A/N* I CLAIM NOTHING! NOTHING I TELL YOU! Well, maybe the plot. But you can
have everything else, I promise...
Some men are born great, some men achieve greatness and some men have greatness thrust upon them. But that isn't really true, is it? No. It is true that there are three types of men, or for those who are sensitive about such things, three types of people. The second type is those who are thrust to the side, half of them deep in shadow, the other half burning in the heat from the spotlight. I give you Ron Weasley.
Since the beginning I have never stood alone. My face has always been in the public eye just enough so that I can never do anything without fear of being caught, of shaming my family. But the other part of my face? The part that really counts? It is turned from the light, from the cameras. They say it is always darkest in the corners, but it isn't, it is darkest on the edges of the hero, in the place were the light never shines. I always wonder who casts these productions, what kind of sick freak puts me on the edge every time. I get the recommendation for best played game of chess, the sportsmanship award, really. But who sacrificed himself? It was me, but I'm not the tragic hero, and it is always the tragic hero who is burned in the glare of the sun.
I believe that there are three types of people. The main characters who get to kill all the bad guys, meet the Queen and end up with all of the sex scenes. After them there are the extras who mill around and chatter with each other, then go home and don't worry about getting noticed, about being written up about in the Sunday Post or having their faces plastered over every letter box in the civilized world. And then there are people like me. While the main character is being pampered and powdered they get a rag thrown at their faces and are told to wipe the dirt off their nose. We get the rubbish one-liners and smile cheerfully while the hero recieves his award. When people ask if we ever feel left out we keep that hard, bright smile on our faces, shake our head and say no, no we're glad we don't have that kind of burden. We are not merely in the shadows, we are the shadows. We follow every move the hero makes, we are always behind him, every step of the way, but a shadow is only a silhouette, it isn't even a reflection. Our moments of glory are not the moments when we know we've done what's right, they are the moments when our brave and gallant hero returns to safety.
Question number one. How much dirt is in a hole? None. Question number two. How much glory is in a sidekick? See question one for answer.
But underneath my anger, there's something else. Something painful, something chronic and obscene. It's fear. Where would I be if my Olympian hero's light was suddenly snuffed? My face half sunburned from the spotlight I would stand in complete darkness. I don't want to think about where I would be if the lead character were to suddenly fall from his pedestal. Likely I would be crushed from his weight tumbling onto me or I would be bounced so high I would land on the pedestal myself. And then I could truly make a mess of things.
I am Ron Weasley, I polish halo's, occasionally save lives and often risk my own. Here's my card, call me some time. If my hero ever dies I'll need a new one.
Some men are born great, some men achieve greatness and some men have greatness thrust upon them. But that isn't really true, is it? No. It is true that there are three types of men, or for those who are sensitive about such things, three types of people. The second type is those who are thrust to the side, half of them deep in shadow, the other half burning in the heat from the spotlight. I give you Ron Weasley.
Since the beginning I have never stood alone. My face has always been in the public eye just enough so that I can never do anything without fear of being caught, of shaming my family. But the other part of my face? The part that really counts? It is turned from the light, from the cameras. They say it is always darkest in the corners, but it isn't, it is darkest on the edges of the hero, in the place were the light never shines. I always wonder who casts these productions, what kind of sick freak puts me on the edge every time. I get the recommendation for best played game of chess, the sportsmanship award, really. But who sacrificed himself? It was me, but I'm not the tragic hero, and it is always the tragic hero who is burned in the glare of the sun.
I believe that there are three types of people. The main characters who get to kill all the bad guys, meet the Queen and end up with all of the sex scenes. After them there are the extras who mill around and chatter with each other, then go home and don't worry about getting noticed, about being written up about in the Sunday Post or having their faces plastered over every letter box in the civilized world. And then there are people like me. While the main character is being pampered and powdered they get a rag thrown at their faces and are told to wipe the dirt off their nose. We get the rubbish one-liners and smile cheerfully while the hero recieves his award. When people ask if we ever feel left out we keep that hard, bright smile on our faces, shake our head and say no, no we're glad we don't have that kind of burden. We are not merely in the shadows, we are the shadows. We follow every move the hero makes, we are always behind him, every step of the way, but a shadow is only a silhouette, it isn't even a reflection. Our moments of glory are not the moments when we know we've done what's right, they are the moments when our brave and gallant hero returns to safety.
Question number one. How much dirt is in a hole? None. Question number two. How much glory is in a sidekick? See question one for answer.
But underneath my anger, there's something else. Something painful, something chronic and obscene. It's fear. Where would I be if my Olympian hero's light was suddenly snuffed? My face half sunburned from the spotlight I would stand in complete darkness. I don't want to think about where I would be if the lead character were to suddenly fall from his pedestal. Likely I would be crushed from his weight tumbling onto me or I would be bounced so high I would land on the pedestal myself. And then I could truly make a mess of things.
I am Ron Weasley, I polish halo's, occasionally save lives and often risk my own. Here's my card, call me some time. If my hero ever dies I'll need a new one.