My Beloved Brother
(The companion piece to my youngest son, but can be 'enjoyed' on its own. My youngest son is recomended though. Another nice angst-filled little piece, this time told from Ginny's point of view.)
-----I own nothing-----
He could never truly see what was right before his eyes. He loved our mother despite her faults; faults that he seemed unable to see. He loved her. And she hated him.
It was always going to be hard on me. The youngest daughter in a family with seven children: six boys and me. All my brothers are older than me and my father was always working. My mother did her best to keep the family together, and until I saw the truth, I believed she did a good job. I had more toys and belongings then I needed. As a young child, I never thought it sad that I had more than my youngest brother. When I was two, I saw her beat him. She doesn't know I was there, watching. Doesn't know that it's etched in my mind. That day, it was I that comforted him.
I grew to love my brother in a way that she hated. She tried to keep us apart. She used to whisper terrible thoughts to me and made sure he was excluded. It used to kill me inside to see him so sad.
When he finally escaped to school, he wrote to me often, chronicling his times with the two people whom my mother would come to think of as a son and daughter. It's funny, how she loved Harry more than her own son.
When I also began school, mum would write to me far more than she wrote to Ron. In my first year, I almost died, and he saved me. There was no pride in my mothers' eyes, only gratitude; a funny thing to have for your son. She was grateful to him for saving my life. It was in that year that it all began to fall apart, and I began to crave the only things that Ron could truly call his own: his friends. And I, being the spoilt daughter of Molly Wesley, made sure I got it.
I didn't succeed at first, but over the years, I spent more and more time with them, slowly falling in love with both, but in different ways. In Hermione, I found the sister I had always wanted, and my mother found another daughter. But she never loved her as much as she loved Harry; when she thought Hermione was messing around with her precious adopted 'son', she refused to acknowledge the girl was even alive. She always thought that Harry was rightfully mine, and for years I agreed with her: I deserved all the good things in life. And when I finally won him, in my fifth year, I lost him only a few months later. It was then that it hit me; he was not a possession, but a person, one who had a responsibility bigger and more important than me. And I began to hate the warped mind my mother had given me.
The time in which I was dating Harry brought Ron and I closer together, and I began to notice new things about him: how brave he was, how intelligent, funny, charming. I also began to notice the small things between him and Hermione. The way he would jolt if her hand brushed his, the way he would stare if she weren't looking. I had suspected that he like her since my third year, but here, I had proof. I confronted him and he admitted it to be true. So I asked him: why did he briefly date Lavender? I never made any secret of my immense dislike of her, but in a way, I blame myself. When he and Harry caught Dean and me, all I wanted to do was hurt him. If I had a time-turner, I would undo it all. When he was poisoned, I saw that I had been wrong, all I wanted was for him to wake up and tell him how much I did love him, but I held back. Just like I had been taught.
Anyway, he admitted that he wasn't fond of Lavender, but felt trapped. It was her that broke up with him, I don't think he would have had the guts to do it himself. I was so glad when Hermione caught Fleur's bouquet at the wedding, enjoyed the way he turned red. And, a few days later, when the three of them left to fight the war, I knew I'd never see them in the same way again.
And I didn't. He and Hermione married when they were eighteen. And on that day, I looked to our mother, wanting, praying to see something, anything in her eyes, but I didn't. By then, my brother probably had finally seen the truth, but never said a thing, just like I knew he wouldn't. When the three of them came home, she didn't even acknowledge his presence, but I did. When I saw them come home, I ran to them.
By my own wedding, my father had died. I asked Ron to give me away. Mother protested at this, saying I should have my oldest brother, Bill do it. I replied that I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather have done it. I'm glad I finally stood up to her. He did a wonderful job and I loved him even more for it.
I always was proud of my brother. The war had left him with a long scar down his face, one that mother used to comment rudely on behind his back. He was proud of that scar and never covered it up. It is, he said, a badge of honour. A symbol that he had faced a terrible enemy head on and won. Its funny how he never managed to defeat the enemy in his own home.
Despite all that my mother tried to do I love my brother and always will.