A Squib's Story

It is unspoken but is always in the air, alongside the dust motes and the faint smell of lavender, her mother's favourite scent. Violet is a guest, a boarder, a stranger in her own home. She has a bed to sleep in, three squares a day, and clothes to cover herself. Not the satin robes her sister wears, but utilitarian Muggle clothes that more suit than flatter her. She doesn't blame her parents, at least not in ways she can admit. Nor does she blame her beautiful, vivacious, magical sister, who can't help how she was born any more than Violet can.

She doesn't know what to blame her circumstance on, but she knows one thing for certain: she is a Mistake. She never speaks this word out loud, for fear someone's eye might flicker or mouth twitch in a way that would unwittingly betray agreement. As long as it is unspoken she can continue living in this house, where her main purpose seems to be to stay out of the way and not remind her parents of what she is. This is not to say her parents are cruel; they're simply a witch and wizard who don't know what to make of a daughter that might as well be a Muggle. She makes them uncomfortable, and she'd sensed it from an early age. Her sensing it had made them even more uncomfortable, and so on, so she mostly stays in her room and reads. Sometimes she does an unobtrusive bit of housework to assuage her guilt, to ease her own discomfort by contributing how she can. She knows it's illogical to feel guilty for being a Squib, that it's no different from being born a girl, or with brown hair or freckles. She knows it isn't her fault. She feels guilty anyway.

Her wand sits on a shelf collecting dust along with other mementoes of childhood - a bride doll, a medal she received in primary school for something she can't remember, and a picture of her only true friend, an older girl named Becky who'd moved to Ireland. She sometimes catches a glimpse of the cherry wood and feels a faint twinge, not so much at the thought of wielding it, but to have the ability to wield it. What she doesn't know is that her mother, an artist, had made this wand herself in a fit of pity, and it wouldn't lift a feather if even Lavender yelled "Wingardium leviosa!" at the top of her lungs. She doesn't know that the core of her wand, which usually houses a unicorn hair, phoenix feather, or something equally exotic, was nothing but empty space.She doesn't know that real wands choose their owners, and that only the most self-loathing of the bunch would have chosen her.

Her glories are trivial. She might receive an A in a dull subject like Composition, but what's that compared to Lavender's O in Transfiguration? Violet gets a vague smile and a "good job;" Lavender gets a party with all her lucky, giggly, oblivious witch friends. Again, no one's fault. Violet doesn't have any friends; her relationship with Becky has been reduced to the occasional breezy letter. Becky has a boyfriend. Becky is going to University. Becky is a Muggle. She is, in Violet's eyes, as lucky as Lavender.

The day Lavender had received her Hogwarts letter, two years ago, was both the best and worst day of Violet's life. Mr. and Mrs. Brown seemed to come to life that day. At last they had a daughter they could understand, could take to Diagon Alley for more than just an ice cream. The house itself seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and no one really noticed Violet fall into the shadows. She felt safe. The silence wasn't so loud anymore. Maybe she could relax.

But something did happen. Her father, a matter-of-fact, live-for-work kind of fellow, had caught sight of her one day and asked her to drop out of school so she could clean his office at the Ministry of Magic. He'd said this in the voice one might offer a dog a bone, clearly expecting her to jump into his arms and say "Thank you, Father, I've reason to live at last!" For this is what Squibs are supposed to do in the Wizarding world, accept bones like they're steak. A lifetime of mute drudgery flashed before her eyes. In this world, she might as well be a house-elf. Why should she accept that? Why?

So instead of gratitude she'd given him a look that would freeze ice and said she intended to take a Muggle job when she turned sixteen, and work extra hard in school so she could get in to University. This was a thought that had not occurred to her til that very moment, and one she had no idea how to actually achieve. She didn't fit much better in the Muggle world than the Wizarding world, but maybe she could learn to. Maybe one day she could laugh at the notion of witches and wizards. Maybe one day she'd mean it.

She sits on her bed studying a textbook diagram of the human body, wondering if there are biological differences between magic folks and Muggles, and which one she'd more closely resemble. Perhaps the cruelest reminder of her fate is that her entire identity is based on a negative: "not magical." She always thinks of herself that way because it seems to be the only way to think. But that brief conversation with her father had sparked something within her, something that fifteen years in her uncomfortable household had muffled. Her father had finally spoken the unspoken. And it hadn't killed her. She didn't fall apart, or cry, or have any of the reactions she'd constantly replayed in her head. Words that should have destroyed her had made her stronger. Maybe there was more to Violet than just lack of magic, after all