Outcasts

We see the world through a pureblood Squib's eyes. We'll rejoice with her; we'll weep with her. But most importantly we'll realise that the story she relates is told with bias, emotion and by someone who's mentally unsound.

In the first part, we shall view her fragmented memories. We may view this angst with disconnection, but we know her memories are honest. However, honesty isn't everything; there's something that makes these memories horribly wrong. But what?

And in the second, we see the realisation of her memories' fundamental flaw. We see her personality emerge as she is taken towards the Dark Lord himself. But who can resist his undeniable charm?

And in the third, you will see. Does Bethany Crouch, pure blood Squib and sister to a Death Eater, matter in the end? Let's hope so because Harry Potter's and your own life depends on it.

Part One- Fragmented Memories

There has to be an outcast somewhere. Wherever you go, every place you visit and look around there's someone that doesn't fit in. People are always going on about how it's great to be different, or if they want to sound impressive- unique. Well there's a fine line between unique and odd. Many don't know what it's like to be abused in front of an intimidating crowd. They have never known and will not dare to find out how it feels to break down in an endless flood of tears, for those tears to well up into a river of misery, and that river just to be spat in. And still they join in the torment.

I know what it feels like; I have conversed with that pain and stared it in the face. Its piercing eyes penetrated my skull and drowned my thoughts with a monotonous chant with no words. But words or not, I still hear what its saying. 'Failure...Failure...Failure...'

I can't fit in anywhere. The Muggles shunt me out; they're unnerved by my weird characteristics. I know too much of the Wizarding world to just live a Muggle way of life. But a Squib can't be a Witch. No school would teach me. Magic's just a secret I can't grasp; no matter how much I reach into the sky, those stars that look so close evade me.

I thought I'd find my refuge in Diagon Alley, but the bricks won't part without a wands soft touch. I tried everything: I hit them with all my might; I cursed at them with Muggle swear words. I even shoved another brick at it once, and in my maddening moments I began to think of explosives. And not only do I have to cope with my deadly emotions, but also with the Muggle onlookers. Many have tried to fathom why I vent my anger on an open space; many have mistaken it for mental illness - maybe it is. Maybe that's why I'm a Squib; maybe it's so I don't massacre the world with my infamous destruction. But squibs can cause as much destruction as spilt milk on a pavement. Maybe I'll be like the milk and just give off a funny smell after a time. Wherever I walk everyone will hold their noses and point. The Muggles will just think I'm strange, but the magic folk, they know who I am. They're the ones that hold their noses even more firmly as if trying to suppress more than just a foul smell. And there's always the little brats walking along that think my condition is contagious. I long so much for a wand then, so much for a curse to shut their gaping mouths and pathless eyes.

Now all around me are padded walls and Muggles wearing white coats. Maybe they know my secret too. Perhaps they sterilise their uniform where my stray hand has brushed the silky fabric. Maybe I am contagious...Just like a disease...

***

How long had I been in this cell?

Total isolation was not something I was entirely familiar with until now. All of my life I had luckily felt only one type of solitude. But in some ways it was worse back then. To be alone when surrounded by people is like drowning in air. However, the loneliness can be intensified more: if you know the person but to them you remain unknown. I've felt it, but no one comforted me. Not once has anybody extended a smile or even a swift acknowledgement. A fit of abuse would have been better than silence. I was just a nameless figure in a crowd of familiar faces.

There was not a sight nor sound of communication here. Other humans were devoid and maybe non-existent. I am sure that if I had the gift of magic that my senses could detect another living soul. How pitifully quiet things were. But then I heard something: a trickle, followed by an intense throbbing. My head seemed to be a large angry Billywig that's buzzing harder and harder. It's trying to get somewhere desperately. I'm trying to get somewhere-something-anything other than being a squib in a Muggle world!

They shoved me in here - in isolation. How could those Muggle fools think that this would benefit my health? Then the reality was dumped on my shoulders once more: they were containing the disease. I don't blame the Muggles. I'd escape if I could, but my body is my own tomb.

***
At the tender age of eleven the owl didn't come. As September approached it wasn't only me that had realised my illness. My family are purebloods. To put it more elaborately they had no business associating with Squibs, family or not.

As I continued to wallow in self-loathing, the door bolts slid open threateningly fast. At last, there was a sign of life. The volcano of life was just dormant, but not extinct like I'd expected. Three men marched in and slung me to the other side. They whispered something, nodded briskly and took hold of my arms. I didn't get up then. One snorted like a horse and decided to drag me across the floor instead. I stayed firmly where I was. I was not going to be dragged anywhere. They finally resigned their tug of war and relaxed their firm grip.

The horsy man grunted once more, "Come with me. Someone is here to testify your sanity."

I smiled for the first time at something other than a fanciful day dream. I only barely heard the other man to the left of me snickering. "Good luck to them."

I ignored their taunts for some time, staying rooted to my cell floor. Maybe it was the Minister of Magic himself - offering an apology for the oversight of my magic. I squealed then, right in front of the staff. I screeched like a freshly weaned piglet crying desperately for its last drop of milk. Except I cry for a wand.

The beastly man raised an eyebrow and grunted questioningly. "I suppose I am to follow," I sighed. I didn't know it then but my former haughtier self was emerging. Maybe a pureblood witch would emerge to fulfil my family's dreams. All Muggle's would fear their mistake. And so would the Minister... in time.

***

I was held firmly as they escorted me down the long narrow hallway. The large white-washed steel doors were everywhere. It was so abnormal. There was not a single door that didn't fit neatly into its hinges. Everything was perfect, but that was the word I'd never use for it, for that vision of perfection was my idea of hell.

"You can let me go you know," I said venomously.

The member of staff, that hadn't spoken, loosened his grip substantially before he received a kick from the grunting, beastly man that now stood behind me. He squealed in pain, clutching his leg protectively. He was half the size of the kicker and apparently twice as feeble. But it had been a hard kick, which was the reason why there was blood scattered over the once pristine floor. It had broken the skin. The sight of blood stirred a forgotten defiance in my brain.

"I'm not likely to run away when my ticket to freedom is round the corner am I?"

He snorted again and stared me in the face. He opened his mouth as if searching for the words; his incisors grated together unearthing rotten food particles. I flinched, but not at the smell, but at the putrid morsels that were presently being sprayed at me as he snarled.

"You my pretty flower are too gullible."

That was the last thing I remembered. Unless you count a funny feeling that I encountered a fist flying towards my face. I tried to get up, but a strange sensation came across me. Dark colours swirled, infused with pastel shades and blinking luminous lights. Dots of orange merging into calm purples and then... black.

I skipped through my garden. The long grass delicately grazed my bare ankles. I looked up and saw clouds of marshmallow drifting peacefully with the sherbet tasting wind. I smiled at the idealistic sky, and the sun returned my grin gladly. It was such a peaceful day and what was more, my owl from Hogwarts would be arriving soon. My brother Barty was looking forward to me coming; he loved my company even though we had little time to spend with each other. My father - his father too (even though he tries to deny it) has no fondness for him. And Barty, I can see, tries his best to impress him in order to have a father that would feel proud of him at least once. I remember it was on a day like this that his OWL results flew in. He raced up the gravel path and past the privet hedges and through the open doors into my father's study. I didn't hear what Barty said, only my father's loud shouts.

"DON'T INTERUPT ME WHILE I'M WORKING! HOW DARE YOU DISTURB ME! I DON'T SODDING CARE ABOUT YOUR BORDERING-SATISFACTORY OWL RESULTS. MY WORK IS IMPORTANT! WITHOUT ME THIS COUNTRY- THIS WORLD- WOULD BE IN JEOPARDY!"

He walked down the stairs and out into the back garden where I was sitting. He attempted a smile at my neat row of daffodils that I'd planted earlier in the spring. I didn't need to turn round or hear his stifled voice to know that he was crying. Crying for a father's love he didn't receive and never would be likely to have. I hugged him tightly, and cried too, out of pity and guilt, for our father loved his little girl. He loved me.

And I was left with the face of a boy with straw coloured hair and freckles dappled over his milky fair face, and that memory would be nothing more...

The next thing I knew I was laying on a table in a room covered with silver and chrome instruments. My eyes stung from unaccounted tears, my face sticky with the trails they made. The sea could have been in my mouth for all the salt I tasted in there, and no one cared. No one knew. No one asked.

As my eyelashes unhooked their tight embrace, my vision became slightly clearer. There was just a woman in a white cloak. No it was a lab coat. Muggles didn't wear robes or cloaks. But was that a wand in her hand. It couldn't be. Had my time come? Was I really a witch? Then as she approached me, I could see that it wasn't a slender wooden wand but a sharp needle in her hand.

"Noooooooo!" I screamed in anguish.

I didn't care that it was a needle with a sharp point, but that it wasn't a wand. I was doomed to be a Squib forevermore...

***

The Muggle walked up with the needle pointed towards me threateningly; she held it tight as if I was going to use it as a weapon against her. And I would have, if only it had been a wand, but I was resigned to my fate: sitting on a smooth leather chair that I would surely slip off of, if I wasn't bound so tightly.

And just like in a horror movie that those Muggles simply adore, the liquid substance spurted out melodramatically. And it was all too clear that this Muggle was a fan of such films from the remark: "This won't hurt...much."

And in the face of a potential insertion of a rather large metal object, I rolled my eyes. And before my lights went out I had time to mutter one last thing groggily, which I never intended to say out loud. "Muggle scum, filthy...scum...Mu-"

That would have been catastrophic had it been said anywhere other than a mental hospital. But as it was, the nurse made nothing more of it than a garbled insult, which she also ignored. She'd been here far too long to be offended by an insane person that claimed to be a witch in her sleep. She didn't even realise the not-so-subtle difference between claiming and wishing.

That needle inspired forgotten pain in my drugged mind, and brought me back to something that I would relive again every night after.

It was night; night that had come early; night that was a surprise to all. There was no explanation for the sun's rays to drop or to wilt as I looked up at them with a tear in my eye. "Barty!" I don't know why I screamed for him as if he would appear the same person he was before. But when someone falls into darkness, especially someone you love, who cares about rational explanations-- about good reasons?

I could have been plunged in liquid ice and still felt warmer than I was then. There was a chill in my heart. Chilled from the love for a lost person.

"BROTHER!" I cried.

I shrieked until my voice failed me and until my windpipe was scratched by my desperate pleas.

I longed for him. I traipsed through the streets screaming silently and expecting no reply. At last my legs collapsed as my voice had done.

I'd have weak leg muscles from then on, which did not give me much chance to run from future troubles. But I can't run from reality no matter how fast I can sprint.

I searched while remaining stationary; my eyes darted to every movement.

An old tomcat whaling to a distant rival was mistaken for a response from my brother, and for a while I lay relieved knowing he'd find me and take home, all accusations of evil denied. A person stumbled down the street: a drunk that had clearly just been thrown out of a nearby pub. I mouthed a word of my brother before he turned and leered. I looked away immediately- I couldn't allow distractions while Barty could be walking by that very second.

But Barty didn't appear that night. Or the night after. Not for another three months, but by that time I'd run away from the house that reminded me of such pain. I never would see him again.

The nurse wiped the spot on my arm where the sedative had been administered. She looked sorrowfully at me as I massaged my sore windpipe.

"Nightmares?"

I nodded sadly; I couldn't bear to explain...

"Pain- just another great adventure, eh?"

***

They deceived me: the lying tricksters that preyed on my fixation! How cruel to pick upon someone's weakest moment. Barty had always told me how he despised people that fired a spell when their victim's back was turned.

There was a reason for this. There's always a reason. People learn things through experiences. Even imagination helps. My brother has no lack of imagination or knowledge of past events, such a deadly weapon...

"Sis," Barty called softly.

I looked up to the sofa where he was sitting, and acknowledged him with a short- "Mhm."

"When you're old enough for Hogwarts-"

"Yes?" I interrupted excitedly. I couldn't wait to see the castle and explore its grounds, let alone learn magic like my ancestors.

He smiled lovingly; he knew I couldn't wait. "Just remember that you should always face those who are untrustworthy."

I raised one eyebrow questioningly and smiled slightly. My brother would protect me. Even if he looked thin and weak, he would advise me.

"I mean to say- watch out. Even with those who you think would never harm you."

I laughed a little at his protective sentiment.

"So you're saying I should be twitchy and paranoid and have eyes in the back of my head, right?"

We laughed together, he knew I'd taken heed of his words and relaxed once more. I switched the Wireless down a bit, despite the fact that the Weird Sisters were playing my favourite song: 'Summer Quidditch Trials'.

"What made you say that anyway?"

"Nothing. Just a little advice for my baby Sis."

I punched him playfully and continued to pursue the thing he tried to avoid. "Come on, Barty. You can tell me."

He sighed heavily, and once again I looked into his troubled eyes. I couldn't help wondering how such a beaten, unloved person could have a heart like him.

"Well it was in the Hogwarts Dungeons..."

I shivered delightedly. I loved tales about the dark and mysterious, and the dungeons seemed just the place.

"I was picking up my quill and my Arithmancy book that had just fallen through my bag-"

"Fallen through?" I interjected.

"I'll get to that. I bent down, picked it up and heaved them back into my bag. And then to my annoyance it fell straight down again."

His face was as animated as his wildly gesticulating hands.

"A hole?"

"A hole, yes. Anyway, I slung down my bag as I had now noticed a trail of various belongings that had formed a trail behind me..."

I laughed - it wasn't like Barty to drop things.

"Luckily I only dropped a few things: Spellotape, parchment and a spare bit of Dragon's wing. So I clambered along the pebbly floor picking it all up, but when I went to pick up one last thing-"

"The Dragon's wing?"

"You got me. Anyway when I went to pick that up, the next thing I knew was that I was lying on my front surrounded by towering professors."

I gasped melodramatically.

"I'd been stunned."

"Ouch! Who did it? Was it that older boy- you know what's-his-name? Er Snivellus?"

"No, he left a while ago. I only saw him in my first year. But then again you never know he could have crept back in the school to get me!"

We both laughed loudly at this ridiculous theory.

"Or the Dragon's wing, someone might have been after that. Did you get it back?"

"Nope, it was gone. You're probably right about someone wanting it though, Sis."

The memory faded once more from my mind, and I was left with the thoughts of such longing and somehow a tinge of freedom. Little did I know back then that the Dragon's Wing was the tip from a Peruvian Vipertooth. An ingredient used in Dark Magic. He had started his transformation that long ago - when I thought him to be noble and kind. At least he was to me, and probably would have always been, if he hadn't died first...Died in Azkaban. My wonderings of what had happened long ago drifted away, for the second time I had reason to pay attention to the present.

I'd been allowed into the vicinities gardens and freed from my prison. I never knew how beautiful it was out there. I could feel the wind tickle my neck and whisper words of kindness in my ears. I could almost hear Barty's voice amongst the gentle breeze. It was as if his smile was the sun that shined upon me.

A well preserved chestnut fence bordered the garden's lush grass that swayed slowly with the flowers huddling tightly in their beds. I smiled reminiscently; it reminded me so much of my quaint little garden. The bird song was so rich that only the intermittent burst of a police car's siren could be heard over it, there in this oasis. I wondered what the birds said and how they felt. Did they know that below them lurked a deadly disease? My mind glided to the siren that had faded away. Was someone hurt and suffering in a distant corner somewhere? Was there a chase of tremendous speed that risked lives of civilians that mindlessly crossed a normally deserted street? I wished to know instead of ponder forever. But the gates were barred against me.

I rested in the scorching sun and burrowed my chin into the soft pillow at the top of the sun-lounger. My face melted down into the coarse fabric and pointed down to a section of grass that was shadowed by my silhouette. Most blades reached high, leaning towards the sweltering sun. However one little shoot could not reach the light. It was less developed, and sickly looking. The deprivation of light was obvious, making it stand out from the rest like a runt in a litter. Just like me.

I relaxed and tried to shut out all thoughts. I didn't want or need the constant reminder of my condition. I rolled over until I was content and completely comfortable. I lay there facing the liquid blue sky.

The sun danced over my smooth, pale skin, highlighting the faint freckles on my cheeks and nose. My forehead was hot and moist, but starting to sizzle and burn. At home I would have given up and gone inside, but I'd rather be fried than trapped inside my claustrophobic cell. I stayed firmly where I was, wiggling a bit to find a cool piece of fabric to soothe the heat. I drew my sleek black hair, which was until a day ago thick with grease and dirt, over my face.

"Maybe I have an ounce of magic in my veins," I wished, looking directly at a blackbird ruffling its feathers on an evergreen tree.

"Maybe," it chirped back.

What!

And just as I sat bolt upright in amazement, it swooped down on the grass and plucked the blade that was different.

***

I was back to confinement once again. However, a little fluttering and a slight tingling in my stomach outgrew the white, dolefully regular walls as if it had been painted in the vast colours of my delight.

A bird had talked, understood and possibly confirmed my hope. I didn't doubt this once. I had seen it and so therefore it was true. I was as sure of this as there were feathers on its glossy back. A negative suspicion of hallucination was shunted aside; my disease was recovering. I could feel now, stronger and fresher than ever. My finger tips glowed with health and my throat yearned to warble and sing with pure glee.

Once again I heard a dauntingly cheery sound emerge: a hundred swords being whipped out of their scabbards. The door was open.

"Let me guess," I whispered hoarsely, "someone is here to testify my sanity?"

He grinned and grunted traditionally.

Obviously not then; his expression told all. It was just another chance to exploit me. What a tremendous source of amusement I must be.

The walk to the lab seemed quicker this time, as if each stride was longer and more frequent. Perhaps it was because the pain of expectation had dissolved. Possibly the time could have passed rapidly in the moment that I longed it to stay idle.

The horsy-man brushed past my shoulder as he let his firm grip on my opposite arm disappear. I wondered whether I should run, but my capture was inevitable and my security would surely be increased. I could not risk that and so I remained hovering with uncertainty as he pushed open the striking white door.

"Over to you Dr Phelps," he grunted. She gave a quick nod to the back of his head, which faded out of view in seconds - due to the door slamming into its polished hinges.

"I'm glad he's gone," I muttered.

"Strong these doors may be, but they're not soundproof," Dr Phelps smiled.

I shrugged my shoulders, and asked another question. "What happened to the nurse who was here before? The one that gave me the - gave me the..."

Phelps looked up to my face uncomfortably. "There is more than one doctor in a hospital, Miss Crouch."

"Please call me Bethany."

Dr Phelps flicked through a file as her lips rose momentarily, her expression was incomprehensible.

"What you seek- you shall not receive."

My brow crinkled as my eyebrows leaned towards my eyes.

"Let it go, you are unleashing a monster from a lamb."

"What do you--"

"Fleece becomes scales, when wool is needed to calm the onslaught."

"I-"

This time it was not Phelps' voice that interrupted me, but my sudden observation of her glassy gaze.

"But if wool is combed and teased it will become deadly: the sleek fur of destruction."

I didn't want to understand, but I did. I understood the part she said at first- she told me to give up my hope of magic; she told me it was useless. How could she? A bird had confirmed my wistful question.

As Dr Phelps drew in a painful breath I unleashed all the pain that had been locked away inside me. She was hit with such a force I barely realised my arm extending towards her head.

She looked at me in shock, but more than that: disgust so deep I could hear it in the room around me. Her eyes, however, still remained glazed. The feeble voice rasped almost silently as she said her last words - a sentence that she would never finish.

"They will seek warmth and..."

She choked. Her eyes were still glaring at me. Dead eyes would lurk in all my days, never releasing their murderous stare. But I was the murderer.

What had I done?

I was left with a sense of heaving. It was if there was unclean food in my gut that seeped in my blood. Then the door opened.

***

For each millimetre the door inched forward a thousand worries soaked into my skin.

Every word she'd uttered was a toxin in my system; every warning was a fatal blow. So that's what I did. I punched her in the head because I wanted her to know what it felt like. I never meant it to result in her death. She was kind; she treated me like a human; she understood me more than I did. She said things I didn't want to know so I stopped her before it was too late. It was a solution, not a murder, just an end to my problems.

But there was one fact that, no matter how I tried to conceal, hopped up and screamed in my face. When she died, I fell with her.

The door creaked open even further; a shred of white light teased my sallow skin. I sprinted towards the opening and kicked it firmly shut. With a deep breath I bolted the door.

"What's going on?" A gruff voice grumbled.

I exhaled sharply.

"Dr Phelps says she isn't finished," I shuddered. It was true; I'd killed her mid-sentence.

"Right," he mused, "so why didn't she say so herself?"

"Because she thinks I'm more than worthy to talk to you!" I snapped. My hate for the beast had finally exploded.

He said nothing back, not a single retaliation.

"That shut him up!" I muttered jubilantly.

"Indeed it did, Sis," a voice croaked.

"Barty?"

I pirouetted abruptly. There was no one there, no one alive. How tragic my condition was. I even started to hear things. I looked at Dr Phelps; she leaned over her knees, clutched a folder in both arms. How pitiful she looked, like a cowering child. Why this enraged me I don't know - how dare she look so weak in death.

"You caused this!" I snarled. "I was recovering! Not now. Not anymore. Not ever again!"

I kicked her chair viciously. The familiarity of kicking a puppy when it's down loomed in my mind, except that this puppy was dead.

The door trembled with my bones. My eyes darted to a possible escape route. I was a fool to think that I had tricked the beast; he had only gone for reinforcements.

My heart lurched as a bolt snapped; it definitely had to be the window. I grabbed the nearest thing which happened to be the large folder in Dr Phelps' arms and hacked at the window. Nothing happened, not a crack was made. I now laughed at the thought that crossed my mind; I was truly becoming a Muggle! Stupid double glazed windows! There was nothing I could use to break such durable glass.

A transparent barrier meant the difference between freedom and captivity, an existence or a real life. I needed a key to the problem-I needed a key! There had to be one lurking somewhere for fire safety reasons.

And that was when I smelt the smoke.

My temples pulsed in nightmarish harmony with the pounding door. I was constantly aware that each clotted breath came closer to my last, and that thought quelled me until I was past despair.

Everything was still and tranquil. It was definitely not the expected pandemonium flames should bring. Should I wait for the flames to crawl round my spindly body? Dare I experience my bones being blackened? Would the intoxicating smoke I inhaled be riddled with ash from my own flesh? Would all of that be better than being frozen to the floor of a cavernous cell?

A shimmer like the rustling of leaves entranced my eyes. Was that the first flame to dance? I dragged my limp hand to the blaze, wishing I would absorb its feisty energy. My fingers creased round a warm object rather than a thermal flicker. It was smooth but jagged.

I drew the shard to my face. My vision faltered. Each breath had become a struggle. The muscles in my throat clung together like prisoner and handcuff. No matter how hard they were forced it just didn't budge.

My nostrils flared in a mockery of gaping tunnels as I exhaled the last thread of poisoned air.

Knees sifted and legs toppled as I began my float towards the floor. A stray arm flew out, dislodging the metal flake from my frail grip. As the key clanged on the floor it rang with the laughter of defeat. There were no more vicious onslaughts on the beaten door. The rescuers had been claimed by devastation, and still the predatory flames stalked the next victim. My eyes fell with the advance of the heat. So this was the end of the pureblood Squib?