Chapter Text
Sansa is on the couch reading Pride and Prejudice for the hundredth time when she hears the distant pop of a portkey outside.
It's about time, she thinks. She's never sure why her siblings have to ride that train from Hogwarts all the way down to London, only to portkey back up to Scotland, but she has learned over the years not to question things too much. She may have grown up around magic, but she understands that there are some things that are not meant for her.
There's a bark of Robb's laughter and she feels herself smile as she slips her finger in between the pages of Jane Austen as a bookmark. She may be a squib, an outcast from wizard society, but her family has not disowned her – not like the stories she has heard of other families with squibs. No, Sansa is lucky. And Robb? Robb is her biggest supporter.
She hears Rickon start moving upstairs, also having heard the portkey, and mum comes out of the kitchen. Sansa has just stood up, book still clutched in her hand, when the door opens and dad comes through first, followed by Arya, then Bran, and finally Robb.
Except – not finally. Behind Robb is a boy she's never seen before, with dark hair curling around his ears, wire-rimmed glasses, and a fully muggle outfit just like the rest of them.
Robb freezes and his eyes go wide. “Sansa,” he starts, “I thought you'd be in France.”
Sansa herself attends a very prestigious all girls school outside of London, and one of her best friends, Margaery, is taking her to France with her family this summer. “I'm not leaving for a few weeks,” she corrects Robb. She thought she'd explained it well enough in her last letter.
Its then that she remembers mum mentioning that Robb's best friend would be visiting this summer, though Robb had written no such thing in his own letter. This must be Jon – Sansa has heard enough about him in the six years Robb has been at that school. She has never met him, though she knows Robb has gone over to Ireland to visit him the past few summers.
Robb is silent for a few moments as she waits expectantly for the proper introduction to his friend. Finally it comes, a hesitant, “Jon, this is my sister, Sansa.”
She watches Jon's brow furrow, his mouth turns down, his eyes go from Robb, to Arya, to Bran, before he says, “I didn't know you had another sister.”
Sansa feels like she can hear her blood pumping through her veins in the silence of the room; soon it's all she can hear. Jane Austen falls to the floor from her suddenly limp fingers and she barely hears her mother's scolding sigh of, “Robb.”
And then she runs.
She shoves her way past mum and through the kitchen and out the back door. She doesn't pay attention to where she's going – all she can hear is that horrible little voice in her head.
Robb doesn't talk about you. Robb is ashamed of you. They all are.
Somehow, inexplicably, she ends up at the small shed where they keep the quidditch supplies. She hates this building. It isn't meant for her.
She yanks open the door anyway and slams it shut behind her, finding a spot on the floor to sit. It's only then, when she's finally stopped moving, that the tears come, hot and fast. She pulls her knees up to her chest and buries her face in them and tries to be as quiet as she can. In the distance, she can hear her family shouting her name, but they will not be able to find her. She has no wand to trace, and tracking spells don't work on her, either.
Some things are not meant for Sansa. She has always known it.
She doesn't know how long she spends curled up in the quidditch shed. Eventually she stops crying and she wishes that she could call Mya – one of her best friends from school and the only person who knows about magic. They'd gotten drunk one night from vodka that Margaery had snuck into the dorms and she and Mya had been the last ones awake. She remembers Mya pinky-promising her that she would never tell.
But she can't call Mya, because electronics don't work at Winterfell Manor. It is too old, too infused with magic. If she wants to make a call on her mobile, she has to bike into town. She has all her friends convinced that it's just poor reception.
(And that only reminds her that the Starks are one of the old families – a long line of proud witches and wizards. She does not belong here.)
The door to the shed suddenly opens and she gasps a bit in surprise, which makes Jon's eyes move to the floor, where she is. If she'd just stayed silent, perhaps he would have never seen her.
“Hi,” he says, like he's not sure what else to say. “Your family's looking for you.”
“I'm a squib, not deaf,” she bites back, feeling a fresh wave of tears rise up in her.
Jon sighs, then looks off to the left and in the distance, she can still hear her name being called. Then he comes inside and lets the door swing shut behind him and he sits on the dusty floor beside her.
After a few moments of silence, he says, “I don't want to say that I know what it's like, but I think I can understand a little.” She gives him a glare, and he winces a bit. “I just meant, I'm muggleborn.”
“Congratulations.” She balls her hands into fists and looks away from him.
“What I mean is that my family doesn't talk about me either,” he explains, speaking slowly and carefully. She likes his accent. “It's not the same, not totally, but my ma spent so many years lying to people, I think she just found it easier to stop talking about me altogether. She can't tell anyone that I made the quidditch team, or how many O levels I'm taking.”
That makes Sansa turn her head again to look at him. He's got a rueful smile on his face, it looks a bit sad.
“She got a new job last year,” he continues. “I don't think any of her new coworkers know I exist. I know it's not totally the same, she isn't allowed to tell people about what I am, but I still... it still sucks.”
“At least you have magic,” she whispers.
“So what?” She levels another glare at him and this time it makes him smile. “Magic doesn't make anyone inherently better, no matter what those weird blood purists say.” His face twists into a scowl and she wonders if he's had run-ins with them before. She knows the type – families like the Targaryens who think magic should only be kept in the old families. No muggleborns, no half breeds, and certainly no squibs.
She used to think her own family was different – hasn't dad been championing for the rights of house elves and goblins and werewolves and other magical beings? She has never doubted it before, but suddenly she wonders if dad is the same – if dad doesn't talk about her, either. He sent her away to a boarding school in a different country - what if dad doesn't talk about her, just like Robb doesn't?
Robb, who always told her it didn't matter whether she had magic or not, she was still a part of the family. Robb, who encouraged her painting and writing and told her she could be whatever she wanted to be. Her older brother, her protector. He's ashamed of her.
“My ma doesn't have magic," Jon says, his voice fierce. "I've got friends back home that don't. They aren't any less of a person than me. And if I'm being honest, there's stuff from the muggle world I miss when I'm at school.”
“Like what?” she sniffs, trying to subtly wipe her nose on the knees of her jeans, which are still pulled tight to her chest.
“Like phones. Like movies and football and good music. Good music,” he emphasizes, “have you noticed that all wizard music is just about magic? It's like they can't sing about anything else.”
To her surprise, a bubble of laughter builds in her and it escapes from her lips. Jon looks a bit pleased with himself.
“I do like muggle music better,” she admits, something she has never even thought to say to any of her family before.
“We'll have to compare,” he says with a soft smile. “Swap playlists or something.”
“Electronics don't work here,” she tells him, and he nods.
“That's right, Robb told me I'd have to go into town to ring my ma.”
“I do that to talk to my friends.”
“Well,” he shrugs, and his eyes dart away from her, “maybe we can go into town together and go to a movie or something. Robb doesn't really get them, he says. It'll be nice to go with someone who does.”
“I'd like that,” she whispers, then presses her face into her knees because she thinks she might cry again.
“Robb might be weird about it,” Jon continues. “But honestly, I'm kinda pissed at him for never mentioning you, so he can deal with it.”
Another burst of laughter, mixed with tears – she is a swirl of emotions and she's too muddled to try and figure out what she's feeling. She's not sure how long they sit there, but eventually she notices that her name is no longer being called.
“We should probably go back,” Jon murmurs at some point, and when she looks up, she can see that the sky through the little shed window has turned orange.
He helps her stand, and they leave the shed and walk back towards the house. The kitchen door opens and mum appears on the landing, hand pressed to her heart. Robb is right behind her, looking pale and withdrawn.
“Sansa-” he starts, but she holds her hand up.
“I'm not ready to talk to you yet,” she tells him, but it comes out shakier than she wanted. She wanted to sound strong, cold even. Instead it just sounds like she's about to cry again. The stricken look on Robb's face doesn't make her feel any better, though she wishes it did. She wishes she took comfort in hurting him, but it just makes everything worse.
“You missed dinner,” mum says softly, “come inside, I have some warmed for you.”
She follows her mum in and sits at the kitchen table as mum sets a plate in front of her. She notes that mum doesn't use magic at all to do any of it, though she does suspect there was a warming spell. Mum always tries to do things the non-magic way when she can.
“Jon and I are going to go to a muggle movie in town,” she tells mum, picking up her fork and pushing some peas around on her plate.
Jon gives an uncomfortable cough before he says, “I just thought it'd be nice to do something...” He trails off, running a hand through his hair awkwardly.
“You missed dinner, too,” mum says, voice still just as gentle, gesturing at another seat at the table, and then another plate appears in her hands.
“I think a movie is a fine idea,” dad says. He and mum sit at the table with her and Jon - Robb has disappeared, like he understands she can't bear to even look at him right now.
“Dad?” She still hasn't eaten a thing, she's not sure she can. When dad looks at her, she asks, “do you talk about me? At work?”
Dad sits back in his chair and mum reaches across the table to take his hand.
“Do you know, when I was young, I never thought much about the rights of non-witches and wizards. And do you know why I've made it my mission now? I'm ashamed to say it took you to open my eyes to it. You're all I talk about, Sansa, even when I'm talking about werewolves or muggleborns or centaurs or... anyone.”
“I should go,” Jon murmurs, pushing his chair back and standing as Sansa presses her hands to her face. He leaves the room, though there's a part of her that wishes he would stay. He understands her, and he seems to understand that she needs to be alone with her parents right now.
“You aren't ashamed of me?” she asks, voice wobbly and low. She sounds so pathetic, but she needs to know.
“Never,” dad says fiercely.
“But you sent me away.”
“We thought it was best,” mum sighs, and then her chair scrapes back and suddenly Sansa is wrapped in her mother's arms. “We looked for the best school that we could send you to. We wanted you to have everything. Any opportunity you wanted. You couldn't have that here at Winterfell.”
“I think perhaps we should have explained it better,” dad says, just as soft. “I think there's a lot of things we could have done better. I think there's some things we should talk about more, with the whole family.”
Sansa thought, perhaps, that she was all out of tears, but she isn't. She turns and buries her face into her mother and cries for what feels like hours. She cries until she is too tired to cry anymore and then dad picks her up like he hasn't done since she was a child and carries her upstairs.
Maybe one day she can forgive Robb, she thinks. Maybe one day she can forgive Arya and Bran, though their betrayal hurts less. She and Arya never really got along, and Bran likely followed the example set by his older siblings. It's Robb that hurts most of all.
But maybe one day.
Maybe one day dad will succeed, maybe one day being a squib won't be the shameful thing it is now. Maybe one day the world will be different.
For now, though, things are the same. For now, she'll focus on the things she has – her trip to France with the Tyrells. The new set of oil paints she had picked up in London before she came home. A muggle movie with a boy that might understand her better than her family ever could. She thinks she's looking forward to that one most of all.
That's her last thought before she finally slips off to sleep.