A/N: I finally grew tired of searching for decent fics that told the first book from Ron's or Hermione's point of view (I did read an excellent one years ago, from Hermione's eyes, but it's long gone by now), and decided to write my own, from both Ron and Hermione's point of view. I submitted this to an R/Hr site but they have a long queue so I got sick of waiting and am putting it here. Though I have another unfinished story on this site which I have not abandoned, right now I'm having fun with this. Please leave a review if you read!

Disclaimer: I own nothing—in this case, not even the basic plot of the story. It ALL belongs to JKR.

--

We've always planned to write this down for you. We know that you know the whole story (or perhaps we just take for granted that you've heard it all; there may yet be some surprises), but you always want to know more, you always insist we're leaving something out. And as you boarded the train, asking us how we felt at this point in our lives, asking us to write often with news of our daily lives, we realized why that is. We've been telling you a story in which we were supporting characters, the literary tools, if you will, there to move the true hero along and do our part according to the convenience of that particular plotline. We've been telling you Harry's story. What you've wanted to hear is our story.

True, we hardly know the difference ourselves anymore. There was a time when each of us believed—as does everyone privately, and no one more so than adolescents—that it was ourselves the invisible audience to life was really watching, ourselves whose personal triumph really mattered. And as you know, pieces of this childish belief lingered and often made us want to reject the role we'd been given in someone else's story. But once we'd come to almost think of ourselves in terms of our best friend, we almost lost sight at times of having our own modest destinies and our own lives. Surely anything ever to happen to us during that time period—anything that was actually about us, anyway—pales in comparison to what was always the bigger picture.

But you don't care, do you? Because we're the ones you want to read about as you start your own gradual journey into adulthood, aren't we? All that time, you were the invisible audience, as was your brother (though when he starts at school and we send him this, we will no doubt change some bits; we expect your brother's version will have far more emphasis on Quidditch and far less on...well, the things that we thought would be of greater interest to you). You know already that the "plot," if you will, of Harry's story will tie in—indeed, you know it will dominate ours. But if we were just a part of Harry's story, then he in turn was just a part of ours, wasn't he?

To look so far back now is quite tiring, actually. To go back and start at the beginning, knowing all that lay ahead for Harry and for us when we were your age and in your shoes, knowing all we had to traipse through to get to this point, has been nothing short of exhausting. You must feel the same way, knowing it all as well as you do, but our intention was to write everything as if you were reading a story completely new to you, written by strangers, and not address you personally in the narrative (though you'll notice Dad breaks this rule constantly). We vowed at first not to read each other's entries, but Dad has needed Mum's endless help in editing and each of us has recounted having thoughts about various people, including unflattering thoughts about each other, that felt like small betrayals if not openly shared, so yes, both of us know everything the other has said and has forgiven it, so you have no blackmail over us, young lady. We hope these don't bore you too much and that they don't end up merely collecting dust in your trunk (but Mum asks you not to use reading this—or anything else—as an excuse to neglect your important readings that will actually further your education). Anyway, Rosie, we still plan to write to you every week if not every day. Get your sleep, eat right, and do your homework. Love from Mum and Dad.

--

Mum

When people learn that I'm Muggle-born, the first thing they want to know is how I knew I was different from my peers as a child. They want to know what "strange things" happened around me, what was my first clue that I was "special." The truth is, I hardly remember. There are certain incidents that stick out in my mind, of course, but mostly, I suppose I remember being different in other ways.

I still remember quite well the day that I started primary school. The moment Mum gently shook me awake, I sprang immediately to my feet, as though I'd merely been pretending to sleep, and bounced on the bed, excitedly saying something to the effect of, "Is it today? Do I really get to go to school?!" I remember Mum trying to get me to sit still as she grappled with my knots of hair, struggling to tame it into plaits. I remember twirling around for Dad in my new school jumper and plaid skirt. I remember that when my parents dropped me off at school and reassured me I would see them in a few hours that I quite happily skipped away from them into the building.

My first day can't have been all that bad; I remember coming home reasonably encouraged and telling my parents that I needed to learn the entire multiplication table before the week was out. The teacher hadn't asked it of us, she'd simply said we would be learning them throughout the year, but it was most important that I be ahead. When I had not needed teaching how to write my full name, the teacher had shown the class and said, "It looks as if Hermione's gotten a bit of a head start, doesn't it?" It took me only that long to realize that my top priority was the teacher's approval. How could I ever tire of her telling the class that they should all try to be more like me? And so I was always five steps ahead of my class, in whatever they were working on. It wasn't without considerable effort on my part, of course, but I think it truly made me happy. I don't remember receiving constant looks of annoyance or malicious whispers from my classmates, but in hindsight this may be because I wasn't looking yet. I don't remember devoting very much thought at all to my peers those first few weeks. It didn't occur to me to seek social interaction, though I assumed they all admired me.

The first inkling that perhaps I was not thought of glowingly by my classmates came one day when we were standing in line to use the water fountain. Maybe I'd been reciting the scientific properties of water aloud, maybe I'd merely been minding my own business, but whatever the case, the girl standing behind me said quite out of nowhere, "Why's your hair so messy all the time?"

Genuinely shocked, I replied, "Is it?"

"Yes," the girl said. "It looks ugly. Some of the boys were laughing about it yesterday, didn't you hear them?"

"No," I whispered, my hand shaking as I churned water from the fountain into my mouth.

"Oh," she said. "Well, they were. People make fun of you all the time, didn't you know?"

She tossed her own shiny dark hair, tied neatly with little pink ribbons, casually over her shoulder as she leaned over the water fountain for her drink. A moment later, she leapt back sputtering and screaming in disgust; the water fountain had sprayed some sort of mud-colored sludge all over her face, hair, and pinafore. The teacher, mystified, told the headmistress to contact a plumber, but of course no one ever found the source of the unidentified substance. At the time I thought nothing of it, other than it served the girl right (I heard she found the substance very difficult to wash out of her hair and impossible to wash out of her clothes). I felt no vindictive pleasure, though; I was still in shock over her words.

After this, I began to notice. I noticed, for the first time, that no one sought me out or spoke to me at lunch or break—no one sought me out or spoke to me ever. When my hand shot into the air time after time in class, those were not looks of admiration I was given. I was not admired, much less liked. I retaliated by devoting even more time to my studies and rising ever higher above the level of my classmates. It became more important for mine to be the first hand in the air, for me to be right, for me to know everything before the teacher taught it. And so it continued throughout my primary school years. I grew increasingly studious and increasingly isolated. I don't recall many more occasions when classmates were cruel outright, but still nobody sought my company. This became quite natural to me, though, really. And I was by no means shy; I talked as much as I wanted to anyone I pleased, whether they wanted to listen or not, and I still rather liked commanding attention in class. After a while I didn't even notice when I was annoying people; in fact, I learned to block it out so effectively that I got back my hope of winning people over with my intellect and forgot ever having doubted it as a social tool.

When primary school ended, I'd forged no friendships that I would miss, so I was quite looking forward to progressing to secondary school. Not only was the material sure to be more pleasantly challenging, it was a fresh start; I was going to a different new school than most of my classmates and would have the chance to impress a different crowd of people...very different, as it happened.

Harry says he remembers everything about the day he got his letter, all the details leading up to it and following it; he remembers he'd been thinking about how he'd look in his dyed gray uniform on his first day at Stonewall when he heard the mail arrive, he remembers trying to make his cousin go get the mail instead, he remembers what else was in the mail with his letter (a postcard and a bill), he remembers slowly sitting down at the table, savoring the fact that someone had written to him, before his uncle snatched it away. Well, I don't. In a way, I almost feel as if there was nothing before I got the letter, like everything before it was a foggy former life no longer quite connected with me. When I reach back in my memory of that day, the only image that comes to mind is the words "We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," staring calmly back at me from the parchment, indifferent to whether I believed them or not, just simply there.

Did I believe it at first? Of course not. At least, I don't think so. Phrases such as "Ridiculous!" and "Oh, honestly" ran through my head. In fact, I only mentioned the letter in passing to my parents, brushing it off as a bit of a laugh. I remember they were a bit alarmed and pressed me for details about who might contact me in this way, but I laughed and said, "Oh, Mum, Dad, you aren't going to pay this any mind, are you? It's such a load of old rubbish, isn't it?" I was even able to forget about it until about a week later, when a Ministry official showed up at my doorstep and offered to escort us to Diagon Alley.

--

Dad

So we're starting with before Hogwarts, then? Okay, but you know I didn't go to a Muggle primary school like your mother did, right? Grandma Weasley just taught us all at home (good thing, too, as I expect Muggle schools would've stuffed our heads full of all sorts of things we don't need to know, like what some Muggle bloke did a hundred years ago—and, oh yeah, science). So I've got no sad social isolation stories or anything. And I don't remember the day I got my letter either—come to think of it, did I even get a letter? Maybe in Wizarding families like mine, where five people have gone before you, you don't really need an official letter of acceptance; there's never been a time when Hogwarts wasn't just a natural part of your future, like growing up. Or maybe Hogwarts just forgot about me.

Your mum just said I had to have gotten a letter, because obviously I knew what books to bring and the first-year booklist would've been different from my brothers'. So never mind, then.

Anyway, I do remember the morning when we were all supposed to go to Diagon Alley for school supplies for my first year, which would've been Fred and George's third, and Percy's fifth. Percy was going on about being made prefect.

"...and I think that I'll most certainly be considered for Head Boyship in seventh year, once Professor Dumbledore sees how right he was to have this kind of faith in my responsibility, that is," he said, perhaps unaware of Fred, George, and Ginny mouthing along with him, this being about the fortieth time we'd been treated to his prefect badge acceptance speech.

"Oh, I'm almost sure of it," Mum beamed, forking an extra fried egg onto his plate (I don't think she was even aware of the fact that she'd been heaping more food than the rest of us got onto his plate almost all summer). "You know, I meant to tell you yesterday—Bill said in his letter well done on being made prefect. He and Charlie both enjoyed it so much, you know. Now all we need is for Fred and George to be made prefects in two years, don't we?"

"Mother, they can't both be prefects," said Percy stiffly. "Each year can only have one boy and one girl—"

"And more importantly, Mum," George said, "we'd sooner jump naked into a vat of dragon bogies—"

"—with a horde of ravenous fire crabs at the bottom, yes," said Fred pleasantly.

Ginny giggled, "You would?" as though she hadn't been hearing roughly eighty variations of this all summer (some of the more ambitious ones involving living in a troll's loincloth and being cursed with chronic vomit of the ears).

"Well, I wouldn't say you've got much reason to be worried, do you?" said Mum, suddenly frowning. "What with all the trouble you two got into last year. I thought I'd die of shame when I got the owl saying you'd put Whizzing Worms in that poor boy's tea." (George choked over his sandwich, still profoundly amused by this memory.)

I waited for Mum to say that in that case, we'd have to wait the four years to see if I was made a prefect. Not that I wanted to be one; I was just waiting for her to say so, that's all. She forgot, though.

"When can we go?" I asked loudly.

"Go?" asked Mum absentmindedly.

"To Diagon Alley."

"Well, as soon as your father gets up, of course. But don't go bothering him, he's very tired. It was another busy night at the Ministry."

"Right." I reached for the last bacon sandwich on the plate but Fred swiped it.

"I'm still hungry," I said angrily.

"Well, so am I, little bro, so I guess the question would have to be who got it first, then, wouldn't it? Don't worry, I'm working it out as we speak."

I scowled, but before I could say anything Ginny asked, "What did Dad have to do last night?"

"Oh, you know," Mum sighed, waving her wand so that our empty dishes scooted neatly into the basin, "the usual nonsense. Apparently an engaged couple in Bristol enchanted their wedding rings to say their vows for them, but they must have parted ways because they pawned the rings off to a Muggle shop..."

Yeah, yeah. To pass the time I counted the places we'd have to go in Diagon Alley to get my school supplies. We went to London all the time, but usually it wasn't to get anything for me, so I was sort of looking forward to it, I guess. I mean, I know, big deal, right, and buying robes and books and all that was bound to be a right chore, but mind you, I was definitely looking forward to getting a wand. How cool would it be, when I could finally just hold something and—zap, though you know, it wasn't really even the doing magic part I was looking forward to. I mean, sure, it was going to be nice to actually get to finally feel what it was like, but growing up watching it on a daily basis does sort of kill the excitement, I suppose, doesn't it...That's what I started to think when I saw how chuffed Hermione and Harry were to be learning it. To me it was just like, oh yeah, guess I'm doing magic now, huh, look at that...but I guess I'm supposed to talk about that later...So anyway, it was going to be cool getting a wand not just because of that, but because...I dunno, I guess it is sort of special, isn't it? The wand chooses you, not the other way around, and every wand's different, so...I wanted to see which one would choose me, that's all. Yeah, I guess it was sort of pathetic, but after all, you felt the same way when you got yours, didn't you?

"...and they just started shouting the vows from the cushion the ring bearer was holding—well, you can imagine the spectacle it made. And it was a large wedding, your father and Perkins had to perform about fifty Memory Charms."

"We'll let him rest, then," said Ginny, but she stared impatiently at the clock, concentrating hard on Dad's hand as though trying to will it off the word "bed." Come to think of it, that probably was what she was trying to do, just to see if she could. Ginny, more than any of the rest of us (as Mum was fond of saying constantly), had a lot of bursts of magic that she couldn't contain, and after a while it was happening so often that she started trying it willingly. I'd often go into her room to find her concentrating hard on something, like a hand mirror, trying to get it to crack, and she'd tell me to hit her or something to get her all miffed so her magic would come out (probably at my expense—the mirror would've exploded in my face or something). It was a shame she was the youngest, because she was looking forward to Hogwarts more than I think I ever was, or any of us, come to that, yet she had to watch brother after brother go before her. I felt sorry for her, but in retrospect, I think I was actually looking forward to having her envy me for something, if only for a year. Dunno if you've noticed, but it wasn't often that anyone in the family was ever jealous of me for anything.

"You know we can't take too long in London, Mother," said Percy composedly. "I have toget in five more hours of study for O.W.L.s before bed."

"No, you don't," I said. "You don't take the stupid exams for almost a year, Perce. A year."

"Ten months!" said Percy, reddening unnecessarily. "Ten months, Ron. And as a school prefect, it is my duty to be prepared long before the rest of those in my year, and to not have my every free hour weighed down with studying, so as to devote more time to my duties as a school prefect."

"But that's mental, you're not going to remember everything you studied over the summer—"

"Ron, you know how seriously your brother takes his studies," said Mum sternly. "I say we should all be going out of our way to accommodate his study schedule. And I hope you're planning on taking a leaf out of his book—unlike you two, I see," she added bitterly, turning to the twins. "I notice you haven't done any of your summer homework yet. I suppose you mean to leave it till you're on the train, do you, like last year? And tell Professor McGonagall that someone had cursed you so that a giant fanged moth materialized and ate your essays every time you tried to write them—"

"A giant fanged canary, Mum. Whatever would a moth have to do with anything?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," I said. "Mum, it'll take some time, won't it? I mean, we've got to go everywhere, haven't we?" I ticked off the familiar places in my mind. "Gringotts, Flourish and Blotts, Eeylop's for Percy's owl, Madam Malkin's, Ollivander's—"

"What, dear?" said Mum absentmindedly, pressing her wandtip against the dirty dishes in the basin so that detergent slobbered out onto them. "Oh...no, not Ollivander's. And Percy, unless your robes are getting too small—and I don't think yours are yet, Fred, George?—we don't need to go to Madam Malkin's either, so obviously that will save us a bit of time."

"What d'you mean, not Ollivander's?" I asked incredulously. "I've got to have a wand, don't I?"

"Well, of course you'll have a wand, Ron," said Mum in mild surprise. "Charlie's old wand is still in perfectly good condition, didn't I show you? Look, here—Accio!" A small, narrow box came zooming into the kitchen, and she opened it to show me Charlie's banged up old wand, the unicorn hair sticking out of the end. "There, that will do, won't it?"

"So...so I'm not getting my own wand?"

"Ron..." said Mum warningly. "Don't do this, please..."

"I s'pose I'm not getting my own robes, or books, or anything, am I?"

"What do you care about all that?" Ginny asked.

"Well, for one thing I'm going to look right stupid in too-small robes—why don't I just go to Hogwarts wearing a banner? A banner that says 'I'm p—'"

"Ron!" said Ginny sharply, glancing at Mum.

"Is there any reason for me to even come to Diagon Alley?"

"Oh, Ron," said Fred irritably, "find someone who cares, will you?"

I was going to hit him, I really was. Then I caught sight of Mum, who was actually looking my way for the first time all morning. She didn't look angry, exactly, just exasperated, I guess. I could practically hear her mentally sighing, "Why can't he be more like the rest?"

"I'm going upstairs. Don't bother me. I'm not going to London," I said through clenched teeth, and stormed out of the kitchen. I strained my ears as I climbed the stairs, and caught snippets of Percy's disapproving voice saying the words "childish...ungrateful." When I reached my bedroom I slammed the door as forcefully as I could but I don't know if they heard it down in the kitchen; all it achieved was making our ghoul start moaning and banging the pipes at me. I threw myself down on the bed and picked up Martin Miggs, but I wasn't really reading. I was waiting for someone to come tell me it was time to go. I'd tell them again I wasn't going, as there was obviously no need for me. No matter how much they asked me to come out, I wouldn't.

I did stay in my room all day, actually. They made the trip to London without me, and what's more, I really don't think anyone noticed.