Leftovers

Leftovers

My name is Ron Weasley, and I am a nobody.

Really, I would be surprised if this came as a shock to you. For me, I knew that this was inevitable. I mean, come on, who am I really? A nobody, exactly. Wait! you say. You are best friends to the famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Is that not reason for fame and glory? Did you not accompany him on many exciting adventures?

Why yes, yes I did. I accompanied him. Did I ever really help him? Oh, my mistake, I played 'the best game of chess Hogwarts has ever seen.' Well aren't I special. I can out-wit charmed pieces of rock. I don't exactly see anyone groveling at my feet because of that. In addition to this, I stayed trapped behind a wall of rock with some blithering idiot while Harry went on to fight the Basilisk. The next year I was carried off like some piece of meat by Sirius Black, and then got to look on during the whole escapade while lying on the bed with a broken leg. Let's not even get started on the whole Triwizard Tournament. Then, I suppose the last you had heard of me, I went slightly senile, and got myself attacked by what looked like a pickled brain. I can just taste the heroism in it all.

OK, to be fair they did sometimes refer to the three of us as the Golden Trio. And of course, if I felt left out of the spotlight, because said spotlight is on Harry, well then shouldn't Hermione naturally feel the same way as myself? Well, where Harry triumphed as the Boy Who Lived, Hermione was always the know-it-all. The brightest witch to grace the halls of Hogwarts in many years. People would see us and say, 'Look there is Harry Potter and Hermione Granger! Oh - and some weird looking red headed boy.' Scoff not, that really did occur on several occasions.

Then we all left Hogwarts. Harry and Hermione went onto become Aurors. Well, I suppose I should say the three of us went on to become Aurors. I failed the first test. Four times. Needless to say I didn't go for a fifth shot at it. And thinking back, do you remember Moody (well the imposter) telling us that we would make smashing Aurors. Oh you do - do you? Well let me refresh your memory. He said that to Harry and Hermione. And what did he say about me? That's right, nothing. I mean, I wasn't even present for this conversation anyway.

Lucky for me though, shortly after they reached Auror status, the Order of the Phoenix (which we were all members of now), decided to stage an attack on Voldemort (No, I did not shudder when I wrote his name - I got over that OK?). Dumbledore finally decided to stop playing defense and try a little offense for once. Well with me being such a great chess player, I must be outstanding with strategy right? So, I was placed as the leader of this attack.

Do I really need to tell you that it all went horribly wrong? I mean I figured that by now you would have gotten the point that nothing seemed to go right in my life. I didn't even have the decency of dying in action. No, I was injured in action. Oh sure, that can still be honorable. Well maybe it would have been, if I hadn't been put under the Imperious Curse two minutes into the fight, and then sent cartwheeling off into a tree. I hit it head first, managed to knock myself unconscious, before somehow falling down a hill, and awaking a week later at St. Mungo's with a broken leg.

So I am sitting, alone, in St. Mungo's, when word reaches me that the majority of the members of the Order are here with me as patients, and that Hermione was taken hostage by Voldemort. Of course they all told me it wasn't my fault, that it was bad luck and could have happened to anyone planning our attack. Well the fact was that it wasn't just anyone planning the attack, it was me. And now one of my best friends has been taken, and I am lying in bed here immobile.

I know you are all sitting there anxious to know what became of Hermione. Isn't that just grand, that in a story where I am telling you about my misfortunes, all you care about is what happened to someone else. Typical. Well that's alright, because her rescue plays nicely into this tale. You see, Harry being the hero, managed to save Hermione from the slimy, hands of Peter Pettigrew and the rest of the Death Eaters. It was classic damsel in distress I am told, and soon after that the two of them announced that they were in love. Everyone thought it was so sweet, that amidst the horrors of such a dark time, that anyone could find something so beautiful in the world. Actually, that was what Ginny said to me one night during a visit. She then had to run out of the room as I proceeded to vomit up my dinner.

I have to say, I think it was sometime after their announcement of love, but before the actual marriage, that I began to drink. And no one noticed, I wasn't a high profile member of the Order anymore. After the botched attack, no one wanted me fighting alongside them. Harry and Hermione were too wrapped up in each other, so I was left on the side again.

Eventually, Harry defeated Voldemort. I mean it was inevitable right? By this time, most of my family is dead from the numerous battles. Percy is being prosecuted for becoming a Death Eater (he took Pettigrew's position after he messed up for the final time). Ginny was the only other Weasley left, and she was off getting married to Dean Thomas. Like Harry and Hermione, they 'found' each other during the war. It was like a bloody storybook ending for the lot of them.

Yeah, I'll admit it, I am bitter.

So, when everyone is off with their love, I take a little trip up north to 'find myself'.

It was quite easy actually, I found myself at the bottom of hundreds of bottles of alcohol.

Then, I found myself with a knife shoved into my gut.

Lastly, someone else finally found me on the ground of the little hut I had rented, drowning in my own blood. No, I didn't die then. I mean I'm the person who never had anything go right for them. So why should my first suicide attempt go right? Although, I have to admit, that although the stab wound wouldn't have killed me, I nearly did die from blood loss, and then ironically, I had collapsed in my remains and did almost drown. But of course like I said, I was found. And I suppose it was a good thing. I messed it up so horribly, that I even forgot to write a suicide note.

So who am I really?

I am Ron Weasley, the two time patient at St. Mungo's, who no one ever visited. I am Ron Weasley, who finally did do something right. I am the one who pinched some Muggle weapon from another patient, and pulled the trigger right next to my head. I am just another faceless being that they covered in a white sheet. I was just another body to put into the earth. No one knew I had been at St. Mungo's, no one knew that I was dead. No one planned a funeral for me, no one would have come. No one ever read the suicide note I remembered to write. No one saw my obituary in the newspaper.

I was Ron Weasley, and I was a nobody.