A Squib's Story

Chapter Ten

Few things rest heavier on one's mind than the words they least want to hear, and in the case of Neville Longbottom the words were these: "I don't want you seeing that girl anymore."

After a summer of writing his girlfriend, Violet, where she was vacationing with her mother and sister, he now has to tell her it's over. He can't tell her he doesn't love her anymore, because that isn't true. He can't tell her the truth, because... well, because the truth is just too awful. How can his Gran, a woman who rallies against Death Eaters and everything they stand for, be so bloody-minded about him dating a Squib? Does she imagine it's catching? Does she fear he's finally escaped being a near-Squib only to lose his tenuous grip of his powers?

Neville is no longer the trembling, stuttering boy that arrived at Hogwarts almost six years ago. He is still forgetful and somewhat clumsy, but he has stood up to his Gran and others on numerous occasions. This, however, is not the time. This is a time when people rush to see what's on the front page of the Daily Prophet, only to turn away moments later. A time when the merest Muggle accident provokes Ministry suspicion and investigation. A time when you don't question your loved ones, for fear they might not walk through the door again.

But wait, a little voice in Neville's head says, isn't this just the time one *ought* to take a stand? Who am I, if I'm not learning to fight? What good are all the spells and curses I know if they're spoken with a hollow voice, from a hollow man?

But he can't defy his Gran. He just can't. Not when she bravely faces the sight each month of her son, Neville's father, lying in a hospital bed. Not when she lays a comforting hand on Neville's shoulder as he tries to speak to his unresponsive mum. Not when he knows that deep down, she loves him.

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For the first time in her life, Violet stands on Platform 9 and 3/4, preparing to board the Hogwarts Express. It is Lavender's seventh and final year and Violet, at nineteen, feels uncomfortably foreign amidst the stomping, hooting, gossiping teenagers. She seems to be the only school employee who is taking the train; perhaps she would feel less awkward were she a solid, commanding sort of adult figure like Professor McGonagall.

Her mother hugs her and Lavender good-bye, and they climb aboard the steaming scarlet train. It looks like a life-sized toy, Violet muses, the sort of thing you might expect to see fanciful circus animals riding on...

She is torn from this fantasy by the most blatantly unpleasant voice she has ever heard. "Who... are you?" it drawls, managing, somehow, to make the word "you" drip with sarcasm.

Lavender finishes stashing her trunk and turns around with a glare. "Don't you have first-years to intimidate, Malfoy? I'm sure they'll be mighty impressed by your size."

"Friend of yours, Brown?" He indicates Violet with the merest tilt of his neck. The voice, and neck, belong to a lean, medium-height, blond boy whose mouth seems permanently etched in a smirk. Violet imagines some girls might find him attractive. She has to fight a near-overwhelming urge to punch him in the face.

"This is my sister, Violet. You might recognise her from the library. That is, you would if you ever looked up from those... books you read." Lavender crinkles her nose.

"Are you insinuating something, Brown? Or did you catch a whiff of that perfume you're wearing?"

"Har! Well, as much as I could spend all day doing this, I'm dying for a pumpkin pasty. Excuse us."

Violet finishes stashing her trunk and follows Lavender down the aisle. "Who was that?" she asks.

Lavender shrugs. "Your typical slimy Slytherin. Dra-co Mal-foy. I can't believe he used to intimidate me!" She laughs at the folly of the child she used to be, not so long ago. "Hermione told us he goes to the library almost every chance he gets to study up on Merlin-knows-what. She and Harry and some other Gryffindors have been watching certain Slytherins, since all those Death Eaters escaped from Azkaban." She continues in her hushed tone. "And I'm not surprised he didn't recognise you. Malfoys aren't the sort to notice the help unless they drop a book on his toe or something."

Violet nods absently, not even objecting to being termed "the help." "I may have seen him," she murmurs. "I just stack stuff though; I could be replaced by a well-trained orangutan." She peers into each compartment to see if Neville is inside. The uneasiness she's been holding in since he's stopped writing rises to the surface. Surely, if anything had happened, it would have been in the news...

Lavender stops at a compartment that contains Parvati and a girl Violet doesn't recognise. She turns to Violet. "You're welcome to sit with us, but I'm sure you want to go find Neville." She smiles. Parvati holds in a snigger; the other girl doesn't.

"Okay," Violet says, with a vague wave. She continues along. Where is Neville? Might he be looking for her?

She finds him sitting with some of his friends she'd gotten to know over the course of their courtship: Harry Potter, his girlfriend Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood, who is wearing an indescribable hat (though if you had to describe it, you would probably say "iguanalike").

On one side of Neville is a pile of chocolate frogs, on the other, a pile of chocolate frog wrappers. He looks distinctly nauseous; his face is nearly as vivid a green as Harry Potter's fabled eyes. "Hi Violet," he says chocolately.

"Hi, Neville." She smiles warmly. "Oh dear, there doesn't seem to be any room left." Violet hopes that someone (most likely Luna, as Harry and Ginny are otherwise occupied), will take the hint and find somewhere else to sit.

But Luna merely looks up from her grainy newspaper and nods, as if wondering why she's bothered to speak the obvious. Harry and Ginny continue doing... what they're doing. And Neville? He blinks up at her, looking rather unattractively like Trevor. "I'm sorry, Violet," he says quietly. "I'm sure you'll be able to find a spot, though."

Violet doesn't see him swallow the lump in his throat. She doesn't realise that his bleary eyes are due to more than chocolate haze. She feels rejected, and left with the sense that something isn't quite right. She trods back to the compartment where Lavender and Parvati are sitting, feeling oddly defeated. I'm making way too much of this, she thinks. So we don't sit together on the train. Big deal. He could have at least seemed a bit... unhappy about it, though...

With these thoughts weighing on her mind, she hardly notices her first and only ride on the Hogwarts Express. Instead of soothing her nerves, the steady rumble of the engine reminds her that she has come too far down the tracks to ever return to the life she left behind.

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Outside the fortress of Hogwarts, a War rages. Two top Aurors have been killed, one gravely wounded, as well as several Ministry workers. And these are just the victims that appear on the Daily Prophet front pages, accompanied by glossy photos and rememberences from half the Wizarding world. Countless others have been lost, names that will in fact be counted but remembered by none but those who miss them. Charles Abbott. Francesca Boot. Alicia Spinnet. George Weasley. Becky Grogan. The remembered and forgotten victims alike played their part in what is to come; they will live forever in the body of War.

The days, weeks, months drag by in a blur of books, meals and sleep. It helps, Violet thinks for the hundredth time over, that Neville had cried when he broke her heart. She believes that his Gran hadn't wanted them together; it seems like just the sort of thing a woman who wears a vulture on her head would do. What she doesn't believe is Neville's weak-willedness and lack of emotion. She'd believed Neville to be a young man gathering strength, on the brink of coming into his own. How had she misjudged him so badly?

Or had she misjudged him? Can he simply be using his Gran as an excuse to not have to commit to life with a Squib? And if so, can she really blame him? Her rational mind tells her it's no good to rehash these thoughts over and over. But the less rational part of her, the one that seems to have come to the fore lately, replays it again and again and wonders if there's anything she could have done differently. Anything other than making magic, that is.

When the first snow falls, Violet has begun to heal. There is very little of the excitement that the first snowfall and the holidays usually brings. There is speculation that the War will be over soon after Christmas; surely, it can't go on much longer. So Christmas has become little more than a milestone, a mark to get past so a sliver of light might be visible around the corner.

But, as things so often do at Hogwarts, that's about to change.

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Dumbledore tings his fork against his goblet one night in the Great Hall, about a week before Christmas. "May I have everyone's attention, please? Yes, that includes you, Mr. Weasley."

Dumbledore's tone is light, so the room descends into a sort of relaxed hush. "In light of recent events, we have decided to keep students here at Hogwarts over the holidays. We have spoken to your families, and they have agreed this is the best course of action. I don't think I need inform you that many of them are, at this very moment, engaged in dangerous activities that might change the very course of history. The least we can do is give them the comfort of knowing their children are safe within the walls of Hogwarts. We encourage you to send as many gifts and cards home to your loved ones as your owls can carry." He clears his throat in an effort to break through the low rumble that has spread through the room. "Now, in much cheerier news, your professors and I have decided to reprise the Yule Ball that was held three years ago, during the Tri-Wizard Tournament..."

Immediately, excited yelps burst from every table and echo off the cavernous stone walls, exaltations not only of joy but of relief to finally have something to cheer about.

No one notices the girl sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, letting the news absorb slowly and wishing for nothing more than the ability to Disapparate, just once. She stares steadfastly into her steak and kidney pie, willing herself to not look at Neville, and for him not to look at her. Because she'll know if he does; she'd feel his gaze through thick fog a hundred miles away.

But nothing happens. The days go by, and nothing continues to happen. Violet agrees to go to the ball in a group comprised of Lavender, her boyfriend Seamus, Parvati, her boyfriend Dean, Padma, her boyfriend Anthony Goldstein, and Anthony's friend Terry Boot, whose sister had been killed by Death Eaters. Violet had insisted Lavender not set her up, so the quiet, grieving Terry seems a logical choice for her "date."

Violet goes through the motions in preparing for the Ball. She always has and probably always will feel out of place in fancy clothes and makeup. She compromises by wearing Lavender's last-season dress robes, putting her hair up in a simple twist and wearing no makeup but a simple lip gloss. She understands that Lavender, Parvati, and Padma's ritualistic grooming is somehow therapeutic, but it doesn't feel natural to her. Who cares, anyway; it's not like she'll be arriving on Neville's arm. She's resolved to appear stoic if he and his date walk by. Perhaps she'll laugh extra loud at something Terry says, though Terry is unlikely to say anything very funny.

The Gryffindors and Violet meet the Ravenclaws outside the Great Hall. They are late, of course, but no one seems to mind. Violet feels plain but comfortable. She smiles familiarly at Terry Boot; he is a regular visitor to the library. His dress robes shine with newness and care, but his face is pale and dull and he looks five years older than his age. Violet wonders what either of them are doing here when there are perfectly good books to be read.

The eight of them join Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger at a large table draped with holly, ivy and merrily twinkling lights and topped with miniature Never Melting Snowmen. The Hall looks magnificent: eight towering pine trees adorned with living fairy lights stand at various intervals, while swatches of similarly decorated greenery hang from every door and window. Mistletoe has been placed choicely in the corners; Violet averts her eyes. The fleeting, ghostly sensation of Neville's lips haunts her until she wills it away. She'd read once that one should never stand under mistletoe, anyway, though she can't remember why.

The boys go off to get butterbeers, and Violet greets Hermione, the library's best customer.

"Hi, Violet. Lovely of you to keep Terry company."

"Oh, yes... so how is Viktor?"

"I assume he's fine, though I don't see him often enough to certify it." Her fond smile, and the ring that shines from her finger, belie her annoyed tone.

Violet grins. She would never have imagined Hermione, as much of a bookworm as she, engaged to Quidditch star Viktor Krum. But Hermione has lost none of her cleverness to love, and seems to have gained stores of happiness and confidence.

The boys return, laden with drinks and good-natured cheer. Even the subdued Terry has a soft smile on his face. It seems Dumbledore's plan has worked. The horrors of War have been temporarily forgotten, and when the survivors look back on this night it will seem like the time of their lives.

The evening goes by in a blur of flickering light and shadowy dark, black silk and green velvet, flashing cameras and sparkling goblets. The sights and sounds wash over Violet. She makes no concerted effort to find Neville, and doesn't see him anyway. The others in her group dance at a non-stop, almost frenetic pace, though Ron and Hermione sit out the slow dances. The best of friends, they have come to the dance together in the absence of their loves. They seem to laugh quite a bit over something that happened at a dance in Fourth Year.

When left alone, Violet and Terry act overly polite and attempt to strike up some kind of conversation. It seems comfortably unspoken that neither wants to dance, so they sit and drink and watch the festivities. They could be perfect strangers, or an old married couple. "Lovely decorations," Violet says, mentally smacking herself when she realises it's the second time she's said it.

Terry looks around. "Yes, they still are," he agrees, smiling slightly.

Violet chuckles. "Sorry," she says.

Terry shrugs. "Don't worry about it. I appreciate your lack of solicitousness. Someone in your family dies, people think they're doing you a favour by reminding you of it day and night."

Violet nods. "Same can be said for... er, never mind." Violet tries to focus; how many butterbeers has she had? Probably a few less than Terry, which means entirely too many.

"For what?"

"Oh, you know... a broken heart."

"Oh... oh!" he exclaims, as if just realising that Violet is the girl who had been, and no longer was, going out with Neville Longbottom. Neville, once known for being nearly a Squib, has now become known in student circles as Harry Potter's best DA student.

"I'm sorry," he says lamely.

"Me too," she says, despising herself for comparing her relationship woes to Terry's tragedy.

Terry chuckles, and tosses back his butterbeer. "Well, we're a cheery pair, eh?"

"This room is so full of cheer, someone needs to balance it out."

Terry laughs. "Shall I get us another round?"

Violet shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

While he's gone, Violet glances around the ever-dizzying room. Where is Neville, anyway? she wonders. Is it possible he didn't come at all? Is it possible he's alone in his dorm, feeling sorry for himself and regretting the day he ever decided to break up with her? Is it possible he might...

Terry returns with the drinks, sloshing them slightly as he sets them down on the table. He sits, and raises his glass to Violet. "A toast," he says.

Violet raises her glass tentatively. "To what?"

Terry shrugs. "To anything."

"To anything!" Violet exclaims. "To... possibilities."

Terry smiles. "To possibilities." Oh, she thinks, what is that look he's giving me? Does he think I meant...?

Terry merely resumes his contented drinking. Moments pass in silence. Then: "Would you like to take a walk around?" he asks. "See all those lovely decorations up close?"

Violet grins in spite of herself. "Sure, all right."

They walk along the outskirts of the slow-dancing couples. Violet doesn't recognise the song that's playing but Terry seems to, and he starts humming along. He smiles. "Nice, isn't it?"

Violet smiles back. She isn't certain what he's referring to but agrees that it is, in fact, nice. All of her is feeling rather nice at the moment. She knows it's the butterbeer, but she doesn't care.

Suddenly, Terry takes her hand and pulls her into a corner. "Let's dance," he whispers. Violet feels herself being drawn into his arms and doesn't resist. How lovely it is to be touched again, to feel herself come to life in someone's arms. She rests her head on his shoulder and almost, but not quite, succeeds in remembering he is not Neville. At the end of the song, Terry glances up and gestures slightly. Violet has no sooner followed his gaze then she feels his lips on hers. The fleeting sight of mistletoe and the abruptness of the kiss sober her up enough to pull away. "No," she whispers, just as something lands, quite unexpectedly, on her head.

She screams. Terry looks at her and yells, "Agh!" Something has clamped on to her head, something with the suction of an octopus, something that looks for all the world like a small grape with tentacles.

Luna Lovegood strolls by, serenely balancing a goblet on her head. "Nargles," she says with a vague nod. "You really ought to be more careful."

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The Nargle incident seems a good excuse for the weary adults to bring the Ball to a close. Some couples, like Violet and Terry, say goodnight and plan to head back to their rooms, but for many, like Lavender and Seamus, the night has just begun. The air rings with talk of festive walks in the snow and ensuing snowball fights, and merry little Professor Sprout agrees to stand watch outside. As groups begin exiting the Great Hall Dumbledore yells, "And remember, the Forbidden Forest is, in fact ..."

He is interrupted by a loud scream. At first Violet figures someone else has found a Nargle, but when she hears several first-years start crying she pushes her way out into the corridor.

She gasps. It is the stone wall she passes every day on her way to meals, but she is assaulted by the sight and smell of blood before she can decipher the dripping message:

You thought you were safe at your precious school

But your lives will end on the mistake of a fool

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

All is chaos. Older students attempt to calm the young. Violet instinctively takes a weeping first-year into her arms. Ron and Hermione, the Head Boy and Girl, charge to the fore and try desperately to calm everyone down. Finally Dumbledore makes his way into the corridor, followed closely by McGonagall and Snape.

Dumbledore reads the message. He appears calm, but the observant can easily see the sadness, and weariness, in his eyes. But not fear. Never fear.

He, Snape, and McGonagall join Ron and Hermione in front of the crowd. There is silence, of sorts. "I know what this message means," Dumbledore says in a quiet voice that somehow manages to carry all the way to the back of the crowd. "I ask the prefects to please lead all students back to their Houses. You must not travel beyond your common rooms until further notice. That is all."

Dumbledore turns to go when Hermione taps his arm. "Sir? What does this mean, exactly?"

Dumbledore glances at his star student, who even now has a look of eager curiosity. "Well, it appears, Miss Granger, that we have a traitor within these walls."

Almost everyone looks at Snape.

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