Ravenclaw, Additional Prefect-y drabble, Torn out pages, WC: 261

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Albus Dumbledore? Nope. I'm the other one, Aberforth. I'm the one you don't really hear about.

My brother is the brilliant one; the one who has every award ever given to anyone. My brother is the one who has always been the centre of the attention in our family, and certainly within school. He knows that he's brilliant as well, which is the worst part of everything. He writes in his ridiculous diary about taking some portion of the world for himself, and he writes about Grindelwald.

In yellowing pages, on torn-out parchment, and in silly muggle notebooks, he writes down every thought and faction of his mind.

I'm Albus Dumbledore, and I'm the most wonderful person alive. I expect it goes something like that.

But I'm not him. I'm not my sought-after brother.

Which is why it feels freer to sometimes deviate from that despicable path my brother veers down, to not watch out for lurking teachers, or keep an eye on my potion grades. It feels freer to think about other things. To care about important stuff. For example, my sister. I care about my sister. I care about how her day is, whether she spoke to anyone, and whether she is doing okay.

I don't care whether Albus finds out that I tore the pages from his diary. I tore them from the spine of the book, and ripped them into shreds.

He tore my sister from me. Anything I do in return will never be enough.

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Thanks all!