It was far simpler for Gregory, who was always called Greg, to take credit for my accidental magic when I was far too small to say much of anything, and too inexperienced to attempt to defend myself. Our mother was isolated enough as it was; she had made the executive decision to marry a Muggle, thus somewhat turning her back on her Pureblood family's ways, the Crouch family. Only our uncle, Barty, her younger brother, was supportive of her marriage to our father, Jacob Willoughby, as he was madly in love with Aunt Evita, and didn't know what he would do without his wife. Evita also came from a Pureblood family, the Macmillan family, and thus, their son, Barty Jr., our cousin, was Pureblood as well.

Mama had married Daddy right out of school, and took care of housekeeping and whatnot while he was being educated at Oxford University Medical School. The Willoughby family had gone to Oxford or Cambridge for generations, and Daddy had been no exception. He and Mama had initially lived with his parents, Granddad Winston and Grandmum Edwina, in the family home, located in the South Downs of Sussex, but, once Mama got pregnant with me and Greg, just after Daddy's graduation, they had moved to their secondary property, a beautiful stone cottage located in Cornwall.

Daddy completed his residency at Southlands Hospital while Mama stayed home and raised both Greg and myself. Daddy was now one of the top surgeons at the hospital, doing exceptionally well for himself. Once Greg and I were born, and Mama and Daddy had decided then and there that their family was complete. Other than Greg's constant bullying, mainly by taking credit of my bursts of accidental magic, it was an idyllic lifestyle, completed by the large and ancestral Willoughby family home.

I had learned to steer clear of my brother early on, keeping to myself as much as possible. I was much smaller than he was, despite him only being born around seven minutes before I had been, which didn't help matters once the bullying began. He had truly convinced himself that I wasn't worthy of possessing magic, and strove to be Mama's favorite child in every way. Although I had attempted to reason with him, it did no good, knowing entirely well that it was as if I was speaking to a brick wall.

I spent most of my time on my own, seldomly speaking, my nose constantly in some large book or other. I frequently borrowed the books that Mama had kept from her days as an active witch, and learned all I could about the environment that I would, one day, be a part of. I longed to escape into the Wizarding World, hoping beyond hope that, at last, someone would understand me for who I truly was, and never allow me to be a shadow again.

"No signs from Gwyn yet, Parthe?" Aunt Evita asked over tea one afternoon, as she had done, numerous times over the years.

Mama sighed; she desperately wanted two magical children to her name but, thus far, since Greg had been taking credit for my accidental magic, she believed she had produced a Squib when it came to me. "I don't know what else to do, Evie," she answered, her shoulders stooping as she confided in her sister-in-law, while Cousin Barty was showing off his new broom in the garden, with Uncle Barty supervising, and Daddy watching with amazement. She turned her gaze towards the garden, watching as Greg whooped and cheered from below. "He'll likely get his letter by this summer," she mused.

Aunt Evita followed Mama's gaze, her brown eyes pretending not to notice me from where I was hidden behind the opposite settee, although, when they swept over me, they were kind. It was as if she could tell that I didn't want to be noticed, not due to any rudeness. "I just don't understand why Greg won't ask for a turn on the broom..."

Mama's gaze quickly turned back to Aunt Evita. "I've told him about the dangers of falling off things, Evie..."

Aunt Evita blinked. "Yes, but Barty is out there, and our little Barty is two years younger than Greg is," she answered with a shrug. "You know my husband would never let anything happen to his favorite nephew, not to mention the notion that we wixen can heal ourselves, and you married a surgeon, for Merlin's sake..."

Mama giggled lightly at that, shaking her head. "A Muggle surgeon, Evie, and Greg is Barty's only nephew."

Aunt Evita smiled back, leaning towards Mama and gently bumping their shoulders together in their shared contentment. "I just wish he didn't work at the ministry so much," she said, the smile vanishing as she looked outside again.

I followed her gaze, raising my eyebrows at Uncle Barty taking out a pocket watch, shaking his head, and saying something to Cousin Barty. I watched as Cousin Barty looked devastated, but nevertheless flew down on his broom, which Uncle Barty shrunk and handed back to my cousin, who pocketed it, lowering his eyes to the grass. I winced as Uncle Barty clapped him on the shoulder, before doing the same to Daddy and Greg, and breezed out from the garden and into the house.

"You have to go back to the ministry?" Aunt Evita asked softly.

Uncle Barty nodded his head, a sullen Cousin Barty following, with Daddy and Greg bringing up the rear. "Yes, I'm afraid so, darling," he replied, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll try and be home for dinner..."

"A Portkey?" Mama asked, tilting her cheek upwards for Uncle Barty to kiss, knowing that they required strict scheduling.

Uncle Barty smiled at Mama and gave a short nod. "I'll use the grounds. Is that all right with you, Jacob?" he asked.

My father nodded. "Of course, Barty. The foliage is thick enough at this time of year to ensure that no Muggles will see you."

Uncle Barty gave him a short nod before looking around the room, his eyes settling down upon me, and shook his head. "Why do you let her read those, Parthe?"

Mama followed his sharp gaze, raising her eyebrows slightly when she caught sight of me, Hogwarts: A History lying open upon my lap. "What's the harm, Barty?"

Uncle Barty sighed. "She's nothing but a Squib, Parthe," he whispered, while, once everyone's attention was otherwise occupied, Greg grinned with glee at our uncle's words. "It will make her even more sullen once she realizes she cannot have any part of that world." He checked his pocket watch again before cursing under his breath. "Just take the book off her, Parthe," he said, and moved to exit the house.

Greg, meanwhile, practically galloped towards me and snatched the book from my hands. "Our uncle is right," he informed me snottily. "You've no need for this book. I'll be the one going to Hogwarts come September anyway. You'll just be at Mayfield, with the nuns hitting you until you convert to Catholicism," he said, nearly cackling with delight.

"Greg, don't antagonize your sister, please," Daddy said sternly, and Greg immediately turned to our father, wide-eyed.

"But, Dad, I wasn't—"

"Yes, you were," Daddy informed him, crossing his arms. "You know entirely well what you were doing, Gregory Willoughby, and it stops right now. Do you hear me, young man? One more word about it and you'll go without pudding for a week."

Greg immediately became petulant but nevertheless left my side, unfortunately bringing the massive copy of Hogwarts: A History with him. He walked past Cousin Barty, mentioning another rocket ship toy he'd gotten, and asked if our cousin wanted to see it. Once permission was given from Aunt Evita, the boys took off towards Greg's bedroom, upstairs like the two other main bedrooms in the house, while she and Mama continued with their tea.

"I've some patient notes to go over in my study," Daddy said after a few moments, and looked over at me. "Gwyn, why don't you come with me, darling? You can keep me company. I'm sure I've something for you to read in there."

I got to my feet, straightening my skirts as I followed him; I was dressed how I typically did when school was on break—a pinafore dress with a simple white blouse underneath it, along with knee-length socks and black Mary Jane shoes. My hair was done up in a Fra Angelico, a popular hairstyle worn by a famous model, which Daddy wholeheartedly approved of; it framed my face around the bang area and then swooped downwards, curling underneath while remaining painstakingly straight. I had been blessed with wavy, golden-brown hair, which glowed red under direct sunlight, but Mama insisted it needed to be kept straight.

I followed Daddy into his study, vaguely aware of Mama and Aunt Evita discussing the Minister of Magic, Eugenia Jenkins, and attempted to shut out their voices. There were Squib Rights Marches going on all over Britain, and Greg made it known how much he despised the practice, telling anyone who would listen that people like me didn't deserve any rights within the Wizarding World. I was becoming more and more convinced as time went by that Greg was right, that I'd never be admitted to Hogwarts. Even though I was able to heal all the wounds he inflicted upon me—sprained ankles, broken fingers, cracked ribs, black eyes—it still wasn't enough to ward off my fear towards him. With one look, I knew he would be capable of silencing me forever, and I strove that, one day, I would get as far away from him as I possibly could.

"Don't take what Greg says to heart, love," Daddy was saying as we stepped into his study. "I doubt the nuns would treat you as badly as he makes them out. They typically only go after children who are orphans," he observed, going to sit behind his desk.

I cautiously stepped closer. "So, what you're saying is, they go after the easy targets?" I asked him softly.

His eyes snapped to mine, almost as if he was shocked that I'd spoken at all. "Well... Yes," he said after a moment or two.

I shook my head at the very notion of it. "Well, then, if they commit such terrible acts upon children, why are they not being punished?" I whispered. "They shouldn't be revered if they do such things..."

Daddy sighed. "Unfortunately, orphaned children don't often get a good start in life and, because of this, they are disadvantaged when they reach adulthood."

I gritted my teeth. "So, because they're not considered to be in good standing, and because they never got any halfway decent opportunities in their childhood, they're automatically branded as liars? That's vile."

My father smiled. "I think you'd make one hell of a barrister, love," he said, pulling his paperwork towards him, and getting to work.

Daddy typically had the weekends off, and, as it was a Sunday before our birthday, that day was no exception. Mama was in the kitchen preparing a roast dinner, while he was in his study yet again going over patient notes. Greg was running around the expansive back garden, pretending to fly his latest rocket ship, while I was on the settee in the living room, my nose in Hogwarts: A History yet again. It was Bathilda Bagshot's descriptions of events and the castle itself that got to me especially, and I hoped I would have a copy of my own one day, one that Greg couldn't take away from me whenever he liked.

It was when a screech of an owl was heard overhead that the entirety of the house seemed to go completely silent. No pen scrapings on Daddy's paperwork; no Mama making typical cooking preparation sounds; no me turning pages softly... Even Greg's vexing rocket ship impersonations had ceased. I turned and looked out the window at the back garden, seeing that an owl was indeed there, and Greg was running towards it, although it seemed just as annoyed with him as I was, and couldn't be caught.

"Mama, there is an owl in the back garden," I called out to her. "A tawny owl."

"Oh, is there?" Mama called back, hurrying from the kitchen and opening the back door. "Oh, heavens—Greg, leave the creature alone! You're frightening it—"

"But, Mummy, it has my letter!" he shouted. "It's got my Hogwarts letter, I see it!"

The tawny owl took this opportunity to fly into the house, Greg hurrying after it and shoving our mother out of the way, looking altogether enraged when it seemed to circle around my head before landing on my outstretched arm. I reached out and petted it, its eyes shutting as a soft coo escaped its beak, tranquil and content.

"Mummy!" Greg shouted again. "Gwyn's trying to steal my letter!"

Our mother blinked. "No, she isn't, Greg. She is merely greeting the owl. No harm in that, and she's treating it nicely," she answered levelly.

Daddy took this moment to come into the living room. "Oh, what a lovely owl," he said, and the owl looked over at him. "Oh, such a beauty. Hello," he said, patting it, and the owl seemed to enjoy it immensely. "I may not be from your world, little one, but I know beautiful creatures when I have the opportunity to see them."

"Dad!" Greg screeched. "Tell Gwyn to stop trying to steal my letter!" he demanded.

The owl puffed itself up, levelling a glare towards Teddy.

"Teddy, you're scaring her," I told him, turning to face my brother. I hated that my voice trembled ever so slightly, but I just couldn't help but notice that he was getting worse in his treatment of everyone.

"Her?!" he demanded. "It's obviously a male; they wouldn't let a female owl deliver something as important as a Hogwarts letter for me."

The owl screeched, obviously having enough.

"See?" Greg cried. "He hates you!" He marched over to where the owl was and made to grab it from me, and I tensed backwards, waiting for a blow I knew could come.

The owl, however, had other ideas, and dopped the letter onto the table in front of the settee, before it flew up to one of the ceiling beams, giving Greg a death glare.

Greg looked smartly down at the letter and made to grab it; then, a shocking thing happened as the flap of the envelope seemed to grow teeth and bit at him. "Ouch!" he cried, promptly putting his injured finger into his mouth. "Mummy, it hurt me!" he wailed.

The letter seemed to vibrated for a moment before it promptly transfigure into a face with a pair of pink lips, its eyes glaring at Greg as it flew into the air, hovering just opposite him, so that he knew he was the one being addressed. "Gregory Caspar Willoughby," came the powerful voice of a Scottish brogue, "you have shamed and tainted both the Crouch and Black bloodlines with your ill-treatment of your twin sister, Gwynevere Aderyn Willoughby," it proclaimed, and Greg looked completely stunned at its words. "Not only have you taken credit for her accidental magic since you were very young, you punished her for any attempts she made to speak out against it! You are nothing but a rotten, spoiled little boy, not to mention a Squib. Try as you might, you could never make yourself a wizard, even for taking credit for your sister's powers. You are not welcome, nor are you accepted to Hogwarts; in fact, you have been summarily blacklisted from each and every magical school in the Wizarding World. Your actions towards your sister have been on record, due to the healing she was forced to perform on herself for all the injuries you caused her, young man! This letter, as you can clearly see," it continued, turning about to face Greg for a brief moment, "is addressed only to your sister, and you will also see there is only one letter. I think I speak for everyone when I say that your father and mother should do something about your behavior, because, quite frankly, it is reprehensible. Good luck with him, Parthe," were the final words, far more gentle than they'd previously had been, before its facial features disappeared and it flew back onto the tabletop without fanfare.

Daddy didn't even wait a moment; he marched over to Greg and took ahold of him by the collar, glaring down at him.

"Jacob, what are you doing?" Mama asked.

"Making that call," he answered, his voice stiff as he attempted to control his anger. "This has gone on far enough, Parthe, and you know it. Something has to be done..."

"But... The Youth Authority?" Mama whispered, not noticing as I picked up my letter. "Are you sure, Jacob?"

"No!" Greg cried out, having noticed that I was touching the letter. "That's mine! Mummy, tell Gwyn it's mine!"

"I'll call Barty," Mama begged. "Please let me, Jacob. There must be some mistake..."

Daddy stared at Mama, stunned. "Do you hear yourself?" he demanded, gripping onto Greg so tightly that I was afraid his shirt would hip. "Parthe, honestly. That Scottish woman... Miranda McGonagall, wasn't it?"

"Minerva," Mama said softly.

"Right. She's the Deputy Head, isn't she? Surely she would know best in these types of things. I mean, there's a ruddy Book of Admittance for this sort of thing—Gregory Caspar Willoughby, you stop that nonsense this instant!" he shouted, having caught Greg attempting to get out of his jumper to make a run for me.

"But, he's done accidental magic, and Gwyn hasn't," Mama protested.

"Because he's been hurting her!" Daddy yelled back.

"Greg... Greg wouldn't," Mama said, shaking her head. "Would you, Greg?"

"I would, Mummy, because it's mine. it's mine!" he shouted, breaking out of Daddy's grip and making a rush for me.

I had, by this time, gotten to my feet, the letter still gripped within my hands. I tensed as Greg ran for me, but I knew I couldn't take his treatment of me anymore, the crying myself to sleep each night, the notion that my parents thought I was a Squib, all of it. "Enough!" I shouted, straightening my arm outwards, and a beam of light came rushing out of my fingertips, effectively shoving Greg away from me, and into a chair across the room.

Mama gaped as Daddy merely raised his eyebrows. Mama looked over at me, as if she was seeing me for the first time. "Good heavens... You're a witch, Gwyn."

I trembled, looking over at Greg, while Daddy made another grab for him. "Daddy?" I asked him, my voice soft, tentative.

"Don't you worry about a thing, love," he assured me. "You go on and read your letter. Parthe, we need to call Barty. Now," he said firmly.

Mama nodded, seeing that Daddy's voice meant that there would be no argument as she followed him to the study, where the fireplace was connected to the Floo Network for emergencies.

I practically collapsed back down onto the couch, opening the letter with shaking hands. On the front, it was addressed to MISS G. WILLOUGHBY, The Westward-Facing Bedroom, Manor House Road, Petworth, South Downs. Swallowing, I turned the letter back around and carefully opened the envelope, reading the words which would be my ticket out of my family home and into the Wizarding World.

Dear Miss Willoughby,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Students will be required to report to the Chamber of Reception upon arrival, the dates of which shall be duly advised.

Please ensure that the utmost attention be made to the list of requirements attached beneath.

We very much look forward to receiving you as part of the new generation of Hogwarts heritage.

Yours Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Underneath the letter was information pertaining to a students' uniform, books, and other equipment, as well as further notes regarding the purchase of a familiar. Not to mention the final note about first-years not being permitted their own broomsticks, but that didn't matter to me. I knew about Diagon Alley, given the whispered conversations Mama had had with Greg about it over the years, and now, he wouldn't be permitted entry.

I could vaguely hear Uncle Barty's voice from the Floo, as well as Mama's monotoned replies about how they'd been mistaken all these years about which child was magical. As I gazed down at the parchment again, a rare hope flowed through me. This, perhaps, was the greatest moment of my life thus far and, though he had attempted to snatch it away, as he had often done in years' past, Greg had been stopped from doing so...

...by me.

With magic.

I was truly a witch, and it felt wonderful to be able to think that. "I'm a witch," I whispered, smiling down at the letter and practically stroking the text. "I am a witch," I continued, looking up at the owl, who twittered with excitement, ruffling her feathers. I got to my feet again and walked over towards the back door, which I opened, permitting the owl to return to her mistress at Hogwarts. As I watched her flying away, her beautiful feathers glinting in the sunshine, I yelled out, for anyone and everyone to hear, "I'm a witch!" and threw up my hands into the air, brushing in the direction of the wind chimes, which played beautifully, signaling my happiness, musically, to the world.