Second Hand Shoes

Same old story. I had to use Ron's old books. Always Ron's old books. Why not Percy's? He's a perfectionist. He never would have let a spec of dust, let alone bent pages anywhere near his books.

Oh yeah, Percy's books went to Ron. Damn.

I've never said this aloud, and seeing how this is only in my mind and not actually flowing out of my mouth, it doesn't matter. I'm embarrassed to be poor.

I hate wearing hand-me-down robes, and second, no I mean third-hand-books, and second-hand shoes. Call me a whiner, but just once, I'd like to feel what it's like to slip into a black silk robe, and know that it was custom tailored to my body. I'd like to know what it's like to not be jealous.

I am jealous. I am. I'm jealous of Hermione and her curves and book smarts. Harry with his fame, and innocence that never seems to fade. Bill and Charlie for being the only ones to not get hand-me-downs.

Draco Malfoy's money.

One would think that I'd know better. What's there to be jealous of? It's very simple though.

He knows what it's like to have a black silk robes custom made for his body. That beautiful gray-eyed slimy git. He's only had brand new books and the best of everything (broomstick excluded after his third year, of course), and even though he has always rubbed his fortune in our face, I think deep down, we still want his money.

As I'm sitting George's old Cleansweep 7 up high in the sky, staring at the twinkling stars, I wonder how far I'd go to have money like Malfoy. I could buy what ever I wanted! A thousand new robes every week, and have the best books, the best brooms, the best house. If only I had the money to buy all these things for my family, so we wouldn't be poor. We could get a new house and forget about this one. We could spend every summer away from here, in America or Japan. Every week would be a new adventure!

Life would be perfect.

How far would I go, to have money like that? I ask myself slowly heading back towards earth. Would I join Voldemort? I shudder at the thought. What would I do to be rich like that, I ask again. Sell my body? Degrade my soul, my family? Lie, cheat, or steal? Marry for the all the wrong reasons for a few dresses?

I laugh bitterly. I could never do something so cheap. I stare at my house as I bring in the broom. Parts of it aren't original, and it looks as if it could fall any day now. The paint is chipping and the ghoul above Ron is being particularly loud tonight.

This house, which is truly falling apart at the seams, is my home. And all things inside. It's what makes this place special.

The memories that flood this place could never be replaced with money or anything else. No one could ever take away the first time George and Fred got themselves bound together by the neck, a experiment gone seriously wrong. Or the time Percy actually put his "extremely important homework" aside to teach me a song.

Malfoy doesn't have a ghoul. Granted, he's not complaining, but our little ghoul just adds to the charm. He doesn't have the love that is constant in our home. And that's exactly what it is. A home. Moreover, he just lives in a manor. Boring.

Besides, Harry likes the place.

I think to myself, "I wouldn't change this life for all the Galleons in the world."

With a smile on my face, I walk up to the back door, tripping over a gnome; I head back inside with my brother's broom and my second hand shoes.

I'm home.