A/N: In exchange for a late update (but only by a couple hours), this chapter is extra long.
The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley
Chapter 4
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December 17
I must declare that Malfoy is a gigantic pouf.
He has obviously spent some time going over his new tactics, because over the last few days, he has taken the liberty of targeting me as the center of his mocks. I should feel flattered. Maybe later.
But he does not mock me for the usual reasons one might think a Malfoy feels animosity for a Weasley.
No, not for my lack of money.
No, not for my overpopulated family.
No, not because I'm an ugly hag.
But because I gave him, and I quote him, "a little smoochie."
I hardly thought he had anything on me, for he had participated in this kiss just as much as I had. It takes two to tango, and all of that. Not that Malfoy and I are planning to tango anytime soon. I've never tangoed, and I'm not going to start now. No, I would rather wait for the right man.
So, when I kindly reminded him that he had kissed me back, he said, "Ah, but I'm not the one who rudely grabbed someone else's face before laying a big wet one on the poor unsuspecting bloke."
"I did not lay a-big-wet-one," I protested. Why couldn't he just say 'snog'? "That sounds far more disgusting than what I actually did."
He pointed a long finger at me.
"Ha! I knew it!"
"Rejoice, Malfoy's sponge-like brain has soaked in something," I said wryly.
"You enjoyed it," he declared, ignoring me.
"What?" I laughed. "Enjoy it? What's to enjoy about touching your gross chicken lips?"
He was not fazed. For the life of me, I cannot understand why, for he is usually affronted by my pointy words. This alarmed me very much, as I thought that perhaps something was wrong with him. I don't want some petty medical condition to destroy our relationship.
How my concern was misplaced.
"Well, you must have liked me enough to want to kiss me," he reasoned. My eyes fluttered, my brain beginning to boil at the outrage of what he was insinuating. How dare he accuse me of having bad taste, as exemplified by snogging him! How dare he even suggest it! I have more refined taste in a single freckle than he does in his entire body.
"Then I have something to confess," I informed his gleeful face. "I don't like you at all. In fact, I've hated you for the past six years." He leaned back his head and laughed a big, loud, bellowing laugh, as if I amused him, like an entertainer amuses his audience.
"If you truly hate me like you say, you wouldn't kiss me," he said. I hated the way his gray eyes were just glowing with mischief. I mean, he has got some nerve.
And in my fury, I refused to answer him. I mean, imagine if you had been in my tattered shoes. On second thought, don't, as my shoes smell rather putrid and may give you a migraine if exposed to its stink for too long.
But what could I have told him?
Because the truth stands that I did not have a reason. I wasn't under a spell, nor being blackmailed or getting paid a heft sum, nor anything else of that shady short.
"I don't know," I told him as prissily as I could. "I did it because I knew you would hate it." Then, I stepped on his toes and turned back around to listen to class.
"Weasley likes me," he whispered tauntingly in my ear. I hated the way his breath tickled my skin, and rubbed the feel of it off quickly.
"Unless you wish never to speak verbally again, I suggest you shut up before I rip your mouth out," I hissed. I could hear him chortling.
"Oh, stop your sly innuendos, Weasley, you're making me blush."
I truly hate him.
Later
I am slightly perturbed. A few minutes ago, Hermione came into my dorm room (where I was currently indulging in another purifying session of Let's See How Many Chocolates Ginny Can Eat). I asked her what she was doing here. She pursed her lips, sat down across from me and snatched the Chocolate Frog out of my hands.
"Stop eating that junk," she chided. I gasped as she hurled the twitching frog into the dustbin, and vowed to avenge its unjust death.
"Ginny, we must talk."
There are many things wrong with this picture. First: We, meaning Hermione and I, do not need to talk. We have not made it a ritual to 'talk' before, and no, I don't feel an insane urge to start now.
Second: The moment someone says, "We must talk," my attention span wanes to virtually nothing. Those three words are code for, "We're not really going to talk-at least, you're not. I'm just going to sit here and give you a big lecture."
This would be considered dull.
Third: I will not stand to be parted from my chocolate.
So, I gave her a piece of my mind.
"Okay, Hermione. What's up?" (I swear I am the biggest spineless bigot in the whole world, except to Malfoy. But no one can help being nasty to him. It's just in the way he looks.)
Hermione smiled, and peered at me carefully, like one does when you've got a particularly large spot on your face.
"Is something the matter with you, Ginny?" she frowned, after a thorough examination of my zits.
I blushed. "Ah, yes," I said, preparing to launch into a long tirade of the unfortunate spots came to be. "Chocolate, you know. Makes me break out into these horrible little things all over. And then everything gets so greasy, I have to scrub at my face with special cleansers three times a day, but they still persist sometimes, bloody products don't always work, unless you get in really well and-"
I realized then, with my finely tuned sensitivity to everything, that Hermione did not seem enlightened.
"What are you talking about, Ginny?"
I blanched for a moment.
"You asked me if something was the matter," I said. Silly, confused Hermione.
"Well, I didn't exactly mean to come here to discuss skin care," she said somewhat crossly. I spread my hands and shrugged.
"You asked."
She sighed, as if my idiocy infuriated her. It's really not my fault, her brilliance. That would be the genetics. It is certainly not my fault that I was not born to genius parents. Honestly, of all things to throw a fit about.
"I meant, is everything all right with your classes," she said slowly. I thought about this. Was everything all right? Sure. I mean, if you ignored the fact that I was now taking a class entitled Self Discovery as an elective. And if you could also overlook the tiny glitch that is Malfoy, who sits behind me to help in the universal cause known as Annoy Ginny Weasley. Of course my classes were fantastic beyond reasoning, if you didn't count my abysmal F in Potions. Just dandy, thanks.
"No," I said pointedly. "No, they're really not all right."
She didn't seem quite as shocked as I would have liked her to be, as all she did was awkwardly pat me on the back. Why do people think that's comforting? Because it doesn't make me feel all that better, just because someone's touching my back with the palm of their hand. It is more like they are to covertly feel me up. Even though my bosom is not on my back, it doesn't matter. No one can tell the difference.
"There, there," Hermione cooed. "Is this about Self Discovery?"
"Yes," I unfurled my clenched fists. "It's quite embarrassing, actually." My anecdotes of the humiliation Malfoy had caused me were just on the tip of my tongue.
"Tell me what happened," Hermione insisted soothingly.
So I told Hermione about how I had accidentally kissed Draco Malfoy, and of the eternal damage it has caused my family name. If they should disown me, I would understand, as long as they do not leave me completely penniless so that I do not have to grovel at the feet of someone like Malfoy.
However, I was a little disappointed when she did not gasp in the trauma of my fevered retelling.
In fact, I believe she was laughing.
Chortled, giggled, chuckled, cracked up, guffawed, snickered, and sniggered. In other words, she completely cachinnated.
I failed to understand why. Any single sane person who had been in my position (that is, the lewd position of holding Malfoy's head, so that his mouth was on tact with yours) would see the amount of severe distress it would cause one's psyche.
I told her exactly so, but not in so many words.
"Oh, I know I shouldn't be laughing," said she as she spit out a few more feminine giggles. I gave her the evil eye.
"Now, really," I said, miffed. "Are you going to give me sound advice or not? Are you going to be able to contain yourself enough to string two words together?" I crossed my arms and waited until the unfortunately deluded girl (all that dust from the musty old books must have finally gotten to her) stopped moving altogether, and her cheeks lost its tinted pink color.
"That's hardly something to worry about, Ginny," Hermione shrugged. "Malfoy will be Malfoy."
I reeled. This was the kind of bad talk she was going to give me? No weeping? No consolation? No threats to get Ron to get Harry to get Dumbledore to kick Malfoy's toned arse?
I mean, of course Malfoy would be Malfoy. He certainly wasn't going to be Harry anytime soon.
"Well, I never! This is a huge deal, Hermione! I'd like appropriate advice," I said indignantly. It was a good thing I was not paying her for this. She had no psychiatric prowess whatsoever.
"Ginny, it was a silly little botch up," she said in an infuriatingly reasonable voice. "He'll get over it. You'll get over it. Then, by the Gods, the world will get over it."
No, the world would not. Because Malfoy probably has photogenic memory and will forever follow my footsteps. I can just see him being the cause of more ruin: For example, I can imagine him ruining my wedding day. He will sneer smugly to my future husband, "Did you know, your bride kissed me?" And then my love would leave me at the altar for being grossly lecherous. Who knows? Perhaps then I will pathetically resort to running away with Mr. Doesn't Wash Clothes who shelves cans at the supermarket for a life.
"Besides," Hermione said sensibly. "Everyone knows you like Harry." I grinned, momentarily letting this thought float into my mind, but quickly did a double take.
Because this is the problem with rumors: They get horridly out of hand. They get blown way out of proportion. Sometimes, they are not true.
Has anyone heard directly from my mouth, 'I love Harry Potter'?
…
Okay, well has anyone heard directly from my mouth recently, 'I love Harry Potter'? No, they haven't.
"Oh, please, Hermione," I waved my hand at her as if to say Bah. "I Am So Over Him™," I said dutifully. Hermione shrugged, but her aloof expression told me that perhaps she was not convinced.
"Whatever it is," she said. "You should know better than to let Draco Malfoy get the better of you."
"Right," I said noncommittally, my gaze drifting over to the walls.
"Anything else the matter, then?" she asked, making a move to get up.
"Well, nothing much," I said casually, deciding I would just run my other slight problems by her, while she was still here. However, subtlety was key. "Just a minor problem. The one where I feel like I'm getting fed large spoonfuls of Loser every day," said I as I looked up at her morosely. "You know how it is," I muttered, secretly hoping she would reassure that I was not a complete goof up.
But Hermione merely smiled with uncertainty and patted me on the head. What am I, her loyal pet?
"Oh, Ginny, you and your delightful sense of humor," she sighed, before telling me she had some S.P.E.W. meeting to go to. Right, the one where all of her heaps of members congregate to discuss innovations for the club, like-oh, I don't know-perhaps acquiring actual, visible people to participate, and not humanoid dust bunnies?
The message is clear: No one takes me seriously. Why not?
Later
In my slight excitement over the subjects Hermione Granger and her rubbish pep talk, I forgot about some special events that I feel I should have recorded earlier.
In class earlier, I was handing in my essay for SD. This required getting up to place it on the Professor's desk, and I had the terrible misfortune of passing by The Great Feathered One.
The thing is, Mr. Skin The Color Of Death had done something…well, different to himself. It wasn't his white blond hair. It was not his marble complexion (does that sound too complimentary?) It was not his physique, or the way his shoulders kept getting broader every day. It was not his reflecting shoes, nor his perfectly ironed school robes.
It was worse. It was invisible. It was putrid. And it conquered.
"Malfoy," I coughed weakly. My lungs felt poisoned and betrayed. "What have you done? Rubbed yourself against a family of skunks?" I blinked at him quite seriously (though it was a trouble to keep my eyes open; they kept watering), wondering if it would be alright to send him to Madame Pomfrey. This kind of rancid scent was surely a health violation. Maybe he had decided to adopt the skunk's defense mechanism to protect himself against any anti-Malfoy activists, such as herself.
But instead, Malfoy's eyes widened and he looked appalled, in that aristocratic, 'You insolent fool!' kind of way.
"It's called cologne, Weasley," he said. "But you probably don't know about it. They cost well over three knuts, after all." I shook my head.
"Actually, I think it would be more aptly titled Stink Bomb in a Bottle," I said matter-of-factly. "And I think that you should spell it off as quick as you can. No soap and water could do the trick."
"Good thing I don't give a hang what you think, then," he said arrogantly. "Why are you going around sniffing members of the high society, anyway?"
I spread my hands and shrugged. "I am just saying, Malfoy. As long as we are forced to breathe the same, vulnerable air, you know. A little consideration would really be awesome."
He sighed, long and slow, before rolling his eyes in the same manner.
"Lord, Weasley, you should do something about being so verbose and stupid. I don't do considerate," he sniffed. And although I was not very fazed by his words, he seemed to be, as he could not stop shooting daggers at me. Clearly, my offhand comments regarding his 'cologne' insulted him very much. Must remember that slandering the way he smells gets to him.
It was nice to see that things were back to where I wanted them; Ginny mocks Draco, Draco is mocked and smells horrible to boot.
Huzzah, points for Ginny. Give Ginny brownies.
Things I Seriously Need To Stop Putting Off:
1) Achieve level of pseudo-intelligence, even if you have to feign it.
2) Look over general list of 'Things I Need To Do Before I Die', make sure you are not missing any opportunities.
3) Scour the land for ways to make self look more approachable, as current look seems not be working. Ask Hermione what a 'plastic surgeon' is, and also about the phrase 'nip and tuck'.
4) Go Christmas shopping. Buy Malfoy new cologne, snicker snicker. Just kidding. Don't you dare waste money on that slimy rodent, Ginny.
*5) Find the one who has sent me this diary.
**6) Stop failing Potions, but do this without actually studying.
*Denotes 'I really need to get to this.'
**Denotes 'I really, really need to get to this.'
December 20
Let's play a game. It's called Metaphors Are Fun Ways To Tell Stories.
I'll be Persephone, daughter of Demeter. One day, I am picking flowers, and then the Good Earth opens up (like you know when you say, Ah, I wish the ground would swallow me whole right now), and I fall in. Well, you all know what's below the Earth: The mantle, or more specifically, the lower lithosphere leading into the asthenosphere.
But for the sake of story telling and silly Greek Mythology, let us pretend that that is the place Hades resides. In other words, Hell.
Now, Hades lured me, Persephone, into becoming his wife, by feeding me pomegranates. Don't ask me why, because this isn't the important part of the story, really. But once you eat the pomegranates that grew from the trees in Hell, you were bound there. That meant I couldn't leave the place. I guess it's like literally being grounded.
Meanwhile, my mother, Demeter, was desolate and as the Goddess of harvest, so did the Earth. This is what caused a cold season of barren wasteland where virtually no vegetation could grow, and all of that-it doesn't really matter.
The point is, that Hades kept me captive in Hell (starring none other than Ronald Weasley as Hades himself) in all his 'evil intent' glory.
I use this story to artfully explain my current predicament, because when it gets down to the real meaning of it, Persephone and I aren't so different right now. This is because Ron says he has forbidden me to attend the upcoming ball, unless I hike up my grade in Potions.
I will tell you why this is not fair.
1) He's not my mother.
2) He has no legal authority over my actions, and as a 6th year, it is my right to attend social events, however unsocial I am.
3) His grades aren't so hot either. Pot, kettle, black, ridiculous.
The connection is that both Persephone and I are being held captive in hell, literally or figuratively.
But I will tell you one thing. This is the last straw, and it is past high time Ronald Weasley learned the wrath of his own blood, if meddled with. I am quite through with living under a dictator. It is time for sweet, blissful anarchy.
That is why I have concocted a plan worthy of my older siblings, Fred and George. It involves stealthy black cloaks with matching masquerade masks, a feathered hat, spiked punch, and unbiased revenge at the whole of Hogwarts.
Can you say, 'Puking Pastilles?'
December 22
Rethought my metaphor. Would actually say Draco could give Hades Ron a run for his money, don't you think? I told him nonchalantly that he still reeked of something foul, and he called me a 'goody two shoe who doesn't know how to mind her own business'. I have never felt so insulted. Honestly, I am not a goody two shoe! That Malfoy. Something must be done about him.
I can just imagine it now, a quarreling pair of adults, sitting upon thrones entwined with bones.
Random Servant of Hell: [in a dull, monotonous voice] Customer # 797,988,745,789,121,410,024,923 has arrived.
Draco Malfoy: Name?
Random Servant of Hell: Tom Marvolo Riddl-
Distant Screaming Voice: I TOLD YOU BASTARDS, 'TIS VOLDEMORT. ROLL YOUR R'S, BOY!
Draco: Ah. How sentimental! It's an old acquaintance of my family. I should like you to take the man to the Room Of Pretty Flowers Designed For Dead And Dispirited Overlords Overthrown By Stupid Little Boys. They should be able to console him there.
Me: [gapes at 'husband'.] Are you barking mad?
Draco: Well, as the king of Hell, I suppose the job does ask for some degree of insanity-
Me: The man was a murderer in life! He was the cause of Harry's extreme paranoia! There is no other place to go than the Chamber of Torture. You know our policies!
Draco: What policies? In case you've forgotten, my word is law, you meddlesome woman.
Me: I don't mind having a verbal spar with you, but I'll get my way. Voldemort shall indeed live forever. Live forever in pain! [Cue triumphant music]
Draco: [rolls eyes] Oh, how adorable of you. Even after three thousand and four hundred thirty two years, you've still got a bit of Gryffindor. Oh, well, no use in tarrying any longer. Well, servant? Take him where I instructed!
Random Servant of Hell: Yes, si-
Me: You do, and I'll light you on fire, and then send you to the Chamber of Torture with Voldemort.
Random Servant of Hell: [contemplates frantically]
Draco: [shakes fists] God, Ginny, shut up! Wah, you ruin everything!
Me: [points accusatory finter] When you sent Colin Creevey to the Chamber of Torture, you promised that I would get to choose the fate of one of my enemies next time. A deal is a deal.
Draco: Damn. Alright, alright, do as the girl says. Say hello to Daddy for me, will you, Voldemort?
Voldemort: No, you fools-bow to me--don't you dare take me there! And don't even think about laying your filthy hands on me! This is my death-day-best Armani I'm wearing-Ginny! Don't do this to me! Not your Tom! Your Tommy! Tommy-poo?
Me: Enjoy your stay in Hell, bitch.
Draco: [stares admiringly] You are really quite deliciously evil sometimes, although I can't say I agree with your politics.
Me: [smug] Tell me something I don't know.
And that is how things would be if Malfoy and I ever ruled a Kingdom, underground or not.
Not that we ever will.