Triumph Of The Squib

Chapter One – 11 Years Late

I had been browsing Memebase, trying to distract myself from my impending essay on 'Perceptions of Magic in Late Mediaeval Britain'. When I first chose my university course, and then my modules, and dissertation topic, I had thought that studying the history of Magic from the Muggle point of view would be really clever and interesting. Of course, my parents being wizards, I had a unique viewpoint. Of course, my parents being wizards, my unique viewpoint was useless to the Muggle lecturers. I had to start at the beginning, like everyone else. Worse, all the many books which we had on our shelves at home from that time period, describing the interactions (often awful on both sides) between wizardkind and Muggles were useless. They were covered under the Statutes of Secrecy, and I couldn't reference them in any of my work. Even now, my professors kept underlining sentences in my essays with notes which said, Where are you getting this?

An owl fluttered to the window, and I barely raised my head. It tapped impatiently at the glass, and I realised that no-one else was going to fetch its post. Sighing, one leg half-asleep, I stumbled out of my swivel chair and let the bird in. As I took the letters from its leg, it fluttered over to stand on top of the mini-fridge which my parents kept stocked with dead voles. Clearly the news of the voles had got around among the local population.

Owl fed, I looked back at the letters. Bill. Bill. Boring round-robin from Aunt Cerania claiming that if you didn't forward it to ten other people your wand would explode. Bill. Advert for Floo pizza delivery (for once, a good idea – probably a Muggleborn business model). A thick, white parchment envelope with a green wax seal.

This was the only item of interest. I flipped it over, and my heart stopped.

Audacia Willis

32, Longbourn Avenue

Great Harwich

Rutland

Dear Miss Willis,

I am writing to inform you that you have been offered a place...

It was my Hogwarts letter. Only eleven years late.

I was a Squib. I had always been a Squib. My eleventh birthday had come and gone, and my parents had been disappointed, but not surprised. Neither of them was particularly powerful, and my uncle Ronald had been a Squib too (despite his illustrious name). I had grown to accept my fate, boned up on my Literacy and Numeracy, gone to Muggle secondary school, done quite well. I hadn't entirely renounced the wizarding world, but it seemed to have turned its back on me.

What were they thinking?

Now more intrigued than surprised, I turned over the sheets of the standard acceptance letter, looking for a clue to what might have happened. The last page was written on more extravagant headed notepaper, straight from the Headteacher's office. The crest was a golden phoenix, which turned its head down as if to encourage me to read on.

Dear Miss Willis,

I understand that receiving this letter may come as a shock to you. Thankfully I was able, in the course of our admissions process, to find your details at the Ministry of Records and make some allowances for your age and circumstances.

As I am sure you will agree, taking the usual classes with the other first-years would not be appropriate to your situation. Therefore, it is with great pleasure and hope that I would like to offer you the post of Muggle Studies teacher for the first, second and third-year students. At this level, Muggle Studies is neither compulsory nor necessary for the vast majority of our students, so you should have plenty of time to complete your magical studies in private when not at the front of the classroom.

I look forward to meeting you to discuss the position further; please let me know where and when you would like to meet. I await your reply as soon as possible by return owl,

Yours sincerely,

Headmistress Rose Weasley

A job at Hogwarts. After all this time, they had sent me the letter, and they were offering me a job. I started third year at university in October – I would have a month's leeway to decide whether I really wanted to take it on. I sat down again, startling the owl as my swivel chair rolled backwards into the mini-fridge. Not quite knowing what else to do, I automatically turned to the coping-mechanism of my generation, and updated my status.

I'm giving up Facebook for a while, so if I don't reply to your messages, it's not because I hate you. This isn't a prank or a political statement or anything, I'm just going somewhere remote for a bit. You could try my phone but no guarantees there either. TTFN...

Then I got out a clean sheet of parchment and a fountain pen, and turned on my best handwriting for the most important letter I would ever write.

Headmistress Weasley met me in Diagon Alley, at a little restaurant I knew run by Japanese wizards whose sushi was Flooed from Tokyo. It was expensive, but I reckoned it was a special occasion – and that the Headmistress could well afford to go Dutch.

"Well, Audacia – you don't mind if I call you Audacia?"

"Call me as you like, Headmistress."

"Rose, please. If you do decide to take up our offer, I'm sure we'll be working on very friendly terms."

"Indeed. "

"You must be wondering what on earth is going on."

"Somewhat!"

I realised I was being rude, and blushed. I was about to make excuses for myself, but Rose waved them away with her elegant sleeve.

"Please don't worry. To get to the point – it would seem, Audacia, that far from being a Squib as was originally thought, you are in fact a very late developer."

"A tactful way of putting it," I murmured, not entirely sincerely.

"I suggest that the first thing we do after we have finished this excellent lunch is to go over to Ollivander's and fit you for a wand. It must be such a relief to discover that you do have magic after all this time!"

I paused. Had it been a relief? After all, although I had grown up with magic all around me at home, none of my friends at school after the age of eleven had even known of its existence. There had been no peer-pressure, no-one chanting 'Squib! Squib!' in the playground – not for the last eleven years. I had made a life for myself, such as it was. I had the latest Android. I was not bereft of magical items from Diagon Alley, like my Self-Brushing Hairbrush or Ever-Flatter Self-Adjusting Corset.

"It's been a shock, certainly," I settled. Rose seemed to detect my hesitation, and I averted my eyes.

"Let's head over there now," she said, "and we'll see how you feel about beginning your schooling then."

I had often passed Ollivander's – who hadn't? The dingy shop window was nevertheless noticeable, drawing the eye to its single display-wand with an almost hypnotic griminess. However, after that fateful birthday, I had never dared enter. The tinkling of the shop bell was like a herald of my new existence.

"Ah, Miss Audacia Emily Willis, how lovely to finally meet you. I fitted your parents' wands, do you know that?"

"Yes, Mr Ollivander."

"Seven inches; oak; dragon heartstring. A pair completing each other, most suitable for sturdy, dependable magic. I wonder if you will take after them?"

"Until now we assumed I took after Uncle Ronald."

Ollivander flinched. With his encyclopaedic knowledge of wizarding families, he had of course heard of Ron the Squib. I got the feeling that he resented those wizards who knew of his shop, and had never had any reason to come in.

"Let's see now... " he broke in, resuming his patter. He began to pull wands off the shelves, place them in my hand, and mutter, "Just give it a wave, Miss Willis, give it a wave..." Rose smiled encouragingly.

I waved wand after wand. After a while I began to notice the feeling of disjoint even as Ollivander placed them in my hand, and instinctively hand them back to him. I was still waiting for the marvellous feeling of elation and strength which I had read about to come to me fifteen, twenty minutes later. My feet in my inch-high heels began to ache with standing on the spot. To pass the time, I imagined which spell I would like to cast first. Aguamenti? Diffindo? A Transfiguation? Too ambitious. As Ollivander pattered on, and I got more and more impatient, I settled on my choice.

"Ah... eleven inches, unicorn hair, silver birch. Give it a wave, Miss Willis, give it a wa-"

I waved, just barely, and in my head I thought, Silencio.