Hogwarts: Echoes of Mischief

Being the youngest son in a family of five older brothers is… well, it's like living your entire life as someone else's understudy. Imagine being a hand-me-down jumper—already worn, stretched out in places that don't fit you, and always, always compared to the pristine original. That's me.

Don't get me wrong—Mum and Dad love me. I know they do. But love doesn't always mean being seen. When you're the youngest of six boys, your accomplishments are always weighed against the mountain of achievements before you. Bill? He's the golden boy. Top marks, Head Boy, and now off breaking ancient curses in exotic places like it's just another day at the office. Charlie? He's the cool one, riding dragons and making it look easy, like some kind of storybook hero. And Percy—oh, Percy. Perfect Prefect Percy. He's got ambition written in his DNA, always on a mission to prove something, always a step ahead. Then there's Fred and George, the jokers, the charmers, the whirlwinds of chaos who somehow manage to make Mum laugh even when she's fuming.

And me? I'm just Ron. Not the brightest, not the funniest, not the bravest. Just… there. The one left picking up the scraps of attention after everyone else has had their turn.

I feel it most at the dinner table. Our house, always noisy, always bustling, is full of stories and laughter and teasing. It's brilliant, really, but sometimes, as I sit there amidst the clatter of forks and the roar of voices, I wonder: Would anyone notice if I wasn't here?

When my Hogwarts letter came, I felt two things at once: excitement and dread. I'd dreamed of going to Hogwarts, sure, but what if it was just more of the same? What if I became just another "Weasley" in a sea of expectations? What if I couldn't keep up? What if I couldn't make friends? What if I never managed to be anything more than "the youngest Weasley"?

That's the thing about being the youngest. You grow up watching these giants ahead of you, carving out their paths, leaving behind footprints so massive you can barely step into them without tripping. And yet, somehow, you're supposed to follow. It feels like an impossible race, where everyone else is miles ahead, and you're just scrambling to catch up, hoping you don't make a fool of yourself.

But then the train ride to Hogwarts happened. And Harry. Meeting Harry changed something. Harry Potter—the Harry Potter—was sitting there like any other kid, with no idea about my family or my brothers or anything else that came before me. To him, I wasn't "Bill's little brother" or "Fred and George's tagalong." I was just Ron. For the first time in forever, I wasn't defined by the people around me. I wasn't a hand-me-down version of someone else.

And maybe that's why we got on so well. For all his fame, Harry didn't carry it like a badge. He didn't act like he was better than anyone. He understood, in a way, what it felt like to be unseen, even if his reasons were different from mine.

Now, here at Hogwarts, things feel different. The Gryffindor common room is alive with chatter and warmth, and for once, I feel like I belong somewhere. The Sorting Hat said I was brave, and while I still don't see it, maybe it knows something I don't. Maybe there's more to me than being the youngest, the overlooked one.

I watch Fred and George charm a crowd, Percy barking orders, and I don't feel the usual pang of inadequacy. I don't feel like I have to match them or outdo them anymore.

For the first time, it's okay to just be me.

Just Ron. And, honestly, that's enough. For now, anyway.