How Does Mrs. Weasley Treat Harry Potter In The Series?

To avoid being accused of favoritism, my mother forced me, despite my severe anemia, to participate in the school's group blood donation drive. After only 100 milliliters, my vision started going dark. I reached for the needle, trying to stop the procedure, but the young nurse immediately grabbed my wrist and pinned it down. "Only 100 milliliters and you already want to quit? The other students all donated 400." She glanced at my pale face, her eyes full of disgust. "Donating blood is something honorable. Selfish people like you, pretending to be sick just to get out of it, deserve to have double drawn as punishment!" Nearby, my mother watched me coldly, disappointment written all over her face. "Briana Hayes, is this really how I raised you? "Everyone else donated. Don't think you're special. "You will finish these 400 milliliters today, even if it kills you!" I gasped for air, my heartbeat pounding so violently it felt like my chest would explode. By the time they reached the third bag, my vision had completely blurred, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor. My soul slowly drifted upward as I looked at my mother with guilt in my eyes. I'm sorry, Mom. I really wasn't lying. This time… I truly couldn't hold on any longer.

I'm born with severe allergies, the kind where a whiff of pollen can trigger a full-blown asthma attack. But my mom, who is also the principal of my school, insists that I go on a field trip to the botanical garden with the rest of my class. I plead with her, my eyes reddened, but she stays as cold and hard as ice. "You've got all your meds, don't you? It's just a little thing. Why are you being so dramatic? I'm the principal, so I have to treat every student the same. If anything, you have even more reason to go, so people don't think I'm playing favorites!" To show what a good relationship I have with my classmates, she publicly commands me to get into the flowerbeds and pick flowers to be given to the top student in our grade, Rachel White. The moment I get close to the flowers, I start coughing and wheezing violently. A crushing sense of suffocation floods over me. Mom doesn't look worried in the slightest. Instead, she bites out, "Penelope, how long are you going to keep this act going? You're doing this on purpose to cause trouble for me and embarrass me, aren't you?" She has no idea that my throat is already swelling and closing up. Every breath I take feels like I'm swallowing broken glass. It looks like I won't be a problem for her anymore.

My younger brother, Andrew Midler, pushes me off a cliff, and my life hangs by a thread. Yet my mother, Edith Callahan, the leader of the rescue team, only busies herself with checking on Andrew, who has sprained his wrist. I beg in a faint, faltering voice for her to save me. She, however, looks at me with cold indifference. "Your brother is hurt! Why didn't you protect him? And now you're pretending to be weak? Well, you can stay here by yourself and reflect on what you've done!" She turns and orders the entire rescue team to leave, forbidding anyone from helping me. In the end, I die alone in the desolate wilderness. Upon learning of my death, Mom hysterically holds my already decaying body close, calling me her precious son repeatedly.

When the half-mile sprint test is about to begin, Quiana Sullivan, the class president, and I have applied to be exempted from it. My own mother, who's the homeroom teacher of my class, approves Quiana's application with a smile. But she then throws mine to the floor. "You're having a chest pain, you say? I can't believe you're able to come up with such lies just to avoid the half-mile sprint! I'd have known if you had a heart condition! "Quiana is weak by nature, not to mention she's on her period right now, so she can't handle the agony. What about you, hmm? You've always been perfectly healthy, yet now you're telling me that you're suffering from heart pain? "Don't go around embarrassing me just because you want to slack off! I don't want others claiming that I'm being biased toward my own child! As long as you're still alive and kicking, you must finish the half-mile course no matter what!" Left without a choice, I can only return to the field. The cold wind makes me feel even dizzier now. My heart keeps contracting uncontrollably against my will. Suddenly, it just stops pumping. The next thing I know, I collapse onto the grassy field heavily. When my consciousness is about to flicker to darkness, my mom finally walks over to me. But she merely kicks my arm with a frown on her face, and her tone remains glacial. "Stop playing dead. Get up right now." She doesn't realize that I can never open my eyes ever again. Isn't this great, Mom? No one will ever claim that you're biased toward your own child. I've used my life to prove how fair and just you are. You must be happy now, right?

When Mom punishes me, her palms are sweaty. I know she's even more nervous than I am. She's scared that others will accuse her of favoring me. When the rest of my classmates perform poorly in class, all she does is tell them to review the lesson and do a few more exercises. But when I'm the one who does badly, she points at the field outside the window. Despite the burning midday heat of June, she commands, "Julia Swanson! You're going to stand out on the field and memorize all the words you messed up. You're not allowed to come back in until you know everything by heart!" Everyone in the classroom looks at me. One of my classmates mutters, "Ms. Campbell is being way too hard on her own daughter." Mom hears that comment, and her eyes flash with satisfaction. That's precisely what she wants everyone to see. No one will dare say she's biased toward me if she punishes me the most harshly out of all the students. "Why are you still here?" she barks at me. "Get out. You think you can get into a top college with grades like yours?" The classmate sitting next to me tugs on my sleeve and whispers, "Why don't you try asking her to go easier on you? It's blazing hot outside." I shake my head. The most futile thing I can ever do is ask Mom to go easier on me in school. She prides herself on her professionalism as a teacher. It's a matter of principle to her. But she has forgotten that it's over 104 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Not wanting to disappoint her, I stand out in the sun. The blazing hot air dries up my sweat—and my tears. Eventually, my vision goes blurry. The world seems to spin around me… As I collapse onto the ground, I hear Mom tell her colleague, "I'll just get a popsicle as a gesture and bring that stubborn daughter of mine back inside later." She has no idea that I won't be able to accept her olive branch anymore.

My mother despised me because I was the unintended consequence of a one-night stand. She poured all her love and attention into her students, treating them as if they were her own flesh and blood. One day, when her favourite pupil confessed his feelings for me, she flew into a rage. She slapped me hard across the face and called me a whore. Years later, as Alzheimer's clouded her mind, she forgot I even existed, yet still remembered every single one of her precious students. The irony was that not one of them ever came to visit her in the nursing home. They all loathed her just as much as I did.