“The incantation is riddikulus,” Evander continued, because concentrating on his explanation was the only thing giving him the faintest vestige of calmness. Reason and logic coupled with his relief at coming across as capable - the young lady sounded at least partially reassured - could only shelter him for so long, though, because, even with her encouragement and his wand aloft, he couldn’t dredge up the presence of mind to follow through and banish it.
This shouldn’t be so terrible. He was a grown man, surely well past petty personal fears. And the boggart - well, it must be already confused, caught between the both of their fears, but it would not be fully dispelled without laughter, and somehow the sight had almost the effect of a dementor on him: his face was ashen white, frozen by the sense of doom, unable to find the doorway out of it.
In the end, he finally tore his gaze from the boggart’s scene for a moment, latching onto the young woman’s coaxing smile but unable to quite return one of his own. Feeling sure she would see the truth in his eyes anyway, Evander gave in and confessed it, his voice cracking slightly: “I’m afraid I - I can’t - think of anything remotely funny -” What would make him laugh now, amidst the panic, when he could so rarely drum up confident laughter at the best of times? What would she do, with her sinister armchairs? What exactly could he make of the dreaded newspapers?
This shouldn’t be so terrible. He was a grown man, surely well past petty personal fears. And the boggart - well, it must be already confused, caught between the both of their fears, but it would not be fully dispelled without laughter, and somehow the sight had almost the effect of a dementor on him: his face was ashen white, frozen by the sense of doom, unable to find the doorway out of it.
In the end, he finally tore his gaze from the boggart’s scene for a moment, latching onto the young woman’s coaxing smile but unable to quite return one of his own. Feeling sure she would see the truth in his eyes anyway, Evander gave in and confessed it, his voice cracking slightly: “I’m afraid I - I can’t - think of anything remotely funny -” What would make him laugh now, amidst the panic, when he could so rarely drum up confident laughter at the best of times? What would she do, with her sinister armchairs? What exactly could he make of the dreaded newspapers?
