Chapter Text
A/N
This is a prequel to my story 'Death Is Buffy's Next Big Adventure'.
You don't need to read that story for this to make sense. Or read this before reading that :-)
I own nothing. All rights to the owners of the franchise and original creators – JK Rowling etc. I submit this work as my homage to writers who are much better than me.
…..
The Squib.
Kings Cross Station was a hive of activity. Porters pushing heavy trolleys all piled up with parcels, guards punching tickets, and passengers huddled in damp overcoats examining timetables before darting away to catch waiting trains.
Over on platform 9 and 3/4, Joyce Lovegood – youngest child of the Lovegoods – held her mother's hand as they strode alongside the Hogwarts Express. The girl's head turned this way and that, taking in the strange smells, sounds and sights around her. The place smelt of coal, smoke, iron and oil and her little nose wrinkled at the foreign smell. Better to concentrate on what she could see, it was less of an affront to her senses. Over by the wall, a stately wizard dressed in formal robes stood reading a copy of the Daily Prophet, a little black and white crup by his feet.
How did he get here? Had he Apparated? He'd never blend with Muggles dressed like that!
Joyce scampered on, the next thing to catch her interest were the legs of a witch wearing a daring calf-length skirt. Black and white striped stockings! She'd love a pair! Why did her mother always buy plain black ones?
Joyce hung back, trying to keep those stockings in view for as long as possible, but her mum tugged her hand and the witch moved out of sight. A little further on, a tall girl with a haughty expression and a green striped tie held a huge hissing cat that was trying to attack a distressed owl. Instead of moving away with his pet, the owl's owner was arguing with the girl and failing to stop his owl from breaking its feathers on the bars of the cage.
Joyce frowned, not liking the callous way the owl was being treated. Was that a kneazle? Did they allow kneazles in Hogwarts? It looked... dangerous.
Before Joyce could ask her mum about kneazles, she was pulled along once more. Her mum must have spotted her husband and Peregrine and they were off again chasing them. As they pushed through the last group on the platform, a loud whooshing sound ripped through the air making everyone jump. Joyce let out a squeak of fright and bumped into her mother, who'd stopped and taken a look over her shoulder.
'It's only the engine!' someone called and everyone laughed with relief. Conversations restarted, owls began to hoot and Joyce and her mother moved on.
“They should have waited for us,” complained Joyce's mum. “I know Peregrine's nervous, but there's no need to rush. The train isn't due to leave yet.”
Finally, they came to a stop by the second to last carriage. Her father took out his wand and cast a Featherlight Charm over Peregrine's trunk to make it easier to load. Joyce knew that her parents had left it late in case an over-keen Muggle porter tried to take the trunk and asked why it felt so light.
'Awkward situations with Muggles are best avoided,' their father had intoned. That meant you were to avoid Muggles and do nothing to attract their attention.
Now though, all thoughts of Muggles had left Joyce's head. “Can I go too?” she asked, tugging at her mum's hand towards the train as Peregrine boarded it. “Mum, I want to go with Peregrine.”
“Not yet. It'll be you're turn soon enough, love.”
...
The following September, Joyce was a whole year older, a few inches taller and a lot more excited than she'd been the previous year.
“I'll be with him next time, won't I, Mum?” she asked, waving at the moving train.
Terrissa Lovegood shot a worried look at her husband above their daughter's head.
There was a beat and her father answered jovially, “Of course, you will!” Teasingly he added, “And you'd better behave yourself, Miss Lovegood. There'll be no fooling around or tickling any sleeping dragons!”
Joyce beamed back. Next year she'd be with him on that train! Her brother had promised to show her everything in the castle! There was the vanishing step that caught unwary students and lots of odd shortcuts hidden behind strange doorways. Joyce was determined to remember everything Peregrine told her. She was smart. The Sorting Hat would put her in Ravenclaw just as it had with Peregrine.
…
On the morning of her eleventh birthday, the owl didn't appear with her Hogwarts letter like it had with Peregrine. Her parents never mentioned it, and since they were having such a good time in Diagon Alley, Joyce was too busy to think of it. Out of her birthday money, she bought herself an illustrated copy of Beedle The Bard (The Fountain of Fair Fortune was her favourite story) and a cheap, self-filling quill from a market stall despite her mum telling her not to (the Charm broke after three days) and when they'd left the alley they were all tired and it was late in the day.
The next day she did wonder why her letter hadn't arrived, but then she remembered that there'd been storms in Scotland. The owl must have been blown off course. After three days, Joyce badgered her father into speaking to the Headmaster of Hogwarts and letting him know her letter had been lost.
Joyce sat curled up in an armchair, her book in hand, waiting for his return. Dad would sort it. She felt sure he could. He'd arrive back with a new letter and she'd be able to start shopping for school supplies over the summer. Joyce read her book, ate dinner and went back to the armchair in the evening. It had gone ten o'clock at night before her father stepped from the fireplace, brushing ash from his coat, his face red and blotchy and his pale-blonde hair all awry.
“Why aren't you... in bed?” he asked when he spotted her watching him.
“I was waiting for you, Dad.”
She perched herself on the arm of the chair he'd slumped into and wrinkled her nose at the smell of stale firewhiskey. That's why he'd been so long! He'd been to the pub after his appointment with the Headmaster. Joyce felt annoyed. Didn't he realise she'd be waiting? Why hadn't he brought her letter straight back and then gone to the pub?
“Have you got my letter?” she asked, after waiting what felt like ages as her dad stared blankly into the fire.
Instead of reaching into his pocket for it, her dad patted her on the head. “I'm sorry. They say... he says... your magic needs to... appear first.” Her dad sighed. “Not to worry.” And he patted her head a second time. “There's still time.”
“Can't I go to Hogwarts with Peregrine in September anyway?” They'd planned everything out. Her brother was excited as she was that she'd be at Hogwarts this year.
“No... not this year. Maybe... next.”
“But by then I'll be a year behind everyone else!” Now, she'd have so much work to catch up on! Would they hold her back or let her take lessons with the rest of her age group? It wasn't fair! She was missing out! Sliding off the chair arm, she stamped her foot with temper.
“It isn't fair! People will think I'm stupid. What if... what if I buy my wand and practise all the spells at home?!”
“Um, yes, alright.”
Joyce moved back to her dad's chair. She'd known he'd sort this out for her, one way or another.
Her dad went on, “We'll do what you said. Get you a wand... teach you at home. That'll teach them not to send letters, eh?”
“Tisn't right what you're doing.” Her mum's voice called. She'd drifted into the room and had been silently listening to the conversation. She rested a hand on her husband's shoulder. “Honey, I know what you're doing here, but you're only making this worse. Best to explain properly.”
That had Joyce looking from her father to her mother. What was going on? Would her mother teach her at home or not? The only child of reclusive parents who'd defied convention, her mum had been homeschooled. It made sense that her mum taught her magic at home.
So Joyce followed her mother into the warm kitchen, where the patchwork curtains covered the lattice windows and a kettle constantly hummed on the stove. She took her usual chair at the scrubbed pine table and waited whilst her mum bustled about, pouring out milk and taking a baking tray of shortcake biscuits from the oven. After Terrissa Lovegood had placed a few warm biscuits onto a plate along with a glass of milk, she took the next seat to her daughter.
Unaware what her mother was about to tell her would change her life forever, Joyce picked up a biscuit and began munching while her mum poured herself a cup of tea.
“Sometimes,” her mum began, adding sugar and moving the teaspoon in a clockwise motion, “a child is born to Muggles and develops magic. Has Peregrine told you about them?”
Joyce nodded. Swallowing the remains of the biscuit, she said, “Muggleborns.”
Peregrine had told her another name for them – a very bad word – Mudblood. Her brother said that some students believed Muggleborns had tainted blood running in their veins because Muggles had blood like mud.
Joyce had scoffed at that. They were wrong. Once, a Muggle boy had fallen off his bicycle in front of them. When he'd stood up, trickles of bright red blood ran from the cuts on his knees. That blood hadn't been a dirty colour at all, it looked exactly the same as hers.
Her mum was nodding. “Yes, that's right, they are called Muggleborns. They go to Hogwarts and study with the rest of the students.”
Joyce nodded again, taking another biscuit. Peregrine said that the Muggleborn in his class – David something or other – worked hard at his lessons.
“And sometimes...” went on Terrissa, “it works the other way. A child born to magical parents never develops magic.”
Joyce stopped mid-chew.
“They aren't Muggles,” explained her mum. “They have every right to be in the magical world, but they do have a special name. Squibs.”
Joyce couldn't help it, she let out a giggle and biscuit crumbs flew from her mouth. Squib! It sounded like 'squid'. She stopped giggling when she saw her mother's disapproving face. No, not disapproval, sadness.
“Joyce, love, if you haven't developed your magic by now, it's unlikely you ever will. You're a Squib. Squibs can't go to Hogwarts and they aren't allowed to buy a wand.”
Without thinking, Joyce drew in a deep breath and this time the crumbs hit the back of her throat making her cough. She wasn't a Squib... was she? She coughed and gulped and coughed again. Then reached out for the glass of milk, knocking it over in her haste. Milk spilt everywhere, pouring over the biscuits, along the table and down onto her lap.
“Mum!”
“It's all right. Everything is going to be alright.” Her mother righted the glass and began siphoning up the white liquid with the tip of her wand.
'I'll never have my own wand,' thought Joyce as the tears came. She'd never ride the Hogwarts Express, and Peregrine would never be able to show her the moving staircases or help her to identify the castle's ghosts. She'd never be able to go shopping in Diagon Alley unless there was someone with her to open up the magical door. A huge sob shook her shoulders.
“What's... going to... happen to me, mum?”
Despite being eleven and disliking sitting on her mother's knee like a baby, Joyce allowed her mother to pull her onto her lap and hug her.
“Now don't cry, sweet.” Her mother brushed the strands of hair from Joyce's face and then fished out a hankie from her pocket so she could wipe her nose. “We still love you with or without magic. Nothing will ever change that. We'll find you a new school... In the village...Um, one of the villages. You're a clever girl and I'm sure you'll make lots of new friends there.”
Her mum meant Muggle school and Muggle friends. What about making friends with magical children her own age? Would they bother being friends with her now? Joyce had a feeling that she'd soon find out.