My youngest son
A short story about how Molly really feels about Ron. Sorry, this is a sad story, and also just my interpretation (and i just LOVE drama). I do not own anything except the story, so please dont sue.
Growing up, I never had any brothers or sisters and just one cousin. As a consequence, I had always wanted a big family. My cousin and I were always really close: Will and me, best friends forever. His father, Ronald, was my Dad's brother. He was always the worst thing about Will. I hated my uncle. Whenever I did the slightest thing wrong, he would beat us both black-and-blue. It was his beatings that would kill Will at the age of twenty. When Will and I went to Hogwarts, we hoped and prayed to be put in the same house. That wish came true.
When we were both fifteen, I began dating Wills best friend, Arthur. Before long, I found that I was truly falling in love with him. When we finally left school, he asked me to marry him. My mother and father were so proud: I had found a nice, well-mannered pureblood man to marry, not that that was important to me. Soon after, we had our first son: William. Two years later, we had our second: Charles, named for Arthur's grandfather. A further two years later, we had out third: Percival, named for my maternal Grandfather. Next, my beautiful twins were born: Frederick and Georgic. By this time, I was desperate for the one thing I didn't have: a daughter. I know Arthur wanted one too. We had a handsome son, a sporty son, a serious, sensible son, and our mischievous twins. I didn't need or want another boy. I wanted a girl.
When I fell pregnant again, I felt that it would finally be my longed-for girl. I asked Arthur to decorate our nursery pink. He refused, saying that there was a chance that we could have another boy. I remained steadfast in my belief that we would have a girl, named Ginerva for my mother. I would spend hours talking to the growing life inside of me, how she would be beautiful, intelligent and help me around the house. I would tell her stories of beautiful princesses and handsome princes, and how she would one day marry a prince.
When it came for the child to be born, I was shocked to find that it was not a girl but another boy. The nurse put him into a crib by my bed and I looked at him thinking one thing over and over again, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you." As a final punishment to an innocent child, I named him for my hated uncle, the one who used to beat me when out of view of my mother; Ronald Weasley.
Whenever he would cry, I would let my older sons or husband tend to him. I would not buy him new clothes or toys; he could make do with hand-me-downs. I wanted him to know how I despised him. I had other things on my mind, I was pregnant again. This time, I got my girl.
I would constantly buy Ginny presents of clothes and toys and ignore Ronald when he cried in order to spend a few moments more with my girl. It drove my husband mad. We had precious money to spare, why spend it all on Ginny? But she was my golden child, the apple of my eye. Say what you want, but she was adored.
As the two grew older, they were irritatingly close to one another. I tried to drive a wedge between my children and Ron, but all of my attempts failed. I still took every opportunity to tell him how I hated him. Once, when he was three, he fell down. Arthur had taken to other boys out, leaving my alone with our youngest two. He cried and cried, but still I ignored him, preferring instead to continue to play dolls with Ginny, until, eventually, she began to cry from seeing her brother so distressed. Telling her to stay inside, I finally went out to him, where I began to beat him until he was screaming for me to stop. But I still felt nothing for him.
And yet, he grew up to be a normal, well-adjusted person. Each of his brothers taught him a skill: to fly, to play chess, practical jokes and spells, each of which he learnt until he surpassed his brothers in terms of skill. But I wasn't proud; those were not his skills to steal.
The year he started at Hogwarts was the greatest year of my life. He continued to write home, and Ginny would reply, but I never would: out of sight, out of mind. When he ended up in the hospital wing, I visited him, did the anxious mother routine, but it was just for show. I made him corned beef sandwiches on purpose that year. And I bought him nothing new.
He be-friended the Potter boy. Oh, how I adored him, the son Ron could never be. Throughout the rest of their time at school, I would anxiously watch over Harry, making sure he was OK. Ron got what was left of my concern, after it had been lavished on Ginny as well, of course.
When he got poisoned, that should have been my wake-up call as to see how precious my son really was. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want him to die, but I must admit, the thought did pass through my head, "imagine if he died. Imagine the relief that would be."
When Ron was eighteen, and the war over, he announced that he was going to be married. I tried to muster up some interest towards him, but I couldn't. His fiancée, a pretty girl who had been in his year at school, was always I felt, far too good for him. She was so intelligent; I could never see what she saw in him. I still felt hate. I helped her in the planning of the wedding, but only for her sake, never for my son. She looked so beautiful on her wedding day, and I have been told that Ron looked so handsome, but my attention was diverted to my stunning daughter, the bridesmaid. And when she married, she looked even more beautiful again.
When his first son was born, he named him Arthur. His first daughter was called Minnie, short for Minerva. I envied the fact that his second child was a girl so much, but I couldn't hate the child. All my hate was reserved for the son I never wanted.
Yet, it is ironic, isn't it? The son that I will hate until the day I die was the best one of the lot. If it weren't for him, Voldemort would still be around. The basilisk would still be terrorising Hogwarts. He was made minister of magic at 25, the youngest minister ever, but I couldn't feel pride for him on that day; I could feel anything. And that's the way it always shall be.
I'm not sorry Ron. I would have done it all again, the hate, I mean. Things wouldn't have had to be this way. If only you had been what I wanted.
Make me a happy bunny, press the nice blue review button!