10:30 a.m. – Classroom 3C, Possibly Cursed, Definitely Underfunded
Harry had been expecting something intimidating. After all, Defense Against the Dark Arts sounded like the kind of class where you'd be issued a weapon, a moral dilemma, and a vague chance of survival.
Instead, he and his classmates filed into a room that looked like it had been furnished from a secondhand curiosity shop run by a particularly nervous hoarder. The desks were mismatched. One had a leg that squeaked every time it was breathed on. Another had what looked suspiciously like teeth marks.
The blackboard was crooked. The windows were fogged, though it was sunny outside. The only source of light came from a dangling chandelier that flickered as if it was haunted by an indecisive poltergeist.
At the front of the room stood Professor Quirrell, a man who radiated the exact opposite of confidence. He was draped in layers of fabric that seemed determined to swallow him whole, and his turban looked like it was hiding either a magical artifact or a raccoon. Maybe both.
"W-welcome to D-D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," he stammered, gripping the podium like it might float away without him.
A few students murmured awkward greetings.
Ron leaned over and whispered, "Do you think he's cursed? Or just caffeinated into another dimension?"
Hermione elbowed him. "Shh! He's the Defense professor. Show some respect."
"Pretty sure he's showing enough for all of us," Ron muttered.
Harry, meanwhile, was experiencing a deep and immediate distrust in the classroom's structural integrity. His chair had three legs and a personal grudge. The room smelled faintly of burnt toast and mothballs. A framed portrait on the wall was actively trying to crawl out of its frame to escape.
Quirrell cleared his throat. It sounded like someone stepping on wet parchment.
"We will… we w-will begin," he said.
Then he dropped his wand.
10:35 a.m. – "Educational" May Be a Stretch
The wand clattered across the floor and rolled under Neville's desk, prompting a small chaos spiral. As Neville bent to retrieve it, he bumped his cauldron bag, which knocked into Ron's elbow, which in turn caused Ron to accidentally open a textbook to a page labeled "CURSES: The Unforgivable and the Unfortunate." The page emitted a mournful scream and promptly caught fire.
Quirrell shrieked softly.
Hermione slapped the book shut and sat on it, flames and all. She didn't flinch. The scream was muffled, but it eventually gave up.
Harry was not sure whether to be impressed or concerned for her long-term mental health.
"P-perfectly normal start," Quirrell murmured to himself, possibly trying to manifest an alternate reality.
He retrieved his wand (now slightly scorched), turned to the blackboard, and attempted to summon a diagram of a hinkypunk.
Instead, he summoned a live chicken.
It made eye contact with Draco Malfoy, screeched, and immediately leapt out the window.
Quirrell's eye twitched.
"That was... demonstrational," he said, voice rising half an octave.
He pointed again. This time, an image of something vaguely humanoid and very soggy appeared, holding a lantern and looking like it had regrets.
"A-a hinkypunk," Quirrell said, sounding relieved that reality was cooperating, however briefly. "A s-single-legged c-creature that lures travelers into bogs with false lights…"
Dean raised a hand. "Is that legal?"
"No."
"Do we get taught how to fight them?"
Quirrell hesitated. "You d-don't need to fight a hinkypunk. Y-you just avoid it."
"How?" Seamus asked, skeptically.
"By n-not... going into... bogs?"
There was silence.
Then Lavender raised her hand. "But what if you're already in a bog?"
Quirrell looked around as if hoping someone would throw a net over him and drag him away.
"Y-you… you run."
"What if it's faster than you?" Ron asked, now thoroughly invested in this hypothetical bog chase.
Quirrell blinked. "Then… you... d-disguise yourself as a tree."
Harry glanced sideways. "Do bogs have a lot of trees?"
"No!" Quirrell snapped, cracking under the pressure of his own lesson plan.
Everyone stared.
"I—I mean—n-no questions!" he added quickly. "We're moving on!"
10:42 a.m. – Practical Application or Student Endangerment (Hard to Tell at Hogwarts)
The class was instructed to line up in front of a large, very suspicious wardrobe that looked like it had a non-zero chance of eating someone. Its hinges creaked ominously. It had shadows inside it. Actual shadows.
"This," Quirrell announced, forcing a smile that could be weaponized, "is a—a boggart. A magical creature that t-takes the shape of your worst fear."
Harry glanced at it. "Is it… vibrating?"
"Yes," said Quirrell. "T-that's normal. It's... enthusiastic."
Hermione's hand shot up. "Sir, I thought boggarts couldn't survive long without a host? Wouldn't exposing one to a full classroom be incredibly stressful for it?"
The wardrobe banged in agreement.
"Th-the boggart is... emotionally resilient," Quirrell insisted.
Seamus raised a hand. "So we're just gonna open that thing and see what happens?"
"That's the spirit," Quirrell said, sounding anything but.
10:48 a.m. – The Boggart Begins Its Shift
Neville stood at the front like a man about to be sacrificed to an eldritch filing cabinet.
Quirrell gave him an encouraging thumbs-up with the kind of nervous energy you normally see in people defusing bombs. "R-remember, Mr. Longbottom, j-just imagine something s-s-silly and say 'Riddikulus' when ready."
The wardrobe groaned.
Neville took a deep breath, clutched his wand like a sword he'd never trained with, and nodded.
Quirrell gave the wardrobe a nervous prod.
It burst open with theatrical flair.
Out stepped Severus Snape — or at least, a version of him — but dressed in a paisley dress, a stuffed vulture hat, and holding a bright red handbag with "Hex Girl" written in glitter.
Dean made a strangled noise.
"R-r-riddikulus!" Neville shouted, voice cracking.
The Snape-boggart tripped on its robes, tumbled backward, and disappeared into a puff of smoke with a sound like a deflating balloon.
The class erupted in laughter.
Even Hermione clapped, albeit politely.
Neville, flushed but beaming, returned to his seat like a man who had just survived mortal combat with shame.
10:50 a.m. – Draco Malfoy's Inner Turmoil
Draco swaggered forward, chin high, as though daring the wardrobe to doubt his superiority.
The boggart slithered back into shape and emerged again — this time as Lucius Malfoy, complete with flowing blond hair and a disgusted expression.
"I expected greatness," Lucius sneered. "Not... second place in Potions."
There was a collective inhale from the class.
Draco twitched. "Riddikulus!"
The elder Malfoy immediately transformed into a Muggle dad wearing socks with sandals, aggressively barbecuing, and holding a sign that read "Muggleborns Do It Better."
Draco blanched.
Ron howled.
"I regret everything," Draco muttered, marching back to his seat and pretending he'd meant to be publicly psychologically dissected.
10:52 a.m. – Seamus Gets Creative
Seamus stepped forward and cracked his knuckles like he was about to start a pub brawl.
The boggart became a massive, angry grandmother wielding a wooden spoon labeled "For Shame."
"Riddikulus!"
The spoon turned into a rainbow-colored balloon animal that slapped itself and deflated sadly.
Somewhere in the room, a portrait gasped.
10:55 a.m. – Hermione and Her Existential Terror
When Hermione approached, the boggart hesitated.
Then it became a test paper — with nothing written on it.
A big red stamp at the top read "INCOMPLETE." It crackled with magical aura.
Hermione's eyes widened in primal academic horror.
"Riddikulus!" she snapped.
The paper turned into a gold-star sticker and floated gently into the air like a leaf of forgotten glory.
She sat down in a cold sweat.
"Wow," Dean whispered. "Her final form is a C+."
10:58 a.m. – Harry vs. Fear Incarnate (and Bad Mileage)
"Harry Potter," Quirrell said, waving a clammy hand. "You're n-next."
Harry stepped forward with all the confidence of a man walking onto a stage with no idea what the play is about — or if he's the main character or the intermission act.
He stared at the wardrobe. It stared back.
There was a brief lull. The boggart paused. It shimmered like static on a broken TV. Something was wrong.
Then it burst out.
First — a shadow.
Then red eyes.
A flash of green.
Then a cradle.
Then a mirror.
A screaming face.
A screaming steering wheel.
And finally, it settled.
Into… a car.
A bog-standard, early-90s Vauxhall Astra.
Beige.
Dent on the side.
Air freshener shaped like a tree.
"...What the hell?" Ron muttered.
The car honked. Once. Loudly.
Harry blinked.
The class blinked.
The boggart-in-car-form revved its engine and slowly, menacingly, inched forward across the classroom floor with all the malice of a tax audit.
"Is it going to run me over?" Harry asked, deadpan.
Quirrell shrieked and ducked behind a desk.
"Riddikulus," Harry said, more out of reflex than intent.
The car screeched to a halt. A puff of smoke emerged from the exhaust pipe. Then it began to inflate.
And inflate.
And inflate.
Until it popped like a balloon.
Confetti everywhere.
A rubber chicken flew out of the explosion and landed squarely in front of Quirrell, who let out a sound like a dying accordion.
There was a long, stunned silence.
"...Are you okay, Harry?" Hermione whispered, cautiously.
"I don't know," Harry said slowly, "but I think I might've died in a car."
Everyone stared.
Then Ron said, "Mate, that explains so much."
11:05 a.m. – Post-Boggart Debrief
The boggart, now emotionally shattered, curled into a corner of the wardrobe and refused to come out again. Quirrell looked like he needed a lie-down and possibly several years of therapy.
"That was…" Hermione began, unsure how to complete the sentence.
"A warning," Dean said solemnly. "From the God of Traffic Safety."
"I feel like I just watched trauma with wheels," Lavender added.
Harry just shrugged and sat down.
Somewhere, buried deep in his memory, the sound of tires squealing echoed — but when he tried to hold on to it, it slipped through his mind like fog.
There was something there. Something important. But for now, it would have to wait.
11:10 a.m. – End of Class
Quirrell dismissed them early, citing "emotional exhaustion on the part of both himself and the furniture."
As they filed out, Harry felt… odd. Like something had been nudged. He couldn't say what, exactly. But the boggart had seen something real. Something hidden.
He didn't know who he was before Hogwarts.
He didn't know why he was afraid of a car.
But he had a feeling the universe was laughing.
And not in a kind way.
...
Exams are almost over so here's a chapter :)