Squibs and Mudbloods

As he waited for Mr. Ollivander to return with another wand, the boy, having nothing better to do while standing there and waiting, closed his eyes and remembered the day he had learned that he was a wizard.

He was at school, in Boston, before he and his mother had moved to England. Two 6th grade bullies, the two that harassed him every day it seemed, had knocked him down and taken his lunch money during recess. Helpless, he watched from the ground, tears forming in his eyes, as the two older boys divided his lunch money between themselves. He was distracted from his self-pity, though, when one of the boys yelled at him, "Hey freak. Tell your weirdo mama to give you more allowance next week. Six bucks is hardly worth beating you up for."

The boy loved his mother very much. At hearing her being called a weirdo, all the feelings of despair and self-loathing that had been building up in young Mr. Phaeton's mind turned immediately to rage. His tears dried up and his face turned red. He felt his anger fill him up like boiling-hot water. Suddenly, the three dollars in the bully's hand burst into flames. The bully screamed and dropped the money; ashes floated eerily toward the ground. Then the boy on the ground realized that other people were screaming; everyone seemed to be screaming, in fact. He looked around and saw, much to his horror, that the entire playground was on fire. The swing seats, the seesaws, and the wooden fence that surrounded the yard were burning, crimson flames licking the afternoon sky. Flames were even crawling over the side of the school building. Young Mr. Phaeton did not know how it had happened, but he knew that he had caused the fire. He did not understand it, but he knew it had been his fault.

He couldn't remember much of what happened after that. He knew that the fire department came to put out the fire. He knew that classes were cancelled for the rest of the day. He knew that his mother picked him up early and brought him home. Strangely, his mother seemed to know that he had caused the fire. Even more strangely, she did not seem to be upset about it; in fact, she seemed pleased. She positively beamed at him.

That night, he was unable to sleep. The image of the bully's screaming face, contorted with pain and horror, would not leave his mind. After what seemed like hours of lying awake in the darkness, the boy began to hear voices coming from the other end of the house. He crept out of his bedroom and towards the living room, where he could see an unusual light and where the voices seemed to be coming from. As he moved closer, he noticed that the house was becoming warmer and warmer. He also realized that one of the voices he heard was his mother's. He crept to the archway that separated the living room from the hallway and poked his head around the corner of it. A stifling blast of hot air immediately hit him in the face. He saw, after his eyes had adjusted to the light, his mother kneeling on the floor in front of the large fireplace. Bright green flames were burning high in the grate; they were licking outward just inches away from his mother's face, but she seemed undisturbed. Then the boy saw a disembodied head in the midst of the fireplace, wreathed in the strange green flames. His eyes widened and he pulled his head back into the hall, wondering at what he had just seen. After a few moments of indecision, the boy looked again. His mother was still there. The head was still there. The two of them appeared to be talking to each other.

"It's true. He's a wizard. He nearly burned down half of his school today," his mother said, pleadingly, to the face in the fireplace. "I told you sometimes it skips a generation."

"I'm very proud of him," replied the voice, not sounding at all like it meant it. The face in the fireplace, from which that voice has issued, was that of a withered old woman with fierce features and hateful black eyes. "What, exactly, would you like me to do about it?"

"He's your grandson," the boy's mother cried, indignantly. "I thought… I thought…"

"He's no grandson of mine," replied the harsh face in the fireplace. "He's the son of a squib," she said, hatefully. The boy's mother's face dropped when she heard these words. "His father was a muggle too, no doubt."

"His father was a good man. Better than any wizard I ever met," she replied. After a moment, she went on. "I was hoping you could help us move to England." The face in the fireplace raised a wrinkled eyebrow. "You always told me that Hogwart's was the best school for witches and wizards in the world. I want him to go there."

"That's simply out of the question," the face in the fireplace snarled. "I can't be seen associating with squibs and mudbloods. If you want to come to England, do it on your own. You certainly didn't hesitate about running away to America."

"You didn't leave me any choice," the boy's mother replied, angrily. "You were probably glad to be rid of me. You never hesitated to tell me how you didn't need a useless squib laying about your house."

"True," the boy's grandmother said; she smiled when she saw how the words had hurt his mother. There was a long silence while the two of them looked at each other. The boy's mother's eyes were full of tears. His grandmother's eyes were full of loathing and hatred.

"You could put in a good word for him with the Board of Governors. I know you have contacts there. That awful Malfoy man."

"Out of the question," snarled the wrinkled face in the fireplace.

The boy's mother straightened her shoulders and looked into her mother's hateful eyes. "Then I guess I can let them know that your daughter is a squib," she said. "I'm sure that Mr. Malfoy would find that interesting." The old woman stared at her in fury. "I know you didn't tell anyone why I ran away. I'm sure you told them all I'd met a nice American wizard and settled down somewhere." Again, only silence and heat came from the fireplace. "I wonder if the Daily Prophet would like to hear about this. I'm sure it would make a great story…"

"Alright," snarled the voice within the fire, dripping venom. "I'll do it. Just keep your squib mouth shut about it."

"Good," replied the boy's mother, looking happier and more in control of her emotions. "You can tell them I married a nice wizard in America and I'm moving back to London so that our son can attend Hogwart's." The face in the fire nodded, still oozing hatred.

The boy withdrew his head from the living room archway and quietly walked away from the blazing-hot living room. He found his bed and lay down in it, thinking about what he had just seen and heard. None of it seemed possible; none of it seemed real. He closed his eyes, but the images flying through his tired mind, images of a craggy and hate-filled face wreathed in flame, kept him from sleeping.

"Here. Try this one," young Mr. Phaeton heard a voice say. It startled him out of his memories. "Nine inches. Holly and unicorn hair," Mr. Ollivander said. The boy took the wand and flicked it. Nothing happened. Mr. Ollivander took the wand back, tugged thoughtfully at his grizzled white hair, then disappeared behind another stack of wand boxes.

Disclaimer: I own Newt Phaeton and his immediate family. All other characters and locations are owned by J. K. Rowling.