Hogwarts: Proficiency Panel

Chapter 478 479: The Boggart

Dumbledore fell silent.

That silence lingered until they reached the center of the open field. In that

moment, Sean understood that in the face of love, saints and commoners were the

same; the greatest wizard in the world was no different from a Muggle.

"Let us stay here for our first lesson in Defense Against the Dark Arts. It is

hard to imagine I still have students to teach... a responsibility I find myself

looking forward to," Dumbledore said, appearing to have reverted to the kindly

old man Sean remembered.

He flicked his wand, conjuring an old wardrobe. As Dumbledore approached it, the

wardrobe suddenly began to shake, thumping violently against an invisible wall.

"Do you know what is inside?" Dumbledore asked calmly.

"I believe there is a Boggart inside," Sean replied.

"Ah, yes. Boggarts love dark, enclosed spaces," Dumbledore explained, as if

lecturing a class. "Wardrobes, the gap under a bed, the cupboard under a sink...

Now, my first question to you: what is a Boggart?"

"It is a shape-shifter. It takes the form of whatever it believes will frighten

us most." Sean's voice grew quieter; he found this increasingly cruel.

"Quite so; I don't think I could put it more clearly myself," Dumbledore said.

"So, the Boggart sitting in the darkness of that cabinet has no form yet. It

does not know what the person outside the door fears. No one knows what a

Boggart looks like when it is alone, but the moment I let it out, it will

instantly become the thing each of us fears most. This means," Dumbledore

continued, "we have a great advantage over a Boggart. Sean, do you see it?"

"Yes, Professor—because there are two of us, it won't know which shape it should

take."

"Precisely." Dumbledore nodded. "When dealing with a Boggart, it is best to have

company. It confuses it: should it become a headless skeleton or a flesh-eating

slug? I once saw a Boggart make that very mistake—it tried to frighten two

people at once and turned itself into half a slug; it wasn't scary at all. The

charm to repel a Boggart is simple, but it requires great strength of will. You

see, what truly finishes a Boggart is laughter. We must force it to assume a

shape we find amusing. Now, I shall teach you the incantation. Repeat after

me... Riddikulus!"

Dumbledore felt a pang of nostalgia. Long ago, his students had been Newt and

Leta. Not so long ago, they were James, Lily, and Severus. Now, his student was

Sean Green... He liked this student very much; sometimes, he saw the qualities

he admired most reflected in the boy.

"Riddikulus!" Sean adapted to the Headmaster's sudden instruction with ease.

"Very good. Now let us try. Step back a bit, Sean."

Sean retreated to the edge of the wardrobe, leaving Dumbledore standing alone

before the rattling doors. A stream of sparks shot from Dumbledore's wand,

striking the spherical handle. The wardrobe doors burst open, but no monster

surged out. Instead, a bewildered and gentle-looking witch stepped forward, her

expression timid and endearing.

But the moment Dumbledore saw her, he averted his gaze. Sean's wand was out in a

flash, and the cabinet doors slammed shut.

"You don't need to do this," Sean said, his brow furrowed.

He had guessed early on how the old wizard intended to show him Ariana. It was

by letting him witness the old man's greatest fear—his Boggart, his sister, the

late Ariana.

"Oh, it's quite all right..." Dumbledore sat down on the grass, his silver beard

still trembling slightly. "Sit here. Come, child. Let me tell you a story."

The wind blew gently, and the clouds drifted lazily across the sky.

"Once there was a wizard—a wizard we should all perhaps hold in contempt. His

sister had been attacked by Muggles after accidentally revealing her magic. This

attack left her mind unstable, her magic uncontrollable. His father, in a fit of

rage and seeking revenge, cast spells on those Muggle boys and was arrested for

it. He died miserably in Azkaban.

"And what of the boy? He was talented—extraordinarily gifted, one must admit.

And so he wanted to escape. He wanted to be brilliant. He wanted to shine. Look

at what he did; he was soon in constant correspondence with the most famous

magical masters of the age, including the alchemist Nicolas Flamel, the

historian Bathilda Bagshot, and the theorist Adalbert Waffling. Several of his

papers were published in Transfiguration Today, Challenges in Charming, and The

Practical Potioneer.

"Before graduation, he and another equally gifted wizard, Elphias Doge, planned

to travel the world. They were in Diagon Alley, ready to set off for Greece,

when news of his mother Kendra's death arrived—his mother had died while caring

for his sister. And so, he had to abandon his plans and return home to take up

the burden."

Dumbledore's narrative was frank and detached. His gaze drifted over Sean's head

toward the distant valley.

"And so he resented it all. After his mother's death, responsible for a disabled

sister and a wayward brother, he returned to the village full of bitterness. He

felt trapped, wasting his brilliance! But he forgot that his brother had been

carrying his weight all along; only his brother could soothe his sister during

her episodes, yet he chose to forget... His brother was furious at his

selfishness. Imagine—he wanted to leave with someone else, to flee the place

that confined him.

"He was so selfish, Sean. More selfish than someone as selfless as you could

ever imagine. Later... reality manifested in the form of his rough-mannered,

uneducated, yet far superior brother. He refused to hear the truths his brother

shouted at him. He didn't want to hear that he was being dragged down by a weak,

unstable sister, unable to fulfill his plans to make Muggles submit and wizards

great!

"He, his companion, and his brother—their argument escalated into a duel. And

his sister... after all the care his mother and brother had lavished upon her...

fell to the floor, dead. His companion fled, leaving him alone to bury his

sister and learn to spend his days in guilt and profound grief—the price of his

shame."

Dumbledore smiled, a smile as brittle as dry straw in a wheat field, held

together by a fragile strength. This was his entire life: a cycle of goodbyes,

escapes, attempts to forget, and the inability to ever let go. In the end, his

hands were empty, and his heart was a map of scars.

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