The air in the classroom felt dense, oppressive almost.Sixth and fifth years usually had separate lessons, but today, the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom was packed for a shared session on boggarts. Professor Slughorn’s idea, apparently, was to test "inner strength."

And so far, it seemed a few students had little to reveal—mundane fears of spiders or snakes, fear of public failure, or being laughed at. But you knew that with Tom in the room, eyes flitting dispassionately from student to student, even the bravest seemed extra keen to avoid revealing anything too raw or embarrassing.

You kept glancing at Tom, wondering what he might see when it was his turn. But then your name was called.

“Alright, your turn now,” Slughorn said, giving you a nod. “Just step forward, focus, and remember, Riddikulus will dispel it.”

As you stepped toward the wardrobe, your mind was blank. What would it be? What was there for you to fear that you hadn’t already faced, growing up in a world under your father’s domain?

The wardrobe creaked, and the classroom seemed to shrink, leaving just you and him—your father, Voldemort, towering over you. His gaze was colder than ice, colder than you’d ever seen it, burning with a look of severe, unspoken disappointment.

“Have I truly raised one who could be… weak?” He sneered

A chill ran up your spine, but then, you heard it—a low, razor-sharp voice cutting through the thick air.

“Riddikulus,” Tom’s voice commanded.

Your father’s figure contorted mid-sneer, as though unwilling to obey the spell. His face twisted, his robes transforming into a garish, oversized jester’s costume. He wobbled, his intimidating frame suddenly ridiculous, all power stripped away by Tom’s intervention.