Harry Potter

The name beats through my head, like an old record player stuck on a second.

Harry Potter

He walks up the great hall, slowly, carefully.

Harry Potter

No one claps. The halls are silent, as this cheater, this attention-seeking…

Harry Potter

But I should clap. I, Ron Weasley should clap for this kid. I should be the lone voice supporting him, even if no one else will.

Harry Potter

But my hands stay apart, like magnets on opposing sides. Because I'm sick and tired of supporting him.

Harry Potter

I'm sick and tired of always being at his side, always doing what he does. Always trying to help.

Harry Potter

But I can never help. Nothing I do will mean anything. Nothing I create, nothing I own will be worth anything.

Harry Potter

Because everything I do is nothing, nothing compared to what I did. So what if I defeated a chess game? So what if I fell unconscious?

Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who, and lived to tell the tale.

So what if I almost lost a best friend and a sister? So what if stopped only because of a pile of rocks?

Harry Potter almost lost a friend too, but he saved her.

So what if I broke a leg? So what if I took the pain of Wormtail's spell?

Harry Potter relived the death of his last relatives, and still saved everyone from the dementors.

There's nothing I can do that Harry Potter can't do better.

A small voice leaks into my head, "chess!" But it means nothing.

Nobody cares about something as trivial as chess.

Nobody cares about the things I put up with day in and day out.

And nobody cares about the fading shadow of a legend.

Harry Potter

And now he's done it again. He's collecting the fame that his name entitles him. He's off with worries and confusion.

Honestly, I don't care.

I've done enough caring; hopeless, pointless caring.

"Hey Ron, I don't think Harry's…"

There it is again, even Hermione can only think about wonderful Harry Potter. So intelligent, and yet she can't even notice the pain and the anger that runs through my veins.

And this fury rises to my face as I glare at her own.

Shock replaces her casual face, but I don't feel concerned.

I want her to respond. I want her to ask me what's wrong, and I want to give her no response. I want to confuse and concern her more. Then she'll understand how I feel.

But she doesn't do anything. She just stares, blankly.

And so I make the move, I rise shaking from fury. The bench's motion causes a loud squeal.

But it only fuels me, as do the faces glaring from every table.

In fact, I like the noises. I like the disruption they cause. Therefore, I reach for Hermione's goblet, intending to throw it.

But a hastily cast charm keeps me away from the intended object.

"Fine."

My voice comes out, cold and harsh. And I force my feet to move me away, in the loudest manner possible.

Maybe someone will notice Ron Weasley now.