Your eighth birthday. It is a very important day, and it is making you rather nervous. You overheard Fred say something to Mum a few weeks ago that makes your stomach churn uneasily.
”Mum, the book says! ‘Magic most commonly shows itself between the child’s fifth and eighth year of life.’”
“Well, that’s rubbish. All children are different. Where did you find that book, anyway?”
Between the ages of five and eight. That’s what “the book” says. You are eight today, and nothing whatsoever has happened.
You can vaguely remember events of years past. Fred had exploded Mum’s pot of soup when he was six-and-a-half. George had immediately followed by exploding the jug of iced pumpkin juice not two minutes later. Mum had been furious, but Dad thought it was brilliant. After all, it meant his sons were wizards, not Squibs. You had been too young to remember anyone else’s first incidents, but you had heard the stories of how Percy had clung obsessively to a small picture book about a boy-wizard becoming Minister of Magic, until Mum tried to take it away and convince him to read something else. The book, seconds after Mum had wrenched it from Percy’s grasp, had suddenly begun to multiply, a dozen identical copies bursting into being. Charlie had managed to set the chicken coop on fire, and Bill had vanished Mum’s scissors when she’d attempted to cut his hair.
The worst part, is that little Ginny had produced a bunch of flowers a few months ago, out of thin air. You, however, had done absolutely nothing.
What if you were a Squib? Today was the day you’d find out, you were sure. Today, you were turning eight.
You were going to be spending your birthday with two of your older brothers and your younger sister until dinnertime. Fred and George had met two twin girls who lived in the nearby town of Ottery St. Catchpole, and wanted to go play tricks on them. Only Muggle tricks, they had assured you as they dragged you and little Ginny along, because none of you were supposed to use magic yet.
You had only been in the town once before, with the whole family. You knew the older boys visited often, but you had usually stayed home with Mum and Ginny. Today, Mum had asked the twins to take care of you and Ginny, so you were stuck going.
On your way to the Muggle twins’ house, you passed a playground.
“Freddie, Georgie,” Ginny whined. “I want to play there.”
“Fine,” Fred said, glancing around, as though he expected his mother to swoop down and scold him for what he was about to do. “You and Ronnie stay here. Don’t leave the park, don’t talk to strangers, and don’t get hurt. ‘Kay?” You and Ginny nodded before running off.
The playground was actually nestled in a nice park. You hadn’t known this park was here, or you would have begged Mum to take you more often. It looked way more fun than staying in the orchard day after day. Ginny was far more confident around other kids than you, and skipped over to a couple of children playing on the merry-go-round. You ended up on the swings by yourself, but you didn’t really mind.
“Hello? Excuse me? May I swing with you?” a girl’s voice suddenly asked from below you, rather briskly. You looked down. The girl who had spoken looked to be about your age. She had bright brown eyes, and rather bushy brown hair that was cut in a short bob. She was wearing a dark blue jumper with an orange cat knitted on the front.
“Uh, sure,” you replied shyly. You were never very good at talking to new people. She smiled kindly, and hopped up on the other swing.
“Do lots of people with red hair live here?” she asked you suddenly. “Only I’ve seen lots and lots of people here with red hair.”
“What? Like who?” you asked, confused at her boldness.
“Well, there’s that little girl over there for one. And those twin boys who passed a minute ago. And you, of course.”
“Um, they’re all my family. I have a big family,” you said awkwardly.
“Wow! None of my family has red hair.”
“Do you live here?” you asked, pondering the nature of her question. As soon as the words left your lips your ears turned red. You usually didn’t ask people straightforward questions. That was for Fred and George and Ginny to do.
“No, I live a long drive away. My mum’s friend lives close by, though, and we’re visiting.”
“A long drive?” you repeat, a little confused. You weren’t really familiar with what “a drive” was, though you were sure you’d heard the term from Dad at some point before.
“Yes, a long drive. You know, like in a car?” the girl said, looking annoyed at your apparent sluggishness.
“Right,” you said quickly, remembering. Dad had an old Muggle car in the shed, but it didn’t “drive.”
Silence fell between you and the girl, and after a few more minutes of swinging, she jumped off and ran away, without a word of goodbye. You slid of the swing not long later, and made your way over the the shore of the pond. You liked this pond, which was set in the middle of the park; there were ducks swimming around lazily, and this pond was much cleaner than the pond that was by your house. You sat down in the grass at the water’s edge, watching the ducks. There was no such thing as a magical duck. All ducks were ordinary, like Muggles and Squibs. Like that Muggle girl who’d left you on the swings. Maybe you would end up like a duck; maybe you weren’t magical at all.
You picked up a twig from the ground, and pointed it at a stone. You tried focusing all of your being on simply levitating that stone. You imagined all your magical power being channeled through the twig, so that the stone would be lifted into the air, and screwed up your face in concentration. Nothing happened.
“What’re you doing?” The bushy-haired girl was back, and she was watching you with her hands on her hips.
“Nothing,” you said quickly, dropping the twig as though it were on fire.
“You were pointing that stick at that rock,” she said, cocking her head to the side, “which is definitely doing something.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does.”
“Don’t you have any other friends to play with?” you snapped. Then you felt guilt. You hadn’t mean to say something so mean, and your ears immediately turned red in regret, but you were scared that this Muggle girl was going to find out about magic, all because of you. She instantly bristled.
“No,” she said, raising her nose in the air that reminded you of Percy, “I told you I was visiting. Besides, I thought maybe you would be my friend.”
“Boys can’t be friends with girls!” you said, surprised again at her straightforwardness. Fred and George had told you this fact a few weeks ago.
“Oh yes they can!” said the girl defiantly. “You just wait! Someday, you are going to be BEST FRIENDS with a girl, and you’ll be eating your words!” And with that, she flounced off to her parents. You watched her go, wondering if she was right.
You never even found out her name.
“Ronnie!” Ginny’s voice shouted from across the playground. “Hurry up, we have to go! Freddie and Georgie are back and they say we have to run because the Mug”the girl they pranked is really, really angry!” You bolted off with your brothers and sister, and forgot about the bushy-haired girl. That evening, you got in an argument over whether the Wimbourne Wasps or the Chudley Cannons were a better team, and when George told you the Cannons were rubbish, you somehow magically turned the walls of your bedroom a brilliant shade of orange. Mum had made you an extra birthday cake to celebrate you becoming a wizard. Turning eight ended up all right.
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“I’m home!” Your beautiful, loving wife entered the house, her hair pulled up in a messy bun, looking tired from the day’s work. You looked up from feeding baby Hugo, and smiled warmly. Upon spotting you, with what looked like half a jar of baby food all over your front, Hermione Jean Weasley burst out laughing. Rosie jumped off her chair at the table, abandoning her vegetables, and greeted her mother enthusiastically, showing her a drawing she’d done of a Golden Snitch. “I see you’ve done well on your day off,” Hermione commented with amusement. You shrugged.
“Did a package arrive for me today?” she asked a little while later, when she had seated herself with her own dinner at the table. You thought for a moment.
“No, I don’t think so,” you said. “We didn’t get any owls.” Hermione rolled her eyes before saying, “No, no. I mean a Muggle package. It would have come by Muggle post.”
“How on Earth could I have known that’s what you meant?” She didn’t answer, but got up to go check the front porch. When she returned, she was carrying a parcel.
“Didn’t you have to sign for this when it arrived?” she asked exhasperatedly.
“Well, I suppose that’s what I did, but I didn’t have a clue what the bloody Muggle wanted from me! So I just signed his little Muggle contraption. You got your package?” Hermione rolled her eyes again.
“I had my mother send over what she still had of my favorite childhood clothes,” Hermione explained. “We can patch up the worn out stuff with magic, and then perhaps Rosie will wear some of it someday.” You nodded, your mouth full of your own dinner. She pulled out her wand to sever the packing tape. You watched her expression as she pulled out the small dresses and jumpers. She smiled and beamed at each one.
“Oh, Ron! Look at this! My grandmother made this for me when I turned five! Look at the little daisy pattern, Rosie would look absolutely adorable…” After the first four articles of clothing, you started to tune out her musings and returned to your supper. You only looked up when a flash of color caught your eye. “Oh, Merlin, I’d forgotten I’d owned this!” Hermione said, holding up a tiny dark blue sweater. It had an orange cat knitted on the front. “I went with my parents to visit my mother’s old friend when I was, like, eight”I can’t remember where she lived”but when we got there, she had this pile of gifts for me, even though I’d never met her before! She’d bought me this jumper, and I hated it, but I wore it out of politeness…” Her voice trailed away, remembering.
You were hit with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. You had seen this jumper before… Finally, a very vague memory came back to you. Your eighth birthday. Suddenly you stood up, and swept up your wife in an embrace, kissing her full on the mouth. She was surprised, you could feel it, but she leaned into you all the same. When you broke apart, she asked breathily, “What was that for?”
You simply smiled, and said, “You were right.”
The Orange Cat by SaboteurVictory
Story Notes:
A little idea that wouldn't let me go, that takes place Pre-Hogwarts. Enjoy!
Chapter Notes: I claim absolutely no ownership of anything you recognize! The magical world belongs solely to the brilliant JKR.
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