A/N; Hey, I figured we have a lot of stuff here about Hermione and a million Mary Sues receiving their Hogwarts letters, but has anyone looked at poor little Ronniekins? (If someone has, then I apologise profusely and bow at our feet) It tends to be taken for granted that he got his little letter along with the rest of them without any fuss. So what did go through his mind when the green inked parchment came screaming through his window? Let's have a little lookie then…
Dis: The universe of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, and is used here without her permission. No copyright infringement is intended, and I acknowledge that I have no rights to any cannon characters, settings or events mentioned. I have no intention and no desire to make profit from this piece, as the credit deserves to go to JK Rowling as she invented them and thus owns all rights to them. Not me. Got it? Good. Onward!
This is dedicated to the poor little peeps waiting for UCAS replies. Keep the faith. They will arrive eventually.
Acceptance
It arrived this morning. Nothing spectacular. Just another letter in among the post, in among the bills and cards. Mum simply handed it to me over breakfast with a sigh and continued frying the eggs, a mere note of a congratulatory glance as she turned back to the stove. I would have got a bigger reaction if I'd had no post at all.
I suppose that's what I get for being one of many. I'm just a number, a statistic in among my siblings, this note of confirmation just one of many expected along the rite of passage that is my life. It was the same for the rest of them, and I'm hardly different.
For my peers, however, this simple note in the post changes everything. For some it opens up a whole new world of possibility, previously hidden from their prying eyes and making the fairy tale a reality. For others, it is a saving grace, rescuing them from a world they despised and were despised within. It exposed the hidden truth. The impact it has made unknowingly upon their previously insignificant lives cannot be measured. And despite what my parents think, or my brothers, or anyone else, the impact for me is the same.
Opening the envelope, my hands were trembling: An uncontrollable motion, like a chill that edged from the middle of my bones to my outstretched fingertips as they sliced the parchment open. No matter how much you've been surrounded by magic, no matter how many times you've managed to accidentally turn your little sister into a cactus or zapped the wheels off a bus, there's a little voice that sits in the back of your head which calls everything into doubt. That was just a coincidence. It didn't happen like that. There's nothing special about you, just about everyone else. You only imagined it. For me, sitting at the breakfast table on that warm summer day with my brothers yelling a din above the frazzle of the bacon, that voice of doubt rose above it all. It was screaming, like it had been for weeks before. You'll never go to Hogwarts. You're not good enough. You're a squib and you know it.
Not that there is anything bad about being a squib. Or a muggle in fact. Regardless of magical ability, you should just be accepted for you who are, and what you do with it. You-know-who was the most powerful wizard of them all, but that doesn't make him any better than the average muggle on the street. At least the muggles have a soul, a conscience. Wizarding abilities don't automatically guarantee your place in heaven. Far from.
But nevertheless, you doubt yourself. You doubt your ability, your worth, your status in the society you were born into. At least the muggle-borns don't know any different. At least if they don't get a letter they can carry on with their daily lives in blissful ignorance. They never, consciously, had the threat of darkness hanging over their heads. They never had to worry about living up to their brothers, all great before them in their own little ways. Head boys and pranksters. Quidditch captains and prefects. Perfectly rounded examples. Mummy's little boys, all drawn into a welcoming hug at the end of every year that I've stood on the edge of, waiting for my time. If, says the little voice of doubt in my head, it'll ever come. If you deserve it.
And what if I don't deserve it? Is there someone out there, sitting on their judicial throne that condones a person to the life they deserve? Do we have to jump through the hoops to satisfy our fates? No one knows, least of all me. Little, insignificant me. Just one of many. Another Weasley. No one would notice if I didn't make it at all.
I held the open envelope in my hands, examining the green ink that clearly spelt my name. Mr R. Weasley, the attic room, the burrow, Ottery St Catchpole, Somerset. I examined the ink that ran into the cracks of the parchment, pierced by a well-worn quill endowed with a deep green liquid that spells out my fate with every little flick. I examined the ink, just like my brothers before me. I remember watching them, across this very table, at regular intervals throughout my life. Bill. Charlie. Percy. The twins. Ginny will be next, and I glanced at her nervously as my hand delved into the envelope to withdraw the letter. She smiled, the only one showing any form of interest, any form of anxiety. She held my gaze for an instant, the same as my mothers, reassuring but still showing the same sense of doubt that is settling in my chest. At least someone knows what its like. The others have forgotten. She has it all to come. I'd better not forget.
I was vaguely aware of the many eyes now watching me, secretly, as I opened the letter inside. But I couldn't look up. I couldn't cope with the looks upon their faces, expectant, anxious even, all waiting on me to speak the words they wished for. What if I failed to deliver? What if I was an inch short of the benchmark? It wasn't unknown in my family. The muggle accountant always hangs in the background. They loved him all the same, mum's cousin, but he was always set apart. In the know but out of reach, isolated from the life he was risen in simply for lack of ability. What if that were me? I couldn't think about it. I couldn't bear it….
But luckily, thankfully, I didn't have to.
Dear Mr Weasley,
We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
A gasp of breath that had been building up inside of me finally found means of escape through an overjoyed sigh, an alien smile, then a million hugs from a flurry of red-headed people all leaning across their breakfast plates to offer me their congratulations. Elbows were trailing in the grease from the bacon, glasses split everywhere with pumpkin juice dripping unnoticed from the table and no one seemed to care. This was the part I always forgot about. When I was younger, I never fully understood. I sat and watched my brother's go through the same motions, faces full of worry and panic when the envelope was served up with their dippy soldiers, melting into smiles of delight as the inevitable occurred. As it did with me. As it will do with Ginny.
For now I will face new doubts as the summer goes on. Will I be a Gryffindor? Will I be any good at potions? Will I make any friends? Of course these are doubts that everyone has at some point in their lives, Wizards, Muggles or Squibs. We all have to adjust. We all have that little inkling of doubt that forms into a voice in the back of our minds, whispering quietly that failure looms ahead. But I will learn to ignore it. This is my fate, spelt out for me on a crumbling piece of parchment I re-examine for myself late into the night, staring at the words as if they don't exist and are bound for evaporation. But these are my words. No one will take them away from me. For they tell me what I am. I am a wizard. I am a Weasley. And most importantly, disregarding the rest, I am Ron.
***
A/N: Phew! Dunno where that came form. Ah well. It's amazing how satisfying writing a pwp can be. It's like giving your muse a flu jab. Gets them back into action. I hope mine gets the hint. Anyway, I received my Hogwarts letter (i.e. acceptance letter to Durham) the other day, so I know exactly how Ronniekins feels. And now I sleep….