The Greatest Compliment


I never meant to be so bad to my son. It was an accident. Well, maybe not an accident. I don’t think it should be classified as that, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t mean to exclude him from my life. I didn’t want to leave him out or cut him off. I wanted him there the most.

He did nothing to deserve the treatment he received from me. I couldn’t look him in the eyes and I don’t know why. His eyes weren’t green, but a soft brown. He has my wife’s eyes. His hair wasn’t black, or always messy, never laying flat. No, it was my hair – red. He didn’t have glasses, or a scar of his forehead. He was tall and gangly, like me, with freckles speckled generously over his face. There was no resemblance to the boy he shared a name with, but then again, there was more than he knew.

It was his name. A silly reason to be so terrible to my boy, I know. But how could I help it? Hermione, my wife, chose the name for our eldest son. I had chosen our daughter’s name, so it was only fair. I had a feeling she would name him Harry, and I didn’t object. How could I? A part of me wanted her to, to honor him by naming our son that. I didn’t realize the effect until after he was here.

Hermione and I are different. It wasn’t hard for her at all, not like it was for Ginny and me. Hermione was so proud. It rang through her voice when she said his name, “Harry Ronald Weasley.� I knew it helped ease her pain to have another Harry. I thought it may do the same for me, but it didn’t.

It hurt more than ever. It was a constant stinging that I couldn’t shake. The month Harry was born, July, was the month I missed my best friend the most since he died. It had been seven years but the pain never faded. It gnawed me from the inside. I couldn’t sleep or laugh. Every time I closed my eyes his face came into view. His shining green eyes, that hardly got a chance to sparkle because of his incessant pain. I remembered how happy he had been with Ginny and it hurt more. The month Harry was born was the month Ginny got engaged.

She really loved her fiancé, her now husband. I know she did. He was a good guy and still is. But I knew that Harry, my best friend, would be forever on her mind – in her heart. She would have married him. They weren’t even together when he died, but I knew she loved him and he her. It was so clear to everyone. There just wasn’t enough time for them.

I don’t know what Ginny feels now. She has her own life and children; she’s happy. She stopped showing any pain she felt when hearing my son’s name a long time ago. I just can’t. For months, whenever anyone said Harry’s name, I would look up hopefully, a bubble rising in my stomach. I expected to see my black-haired friend waltz through the door. He never came. Instead, my small redheaded son was there. I didn’t resent him and I wasn’t angry with him. I tried to be happy that I had a Harry. But how could I shake the crushing disappointment I felt when realizing my friend would never come through the door again?

I tried to be the same around Harry as I was around my other children. Don’t get me wrong, my children are the world to me, I love them more than anything. Hermione is still the love of my life, more than fifteen years later. I know how blessed I am to have such vivacious, loving children. My oldest daughter, Phoebe, keeps me in check at age twelve. My youngest, Ada, is learning the ropes from Phoebe at age three. Harry was always different though. I tried to see him the way I saw his brother, Brent. But I couldn’t. They were too different.

Harry caused me the most pain. It wasn’t just his name that brought back bittersweet memories of my friend, everything about him did. They have the same personality. He has the same glint of trouble in his eyes, one likely inherited from Fred and George. Sometimes I closed my eyes and listened to his words, I could see the same ones leaving Harry’s. I knew that my Harry had Harry’s spirit, what else could explain how they were so alike?

“I know you miss him,� said Hermione one day a few years ago. Harry had been seven at the time. I was lost in reverie, staring at a picture of my son on the mantle, my eyes averting to a picture of my friend every so often. I didn’t answer her. I didn’t want to share it with her. I wanted to mourn on my own, even though I knew if anyone could understand, it’d be her. But she could say our son’s name without a ripple of pain piercing her veins. She could laugh at his witty remarks and ruffle his hair without wishing it would turn black.

“I miss him too,� she added softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged. I miss him more, I wanted to yell, but I knew it irrational and childish. “He was my friend just as much as he was yours, Ron.� I just nodded, not meeting her eyes. Slowly, I looked at her. Her brown eyes were brimming with tears and my face softened.

“I know,� I murmured soothingly.

“I wish he could have met Harry, or Phoebe or Brent or Ellie, or Connor or Ada. He would have loved Phoebe, so much like Ginny,� Hermione said, a sob catching in her throat. It was true, but I had a feeling he would have loved any and all of our children.

I wrapped my arms around her, as her sobs grew. “He would have loved Ellie too, so much like you,� I whispered.

She only responded with, “I’m sorry.� I looked at her, wondering what she had to sorry about. “I know how much it hurts you,� she continued. Hermione always knew. She knew how much pain Harry caused me, but she never said a word. She never said anything when my eyes couldn’t meet my son’s, because they were clouded with sorrow. That day I knew she blamed herself for my pain, for choosing that name. I never blamed her though. I couldn’t, for I would have chosen the same name myself.

I don’t know if he would believe me if I told him, but it’s the truth. I love Harry most. I shouldn’t say that, because I love them all differently. But in some ways, it’s the truth. He is so like my friend, how could I not? Strange as it is, he hurts me the most, not purposely of course, but he is the one I would hate to lose. It felt like I lost my best friend all over again, when my son got on the train for Hogwarts.

The night before he left, I vowed to overcome everything. I would tell Harry everything. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him; it was that I was afraid to love him. I was afraid to lose him. He had to know it all. I had to tell him how, in the beginning, he had reopened an old wound, an old wound that still stung so. And then how I watched him grow and I watched him become so like my brother, or the boy I considered my brother. I needed to tell him how much I loved him. How I loved him different than everyone else. He would know that I would be there for him always, like I was for my friend.

*

He only had a few minutes to get on the train when I pulled him aside. I already kissed Phoebe and told her I loved her ten times. I couldn’t believe it, third year already. I just hoped she wouldn’t do the things her mother and I did in third year, or first and second, for that matter. Brent gave Phoebe a small nod as goodbye, and Hermione reprimanded him for it. “You won’t see her until Christmas, give her a hug.� I chuckled to myself, remembering how I said goodbye to Ginny in my first year. I gave her the nod Brent gave Phoebe; only Ginny ignored it and gave me a big hug. And then there was the way Fred and George said goodbye to me – a nice tweak on the nose.

“What is it, Dad?� he asked, eagerly looking at the train.

“Harry,� I said. No pain, I didn’t see my best friend, but my red-haired son, the son I loved so much. “I want you to have a good time at Hogwarts,� I paused, “ and I know that I always love you,� my throat croaked a little bit. Harry gave an embarrassed grin. I could tell he was pleased.

“I know,� he answered confidently.

“Really?� I asked, mildly surprise. He nodded with a smile.

“Of course, Dad. Sometime you look at me funny, but I know it’s because you love me. Why else would you?� I grinned. I couldn’t help it. My son knew I loved him, after I felt as though I rejected him all these years. I guess it was all in my head, and Harry just took my sad looks as love. I guess that’s what they were.

The whistle blew as a warning. “Got a hug for me?� I asked, wanting to laugh or cry. Harry smiled and jumped into my arms.

“And Dad,� he whispered, “I know why you get sad, and it’s okay. Don’t worry, I know it’s a compliment.�

I smiled at my son, as he boarded the Hogwart’s Express. I didn’t have to tell him to make me proud. He already did and I knew it would continue. I didn’t have to warn him to stay out of trouble; it would be fruitless. After all, he was just like Harry and that was the biggest compliment I could ever pay to a person.