A Squib's Story

Chapter Two

Violet sits at her scuffed, ancient desk, feeling fortunate, for once, that she's in school. Her English History professor drones on, but his words wash over her like music. Anything, she reminds herself, is better than emptying wastebaskets at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, where her father works. Once he'd found a finger, and had no idea whom it belonged to...

She is making an effort to fit in at school. She has abandoned her baggy jeans and sweatshirts for preppy khakis and blouses, which make her feel like she's in uniform for the Gap Army. Now she's working on smiling, which feels unnatural and makes her teeth seem five times their normal size. She talks to her fellow students with an disarming mix of timidity and determination. She realises how difficult it is to call attention to yourself after you've been avoiding it the last fifteen years; rather like having a spotlight suddenly appear on you while in the lavatory. Her fellow students are polite, if bemused, and she notices teachers staring in her direction as if trying to figure out who she is, and why she's taking notes in their classroom.

She wonders if she's making any progress toward becoming a Muggle. She's fascinated by Muggle devices and conveniences; they're foreign to her, yet somehow less so than her family's magical ways. She can't turn a toadstool into a teapot, but perhaps she can learn how to program a VCR.

After listening in on schoolmates' conversations and making regular bicycle expeditions into Muggle London, she'd determined she had to have a stereo, a computer, a television, and a particular brand of trainers. Her parents, who unconsciously wondered if they could make up for a lifetime of neglect with these simple requests, were happy to oblige. They didn't relish pushing her further into the Muggle world, but guilt can be a very powerful motivator.

Violet pedals into a funky shopping district full of antiques and used bookstores. Her jaw is sore from the incessant smiling, so she treats herself to an ice cream soda before going into a small, dimly-lit bookstore. The clerk, a distinguished-looking middle-aged man who is also the owner, looks up and smiles. Violet gives him a brief but genuine smile in return. "Hello, Mr. Caswell."

"Good day, Violet. Looking for anything in particular today?"

"No, just a browsing day."

"Ah. Well, let me know if I may be of assistance."

Violet nods and disappears into the cramped but well-organised maze of shelves. She has always loved books, even textbooks. Even the magical books in her parents' study hold interest, though she tends to skip the ones about spells and potions and focus on the sprawling historical texts and wonderfully illustrated guides to magical creatures.

She selects three books and takes them to the counter - an encyclopedia of Muggle music, a guide to British football teams and players (she has never cared for Quidditch), and a novel that lightheartedly chronicles the life of a fifteen-year-old Muggle girl. She considers these research projects, even the novel. Perhaps she can learn something from the fictional girl, whose jaw probably never aches at the end of the day.

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Lavender sits at her scuffed, ancient desk, wishing she is anywhere but at school. As Professor Binns drones on, she glances sideways at her best friend, Parvati, and rolls her eyes. Parvati, who is almost telepathically tuned in to her friend, catches it and giggles, covering her mouth quickly. Hermione Granger, who can also seem telepathic in a somewhat less endearing way, turns around and frowns at them. Lavender gives her a wide-eyed look of innocence. She likes Hermione, but honestly! Having classes with her is like having to contend with two teachers.

Parvati shoots Lavender a smirk, and Lavender knows what the topic of their after-school conversation will be: Hermione's outfit, which she just knows consists of a sensible blouse, sensible skirt, sensible socks and sensible shoes beneath her sensible robes. She's going to turn into a lonely, cat-obsessed librarian if she doesn't watch out, Lavender thinks. Shame, too, she's really quite pretty...

Lavender drifts off, mentally making over Hermione with cosmetic and hair-straightening Charms (the only ones, apparently, she hasn't bothered to learn), and dressing her in the form-fitting designer t-shirts and jeans she and Parvati usually wear under their robes.

Hermione's face fades away and is replaced by that of her sister, Violet. A pale, sullen face, dotted with freckles, framed by what can only be described as mousy-brown hair, which usually hangs in a low ponytail. Her clothes are all black, grey and baggy, the sort that give no indication of when they have last been washed. Lately, though, she has been dressing more respectably. Still dull as dishwater, but an improvement.

With these thoughts come familiar stirrings, a mix of guilt, unease, embarrassment and love. She loves the big sister she never talks about and rarely talks to, loves her in the cautious, tentative way you might love an elderly relative who smells of mothballs and insists on calling you "Charlie."

Sometimes she leaves little notes for her, sprinkled with glitter and bearing perky messages like, "Have a great day! Thinking of you, your sister, Lavender." She had found one of these in the trash once, but it hadn't been crumpled up; it seemed to have been placed there gently, with care. Sometimes she wonders what goes on in her sister's mind. Other times, she's just as glad she doesn't know. Not because she is afraid of Violet, not really. She knows Violet doesn't hate her, but she doesn't think she loves her, either. And Lavender, perhaps due to all the attention lavished on her as a child, is the kind of girl who always needs to be loved.

She is also, aside from all the sparkle and chatter and gossip and vanity and boys, a girl who genuinely cares for those close to her, even if they are very far away. She wants everyone to be as happy as she is, and doesn't understand why that isn't always possible. Oh, she's heard things, but she doesn't care that her sister can't do magic. It's not like she's missing a head or developed tentacles, as her Great-Uncle Pinkerton had done after an unfortunate incident involving a potent Polyjuice Potion and a sushi bar. He had been an honoured guest at Christmas dinner every year until he died (though he always refused to eat the seafood). But what would happen to Violet once she left home? Would she return to the Brown dining hall each December, or would she disappear into the crowd like she had never been there at all?

Lavender, overcome with emotion, begins filing her nails.

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As Violet pays for her books, she notices a sign taped to the register: "Help wanted, please inquire."

She takes a deep breath. "Mr. Caswell?"

He glances up from the receipt he is patiently filling out from a faded, yellow book. "Hmm?"

"I was wondering about the job?" In an effort to cultivate her rather flat voice, she has acquired some unnatural inflections, such as a tendency to lift her voice at the end of each sentence. Sometimes she emphasises random words in the middle of sentences, as if reminding herself that she needs to emphasise something.

"Ah, yes. I am looking for a part-time clerk for the late afternoon shift. My mother's condition has worsened, and I need to leave early to care for her," he explains.

"Oh, I'm sorry."

Mr. Caswell smiles. "Quite all right, old girl will be fine... now, the position would be quite ideal for a student, would it not?"

"Yes... I suppose so, sure." She emphasises the word "so."

"Well, if you'd like the position, it is yours. You come with the highest recommendation."

"Um... I do?"

"Indeed. You are the rarest and most prized of all customers - a browser who actually buys!" He pauses, apparently savouring this remark. Violet smiles at her shoes. "Also, you are the only one to inquire. So you see, you are perfect for the job."

Violet starts to laugh, and it catches somewhere in her throat, causing her to cough violently. "Are you all right? Oh, dear, I'll go find some water..."

He bustles into the back of the shop. Violet's coughing subsides and she stands there, utterly miserable. I'm bloody hopeless, she thinks.

He returns and hands a chipped mug filled with water to the red-faced Violet. She drinks, more out of need to occupy herself than anything else. The water soothes her raw, scratchy throat so she drinks it all, returning the mug to Mr. Caswell with a self-conscious smile.

"Better?" he asks.

She clears her throat. "Yes. Thank you."

"Well then, can you start tomorrow?" He smiles as if there has been no break in the conversation. Violet stares. Are all Muggles this kind, this forgiving? Do only magic folk demand a level of propriety and near-perfection she can never hope to live up to?

It strikes her then. It's obvious, perhaps, but not to Violet, whose upbringing has pretty much revolved around the philosophy "Magic: good; no magic: well, not *bad* of course, just not quite as good as magic." The Wizarding world prizes shielding its identity, protecting its bloodlines, above all else. Violet isn't a threat but an oddity, a three-legged cow to be put out to pasture. Muggles look at her and see an ordinary if shy teenager, but were she to start talking about her family of witches and wizards (particularly Great-Uncle Pinkerton), they'd surely laugh or turn a deaf ear. The Wizarding world might be more demanding, but prejudice exists everywhere. And if that's true, then kindness must exist everywhere, too. Only by making peace with both worlds can she find peace in her life, whatever it might have in store. Failing that, she'll at least find some comfort in trying.

She smiles. "I can start now."

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