Fiona traces a circle in the air; I can almost see it shining there. A red flaming gap in the atmosphere glares out at us, but Fiona waves her hand and it fades.

‘Magic ...’ I breathe, enthralled by the moment.

The setting sun darkens as it dies away, framing Fiona’s dark head of curls - I decide that is magic too.

‘Yes.’ Fiona nods, but raises her eyebrows; I can see she is humouring me. ‘Magic.’ She stands up and shivers as the cool evening breeze hits her. Hugging herself, to keep in the warmth, she begins to walk away. ‘C’mon, Arabella – let’s go in. It’s getting cold.’

We walk home. It only takes a couple of minutes, but it seems to go ten times quicker. A thoughtful silence falls between the two of us - it’s not there to be broken.

Fiona’s shoe scuffs the dirt, and I follow its motion. She kicks the back door open, and I enter behind her.

‘Finally, girls – I was on the brink of coming to find you.’ Mum sighs with relief and bustles around, telling Fiona to go put a jumper on – she’s an iceberg. I can almost see the cold dripping from her.

I sit at the worn kitchen table, sipping the weak tea that the house-elf has given me. It warms me to the core – I hadn’t realised that I was cold. Vaguely, I wonder what potion Mum has spiked it with this time. Tea doesn’t have that effect on its own.

Fiona pads back into the room, changed into her bedclothes. She’s wearing her warm black nightie and matching leggings - an oversized red jumper smothers her.

Mum looks at her fondly. ‘I don’t believe you’re going back to school in just a few days. It feels as if you’ve only just got home.’ She reaches out and ruffles Fiona’s hair, rewarding herself a grimace. Then she turns to me. ‘And it’s your turn soon, Bella. You must be getting excited – what was your first magic?’

Frowning, I act as if trying to remember something far off. My stomach has twisted though, and I don’t know what to say. I want Mum to be proud of me, so what is there to say?

‘It was a long time ago,’ I settle on, draining my tea and looking up. ‘I just can’t remember.’

Mum gives me a watery smile. ‘That’s my girl,’ she says, before turning back to Fiona.

I gulp, and suddenly feel close to tears. Her words have made me feel guilty for lying. So I make my excuses - my voice shudders, but I try to keep it level.

Once in my room I lock the door. Not that that’ll keep Mum and Dad out. I lie on my bed and look up at the night sky; the stars are glistening brightly tonight. I pull my hands together. Prayer is something I have never tried before, but I am desperate. My family has always had little faith in God, and I am no exception. It’s worth a go anyway.

Opening my eyes, I unclasp my hands. Thoughts swim in my head: was that too abrupt? Will I ever be able to cast a spell? Is this a punishment? I don’t have any faith in prayer though, and don’t expect sparks to fly from my fingertips. Ever.

On Monday morning, I go to the Hogwarts Express with my parents. I want to see my sister off. I help Fiona take her trunk onto the train, and am in awe of the students already settling down for the journey. They lounge around with their friends in the carriages; some of them even have cats or owls with them. I ask Fiona why she doesn’t have a pet, and she says she doesn’t like animals. I decide that when it’s my turn to go to Hogwarts, I would like a cat. If I go to Hogwarts.

The warning whistle sounds. Fiona hangs out of the window waving, while I stand with Mum and Dad on the platform. When the train begins to move, I run along beside it, puffing heavily. It quickly gets too fast though, and I have to stop.

Dad takes me side-along home. I hate Apparating – it restricts my lungs. I think this every time I get into the tunnel.

Once back, I go up to my bedroom with the intension to read a good book. I don’t get as far as picking the story up though, because Dad follows me into the room and says, ‘I want to talk to you’.

Instantly, I think, Oh God! He knows my secret, and I’m not far off. I sit down on my bed, while Dad relaxes in my squashy, purple armchair.

He takes a deep breath. ‘You’re worried about something, Arabella. You seem to grow quieter and more careful by the day.’

I shake my head rapidly. ‘No, I’m not!’ I say, a little too defensive. Immediately, I want to hit myself. I might’ve well of said yes.

‘You’re looking forward to going to Hogwarts – aren’t you?’ Dad asks, almost anxiously.

‘Of course.’ I am on my guard.

‘You don’t even act a tiny bit excited – Fiona anticipated it for years before she got her letter. It’s almost as if you don’t care.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish, Father,’ I say. Then I realise how rude that sounds, and prepare myself for the telling-off.

It doesn’t come.

Dad stands up and leaves the room. ‘Talk to us, Arabella,’ he calls over his shoulder.

I lock the door and sit down, my back against it. Tears seep down my cheeks - I can’t talk about it.

Months pass and my worries increase. Mum and Dad are excited – my Hogwarts letter is due any day now. In fact, this is why I’m worried. I’m fairly sure it’s not going to come. No sparks have blossomed from my fingers yet. Fiona showed her first signs of magic when she was three. I’m bordering on certainty that I never will signal magic. I act normal, so that Dad doesn’t ‘have a chat’ with me again, but I’m walking around with a weight in my stomach.

Mum is friends with a witch who has a son the same age as me. One day, she comes back from a visit at her friend’s house, enclosed in a bubble of joy. She beckons to me, and I follow her into the kitchen.

‘Little Kieran has got his letter, darling. It’ll be your turn soon!’

I nod, smiling; I haven’t the heart to tell her ‘my turn’ will never come. She kisses me on the forehead and strokes her cold hand across my cheek, causing me to shudder.

By the time a fortnight has gone by, and no letter has arrived from Hogwarts, my parents have changed a lot. They are getting increasingly agitated and fidgety - any excitement has long ago fizzled out of them. They know why my letter hasn’t arrived, but they don’t dare say it aloud. That would be too definite.

Dad gets so annoyed by the absence of my letter one night, he writes to the school about the lack of communication. His owl comes back a couple of days later with a confirmation and, as soon as the envelope has been slit open, I can see it’s bad news. I don’t even cry – I worked out the truth ages ago.

‘You’re a Squib!’ Dad yells. ‘Why the bloody hell did you tell us you could do magic?’

I screw up my eyes, hoping it’s all a dream. A very bad dream. Of course, I know it isn’t. At the end of the day, I always knew.

‘I was scared,’ I say timidly. ‘I thought I was just a late developer.’

Mum curls up in the corner, sobbing quietly. Dad pulls her upright and gives her a hug. I try to escape the room while he comforts her – and I succeed.

At lunch that day, I enter the kitchen cautiously, and am surprised to see Dad sitting at the table. I want to walk out again, but there is no point - he’s already seen me.

‘Sit,’ he says, turning back to the Daily Prophet, which he is flicking through idly.

The house-elf shoves a plate of toast in front of me. It puts me out to see that it won’t look me in the eye. I drag some margarine, messily, over the bread, and push the slice into my mouth. I don’t really want it anymore.

‘Your mother and I have been talking,’ Dad says gruffly, startling me after his rigid silence. ‘We think it would be best to send you to a Muggle school. A bit like Hogwarts, really, but without the magical element.’

I almost choke on the food. ‘Do I get a choice in this?’

‘No.’ He slides a bundle of leaflets across the table. ‘I visited this one this morning; was lucky to get a tour at such short notice at all, really – the wonders magic can do for you.’

I gulp at what he’s implying. There is an accusing note in his voice. Shakily, I open the first booklet and skim through. ‘Looks okay,’ I croak out. My voice catches on the tennis ball in my throat.

‘Good. You’ll be starting on September the first.’

The school does look nice and, skimming through the information given, it doesn’t seem like a bad place. I hate the stillness of the pictures though.

‘You will write to Fiona this afternoon, informing her that you will be going to St. Mary’s. Not Hogwarts,’ Dad tells me, leaving the room before I can protest.

I don’t see Mum or Dad again that day. Mum locks herself in the bedroom, and Dad goes out – to get drunk, no doubt. I sit down to write my letter to Fiona, mid afternoon. I dread her reaction to it, and wonder if I’ll receive a reply.

Tears splash the page as I feel the injustice. The ink smudges in places, but I don’t care. This’ll just be a pinprick to Fiona’s perfect world. My world is crumbling before my eyes though – it’ll never be the same. I hope my tears serve as a reminder to my sister that it isn’t she who has to go through this. It’s me.

Midway through July, I don’t go with Mum and Dad to meet Fiona at the station. They have started to be a lot warmer towards me – almost like before – but Fiona has only sent me one brief letter since I wrote her the news. I’m nervous, unsure how she’s going to treat me now she knows the truth.

I huddle against a tree trunk at the end of the garden. The house-elf brings me out a coffee and biscuit. It smiles at me reassuringly, and says, ‘Don’t fret, Mistress Arabella.’ I follow its advice, fixing a smile on my face, ready for Fiona.

Once my drink is finished, I wonder where my family is. They were going to Disapparate from the station, so I decide that they must be back by now. I take the mug inside and set it on the draining board. They are all sitting around the table.

‘Fiona!’ I grin, giving her a hug.

Her lips curl only slightly, but she returns my embrace. ‘Arabella,’ she says, breaking away. ‘I think I’m going to unpack.’

Dejectedly, I sit down, while my parents’ follow her from the room. The house-elf shuffles towards me, pressing a sweet into my hand. A Muggle one, no less. I pop the sherbet lemon into my mouth, but it only makes me feel worse.

I’m a Squib, I think. Fiona’ll just have to get used to it.

Getting up, I stomp noisily up the stairs and into my sister’s room. Mum and Dad are there too.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Need some help?’

Fiona gives me a thin-lipped smile. ‘No, I’m almost done.’

‘Want to go out then? The flowers are in their most beautiful year to date.’

Fiona shakes her head. ‘I think I’ll just take a nap – I’m tired.’

Mum takes my shoulder and steers me from the room. I want to cry at the abrupt way in which Fiona is speaking to me. Why does so much change when my family know the truth? If I were a witch, Fiona would’ve gone into the garden with me.

As the first of September grows nearer, I notice how Fiona makes the separation, between the two of us, bolder. She keeps going out alone, and she’ll barely talk to me properly.

A week before the new school year is due to start, Mum takes me into town to purchase uniform. We go into a shop with lots of stairs, and Mum steers me towards the clothes section. The whole store is bustling with Muggles.

She browses in a rack of navy suits, before taking her pick. She hands me an indigo sweater, a pleated grey pinafore, and a white blouse.

‘Try them on,’ she says.

I go into the changing room and put the outfit on. Grimacing, I pull the curtain aside so Mum can see. She puts on a fake smile and says I look lovely. I put on my jeans, while she goes off to buy it.

I don’t enjoy the day a bit. I want to wear proper wizarding robes, not itchy Muggle dresses.

On September the first, I go down to breakfast with a weight settled in my stomach. Mum and Dad are in the kitchen, talking to Fiona in excitement about her new school year. They don’t stop when I enter. My conclusion is that they don’t care anymore.

My bags are packed, and I despise what I see in the mirror. I am wearing the clothes Mum bought for me, some thick woollen tights, and black, lace-up boots. The image in the mirror doesn’t match the person I know I am. My plain brown plaits fall in lank twists beside my cheeks, and my face is chalky.

I don’t go with my parents’ to see Fiona onto the Hogwarts Express. She looks very relieved when I say I won’t come. Instead, I wander about the house - making sure to say goodbye to the house-elf.

Mum and Dad get back at about ten past eleven. Mum takes me, Dad grabs my bags, and we Apparate to a secluded spot near St. Mary’s. They give me a hug, telling me to be good. They disappear, and I walk the remainder of the way to school.

Girls hover around every corner of the grounds. They are loud, and I think that they all look identical in their twin uniforms. I enter through an austere looking iron gate, and go up the path.

St. Mary’s is a big school. There are two levels, and I assume that lessons are on the bottom, dormitories on the top. The bricks are black and cold. I don’t want to go in, but I have little choice.

A girl, with plaits to match mine, falls into step beside me. She smiles, but her eyes look sad. There’s a shadow in them, and I assume I’m in a similar state.

‘Looking forward to school?’ she asks.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘Didn’t want to come here.’

‘Same for me – you’re a first year, right?’

I nod. ‘What form are you in?’

‘A.D.’

I grin properly now. ‘Me too – do you want to stick together?’

‘Definitely.’ She’s literally bouncing. ‘I don’t know anyone. Goodness knows why my parents decided to send me here.’

‘I’m Arabella Lynch – Bella,’ I offer.

‘Olive Figg.’

We walk into the building together. Never, when I was thinking about starting at St. Mary’s, did I think I’d make a friend – I hadn’t even thought about it. I have a feeling though, that Olive will remain my friend for a long time. Suddenly, it doesn’t matter so much that I’m a Squib.