As the start of class drew nearer, more and more Young Wizards filed into the room. The third-year Ravenclaws instinctively clustered around Amanda, with Hermione likewise ringed in the middle.
When Harry and Ron walked in they merely glanced toward Hermione, then chose nearby seats; better not to disturb Amanda and Hermione.
Once the lesson officially began, Professor Lupin waited until he was sure everyone was present before clapping his hands with a smile.
'All right, everyone, put your books away—you won't be needing them today.'
The Young Wizards exchanged looks and quietly shut their textbooks.
With a wave of his wand, Professor Lupin sent the desks and chairs sliding against the walls.
'Now then, Miss Lin, Miss Granger, would you tell us what's in this wardrobe?'
Amanda turned to Hermione and nodded for her to speak first—courtesy was part of etiquette.
Hermione rose. 'It's a Boggart. It has no shape of its own, but when it meets a person it becomes whatever that person fears most.'
'Exactly right.'
Professor Lupin nodded approvingly. 'Five points to Gryffindor.'
'So how do we deal with it?'
'Miss Lin.' Professor Lupin beckoned the raised hand.
'Riddikulus is the counter-charm. Combined with what we picture in our minds, it turns the Boggart's frightening form into something ridiculous.
Laughter is the only proven way to finish a Boggart off.'
'Excellent!' Professor Lupin applauded without restraint. 'Five points to Ravenclaw.'
'One more point: with so many of us here, we have a natural advantage—the Boggart may become confused about which shape to take.'
With that final note, he raised his wand. 'wands out, everyone. Follow me: Riddikulus!'
He traced several precise arcs in the air.
'Riddikulus.'
'Good, again—Riddikulus.'
'Riddikulus.'
Satisfied, Professor Lupin lowered his wand and stepped aside. 'Form a queue, one at a time.'
Amanda pocketed her wand and lined up behind Hermione.
She had long since memorised the wand-movement and incantation.
Indeed, her gesture and pronunciation were even crisper than the Professor's—like a perfect copy from the textbook.
The only puzzle was what the Boggart would become.
A Boggart turns into your deepest fear, yet she possessed no such emotion.
She simply could not feel afraid. Amanda blinked, reasoning for several seconds and arriving at no answer.
Because, in truth, fear was absent—or so she believed.
In those moments Professor Lupin had already led Neville, first in line, to the wardrobe.
'Right, Neville, what frightens you most?'
'P-Professor Snape…' Neville whispered.
'Understandable,' Lupin said gently. 'Now… you were raised by your grandmother, yes?'
'Yes.' Neville nodded, puzzled.
'When the Boggart appears, picture Professor Snape wearing your grandmother's clothes. Do you follow?'
Neville's eyes bulged; surely he had misheard.
But the Professor repeated the suggestion, patient and unruffled, checking once more that Neville understood.
'I—I understand.' Neville swallowed and nodded.
'Good. Let's begin.'
Professor Lupin stepped back and flicked his wand; the wardrobe door flew open.
Something shapeless drifted out; a faint shimmer, and Professor Snape stood before Neville.
Amanda narrowed her eyes: remarkably lifelike.
Not just the face, build, and robes; every minute gesture, micro-expression, and bearing matched Snape exactly.
Neville was already trembling, legs shaking as the figure advanced.
Lupin held his peace, wand ready to intervene only if absolutely necessary.
Drawing a deep breath, Neville raised his wand.
'R-Riddikulus!'
Crack! With the spell and mental image, 'Snape' donned matronly dress. Neville snorted, a wan smile lighting his frightened face.
He stepped aside, far more composed, to let the next classmate advance.
Watching from behind Amanda, Hermione bit back a giggle; mindful that Snape was still her Professor, she stayed silent.
She glanced at Amanda, who stared fixedly at the Boggart-turned-hag, lost in thought.
When Amanda's turn came… what would appear? Her parents?
The idea darkened Hermione's mood; her wand-hand clenched.
She resolved to dart forward and shield Amanda the instant anything went wrong.
Whatever happened, Amanda would not be hurt by her parents in this world.
One by one the Young Wizards faced the Boggart: now a giant serpent, now a clown. When Ron's turn arrived it became an Acromantula.
Ron, caught between horror and nausea, forced out the charm and conjured roller-skates on each of the spider's eight legs, sending it sprawling.
Laughter erupted; even Professor Lupin shook his head, smiling.
Children's imaginations were unbeatable.
Ron stepped away; Amanda advanced. The flailing Acromantula froze, rigid on the floor.
The laughter of The Ravenclaws died in an instant; every eye snapped to the "Acromantula" frozen in front of Amanda, and hands tightened around wands.
Clearly, they had reached the same possibility Hermione had.
The next moment, the motionless "Acromantula" began to warp, shifting into something no one expected.
It became a person—it became Amanda herself.
Only this Amanda was taller, thinner, unmistakably an older version of her.
She wore flimsy shorts and a T-shirt; angry, swollen chilblains covered her knees, knuckles, fingers, and the bare soles of her feet.
Her spine looked broken; though she stood, her chest seemed unable to lift.
Her lifeless eyes, almost inorganic, held a weariness deeper than time, as though eons of desolation could not dispel it.
Around her left ankle was a metal cuff whose purpose no one present could guess.
More arresting were the bruises everywhere—purple fingerprints, cane-weals, obvious whip-marks—and the T-shirt she wore.
Across its front ran a single line: I AM A PIG.
The Young Wizards gasped in unison, rooted to the spot; several faces drained of colour.
Somehow, their chests felt crushed, nausea rising in their throats.
Even Hermione and the third-year Ravenclaws stood paralysed, minds unable to command their bodies; feet would not step, hands would not lift.
Amanda tilted her head at the figure before her—identical in build, face, micro-expressions, movement.
A Boggart was indeed a master of mimicry; she felt no ripple inside, for this was once her—her shape when punishment followed mistakes.
Why fear it? It had been perfectly normal.
Sensing no terror, the Boggart shifted again: the features of Amanda blurred into those of Cho Chang.
At the same instant the body changed, becoming Cho's.
Everything once borne by Amanda now appeared to belong to Cho.
A faint flicker crossed Amanda's calm pupils; instinct tried to raise the wand in her right hand, but her body refused to obey.
While she struggled, the Boggart flitted rapidly—Marietta Eckmore, Penelope—transforming into every Ravenclaw in turn, projecting her memories onto them.
Amanda's pupils contracted with every change, her resistance growing.
At last it settled on a face—Hermione's face—pride and confidence wiped clean.
In their place stood meekness: the girl's unbreakable spine subtly bowed, as though fate had snapped it.
Amanda blinked once, sharply, and levelled her wand. "Riddikulus."
A spell-shot burst forth; the Hermione before them straightened, confident and radiant once more.
She wore a smart suit, wand in right hand, briefcase in left, standing tall beneath blazing, spotlight-bright light.
A soft laugh escaped.
Every gaze in the room turned to Amanda; her eyes curved, lips lifting in a gentle smile.
Indeed, Hermione should always stand like this—unconfined, unchained.
And indeed… she would never wish her own past upon anyone else.
"Amanda!"
Hermione bit her tongue sharply, seizing back control of her body, rushed forward and wrapped her arms around Amanda from behind, cheek pressed to hers.
"I'm here."
The smile on Amanda's face faded, yet her eyes shone brighter.
"That… that was you? The old you?"
Hermione lifted a hand, tenderly tracing Amanda's cheek. Those wounds, those chilblains—how could anyone bear to mark someone so good?
"It was me. The past me."
Amanda nodded lightly and, obeying an impulse, raised her hands. "Look—nothing there."
Hermione glanced: the hands were slender, pale, unmarked by any chilblain.
She caught them, lowered her head, and brushed a kiss across the fingertips.
"Beautiful."
Amanda blinked, apparently unmoved, but her ears slowly reddened.
"Are you all right?"
Professor Lupin stepped closer, voice low, eyes shadowed with self-reproach.
Headmaster Dumbledore had specifically warned him; he had meant to watch Amanda closely, ready to intervene.
Yet he had been unable to move, crushed by a pressure both physical and mental.
"It's fine. Thank you, Professor Lupin. I'm all right; this was a trial I had to face."
She spoke with perfect calm, no longer calling it a mere student's duty.
"Thank you all as well—for caring, and for giving me the chance to face the Boggart. I saw every one of you gripping your wands."
Still holding Hermione's hand, she turned to the Ravenclaw Young Wizards she had lived among for three years.
The Little Eagles flushed and shook their heads in unison.
"It's nothing, nothing at all. It's what we should do—you're our darling."
"Yeah, and when you smiled just now—so gorgeous."
"Right! I went home for Christmas and missed it last time; today I finally got to see!"
Chatter sprang up, and the classroom brightened again.
The oppressive air left by Amanda's Boggart melted away.
She let Hermione lead her to a seat, content to sit beneath the Little Eagles' gazes.
Reviewing in her mind every flaw in her handling of the Boggart, she never noticed how much gentler and more protective those gazes had become.
After all, what immense kindness must live in someone whose deepest fear is that others might suffer what she has suffered?
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