Chapter 192: Boggart and Mental Health
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled faintly of old wood and chalk dust. Thanks to that incompetent fool Lockhart and his year-long parade of nonsensical theatrics, the current third-year students possessed a practical foundation that was essentially a gaping void.
The newly appointed Professor, Remus Lupin, had been forced to expend a massive amount of energy just to help them catch up on the basic defensive spellwork they should have mastered a year ago.
At this moment, the third-year Slytherin students were gathered in a loose semicircle in the center of the classroom. In front of them sat a worn-out, towering wardrobe. It shook violently, the heavy wooden doors rattling against their hinges with loud, rhythmic thumps.
Tamara stood at the very back of the crowd, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark eyes coldly assessed the man standing beside the rattling furniture.
Lupin looked worse than a half-starved vagrant dragged straight out of the gutters of Knockturn Alley. His robes were frayed at the hems, patched in places that only highlighted their shabbiness, and his face was lined with premature exhaustion.
'To let a half-breed beast who cannot even control his own sanity teach students how to defend against dark creatures...'Tamara let a cold, unabashed sneer ripple through her mind.'Dumbledore's brain, thoroughly rotted by Cockroach Clusters, truly possesses an appalling sense of humor.'
Yet, even as she mentally cursed the Headmaster, she had to admit one thing. Compared to that grinning, useless peacock Lockhart, this bedraggled hound was at least far superior in professional competence.
"A Boggart is a shape-shifting non-being," Lupin explained, his voice gentle and carrying a patience that grated on Tamara's nerves. "It will see through your heart and turn into whatever you fear most. And the most effective weapon against a Boggart is laughter."
He paced slowly in front of the shaking wardrobe. "You need to force it into an image you find ridiculous. The incantation is—Riddikulus."
After a simple call-and-response practice to get the pronunciation right, Lupin signaled for the students to form a single file line.
"Alright, who is first?"
Draco lifted his chin haughtily, smoothing the front of his robes as he stepped forward to take the lead. He gripped his hawthorn wand tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white, and took a deep breath.
In Draco's mind, the creature walking out of that wardrobe would undoubtedly be his father, Lucius. He fully expected to see the patriarch holding his silver snake-headed cane, his face twisted in a stern sneer, reprimanding him for not being a perfect Malfoy. Draco had even prepared his mental image: he was going to force his father into a frilly pink princess dress.
Lupin gave a slight nod and waved his wand. The wardrobe door popped open with a sharp click.
A thick cloud of black mist billowed out from the dark interior, rolling across the stone floor before quickly twisting and restructuring itself in mid-air.
However, when the black mist finally dissipated and the figure stepped into the light, Draco's face instantly drained of all color. He let out a sharp, strangled gasp, his eyes widening in sheer terror.
The person standing before him was not Lucius Malfoy.
It was Tamara Riddle.
The Boggart-Tamara wore impeccably neat Slytherin robes. Her face was a mask of absolute frost, radiating a suffocating contempt and a very real, very heavy murderous intent from those deep, dark eyes.
"Draco, you are a good-for-nothing waste," the Boggart-Tamara said, her voice dripping with venom as she looked down at him from above. "You have completely shamed the House of Malfoy. I would rather spend time with that idiot Potter than look at you for another second."
"I... I didn't..." Draco stammered, his wand trembling in his hand as he instinctively took a step back.
In the entirety of Slytherin House, the thing he feared most was not his father's harsh scolding. It was being completely abandoned, rejected, and deemed useless by Tamara.
"Ri... Riddikulus!" Draco practically shouted, waving his wand in a frantic slash.
With a sharp crack like a whip, a ridiculous, oversized clown hat adorned with jingling bells suddenly materialized on the cold, ruthless Boggart-Tamara's head. Her neat school uniform morphed into a gaudy, neon-colored polka-dot dress.
The image was objectively hilarious, but Draco could not laugh at all. His chest heaved. After casting the spell, he did not even dare to glance back at the real Tamara standing at the end of the line. Terrified that he might be assassinated on the spot after class for daring to put a clown hat on the boss, he quickly scurried away and hid himself in the furthest corner of the classroom.
Next in line was Gregory Goyle.
Goyle lumbered to the front, his heavy footsteps echoing in the quiet room. The black mist churned and twisted once more.
The figure that walked out was, again, Tamara Riddle.
This version of Tamara was even more irritable. She lunged forward, grabbing the massive boy by the collar of his robes with terrifying strength, and spoke in a cruel, mocking tone.
"If you fail to master the Levitation Charm one more time, I will throw you off the Astronomy Tower just to see if that thick layer of fat makes you bounce."
"Riddikulus!" Goyle shrieked in absolute panic. He squeezed his eyes shut and waved his wand wildly, managing to turn the terrifying Boggart into a giant, pink-frosted cupcake. He then fled to join Draco in the corner.
Next was Pansy Parkinson.
The Boggart-Tamara stepped out of the wardrobe, expressionless. She slowly raised her wand, pointing it directly at Pansy's face. "Those vulgar rags you call dresses are a direct assault on my eyes."
With a flick of her wrist, the Boggart set fire to an illusionary pile of the most expensive, beautiful lace dresses from Pansy's personal collection.
"Waa... Riddikulus!" Pansy cried out, tears welling in her eyes as she slashed her wand, turning the roaring flames into a shower of soft rose petals fluttering through the air.
Standing by the lectern, Professor Lupin was now completely stunned. His jaw had slacked slightly.
Four or five Slytherin students had stepped forward in a row, and their deepest, unspeakable ultimate fear was actually the exact same person.
Lupin turned his head slowly, staring in disbelief at the black-haired Slytherin girl standing quietly at the end of the line. She possessed an exquisite, delicate beauty, yet her temperament was cold and entirely aloof.
This experienced member of the Order of the Phoenix felt as though his entire worldview was being severely shaken. What horrific, unspeakable things had this young girl done to her fellow housemates in the dungeons? Why was she the ultimate, paralyzing fear of half the Slytherin student body?
At the back of the room, Tamara watched this group of embarrassing wastes, her mouth twitching slightly in annoyance.
Exposing such pathetic cowardice in front of a Professor from another house was simply shaming Slytherin completely. They were a disgrace.
But at the very same time, deep within the soul of the Dark Lord who had once ruled the entire magical world through sheer terror, a different emotion stirred. Seeing her intimidation so deeply ingrained in their hearts—surpassing even monsters, ghouls, and death itself—she felt a morbid, intoxicating sense of pleasure rise uncontrollably within her chest.
'The efforts during this time have not been in vain,' she thought, a dark satisfaction settling over her.
Finally, the line dwindled. It was Tamara's turn.
As she stepped forward, her black shoes clicking softly against the stone floor, she walked slowly toward the worn-out large wardrobe. The entire classroom instantly fell into a dead silence.
All the Slytherin students collectively held their breath, unconsciously taking a synchronized step back, pressing themselves against the walls. Even Lupin could not help but straighten his spine, his tired eyes suddenly sharp, full of intense curiosity and deep vigilance.
Everyone in the room was thinking the exact same question: What could this tyrant, who terrified the whole of Slytherin House, possibly be afraid of?
Tamara stood before the dark opening of the wardrobe, her expression cold, calm, and entirely unreadable.
She knew exactly what was going to come out.
It was her only true fear. It was Voldemort's lifelong, suffocating nightmare.
It would be a magicless, gaunt, rotting corpse. It would be the image of her dying miserably and powerlessly like a lowly Muggle. It would be her own dead body.
That was the ultimate proposition she had to cross. It was a fear she had to conquer, no matter the cost.
Tamara gripped the holly wand in her hand, her knuckles tight. She prepared her mind to face death itself.
The wardrobe door creaked open slowly.
A thick, heavy cloud of pitch-black mist billowed out, swirling violently as it prepared to condense into that terrifying, lifeless corpse.
However, at the exact fraction of a second the gruesome image was about to take physical shape—
[Ding! Warning! Warning! High-energy alert detected ahead!]
That haunting, overly cheerful system alarm sound, accompanied by a piercing, flashing red light, exploded frantically inside Tamara's mind.
[The image contains: real death, rotting corpses, extreme pessimism, and other elements that are seriously indecent and violate the "Regulations for the Healthy Growth of Underage Wizards"!]
[To maintain the physical and mental health of the host and the young wizards present, and to prevent serious psychological trauma!]
[Green Eye Protection and Mental Health Mode has been forcibly activated: image auto-harmonizing...]
'What?!'
Tamara's pupils shrank to pinpricks. Before her brilliant mind could even process what insane, meddlesome thing the system had just done, the black mist in front of her dissipated completely.
What walked out of the shadows was not a rotting, stinking corpse.
It was a person.
It was... a version of Tamara wearing a black and white, extremely conservative, and blindingly holy nun's habit.
This image was a perfect, flawless replica of the nauseating vision she had been forced to endure in the Mirror of Erised during her first year.
This "Nun Tamara" radiated a compassionate, dazzlingly holy white light that seemed to illuminate the dusty classroom. Her hands were pressed together gently in front of her chest in a posture of pious prayer. There was even a single, crystal-clear tear of pure compassion hanging delicately from the corner of her eye.
She was not scary in the slightest. Instead, she looked delicate, pitiable, and overflowing with an appalling sense of justice that made one feel as if they were basking in a warm spring breeze.
In the deathly, suffocating silence of the entire class, Nun Tamara offered a kind, gentle smile and walked slowly toward the real Tamara.
She reached out those soft hands—hands that looked as though they had washed away all the sins of the mortal world—and, with the utmost tenderness, stroked the real Tamara's forehead.
"Oh, dear, you look so tired," Nun Tamara's voice was ethereal, soft, and dripping with sickening sweetness. She naturally opened her arms, attempting to pull her murderous original self into a warm hug full of great, unconditional love.
"Let go of the hatred and obsession in your heart, and stop chasing after that hollow power. This world is full of love and peace. Open your heart and embrace every Muggle and classmate. May the holy light wash your sinful soul..."
At this exact moment, the expression on the real Tamara Riddle's face twisted to a degree of pure, unadulterated terror and rage.
Tamara's sanity snapped completely the second the nun touched her forehead and dared to utter the words "love and peace."
A violent, churning nausea erupted in her stomach. The extreme, suffocating sense of humiliation made the blood in her veins flow backward.
She, the great Dark Lord, the heir of Slytherin, was actually being subjected to this kind of mental pollution—something ten thousand times more disgusting than death itself—in front of an audience!
She would never allow this disgusting, vile thing to exist in this world for even a fraction of a second longer!
Without a single moment of hesitation, Tamara decisively pulled up the glowing blue system panel in her mind.
'System! Use the [Designated Skill Book]! Max out this damn Riddikulus for me!'
[Ding! Designated Skill Book consumed. Skill exchange successful...]
The very moment the spell knowledge flooded her mind, Tamara suddenly snapped her eleven-inch holly wand upward.
Because of her extreme, world-ending rage, the magic radiating from her body was on the verge of spiraling completely out of control. The air grew heavy and suffocating. Several crackling, violent red sparks burst from the tip of her wand, hissing like angry vipers.
She stared fixedly at the still-compassionate, smiling nun. She gritted her teeth so hard her jaw ached, and let out a roar that sounded more like a demon's howl than a human voice.
"Riddikulus!!!"
This simple defensive spell, which was meant to bring joy and be used for lighthearted humor, was forced by the furious Dark Lord into the terrifying, overwhelming momentum of an Unforgivable Curse. The sheer magical force behind it felt as though it was meant to grind the opponent's bones to dust and scatter their soul to the winds.
That holy Nun Tamara, still full of sickening talk about love and peace, did not even have the time to let out a cry of surprise. She was instantly blown apart by the violent surge of magic, erupting into a massive, expanding cloud of multicolored confetti.
Accompanied by the bright confetti fluttering wildly everywhere and a deafening, thunderous blast that shook the stone walls, the cloud of smoke representing the true form of the Boggart was blown backward by the sheer kinetic impact. It scrambled frantically, retreating deep into the darkest corners of the wardrobe.
The heavy wooden doors were slammed shut by the powerful magical shockwave, the iron latch snapping into place as it locked automatically.
The entire large wardrobe trembled violently in place, making a pitiful, high-pitched creaking sound. It was as if the Boggart inside had been entirely scared out of its wits by that single, murderous strike and dared not even peek out again.
Inside the classroom, the brightly colored confetti drifted down slowly, settling onto the stone floor.
There was dead silence.
Not a single person dared to speak. No one even dared to breathe heavily. The Slytherins were frozen like statues against the walls.
Tamara slowly lowered her arm and put away her wand.
Her face was dark, her expression so venomous it looked as if it could drip actual poison. The heavy, oppressive atmosphere radiating from her body almost froze the air in the room.
She did not look at any of her classmates, nor did she pay the slightest bit of mind to the completely dumbfounded Professor Lupin standing at the front.
Under the awe-struck, terrified gazes of the entire Slytherin class, Tamara did not utter a single word. She turned on her heel and walked back to the shadows at the end of the line without looking back, her posture so cool and aloof it was as if the explosive display of raw power had never occurred.
On the lectern, Lupin swallowed hard. His throat was completely dry. He reached up with a trembling hand to wipe a thick layer of cold sweat from his forehead.
He stared blankly at the black-haired girl who had vanished back into the shadows of the classroom.
This dutiful, newly appointed Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor felt deeply, at this very moment, that he desperately needed to have a long, serious talk with Dumbledore after class.
He had to completely re-evaluate the mental health status of this year's Slytherin students... especially that Miss Riddle.
This was simply too much.
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