Archive of Our Own

When he was born, Gregory Goyle had almost brought shame unto his entire bloodline. Almost.

It was only due to the quick thinking of his mother and a remarkably brave midwife that he wasn't drowned in a chamber pot within a week of his birth. And so began the Ruse that was Greg's entire life.

The way Society heard it, the Goyle family heir had inherited his father's (lack of) intellect and his mother's (weak) magical core. A solid, respectable heir for a Vassal family. The Goyle family wasn't known for intelligence or magical affinities, and so nothing much was required of its heirs. They were no less pure than any Book of Gold family, but like the Crabbes, they were bred to serve.

With blood as pure as theirs, a miniscule amount of magic (enough to not be a squib) along with the ability to follow orders was sufficient to be a respectable heir.

The truth, of course, was that Greg had only inherited his father's ability to bullshit his way through life, along with his mother's unending thirst for knowledge and her love for magical theory. It was ironic, he knew, for him to fall in love with something so far out of his reach.

His mother was a cold woman, paranoid and wary of his father for as long as he'd known her. But she loved Greg, and she was clever. Not strong enough to escape his father, but clever enough to outmaneuver him.

She taught him to make use of everything at his disposal: his wealth, title, size, intellect, acting skills. Everything was an asset, something to be used to hide his biggest, most dangerous secret. She trained him to play dumb, to play at being stupid, so that no one would expect anything of him. There were tricks to faking magic with enchanted items and runes and arrays and potions, but they could only go so far. His mother's secret artifacts would only be enough to provide an illusion, and it was down to Greg to make the illusion convincing. 

Greg would need to fly under the radar with his grades, so that he would only be expected to perform at the bare minimum level of magical competence. So that the eagle-eyed Hogwarts professors would dismiss him as yet another bumbling, incompetent Goyle.

One might think it would sting, having to hide his considerable intellect from nearly everyone in his life. But the truth was that Greg rather enjoyed it. The cloak-and-dagger of it all, the secrets, the pretending. 

Maybe it was because his father was neglectful at best, and mildly abusive at worst. Greg wasn't overly fond of his father, and having to keep such a terrible secret from him did little to improve their relationship.

Meanwhile, his mother oversaw nearly every aspect of his life. He supposed he was a bit of a mama's boy, the way he'd chase her praise and work at being perfect at playing Heir Gregory Goyle. 

Heir Goyle was very stupid, a little arrogant, and unspeakably lazy. Heir Goyle was incompetent. His mother encouraged it, clapping her hands in delight every time he developed a new way of staring stupidly into the distance, when he perfected what he affectionately called his 'Troll-accent'.

It didn't matter that everyone else would think he was stupid; his Mother knew he was clever, and his mother knew he was excellent at playing his role. 

He loved curling up with her on alternate Tuesday nights, reading the latest Transfiguration periodicals (charmed to look like a copy of Witch Weekly), joining her in snidely critiquing the flawed techniques and utter incompetence of various academics. 

Greg and Mother, conspiring against the enemy. Whether it was that fool Pierson Garret from the Association of Magical Theory, or visitors from other noble Houses, or Father, it was always just the two of them. The two of them against the world.

Then one day, as natural as a puzzle piece slotting itself into his life, Vincent was there too.

It went something like this: Mother could only go so many years sheltering Greg from the world before the other families got too suspicious. And not inviting their closest allies to Greg's breeching ceremony would be the height of disrespect. Father, imbecilic as he was, knew enough about pureblood tradition to know that much, and thus could not be manipulated into delaying it.

And so, on the morning of his fourth birthday, his Mother cut his hair short (too short) for the first time and had the family house-elf Merry buckle him into his first pair of trousers (too tight) before he donned his best dress robes (itchy).

Then, his mother had tied a thin, almost invisible choker around his neck. 

“It will show a magical aura to those who know to look for one. Let no one near enough to see its source,” she said softly, her cold fingers gentle as it brushed against the back of his neck. Before he could respond, she turned him around and briskly tied an ascot over the choker.

“I'll get you something better for that,” she whispered, cupping his cheeks into her cool hands, “Soon.” 

Her breath smelled unpleasantly sour, though she'd clearly taken pains to conceal it with perfuming potions. From past experience, Greg knew she'd probably spent the morning throwing up from the nerves. He cupped her cheeks with his own hands, attempting to ignore his own nerves while projecting an aura of calm for her.

“Don't worry mother. I will be perfect.”

A few moments later, his father entered the room, gave him a once-over, and gruffly told him not to embarrass himself. Greg pasted his stupidest expression (Vacant & Confused #32) on his face and waited a beat too long before nodding obediently. His mother's approving smile was worth the long-suffering sigh from his father.

Greg's first proper mission was to entertain the Malfoys and the Crabbes. To convince them that he was a respectable (if unspeakably stupid and incompetent) pureblood.

He played his role to perfection, if he did say so himself. The adults applauded when he strutted in wearing his new trousers and robes. He stepped forward and politely greeted everyone by name and title (making sure to stupidly stumble several times on a clearly memorised set of lines). He let Lady Malfoy and Lady Crabbe coo over him, allowing Proud Mountain Troll #4 to settle on his face.

Then, of course, he was charged with leading Draco Malfoy and Vincent Crabbe to his playroom to act as host, in preparation for his future as Heir Goyle. 

As they walked, the Malfoy heir asked him some polite questions to break the ice. Greg made sure to only repeat snippets from the ‘memorised set of lines’ he had used with the adults, even when it made absolutely no sense.

The Malfoy heir was so bewildered by his stupidity (and so focused on remaining polite) that he quite forgot to ask any of the more dangerous, probing questions that his parents would have coached him into. 

The Crabbe heir, meanwhile, spent the entire walk to the playroom staring at him. At his neck, to be precise. 

The Malfoy boy was fidgety despite his impeccably instilled manners, and his eyes had already dismissed Greg as the most boring part of the room. His eyes were already wandering to Greg's toy broom, to his enchanted wooden pony, to the stuffed kneazles and colourful wooden blocks. 

Crabbe was an odd four year old, still and silent. He hadn't said a word, even when he was spoken to during their exchange of greetings. And he still wasn't taking his eyes away from Greg's neck. Greg resisted the urge to check if his ascot was in place, because it was, he could feel the knot his mother had made that morning at his throat, hiding the choker from view. 

If he'd been a little older, Greg would have known to play it off. He would have known the art of lying without lying, of convincing someone of a lie with only a vacant grunt. He would not have been thrown off by someone staring at him.

Being all of four years old, though, it was downright terrifying to see the unflinching way those stony eyes followed his every move. And so, while the Malfoy heir was flying loops around the room above them, he sidled closer to the Crabbe heir.

“Why are you staring at my neck?”

Crabbe blinked at him, his eyes calm. Then, he reached for Greg's ascot. 

He jumped back, but Crabbe just stood there, arm outstretched with his palm open, and closed his eyes. 

Greg trembled. With fear or outrage, he wasn't sure. He remembered his mother, remembered he couldn't afford to fail here. 

“What are yo–”  

Crabbe closed his outstretched palm into a tight fist, brows furrowed in concentration, and gave a light tug. 

Greg yelped as he felt his choker jerk forward in Crabbe's direction. The other boy had opened his eyes and was staring at him wordlessly again. For the first time in his short life, Greg had felt true fear. 

And then Crabbe spoke.

“Secret,” he said. His voice was very soft and serious, like Mother’s voice. It didn't sound like it belonged to a four-year-old.

“What are you–” but Crabbe put a finger to his lips with one hand and pointed to Greg's choker with the other hand.

“Secret. I won't tell.”

And just like that, Crabbe became his best friend.

“He saw the choker, Mother.”

“Malfoy?”

“No, Crabbe.”

“Oh. Do not fret, my love. The boy is slow for his age. Lady Crabbe was just despairing that he couldn't even speak yet, and no sign of accidental magic either. They had hired a specialist after his third year to make sure he's not a… well...”

“He's not. He used magic.”

“Well. He is harmless. Anything he says now will be waved away as the ramblings of a silly child. You did wonderfully today, my love. In two weeks we will get you a permanent aura signature, one you will not have to replace until you turn thirteen. Disregard the Crabbe Heir.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Greg paused for a moment, watching his mother take off her earrings and keep them in her favourite dragon-oak box.

“Mother?”

She was taking out her hair pins now, careful to avoid pricking herself. She didn't like having Merry help her with her hair. She didn't even let his father touch it. Her hair was her most prized asset.

“What is it, Gregory?”

“After I get my permanent aura, may we invite Heir Crabbe over again?”

She turned to him, half her hair unbound and the other half pinned tightly to her head.

Greg tried not to look too innocent, but she didn't buy it, chuckling to herself at whatever she saw in his face. 

“If you want to see him so badly and promise to be careful, of course we can. I will write to Lady Crabbe tomorrow.”

“Thank you, mother!”

The old woman was covered in piercings and drawings – tattoos – that moved around her skin with a mind of its own. 

When he'd stumbled in through her floo at his mother's heels, she had stared at him for a long moment. He was wearing an enchanted mask to conceal his identity, but it still felt uncomfortable to be stared at so intensely. 

“This one's young. Ye didn't tell me he's a kid.”

“I am paying for you to ask no questions,” his mother's voice was frosty. The old woman seemed unaffected, kneeling down to look at Greg eye to eye.

“Ye know what yer here for, kid?”

Greg nodded.

“I'm getting an aura signature.”

The woman sighed before standing up to walk further into her workshop. 

“Mithros help us all. Right, hop onto the chair an’ take off enough of his robes that I got space ta work on his abdomen. ‘s where his core’s s’posed to be.”

Greg felt his mother's hand tighten on his shoulder before she helped him up onto a high chair and undid the buttons on his robes to expose his belly. 

When the lady returned, she was carrying an unfamiliar tool. It resembled an oversized fountain pen with a tube attached to the end of it leading towards a box glowing with unfamiliar runes. He could hear a faint whirring noise coming from it. 

“You'll be donating for this?” The lady addressed his mother. 

“Yes,” came the tight reply.

The lady nodded then smiled at Greg. He didn't like the look of that smile.

“Rest easy, kid. It'll be over before ya know it.”

She wasn't lying. It was over in less than a minute. 

But it hurt, enough that Greg almost blacked out from screaming. When he finally came back to himself, there was a magic circle drawn with a steady hand glowing on his belly and his mother was channeling so much of her power into it that her lips were turning blue. 

The horrible old lady watched critically for a few more seconds before finally stopping his mother from magically draining herself. She nearly collapsed as she stopped the flow of magic, catching herself on the armrest of Greg's chair.

Without warning, the magic circle sank into his body. He felt a nauseating jolt at the cold, cold ice suddenly overtaking him. The old lady muttered to herself before drawing a second, marginally less painful glowing circle on his belly.

All the freezing cold rushed towards the circle, to Greg's relief. But the old lady wasn't done.

“Fair warning: This'll hurt.”

She swiftly drew a third glowing circle and Greg's world exploded into waves of agony.

When he came to, he was in his own bed at home with his mother gently stroking his hair. There was a strange warmth in his belly that hadn't been there before. 

It was superficial, he knew. No matter how hard he tried, he'd never be able to cast a spell with this fake magical aura. 

But for a split second, his mother's magic had engulfed his body, tricking Magic into thinking it belonged to him. The old tattooed woman had isolated and sealed it into his belly, a weak and insignificant core, but enough to trick the senses of most aura masters and even Magic herself. 

More importantly, for the next few hours any spells his mother performed would be attributed by Magic to Greg. 

His name was now in the Book of Admittance. He was going to Hogwarts.

“Why don't you talk when your parents are around?”

Vincent shrugged and looked at him with an expression that seemed to say ‘same reason you don't talk much in front of my parents’. He was good at doing that, fitting an entire conversation into a single look.

But Greg was all of five years old and cranky, so he shoved Vincent off his wooden pony without bothering to appreciate the nuance of his facial expressions, his ability to communicate multitudes in complete silence. 

“Don't push,” grumbled Vincent from the floor. He sounded winded, and Greg immediately regretted pushing him so hard. It was difficult to rein in his strength sometimes. 

“...Sorry.”

Vincent nodded in understanding as he pushed himself to his feet. Greg apologetically nudged his wooden pony back towards him. 

“Sorry for pushing you. You can take her for a gallop if you want. I won't snitch if you break anything.”

Vincent, who was also five years old, lit up at the prospect of galloping around the playroom on the pony. 

After three circuits around the room, he dismounted and joined Greg, who had started working on a moving-portrait jigsaw puzzle. 

It was difficult and  frustrating. Whoever was in the portrait kept disappearing from the frame, leaving behind hundreds of dull grey puzzle pieces where before there had been dozens of different colours. 

Twenty minutes in, Vincent looked up from the puzzle and scowled.

“Bothersome,” he announced.

“I–huh?”

“Bothersome. To speak. I don't like speaking. They will bother me to speak more. Same with magic. Bothersome to show them, they will want me to show more.”

It was the most words he'd spoken in a row since they'd met. Greg tilted his head in thought.

“Why do you speak to me, then?”

Vincent shrugged.

“You are not a bother. Not like Malfoy. You… you know when. To leave well alone.”

“I could tell Lady Crabbe what you just said to me,” Greg pointed out.

In answer, Vincent waved his hand and in a display of incredible power, wandlessly solved the jigsaw puzzle.

“Will you tell?” he asked in his soft, adult-like voice.

Greg stared at the completed puzzle set before looking back at him.

“It's a secret. I won't tell.”

Vincent smiled. He didn't say another word for the rest of their playdate but it didn't matter. They took apart the puzzle (after Greg threatened the man in the portrait into staying put) and worked to put it back together in companionable silence.

Squibs were known for being physically strong. Malfoy (unaware that Greg was paying attention) had once smugly stated that a vulgar amount of physical strength was one of nature’s many ways to signal who was meant to serve and who was meant to be served. (In response, Greg had innocently wondered aloud if there was such a thing as a vulgar amount of magic, and if it was nature’s way of signalling anything in particular. Malfoy had spluttered in the most satisfying manner, and Vince had choked on his strangled laughter in an even more satisfying manner.)

For his part, Greg had read dozens of papers about the Problem of Squibs. There were two categories of squibs; the ones who had never developed a magical circulation system or core in the womb, and the ones who had. 

The ones with damaged cores were often more likely to be sickly and physically weak, but it was also much easier for them to fly under the radar. With a little help from enchanted tools and a few blood-magic rituals, they'd be able to project their own magical aura and live as a weak mage even if they'd never be able to use magic to the same level as a real one.

Greg was unlucky enough to be born a Type 1 Squib – essentially a muggle. And incidentally, the type known for being sturdy and strong from birth. The papers studying his brand of squibness were few and far between, and none of them were in English or available in Britain. In fact, several of them had been banned or restricted since 1981 for some reason.

Fortunately, his mother had access to 265 magical libraries worldwide and was highly supportive of his pursuit of knowledge.

From his extensive (illegal) research, he strongly suspected that type 1 squibs suffered from the polar opposite of whatever the Fade was. Of course, there was a severe lack of research into the physiology of squib bodies, but his working theory was that it stemmed from an imbalance. 

Wild Magic, for all its chaos, followed well-documented scientific laws of balance. It followed that tamed magic was also subject to these laws, if only in a different form.

Though it was very illegal to know it, generations of inbreeding tended to create an imbalance of magic in the bloodline; to correct for this, it was natural that imbalances in other aspects of a child's development might occur. 

A perfect scenario would result in a normal Magical child, with unseen imbalances in their magic and physical or mental wellbeing. The Black Madness, The Goyle Stupidity, The Malfoy Frailty – it was the price for not getting the Fade, and for not becoming a Squib. At least, that was Greg's theory.

But it made sense. It made sense. Greg was the product of the worst case scenario – a Type 1 whose magic had been balanced out completely by nature. He was born with a vulgar amount of strength and was obscenely healthy for a sheltered pureblood. His size and strength, extremely disproportionate for his age, was both a blessing and a curse. 

A blessing, because he was physically stronger than his father by the time he was ten. He was agile and fast, and his father stupid and weak. As long as Greg was there, Father could never lay a finger on Mother. 

A curse, because he resembled his father so much that any displays of strength would make his mother more closed off, quiet, cold. He'd once accidentally dislocated her shoulder, throwing a small tantrum for one reason or other. He'd never forgotten the look of terror she'd given him. The way she had stiffened at his touch for weeks after. He'd vowed then, to only ever use his physical strength as a last resort. His most valuable asset, as his mother told him, was his intellect, his cunning, his wiles. Not his strength.

His strength was a sign that he was a freak of nature, so he preferred not to use it whenever he could.

Vince had hummed neutrally when Greg had first laid out his musings, theories and confessions about the nature of his freakish strength to him.

They'd been lying side by side on the sparring mats, tired out from wrestling each other. (Greg won every time, but Vince never seemed to tire of challenging him.)

Vince had wandlessly put up an overly powerful silencing charm (an incredible feat for someone not yet in Hogwarts). It was a quiet invitation to have an open conversation. Greg, free from the pressure of having to hide, had spilled his guts as he usually did when Vince came over for their playdates. 

Mother didn't like talking about his condition, but Vince was usually fascinated by it.

Usually. This time, he'd stayed silent for longer than usual, long enough for Greg to get uncomfortable. Long enough for him to sit up and turn away from Vince, suddenly ashamed by his own vulnerability. His freakishness.

When Vince finally spoke, his voice was almost too soft to hear. 

“Why do you think you are the freak of nature?”

“W-what?”

Vince looked back at him calmly, his dark eyes solid and grounding.

“Didn't you say all the papers you read – no matter how hard they try to be unbiased – remain biased towards the… the in-group of the author?” 

“I did say that but what does that have to do with–”

“What is your in-group?”

Now he was genuinely baffled.

“I don't know. Purebloods? Book of Gold families?”

Vince frowned, as though trying to sort his thoughts into a coherent string of words for Greg to understand.

“Your… your in-group is Type 1 Squibs. People with muggle bodies.”

“...and?”

“The studies you read are not written by Type 1 Squibs. There are billions of muggles in the world. Father complains about it. Nature and magic allows it to happen. So it is more natural for a person to be a muggle than it is for a person to be magic.”

Sometimes, it felt like Vince was an contrary old man wearing the costume of a ten year old boy. 

“Even if it is more natural it is not–”

 “So you are not the freak of nature. A freak of nature will have too much magic. I am the freak between us two.”

Greg let out a peal of helpless, hysterical laughter. Because this was the last thing he'd expected for Vince to take away from his confession. He lay back down on the floor, shaking with the force of his giggles. A glance at Vince sent him into hysterics again. 

Vince looked so innocent and so fond, with that tiny quirk to his lips even while looking absolutely baffled by Greg's laughter.

He should have known.

In the end, Vince was his friend, wasn't he? He didn't particularly care about magical theory or the minutiae of what made a squib a squib. He didn’t care about many things he really should have cared more about. He didn't care that Greg was functionally a muggle, that he wasn't fully human.

His only concern was that Greg felt like a freak of nature, and he wanted to show him how vehemently he disagreed with that sentiment. Because he cared about Greg. 

When he'd finally calmed down enough to be coherent, he gave Vince a friendly elbow to the ribs.

“You know exactly why I'm a freak of nature, you numpty. Wizards– wizards are special. Not deformed.”

Vince nodded, still calm and steady, though he was beginning to sound a little frustrated when he responded.

“Wizards are special, and muggles burned us at stake for it. Because to them we are freaks of nature. Just like to us, they are freaks of nature.”

“So what does that make me? I'm not a muggle. I'm a squib. Everyone– everyone I know is a wizard. It's common sense that squibs are freaks”

“Common sense is…is biased. You've said so yourself. Many times,” Vince pointed out reasonably.

Greg groaned and fell back onto the mat. How to make Vince understand?

“Look, imagine if-if everyone could fly. Everyone had wings. Except me. And every day I had to see everyone take to the skies and fly wherever they wanted to and I had to stay on the ground, even though I badly wanted to fly too. If everyone had wings you'd be a freak because you don't have wings.”

“You could use a broom,” suggested Vince stubbornly.

“Ugh! Okay, maybe something simpler to get it through your thick skull – imagine if I had no legs. I can't walk, I can't run, I can't even stand up."

“Enchanted prostheti–”

“Just imagine that there's no such thing as enchanted prosthetics. In fact, no prosthetics at all. This is an analogy to my having no magic. You can't give me prosthetics to fix me. At best, you can make it look like I'm walking to other people, but I'll never know what it's like to stand up and walk and run. I can't even mount a broom to fly. You can't say I'm fully human in that state, when I'm incapable of experiencing so many things people with legs do every day without thought. Can you?”

Vince mulled this over, looking very thoughtful indeed. Greg left him to it, standing up to stretch before calling for Merry to bring them some tea and snacks. 

Greg was halfway through a strawberry scone when Vince finally turned to him, his face serious.

“I would carry you.”

Greg blinked stupidly. “Huh?”

Vince was critically looking him up and down, as if calculating his body weight.

“You are not too heavy. Without your legs you will be light as a snidget. I will carry you. So you would know how it feels. To walk and run.”

“That is not the point I was–”

“I know. I am saying I have enough magic for two people to use. Whatever you want to see and do with magic, I will help you. I will be your legs if you want me to be. I will be your wings. I will be your magic. And you will not be a freak of nature. You will be my friend.”

And then Vince went silent, as he usually did after he finished saying all he needed to say. He refreshed the silencing charms around them with a wave of his hand before tucking into the pastries between them with gusto. 

Greg, meanwhile, had dropped his croissant. A knot had formed in his throat, and his eyes were prickling. This was bad.  

His mother, sensible woman that was, knew that the world wasn't made for him. She'd trained him to fight for all the scraps he could get, but to be content with mediocrity. Because it was dangerous for an outcast to aim too high. The world wasn't made for him, and it would give nothing to him for free. The price of some things was too high for it to be worth chasing.

Vince, being a certifiable idiot who knew nothing of the world, of course thought nothing of freely offering his world to Greg on a silver platter. 

And Greg? 

Well, Greg was always a little bit more of an idiot than he was a sensible person, at least since he'd met Vince.

So he considered it. The idea of using Vince’s wings to fly.

He didn't hate it.

Greg's mother had gone to Durmstrang as a young girl. She hadn't enjoyed her time there, and had no friends from her alma mater to speak of. (She'd occasionally receive correspondence from a Durmstrang professor, but Greg was fairly certain they weren't friends so much as they both wished for Pierson Garret of the Association of Magical Theory to trip over a cliff and die)

For Greg, the only impact of his mother having been sent to Durmstrang was that she was slightly detached from her rightful social circles in Britain, practically a shut-in compared to the likes of Lady Malfoy and Lady Parkinson. (She was close friends with Lady Crabbe, but Greg suspected it was more that he was close friends with Heir Crabbe and their mothers ended up spending a lot of time together as a result.)

Anyway, Greg's mother was from Durmstrang. She'd constructed basic occlumency shieleds for him anchored to her own magic, because that was the type of thing a Durmstrang student's parent did to prepare them for school.

She couldn't possibly have prepared him for the immensely powerful hat that could bypass her shields like they weren't even there. He tried not to hold it against her as the brim of the old hat fell over his eyes.

My. I haven't seen student like you in years.

Greg braced himself.

Will you kick me out? he asked.

Why would I? I am merely a hat. My duty is to sort students, not to kick them out.

But–

In times of yore, Hogwarts was simply a school of magic, where sorcerers and non-sorcerers alike would attend for a foundation in magical knowledge. 

Squibs used to be allowed in Hogwarts? asked Greg, quite forgetting to be afraid in his amazement.

Not just squibs, child. Muggle children, following in the footsteps of their Gifted brothers and sisters. Hogwarts before the statute was one of the few places where a peasant could receive a high class education and escape the confines of their birth-class. It was a time when Wild Magic ran rampant, and having an affinity for magic was only one of the many ways to harness its power.

Why wasn't any of this written in our history books?

The hat made a noise, something between a chuckle and a snort. It sounded strange, echoing inside his mental space.

Why indeed, little Ravenclaw.

Greg jolted, remembering why he was having a conversation with an ancient hat in the first place.

No! Not Ravenclaw! Put me with Vince, where I'm supposed to go. He's the only one who knows, the only one who can protect me here.

Ah! A Hufflepuff who knows the value of friendship, then?

I will burn you to ashes if you don't put me in Slytherin.

... If ever I did hear a more Gryffindor threat…

Greg sighed.

You aren't going to snitch, are you? I'll probably get executed if you did.

The hat let out another huff-snort.

You must forgive me, Giftless One. I am not your enemy. It has simply been centuries since I have last met one of you. I had forgotten how a yearning for magic, for learning, could feel so pure . It was truly a pleasure to meet you. Hogwarts is blessed to have two Heralds to usher in a new Age of Sorcery. How nostalgic. Why, back in Godrics's day–

Just put me in Slytherin if you are so keen on helping me, begged Greg.

Oh, very well. I was only teasing you, little snake. Your fangs are well-hidden, your cunning perfected to an art. So very wily, so very sneaky. So many secrets. Better be…

“SLYTHERIN!”

Vince's hand was warm. It wasn't just his body heat, Greg realised. When he concentrated with all his might, he could feel the warm tendrils slowly wrap around his arm and sink into his skin. The heat tingled as it travelled up his arm, towards his shoulder. He yelped and pulled away when it became scorching.

“Again?” Vince asked, watching as Greg noted down his observations into his commonplace book using a language and writing system he'd invented with his mother.

Greg nodded.

“I want to know how it feels to channel magic. The hat said that back during the Founder's age you didn't need a core to harness wild magic – so there has to be some way around it for me!”

“People could use magic without a core in the Founders’ time?” Vince asked curiously.

“If they could, our history books have been scrubbed of any evidence that they did. The closest allusion I could find to a non-wizard using magic was in the diaries of Hortensia The Horrible, and she was considered crazy even by her contemporaries.”

“Maybe whoever scrubbed the evidence didn't think her diaries worth the effort,” suggested Vince quite reasonably. 

“Maybe. But if it's been hundreds and hundreds  of years… maybe it's all just been forgotten. Like old traditions that no one cares to follow, because they're outdated and useless. Because squibs are useless.”

“You are not useless. And old traditions can be revived,” said Vince. 

Greg laughed. 

“I suppose you're right.”

Greg watched in unadulterated awe as Rigel Black slowly lowered Neville Longbottom to the ground with nothing but a Levitation charm. So much raw power. It reminded him of the way medievel wizarding accounts described ebbs and flows of Wild Magic.

He felt Vince nudge him and quickly slipped Vacant and Confused #2 over his awed expression. He turned to grunt in Vince's directions as thanks, but Vince was looking past him. At Malfoy, who was busy stuffing his entire foot into his mouth.

“Oh yes, what a tragedy to lose someone with so much potential to grow up into a snot-nosed muggle-loving blood-traitor like his parents.”

That stupid, arrogant, idiotic little twit. It was bad enough that Vince and Greg had to trail behind him everywhere and stop him from throwing himself into trouble at every turn. It was bad enough that he ruined every playdate he forced his way into.

Greg locked eyes with Vince, and they began their oldest and most long-suffering nonverbal exchange. 

Malfoy is An Idiot #2

We’ll need to stop him from escalating this, Greg.

I Know #4

Thankfully, the Weasley was just as stupid as Malfoy and was kind enough to escalate the conflict before Malfoy could think to do anything.

Rigel Black stepped in front of the jinx meant for Malfoy.

Holding onto Malfoy's arms to prevent him from acting dumber than a Weasley, Greg resisted the urge to share a deadpan look with Vince. Too many eyes were on them. Greg sighed. He wanted to do experiments with Vince's magic. He wanted to read the Transfiguration periodical that his mother had sent him that morning. He wanted –

“What a funny little picture," said Black brightly, "I do hope someone tells Malfoy he looks like an angry Scottish terrier right now.”

By Thursday morning, Rigel Black was starting to look harassed, mainly due to Malfoy having the social skills of a mountain troll. Really, Greg had to hand it to him. Malfoy had beaten him at his own game. 

Giving the Black Heir the silent treatment of all things, and breaking it just to insult him. 

Even Vince’s perpetually unbothered forehead creased in agitation when he heard the idiot interrogating the Black heir about why couldn’t perform a levitation charm when he’d accomplished such a powerful one just the day before.

Black even sat with Vince and Greg during Defense to avoid Malfoy. They shared a look ever Black's head.

Malfoy is An Idiot #13

Focus on your Lumos, Greg.

Greg didn’t roll his eyes (that was too self-aware for Heir Goyle) but dutifully flicked his bespoke Demonstration Wand in the correct sequence of movements while grunting out an unnecessary Lumos to produce a weak glow of light.

Surprisingly, Black seemed to genuinely be having trouble with the charm. 

Greg exchanged another look with Vince.

Later, said Vince's eyes.

That night, while Zabini was washing up before bed, Greg signaled to Vince to put up a silencing charm. Once he had done so, he turned to Greg, holding up a hand to stop his questions.

“Black keeps his magic locked up. I can’t see his aura at all. It is caged. I let mine run free. Whatever I want is what my magic wants. It is probably more difficult for him to get his superficial desires and his caged magic to align. I do not think he has realised it yet.”

Huh.

“Is Black more powerful than you?”

Vince mulled it over, before nodding once.

“Caged, he is at my level. Free, he would be more powerful.”

“This isn't going to work. We can't possibly research this on our own.”

“We can't?”

Greg stifled a chuckle at Vince's bewildered expression.

“We can't,” he confirmed, “We don't have access to certain restricted tomes, and we don't have the knowledge or experience to even begin to know where to look when it comes to this.”

“Hm. What is your plan?”

“We make contact with academics who are better informed on magical theory than us. We present them with our hypothesis.”

“What is our hypothesis?”

“That wild magic can be harnessed without a magical core. We can't have them know it's us though, we need a fake identity for correspondence…”

“Gregory Crabbe,” suggested Vince at once and Greg smacked the side of his head.

“We need to not be linked to this. So no, Vincent Goyle won't work either, don't suggest that.”

Vince drooped sadly in his chair, the picture of dejection.

They ended up compromising, and settled on Vigory Coyle.

The library was emptier than usual on Hogsmeade weekends. Vince and Greg celebrated by not hiding in its dark nooks and crannies while conducting their research.

“What if,” Vince said, staring at his open book (charmed too look like a badly written potions essay), “You are afflicted with the mirror of what I am afflicted with?”

Greg allowed his face to melt into Vacant and Confused #23 (it was becoming increasingly easier to do it, now that he had so many opportunities to practice his persona in class).

“What are you afflicted with? Idiocy?”

Vince shook his head seriously.

“I am speaking of your theory about the Fade being the opposite of your affliction. I am afflicted with magic, and you are afflicted with a lack of magic. Cored Squibs and Faded Squibs represent imbalance in magic. Our magic is balanced.”

“Our magic?

“Both your parents are magical, and yet you never developed a magical core in the womb. Don't you find it strange?”

“Type 1 squibs are not that rare–”

“But they are observed to be physically stronger than their magical counterparts. When Magic detects an imbalance, it can balance it out by giving you a weak, damaged core, or a weak, damaged magical circulatory system. Or, it can balance it out by shifting the imbalance outside the realm of magical cores.”

Huh. That actually made sense.

“So… you're suggesting that your core and my lack of core are both a result of an imbalance being successfully corrected, where the Fade and Type 2 squibs are instances of an unsuccessful imbalance correction?”

“I am not suggesting it. This book is. It's a theory called Divine Restriction,” he began reading aloud, “It posits that unlike children born with damaged cores and systems, coreless squibs are not disabled or weakened. Mother Magic sacrificed their cores to grant them good health and supernatural strength. It is an attempt by Magic to right the imbalance within the bloodline, and to cure the Fade naturally.” 

He turned back to Greg, his eyes expressionless, “And it failed because squibs would always be cast out of pureblood families.”

“...Where did you get that book?”

“I sent a letter to Nicholas Flamel. As Vigory Coyle, on behalf of a squib friend. He sent this back.”

Greg buried his face in his hands, stifling the delighted laughter bubbling up in his chest. He had so much work to do, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

During the weekends, Zabini rarely entered their dorm room except to sleep. It provided the perfect opportunity to really make some progress on their research. (It helped that both Vince and Greg were excellent at communicating with each other exclusively via grunts and eye contact, which was a great incentive for Zabini to want to avoid them)

Vince sat patiently in the middle of their dorm room as Greg slowly drew a complicated array around him in crimson cinnabar ink. This experiment would be critical for their research and it was the first time they could carry it out without the threat of anyone walking in on them.

One of the more unusual torture methods used by the Alliance during the Great war was to lock prisoners into magic-proof cage-circles. The cages were tethered to a blockading rune that blocked the passage of any type of magic, instead only absorbing any spells thrown at it to strengthen its magical barriers.

Pictured in figure 23.1 is the array used by the Butcher of Ithaca to contain Lord Hans Dagerworth. Following his rescue three days thence, his core was completely depleted, with magical reserves being near-squib levels. It took four weeks for Lord Dagerworth to recover his Lord Level reserves following his ordeal.

Attempts to recreate the array by researchers have largely been met with failure due to the impractically complex arrangement of runic patterns in the array along with the sheer amount of raw power required to stabilise it. 

According to researcher Parker-Kryofer, “One would need a Mastery of runes and arithmancy along with the cooperation of at least one Lord Level mage to execute a single array of this calibre. The structure of Grindelwald's army was such that such rare skills would be commonplace and evenly distributed within individual squads – it was what made it such a powerful tactic of warfare. Of course, the array has now become functionally useless with the advent of magic-suppressing cuffs in 1949.”

The runic patterns were tedious but not really that hard for Greg to grasp. He suspected that whoever invented the array had deliberately made it look overcomplicated, adding redundant symbols and arithmantic sequences to throw others off.

“Think you can replicate the power needed to fuel this?” Greg asked as he finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat from his brow with a cinnabar-stained hand

Vince shot him a deadpan look before huffing in amusement. In a swift movement, he slammed a palm onto Greg's painstakingly drawn array. Immediately, it glowed a dangerous blood-red color. A few moments later, a shimmering translucent barrier sprang up from the array surrounding Vince. His friend frowned and jerked his hand away from the circle.

“Try to escape,” Greg suggested. 

Vince nodded as he stood, but slammed into the barrier the moment he stepped forward. 

“Oof,” he said unhappily, rubbing his nose with a betrayed expression. Greg muffled a snort. 

“I meant to use your magic and try to escape it. Your strongest spell.” he clarified.

Vince tilted his head before hurling what was very clearly a half-hearted disarming charm at the barrier. It dissolved into nothingness the moment it made contact. The barrier hummed as it absorbed the magic into itself.

Intrigued, Greg watched as Vince threw spells that were more and more powerful at the barrier to no success. After a few minutes, he couldn't even recognise some of the spells his friend was using. It didn't help that Vince's preferred method of casting was nonverbal.

“Okay stop, stop, you don't need to cast a Fiendfyre. I can let you out by breaking the circle. But before that, take this. Measure the ambient magic inside the circle for me.”

“This… this proves it! All magic that's ever used comes from Wild Magic! Cores can't simply produce magic on it's own, they just process and refine Wild Magic from nature. This changes so much!"

"I don't get it," said Vince helpfully, though he was smiling at Greg's excitement.

"Look. Regular people perform magic by harnessing ambient wild magic using a wand as a conduit, right? But a wand is not needed, is it?”

Vince raised an eyebrow and wandlessly summoned Greg's tie from across the room. Greg pointed at him triumphantly

“Exactly! There're two conduits at work here – the magical circulatory system and the wand! If we figure out a way to replicate the function of the magical circulatory system into a wand, anyone would be able to perform magic! I could cure my squibhood!"

"Ah."

Greg deflated at the monotone response.

"You don't sound very excited."

"Is it selfish," Vince pondered, "To want to keep you all to myself? To keep our lives just the way it is? To clip your wings forever, because it meant you'd always need me to fly?"

Greg stared at him. 

"You–you don't want me to be cured?"

Vince shook his head vehemently.

"No. No. I do want you to have magic. I am only… afraid."

"Afraid," repeated Greg a little incredulously. In all the years he'd known Vince, he'd never feared anything. He was the most apathetic person in Greg's life.

"I am afraid you will leave me behind when you get your magic. Once you no longer need me."

"Vince… of course I'm not going to leave you behind. I'd never.. leave–"

A cold, slimy darkness crept up at the edges of his vision. Distantly, he noticed that Vince's normally-calm face was doing whatever the opposite of calm was. He heard his name, shouted in a panicked voice, but he only fell deeper into the void.

Ah. He'd been ignoring it, in the excitement of all that research. He hardly ever got sick, after all. Type 1 squib, and all that.

He didn't feel Vince shaking him in a flurry of panic, didn't see him valiantly try to fight off the sickness before he too collapsed to the floor in exhaustion.

Don't worry, he wanted to tell Vince. I'll be fine. I won't leave you behind.

But the Sleeping Sickness overtook him, and he did not say anything at all.