1. Molly was called Pat.

She had been ever since she could remember. Her middle name was Patricia, after Grandpa Crewson, whose name was Patrick. Sometimes people -- cousins, mostly cousins, mostly James -- teased her for having a boy’s name. But of course she didn’t have a boy’s name. Her name was Molly, and that wasn’t a boy’s name at all.

It had happened when she was a baby. Her father had wanted to name her Molly, after Grandma Weasley. But then someone else, probably Uncle Charlie, had said that they would need some way of telling them apart. Then someone else, probably Aunt Hermione, said that when the boy was named after the father, he was usually called by his middle name. Then someone else, probably Aunt Fleur, had suggested Patricia. Then someone else, probably Aunt Ginny, had suggested Paddy. Still someone else, probably Uncle George, had suggested Pat.

Pat didn’t necessarily dislike her name. It was just that there wasn’t very much she could do about it.
She didn’t understand why she couldn’t have been named Lucy. There hadn’t been any need to change Lucy's name because Grandma Crewson had died before she was born. Lucy didn’t need to be called Art for Artura.

*****

2. For two years Pat had been an only child.

She had been coddled. She had been babied. She had been dressed up and spoiled, petted and pampered. She had probably enjoyed it.

Of course, she could not remember enjoying it. She couldn’t remember anything about it at all.

For the expanse of her conscious life she could not remember a time when Lucy was not there. Lovely, adorable, perfect baby of the family -- the family, not just their family.

Lucy had come and taken Pat’s place. Lucy had come along and stolen -- ruined it.

Pat didn’t necessarily dislike her little sister. It was just that there wasn’t very much she could do about it.

*****

3. It was Hufflepuff.

It was always Hufflepuff. People -- family -- were saying it constantly. Pat was loyal. Pat was kind. Pat was generous. Pat was hard-working. She was the most Hufflepuff anyone had ever seen a Weasley in years.

Pat didn’t necessarily dislike that. In fact, she almost didn’t mind. She wouldn’t mind not getting into Gryffindor. Not all Weasleys got into Gryffindor anymore, after all. Roxy was in Ravenclaw. Louis was in Hufflepuff. Dom went to Beauxbatons.

As long as it wasn’t Slytherin then it wouldn’t matter. Pat wouldn’t mind. Even though she wouldn’t mind being in Gryffindor…even in Ravenclaw.

Gryffindors were brave.

Ravenclaws were smart.

Hufflepuffs were…loyal and kind and generous and hard-working. But, that wasn’t so special. To be brave was special. Even to be smart was special.

But then it turned out that it wasn’t Hufflepuff.

It wasn’t Gryffindor.

It wasn’t Ravenclaw.

It wasn’t Slytherin.

*****

4. Her mother was a Muggle.

Although no one ever out-and-out said it, Pat knew they all thought that explained it.

They always said she made a marvelous Squib, the best there was. They were so proud of her, they said.

Grandpa Weasley wouldn’t stop asking her questions.

So, this primerary school…?

A bus? To school? With four wheels?

And there’s only one ball used in a foofball game, is that correct?

Have you actually gone to one of these cinemas? How is it that they get the pictures to talk?

Music? On that little scrap of metal? Marvelous things these Muggles think of.

*****

5. She really hated her last name.

Weasley. Like a thin, winding, pointy-toothed, devilish, creeping little creature. She’d been teased about it in school. But people had stopped calling her Weasel after she punched Robby Parker in the nose for it.

She’d been fifteen and blood had spurted everywhere, on his robes, on the walls, and on her fist. She'd broken it and when they deposited her in the Headmaster’s office all she could say for herself was that she’d had a very bad day and, no sir, she wouldn’t ever do it again.

Her best friend, Alexandra Smith, had stared at her in something like awe after Pat left the office. She’d whistled low and long and said something about it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

*****

6. Uncle Charlie was her favorite.

Maybe it was because he was the uncle she got to see the least, because he was living in Romania and only came home for Christmas, and sometimes not even then.

She liked his smile, how it softened his hard, rectangular face and crinkled his eyes at the corners until they almost disappeared in wrinkles of tightly-pressed skin. She liked his loud, booming laugh, and how he was always the first to say the joke at the dinner table that made Grandma Weasley scold.

She liked his rippling muscles, and the shiny burn marks on his arms. She liked how his rough, calloused palms felt against her own smooth, tiny ones when he took her hand in his own and talked to her in a quiet, gentle voice -- and made her believe that he cared, he really cared about what she had to say.

It was nice of him, because usually when Pat tried to talk all the other cousins yelled and laughed and jostled her to the side. And he didn’t listen to her like Aunt Hermione listened to her -- patronizing, patient look on her face -- he listened to her like he honestly, earnestly, genuinely cared about what she had to say.

*****

7. She honestly thought Quidditch was a thoroughly stupid sport.

That had, of course, nothing to do with the fact that she couldn’t ride a broomstick for her life. She sometimes wondered bitterly if that had anything to do with being a Squib -- or maybe she was just clumsy.

Besides, Quidditch wasn’t nearly as athletic as football -- and Pat was top forward on her team. One couldn’t very well be clumsy and still do that.

It sometimes bothered her that no one in her dad’s family understood that. None of them even knew the rules to football except for Uncle Harry and Aunt Hermione, and Aunt Hermione didn’t care about sports.

*****

8. Pat was secretly, unexplainably proud for always being an inch-and-a-half taller than Lucy.

*****

9. For three months, when Pat was eight, she had had a monstrous crush on Teddy Lupin, who was nineteen.

It didn’t matter that he was eleven years older than she. It didn’t matter because people married people who were older than themselves all the time.

But then Pat learned from Lily, who was nine, that Lily was the one marrying Teddy. Lily knew Teddy better than her. Pat’s family never had Teddy over to dinner like the Potters did. Besides, Lily had had a crush on Teddy for ages, not just a few months. That meant Teddy was hers. She had dibs.

*****

10. Sometimes Pat’s father had the most outlandish ideas.

Let’s all go Christmas shopping in the Diagon together and wear matching sweaters. No, you cannot wear those dress robes because they come above your knee. I don’t want you watching that film because it’s rated 12A.

I turned twelve last month.

You and Lucy can share a room at Grandma’s, can’t you? No, you cannot date that boy because he has a tattoo of a dragon on his arm.

Uncle Charlie has a tattoo of a dragon on his arm.

No, Pat.

*****

11. Pat liked her cousins on her mother’s side better than those on her father’s side.

Partly because there were only three. Uncle David was her mother’s brother, and he had married Aunt Carla. They had had three children, Matt, Sarah, and Kyle.

Pat liked them because they were quiet, well-behaved children who enjoyed playing tag, and hide-and-seek, and board games when Pat and Lucy came over. Kyle played football, too, and he was a Keeper and let Pat take shots on him. He was a pretty good Keeper but sometimes Pat had to slow down a little so that he wouldn’t feel bad for not saving many shots.

Plus, whenever they played Muggle games that Pat had already heard about at School, she sort of sadistically enjoyed that Lucy had to be explained the rules once or twice before she got it right.

*****

12. She always wrote in a journal before she went to bed.

It had been a habit she’d picked up when she was ten. She’d been given a neatly pressed, even little book with empty pages for her birthday -- she couldn’t remember which Aunt or Uncle had given it to her -- and that night she had written her first entry:

Dear Diary,
I suppose that’s what people are supposed to call you. I was given you today for my birthday. I’ve just turned ten-years-old. I don’t know what else to write, except I had a very good birthday. Maybe I’ll see you again tomorrow if I remember to write.
- Molly Patricia Weasley, but you can call me Pat, because it’s shorter

That next day she’d thought and thought and thought about what else to write in her journal, and by the time she finally sat down to write she had so much to say she was told off by her father for staying up too late.

She splattered herself over those pages. It felt as if that was her soul, written out in blood and sweat and ink. She didn’t think she could have lived anymore if she ever couldn’t not write in them again. But she would have burned them before she let anyone else read them.

*****

13. She wasn’t certain whether or not she wanted to marry a wizard.

Marrying a wizard would mean staying where she was now. It would mean he would have a job in the Ministry and she would stay at home or have a job in the Muggle world. And all their wizard friends would ask him what his wife did and he would answer that she was a Squib and did something boring, and unimportant, and Muggle.

But not marrying a wizard would mean that she could have a job and her husband would have a job and no one would ever ask any questions or be utterly shocked at the answers. It would also mean hiding and skirting, and secrets and lies to get around why they never went to her side of the family for holiday, and why Aunt Lucy always wore dressed up bathrobes and not pants and a t-shirt.

But maybe that would be worth it.

*****

14. By Year Seven she came to the conclusion that she had a higher academic education than her father.

After that she asked her mother to help her with all her homework.

*****

15. When she grew up she wanted to be a doctor.

Not a Healer. A Doctor. Besides, magical medicine didn’t make any sense. She didn’t believe that muttering a couple nonsense words over a broken bone or open wound would make it better -- not really better.

She thought the inside of a human body was fascinating. She sat, spell-bound in her biology course when they dissected a pig while some of the other girls had gone to pieces. She had even volunteered to use the knife.

She wanted to be a doctor, someone who wore a white coat and a stethoscope around their neck, who would laugh and make the patients feel better, hold their hands when she delivered bad news, smile and pat them on the back when the news was good.

She’d only been to St. Mungos once, when Lucy had fallen off of their parents’ bed after she’d been warned not to try to do a backflip. Pat had seen the Healer’s mint-green robes and the way they had brushed aside Lucy’s broken wrist with a swish of their wand and a be careful, next time.

There was too much impatience in magical medicine. It was too quick and too methodical. There was no humanity in it.

Pat wanted to be the doctor, to brush away her sister’s terrified, painful tears and muttered comforting words in her ear. Everything was going to be alright. You’re going to be alright. Don’t you worry. It might take a little while but your wrist was going to be just fine.

*****

16. She knew her mother had had a miscarriage before Pat was born.

She sometimes wondered about that tiny, unnamed baby who had never really been much more than a soul. She wondered whether it had been a boy or a girl. She wondered what it would have been like to have an older sibling. She wondered, perhaps, if it might have been the Squib instead of her. More than that, she wondered, even if the baby had been magical, if perhaps it wouldn’t have been quite so bad, having an older sibling who was magical instead of only a younger one.

*****

17. Pat had soft auburn curls, a mixture of her dad’s red frizz and mum’s light-brown waves.

She’d inherited her father’s eyesight and was the only cousin besides Lily who wore glasses. She had her mum’s soft, round face, but her father’s tall, gangly figure, which had always mixed oddly -- especially in secondary when she wanted the boys to look at her as something other than that baby-faced, flat, wiry, and fast forward on the girls’ team who had scored more goals this year than even Carla Fawcett from last year. And Carla Fawcett was going on to play for university.

*****

18. She had always been quiet.

It wasn’t that she was shy, just that she thought not much ever really needed to be said.

*****

19. She really enjoyed chess.

She played Uncle Ron every chance she got.
She had felt so good, so triumphant, the first game she finally lost to him. She’d been thirteen and before that he’d always let her win.

*****

20. Pat had only held a wand twice in her life.

The first time she had been seven. They -- family -- had been telling her for all that year that there was still time. Uncle Neville didn’t show his first sign of magic until he was nearly eight.

There was still time. Plenty and plenty of time.

One night she snuck quietly out of bed and to her parents’ room. She listened to her father snore and tip-toed to the dresser, fishing for his wand in the dark. Her hand enclosed around the handle and she was so relieved to be finally holding it that she fled the room and didn’t watch where she was going and stubbed her toe on the doorframe.

She muffled a whimper of pain and her father grunted in his sleep, but neither of her parents woke so Pat snuck down the stairs to the sitting room.

She held his wand tightly in her hands. It felt smooth and cold beneath her skin. She whirled it around and tried -- thought -- wished -- prayed with all her might for something. Anything. Just please, a little spark, a whisper of air, a bead of light, a feeling. Anything. Anything, please.

But it felt so smooth and cold, and empty. Useless, thin, breakable like a simple stick of wood.

Please, anything, just anything.

The second time she had been thirteen. Lucy was back from the Diagon, skipping, giggling, glowing, talking with that trill in her voice she got when she was so, so happy. Pat snuck into her sister’s room that night and ran her hand over her night table in the dark.

Her fingers enclosed around the thin stick of wood and she held her breath as she tip-toed out again. She bumped her shoulder against the door, but Lucy didn’t stir.

Pat crept down the stairs into the sitting room and closed her eyes. Please. Just once. Just something. Just anything. I want to go to Hogwarts. I want to be in Hufflepuff. I want to be with my sister. I want to be with my cousins. I want to be like them. Please, I want to be a Witch. I want to do magic. Please, just anything. Just for a second. Just for a second and I won’t ever bother you again. Just a little glimmer of magic. Just some tingling in my fingers. Please. Give me something. Anything.

Please….

The stick in her hand was so thin. It was so delicate. It would have been so easy to snap it. It would have been so easy to scream -- to cry -- to run back upstairs and launch herself at Lucy who was so happy --

But Pat didn’t want it to be easy. She didn’t want to do anything she already knew how to do. She didn’t want to be what she already was.

*****

21. She sometimes wondered about that second cousin of Grandma Weasley’s who had been an accountant.