Lorraine

A boggart is a non-being, deemed harmless by the textbooks. Harmless, it claims, as if psychological damage has the worth of that of a paper cut's. Bitter as she can be, in truth, Genevieve knows that her fears are not suited for her kind — for her classmates who dread spiders and acne and loud storms. She's almost tempted to give Professor Hecat a look if it weren't for the sheer confidence the woman has in her capabilities. (And who is she dissapoint? She, Hero of Hogwarts, Wielder of Ancient Magic.)

The staccatto of her heart is in her ears. The thought hurts: She's caused many, their own hearts, to stop beating. Would they crawl out that wardrobe, shrieking of their sorrows and her sins? Would it pour a stream of thick velvet, flooding the room and staining her hands red? It takes the form of your fears. The book had not been so specific. Make a mockery out of your nightmares and the boggart shall be defeated. She wants to spit venom and ask how does one make a mockery of the dead and the disappointed.

It is she who is next in line.

"Miss Moxie, if you could please come forward."

Judgement, a part of her whispers. This is judgement. Condemnation for your crimes. I had done it all for the sake of good. Look at how happy we were just moments ago. It is a demonstration of today's DADA curriculum. I'll succeed.

The crowd eyes her like a spectacle, dispersing from the center as if to form a makeshift carpet. Since the events of the attempted Goblin Rebellion, that's what they've began to see her as: a walking, talking theatre. Genevieve steps forward, her wand held firm in her hand.

Professor Hecat meets her eyes.

"You know the counter, dear girl. Think it amusing. Do not let it rule you," she urges. "I know you of all people, Miss Moxie, will persevere."

Hecat's hand on the knob hesitates, waiting for Genevieve's signal. Her classmates turn silent in raw anticipation.

She nods.

And the doors creak open.

"Is that—?!"

Something descends from the darkness of the wardrobe — a shoe that matches her's in all its customized cobblerly. Another steps out and fear grabs her by the throat when it dawns upon the girl that the boggart is her.

Wrong.

A mirror image of her own but unlike her in so many ways.

Its facing this way, standing as a mannequin for whatever evil wracks within, limbs looking wrong, disjointed, longer somehow. Once dainty-skin painted purple and bruised, pale like a corpse, like the ones she's seen and killed. The same curved jaw, straight nose, llight hair, but this isn't her. It's not. It can't be.

With its chapped lips and sunken cheeks, its fingers flex around a familiar wand of intertwined wood–

Run.

and raises it–

– to her.

No.

"That's enough! Riddikulus!"

It's that simple: a play of one's wand and the boggart's visage contorts, a grotesque parody of fears both imagined and real. Hecate stands in between the girl and the wardrobe. With a final whimper, it dissolves into a haze. The room, previously thick with dread, shares an exhale.

"The lesson ends here. Miss Onai, kindly guide Miss Moxie to the infirmary."

Her legs are trembling, or is her body entirely? The world sways and Genevieve can't see anyone past the blur of her vision.

"Off now, everyone! Well done!"

She can't feel herself. Is she still alive?

"Vivi," calls a familiar, accented voice.

Natty places a hand on her shoulder, tugging Genevieve into a hug that's solid and warm and she yields. Her head falls against the crook of Natty's neck. She submits to being pampered, submits to letting the tremors of her body wash away.

It looked at her.

Eyes hollowed and dark, pupils slit like some semblance of composed insanity.

"It's alright now..."

A lighter voice, this time — Poppy's. Genevieve feels circles rubbed against her back as Poppy whispers words of encouragement. Sweet nothings. Empty promises of assurance.

Her friends know nothing of the truth. She ensured it. She's done well in keeping them at an arm's length. Only Sebastian had broken through her walls, tethered closely to her side, created a home in her heart, yet look now where he stands.

They cannot- should not see the blood on her hands, nor the scars strewn about her body like a heinous frankenstein. They cannot know of the crown placed upon her head and the thorns that dig in, of her duties and failures.

It reeks of copper and soil.

To what lengths are you willing to go?

It hurts that her friends don't feel real.

Are you a hero or a monster?

The repository calls her name.

Are you even Genevieve Moxie?

Her friends guide a husk to the infirmary, not without a string of kind words and gentle touches to her skin.

"It's alright."

Design notes:

Man I've been postponing this for so long, I don't even remember half of what my process with this one was like. But I concluded that if I don't post this now, the loss of my mental notes will only get worse with time, so here you go, putting this out there once and for all lol

For a general picture I wanted Malleus' vibes to be more fairy tale-like. (He ended up reminding me a bit of Faybelle too, in a way.) The colors of those iridescent black feathers go well with him, I think. And did someone mention Howl's moving castle? Yeah, Howl's monster form.

I got this one ask before, reccomending the Cockatrice monster for Malleus, and searching a bit about it, is apparently also often taken as a synonymous with the basilisk? So like, Wyvern meets Basilisk, but it is also giving fae, idk. Listen, the idea inside my head is like, if you're asked to imagine a mythical creature that roams around a dark forest, outside the castle of a cursed princess, it's him. He's the creature.