faster and faster, a chaotic whirlwind of shapes that wouldn't settle.
"Allen," Lupin said softly, stepping closer. "You are quite possibly the most gifted student I have ever had the pleasure to teach. Your control is... formidable."
He paused, looking Allen directly in the eye. "But magic isn't just about control, Allen. It's about honesty. Why not face your true self? You cannot conquer a shadow if you refuse to let it stand in the light."
Allen blinked. The words hit him harder than a physical blow. He realized he was being a coward. He was using his skill to hide, not to grow. If he didn't know what his own fear was, how could he ever hope to master the darkness within his own soul?
Fine, Allen thought. Let's see it.
He lowered the walls. He let his Occlumency crumble, opening the gates to his deepest, most guarded memories.
The Boggart stopped spinning instantly. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
A figure began to coalesce out of the shadows. It was a woman in a white dress, her long, raven-black hair falling over her shoulders. Lisa Turpin let out a small gasp—it looked almost exactly like the ghost she had faced earlier.
"Is he afraid of the same thing as Lisa?" someone whispered.
But as the figure solidified, the differences became chillingly clear. This wasn't a hollow-eyed banshee. This woman had eyes—large, beautiful, and terrifyingly alive. They were filled with an ancient, boiling malice and a resentment so thick it felt like physical pressure on the chest.
She didn't shriek. She just stood there, staring at Allen with a look of absolute betrayal, as if he were the one who had put her in the ground.
Allen's breath hitched. He knew those eyes. They weren't from a textbook or a ghost story. They were a reflection of a life he had left behind, a reminder that death doesn't always wash away the sins of the past. The "Revised" history of his soul was standing right in front of him, and it was looking for blood.