DISCLAIMER: All the characters belong to J.K. Rowling. Anyone who didn’t know that already really shouldn’t read this in the first place. Batman belongs to Bob Kane/Bill Finger and DC comics. I am none of there people. Don’t sue me!
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I wish I was Robin. You know who I mean, that wicked little bloke, Batman’s sidekick. I want to be the one who saves the world alongside the hero. The savior. “The One.” I know what you great stereo-typed prats are thinking: “You already are, Ron!” Well you’re wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. Robin gets a slice of fame, a piece of the lime-light. It’s Batman and Robin. He’s included. He’s important. Everyone knows his name. Now, look at me: the invisible man. No! I’m not wearing Harry’s cloak! Hermione’s not the only one that can use sim- er- metaphors! Bloody Hermione...
Right, where was I? Oh, Robin. No one knows I exist. It’s never “Harry Potter and Ron Weasley.” No one gives a rat’s arse about me.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be the hero. don’t want to be what Harry is. I’m not really the I’m-prepared-to-carry-the-weight-of-the-world-on-my-shoulders-even-if-I’m-crushed-under-it type. All I want is to be recognized; acknowledged as... well, as anything! ‘Sidekick’ wouldn’t be such a horrible title (although it sounds like some sort of muggle defense strategy).
Now, I’m not one to brag but I did get past McGonagall’s giant chess set, drive a flying car across the country, wander into a mass of bloody gigantic spiders, drink a polyjuice potion brewed by a twelve-year-old in a girl’s toilet, go into the Chamber of Secrets after my baby sister, face what I thought was an insane mass murderer, get tied up underwater by a gang of blood-thirsty merepeople (never mind what Hermione told you), fight a gang of Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries and I made Keeper for the Gryffindor house Quidditch team. Yet still, no one’s heard of me! I’d even be happy to hear someone mention: “The great Harry Potter’s red-haired sidekick.” or even, in desperate cases: “That splattergroit fellow.”
I think Robin would be a perfect match for me, if I were lucky enough for the chance. Batman characters really seem to correspond with the lot of us! Harry, of course, is Batman: divine hero, star, celebrity. Hermione is Batgirl: eager to help and to fight (not to mention she’s bloody beautiful...). Dumbledore is Alfred: the wise and kind old man who loves the hero and compensates for this hero’s lack of parental figures. Say, wait just one minute! I’ve just noticed something. Robin and Batgirl are the ones with the chemistry... does that mean the me and Hermione...
Oh, who am I kidding? That’s the main reason I chose Batman for my comparison: the sidekick gets the girl. The beautiful, brilliant girl. It’s probably just because Batman’s a hell of a lot older. Then again, Harry is older in a sense. He’s been through so much more, he’s so much stronger. He’s in an entirely different category from Hermione and me.
I know it must sound selfish of me to be so desperate for recognition, but look at what I’ve got for family! Look at my brothers! How am I supposed to live up to that. But, as angry as I might get at Harry, at myself, at my family, at all of it, I’d do anything for Harry. You know I would. I’d die for him in a second. Really, I would! I swear on Sirius’s grave (damn it, Ron, don’t think about him). I can’t think of anyone I’d rather “take the bullet” (bullet?) for than Harry Potter. Well, except for Hermione. If Harry wasn’t the worlds only chance for survival, if he didn’t carry the fate of the world (with my help, of course), and if he wasn’t “The Chosen One” then I’d sacrifice myself to save her. Hell, I’d sacrifice myself just to make her smile. That beautiful smile, it’s intoxiating is what it is. But, since Harry is who he is, I can’t. If I died for Hermione, what would happen to him? The hero. I need to stay alive for the sole purpose of protecting him, and, thereby, protecting the world, even if there’s nothing left to live for; I am, after all, “the thing he’d miss the most.” I keep telling myself that, but I know that underneath it all I couldn’t bear to see Hermione die, to know that I could have saved her...
All comparisons aside, I suppose that I don't really care all that much
about being known. A lot less than I though I did, anyway. I reckon this’ll sound sappy, but it’s reward enough knowing that Harry needs me. And, maybe, though I’m not about to get my hopes up, maybe Hermione needs me too.