AN: In case it's unclear the United Kingdom and Ireland—now known as the Isles—will be unilaterally overthrown.
Third
He was supposed to be someone, you see. He was supposed to stand out, look up only to see everyone looking at him. He was supposed to finally be one of a kind.
One more year, he used to hum to himself, one more year before the letter would come. The 'Letter' that would change everything; would finally prove him to be special.
He supposed they thought it would be great fun. A house full of children, a table full of laughs. Like his Nana used to whisper, "No shadows here."
There was the First one, stout and strong; the Second was wild and rebellious—polar opposites their mother used to think. It isn't fun being Third—there isn't a place not already taken. Fourth was supposed to even it out except even back then Fourth was trouble and trouble picked Fifth to play. Sixth was as ill-fated as Third but now he was too old; too old to make babble talk as First and Second played pirates and Fourth and Fifth plotted against everyone else. And then Seventh came but Seventh was still more special than the rest because it was the only one to be called, "Daughter."
There was love and there were laughs but didn't they know it was no fun being the odd one out? And they played; One and Two together because they were older and Four and Five wouldn't be anywhere else but with the other but that meant Six was too little and Seven was too precious. So what fun was it being the one always left behind?
He wasn't trouble and he wasn't daring and in a house full of too many bodies there wasn't a point of being smart when all that got you was left behind.
And the more you smiled and the more you did what you were told and the more you stayed out of trouble…well, the easier it was to forget you. They used to say, "What a sweet boy."
It was nice; nice to be noticed.
And then they'd say, "My dear, what brilliant child—so mischievous, such a leader, so charismatic. A charmer if I ever saw one."
And what did it get you but left behind?
So he was old enough to know love could hurt you when it didn't ever mean to and young enough to think there wasn't more to it.
And although he was so used to being left behind he didn't quite believe it the day it happened for real.
Mummy and Daddy, you see, used to whisper about things they didn't want smart boys like him knowing. About war and fighting and dark things—things they never wanted little boys to know. But even that wasn't enough to prepare them for the day the world ended. For even though they knew why the world was ending, knew the names of the bad men who would take bad boys away—it wasn't enough, you see.
And they fought where only smart boys could hear…if smart boys did indeed want to hear.
Not now. Too soon. Home. Arthur! Arthur! Family and brothers and honor and war.
Molly, Molly, a whispered sigh. Family and sons and a daughter and future and war.
But despite all the talking and planning the day still came as a fumbling shock.
"Everyone's leaving." Daddy pleaded.
"Wait, wait," Mummy would murmur. "The boys' books—mustn't forget. Uncle Rodney's pipe—old dear wouldn't want that."
"Not enough time, not enough time." Daddy's voice would sometimes drift through drippy pipes.
And then when the day came…
"I got a portkey before the Ministry fell." Words tumbled quickly, bouncing from nerve to nerve.
And Mummy, Mummy knew what to do. "Floo the Longbottoms and the Lovegoods and Hestia and Wendell and as many as you can. There isn't time to wait."
And a house that had quite enough bodies only got more. Of giggling children that didn't understand and crying babies that knew without knowing; of hovering adults and anxious hands.
So they gathered round and round; sticky hands and sharp elbows flapping alongside. And children that never quite liked him giggled around him, "I'll dare you to be last."
Careless words and thoughtless acts made him say, "I'll do it."
"Nuh-uh. I'll do it." Said another smelling of peanut butter.
Overhead Daddy said, "Five…four…three…"
And he looking up; thought they were calling him.
"…Two…"
And hands were reaching, fingers straining to grasp.
Too late, too late, so sorry.
"Come back! Come back! Mummy! Daddy! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! So sorry! Come back! Just come back…"
And Mummy and Daddy would never leave him, you see. Even if the family clock said 'Traveling'. They would never leave him behind.
So he waited because they would be back. And waited some more.
I'll be good; never speak badly about Four and Five or make Six cry. Never hide peas under the napkin or leave dirty trainers on the carpet. Never run up the stairs or feed jam to Seven. Come back and I'll be the best. Come back and I'll weed the garden without more than a say so. Come back and I'll take a bath every night without making the rug a soggy mess. Come back and I'll give you the silver cap he found two years ago in the field and made Two cry when he tried to take it away.
So he waited and waited and happened to be there the day the clock shifted and finally said 'Home'.
And what did it get you but left behind?
