Cause and Effect
Author's Notes: Yet another story that wouldn't stop pestering me until I wrote it. I always felt sympathy for Squibs and curiousity about their "neither-here-nor-there" lives, and about how the "old-blood" families dealt with Squib children. I was originally going to write about the daughter of two Squibs as a side character, but Nyssa, Finlay and all of the others needed their own space to tell their story. If you like it, by all means check out my other stories which are also set in the HP universe. Because I have two other works in progress, this one probably won't be updated as frequently as the others.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all concepts therein are property of J.K. Rowling. All original characters are mine.
Life isn't easy when your big sister is a Cause.
OK, I'm getting metaphorical - so sue me. If Nyssa isn't the Cause, she's pretty near it. She's its heart, its strength and its voice. Sometimes I wonder how she can do it, especially after what happened last week. I guess it's because she wants it so much. In her rare good moods, she ruffles my hair and says, "Where there's a Will, there's a way." I can never tell if she's referring to me or to willpower, and I never bother to ask.
"Come on, Willie, you don't have to be such a perfectionist with your toast," she urges now. "I promised we'd come early to help set things up." Even in her cheerless black dress and shawl - she forsook robes for Muggle clothing long ago - she exudes command. Mother and Father, normally the ones who would be in control, are too shaken up. They just sit silently, drinking coffee with ashen faces. It's become a pattern by now - Nyssa gets into trouble, Mother cries, Father mutters about bringing the Ministry in, and Nyssa goes up to her room and does who-knows-what. The trouble's intensified this time, though; it's more than graffiti or the screams of angry mobs. This is the first time that trouble has ended in a funeral.
None of us ever thought we'd see the day when I'd be referred to as "Nyssa Allen's brother." Things have come a long way since the time when nobody at Hogwarts even knew I had a sister. There are times when I look back on the whole thing and wonder how it started. Was it when Nyssa started telling the truth? Was it the time she ran away? Was it the day she met Fin and found out that there were others like her? In some ways, it had been brewing since she was born, but I think it really began the summer she was sixteen. I can reach into my memory and pluck moments from that summer like photos from an album. Hey, don't mock my similes.
--
As a child, Nyssa had unquestioningly accepted the fact that Bad Things would happen if she revealed that she couldn't do magic. Mother said so, Father said so, and each successive tutor was quick with a reminder. Nyssa pouted, of course, and sulked, but never for long; she wasn't the sulking type. It was only the advent of her teenage years that led her to rebel against the confines of her life, the confines that she hadn't fully realized before.
Summer, 1999
I'm not exactly a morning person, but after the schedule at school I find it difficult to sleep until noon. So it was that on the first day of summer vacation, I was awake at nine o'clock eating porridge at the windowsill, the table being covered with prototype posters from Mother's latest marketing commission. At the ripe old age of twelve, I knew enough not to say "Good morning" when Nyssa stomped down the stairs.
"Coffee," my sister declared decisively. She swiveled, causing chin-length chestnut hair to swing around her face. One bare foot took a tentative step forward, then replaced itself. "Coffee?" Nyssa repeated in a questioning tone. I pointed to the kitchen counter where Nyssa's traditional glass of iced coffee waited; she wasn't coherent enough in the morning to make her own. "Thanks," she muttered as she wobbled toward her sustenance with the gait of one walking on stilts.
Mother and Father were taking the opportunity to sleep in. That, too, was tradition: each year, the day after my return from Hogwarts was spent in relaxation and fun. Father left his study for once, Mother ignored her piles of letters, and Nyssa had the day off from her tutoring. It puzzled me that despite her break, Nyssa always seemed especially grumpy on these days. I didn't try to figure it out, though; with Nyssa, it's better not to ask.
"Oh," I mumbled through my porridge, "Your copy of Murtlap Breeder Monthly came last night." Why anyone would want to breed things that look like rats with flowers growing out of them is beyond me, but Nyssa loved hers ardently, and only an idiot messes with Nyssa. It was a struggle for her to obtain them, of course; Mother and Father were reluctant to trust beasts with a Ministry of Magic rating of XXX around their daughter who couldn't even perform an "Impedimenta." Nyssa's will of steel prevailed as usual, though; after a month of begging, statistic hunting and petitioning, Damara and Damian (along with their litters) became permanent additions to the family.
I consumed my cooling porridge with decreasing enthusiasm as Nyssa paged through her magazine in an armchair, pausing to coo over pictures of baby Murtlaps. Those who know her well - which is a small category - laugh when they discover her soft spot for Murtlaps, but a Glare generally silences them. Nyssa's Glares are multipurpose and used freely, a bit too freely in my opinion.
Mother chose that moment to amble down the stairs in her night robes. "Morning," she chirped and cleared a spot at the table, pointedly ignoring her posters. "So, Willie, where do you want to go today?" That's how Mother is: ready to get down to business first thing. No beating around the bush for her. Nyssa looked up from her magazine with undisguised interest.
"How about the bookstore?" I asked hopefully. Like my father, I'm the archetypal Ravenclaw, bookish and naturally scholarly.
"Oh, good," Nyssa stated approvingly. "I need a Welsh dictionary." I could see the sly look in her black-brown eyes even without my glasses, but Mother didn't notice.
"Why do you need a Welsh dictionary, dear?" Mother enquired, falling neatly into the trap. She's the only person who can use terms of endearment toward Nyssa without looking ridiculous; don't ask me how she pulls it off. "And do you have to drink your coffee in the armchair? You know how badly it stains."
Nyssa ignored the latter statement. "Well, the story is that I go to a school in Wales, isn't it? If you're going to turn my life into a lie, you should at least make it a plausible one." The air grew thick with tension. The most frequent debate in the family is the fabrication concocted to cover the fact that Nyssa isn't a witch. Even my grandparents believe that Nyssa has a learning disability and goes to a special magical school in Wales, though I suspect that they know something's up.
Mother heaved a sigh as her forehead furrowed. "Why do you insist on harping over this day after day? It's not like we remind you of it constantly; we're perfectly willing to ignore it."
"That's exactly what I don't want you to do," Nyssa burst out, banging her coffee onto a side table. "I just don't see the reason for all this secrecy. Unless," she concluded in a devious ultimatum, "You're ashamed of me."
"You know we're not ashamed of you," Mother replied with a weary look. "We've told you time and time again that we love you and we're proud of you, and that it doesn't matter that you're… non-magical."
"You can say Squib, you know," countered Nyssa through clenched teeth. "If you're so proud of me, why do you go to such lengths to hide what I am?"
"Nyssa," Mother proclaimed, "I do not need your teenage rebellion at this hour. Do I have to wake your father up?" At times, my father seems to lead a life apart from the rest of us. He's only called from his study, or the Lair (a term coined by Nyssa), meals or to lecture at Nyssa or me.
For all her indomitable spirit, Nyssa is no match for Father when he's dragged from hibernation. With a grumble, she subsided, but not before delivering a parting shot. "Ever consider that it's more than teenage rebellion?" Leaning back in the armchair, she crossed her legs and broodingly regarded her oft-chewed fingernails.
She wasn't a pretty girl. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her hair too limp, her eyebrows too thick, and her nose too long. Neither was she graceful; despite the fact that she leaned toward the smaller side of average, her long limbs gave her a gangly appearance. The pleasant features she possessed - the deep almond eyes, the gently sloping forehead, the refined neck - were eclipsed by her general awkwardness. She made up for her lack of looks, though, through the sheer strength of her personality - she drew attention like magnets to her will of steel.
Mother turned her attention to me. "Willie, you need a haircut. It's getting in your eyes, and the curls are getting tangled."
"Not today!" I protested with heroic determination. "And I don't have curls!"
"Fine," Mother snapped, "No curls. Honestly, Y-chromosomes…" Nyssa and I blinked in unison, I at the Muggle science term, Nyssa at the unMotherliness of the comment. "Nyssa," Mother continued, choosing her next victim, "Go change your clothes to go to the bookstore."
"What's wrong with these?" Nyssa indicated her Muggle denim shorts and blue T-shirt with a mutinous glint in her eyes.
Mother put a hand to her head in the familiar gesture that always preceded the phrase "I have a headache." "You're giving me a headache," she warned. "We're going to Flourish and Blott's," she spoke with careful enunciation, as if Nyssa's learning disability were real. "Those are Muggle clothes."
"So what?" Hand on hip and eyebrows drawn together, Nyssa was the epitome of the rebellious teen. "Lots of kids wear Muggle clothes on vacation, don't they Willie?"
"Yes," I agreed immediately. When Nyssa wants an alliance, the wisest choice by far is to cooperate readily.
"Besides," Nyssa continued in a voice that dropped several degrees, contrasting with her now nonchalant pose, "I ought to dress like a Muggle. I am one." I prepared myself for screeching; Nyssa's Squib nature is an edgy topic, to say the least. I was almost ready for Mother to order Nyssa to her room.
What I wasn't ready for was what actually happened. In a move even more uncharacteristic than the comment about chromosomes, Mother bit her lower lip, looking as if she were about to cry. Then she stood silently and walked back up the stairs. Nyssa catapulted out of her armchair and breezed out the door, leaving me alone in the room.
That summer was definitely when things started to get weird.
--
Author's Notes: Yet another story that wouldn't stop pestering me until I wrote it. I always felt sympathy for Squibs and curiousity about their "neither-here-nor-there" lives, and about how the "old-blood" families dealt with Squib children. I was originally going to write about the daughter of two Squibs as a side character, but Nyssa, Finlay and all of the others needed their own space to tell their story. If you like it, by all means check out my other stories which are also set in the HP universe. Because I have two other works in progress, this one probably won't be updated as frequently as the others.
Disclaimer: The wizarding world and all concepts therein are property of J.K. Rowling. All original characters are mine.
Life isn't easy when your big sister is a Cause.
OK, I'm getting metaphorical - so sue me. If Nyssa isn't the Cause, she's pretty near it. She's its heart, its strength and its voice. Sometimes I wonder how she can do it, especially after what happened last week. I guess it's because she wants it so much. In her rare good moods, she ruffles my hair and says, "Where there's a Will, there's a way." I can never tell if she's referring to me or to willpower, and I never bother to ask.
"Come on, Willie, you don't have to be such a perfectionist with your toast," she urges now. "I promised we'd come early to help set things up." Even in her cheerless black dress and shawl - she forsook robes for Muggle clothing long ago - she exudes command. Mother and Father, normally the ones who would be in control, are too shaken up. They just sit silently, drinking coffee with ashen faces. It's become a pattern by now - Nyssa gets into trouble, Mother cries, Father mutters about bringing the Ministry in, and Nyssa goes up to her room and does who-knows-what. The trouble's intensified this time, though; it's more than graffiti or the screams of angry mobs. This is the first time that trouble has ended in a funeral.
None of us ever thought we'd see the day when I'd be referred to as "Nyssa Allen's brother." Things have come a long way since the time when nobody at Hogwarts even knew I had a sister. There are times when I look back on the whole thing and wonder how it started. Was it when Nyssa started telling the truth? Was it the time she ran away? Was it the day she met Fin and found out that there were others like her? In some ways, it had been brewing since she was born, but I think it really began the summer she was sixteen. I can reach into my memory and pluck moments from that summer like photos from an album. Hey, don't mock my similes.
--
As a child, Nyssa had unquestioningly accepted the fact that Bad Things would happen if she revealed that she couldn't do magic. Mother said so, Father said so, and each successive tutor was quick with a reminder. Nyssa pouted, of course, and sulked, but never for long; she wasn't the sulking type. It was only the advent of her teenage years that led her to rebel against the confines of her life, the confines that she hadn't fully realized before.
Summer, 1999
I'm not exactly a morning person, but after the schedule at school I find it difficult to sleep until noon. So it was that on the first day of summer vacation, I was awake at nine o'clock eating porridge at the windowsill, the table being covered with prototype posters from Mother's latest marketing commission. At the ripe old age of twelve, I knew enough not to say "Good morning" when Nyssa stomped down the stairs.
"Coffee," my sister declared decisively. She swiveled, causing chin-length chestnut hair to swing around her face. One bare foot took a tentative step forward, then replaced itself. "Coffee?" Nyssa repeated in a questioning tone. I pointed to the kitchen counter where Nyssa's traditional glass of iced coffee waited; she wasn't coherent enough in the morning to make her own. "Thanks," she muttered as she wobbled toward her sustenance with the gait of one walking on stilts.
Mother and Father were taking the opportunity to sleep in. That, too, was tradition: each year, the day after my return from Hogwarts was spent in relaxation and fun. Father left his study for once, Mother ignored her piles of letters, and Nyssa had the day off from her tutoring. It puzzled me that despite her break, Nyssa always seemed especially grumpy on these days. I didn't try to figure it out, though; with Nyssa, it's better not to ask.
"Oh," I mumbled through my porridge, "Your copy of Murtlap Breeder Monthly came last night." Why anyone would want to breed things that look like rats with flowers growing out of them is beyond me, but Nyssa loved hers ardently, and only an idiot messes with Nyssa. It was a struggle for her to obtain them, of course; Mother and Father were reluctant to trust beasts with a Ministry of Magic rating of XXX around their daughter who couldn't even perform an "Impedimenta." Nyssa's will of steel prevailed as usual, though; after a month of begging, statistic hunting and petitioning, Damara and Damian (along with their litters) became permanent additions to the family.
I consumed my cooling porridge with decreasing enthusiasm as Nyssa paged through her magazine in an armchair, pausing to coo over pictures of baby Murtlaps. Those who know her well - which is a small category - laugh when they discover her soft spot for Murtlaps, but a Glare generally silences them. Nyssa's Glares are multipurpose and used freely, a bit too freely in my opinion.
Mother chose that moment to amble down the stairs in her night robes. "Morning," she chirped and cleared a spot at the table, pointedly ignoring her posters. "So, Willie, where do you want to go today?" That's how Mother is: ready to get down to business first thing. No beating around the bush for her. Nyssa looked up from her magazine with undisguised interest.
"How about the bookstore?" I asked hopefully. Like my father, I'm the archetypal Ravenclaw, bookish and naturally scholarly.
"Oh, good," Nyssa stated approvingly. "I need a Welsh dictionary." I could see the sly look in her black-brown eyes even without my glasses, but Mother didn't notice.
"Why do you need a Welsh dictionary, dear?" Mother enquired, falling neatly into the trap. She's the only person who can use terms of endearment toward Nyssa without looking ridiculous; don't ask me how she pulls it off. "And do you have to drink your coffee in the armchair? You know how badly it stains."
Nyssa ignored the latter statement. "Well, the story is that I go to a school in Wales, isn't it? If you're going to turn my life into a lie, you should at least make it a plausible one." The air grew thick with tension. The most frequent debate in the family is the fabrication concocted to cover the fact that Nyssa isn't a witch. Even my grandparents believe that Nyssa has a learning disability and goes to a special magical school in Wales, though I suspect that they know something's up.
Mother heaved a sigh as her forehead furrowed. "Why do you insist on harping over this day after day? It's not like we remind you of it constantly; we're perfectly willing to ignore it."
"That's exactly what I don't want you to do," Nyssa burst out, banging her coffee onto a side table. "I just don't see the reason for all this secrecy. Unless," she concluded in a devious ultimatum, "You're ashamed of me."
"You know we're not ashamed of you," Mother replied with a weary look. "We've told you time and time again that we love you and we're proud of you, and that it doesn't matter that you're… non-magical."
"You can say Squib, you know," countered Nyssa through clenched teeth. "If you're so proud of me, why do you go to such lengths to hide what I am?"
"Nyssa," Mother proclaimed, "I do not need your teenage rebellion at this hour. Do I have to wake your father up?" At times, my father seems to lead a life apart from the rest of us. He's only called from his study, or the Lair (a term coined by Nyssa), meals or to lecture at Nyssa or me.
For all her indomitable spirit, Nyssa is no match for Father when he's dragged from hibernation. With a grumble, she subsided, but not before delivering a parting shot. "Ever consider that it's more than teenage rebellion?" Leaning back in the armchair, she crossed her legs and broodingly regarded her oft-chewed fingernails.
She wasn't a pretty girl. Her cheekbones were too prominent, her hair too limp, her eyebrows too thick, and her nose too long. Neither was she graceful; despite the fact that she leaned toward the smaller side of average, her long limbs gave her a gangly appearance. The pleasant features she possessed - the deep almond eyes, the gently sloping forehead, the refined neck - were eclipsed by her general awkwardness. She made up for her lack of looks, though, through the sheer strength of her personality - she drew attention like magnets to her will of steel.
Mother turned her attention to me. "Willie, you need a haircut. It's getting in your eyes, and the curls are getting tangled."
"Not today!" I protested with heroic determination. "And I don't have curls!"
"Fine," Mother snapped, "No curls. Honestly, Y-chromosomes…" Nyssa and I blinked in unison, I at the Muggle science term, Nyssa at the unMotherliness of the comment. "Nyssa," Mother continued, choosing her next victim, "Go change your clothes to go to the bookstore."
"What's wrong with these?" Nyssa indicated her Muggle denim shorts and blue T-shirt with a mutinous glint in her eyes.
Mother put a hand to her head in the familiar gesture that always preceded the phrase "I have a headache." "You're giving me a headache," she warned. "We're going to Flourish and Blott's," she spoke with careful enunciation, as if Nyssa's learning disability were real. "Those are Muggle clothes."
"So what?" Hand on hip and eyebrows drawn together, Nyssa was the epitome of the rebellious teen. "Lots of kids wear Muggle clothes on vacation, don't they Willie?"
"Yes," I agreed immediately. When Nyssa wants an alliance, the wisest choice by far is to cooperate readily.
"Besides," Nyssa continued in a voice that dropped several degrees, contrasting with her now nonchalant pose, "I ought to dress like a Muggle. I am one." I prepared myself for screeching; Nyssa's Squib nature is an edgy topic, to say the least. I was almost ready for Mother to order Nyssa to her room.
What I wasn't ready for was what actually happened. In a move even more uncharacteristic than the comment about chromosomes, Mother bit her lower lip, looking as if she were about to cry. Then she stood silently and walked back up the stairs. Nyssa catapulted out of her armchair and breezed out the door, leaving me alone in the room.
That summer was definitely when things started to get weird.
--