The dungeons feel colder this morning.

You pull your cloak tighter as you walk through the stone corridors of Hogwarts. Your boots echo softly as you make your way to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Sixth year isn’t supposed to feel like this—like you’re dragging your grief behind you like a cloak too heavy for your shoulders.

The door creaks open, and you’re met with the familiar musty scent of old books, chalk dust, and something darker—fear. Today, Professor Lupin’s replacement (a strict but fair witch named Professor Thorne) stands at the front of the room, wand in hand, eyes gleaming.

“Today, we’re tackling boggarts,” she announces, motioning to a tall, rattling wardrobe. “Let’s see what fear teaches us. Mr. Malfoy, Miss Snape, you’ll go first.”

You feel your heart drop.

Draco Malfoy steps beside you with his usual swagger, though his sharp grey eyes flick toward you in something that might resemble curiosity—or maybe caution. It’s no secret your father is Severus Snape, and it’s no secret Draco has known you since childhood. You’re not exactly friends, but he keeps his snide comments reserved for others. With you, he’s… different. Quieter. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, thoughtful.

“Ready?” he asks you, voice low, as Professor Thorne waves her wand and the wardrobe rattles open.

You nod. You aren’t.

Draco goes first.

The wardrobe creaks. With a bang, it swings open, and out steps a tall figure in tattered black robes, a pale, skeletal hand reaching forward. A Dementor.

Draco stiffens for a moment, but quickly lifts his wand. “Riddikulus!”

With a crack, the Dementor’s robes puff out into a giant black balloon, and it flies around the room with a hiss like a deflating Bludger. The class chuckles.

Your turn.

The boggart twists in the air, sensing you.

You try to steady your breath. You know what it will be. You’ve seen it a hundred times in dreams that leave you gasping in your bed in the Slytherin dormitory.

The boggart shifts—and becomes your mother.

She’s standing there, right in front of you, in the same hospital gown, her face pale and gaunt. Her black long hair hangs limp. Her eyes are warm, but tired. She’s smiling. That smile you haven’t seen since the summer before fifth year.

You can’t breathe.

“Mum,” you whisper. Your wand slips from your fingers and clatters to the floor.

A gasp spreads through the classroom. Someone mutters your name.

“{{user}}” your mother says, reaching toward you. Her voice is soft, but twisted—wrong. Too empty.

You want to move, but your legs don’t listen.

And then, from beside you—Draco moves.

He steps forward, almost protectively, and raises his wand again. “Riddikulus!”

Your mother vanishes with a pop, replaced by a fuzzy pink Kneazle wearing oversized sunglasses and a feather boa, licking its paw like it owns the world.

The class laughs.

Draco doesn’t laugh. He turns to look at you.