It was never a question. It just was.
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—it was written in stone that night in Godric's Hollow. Harry Potter, the boy with the lightning scar and the painful past. The boy destined to be a hero, just as he is destined to be the sidekick.
Harry is undeniably, unquestionably, unequivocally what Ron can never be. Always had been, always will be. The main character of his story is not himself, but Harry. And it hurts him so much he has to fight himself to breathe.
Growing up in a house with six other children, it's no wonder that he is like a mirror—reflecting others, transparent, blank, as colorless as the sky on a winter day. Who would ever notice him, the famous Harry Potter's helpless, fumbling sidekick? He isn't smart like Hermione, or talented with pyrotechnics like Seamus. He cant do what is right without the help of someone else. He realized this the day he stepped onto Platform 9 ¾.
Where was his place in this world of people who were born ready?
"I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I've got a lot to live up to. Bill and Charlie have already left – Bill was Head Boy and Charlie was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy's a prefect. Fred and George mess around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks they're really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others, but if I do, it's no big deal, because they did it first."
He forces his eyes open to face the truth—the cruel reality that had been staring him in the face the entire time. He can't be Bill, or Charlie, or Percy, or even George. He's not them. And he's not Harry Potter either. He can't do anything without someone else's help. Ron, who's scared of spiders, who gets average marks and lets himself get pushed around. There is no room for him. There never had been.
"You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand and Percy's old rat."
Secondhand robes. His mother's stern teachings. A personality like a mirror. And memories of a pet rat that wasn't really a rat at all. These things are what made up him. Sometimes it made him want to scream, and other times it made him want to cry. But in the end, he wonders, and wonders, and wonders.
Would he ever trade any of these things for a scar on his forehead or a family he doesn't remember? There is bitterness in his life, yes, but that is when he remembers that Harry was mourning. Harry is mourning. He never stops mourning. He mourns for two dead parents who left him before he could have a chance to tell him that he loved them. He mourns for the deaths of those who perished for him, and for the future he brought. There is a weight in his heart that can never be healed.
This world is cruel. Sick. Disgusting. He's glad he doesn't have to face it alone.
"Fate". This word that tastes like sandpaper in his mouth. It is fate that caused Harry to lose everything. It is fate that Ron is the sixth child in a family of seven children. It is fate that Hermione was born into a family of Muggles. If Harry never had that scar etched upon his forehead, if Ron was not the sixth child, if Hermione was a Pure-Blood…. Where would they be now? If he could rewrite history, Ron knew damn well that, being the pushover he was, he couldn't—no, he wouldn't—do anything. Even if he is useless. Even if he is just a sidekick. Even if he isn't smart, or brave, or handsome. Shouldn't he be grateful for what he has: two friends who knew his every little idiosyncrasy, and a loving, if broken, family?
Shouldn't he be grateful that he doesn't have to wake up screaming because those red snake eyes burn into his mind while he slept? Shouldn't he be grateful that he doesn't have to wake up in a silent home?
And for once, he is happy he's not Harry Potter.
Author's Note: Hello, everyone! It's about time I wrote a Harry Potter fanfic, right? It's my favorite book series, so frankly, I'm disappointed in myself. What have I been doing? Oh yeah, that's right. I've been sulking in the corner growing mushrooms (OHSHC reference). Note: "He can't be Bill, or Charlie, or Percy, or even George". I originally said "or even Fred and George" but then I remembered that Fred's dead and promptly began to cry. Damn those onions. ... Anyway, thanks for reading!