Tiberius had no idea what form his boggart would take and beads of sweat clung to his temples as he waited for his turn. He closed his eyes and tried to take a steadying breath. There were still a few students in front of him and he was trying not to pay attention to their fears.

It had become clear to him that most of his classmates lived lives that even if not carefree, were at least free from the kinds of memories that haunted Tiberius’ dreams. He thought to excuse himself, go to the healer for another anxiety potion, as his heart raced.

Would it be Remy? Intellectually, Tiberius knew that the man couldn’t hurt him. Hadn’t even targeted him specifically. But that didn’t do much to calm the nightmares. The memories that sent him running from the room at the mere scent of butterbeer. The panic that swelled at every large noise or class instruction to practice spells on one another.

Tiberius stepped forward, his turn having arrived. Standing before him was his younger self. Twelve years old, pajama clad, face smudged with dry blood and fresh tears. Forever a scared, little boy.