Boggart: Internal
Defense Against the Dark Arts: Learning how to counter a boggart is taught within a Fifth-year's first semester. Yet when Genevieve is required to face it again for her exams, it seems that her fears have taken a new form.
(A/N: Genevieve Myra Moxie is an original character and MC stand-in of mine for the game and its storyline.)
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.
Professor Hecat meets her eyes.
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, most have begun to see her as a walking, talking theatre, moreso than they did when she first arrived as the 'Mysterious Fifth-Year'.
Genevieve steps forward, her wand held firm in her hand.
"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 — 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–
No. Fight it. It'll kill...
– her.
"Riddikulus!"
"The lesson ends here! Miss Onai, kindly guide Miss Moxie to the infirmary."
It should be that simple.
It should be, watching Hecat subdue the creature.
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. Hecat 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.
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 botj 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."
But she knows, it's not.
