Written for #WeasleyWeek and @thethreebroomsticksfic 🧡
Day 2: Ron Weasley
Ron spent much of his childhood lamenting about things that weren't really his. Hand-me-down clothes. Percy's Rat. Charlie's old wand, which had been their Uncle Gideon's before that. Trainers that had been worn by so many different brothers, Ron didn't even know whose they started out as. Probably Bill's. Old bedsheets. Second-hand trunk. School robes that were more grey than black, and at least one size too small as he waited for Fred and George to outgrow theirs. Even the gleaming prefect badge assigned to him didn't really feel like his, because Bill and Percy had one first.
Everything he had was someone else's first.
Or nearly everything.
Everything except the occasional pair of socks, or pajamas, or annual Christmas jumper. That were always maroon.
Ron hated maroon.
For the first fifteen years of his life, if anyone had asked him why he had a personal vendetta against the color, he would have grumbled something unintelligible then changed the subject. Mostly because he didn't really know why. The sight of it just filled him with a disdainful loathing that didn't feel justified or particularly rational. It just was what it was. A simple fact like the sky was blue, and two plus two equals four. Mum assigned him maroon at birth, and Ron hated it.
He wasn't ever git enough to tell Mum, though.
No, Ron had resigned himself to suffer in silence for the rest of his life in maroon hats, and maroon scarfs, and maroon dress robes, all for the sake of Mum being able to sort the laundry into color-coded stacks.
It wasn't until later, until he was seventeen, that he clung to the color like a lifeline.
Sitting up in the mouth of the tent, and watching the rain come down in sheets, Ron tucked his nose into the collar of his jumper. He pulled in a deep breath that still somewhat smelled of wildflowers and freshly baked bread. His chest ached with the memory of it. Of home. And he realized he'd wasted so much energy, so much time, hating that maroon had been chosen for him, that he'd failed to cherish the fact that he'd been chosen.
For so long, he thought being a Weasley meant a passed down wardrobe and worn soles on his shoes. When, really, it meant he belonged somewhere.
Something inside him shifted after that. He hoped he hadn't figured it out too late. And he vowed never to take that legacy for granted ever again.
Which was why, a year later, when December rolled around and Mum asked, "Ron, dear, what color would you like for your jumper?"
His answer came easy, and with a wide grin. "Maroon."
Written for #WeasleyWeek and @thethreebroomsticksfic 🧡
Day 7: Ginny Weasley
I DIDN'T CHEAT (but i'm still a traitor)
by takearisk
Ginny had a boyfriend. She had a very nice, very thoughtful, very hot boyfriend. Dean carried her books, and walked her to class. He sat next to her at every meal, and helped her review for Transfiguration. He bought her sweets, and once drew her a really pretty landscape of the forest at sunrise. He was a good kisser—without being pushy—and all her housemates thought they were perfect together.
Her mum even liked him.
They’d been going out for months. Things were great. Things were supposed to be great.
So, why in Merlin's name was she having an existential crisis in double Charms?
Because of a certain sixth year Quidditch captain, who was an utter imbecile, and of course, figured out he liked her categorically too late.
