Chapter 2 - Squibbed
Time passed. Ginny recovered from her ordeal, slowly but surely.
Her parents helped her as well as they could, though it was plain that everything was different. Oh, they didn't love her any less, nor did they doubt her innocence. But the Weasley clan had always lived in the core of the wizarding world. Since Ginny could no longer be a part of that world, there was the endlessly hovering question of what she was going to do with what remained of her life. No matter what she did, she couldn't help thinking of herself as a failure.
She tried to keep to herself as much as possible. What little human contact she had was with her parents, with whom she had grown very close since Ron had gone to school, leaving her a de facto only child. But even though they always had a hug or a kiss or a few kind words for her, they could not undo what had been done to her. She had been Squibbed, which was the latest term for when a person had the inherent ability to do magic, but was forbidden to do so by the Ministry. Many wizards considered it to be a fate worse than death.
However, there appeared to be hope. When the Knight Bus had deposited Ginny and her parents at the Burrow, there had been a bulky package waiting for her, and two hefty school owls flying off, making a beeline for Hogwarts. The parcel consisted of an assortment of books and other supplies. Included was a note. It read:
Dear Miss Weasley,
I am doing my very best to find a way to bring you back. So are a number of others. Don't lose heart. I would appreciate it if you would continue with your studies as well as you can.
Prof. Dumbledore
Ginny did as asked, though she often wondered if there was any point. Studying without a professor to aid her or a wand to practice with was not a very productive use of her time. And in any case, the Ministry was not noted for giving second chances.
Arthur Weasley knew that better than she did. In addition to being incompetent, Cornelius Fudge had a nasty sadistic streak. When the school governors refused to reconsider Ginny's case, when the headmaster of Durmstrang and the board of governors at Beauxbatons declined to consider allowing her to transfer, and when the smaller schools followed suit; he made sure Arthur knew about it. Dumbledore even sent a letter to schools across the Pond, in Quebec and Maine, but to no avail.
Arthur, of course, did not pass these nasty little messages on to Ginny, because it would have hurt her, or to his wife, because she would have hurt Fudge. But somehow, Ginny knew that whatever her former mentor was doing, it wasn't working. She was destined to live out her days as a Squib, initiated to the wizarding world but unable to do magic herself. Whether one was forbidden by lack of ability or act of law, a Squib was a Squib, a second-class citizen. Argus Filch had known such treatment for many years, and it had turned him bitter and nasty. And he was one of the luckier ones; at least he had work. Many Squibs had to either live with family all their lives or turn to the Muggle world for work.
"Maybe you could work for Uncle Edmond," Fred had suggested that first summer, referring to the Weasley cousin who was a Squib by inability. He was an accountant, wore a suit and tie, dated Muggles, and never attended family reunions.
"Or you could talk to Hermione's parents," suggested George. "I heard dentists make pretty good money."
Ginny was not amused. Sensing this, the twins laid off.
Since even Squibs had to be able to get from place to place, wizarding law grudgingly permitted them to use wizarding transportation, including Floo powder, the Knight Bus, and broomsticks. This was one thing that helped get her through those long and difficult months. She would often grab her mother's battered Bluebottle and take it out for a flight, late at night when she was unlikely to be seen. If Molly was worried that she would break her neck (and, being a mother, she probably was), she chose to say nothing.
High in the night sky, where no bird flew, Ginny would take the old broom to its maximum speed, then make it go even faster, and faster yet, and then do curves, swoops, twists, and dives from the sky like a stooping falcon until she was low enough to count grass blades. She did it again and again, night after night, month after month. For some reason, flying kept her sane.
But not happy. When she was not studying or helping her mother or flying around, she was often up in her room, staring out the window and crying quietly and wondering what she could have done to deserve this.
Sixteen long months dragged by. Her brothers went back to school, returned for Christmas, went back again. More books arrived, and she studied them dutifully, but as the summer before what should have been her third year approached its end, she often found herself wondering if there was any point.
Indeed, there were times when she wondered if there was any point to anything at all.