Dear Dad,

I never received a letter to Hogwarts. It's been six months since my eleventh birthday and summer is coming to a close. Mummy is very upset and says I'm a squib. Even gran is very upset. I don't really understand what that means but I get the feeling that it is the reason why I did not get my letter. I wish you were. I miss hearing your stories and your warm hugs. But most of all I just want to hear you tell me that everything will be all right.

Love,

Marcy

London, Summer 1994

Marcellina Lockhart sat on the edge of the windowsill, knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on top. The late July sun was setting over the rooftops of Bloomsbury, casting the drawing room in gold and dust. Her eyes were fixed on the sky, scanning for any sign of an owl.

Any minute now.

Her heart thudded softly in her chest—half excitement, half nervous anticipation. Her birthday had come and gone months ago. Eleven. The age. The one all magical children waited for. And she'd been so sure this would be her year. She had even picked out the dress she'd wear to Diagon Alley.

"Still no owl?" her mother called from the kitchen, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

Marcy shook her head, not bothering to turn around. "Maybe they got the address wrong," she mumbled, more to herself than anything.

There was a pause before her mother replied. "Hogwarts owls don't get addresses wrong, darling."

The silence that followed was heavy. Stifling.

Marcy hugged her knees tighter.

It hadn't always felt like this—tight and uncomfortable. When she was younger, the world had been full of sparkling possibilities. Her father, Gilderoy Lockhart, had been the most dazzling figure in her life—smiling from book covers, signing autographs with a flourish, spinning tales of dragons and curses and adoring fans. She had clung to his stories like they were bedtime lullabies. "You're going to be just like him," her mother had always said with a smile that tugged at the corners of her eyes. "Brilliant. Gifted. Exceptional." But then the letters stopped. Her father's visits disappeared like smoke. He missed her ninth birthday. Then her tenth. She never asked why. The answers hung unsaid in every room of their home. Instead, her grandmother visited more often. Her presence was sharp and cold, her smile practiced, her gaze appraising.

"Has she levitated anything yet?" she once asked briskly.

"Not yet," her mum had murmured. "But she's still young."

"Hmm," her grandmother sniffed, examining Marcy like she were a hairline crack in fine china.

Marcy hadn't forgotten.

She remembered how, after that, her mother grew more watchful. How every bump in the hallway or gust of wind through the curtains had been met with breathless hope. But nothing ever moved without a hand. Nothing ever caught fire. No flower bloomed at her touch.

And now summer was ending.

Still no owl.

No parchment with emerald ink. No wax seal. No magic.

The next day, Marcy awoke to suitcases stacked by the door. Her mum was already dressed, her wand tucked into her coat, her smile too tight to be real.

"We're going to America," she said, like it was a surprise vacation and not an escape. "Fresh start."

Marcy blinked. "What about Gran?"

"She's staying," was all her mother said, voice clipped.

There was no goodbye. No tearful farewell. Her grandmother didn't come to the station. Didn't send a gift. It was as though Marcy had vanished from the family tree overnight. At Heathrow, she watched other children chase each other through the lounge, shrieking and laughing while she sat beside her mother in silence, clutching a worn copy of Magical Me.

Her father's face beamed up at her from the cover, teeth perfect, eyes twinkling.

"You're going to be just like him."

But she wasn't.

She was a squib.

Whatever magic her bloodline promised her had passed her by like the owl that never came. And though she didn't yet know the word for it, Marcy understood one thing: She wasn't going to be extraordinary.

She was going to have to become something else entirely.

New York, 1997

The city buzzed like static. Always moving, always loud, always pushing forward. Marcy Lockhart stood at the edge of the sidewalk, her backpack slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten bagel in her hand. A yellow cab honked unnecessarily, and a gust of wind blew her honey colored curls into her face. She didn't flinch. New York had a way of hardening you. Especially when you didn't belong anywhere. Her mother, Seraphina, had taken to their new life with an unsettling ease. Almost overnight, she had inserted herself into New York's upper wizarding circles—attending galas, garden brunches, and exclusive wandlore lectures. She floated through gatherings in enchanted heels and whispered with women who wore moonstone rings and spoke in polished, clipped tones.

Marcy, meanwhile, caught the subway with gum-smacking teenagers and sat through geometry taught by a "no-maj" named Mr. Langley who had a collection of plastic coffee mugs with bad puns on them. It wasn't a bad school. The kids weren't cruel—just... ordinary. They talked about how long they were going to have braces and band practice and whether or not aliens were real. She liked them, mostly. But she always felt like she was visiting someone else's life. At home, her mother never spoke about magic anymore. Her father's books had been packed in a box and left in storage. When Marcy asked questions, Seraphina would smile too tightly and say, "We're starting fresh, darling. It's better this way."

Marcy had stopped asking after that.

She was confused and gaslit by her own mother. She was hurting in a way she could not out into words. She had no one to talk to, no outlet for build up of frustration, tears, screams, fears, sorrow—everything. But who would help? Who would hear her out? Her mother had emotionally distanced herself.

There was no joy, no laughter, no happiness.

Until one day a classmate had laughed and said "you're really funny." after Marcy had made a dry observation that had made her lab partner giggle uncontrollably. And then it just clicked for Marcy. It was like the validation of being heard and then awarded with laughter was suddenly the answer; because the gloom inside her chest felt less bleak. Like the first rays of sunlight filtering through dark clouds after a storm.

That was her way forward.

Making people laugh in joy. It had quickly become a drug for her and she just couldn't get enough.

She told jokes in the hallway to distract from the way her name always made teachers pause. Marcellina Lockhart didn't exactly blend in, but it also was a name that stuck in people's minds. She made herself unforgettable to her fellow peers and teachers as she got older. Her skills at puns, quick replies, and good timing was being honed into a fine tool. But the high from laughter never lasted long enough, and soon she was back to feeling that gloom coming back. Until one Friday afternoon, when she was in seventh grade, she noticed a pin on the backpack of a girl in her homeroom class—a simple design of two crossed wands, wrapped in ivy, embroidered into a fabric patch.

Marcy blinked.

She waited until class ended, then casually caught up to the girl by the lockers.

"Cool pin," Marcy said, trying to sound offhand. "Where'd you get it?"

The girl looked her over carefully. "You recognize it?"

"I might," Marcy said, her heart beating a little too fast. "If I were to attend a certain school I'm sure I would have been placed in Thunderbird."

The girl's brown eyes widened as a wide, toothy grin spread across her rosy cheeks. "I'd be a Horned Serpent for sure!" They stared at each other for a moment longer before the girl stuck out her hand. "Imogen. Imogen Sanna."

"Marcy," she replied, shaking it.

The gloom inside her made way for sunshine. Bright and warm.

xxxxx

Dear dad,

I miss you and hope you're doing well. I made a new friend today. She's just like me! I've never met another squib before! Her name is Imogen and she's the sweetest girl I ever met. Her whole family is full of witches and wizards, and even though Imogen is a squib they don't treat her differently.

Not like our house. Mum pretends magic doesn't exist when I'm around. She's charmed all of our pictures to no longer move. None of them are of you. She tried throwing out every photo that had you in it, but I rescued them from the bin and keep them all in a shoebox under my bed.

I miss you,

Marcy

xxxxx

The coffee shop was tucked between a laundromat and a metaphysical supply store. The sign above read Moon & Mirth, and the inside smelled like cinnamon and old paperbacks. In the back corner, four teenagers sat around a table playing wizard's chess—no floating pieces, no sparks, just the board and strategy. One of them had a wand-shaped pencil tucked behind his ear.

"They're all like us," Imogen said, watching Marcy take it all in. "Squibs. Some from magical families on both sides, some not."

Marcy slowly sat down. "You mean... there's more of us?"

Imogen smiled gently. "We're not exactly listed in the International Confederation directory, but yeah. There's a whole community of us. Hiding in plain sight."

Marcy's throat tightened unexpectedly. "I thought I was the only one."

Imogen shook her head. "Nope. Just the newest one. Welcome to the in-between."

Over the following weeks, Marcy learned more than she had in years. Imogen's parents, unlike her own, had never tried to hide her. "Magic doesn't make you special," her mom had told Marcy once. "But kindness, cleverness, humor? Those things do."

Imogen had two older brothers at Ilvermorny, and a younger sister who already made the houseplants grow three times their size when she cried. But in spite of it, or maybe because of it, Imogen was content. Proud, even. She didn't see being a squib as a curse. Just a different path. Marcy, for the first time, saw herself through that lens too.

Different didn't mean less.

She wasn't broken. She wasn't forgotten. She was just walking a road that fewer people traveled.

And now, she had company.

From the moment they became friends, Imogen Sanna had made it her mission to pull Marcy into every magical family event she could—birthday parties lit with floating candles, garden dinners where enchanted flowers bloomed in time with the music, and holiday feasts where the cranberry sauce stirred itself.

"Trust me," Imogen would say with a grin, "we'll be the only ones there who knows what the internet is. That's practically exotic in this crowd."

Marcy always went. She always smiled. She always laughed at the clumsy jokes from magical uncles who didn't quite know how to treat a squib guest at the table. And every time, before she left the house, her mother would remind her the same thing.

"If something happens," Seraphina would say, smoothing down Marcy's coat collar, "you have no magic to protect yourself. Be careful."

Not have fun. Not give my best to the Sannas.

Just that—cold, clinical, and sharp enough to leave a welt.

Sometimes, in the dark of night when the city was quiet and her room hummed with silence, Marcy wondered if her mother said it as a warning... or a wish. If maybe Seraphina would've felt more validated in her shame if something did go wrong. If maybe her daughter being hurt by magic would've proven some twisted point. But Marcy never said any of that out loud. She just buried the thought in the same place she kept her wandless childhood and her father's empty promises.

xxxxx

Manhattan, Fall 2005

New York University was everything Marcy had hoped it would be—chaotic, cultured, buzzing with life. Washington Square Park pulsed at the heart of campus like a living thing, students and street performers and professors all swirling together like a spell cast without wands.

She had applied on a whim.

Imogen had dared her to.

"It's NYU," she'd said, tossing a brochure onto Marcy's lap during their final year of high school. "Big, expensive, full of overachievers. Sounds like our kind of chaos."

They had applied together—Imogen, with her dream of becoming a psychologist who could specialize in magical trauma (though she'd never be able to say that part out loud), and Marcy, ever the realist, who checked off Business Marketing on her application and tacked on a minor in software engineering.

"I just want to make rent and not end up selling scented candles at the farmer's market," she'd joked. "Though honestly, I've got some solid scent ideas."

Against all odds, they both got in.

With help from the Sannas—who always had a way of making magic happen even without spells—they'd secured a shared dorm in Brittany Hall. Their window overlooked a brick alleyway and smelled faintly of pizza and ambition, and Marcy loved it. She finally felt like she was moving forward, building something real.

It didn't take long for NYU's energy to push Marcy out of her comfort zone.

She still attended lectures and studied late, fingers flying across her keyboard with spreadsheets and software modules. But by her second semester, she started spending more time in dimly lit cafes and student-run theater bars than she did in the library. It was Imogen who nudged her into it—again.

"You're not just funny, Marce," she said one night as they split fries on a rooftop above Houston Street. "You're good. Like, 'you could do this for real' good."

"I don't think being raised by an emotionally unavailable mother counts as comedic material," Marcy quipped, sipping her soda.

"Exactly why it works," Imogen shot back. "You make the common stuff relatable. You make the hurt funny. It's a coping mechanism and a career path. Honesty, when you made my uncle John laugh so hard about the boiled egg thing that he shot beer from his nose should have been your big clue that you can make anybody laugh."

So she tried it. First at a tiny student showcase in a dorm lounge. Then at a grungy open mic in the East Village. Then again. And again. Each time, her voice got steadier. Her timing sharper. But not every set was a success, she had her fair share of failures, bombing on stage or being booed for expressing an unpopular opinion. The worst ones are when nobody is laughing. Through failure she learned what worked and didn't work. She kept notes on things that made people laugh and what jokes just did not land. She refined her work, she would often repeat the same set, tweaking it every time and refining it until it landed the biggest laughs she could possibly get.

Some nights her sets are scripted, other nights she is freefalling and is forced to think quick on her feet:

Marcy scans the front row, playful glint in her eye. "You, sir. What do you do for work?"

The man answers casually: "I'm a scientist."

Marcy raises her eyebrows, intrigued. "Ohhh, okay! Fancy. What kind of scientist are you? Like—what do you do?"

He replies: "I used to be a rocket scientist."

Marcy freezes, eyes wide. "I'm sorry—you were a rocket scientist?"

He nods, smiling. "Yeah. Now I'm a brain scientist."

Marcy takes a full step back. "A rocket scientist and a brain scientist? Sir, you're collecting degrees like Pokémon cards!"

The crowd laughs.

"I'm feeling so stupid right now. Thank you for that." She turns to the man beside him. "And you? Are you with him?"

The man looks a little flustered. "Uhh… at the moment, yes."

Marcy grins, pounces on it: "'At the moment, I'm with him…' But this morning? Not so much!"

The audience roars.

"She's got options, your honor!" She points to him. "Okay, and what do you do?"

He replies: "I'm an epidemiologist."

Marcy pauses. "…I'm sorry, you're a what? What the fuck did you just say? A what-ologist?"

He repeats, a little slower: "Epidemiologist."

Marcy blinks like she's buffering. "…So like… a skin doctor?"

He chuckles. "No, a disease scientist."

"Oh! A disease scientist. Okay, that's actually really cool. But also… terrifying. Like, you're the reason I panic when someone coughs near me." She turns to the third man, pointing with a flourish. "And you! Are you with them? Do you feel like you're next to the two smartest people on Earth right now?"

The guy laughs nervously. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Marcy leans in, playful. "I can't wait to hear what you do."

He shrugs. "I teach."

"Ooooh, okay! What do you teach?"

"Computer science."

Marcy throws her head back in mock defeat. "Computer science? Oh my god. We've found the Nerd Trifecta."

The crowd erupts.

"I love that all the smartest people in the room sat together. Like you three formed an Avengers-style brain trust." She shields her eyes from imaginary light. "We've got Rocket Man, Disease Daddy, and Professor Code. Meanwhile, I'm over here worrying if I'll ever see that stray contact lens make an appearance from the back of my eye."

Or—

"My soulmate? Oh,oohohohoooo…I have a list." she holds up a finger, ticking them off dramatically, "Hot. Successful. Three-bedroom apartment. Washer. Dryer. Printer."

The crowd laughs, a few claps.

"Y'all want someone to be honest with you? I'll be honest—I want to print whenever the fuck I want. And you know what? I do! I print! I print all day." she starts miming hitting print like a DJ spinning a track. "She's got ink on ice. Family value pack from Costco. Ink. For days. You open a closet? Ink and paper. Nothing else. It's beautiful. It's sacred. I'm getting so wet just thinking about this ink situation."

The audience erupts.

"And you can't even resonate! I know some of you are the exact people where when I come over, and I'm like, 'Hey, can I print something real quick?' And you say, 'Ooh… how many pages?'"

Marcy recoils like she's been slapped. "Ohh, you broke. You broke, poor bitch. Eww."

The laughter builds.

"You really said I gotta print double-sided? DOUBLE. SIDED? Like it's the Great Depression?! I gotta flip the page myself now?!" she gasps and clutches her chest, "I gotta go. I can't do this. You are not the one. You're all out here praying for love—I'm out here praying for a duplex and an HP LaserJet. Our gods are not the same."

Some nights, after a particularly good set, Marcy would lie awake in their dorm, listening to the sounds of sirens and jazz and muffled laughter drifting up from the street below. She'd think about her mother. About London. About the letter that never came. But it didn't sting the same way anymore. Because now she had her own voice. Her own stage.

She wasn't the squib daughter to hide away.

She was Marcellina Lockhart.

And the world was finally starting to listen.

xxxxx

Dear Dad,

College is still pretty great, but the workload keeps piling up. Between classes, homework, and trying to keep some kind of social life, it's getting harder to juggle everything.

I'm still doing stand-up—mostly thanks to Imogen. She keeps pushing me to keep going, and honestly? I'm glad she does. There's something magical about it. When I'm on stage, and people actually listen—when they laugh—I feel like I have this little bit of power. Like I can take everything I've lived through, all the messy stuff, and turn it into something that makes people forget their own worries, even just for a few minutes.

It makes me happy, knowing I can do that.

It reminds me that my experiences—my struggles—are just as valid, just as human, as anyone else's. I'm turning my tragedy into comedy.

I hope one day you'll come to one of my sets. I hope you'll see me standing there, making people laugh, and you'll be proud.

Your daughter,

Marcy

xxxxx

New York City, 2007

Marcy Lockhart sat curled up in a booth at the back of a 24-hour café just off Astor Place, half-eaten slice of pie in front of her, the edges of her laptop glowing faintly in the dim light. Her email inbox blinked with unread messages—graduate program brochures, reminders to RSVP for a career seminar, an open mic flyer she'd saved and never deleted. Outside, the city hummed its usual low growl. Inside, her world felt very, very still. She stared at the blank document titled "Pros & Cons: Master's vs. Madness."

It wasn't funny. But it was real.

Imogen slid into the seat across from her, pulling her scarf off and rubbing her hands together. "Okay, I know I'm late, but I brought you coffee, so I feel like we're even."

"You're safe. I was just weighing the pros and cons of ruining my life."

"Ah. That's a Tuesday mood if I've ever heard one." Imogen set the paper cup of hot coffee next to Marcy's pie and nodded to the laptop. "Let me guess. School?"

"School," Marcy sighed, pushing the screen slightly toward her. "I have to decide whether I'm committing to grad school in marketing or… well… committing to the complete uncertainty of stand-up."

Imogen tilted her head. "Can't you do both?"

"No," Marcy said instantly. "Grad school is full-time. Comedy is... not something I can half-ass. If I do this, I have to do it. Like, circuit grind, self-promote, take real paying gigs. And if I go the other route—if I stay in school—I'm expected to land something sharp and stable and... respectable, with a reliable paycheck."

Imogen pulled the plate of half-eaten pie towards herself, picking up the fork and spearing a piece up before taking a bite of the sweet and tartness of strawberry rhubarb pie. "So what does your gut say?"

Marcy hesitated. Her fingers tapped the spacebar. Then she looked up, her voice a little quieter. "My gut says that nothing lights me up the way being on stage does. That making people laugh—making something out of everything I was supposed to be ashamed of—is powerful. It feels like mine."

Imogen gave her a soft smile. "That sounds like an answer."

"But then I think about my mother," Marcy went on, her tone dipping. "About how hard she worked to pretend everything was fine when we left London. How she tells people I'm 'working in communications' when she really means I'm doing five-minute sets above a laundromat."

"She still sees comedy as failure."

"She still sees me as failure," Marcy corrected. "She never says it, but it's there. The way she talks about other people's kids—'So-and-so just got promoted. So-and-so is doing a fellowship in Geneva.' Meanwhile I'm making jokes about enchanted bras to a room full of stoned NYU undergrads."

Imogen reached out and gently nudged Marcy's hand. "You're not a failure, Marce. You're just... not easy to explain."

Marcy rolled her blue eyes. "That's generous."

"Look," Imogen said, voice firm now. "Everyone we know is either locking themselves into jobs they already hate or diving into programs because they don't know what else to do. You? You do know. That's terrifying. But it's rare."

Marcy's eyes flicked back to the screen. "I just wish I didn't have to choose. That I could live two lives and prove everyone wrong in both."

Imogen grinned. "You're already proving them wrong just by existing. But... if it helps, no matter what you choose? I'm in your corner."

Marcy blinked fast. "You're gonna make me cry in a place that serves pies and gyros on the same plate."

"Then it's a sacred space," Imogen said solemnly.

They both laughed.

Marcy took a deep breath, closed the laptop, and stared at the little swirl of whipped cream melting into her coffee. She didn't have the answer yet. Not tonight. But something inside her had settled. Maybe she didn't need to prove herself to her mother. Maybe she just needed to prove she was worth betting on—to herself.

xxxxx

New York City, 2009

Marcy Lockhart blinked under the glare of the studio lights, the host of Late Night with Devin Cross still laughing at her last bit about dating someone who claimed to be "emotionally available" but flinched every time she made direct eye contact.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Devin said between chuckles, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, "Marcy Lockhart—if you don't already know her, you will. This girl is going places."

The applause swelled, the cameras cut to commercial, and Marcy smiled through it all. She was getting used to this—suitcases constantly packed, makeup done under fluorescent dressing room bulbs, shaking hands with producers who smelled like coffee and nerves. At twenty-four, she had already filmed her first televised stand-up special, Caught In-between, which went viral the week it aired. Her dry, offbeat humor about growing up feeling like an outsider, straddling invisible lines, had struck the right chord.

She didn't say the word squib, of course. But people felt the truth behind the metaphors.