The boggart stands in the center of the room,
feet apart, jaws agape,
glaring defiance and astonishment at his loss,
spun gold mountained in each corner,
and the stolen babe still in its mother’s traitorous arms.
The fury in his eyes is iridescent,
his last hope for an heir spoiled,
his secret in the open and his enemies well-funded
through his own dearest tricks of the trade.
His arms are empty, his stomach full of ice,
he trembles at the thought of what his wife will say,
or if she will even open the burrow door to him,
or if she will simply silently up and leave,
searching out a better man with a more virile name.