The Extraordinarily Ordinary Life of Ron Weasley

The trip to the station that hot August day in 1991 was the same as in previous years. We all squeezed into the old Ford Anglia, where Mum was typically unawares of the obviously magical fiddling that Dad has done with the old heap. Ginny sat up front, in between Mum and Dad, and Percy, Fred, George and I squeezed into the backseat, trying desperately not to touch each other and failing miserably at the task.

As the youngest boy, I was always forced to sit "on the hump," that obnoxious bump on the back floor of most small cars. Because of the existence of this hump, finding a comfortable position in which to endure the two hour trip to London became nearly impossible. What it always came down to was whether I wanted to have my knees in my face or slide one foot on either side of the hump, leaving me in an extremely embarrassing position. Neither choice would alleviate me from physical discomfort or the emotional scaring caused by Fred and George's incessant insults.

Once we had arrived at the station, Percy's "Prefect Persona" kicked in, and he bustled importantly to and fro, helping Mum to get some luggage carts and griping at us younger boys. "Honestly, Ron, you've got some dirt there on your nose. This is no time to be looking like a hooligan."

And then Mum picked up on it, her cleanliness radar peaking out. "Oh, Ron," she admonished, grabbing my shirt and pulling me towards her to try and rub the dirt off.

This wasn't the first time I considered the question of whether Percy was really a woman trapped in a mans body.

*~*~*

Of course, once I managed to get on the train, I couldn't find any place to sit. Every single compartment seemed to be filled with people who were the very opposite of me. There was compartment seven- filled with gorgeous, smiling 5th year girls. The compartment across from them was filled with desperate, randy 5th year guys, who had auspiciously chosen that compartment in the hopes that some of the girls would happen upon them sitting there engulfed in their own perversity. Compartment twelve was a gang of gorilla-looking Slytherin 3rd and 4th years. The combined IQ in that cab had to be lower than my shoe size. Cabin sixteen appeared to be a group of quiet, shy Ravenclaw recluses already off to a brilliant start in the annual "Let's See Who Can Make It To The End of the New Textbook First" contest.

Finally, in what seemed like the very last cabin on the bloody train, I found the short, dark-haired boy with banged up glasses. Of course, by then, I had heard to twins story, but as their younger brother I was doubtful of its authenticity. So summoning all of the nerve and Gryffindor courage I thought I possessed, I spoke my first ever words to the Boy Who Lived. "Anyone sitting there?" and, as if by way of explanation as to why I would chose to sit with him, "Everywhere else is full."

Sitting here now, writing this, I want to beat my head on this desk. What a blithering idiot I was. It's a wonder Harry didn't tell me to shove off, or worse. Luckily for me, that's not his style. Instead, I got a fearful nod. And so I sat down. My curiosity not withstanding, I tried not to "gawp at his forehead," as Mum would put it. Were it not for my meddlesome brothers, I quite possibly would have spent the entire trip in silence, contemplating my completely pathetic life. As it was, the twins butted in and introduced us. Maybe I should thank them for that.

Nah.

Thus began one of the most infamous friendships in the entire history of Hogwarts. I wouldn't be surprised if it's to be mentioned in the four hundred and twenty ninth edition of that bloody book, which Hermione will of course purchase and read cover to cover, ever though I have pointed out that it's pretty much the same stuff- all you have to do is skim the ending while standing in the bookstore, as that's the only stuff that could possibly be new.

This, conveniently, brings me to Hermione. Ah, yes, I can remember that like it was only yesterday. She was an insufferable know-it-all when I first met her, and honestly, she still can be. Of course, if you tell her that, not only will I be forced to disavow all knowledge of such a statement, but I'll also use my profound mastery of the Jelly-Legs Jinx to my benefit. So reader, be forewarned.

When Hermione Granger first appeared in my life, all I could think of was how nice her eyes were. Coming from a family of natural red heads, her even brown hair color was also appealing, but it was her deep, chocolate brown eyes that captivated me. My eyes, in my opinion, are a humble, plain sort of blue. The kind of blue that colors the gaze of what seems like fifty percent of the Anglo-Saxon population. But Hermione's eyes are so brown that when I look at them, I feel lost, like I am drowning.

Anyway, there she stood, dressed in her perfectly pressed, brand new Hogwarts robes, her hair wild and enchanting, and her eyes that milk-chocolate brown. She burst in on my first chance to prove that I was something different, something special, and wreaked havoc on my captive audience. "I've tried a few simple spells- it's all worked," she said, much to my annoyance and Harry's apparent interest. Oi, can't a bloke get even a tiny break?

Hermione with her proper dress, and proper language and grammar, with all her i's dotted and her t's crossed... her perfection was a constant source of annoyance for me, and still more proof of how bloody ordinary and imperfect I was. I couldn't do anything right, or so it seemed at the time.

So that was that- the inauspicious beginning to my seven years at Hogwarts. Inauspicious, save landing Harry Potter as my best mate. Having Harry as a best mate has been, in many ways, both a blessing and a curse to me. I've spent the better part of twelve years playing Tonto to his Don Juan. I've almost been killed more times than I care to count, and sport many scars that are a permanent testimony to the dedication that being Harry's best mate requires of a man. I've done my share of fighting, seen enough of blood and death to fill two or three pensieves. Thestrals are no longer invisible to this Weasley.

But at the same time, I have been blessed to see the boy (and now man) behind that stoic facade. I've inhaled entire bottles of Fire Whiskey and been entirely pissed with the man others know only as "The Boy Who Lived." I've been blessed to have a best friend who's loyalty is unwavering, who's trust is absolute, and who's humor and quiet strength have managed to get me through some tough times, including the loss of my brothers in the war. Through the twelve years I've known Harry, I've gained a best friend, a new sense of self, and, soon, I'll have a new brother, assuming all goes well with his wedding plans. I couldn't and wouldn't ask for a more devoted husband for my little sister.

But perhaps the best thing about having Harry as my best mate is that I know that if it were him writing in this journal, he'd be saying all the same things about me. Fame and fortune don't matter a mite to Harry, rather, it's a person's inner-most qualities that distinguish them in his eyes. He's quite simply the best man I've ever met.

It's really thanks to Harry that I got my taste of the extraordinary first year, starting with that bloody mountain troll. I had never in my life been so afraid, not just for myself, but for Hermione and Harry as well. I was also deathly afraid of failure, and my severely lacking self-confidence was indicative of that inevitability. In addition, it was my fault that Hermione was in that situation to begin with- I honestly don't know what I would have done had she been hurt or even killed. I know Hermione and Harry have forgiven me for that particular transgression, but it took years for me to forgive myself. The thoughts of what could have been haunted my dreams, and sometimes, even twelve years later, I look at her and can't help but shudder. All that I have built my life around could have been lost to me- lost before it even began.

And then there was the Philosopher's stone incident. I know for a fact that none of my brothers have ever played (and won) a living chess match against Minerva McGonnagall's enchanted chessmen. They've never faced a slobbering, vicious, three headed dog named Fluffy, or a massive, deadly Devil's Snare. Oh, yes, my brother's have seen their times of danger, bravery and fear, but little compares to experiencing all of that in your first year of school.

So before I knew it, I was not just Ronald David Weasley, sixth son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, but Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's best mate and expert chess champion- Dumbledore even said so in the end of year speech that term. And at King's Cross that June, for the first time in my life, my parents were beaming with pride that was directed solely at me.

From that moment on, I was no longer anonymous.