Squib Potter

1

RENEE'S POV

It was two years ago when I saw the flying car, and since then, I've been trying to figure out why I was the only one who remembers seeing it. Hugh had been right beside me as we watched in awe when we were young, dumb, and little thirteen-year-olds. We had snuck away to the crooked tree that was fields away from the orphanage. Upon our return, strange cloaked men were waving small sticks around the other children and Madams. Hugh raced ahead of me to see what was going on, and the second one of the men turned his direction, I hid behind a rose bush, scraping my hands and face on the thorns. I watched as the man waved his stick in front of Hugh and then Hugh joined the others in their line.

I caught a few words from my distance, "Muggles... requesting return... ministry."

The men disappeared like magicians do at the shows the orphanage takes us to see on special occasions. Once all of the men were gone, I ran to the other children so that Madam Frida would not notice my absence. Although, I don't believe she was paying much attention at all, having seemed to be in some sort of stupor, a trance from whatever the men had done.

I played along as to not be punished for acting apart from the other children who were all calm and collected while heading back to their rooms. Madam Despera was returning the infants and babies to their cribs whilst Sir Leon ushered the other boys to their corridor and Madam Ginsby ordered the girls to theirs. The children all had gotten into their nightdresses and succumbed to sleep at the strange hour of six in the afternoon.

Hugh would insist that he had no recollection of having seen a car in the sky, and he continues to deny it to this day. Oh, this dreaded day.

July 31 seemed to haunt me every year. My right hand would cramp, a warm and tingly kind of sensation that prevented me from using my hand. So, despite the somewhat pleasant feeling, Madam Ginsby would be around to slap my wrists for not working diligently on my studies. The punishment would not bother me, in fact, the feeling filled me with too much love to hold a grudge on such a meaningless occurrence. It is the day that follows that I am finally brought back down to reality where the other children mock me for my behavior, and it will undoubtedly be the same this year.

"Hugh!" I shout from the stairwell to grab his attention and he waits for me to finish descending.

"Renee, to what do I owe the pleasure of such a warm greeting?" After all these years he still doesn't get it.

"I've been in the loveliest mood this morning and thought to share it with you."

"Oh no." He sighs.

"What is it?"

"You're not going to cramp up again, are you?" He turns to me, stopping us on our way to class.

"Oh, that? Don't worry about it." He doesn't listen to me and keeps a worried eye on me as we enter the classroom.

Madam Despera is in the corner guiding the young ones through the alphabet while Madam Ginsby has her arms folded across her chest and taps her foot angrily waiting for the remaining children to seat themselves. I shove my way into the corner, but Marie beats me to the chair, and I politely let her claim the seat, content with sitting beside her.

"Take out your books and write three paragraphs on what we learned about the French Revolution."

Perfectly doable. I begin my intro, but only three words in, my hand stops functioning and the clenching yet wondrous feeling disperses from my scar and throughout my body. I smile, but keep my glance down at my paper, holding my quill, and pretend to write. I find Hugh looking at me, mouthing something: ll-eh-ff-duh. I nod my head and transfer my quill to my left hand. The cursive will hardly be legible, but I will have more than blanks on my parchment.