Sugar & Spice

I sat perched on my windowsill, peering through the fogged-up glass into the gardens below, watching as the light from inside painted shadowed figures on the lawn. It was way past lights out. If I was caught awake again, I'd be in major trouble, but I just couldn't sleep.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why; the sounds of people loudly laughing and shouting, the expensive clinking of champagne glasses rose up clearly from downstairs.

Of course, I was never allowed to join them there, because of the fact that I was, as my father quite delicately liked to put it, 'a filthy little squib'. I'll never forget the first time he ever called me that.

I was six at the time, and it was the year after my Mum had passed away. A year since we'd moved house to the edge of Soho, London.

I crept downstairs after I'd been put to bed, and was swiftly captivated by the dream-like sight of beautiful ball gown and tuxedo-clad people laughing and socialising in my house. A shimmering sparkle reflected around the room from the myriad of mirrors and softly burning candles in the sconces, and it cast an enchanting glow over everything I saw.

I wandered through the party, still dressed in the cream satin pyjamas that Mum had bought me so long ago, the same pyjamas I'd refused to throw away, even though they were a few inches too short at the legs and arms.

I beamed up at everybody who looked my way; I was still half-convinced I was having some sort of wonderful dream. I suddenly realised it must be a party in my father’s name, and my chest swelled proudly. He was an important man.

I caught sight of a certain familiar black-haired person, and skipped my way over to him excitedly.

"Tom, Tom!" I cried, tugging insistently on the sleeve of my brother’s expensive-looking suit; all the guests around us turned to stop and stare. He blinked down at my grasping hand, and catching sight of me, he bent down to eye level and gave me a quick tickle. Giggling as I dodged his hands, I added delightedly, "You're back!"

"For the Christmas holidays. How's my favourite sister doing?" He asked, smiling broadly as if he had all the time in the world for me.

"What're all these people doing here, Tom?" I asked, staring wide-eyed at all the people.

But he had stopped listening. Most of the blood seemed to have drained from his face as he caught the eye of somebody standing behind me. He quickly straightened up and plastered a fake smile across his features.

"Father." He grated out, glancing at me as a worried expression stole over his broad, easy smile from seconds before.

I turned and craned my neck all the way backwards; an anxious tangle of knots formed in my stomach as our eyes met.

My father was a rather large and intimidating sort of man - somebody that you wouldn't want to cross. I always felt slightly afraid whenever I saw him. That was okay, because he never really spoke to me. He was simply never around. Not since I was very young, anyways.

At this moment though, he wasn't ignoring me. He was staring down with a mixture of shock and barely concealed disgust, as if he'd stood on a piece of gum. He pointed at me, addressing my brother in hushed tones as if he didn't want anybody to know of my presence.

"What is she doing here?" My face fell, and I suddenly felt like crying. Tears formed in my eyes, but I tried to blink them away before he could see.

My brother was searching for the right words, apparently.

"She, uh, she's -well, she -"

My father didn't stay to hear the rest of what my brother had to say. He grabbed me roughly by my upper arm so that the toes of my right foot left the ground, and half-led, half-dragged me back through the crowd towards my room.

"Hello Augustus! And who is this charming young Miss?" A beautiful lady wearing a sleek black dress asked curiously.

"Nobody," My father grunted. Nobody

As soon as we reached the staircase around the corner, my father relinquished his grasp on my arm and threw me up the first few steps of our grand marble staircase, causing me to loose my balance.

"But Daddy," I said, once I'd stood up straight again, "I want to meet the pretty people!"

"You are not to leave your bed at night without my express permission," He informed me tonelessly as he turned to leave.

"But, I want to go talk to Tom," I protested quietly, crestfallen. He whipped around as if I had called him a nasty name.

"Tom doesn't want to talk to a filthy little squib like you. Now go to your room. NOW!"

I sighed. 'Go to your room!' were probably the words that I heard most often nowadays. Being a squib is not like being a person. You're a nobody - like a servant, or a fly on the wall.

Of course, my father wouldn't want the shame of anybody finding out what I am. He doesn't tell people, but rather pretends that I don't exist. I guess that's better, somehow; at least it's only one person who looks at me the way he does. Like I'm a disappointment.

Abruptly, I didn't care. I stood up from my windowsill and reached around for my coat, finding it draped over the end of my bedpost. Quietly opening my door, I cautiously poked my head out into the corridor to see if anybody was around.

The coast was clear.

I quickly shut my bedroom door behind me and stole my way to the stairs, paranoid that somebody would see me and cry 'Stop!' but I was fortunate. I went unseen.

I was heading for the garden. Whenever I felt that my head was too crowded, or my thoughts too miserable, I liked to sit on the edge of the fountain in the rose garden, and it made me feel better - peaceful even. Something I rarely ever felt.

I was making my way through the dark kitchen to the back door when I slipped on something long and round and nearly fell. Whatever it was made a soft rolling sound on the marble tile.

I got onto my hands and knees on the floor and lit my lighter to see by. I blinked spasmodically when I realised what it was.

It was a wand.

People didn't generally leave such precious possessions as wands discarded on kitchen floors; it was really odd to see it here. I realised it must have been a much better party than I'd thought.

For a few moments, I just stared at it... and then all of a sudden, I was seized by an irresistible impulse. I grabbed it.

At once I felt this powerful whoosh of something unknown pass by, bringing the very cells of my body alive, from the roots of my hair down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

When it was gone, I just lay there sprawled out on the cold tile floor as I tingled all over, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

And this is where my story truly began.