A/N: Yet another one-shot that came to me randomly at about one in the morning. The human mind works in strange ways…
Disclaimer: Last time I checked I was no where near Ms. Rowling's age; I didn't live in Scotland, and am not considered one of the richest people alive. So…it's not mine!
Sharing
It doesn't seem fair, I muse, as I watch subliminally while Mrs. Weasley attempts to teach Ginny the proper wand movement for peeling potatoes, that I'll never be able to have an experience such as this one. It appears so simple, but it would be enough…
As comical as it seemed, it were the negligible moments such as these that made me feel so severed from my own family – especially my mother.
My Mum. Oh, how I missed her…
I realize, almost shockingly, that I haven't holidayed with my parents in some while, and feel the sudden guilt crash upon me at the thought of the visit long overdue.
It feels nearly a century ago that my own flesh and blood had been my very best of friends. My Mum and I shared everything – whether it be clothes or books or stories or old photographs or merely our presence. We shared anything and everything we could get our hands on, and spent hours in each other's company – simply sharing.
Sharing with Ron and Harry and Ginny, of course, was never exactly the same.
The fact that Ron and Harry were of the male species made it impossible to share clothing, except for an oversized Weasley sweater of Ron's that I keep in my mahogany school trunk. Ginny, on the other hand, does not have the same build as I, so when with her, shopping mostly dominated sharing.
My three closest friends would also rather play Quidditch than share in the ancient beauty of reading. Thus, my classic copies of Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice went untouched by anyone other than myself. A sad day it is that one would rather run their physical health into ground than exercise their mind to even greater heights.
Relaying stories to them also took its toll, as explaining Muggle surroundings was easier said than done, and explaining what a telephone was (to Ronald, of course) for a third time does become a tad tiring.
Photographs from my own home were few and far between, but when I finally did get my hands on a few pictures from my youthful years, "What do you mean the pictures don't move?" pretty much ended my well-rounded traditions.
So, I observe now, my carefully placed façade wavering slightly, as the youngest Weasley rolls her brown eyes skyward and sighs again, gazing out the window toward the broom shed longingly. I ask myself wryly, tears fast approaching now, how said redhead can possibly take for granted the most wonderful sentiment that she gets to share with her mother, aside from their strong bond of love – the thing that segregates me most from my own Mum:
Magic.
You know that old expression? "Sticks and Stones may break bones, but words will never hurt me?" Yeah - that saying is extremely wrong. Words, I've discovered, can hit a core that you weren't even aware you had.
So, do me a favor today - say something nice to someone, or defend them from an oncoming rumor. Avoid any rumors that you hear, and please don't start ones of your own!
"Sticks and Stones, it is true, may break bones, but words hurt even more!"
I just had the worst day in a long time because of them.
Oh, and review!
100-percent-HP-obsessed
