Squibbiness

Disclaimer: Somewhere, across the ocean, lives a woman named J.K. Rowling. She has all of the rights to everything here that isn't mine - i.e. Elinor Crawley, Grulina Higgins-Furthingspell, Mr. Gogadille - you get the picture. I think, by now, most of you will be able to recognize official Harry Potter stuff for what it is! So, just remember, no copyright infringement intended on my part. Just enjoy. And read.

Chapter Four: Keeping Out of Trouble

The main problem with Weasley's cauldrons was that they responded to your own magic. Of course, I didn't have any magic – and it was unlikely that I would discover some amazing talent for divination or transfiguration in my mid-twenties. Weasley sent a series of owls to the Cannons HQ, detailing in a precise and extremely lengthy manner exactly what the endorsement meant and what the senior promotional advertiser would have to do at the unveiling ceremony. Apparently, my job involved laying both my hands on the side of the cauldron, waiting while it registered my level and aptitude for magic, and then waiting some more while it adjusted for my faults. Unfortunately, Weasley had had his designers make the cauldron colour receptive to magic – meaning that if I had some ability for magic, the cauldron would turn green; if I had a great deal of talent, it would turn red, and if I had none, it would turn bright yellow. That was the intense colour promoted by the cauldron makers. It quite disgusted me – I mean, what would happen to all of the students in Hogwarts and such schools who had hardly any decent magic? For instance, one of the secretaries over in the Ministry's department of Trivial Occurrences – Longbottom, I believe was his name – got into quite a bit of trouble with all the magical accidents he caused. There were quite a few write-ups in the paper about him.

I got in touch with Raymond as quickly as I could – my dear brother had gone to the equivalent of wizard university and was well on his way to becoming a top-notch Auror. This meant that if he had off-days, they were short and infrequent. It took me nearly a month to contact him – leaving only a few nerve-wracking weeks for me to come up with a plan.

"Elinor," he said when we finally established a fireplace-to-fireplace line, "Why don't you just resign from your position; senior what's-it-called-or-other. Nobody much notices what you do anyway."

I was furious and on the verge of throwing my dinner at his head (which would have been worse for me, since most of it would have fallen in the grate and left me the task of cleaning up burnt shepherd's pie), but I held back and tried to take deep, calming breaths. Not to much effect. "Ray, I can't resign! This is my life. Quidditch is my life. What would the others do? The team can hardly keep their minds on task with Coach telling them what to do; he's told me often enough that he wouldn't know what to do without me. I make sure that Damson goes and records his strawberry jam commercials, and that Lindsey doesn't drink herself to death, and that Wallace and Wallace don't spend all their time playing weddings..."

"I get the point, Elinor," Ray said quickly, "Really, I do. But I don't see much point in you causing all this trouble for yourself. Why don't you just say that you have a previous engagement? This really isn't a big deal."

I paused, waving a forkful of shepherd's pie at him. "Of course it is!" Then I hesitated. Raymond did have a point – perhaps there was some way I could skive off? "Do you think that there is anything I can do?"

"Sure – have the other members of the adverts team try the thing out for you."

"But what about the continuing contract? It goes on for the next three years, Ray; I'm going to get caught dead."

"You'll be quite fine," my brother assured me. "Really, I don't know why you get so upset about silly things like these, Elinor. You have a good job, and you do a good job. No one's going to sack you because you're a Squib."

"Don't say it out loud!" I hissed at him, glancing furtively around the room. "You don't know who could be listening."

"Come on, Elinor," said Ray, sighing impatiently. "It's been impossible to intercept a fireplace line for the last six years."

I sighed too. "Thanks, Raymond."

"You're welcome," he said, winking at me. "You'll be fine. Now I have to go – have another lecture to attend."

"Another one?" I asked, wrinkling my nose in distaste. "Haven't you finished all of those awful classes?"

"Have to keep on top of the times, you know." With that, he was gone, and my fire resumed its cheerful crackling in the grate.

I sat back in my chair, still feeling rather uneasy about the whole thing. I haven't mentioned that despite my lack of magic in any of its forms, I still had a particularly clever instinct. And as of that moment, my instinct was telling me that Ray's reasonable plan of action would not go off quite so well as we both hoped. Something was going to go wrong, and I had no idea what it would be.

It appeared in the most glamourous form it ever possibly could. Witch Weekly.

I arrived in my office at the CC Headquarters the next morning, fifteen minutes late. (I'd had a rather restless night.) Jenna wandered in, chewing thoughtfully on a Muggle donut and sipping a large and steaming mug of coffee. "Where'd you get those?" I asked her as I sorted through the pile of mail on my desk.

"Oh, from Mr. Gogadille," she said vaguely, slopping coffee on a pile of fan mail.

"He's into Muggle food, now, is he?"

"I don't think he had any breakfast." We both grinned. It was a long-running joke that Mr. Gogadille's wife often refused to make her husband breakfast – he had once complained about having bacon and eggs every day, and so, periodically, she would send him packing without any food. So our poor boss was sent running to Muggle coffee shops, and he was usually kind enough to bring along enough food for the entire Chudley Cannons team (both behind-the-scenes and on-the-pitch).

"What's that?" Jenna had noticed a bright purple envelope that was glowing slightly beneath the rest of the mail on my desk. I picked it up and flipped it over, checking the return address.

"Something from the Witchly Publishing Corporation," I said, raising my eyebrows.

"What do they do?"

"Some newsletter or other, I expect," I said, slitting the envelope with a ragged fingernail. A thin, precisely folded letter fell out into my hand. The paper was a lighter, but still complimentary shade of purple, and as I unfolded it, I saw that the writing was framed with golden violets. "Fancy, eh?"

Jenna came around the side of my desk and I think she was just as shocked as I was at what the letter said.

Dear Ms. Crawley:

We at Witch Weekly are running a new series of feature articles on Wonderful Witches of Our Time. After much deliberation, we selected a group of witches we felt best represented the success and influence of the female half of the magic world. YOU have been SELECTED! We feel that your contributions toward the British Quidditch community have been astounding and very much praiseworthy, and with your permission, we would like to feature our second Wonderful Witches article on YOU! Please send an owl back to Witch Weekly Publications, c/o Witchly Publishing Corporation, with your response. We look forward to hearing from you!

Sincerely,

Grulina Higgins-Furthingspell, Editor of Witch Weekly Magazine

I dropped the letter on the table and turned to stare at Jenna. "Well, that's a surprise," I mumbled.

"I know," said Jenna, taking another bite of her donut. "Who would want to interview you?"