Chapter 451: Boggart
The next morning, Wade headed straight to Professor McGonagall’s office to reclaim the Time-Turner he’d been so eager for.
“Your story has reached my ears,” Professor McGonagall said, her expression warm with approval. Her voice was gentle. “Welcome back, Wade.”
“Thank you, Professor,” Wade replied, fastening the golden device back around his neck and tucking it into his robes with a smile. “And thank you for excusing me from last week’s essay.”
“Given how thoroughly you’ve internalized the knowledge of transforming inanimate objects into creatures, writing it down would’ve been redundant,” Professor McGonagall said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “Wade, I assume you’ve received your new schedule?”
“Yes,” Wade answered. “It’s pretty much the same as last term’s.”
“Ah, that’s because the MagicFeather Quill drafted it—unfortunately, it’s not exactly capable of handling complex logic. For instance, certain students’ timetables would benefit from adjustments to improve efficiency.”
With a flick of her wand from her sleeve, she tapped the parchment on the desk. Words began to appear as if conjured from thin air.
“I know most of the third-year curriculum holds little challenge for you. This is the material I’ve prepared for other year groups. You’re free to choose the time slots that suit you best, Wade—go attend the classes you truly need.”
Wade stared, astonished, as he took the parchment. The schedule was detailed down to the minute, and his eyes sparkled with disbelief.
Professor McGonagall said nothing more, glanced at her watch, and announced, “The first class is about to begin. You should get to your lesson—remember, even with a Time-Turner in hand, never abuse time.”
……
The morning began with the usual trio of overlapping elective classes. For Wade, however, the content was no real challenge.
Professor Trelawney’s Divination, aside from her self-important rambling, required little more than textbook reading. Wade had a natural talent for it—his predictions were consistently more accurate than his peers’, even without consulting the books.
Muggle Studies was a formality. With real-world Muggle experience under his belt, he could’ve taught the class himself. In one session, he caught Professor Bubagi making at least five factual errors.
Of course, compared to most wizards, Professor Bubagi was rare—a scholar deeply knowledgeable about Muggle life and genuinely sympathetic toward non-magical people.
Arithmancy was even less of a hurdle. Wade’s mathematical ability far surpassed anyone at Hogwarts. What baffled others was just a relaxing puzzle for him.
It seemed the professors had quietly coordinated—except for Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions, every other core professor had granted Wade a one-time exception, allowing him to skip classes he’d already mastered, so he could spend his time more wisely.
When Wade encountered Professor Snape in the corridor, the man’s scowl was as dark as ever. Still, he paused to explain, with icy precision:
“Potions is a discipline of profound depth and rigor. It admits no shortcuts.”
“It demands absolute precision, meticulous care, and flawless execution. Every detail matters—details are what determine success or failure.”
“Even if you’ve brewed the same potion a thousand times, the thousand-and-first attempt requires the same focus and reverence as the first. No exceptions.”
“So I will not permit any student to skip class without just cause. And you are no exception, Wade.”
Wade simply nodded. “Understood, Professor.”
Well, he hadn’t been surprised. He’d never seriously considered skipping Snape’s class.
While most professors occasionally slipped up or relied too heavily on textbooks, Snape never did. He demanded exactness—and practiced it himself. Every step of potion-making was written in full detail on the blackboard, and he occasionally shared personal tips—tiny gems of wisdom that made the otherwise dry lectures sparkle.
But most students, aside from Hermione—who copied every word down to the punctuation—just glanced at the first line and immediately started stirring. They rushed through, patching together mistakes as best they could. By the time they corrected the small errors, they were too exhausted to even register Snape’s biting remarks. The final product was often vague, uncertain, and borderline unpassable.
When Wade entered the classroom, the other students glanced up in mild surprise, then settled back into their seats, returning to attention.
Few knew the full story of what he’d been through. And given Wade’s usual aloof demeanor, no one dared ask.
By lunchtime, Wade briefly explained the situation to Harry and the Weasley Twins. They didn’t press further, simply relieved he’d returned safely.
“Honestly,” Fred said as they walked toward the Great Hall, “the Wizard Purity Party seems far less terrifying than the Death Eaters my parents always warn me about.”
George nodded. “At least they don’t kidnap minors and force them into slave labor.”
“What about a villain with real vision?” Harry asked.
George mimed lighting a cigar, then lowered his head and spoke in a gravelly tone: “You may call me… Father.”
The boys burst into laughter, remembering a recent Muggle film they’d watched.
“Mr. Weasley,” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut in sharply from behind.
George nearly jumped out of his skin.
“Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall,” they all greeted, stiffening.
Professor McGonagall gave a curt nod, her expression stern. “Movies may romanticize violence, but I hope you understand—violence and crime are never acceptable. True power comes from wisdom, courage, and a steadfast commitment to justice.”
“Yes, Professor,” the twins mumbled, bowing their heads.
Once she’d walked toward the staff table, they immediately started pushing each other, blaming one another for not watching their surroundings.
“Hey, kids!” Hagrid called as he joined them, lowering his voice. “Which day—tomorrow or the day after—do you have free time in the afternoon?”
He thought he was whispering, but the question carried through the hall. Students nearby shot curious glances.
“Wednesday,” Harry said. “I only have Charms that afternoon.” He looked around. “What about you, Wade?”
Wade nodded. “Same.”
He’d originally planned to attend the sixth-year Transfiguration class, but shifting it to Thursday wasn’t a problem.
Since the professors had waived his essay assignments, Wade’s schedule was far more open than before.
Michael and the others nodded in agreement. Among them, Wade and Hermione were the busiest—everyone else had lighter loads.
“I’ve got an essay to write,” Hermione groaned. “And I still have a 325-page book to read!”
“None of us have time,” George sighed. “Even though Fred and I think OWLs aren’t that big a deal, the professors clearly don’t.”
Fred brightened, eyes hopeful. “But Hagrid, if you’d waive both our essays…?”
“Dream on,” Hagrid said flatly, waving a hand. “Last time I asked you how to tell a hedgehog from a Spiky Beast, you said to use their hair to make alchemical products. And you called the hedgehog the failure—because it was the one that didn’t work? That’s absurd. Who’d go through that much trouble?”
The twins stuck out their tongues, not the least bit ashamed.
They knew the correct way. But at the time, they’d been testing a new theory—using Spiky Beast hair in a potion. The result? A batch of fake ingredients from a shady vendor. So their answer was just a knee-jerk reaction.
Spiky Beast hair did have magical properties—ordinary hedgehogs didn’t. It was a real distinction.
Hagrid stared at them, momentarily speechless, then finally shook his head. “Just focus on your studies. As for the rest of you—come to my hut at four tomorrow afternoon. Don’t forget.”
He winked, his deep brown eyes twinkling with secretive amusement.
The group exchanged glances.
“Harry,” Michael asked, “do you know what’s going on?”
“No idea,” Harry said thoughtfully. “But… I think we should bring food. Unless you’re planning to eat Hagrid’s Rock-Crust Pie for dinner.”
They agreed on a time and place.
The afternoon was a relentless string of classes.
Even though Wade was allowed to skip some, he wasn’t slacking. In fact, he’d packed his schedule tighter than ever.
Just one day back at school, and he already felt like he’d forgotten what relaxation even looked like.
He also met his new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor—Ryan Troke.
Dressed far more formally than his appearance in Diagon Alley—almost like he was ready for a funeral—Troke had the same unnerving seriousness as Professor McGonagall. He looked like someone not to be messed with.
The class focused on Boggarts—the very topic Professor Abigail had been preparing to teach.
A battered wooden box sat in the center of the room, its lid rattling faintly, as if filled with dozens of bouncing rabbits.
“Inside is a Boggart,” Troke said calmly. “I understand you’ve already covered some basics, so I’ll keep it simple.”
“Take notes on the key points.”
“A Boggart thrives in darkness and confined spaces. It has no fixed form, but it takes shape based on your deepest fear. The most important thing when facing one? Humor.”
The rustle of quills scratching parchment filled the room.
Troke paused. “You must imagine a ridiculous image of it, then cast the Joke-Joke spell. If you can laugh instead of scream, the Boggart will be utterly confused.”
“Of course, fake laughter won’t fool it. Most people can’t even laugh the first time they see it.”
“Now, raise your wands. Repeat after me: Joke-Joke!”
“Joke-Joke!” The class chanted.
“Good,” Troke said. He seemed to almost smile—but only his lips twitched.
He waved his wand casually, shoving desks and chairs to the sides, clearing a wide space in the center.
“Back up,” he instructed. “Too many people confuse it. It won’t know what form to take.”
He cleared his throat. “I need a volunteer to demonstrate.”
His gaze swept slowly across the room. Some students looked eager. Others quickly ducked their heads.
“Greengrass,” he said. “Come forward.”
Daphne Greengrass swallowed hard, gripping her wand tightly as she stepped forward.
“Are you ready?”
She trembled. “N-no!”
But Troke’s presence was too intimidating. She nodded, trembling.
“Begin.”
Troke stepped back, wand raised. The box lid snapped open with a sharp pop.
A pale, bloated hand shot out and gripped the edge.
Silence. Then, slowly, a woman emerged from the box.
She wore a blood-stained white dress, her long black hair hanging in limp, wet strands, covering her face. Her limbs bent at unnatural angles as she crawled forward—slow, deliberate, toward Daphne.
Daphne froze. The entire classroom fell utterly silent.
Wade couldn’t bear to look. He pressed his hands to his forehead.
The Streaming Mirror had broadened wizardkind’s horizons—but it had also exposed them to the darkest corners of human imagination.
“Joke-Joke, Greengrass!” Troke called, his tone sharp.
She flinched, but didn’t cast. Instead, she threw her wand at the crawling figure—then screamed and bolted.
The Boggart turned toward Pansy Parkinson.
It paused, head tilting, as if unsure what form to take.
Pansy shrieked in terror, stumbled back, and shoved Braith Zabini into its path.
Boom!
The creature’s lower half twisted into the grotesque, multi-legged body of a giant centipede. It looked even more monstrous now—faster, more terrifying.
It lunged.
The classroom erupted into a sea of screams.
No matter what each student had feared before, now they all shared the same terror.
(End of Chapter)
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