The Last Weasley
My name is Tristan, Tristan Weasley and I'm the eighth Weasley that nobody talks about anymore. The story sound familiar? Well, it shouldn't, because I'm not Percy. That miserable git left his family by himself. I would never abandon my family. Family is everything, without family you have nothing. That was what my parents drilled into me when I was young. It's funny it's it? How parents never do as they preach.
I grew up contentedly beside my red-haired brothers, ate from the same table, played in the same gnome-infested gardens and received the same slightly hideous kitted jumpers for Christmas (although none of us will admit is because mother dearest made them for us). In every family, there are various personalities and our family was no different (Fred and George are the only exception; them being twins gives them freakishly similar personalities). I was the quiet bookworm and I was almost always buried in one of my numerous books, which were consequently littered around the room I shared with Percy, my younger twin brother. The only similarities we shared were our birthdates; we didn't even look the same, although that may have something to do with the fact that we were fraternal twins and not identical twins. However, we were both Weasleys and therefore had the same flaming red hair and freckled complexions.
I spent my time as an observer and as a result, my personality was rather withdrawn. For some 'obscure' reason as my Quidditch-obsessed brothers called it, I preferred the quiet shade and a good book to getting a wedgie while riding on a broomstick. There was something soothing about drifting off into a different world, while nestled comfortably under the protection of an ancient willow that attracted me. Not that I didn't know who the Chudley Cannons were.
The family became slightly different when it started to send off its sons. Relationships became somehow strained, but never to the point of breaking. It was Bill first. Hard-working, down to earth Bill was gone, and for months at a time, coming home every second holiday at the most. Dragon-obsessed Charlie went next. The constant bombardment of ancient reptile facts was silenced. Without them the house was not much quieter due to the mischievous twin toddlers declaring war on each other at the dinner table and using food as ammunition and later, the birth of Ron who constantly woke the family up at night with his screaming. However through those nights, I was constantly awoken by other troubles. I was next.
Hogwarts was a worry that constantly plagued my mind. I would have to leave home, have to be thrust into a new, unfamiliar place with cold stone walls and hundreds of people. I didn't like the thought of it. I would have to depart from my current, comfortable lifestyle and adapt. It goes without saying that I dislike change. In fact, I hated it. Hate in its most extreme form. It was not until many years later, I discovered I had a form of autism. I spent weeks, months even dreading the day where I would board the Hogwarts Express and so I threw myself into a frenzy of activity. I studied. First I flew through Charlie's old first year books, then I moved onto Bill's second year books and then eventually I started spending more time at Flourish and Blott's then at home. The book keeper did not bother me and seemed to sense that I was better off left alone. Occasionally I would ask him for help on a word I did not understand and every evening as he started to close the store he would ask me to leave. I, polite, as always would close the book I was reading, remember the page number and re-shelf it. One day I worked up the courage to ask him if I could stay a little while longer and help. Home was becoming unbearable because Charlie and Bill were back with incessant talk of Hogwarts. Mr. Willow, the greying book-keeper smiled, his eyes twinkling gave me a stack of 1800 Warlock History books to put away.
"Now that goes" he began.
"Row E Section 5 Self 310" I interrupted. He began to grin.
"So, you think you know my store better than me do you?" Mr. Willow said in a teasing manner.
"No Sir, but almost just as well I believe, for I am certain that 'Heroes of the Muggle World" does not belong in the romance section." I was looking at the book that Mr. Willow was shelving absent-mindedly. He growled good-heartedly as I ducked a swipe and went to re-shelf the history books.
Sometimes after we had put everything away, Mr. Willow would conjure up two cups (earl grey tea for him and hot chocolate for me) and we would discuss history, politics, philosophy, arithmetic and once during seventh year the ridiculousness of Gilderoy Lockhart's books. That was one topic we never talked of again, for as if his name was a summoning charm, Gilderoy Lockhart walked into the store long after closing time and asked if we wanted his autograph. Mr. Willow was also forced to accept a book signing contract. The next day at the store was hell, because witches dressed in their finest had come to get his autograph with no concern for the books that were being toppled onto the floor.
Even after my life drastically changed, Mr. Willow was still there and I continued to keep in touch with him throughout my entire life. With him and his store I felt at peace. This feeling that was fleeting because that date was fast approaching.
I felt like throwing up while walking across platform 9 3/4 to reach the bright red train. The suffocating sense of claustrophobia was beginning to set in. There were too many people, too many, hugging, crying people. I was glad Percy was there for he unconsciously became my last link to 'familiarity'. With a brief hug for me and a somewhat longer one for Percy, we were pushed onto the train.
"Off to a new adventure." I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Obviously my twin didn't catch the venom saturating my voice because he replied rather enthusiastically.
"It'll be awesome! Can you believe it? Hogwarts, finally! Quick let's go find an empty compartment."
We found a compartment within three minutes. While standing at the door, I saw the welcoming faces of other first years.
I felt like that act of knocking on the compartment door was akin to knocking on Hell's gate.