Word Count: 588


Argus steps inside the Potions classroom. Like all the other classrooms in the castle, this place makes his chest ache. This could have been his life. He's never liked children, so life in a classroom would have been hell.

But he could have done something. He could have been something great.

His sister, Hera, is a potioneer. She does amazing things and has become well known. Just a month ago, Argus had seen his sister's arrogant smile plastered across the front page of the Daily Prophet.

It isn't fair. Why had his letter never come? Why is it that he only gets to experience Hogwarts as an outsider? Why doesn't magic flow through his veins?

He makes his way to the ingredients cupboard, removing each vial and wiping the dust from it before polishing each shelf.

His mother kept such a tidy potion shelf. It sickens Argus to see the way Horace keeps things in such disarray. If Argus could do magic, if he had his own little potion station, he would be sure it was always maintained.

But he doesn't. He never has, and he never will, and he tries so hard not to let the bitterness overtake him as he kneels and begins to work on the bottom shelf.

Squib.

He still remembers the way his heart broke when he realized he would never get his Hogwarts letter. Hera had laughed and claimed to have known it all along. Of course Argus would be the disappointment of the family. Of course he would be the failure.

The door to the classroom opens, and Argus turns. Horace stands in the doorway, beaming at him.

"Argus, dear fellow!" he calls brightly, cheerfully. "Simply spiffing to see you."

Argus grunts and climbs to his feet. He doesn't want to stay any longer than he has to. He and Horace are not friends, and he would rather not bother with any chitchat.

As he starts to walk away, however, a thought occurs to him. Argus pauses in the middle of the classroom, eyes scanning over the cauldrons. He feels desire flood through him with such force that he thinks his heart might explode.

"Horace?"

"Hmm?" The professor is distracted by a box of what appears to be crystalized pineapple which he pulls from his coat pocket.

"Potions… It doesn't require spellwork?"

"Not at all," Horace confirms.

"My mum always said it was just measure, stir, bottle," Argus says.

Horace considers for a moment, lips pursed. Finally, he shrugs, seeming to accept this. "It is a bit more complex than that, but I suppose, simplistically speaking, that could be a fair evaluation."

"Do you think…" Argus trails off, clearing his throat. Shame heats his cheeks. "Could a Squib do it? If they… If they were taught?"

"I would imagine it isn't terribly unheard of. Even Muggles can make simple healing tonics," Horace says. "Of course, they don't call them potions."

"Could you teach me?"

He doesn't know what he expects, only that it is never good whenever he is forced to acknowledge that he is a Squib, that he is somehow lesser than the others around him. He is met with pity, at best, and, at worst, cruelty.

But Horace is kinder than most. He smiles warmly. "It is most unconventional," he says, and Argus feels himself deflating, "but I don't see why not. Shall we begin tomorrow night after dinner?"

Argus feels hope flutter through his insides. For the first time in forever, he feels like maybe he can belong.