The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley by seven years

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 28/06/2004
Last Updated: 21/02/2005
Status: In Progress

Like every typical (or perhaps not so typical) teenager, Ginny needs a place to find solace from
her every day life, consisting of mysterious and possibly deadly diary senders, pretentious snob
Malfoy, and an overbearing brother called Ronald Weasley. Will she be able to find the perpetrator
before Christmas day? D/G




1. Chapter 1
------------

**Summary:** Set during Christmastime. Let’s see: Mysterious person sends Ginny a diary.
She’s starting to get tired of associating with diaries. She’s quite sure either the whole school,
or herself, is insane, she’s failing potions, she doesn’t have a boyfriend and she still doesn’t
know who sent her the diary. Will she be able to figure it all out (more like figure herself out)
before Christmas day?

Yea. So, to sum it all up, since it all is a bit much:

Jingle bells, Ronald yells, Draco Malfoy smells. Hey!

**Note:** This was written pre-OotP. Yes, that would indeed be before the reign of
Attitude!Ginny. Yes, that would indeed be the era in which most people concluded that Ginny still
acted somewhat shy around people. In this fic, I have taken the liberty of exaggerating that fact
for plot purposes. So although Ginny may be OOC now—please, at least until this story is over,
pretend she is not, and let us together pretend Ginny Weasley is your typical, angst-ridden
teenager.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Ginny, Harry, Ron, or anything related to Harry Potter. Please
don’t sue me.

The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley

By seven years

----

*November 28*

When one is nearing Christmas time, it is safe to say that one is usually in a very jolly mood.
It if also safe to say that one would be safe from evil stalkers/psychopaths/dark lord accomplices.
Or simply put, assholes.

I guess on the bright side, it’s not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents. Yay, people
like me.

On the darker, overpowering side, it’s not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents **from
mysterious unknowns**.

Even more sinister: It’s a diary.

‘*Here is a diary, for you to pour your heart into.’*

I will tell you here and now (for I, Ginny Weasley, do not lie) that I am not the sharpest
crayon in the box. Er—is that right? Or is that brightest tool in the shed? No, I’ve got it.

I am not the brightest crayon in the box.

But neither am I completely stupid. And I most certainly do not suffer from short-term memory
loss. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. (That one’s right, is it not?)

Being the smart, deducing girl that I am, I’ve an idea who might have sent it.

A sick minded bastard who thought it was funny, who will consequently become a eunuch if I ever
get my hands on him. Poor chap. NOT.

I planned on throwing it away. A girl like me has virtually no use for a diary, except perhaps
fuel for the Gryffindor fire.

But just as I neared the roaring chasm of doom (the fireplace), seeking to banish this evil and
potent talisman into nothingness for eternity, Harry, Herm and Ron came sauntering in.

By Murphy’s Law, it is only natural that they notice the pretty, shiny, gold trimmed diary. Not
that I blame them. It looks prettier than I, therefore probably more worthy of their attention.
It’s not fair that evil things and people should look so pretty. Like Malfoy. He looks pretty. But
his aura reeks of such sinister intent, no one can stand to be near him for long, lest his aura rub
off on you. Oh, well. Voldemort doesn’t pretty. Anymore. Damn, am I having less than murderous
thoughts about my evil former captive, Tom Riddle?

No. I digress.

I realized then that I would have to explain to Harry, Herm, and Ron about the
Perpetrator-Soon-To-Be-Eunuch.

Hermione: [frowns as if affronted] How do you know it’s a *boy*?

Ron: Who would send you a diary like *that*?

Me: Umm.

Harry: You idiots. Voldemort sent it. [WE CRINGE] Voldemort, that bloody bastard, he’s
everywhere! You turn a corner, ‘Here I am-- Voldemort!’ [WE WINCE] ‘OH, Voldemort, there you are!’
‘Yes, I, Voldemort, have come to wreak havoc!’ [WE SIGH DESOLATELY] ‘Oh, VOLDEMORT, come to kill
us, have you! BETTER YET, send Ginny a DIARY! You old bat VOLDEMORT, you’ve used that TRICK
before!’

[Note for future: Harry tends to get a little overexcited about his dark lord.]

Hermione: [still cringing] Oh, don’t be ridiculous Harry. It’s not [shudder] V-Voldemort. Ginny?
Do you have any clue who it might have been? Secret admirers, perhaps—

Ron: Ha! My sister--secret admirers? *You* stop being ridiculous, Herm; my sister isn’t
like that.

Hermione: Isn’t like what?

Ron: She doesn’t attract men, that one. Probably defective, but we kept her anyway. [Looks
thoughtful.] It was most likely Dumbledore who sent it, anyway.

Harry: [Having calmed down] Yea. Like he sent me my invisibility cloak, *anonymously*.

Hermione: But Harry, that was your dad’s. He was just passing it on, as he should.

Harry: So? Maybe the diary was Mr. Weasley’s. You don’t know that it wasn’t.

Ron: Maybe it’s a special diary. [Squints eyes] Can’t believe my father would hold out on me
like that, and give it to Ginny.

Hermione: What do you think about all this, Ginny?

Me: Um.

Ron: Do you reckon its worth over a galleon, this?

Harry: [scratching his head] I dunno…

Hermione: Honestly, who *cares*?

The verdict was that I was to write in it. I think they are all quite batty and possibly in on
this whole trick in the first place. Git Ron would do it. Nervous Harry might, too, if persuaded at
a vulnerable moment. Hermione…Hermione probably hates me anyway, because I refused to be in her
little elitist club.

Hermione thinks that I am too quiet, and that a diary is a good way to process your thoughts.
Ron told her I didn’t like to think. I should have socked him.

The point is that I will do no such thing. Write, I mean.

Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I’m doing right now.

I think they rather think of me as a dog.

November 29

Once upon a time there was a little wallflower named Ginny Weasley. She disliked most people,
for most people usually ignored her.

She thought the world was rampant with the disease that was Ignorance. Except that according to
A Christmas Carol, Ignorance was a child. Each person had two children; Ignorance and Want. Which
was ridiculous, because Ginny was still a virgin.

Sadly.

Never mind that, I am quite tired of talking about myself in third person.

A recollection of what has happened today in life:

Woke up. Ate breakfast. Ate chocolate. Ate homework. Ate Ron’s homework. Ate Harry’s homework.
Tried to eat Hermione’s homework, but she has it protected with anti-eating charms, damn her.

Then I rolled around bed for a while, reading Teen Witch Weekly. Although, I never understood
the obligation that every teenage girl feels to read these trashy magazines relating to such
non-important topics as, “How To Pluck Your Eyebrows: The Right Way!”

Is it the natural estrogen in all of us that compels us to do so? So, does that mean it also
compels us to become bubbly airheads? I shall never understand, nor condone it.

But here’s a gem: “How To Get A Boyfriend In Less Than A Month”.

Yes, I am *quite* sure this is foolproof, and that this is the one sure way to ensure
yourself a hunk of love. Besides, a month is a long time. It should be, “In Less Than A Week”. How
come they don’t have those owl order boyfriends? Not fair.

Still, there is no harm in reading, or exercising my literate abilities.

December 1

Why do people feel the need to fritter their money away whenever it is December? I think they
have fixed their mental clock to say, “ December! Time to splurge!” Please, I would gladly take any
money you spend on shopping and use it on a better cause.

Christmas has indeed become far too superficial to be the least bit tolerable. All the signs in
Hogsmeade are so bloody propagandistic, proclaiming things like, “A diamond necklace for your girl!
ON SALE NOW!” or “A sexy pair of boxers for your man! 30 % OFF ONLY UNTIL WEDNESDAY!” Right. And by
next year, those gifts will be completely forgotten and left to mingle with dust in the closet, or
something. Well, maybe not boxers. I suppose you wear boxers. So I guess that is practical.

But I am thinking it has become a law to go Christmas shopping. Or a fad. Or something. I hope
it fades.

Anyway. This means a Christmas list. Double damn.

Harry: Book on paranoia.

Ron: Underwear. All of his have holes in them. Mum was always complaining about it, anyway.
Bother.

Hermione: A “sewing machine” for her clothes making fetish. I heard it was efficient.

Yay, I am done. More sleep for Ginny.

December 2

Ron is mad at me. Poor thing thinks I care.

He’s angry with me, because I caught a cold from being out in the freezing cold with nothing but
a thing robe on. I don’t see why he has to get in a right state when *I’m* the one who has to
endure the burning throat, clogged nose, and burning fever. I hate fever the most. It makes me look
like I’m blushing at *everything*.

For example:

Harry: Hey Ginny.

Me: Unnnh. (Face is furiously red from fever.)

Ron: (Shakes head.) Ginny, stop blushing at Harry. He’s just saying hi.

Me: I’m not blushing! (Face turns redder from fever and indignation.)

Ron: (To Harry) She likes you.

Harry: (Looks smug.)

Maybe I’ll lie here on my bed, writing my will. I can feel death pulling at me.

Oh, never mind. That was my scarf caught on the drawer handle.

December 3

Due to an increase in temperature and a lack of precipitation, cold winds etc--

The snow has all melted, and I am officially in a bad mood.

In honor of this sad occasion, I have written a poem.

*If I can stop one snowflake from melting, I shall not live in vain.*

It sucks, doesn’t it? You can tell me the truth.

December 4

Hermione says it’s not possible to die of boredom, but I tend to disagree. My boredom causes me
to go into a sort of coma, lying abed very, very still. So still, that Ron stumbled upon my rigid
body lying on the sofa and asked me if I was alive. Suspect he was disappointed when I blinked at
him.

You *can* go into a catatonic coma from boredom.

Ron is even more furious with me for scraping by with a 50% on my potions essay. He gave me his
annual ‘ Big Brother’ speech a little early. He told me then to stop focusing on men. Honestly! Me!
Boys! HA!

Seriously, though. He could have just said, stop mooning over Harry, Ginny. Don’t do this,
Ginny. Do this instead, Ginny. You’re a good girl, Ginny. Roll over and beg for a treat, Ginny.

Moreover, his advice would make more sense if I *had* any boys to concentrate on. None
seemed to be much interested in me, and really, it’s sad that a girl of 16 hasn’t even properly
snogged a lad yet. Or any single person for that matter, but that’s beside the point. Am I really
so disfigured?

Or maybe, as I had always hoped, it’s not me, but this school. Maybe something happened to all
its inhabitants while I was not looking and turned them all into half-witted ignoramuses.

December 6

My Life Problems:

1) Achieve expressing my opinions and thoughts out loud, to clear any misconceptions about me
being shy. I guess that means I should yell more.

2) I’m flunking Potions.

3) People fail to understand me. I fail to understand them. It’s a mutual problem.

4) I don’t have a boyfriend.

5) My brother is a total ponce.

6) Boredom. Coma. I have to get rid of it. Soon.

7) No snow. Am not feeling the spirit of Christmas.

8) I need to figure out who gave this diary to me before I make like Harry and blame everything
on Voldemort. Oh, God, I wrote his name on paper. SCRIBBLE IT OUT.

Right.

But perhaps the newest and biggest problem has only just risen.

Ever since the Self Discovery class was open to students who needed a little help and guidance
in their personal and social life.

Ron has been begging me to join.

It is a fact of life that when your brother begs you to join a class such as Self Discovery, one
is a hapless loser. The former statement verily applies to me.

Ron gave me a pamphlet on what this class was about. I don’t need to read it. IT IS A GATHERING
OF DROOLING HALFWITS WHO NEED TO BE FED BRAINS.

Ron: You’re just in denial, Ginny.

And then he hands me my new schedule. Self Discovery 10:00-11:00’ plastered on it.

9) Survive Self Discovery, and find myself a paper bag to wear over my head, which will be
hanging in shame.

As the ancient and sage philosophers say: Life is a bitch.



2. Chapter 2
------------

**A/N:** Note that this story is already long completed. This would probably be the reason
for the uncharacteristic fast updates. Also, thank you to all that have reviewed.



**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**


Chapter: 2



-----


*December 7*

As I sigh for the umpteenth time in an infinitesimal second, I have come to the conclusion that
I am suffering from chronic depression. Very much so, in fact. The cause of this condition is
unfortunately, very apparent. One can only stand being stuck in a room full of lifeless losers
before the influence gets to one’s head.

A very good example of this: the boy who sits next to me in SD (that’s self-discovery, you
ninnies) tragically mistakes his own bogey as a sort of delicacy on a regular basis. He also seems
to like to use me as a napkin, to which I try squeak loudly and duck. He looks confused by this.
It’s understandable, as napkins do not usually move on their own accord. I find myself straying
from the point, however, so I will get back to what I was really trying to say.

I HATE MUCH.

And that is all there is to say on the matter.





*Later*


But you see? The worst part of it all, if one could pinpoint such a thing, is **Malfoy** (one
who is incessantly bothersome and a general mar in human society). The albino sheep thinks he’s the
leader of our meat headed flock. He drips with such superiority, that he might as well wear a sign
reading, ‘ WARNING: ELITIST GIT. MAY GIVE YOU URGE TO POUND HIS HEAD IN’. Perhaps I shall take the
liberty of making it for him.

I’ve never seen a boy so deeply in love with himself. If I have chronic depression, he has
chronic narcissism. It’s beyond anyone’s help, but there you are—that is why we are all here, in
SD. For we are all helpless and suffering from incurable, long term things.

I mean, really, he opens his mouth and out comes something else about himself. ‘ *Are you sure
we’re supposed to be doing that? You certainly can’t expect a Malfoy to partake in this undignified
activity, can you?*’ he says as he frowns a bit and continues to look down his nose at everyone.
I swear I will do something rash. Like botch his body into four quarters. Then I can plead chronic
insanity. Hurrah!





*December 10*


I cannot believe this monumental moment.

1) I have made a pseudo-friend.

2) I have made a fool of myself. Verily.

On the subject of number one: her name is Alette. I have spoken to her directly a few times in
class. She is a dear child, albeit a little scatterbrained. It seems all of my company are not
completely normal, but that is my curse. At least she doesn't hate me. Yet.

Anyway, I was trying to write her a note during class today, as most normal teenage girls do in
class. Except perhaps I am not so skilled in the art of note passing, for I attempted to throw it
behind me to where Alette sat, two seats behind. Have I ever told you of my horrible aim? One day I
will tell you about the time that I accidentally knocked poor Mum’s nose with the vase Grandfather
gave her. I was going for Ron. It’s the thought that counts.

But yes, since you seem to be wondering. It landed in the wrong lap: The lap of Mr. Narcissus
himself, who happened to sit right behind me. Most likely breathing down my neck the whole time. I
nearly peed my pants as I saw his lips curl, but refrained. Thank the Lord. There is nothing worse
than very damp knickers and skirts.

Malfoy beamed, having acquired my note. I was mortified. But not as mortified as when the stupid
whale raised his hand. Naturally, Professor Ritzenthaler called on him, looking a bit flustered at
being interrupted during his long tirade of something nonsensical or another, like hygiene.

“ Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” he gazed questioningly.

“ I’ve found a note, sir,” he said. My heart stopped beating.

“ A note! Written in my class!” Professor Ritz clucked his tongue. Strangely enough, nothing
seemed to ruffle his feathers more than a student not paying attention in his class. “Surely,
someone is asking for a detention.” He looked around the room for any heartfelt confessions. None.
Malfoy continued, and I thought his face might break, the way he was smiling. Boy, what a git.

“ I’m sure you’d like to know, as do we all, what it was that kept Miss—”

Like I would let him reveal my identity. I could not afford to have a detention. Reaching over,
I used my hand to clamp the bugger’s mouth shut. The effect was instantaneous. I wondered why I had
not done this more often, when he talked too much. While his voice was muffled however, his face
creased into a glare.

“ Mmff gmmff!!!” he protested vehemently. Professor Ritz looked very nervous now.

“ Er—Miss Weasley, I’m going to ask you to release Mr. Malfoy—“

I did as I was told. Burning red from embarrassment, and wondering what the hell I was thinking
(or perhaps I was not, and therein lies the problem). I quickly made up another weak and lame
cover. Oh, well.

“ A bug,” I lied. “It would have been unfortunate for Malfoy to have eaten a bug.” I looked
around. “ It seems now, though, that the fly is gone. Good for him. Or her, as it could be.”

I probably looked like a large, bright red Christmas bauble. Malfoy looked disbelieving, as well
as the rest of the class. Professor Ritz absentmindedly nodded, before muttering, ‘ Very well, very
well….” He returned to his teachings, forgetting all about the note. I thank any deity up there for
his forgetfulness.

*And then*, I breathed.

But alas, the trouble was not over. Malfoy seemed discouraged for a while, but after class, as
everyone else was filing out, I found Malfoy trying to sneak his way to Professor Ritz’ desk with
the note. Having another go, was he? I could play along to that. Really, I could.

For one: I blocked his way.

“ Hello, Weasley,” he regarded me in a bored manner. And how dare he! “ Move.” I did not.

“ I said, ‘move,’” he repeated.

“ Where do you think you’re going?” I asked.

“ To inform Professor Ritz who wrote this note, naturally,” he sneered at me. I fumed.

“ You will not!”

“ I’d like to see you stop me.” I watched his pink lips move, in anger. And he tried to dodge
me. But I acted fast yet again. I realize now that I have a lack of judgment, and should have
rather accepted the detention. Something came over me. Perhaps a strange dust particle in the
air.

Because I grabbed his annoying little face, and kissed hi





*Later*


Apologies. Writing about *that* made me feel a bit faint.

After, well…’the kiss’ was over (in a second, mind you—as soon as I realized what I was doing),
I reeled back in disgust, as did he.

“ Weasley!” he cried, aghast. I gaped.

“ Oh, God! I’m contaminated!” I screamed.

“ You?! I’ll never get this filth off! If you’ve given me any of your sickly germs, I swear I’ll
tell father!”

“ Well, it stopped you from tattling, didn’t it?”

“ What makes you think I won’t go tell now?”

“ If you do, I’ll kiss you again.” (I was lying.)

He was outsmarted then. (He actually believed me, the arrogant pansy.)

And we both went on our ways, feeling extremely dirty for even touching one another.

Must take multitudes of baths now and rub my lips raw. I swear I will never go within ten yards
of him ever again. Never ever, ever, ever, ever.



No, really. I am quite serious this time when I say that I might be insane. Have you ever heard of
Multiple Personality Disorder?



*Even Later*


I can’t believe I gave my first kiss to that overgrown chicken.



3. Chapter 3
------------

**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**





*December 10*


A Box of Honeydukes Best Dark Chocolate: 10 galleons.

A Doughnut: One trip to the kitchen.

Another Box of Honeydukes: Another 10 galleons.

Amount of zits appearing on face the next day: Priceless (as well as countless).

I must not indulge in chocolate. I must not indulge in chocolate. I must not indulge in
chocolate. I must not indulge in chocolate. I must not indulge in chocolate. I must not indulge in
chocolate.




Screw it.

I must not indulge in chocolate, except when I am stressed.

And in that case, I wonder what the chances are of sending a house-elf to get me one of those
scrumptious eclairs?





*Later*


Draco is continuing to give me the nastiest of looks. If looks could kill…well the point is that
they can’t, so there you go, Malfoy, you murderous cow.

And I *wonder* why this sudden increase in animosity might be. Certainly not because I
stained his perfect, pink little lips. Sometimes, I am truly wicked. And sometimes, I truly love
myself.

Anyway.

I finally had had enough of his glares towards the end of class. One can only die so may times,
even if it is quite symbolically.

So I fixed him an amused stare.

“ What is it, Malfoy? Your boyfriend jealous some girl snogged you?” I snickered. He seemed to
grow slightly pink. For a moment, I admit, I was jealous of the way his skin did not turn an
absolute crimson color, the way mine seemed to do.

“ Why, you!”

“ Tell me which one it is, then,” I continued recklessly. “ Crabbe or Goyle?”

“ Why, you!”

“ *Both*, Draco? Surely not!” Oh, what giggles. Quick, someone give me a pat on the
back.

Then, he proceeded to make a very odd noise between a strangled scream and a grunt.

As for me, I believe I have found a new hobby: Tormenting Draco Malfoy ©.

Oh, how our roles seem to have changed so perfectly.




Tra. La la.





*December 14*


I just had a frightful revelation. Due to my lingering too long on the subject of Draco Malfoy,
I have not wallowed in self-pity for more than 48 hours.

This is not acceptable.




WOE. WOE. I AM A BRAINLESS DUM-DUM. I EAT PASTE.

Also as a reminder of my woebegone status, I repeat that I do not have a boyfriend—nor ever will
have one—I have no friends or accomplices, I have no tact, I have no intellect, and I most
definitely do not have a bosom.

I do have **cowardice** and an **F in Potions**, though. I hate inheritance. There’s
nothing fair about it.





*Later*


Felt awfully stupid in SD today. Professor Ritzenthaler should know not to call on me to answer
a question. He should know that I am not that sort of girl. I am not into this
'participation' bit. Never the less:

“ Miss Weasley! Please share with the class the importance of kindness.”

I am blank. And then, I am wondering what kind of question that really is. I feel like I am in
preschool again, and the teacher is telling us to sing songs. I wonder when we began started the
unit on Friendship. I wonder a lot of things, except for the answer.

“…Miss Weasley?”

I continue to be blank.

“ Oh, for crying out loud,” Malfoy mutters from behind me. I resist the urge to sock him. “
Father says kindness is a necessity to climb up the social ladder. Apparently, most people like you
better when you show your kindness. Kind of silly, really, but if it works…” he added for
measure.

Crabbe blanched.

“ Is kindness a body part?” he asked quite seriously. A few students snickered at that. I was
disgusted that even someone in possession of no brain would know about things like that…but I
suppose Draco’s taught him *things*…at night…in the dungeons…Oh, God, no. Don't stoop to
their level, Ginny. Don't think about Malfoy bonking Crabbe and Goyle at the same time. And
**especially**, don't you dare think about bondage.

On with my story, though, now that I've fished my useless mind out of the gutter:

“ Er--correct!” Professor Ritz commended, ignoring Crabbe. Even though Malfoy's answer
really wasn't the best, was it?

And I, for one, was trying hard not to shout, ‘ Hypocrite!’ at the top of my lungs. Malfoy, of
all people, to preach to us about the importance of being nice to one another? In*deed*. There
has never been a greater blasphemy.

But instead of telling him so, I whispered it.

“ Hypocrite,” I coughed in my seat.

“ Excuse me?” came his angry reply. I turned around, feigning a look of innocence.

“ Yes?” I fluttered my eyelids.

“ Did you say something, Weasel?” he asked contemptuously.

“ I said, ‘cough’.”

“You didn't just call me a hippo, did you?” I rolled my eyes. The poor boy needed hearing
aids at age 17, or whatever age he was.

“You moron,” I named him affectionately (not). “I called you a hypocrite.”

“Am not, you filthy little rag!” Well, that’s new. No one’s ever called me a dirty piece of
cloth before.

“ You are, though,” I told him reluctantly. I could tell no lies. His regarded me haughtily in
response. I think he felt rather inferior.

“ Well, I assure you I am not. I’m merely a diplomat.”

“A sycophant, did you say?” I retorted smoothly.

He looked at me coldly. “ You are impossible, Weasel.”

“ Glad to know, ferret.”

And yes, I do find it odd that we were referring to each other as two animals of the same
family. Very odd. An outsider might think they were pet names. Triple damn. Remind me to never call
him a ferret again.

Even though he most undoubtedly is.



4. Chapter 4
------------

**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

---------

*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.






5. Chapter 5
------------

**A/N:** I’m very sorry about the late update. The chapters seem to get longer with each one,
however, and this one especially gave me trouble. Features: Return of the Stench, tons of
surprises, and a kiss.

**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**

Chapter 5

---------

*December 23*


Warning: This journal entry has a high content of Malfoys, Ginny Weasley Idiocy™ and other
largely unmentionable, unrepeatable actions, as well as thoughts. It might make you frown. It might
make you cry. It might make you punch the wall in anger. And by Gods, it might make you swoon.
Reader discretion is advised.



You have been sufficiently warned.





Today, I woke up in the early hours of the afternoon as a happy, untroubled, *innocent*
girl, with mildly innocent thoughts. I said to myself, *‘Ginny, we are going shopping today.’*
I was content. I made a list of items I needed. I made sure I had pocket money. I brushed my
hair.




I was half sane.




After three long, devastating hours of preparation, I rushed out—well, more like waddled out, as
all of those layers of clothing really constrict body movement—to catch the carriages taking the
rest of the children to Hogsmeade village. I found myself sitting with Colin Creevey, his little
brother and Alette. I felt nearly sociable, and almost liked. I have a suspicion the shower might
have helped.



When we arrived in the quaint little village, I immediately separated myself from the others.
Certainly, I could not mingle with Colin; all he wanted to do was buy some quaint little candles
for his Mum.

*They* were here to do simple, puerile Christmas shopping. It required no stealth, no wit,
no conniving. They were not shopping for a planned attack on the Hogwarts population. They were not
shopping to seek revenge for a brother’s evil deeds. They were not descendants of the two most
brilliant pranksters of all time. Perhaps another day we could collectively press our noses against
some posh and expensive store, wishin we had enough money to buy something.

After parting ways with the rest of them, I skulked around the streets a bit—it would look a bit
suspicious rushing into things all at once. Apparently, trying to look as natural as I could was
harder than it sounded. And maybe not so apparently, walking up and down the same street for a
prolonged amount of time was not a good idea either.

“Oy! You there!” Greasy Nosed Knick-Knack Lady yelled from across the street. “Stop loitering on
the street! Get!”

How dare she patronize me. I fixed her a glare through my overcoat, but I doubt she noticed. You
could barely see any part of me through the clothes. I probably looked like a lumpy blob of no
particular geometric shape. Or as Ron had so eloquently put it, when he found me wandering the
streets after I had gotten yelled at: I looked like a giant marshmallow.

“No,” Harry argued. “She looks like an Eskimo.”

“A what-kimo?” Ron voiced back. Hermione sighed exasperatedly.

“A group of peoples inhabiting the Arctic coastal regions of North America and parts of
Greenland and northeast Siberia,” she droned almost robotically. Ron’s frown deepened.

“Right, right. Those people.”

“Honestly, have you never read--”

“No, and I’m not going to read *Hogwarts, A History*,” Ron said stubbornly, crossing his
arms. Harry nodded from beside him.

“I wasn’t going to say *Hogwarts, A History*!” Hermione protested. “Haven’t you ever read
*People of the World*? It's a classic!”

Blank silence. In the distance, a child cried.

“*No*. You mean that gigantic tome that always sticks out awkwardly on the bookshelf, don’t
you?” Ron said slowly. He brightened a minute later, while Hermione slapped a hand on her forehead.
“But congrats, Herm—you’ve learned how to read other books!”

“Hopeless!” Hermione roared. Ron smiled demurely (or perhaps, it was merely ignorantly, as he
didn’t notice Hermione practically shooting steam from her ears).

“Great,” he said eagerly as he pushed his way into Honeydukes. “Let’s celebrate with some candy,
shall we?”

Harry yipped in approval, and Hermione fumed silently. I wondered why she followed them around
when she could join other Hogwarts geniuses like herself and never have to suffer the idiocy of my
brother, who, by all means, should not have any friends. It’s a wonder anyone puts up with him, but
there it is—the mystery of our intricate social hierarchy--apparently Ron Weasley is averagely
popular. Nonsense, I say.

“Don’t ever become friends with dolts like them,” Hermione advised me wisely.

I shall never forget her words, or her unmatched bravery as she went forth and followed Harry
and Ron into the candy store.

After making sure that Harry, Herm and Ron were safely tucked away in Honeydukes (Harry and Ron
wouldn’t be out for hours, now) I walked down the street opposite, avoiding Greasy Nosed
Knick-Knack Lady. Already, my fists were sweating up in apprehension (but that may as well have
been my mittens, warming charm included). It was a perilous journey to my destination. Rumors said
that the place I was venturing to was cruel…heartless…cold, and ruthless.

I slipped on ice twice. Passer-bys had the audacity to laugh, not knowing what I was planning
for them all. The cold wind bit at my cheeks. I was inches from starvation.

But at long last--I had reached journey’s end.

*Gladrags Wizardwear*, the sign read proudly.

I walked inside.

“Anything on sale?” I asked hopefully as I neared the cashier. The old lady behind the counter
did not seem to hear. In fact, her glasses were so fogged, I was not sure if she could see
anything, either.

“Anything on sale?” I repeated, annunciating. Perhaps she did not understand my dialect. Still
no answer. I was beginning to feel like a parrot.

“Right then,” I said, waving enthusiastically. “Thanks, you old geezer.” I walked away before I
could be sure whether or not she was even breathing. I didn’t like to meddle.

But on the bright side, at least she wouldn’t notice anything when I began frantically searching
for black cloaks. Would she bat an eye if I took one out for a walk, even, and didn’t return it for
a very, very long time? After all, Mum was always trying to teach me how to haggle. She would have
been proud of me.

With this thought planted firmly in my mind, just in case things became desperate, I moved over
to the back like a shadow. And aha!

I had found the sale rack.

But in fact, it was true, what they said: Gladrags *was* harsh. First, there was not much
on the sale rack to begin with. Silly garments scattered here and there on hangers that looked like
they would break any minute. Second, most of the merchandise on the sale rack had holes in them, or
were otherwise cursed with dangerous spells, as a few signs announced, “DO NOT TOUCH.” My chances
of finding an exquisite, billowing black cloak did not seem likely. At least no one else seemed to
be browsing the store. How embarrassing that would have been to be scavenging the clearance
section.

“Watch it!” Quadruple damn. There was someone here after all, and I had thought too soon.

Moreover, I didn’t have to turn around to see who it was. I could smell who it was.

“Malfoy,” I said ominously.

“Oh, it’s you, Weasley,” he greeted somewhat amicably. “I—I couldn’t tell, at first,” he said
awkwardly. Oh, goody, even he had noticed my blob-like appearance. I turned around suspiciously. He
had a strange look about his face, as if he had just spotted a rare Chocolate Frog trading card and
wanted it badly.

Hold on. I just realized why I haven’t been able to stop making corny analogies to sweets.





*A Few Minutes Later*


Now that my body is replenished with chocolates, and my veins running thick with the sweet
syrup, we can continue the illicit story of my (and Malfoy’s, I suppose I should not disclude)
various clandestine activities.

“Are you working here?” Malfoy asked quite seriously. “Well, that’s good. Pocket money is good.”
He smiled lightly, before seeming to realize that Malfoys were not allowed to smile.

I believe that at this moment in our encounter, I stood as still as a statue, my mouth slightly
agape. Amazing. In the five minutes since we had met, he had not uttered a single insult to me. He
was obviously clinically ill; there was not a single shred of doubt now. A quick pepper-up potion
perhaps, and he’d be back to being a small troll.

But he didn’t look so sick. In fact, his cheeks were slightly tinged with color. So, I began to
think the impossible: I was influencing him. Can you even begin to imagine a blonde Weasley,
though?

It was either that, or he wanted something from me and decided to put his ‘diplomatic’ skills to
use, as he had said so himself in earlier, less perplexing days.

“No,” I said, rolling my eyes. Just because he had decided to be uncharacteristically and
equivocally agreeable did not mean I would fall for the widely open trap. He was probably working
out an elaborate plan to capture me, bind me in rope and ship me off to You-Know-Who’s headquarters
so that they could ask me top priority questions I could not reveal, such as, ‘*What color socks
does Harry Potter prefer?*’

“I do not work here, Malfoy. I’ve come here to shop, like normal people do.” There. I was
practically feeding him opportune moments to shoot me down. For example, here he could have said
spitefully, *“You’re by no means a normal person, Weasley. First of all, you’re poor. Second of
all, you are an awkward, esoteric girl.”*

I tapped my foot, waiting patiently to get our meeting over with so I could cross off something
on my to-do list.

Alright, so perhaps he was feeling a little slow today. I was a nice girl, and I understand that
everyone was different in size. I would wait for my words to sink into his miniscule pea brain.

But soon, I grew tired of waiting. Was he just going to stare at my face (and therefore, my
spots) like that forever? Just because *he* has a flawless complexion. Doesn’t give him any
right to rub it in.

“Well?” I snapped. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

He shrugged his shoulders. Well, at least that had been a fast response. Which meant he might
not have been so terribly slow. Things were getting more and more puzzling by the second. It was
always like this around Malfoy, and that was one reason I detested him with such passion.

But that was when I noticed it. Like a sudden beacon of light was spotlighting it, like it had
been simply invisible before—

Malfoy had the prettiest black cloak I had ever seen.
And at that moment, I cursed him for his rich family, and his bottomless wallet. It was simple, yet
waved elegantly in the wind. It wasn’t exquisite, but it was classy. And it was probably
expensive.

So that crossed out number one on the list of how to acquire this cloak--Buy It Off Malfoy.

It’s a common fact that if you don’t buy something, you make something. But if you don’t make
something, you steal something.

And I decided then that I was going to steal something, for the first time in my entire
life…





Oh, well. Stealing from Malfoy is actually like a public service. You can't call Robin Hood
a filthy robber, can you?

“So, *Draco*,” I flashed my teeth at him. “How are you again? I don’t think I’ve asked
today.” The smallest of frowns crossed his otherwise content face.

“Fine, Weasley. But are you sure you’re okay?”

And this was coming from a deficient Malfoy? Because that was what you were, if you carried that
name and could not bring yourself to throw a strong barrage of derogatory comments when any Weasley
was in view. I might have to tell his father about this.

“I am fine,” I replied. “Are you here to shop for something in particular?”

“Well, no—“ he stopped suddenly, and turned a little red. “I mean, yes, of course I am. Why else
would I be in here?” He definitely had a plan to kidnap me. Ah, well, I could tolerate that, as
long as I got my cloak.

“Say,” I said. “Are you feeling hungry?”

“Ah,” he seemed to contemplate wildly, his face frowning, then smiling slightly, then looking
befuddled. I don’t blame him. No one’s ever asked him to eat with them, I’m sure. “Yes. I am.” He
patted his tummy as if to remind it that he was.

“Goody,” I said, before dragging him out of Gladrags with me.





*Minutes Later*


Sorry. Ran out of chocolate frogs, had to raid Ron’s stash. I don’t know how he has so many.

It must have been a strange sight, anyway. You can imagine, a girl like me grabbing firmly onto
Draco Malfoy’s arm and grinning like an asylum runaway. My plan was that I would casually slip the
cloak off of the back of his chair when he hung it down to eat. I would snatch it while he visited
the loo, or something, and then make a wild dash for it.

“Here,” I said. “Let’s go eat.”

“The Three Broomsticks?” he read the sign.

“Hurrah,” I clapped my hands.

“You’re taking me to a pub for lunch?” he asked me. I put my hands on my hips.

“And what’s wrong with that? They have good butterbeer.”

“I hardly think a butterbeer is sufficient nutrition.”

Oh, great, so he was one of those kinds of eaters. He was probably used to having whole feasts
served for midnight snacks. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew what was on the food pyramid. I
wouldn’t be surprised if he followed it like the bible. Ah, well. I suppose there is a reason his
body seems void of fat.

“Know of a better place then, Mr. Metro Sexual Health Nut?” Well, it was true—have I ever spoken
an outright lie? Just looking at the way he dressed was reason enough.

“I am not metro sexual,” he sniffed, running a hand through his gelled hair.

“You are.”

“I care about the way I look, Weasley, that’s all. There’s a difference.”

I shrugged.

“Actually, there isn’t, but if it pleases you…” I had to be nice, after all, if I was going to
get that cloak of his.

“Just follow me,” he grumbled. I daringly complied.

Some minutes later, I found myself in front of a café.

“Madam Puddifoot’s?” I asked disbelievingly. Malfoy looked severely embarrassed as I said the
name, for some reason. It looked kind of shady, in that pink and lots-of-flowers way. I had an
eerie hunch that he was taking me to Voldemort’s secret HQ.

“Come on,” he said, taking my hand. “Just go in.”

Aha! So he was threatening to transmit whatever disease he currently had if I did not enter his
master’s haven! Clever, but not clever enough. I yelped and took my hand away before shooting him a
prim scowl.

“I don’t like this place, “ I decided as I sat down at a table with a pink lacy tablecloth. One
table later, Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were going at it. The poor dears had been kidnapped
too? Was there no stopping Voldemort’s enormous ambition?

“I don’t like this place at all,” I said weakly as I took off all of my layer of clothing and
breathed. I watched to see if Malfoy would take off his cloak. He didn't, the protective
bugger.

“At least we can get something decent to eat,” he said. I raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Like what?” I asked, peering at the menu. *Love Boat Special*, one dish was titled.
Apparently, Madam Puddifoot (alias Voldemort) liked to rename common foods, such as a turkey
sandwich, into cute little sappy names, like *Gobble A Little Love*, the ‘gobble’ referring to
a sound the turkey commonly makes. The moral of this is that even dark overlords have a sensitive
side.

“And what will you two be having today?” Madam Puddifoot came hobbling along, a bright grin on
her face. She was wearing a magenta dress with a white, heart shaped apron. Malfoy looked a bit
green, but I decided that Madam Puddifoot was not Voldemort. However, the place was still under my
radar, and way too pink to boot, so I gave Malfoy a fleeting
I-Told-You-We-Shouldn’t-Have-Come-Here-You-Controlling-Pig look, before turning sweetly to Madam
Puddifoot.

“Well, see, we’ve never been here before…”

“Never been here before!” she gasped, as if that were some stupendous outrage. Rather immodest
of her, really, to assume that all teenagers that age should feel compelled to dine amongst excess
hues of reds and hot pinks, and set their cups on heart shaped doilies.

“Alright, then, you just let Madam Puddifoot take care of everything,” she shined her teeth at
us, before swaying out of sight.

“Bad idea, Weasley,” Draco shook his head. “She’ll feed us poison.”

“What? You don’t know what to order either!” I huffed. Or did he mean that Voldemort would
poison us after all?

Malfoy grumbled nonsensically for a few moments, before deciding that perhaps I was right.

“You were right,” he said weakly as he eyed the other couples making odd smacking noises from
the other tables near us. “We shouldn’t have come here. It's a bloody love fest.”

I swelled with pride and nodded. Poor Malfoy probably had an allergic reaction to affection. As
long as he didn't make me break out into a rash.

“Of course I was right, Malfoy,” I said. “Woman’s intuition—“ But I never got to finish my
sentence. I stood frozen at who had just sauntered in through the door.

“Shit,” Malfoy swore, and shit was indeed the right word for it. Definitely major poo-poo.

“Come on, Ron, it’s alright,” Luna Lovegood said vaguely (wasn’t everything she said vague?) as
she dragged *my* brother into the café. I cringed. Wasn't he supposed to be at
Honeydukes?

Ron was looking quite red in the face--and what self-respecting Weasley would not be blushing, in
the face of such corny decor? But still, I could not help imagining just how redder his face would
be if he saw me. I hoped he wouldn't pop a blood vessel. Or did I?

Now, anywhere else, anyone else, I might have not felt such spine-tingling fear. But I was in a
love shack, of sorts, with Draco Malfoy. There was no explanation for it, unless I could plead
insanity. But then again, Ron was never too sympathetic for the crazy.

No, I most certainly could not risk it. Ducking under the table clumsily, I scooted myself in
the center, letting the tablecloth fall back down to cover me from sight. I could hear my brother
and his girlfriend take a seat (honestly, my brother, a girlfriend? How is this humanly possible?)
I grabbed Draco’s leg. He yelped.

A moment later:

“What was that, Malfoy?” The distinctly gruff voice of Ronald Weasley, my unfortunate
sibling.

“Nothing, you buffoon,” came Draco’s calm voice.

“Right, then. My date and I will just pretend you didn’t just yelp.” A pause. “Speaking
of—where’s your date?” Scooting slightly towards the sheer, lacy tablecloth, I peeked through to
see Ron looking smug.

“She’s coming, Weasley, don’t worry,” Draco said. Ron shrugged.

“I don’t know, mate…maybe she stood you up?”

“Don’t be silly. No woman has the power to stand me up.” I could just see him rolling his
eyes.

And then, the sound of footsteps and a new voice.

“Well? Where’d the young lady go?” It was Madam Puddifoot, and she was asking for me.

Quintuple damn.

“What lady?” Draco asked, slight panic in his voice.

“The red-haired one! She was right here!”

“Red-haired?” Ron butted in. “What’s this, Malfoy? What red-haired girl is she talking about?
Just making sure, you know. It’s my duty to.” Horseshit, it was most definitely not. He had no
duties, except to make my life as hard as possible. He was succeeding.

When Draco didn’t seem to be answering, I moved over and kicked his foot. I believe I applied
quite a large amount of pressure to it, too.

“*S-*Susan Bones,” Malfoy hissed, his foot twitching. “What? You thought I would be dating
your sister?” I felt slightly injured by his tone. What did Susan Bones have that I didn’t? A
bosom, maybe, but did those *truly* matter in the long run?

“You’re right,” Ron said. “That’s ridiculous. My sister doesn’t date men, and especially not
ferrets.” Wasn't Ron feeling antagonistic today?

I couldn’t stand behind under a table any longer. The air was quite stifling, even without the
addition of Malfoy’s feet. As soon as I heard Ron and Luna ordering, I kicked Malfoy again, this
time someplace else. (His shins, you disgusting perverts, his shins.)

“That hurts, Weasley,” he muttered in a tiny and very strained voice.

“Make him go away!” I said as loudly as I could without being heard.

“And how do you expect me to do that?” How dare he sound annoyed, as this was all my doing! It
was not my fault my brother was the romantic café type!

“I don’t know! Just do it, before I kick you again!”

The reaction was instantaneous.

“Hey, Weasley—“ He was interrupted by a sharp clatter on the table.

“Well, here you go!” came Madam Puddifoot’s cheerful voice. “One love boat for the lovely
couple!”

Malfoy got up with a jolt.

“We’re leaving,” he whispered down to me.

“How?” I seethed.

“Sneak out a few minutes after I leave. Go through the back door, or something. Think.”

With that, he pushed his chair back, mumbled something incoherent about his date, threw some
money on the table and walked out the door.

What was so bad that he had decided to leave so suddenly?

No matter. I waited a few good minutes as he had said, then snuck out of the table in the
opposite direction of where Ron sat. Keeping low to make sure I was not spotted (although Ernie
MacMillan seemed to think I was bonkers. He even stopped snogging his girl long enough to glare at
me disapprovingly. What right does he have to judge me?)

Spotting the back door through a dark hallway presumably leading to the kitchens, I practically
crawled my way out of the heavily perfumed room and into the cold winter day—well it was more like
evening, now. I had successfully wasted a day with Malfoy. Terrific.

“There you are.”

Malfoy turned to reach down and help me off of the icy sidewalk. I brushed him off
peevishly.

“Why’d you have to leave?” I whined. “I’m still hungry, you twit.”

He shivered and shook his head.

“No,” he said solemnly. “You would have left too if you saw what was on that love boat
platter.”

I gulped and shrugged, figuring it had been something overly cute and sappy and colorful.

And when the discomforting silence filled the space, as the both of us stared at nothing in
particular, I realized I had been dragging this on for far too long. Due to Stupid Ron, I had
forgotten all about the cloak, and now my plan was lost. Who else went to Madam Puddifoot's for
lunch with Draco Malfoy, anyway? I had been foolish. Honestly, people were going to start talking,
questioning my motives. This does quite irk me.

Focus, I told myself. Focus on the pretty cloak. No, stop looking at Malfoy’s face. His cloak.
You want his cloak.

I racked my brain for ways that I could persuade him to give it to me, on a loan, perhaps. Maybe
if I offered to do his Self Discovery homework for a few days? Would that offer agree with him? No,
he was far better in that class than I could ever be. And the more I thought, the more I realized
that I had nothing that he could benefit from, which I guess is a good thing. I could only use
means of threat.

And I only knew one effective way to threaten him.

“Malfoy, do you think you could do me a favor?”

He sighed from beside me and opened hismouth.

“What is it—*mmf*--“



I kissed him for a second time in my life. I hope it does not become a habit.

I say here and now, that I absolutely intended to break it off right then—just a second of mouth
to mouth to remind him of the horrors of kissing me, and then I would break it off and ask—no, no,
order him to hand over his cloak. You must believe me, that was my initial plan. But sometimes,
plans don’t go as expected.

I certainly did not expect him to kiss me back. And no, I do not mean, just stand there kind of
still with our lips touching. It was…a kiss, in every sense of the word. It was wet. It’s rather
gross to describe it, so I'll spare you the details. If you want to know, then go kiss him for
yourself. No, wait. Don't kiss him. Go kiss some other chap.

But you know what?

I felt all hot and bothered all of a sudden. I forgot that I was not supposed to feel hot and
bothered by Draco Malfoy. I forgot all about not supposed to’s for a second, and I should not have,
I know.

Instead, I stood there like an idiot, being assaulted by Malfoy’s lips and not complaining about
it.

The worst part of it all is this:

A moment later, he seemed to realize his place, and pushed away forcefully. I sucked in a cool
breath of air. He muttered apologies.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said firmly, looking slightly abashed. “It won’t happen
again.”

I’ll tell you a tiny secret, if you promise not to tell anyone else.

I felt *regret*, when he let go of me. I said to myself before I could stop the thoughts,
‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind if it did happen again’. My cheeks were flushed. I was lightly grinning.

And that is when I turned *officially* insane, by medical standards.





*Later*

Sorry to keep breaking off, but when one is writing something very scandalous, (such as my
escapade with Malfoy) one must be careful. One of my roommates came in, and I was not about to let
her in on how I have been gallivanting around Hogsmeade with Him.

If anyone gets wind of this, I am truly a dead girl. I believe I am not ready to be dead just
yet. I haven’t lived long enough—I’ve only been kissed twice, and by the same gigantic pumpkin who
I most definitely should not be thinking of in a manner less than hateful. But most importantly, I
have not done everything on my to-do list yet, and that is why I must not die.

The thing is, that stupid kiss didn’t even earn me the cloak. Wouldn’t you be rendered
speechless, if some blonde Slytherin had just kissed you, quite literally, senseless? Yes, you
would. I’m telling you, you would be knocked off your feet because it is not the same as someone
kissing you briefly and affectionately, or even some Gryffindor boy kissing you, because a
Slytherin kissing you does not happen every day. I was not staring dumbly because he was a good
kisser or anything. No. He wasn’t. He was simply adequately practiced. Do I dare wonder on whom?
No. See? Those are the kinds of thoughts that land me in trouble.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes. I was standing dead still on the sidewalk. I think I shivered
after a minute or two, and that’s when he seemed to realize with a sigh of relief that I was still
alive.

“You’re cold?” he asked, as if the concept of feeling was odd.

I nodded, realizing with a groan of my stupidity.

“I left my coats in Madam Puddifoot’s,” I said, rubbing my nose awkwardly. That was when he
shook off his own cloak. My heart did a crazy cartwheel and threatened to go into cardiac arrest. I
could not handle so much surprise in one day. Because really, how often was it that Draco Malfoy
committed a selfless act?

“What’s this?” I said aloofly nevertheless.

“You can wear it until I need it back,” he shrugged, refusing to look at me.

I couldn’t believe it.

1. Draco Malfoy had offered me his cloak.

2. He was being shy about it.

3. AND his cloak still reeked of that same cologne I had complained of earlier. Everyone knew
that if you were going to give your cloak to some girl, it had better smell decent.

“What favor was it that you wanted, anyway, Weasley?” I looked up in surprise.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I’ve got to go now,” I said, even though I did not really have to. I just had some
Christmas shopping to do for Harry, Herm and Ron, but nothing too terribly important. I was far too
flustered to stay in his presence, though. It was better I gave him his cloak back before I was
tempted to run off with it.

“Okay,” he said, still not daring to glance at me. “I guess I’ll see you around.” Well, of
course he would. We only went to the same school together. He said the stupidest things sometimes,
didn’t he?

Anyway, I handed him his cloak reluctantly, waiting for him to snatch opportunity away from me.
Once he took it away, I would be left where I had started, looking for a proper costume fully put
my plan into action. Oh, well. Maybe I could tailor one of my old school robes into a cloak,
somehow. Better yet, I'd get Hermione to do it.

“It's cold out. You keep it.”

When the words finally reached my ears and my brain processed the meaning, I whirled around to
face him. But alas, it was too late.

He was gone. Like magic, except perhaps a bit more romantic.

Oh, God. I just used the word ‘romantic’ to describe something Malfoy did, didn’t I?

And now I am feeling absolutely horrid about myself. I don’t know if it’s because of my blatant
and willing fraternization with the enemy, or the stinking cloak that’s lying on my bed. My
roommates have already complained about the smell.

“It’s not mine,” I said monotonously, from the shock. “It’s Malfoy’s.”

And *then* they stared on with interest.

I need some strong sedatives, quick. Or some alcohol. Any mind-numbing equivalent will do, I’m
not choosy.





*Even later than later*


Did I mention, that I bought Malfoy a Christmas present? He probably doesn’t even celebrate
Christmas.



I know. I disgust myself, too.







6. Chapter 6
------------

**A/N:** I’m sorry. My summer got out of hand when Laziness came over for a long sleepover.
So, here I am, posting this as soon as I got it done and polished up a bit. Thanks for your
heart-warming reviews. Every time I read one, I was a little closer to finishing up this
chapter.

**Disclaimer:** Standard procedure of disclaiming applies here. Please note that the
characters in this work of fiction have been stretched and exaggerated like silly putty. Meaning
that they are purposefully OOC at times. Such is the price you must pay for writing a humor
fic.

The opening phrase ‘I’m going to freak right out’ does not belong to me, but probably to the people
who wrote the screenplay for the movie *Once Upon A Time In Mexico*. Yes, I enjoy taking
quotes from examples of mediocrity just so someone might mistake the saying as mine and call me
brilliant. It has not worked to date.



*December 24*


I am going to freak right out.

Really. I am not joshing, and no, this is not some petty, abnormally large spot on my nose that
I am squawking on about. Even though there it remains, stubbornly so, no, a simple pimple won’t not
faze me now.

So, let us put it into list form. I seem most adept at that and right now, I need to be adept at
something.

1. The Christmas ball is **tonight**.

2. Am having sudden, last minute doubts about plan for world destruction. Like it’s such a big
decision. Or something.

3. The great monkey we like to call Malfoy won’t stop invading my private thoughts. It’s quite
unnerving, to be thinking about something as vague as a scrumptious piece of cake waiting for me
down in the kitchens—when suddenly, a shiny blonde head pops out from a hidden window of your train
of thought. Any normal girl would shit herself. But my pants still remain comfortably light. Thus,
I defy this law.

Actually, it’s probably not my fault anyway. I’ll bet you my knickers that after a close
examination of Malfoy’s genealogy, you would find him closely in tie with Dementors. True,
Dementors have got that whole hood-thing going, but it’s only a matter of fashion sense. One thing
is the same, however (you can’t evade the power of genetics): if you let a Malfoy of the Dementor
lineage kiss you, he’ll suck out all of your coherence.

As for the Puking Pastilles Plan, or more commonly known as the PPP, I have got the whole get-up
in the palm of my hands. The mask was transfigured form an old and worn black boot of mine, which
might be why it has a strange, sour odor to it. But nowadays, everything seems to smell oddly. I’ve
come to the conclusion that this world is just a very smelly place.

Along with the boots, I have a white blouse, courtesy of Ron, and a pair of tight breeches
(actually, they’re one of my old capri’s, but no one will know that.) Under those I have on hose. I
don’t really want to talk about it.

I have also acquired a large, flamboyant (and feathered) hat to complete the outfit (again,
Ron’s). It was one of his…*odder*…hobbies. My hair should fit sufficiently in there, and I
believe that will make me properly unrecognizable.

Now, to get over these ‘butterflies’ in my stomach. The least they could do, if they were to
stay there, is to stop moving around so much.





*Later*


Right-o. In the time that I have left this diary to go and do other worldly things, I have
penned a fresh to-do list.

1. Skip down and check on the Ball preparations. It’s better to locate the punch bowl
beforehand. This crosses out the possibility of wasting time, looking for target.

2. Take Harry’s broom and bash it over my head. Hope that head breaks, not broom, and head will
be successfully rid of the ailment Thinking About Malfoy Too Much.

3. Get rushed to the hospital wing.

4. Make miraculous recovery in time for Ball.

5. Watch people puke.

6. Go to sleep.

Sleep. Yes—number six is the only one I wholeheartedly agree with.

I haven’t even accomplished number one, however. Instead, I found myself wrapping His present.
…Hang on, why have I just capitalized ‘him’? What are you doing, Brain, mocking my dignity? Are you
trying to insinuate that I am likening *Malfoy* to a Godly being?

How dare you. You are lucky that you are essential. Be good, before I think to kick you out of
my cranium.

I am getting off track again, aren’t I?

As I was beginning to write: I was sitting complacently on the common room sofa, trying to
decide what kind of wrapping paper to use. It was either a vellum-like textured paper, or those
cheap, crinkly kinds, that if you rub too much, the silvery parts come off and onto your
fingers.

Before I could Blue Shoe between them, Ron barged in the portrait hole. He’s like a Niffler,
really. He notices all the shiny, good things, and tries to take them away. Savagely.

“Who’s that for?” he sniffed suspiciously. Well, this was the reason everyone gave him sweaters
and boxers for Christmas.

“Draco Malfoy,” I said airily, bravely stripping off a large piece of wrapping paper (the cheap,
shiny one.) What was the point of lying? He wouldn’t believe me anyway. That’s how ludicrous the
idea is.

Although, I never expected him to cry.

“Oh, God, Gin,” he wheezed, bending over and placing his hands on his knees.
“Sometimes…sometimes, you truly are…hilarious!”

Yes. Very droll, I am. I am sure the cynic in him finds my distressed state of being highly
humorous.

He commended me a few more times for being unusually funny before getting to the point.

“So, not going to that ball tonight, are you?” he asked casually. All the other girls had begun
preparing hours ago. I slipped on a smile.

“Of course not. I’ll be here, studying.” He’s right, actually. I am funny.

He grinned. It was disparaging. “There’s a good girl. I knew you would listen to me. You always
do.”

Oh, yes. Obedient little Ginny, wasn’t I? Obedient Ginny who would never dare to secretly go to
a ball and create chaos from my bare hands!





Cue evil laughter.





*Even Later*


New development in my disease: It’s not Malfoy I can’t stop thinking about. It’s his kiss. Those
are two very different things.






*I’m Back Again*




What do you do when you cannot stop lingering on something?

You indulge in it.

Perhaps, if I kiss the brat once more, I would finally break free of his freakish Dementor
powers. Reverse psychology. Maybe?

PLEASE, GOD.





*Minutes Later*


Am beginning to entertain impure thoughts. This is ridiculous. I cannot be having slight
affections for that boy. Everyone would laugh.

Well, not everyone. I can imagine what they would all say:

Ron: [Censored out for obscenities that would make Voldemort blush.]

Hermione: Where’s *Teenage Love 101* when you need it? [Rummages in bookbag.]

Harry: Oh, *right*. [Looks heavenward] Thanks, Voldemort. I get the message. I don’t even
deserve a fan club anymore, is that it?

[We are disturbed.]

Me: Harry, I don’t really fancy you anymore.

Harry: Oh, fine. So you hate me now, do you? Is this your perverse way of getting revenge at
me?

Me: No, Harry, please—

Harry: No, it’s alright, I understand. It’s not your fault Ginny. We all know whose fault it
really is. [Looks heavenward again.]

[We do know whose fault Harry thinks it is. However, we are still disturbed that he looks
heavenward when referring to him.]

On second thought. Am now fantasizing…

Cannot record fantasies, as they are very NC-17. Includes such things as **CENSORED** and
**CENSORED** and a bit of **CENSORED**.

Noooo. I am lost. Throw me into the flames; it’s the only way to rid a body of evil.




........




Noooooooo.





*A Lot Later*


Okay, fine. I’ve made it a personal rule in the past that one may not indulge, unless one is in
deep stress.

This situation applies most definitely.

Revised plans:

1. Spike punch with PP.

2. Find Malfoy.

3. Alone.

4. Kiss wanker.

5. Make sure I am cured.

6. Go to sleep. Maybe forever.

A Few Minutes Before The Ball

Am in my costume. I put on Malfoy’s cloak (after the House Elves were through washing it). I
must say, I look quite fetching in the cloak. Not so fetching with the rest of my attire, but it’ll
do. Unfortunately, costume now includes a pair of black boots that I have stolen from Harry for the
evening. Should I be glad that I’ve managed to get boots, or disheartened that I fit into them?

No time to worry about that. The bell has tolled--well, the ball is about to begin, okay?

*Way Past Midnight*


Well, hell. My toes hurt, like they’ve been stepped on over and over again by a pregnant Hagrid,
and yet, I am still undoubtedly…complacent.

Happy, even. How I shudder to use that word.

I shall record the eventful happenings of the ball forthwith:




I arrived in the Great Hall early enough. There were not many students there, and the ones that
had arrived huddled around in their own protective little circles.

The punch bowl, as it turns out, was huge and bottomless. It tasted of maraschino cherries and I
was nearly sad to mutter the strange string of charms Fred and George had told me to say. The red
drink turned momentarily purple, before returning to its normal crimson shade. I lithely turned
around and leaned casually against the table, hoping I looked just like the next overly parched
dancer. Although there was the part where I was dressed like…a fop, really.

More and more parasites of our school arrived, each one clearly thinking that she (or he) was
the prettiest in the room. Everyone seemed to agree that this ball was a chance to become
ostentatious, what with the fluttering of the eyes and the flipping of the hair, or the puckering
of the lips. As a sudden observer, I noticed that human creatures were disgusting and therefore,
interesting.

All seemed well, until a particularly sour looking girl approached me haughtily, eyeing my
costume degradingly. Like her swollen plum-colored rag for a dress was any better. I thought I’d
seen it in the clearance rack at Gladrags the other day.

“ This isn’t a masquerade ball, you know,” she said. Snotty snot-face. I *hoped* she would
take the first drink.

“Oh, *isn’t* it, though?” I said vaguely, smiling just as airily. She curled an eyebrow up
before seeming to decide that I was not worth it. I later saw her prancing around with Neville
Longbottom. I remember when I was once so pathetic. Not that there’s anything wrong with Neville.
Really, there isn’t. It’s just that he really can’t dance.

I hung around, enjoying myself a bit as I wandered about, forgetting briefly about Malfoy. The
slightly disturbing part was, a few girls actually asked me for a dance. Did I really look so
masculine? Is that why boys shy away from me? What does this say about Malfoy?

I declined them politely, telling them that I had a disgusting fungus growing all over me, and
that they certainly wouldn’t want to come near me. Then they looked rather affronted, as if I had
told them they themselves were fungi. Women are very strange.

But I quickly abandoned pondering my possible masculinity, because people were beginning to look
very green.

I admit it. This was mainly just a little surprise for Ron. I should have kept it exclusively
for Ron. But a chance to follow in Fred and George’s footsteps, for once in my life, was really
enticing, you know. *They* were always quite popular. And I could not help a small smile,
seeing people like Pansy Parkinson retch all over her sugary pink gown.

My eyes searched out Harry and Hermione, standing around still quite ignorantly. They seemed to
be quarreling over something.

“What’s wrong, mate?” I heard Ron ask, as he made his way over to his friends. Hermione crossed
her arms, and Harry pointed at her angrily.

“She doesn’t believe me,” he accused. “Voldemort has stolen my bloody boots!” Hermione laughed
raucously.

“Right! I’m sure the likes of Voldemort would wish dearly to obtain your silly pleather
footwear!”

“Well, gee, you’re right! No one can prove that, can they?” Harry said, his eyes suddenly alight
with realization. “No, not unless you could get into the head of a Dark Lord—“ he paused here,
dramatically. “Oh, wait, pick me! I *CAN*.”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione said irritably. “You’re not about to tell me that you’ve had a vision
about Voldemort planning to steal your shoes, are you? Even you aren’t that stupid,” she added,
looking towards Ron.

“Hey,” Ron frowned, not knowing whether or not to be insulted.

Harry decided to take Hermione’s advice then, and sealed his lips before stalking over to the
food table, where I was trying hard not to snigger. I heard Hermione sigh loudly. Ron shrugged.

“Not really a good way to get a guy to ask you to dance,” he said, surprisingly sagely.
Hermione’s eyes widened, before narrowing angrily.

“Ridiculous. I don’t want Harry to ask me for a dance! We’re *just friends*! And Harry’s
not a good dancer!” She smacked him on the head, as if to punish him for even thinking that Harry
could move his feet to a beat, before walking away also.

When Harry reached the gargantuan punch container, I was nearly wetting myself in excitement. I
know what I did is a very sordid deed, but honestly, how often is it that I can make everyone puke
at my command? It seems more of a dream than anything, really. Maybe now, Ron would deduce that
very bad things happened when Ginny Weasley was held against her will.

“What are you looking at?” Harry turned to me and asked while taking the ladle and pouring
himself a large ladle-full of cherry punch. I smiled serenely. He took a sip, before deciding to
grow angrier.

“And who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked, jabbing a finger at me.

“Your friendly neighborhood ponce,” I said patting him on the back and pushing him in the other
direction.

“You’ve got that right!” he said as he stumbled towards the dance floor. I didn’t stay around
long enough to see him do any jigs.

The Professors had finally noticed that something was amiss among their students. A quarter of
them seemed very ill or already very ill, as was shown by the thrown up dinners and snacks upon the
floor—and even a wad of disfigured parchment from Goyle. Now would have been the prime time to get
Malfoy. I turned about, looking around frantically for a spot of blonde, blonde hair. Or a
distinctive aroma; either one.

I could not find him. Had he left? Had he left the Ball? Had he come at all? What if he had
already drunk some of the punch? I was not about to *indulge* in tasting up-chuck.

“Well,” came a sudden and familiarly irritating voice from behind me. “Are you really so
disfigured?” I turned around. And there the bugger stood, a look of smug curiosity on his face. I
relaxed. All was still right with the world.

I blinked for a long moment, watching in wonder as he casually reached over the table to reach
for a cup to fill with punch. I waved a hand in front of me.

“No!” I cried heroically. “You really don’t want to be doing that, Malfoy.” Malfoy’s face
wrinkled into an expression of confusion.

“What are you on about?”

“Drop the cup,” I ordered authoritatively. He looked bewildered now. And who wouldn’t be, being
suddenly and mysteriously restricted of their punch-drinking rights? That inalienable right to
drink when you are thirsting—I might have almost felt sorry for him.

“Don’t tell me what to do, you flamboyant ponce,” he said, taking a look at my outfit
disgustedly. My nose flared at the insult, and I stood with my hands on hips.

“Listen, you sod, if you don’t listen to me right now, I shall hurt you.” Which was technically
true. I’d hurt him via my ingenious punch.

“Oh, *really*?” he sneered. “And I’m sure a big lad like you could do just that. Plan on
giving me a couple black eyes, eh?” I puffed up.

“Who said anything about physical attacks? I’m a wit—I mean, wizard, too.” Malfoy shrugged, and
then cocked his head to the side.

“How come I’ve never seen you around before? Do you even *attend* Hogwarts?” Damn. There
was that glitch in my plan.

“Uh,” I said intelligently. “Sure. New exchange student from Spain.” I blinked through my mask.
Draco was looking skeptical. Why did he have to look skeptical? Our conversation kept digressing
from the point.

“Speak Spanish, then, do you?” he asked. I sucked in a breath.

“No, not really, grew up in a small part of Spain where everyone speaks…English….” I drifted
off, feeling lame.

“With perfect British accents?”

“Well, sure. Those bloody brits took over our small spit of land!” I said fiercely. “It was, um,
a very small, unknown skirmish.” He looked contemplative now, as if he were about to burst into a
long, historical tirade any moment. This was my chance to distract him.

“Listen to me, though, Malfoy!” I said urgently.

“How’d you know my name?”

“You’re…famous?” When I saw the look on his face, I swore to myself to never feed Malfoy’s ego
like that ever again.

“Malfoy, you are in grave danger,” I whispered dramatically. “You need to get away from here,
now. I have something to discuss with you. Follow me.” He looked dubious. “Please,” I added for
emphasis.

I turned and walked away. When I stole a glance backwards, I saw to my glee that Malfoy was
grudgingly following me, the cup completely abandoned. Upon entering the foyer that lead into the
Great Hall, I pulled him aside to a small niche beside the stairwell. Boy, it was embarrassing,
what I was about to do.

“So, tell me again how I’m in danger?” he asked with an arch of an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” I snapped. “I was just kidding, you ninny.” Draco immediately made to move away.

“I’m going,” he said, sounding fed up. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re trying to kill
me, but I’m going.” He turned to face me.

“And if you try to stop me, I swear on my grandfather’s grave that I’ll hex you!”

I tried very hard not to snigger, looking at his pale, pale face. The poor guy really was
frightened of me. Perhaps it was the sight of the tight hose on my legs. I would go on and talk
about how I wish they weren’t so stubby, but I’ll spare you the gruesome details and keep on
track.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Malfoy,” I said impatiently. “I just need a favor.” I had rather
just get this over with. I was half tempted to just bolt, but I’m very goal oriented. Once I get a
thought into my head, I can’t keep still until I do it. It gets me into trouble sometimes, sure,
but I think it’s a Weasley thing. I had built a strict routine in my head, too—lean, kiss, pull,
run. Lean, kiss, pull, run. Lean, kiss, pull—

“What kind of favor?” I looked up and saw Suspicious Malfoy.

“Just stand there,” I ordered, feeling more and more awkward now that the time grew near. Should
I just kiss him, like that? What if he was so surprised? What if he fainted? What if he screamed,
made a ruckus, and ran away? What if he reported me for sexual harassment? Perhaps it would be
better if I warned him, at least. That would be courteous, wouldn’t it?

“Alright,” I said slowly. “On the count of three, I’m going to…er—*kiss* you.” I looked
down at my shoes and waited for his reaction, and I realize I shouldn’t have. It gave him time to
think.

“Kiss me?” he voiced back incredulously. Then, he sighed. “Listen, mate.” His eyes widened and
for a moment, he almost looked sorry for me. “I’m straight.”

I gaped, before understanding his meaning. Boy, he was stupid. When I got myself out of this
mess, I would tell him so, I decided.

“I am straight too!” I said indignantly.

“Obviously not!” he said, motioning to me frantically. Motioning to my masculinity, or what? I
realized this whole farce was becoming rather insulting for me.

“I’m a *girl*, you insensitive wart!” Oh, how could he? Now the predicament was truly
embarrassing.

“You’re not a girl,” he scoffed. I was silent. I could hear doubt crawling into his mind.

“Well, you certainly dress like a boy,” he protested after a second.

“It’s called a disguise, farthead.”

“Prove it.” Okay, so he wasn’t going to bend soon.

“I’ll pay you.” God, I was pathetic. But Malfoy was just so annoying! How could I ever tell if I
liked him or not if he wouldn’t bloody kiss me?

“Oy! Prostitution, eh?” he asked with a wavering sneer. I growled and fished out a knut out of
my pocket.

“What?” he exclaimed indignantly, looking at the dirty coin, covered slightly in melted
chocolate. “I’m certainly worth more than a knut!”

“Prove it,” I retorted whiningly. “Anyway, it’s all I’ve got.” He grew quiet, and I could tell
he was considering it. A moment later, I could see his eyebrows lower in resignation.

“Fine,” he said. “But it better be a quick one, you cheapskate,” he muttered.

“Whore,” I returned happily, before I scooted over on impulse and found his lips. It definitely
felt odd. That was my first reaction, at least. Most likely because I had initiated the kiss, and
most likely because we weren’t really kissing. Malfoy was obviously awkward about kissing a
stranger, which was comforting to know, although I don’t know why, and I was equally awkward about
it. So I think, mostly, we just stood there rigidly with our skin pressed up against one another.
Boy, we must have created one big awkward situation. A hunk of awkwardness.

Finally, he pulled back slightly; not far enough to insinuate that the kiss was through.

“You suck at this,” he said. His voice was cracking, and it sounded quite funny. “Really
horrible.” I blinked and said nothing. Then, he closed the gap and seemed to really have a good go
at snogging me. My eyes fluttered close and I tried to clear my mind enough to assess how I was
feeling, and whether or not this meant I fancied him, but I was becoming numb. Not cold-numb, but
warm-numb. Tingling warmth was flowing up from the tip of my toes, and each time he moved, a flash
of heat jolted down my spine.

In fact, these kinds of bodily distractions might have been why I didn’t notice, his hand on my
back. Or the way it snaked up towards my head. Or how he deftly and suddenly pulled off my large
hat, leaving me exposed.

The second my red, traitorous hair came spilling out, I knew it was done. My instinct was to
back away and cover my head, but it was too late.

“Weasley?” Draco mumbled in surprise, stumbling a few steps back. Yea, that’s right, you
insistent bugger! I leaned back against the wall of the niche, feeling shamed and utterly, utterly
ruined. Oh, he’d never let me hear the end of it, being so pretentious and haughty.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“I spiked the punch,” I blurted. He eyeballed me for a moment. Like I was loony. I wouldn’t
argue it, though.

“Good on that, then,” he said uncertainly.

“I tried to get you away from it,” I continued lamely.

“Thanks?” he muttered questioningly. Obviously, I was still not making sense.

“To kiss you.” I was spilling my story in short, nonsensical blurbs. I hoped he could piece it
together, because I didn’t really want to repeat it.

“Oh, God,” he whispered hoarsely, looking strangely at my face. Great. I’d probably developed
hives or something. A perfect way to end the evening.

“You’re crying!” he said uncomfortably. I blanched at his outburst.

“Am not!” I said. He reached over and wiped at my cheek. Oh. Something was wet, after all. How
pitiful I must have been, being caught in the middle of this childish plan and crying over it.

Draco shook his head, as if utterly confused. I couldn’t believe it. The stupid arse didn’t
understand! This made my job at least a million times harder.

“I don’t understand,” he confirmed. “Why?” I shoed the floor shyly, then remembered that I
wouldn’t assume shyness in front of Malfoy, and gave him my fierce warrior glare.

“Because I wanted to go prancing around in these,” I rolled my eyes, pointing to my outfit. “Why
do you think, halfwit?”

“Always those cute little names,” Draco murmured thoughtfully. “I knew you sounded
familiar.”

“Glad you’re so fond of me and my names,” I said offhandedly.

“Well, you are, at least.”

“What? I’m what?”

“You’re fond of me.” His lips were twitching up. I cursed him in my mind. “Fond of me enough to
go through all of this to kiss me again?” He was nearly chuckling now. “Why, Ginny, all you had to
do was ask!”

“Shut up,” I growled through my teeth. “I didn’t do this just for you, so you can’t deflate that
enormous ego of yours. I did it for revenge.” Draco’s face straightened at the word.

“Revenge? At whom?” He seemed very interested. I rolled my eyes again.

“Who do you think?”

“Not your baboon-like, red faced relation?”

“The one and only,” I said tiredly. Why had I done it, I thought then. Mother had always told me
revenge wasn’t worth it. Mother had also always told me that she would always be right.

“Well, sure,” Draco began sarcastically. “Now it all makes sense, how giving me a snog was part
of your plan to get back at your idiot sibling.” I put a hand in front of me as if to halt him. He
stopped talking, anyway.

“Listen,” I said exasperatedly. It was late, and I was pretty exhausted. “If you’re going to be
dense, then I’m going.”

“Dense?” Draco looked almost injured. “Weasley, I want to understand the way your strange mind
works just as much as the next person, but we don’t always get what we want, do we? Just say what
you mean, and be done with it.”

I thought about it. What did I want to say? That I wanted to test out whether I wanted to screw
him or not? Yea, right. I’d rather keep what little dignity I had left, thanks.

“No,” I said stubbornly. “I’m not saying anything.” Draco shrugged in a
Can’t-Do-Anything-About-That way, which infuriated me only further. Why couldn’t he just be total
jerk like he usually was? Why was I less annoyed by him than usual?

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to assume,” he said in a mock wistful voice. I frowned,
wondering what the hell he meant. Instead, I set my jaw hard.

“Good night, Malfoy,” I said. Draco gave another shrug.

“G’night, Weasley.” I was going to walk away then, I swear. Except, he was suddenly kissing me
again, and the ball of fire had lit again in the pit of my stomach. I was vaguely aware of the fact
that a corner of the wall was digging into my back almost painfully, but obviously I was too
preoccupied to care. When he broke away, I was trying very hard not to appear slightly breathless.
He was very warm after all, and the cool air suddenly hitting my face felt chilling.

Not to mention, this was certainly a different way of bidding someone you supposedly hated
goodnight.

“We’ve got to stop doing *that*,” I said slowly, speaking the word ‘that’ like it was a
sin. It probably was. Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Why?” he asked. I wondered if he was serious. I struggled for an explanation, while edging away
from the wall.

“Because,” I said lamely. I trailed off, and before I knew it, I was already a few feet away
from him. Then I was speed walking up the staircase, then running towards Gryffindor Tower as fast
as I could. I just needed to get away from Malfoy. Like most people. Except this was different.

That’s where my story ends. I don’t really know if all the trouble I went through was worth our
cryptic conversation. I didn’t really find out much, did I? And I still have to make sure whether
or not Ron actually drank some punch and learned his lesson. If he mentions the strange epidemic,
must casually comment how strange it was the something like this would happen while I was being
kept in the tower against my will. Please, please, God. Let him look pale and sick in the morning,
like he’d barfed the night away.





*Post Script:*

Maybe I *do* like kissing Draco Malfoy. Maybe I haven’t been cured of my supposed disease.
Maybe I need a new plan. Maybe I need a new identity. Maybe I'm finally, utterly loony.






Bollocks.








7. Exciting Things Happen To Those Who Kiss Malfoys
---------------------------------------------------

**Note:** Yes, it's finally back, after months and months. I am very apologetic to
everyone who has gotten v. annoyed with me for being so bad with updates. Many people seemed to
think that Chapter 6 was the end of it--aha, don't you worry. I wouldn't leave you hanging
like that. This chapter, however, as if to make up for lost time, is a whopping 6961 words. Hope
you enjoy. Also, in stark contrast to this fic, for any angst-enjoyers out there, I wrote a new D/G
angstlet called The True Meaning of An Alternate Universe. Would totally not mind if you read it.
*shamefully plugs*

**Warnings:** This chapter contains really excessive silliness. It borders on being
ridiculous. Just to let you know beforehand. Please don't yell at me. :( Fanfic is my only
source of entertainment.


The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley




*December 25*

In the morning, I thought I had been dreaming about Ronald yelling at me on Christmas Day. In
this dream, Ron as quite put off with me for making him empty the contents of his stomach the night
before. He kept hitting the top of my head with a wooden bat, but I wouldn't do anything else
but giggle. It turns out that this revelation was not in fact all dream. Ron was indeed yelling at
me—Sleeping Beauty would have awoken to his cacophonous notes. You can rest assured, however, that
I was *fully* awake when he shouted:

“The same *bloody* owl has been tapping at my window for the past twenty minutes, and when
I finally let the miserable bloke in, it threw me a letter addressed to *you* from
*Malfoy*!”

My head shot up straight from my pillow and I began to titter loudly about ‘silly code names
confusing everyone’ and ‘it’s not what you think.’

“Well, it better not be what I think!” Ron gritted his teeth.

“Yea, yea. Merry Christmas to you too, dearest brother.”

Ron threw the letter towards the general direction of my head, then left. The gall!




--




OK, so the letter appears legitimate:

*Weasel*

*I’ve just written to tell you that you are to meet me on top of the Astronomy Tower at 7:00
tonight. I have some important information I must relay to you.*

*Malfoy*

Only he could sound as pretentious in so little words. He would call it a gift. My pet name for
it is simply ‘annoying’—where does he come off with the idea that just because he owls me early in
the morning, I will prance off Christmas evening to meet him on the bloody Astronomy Tower? Because
I certainly won’t.




--




What kind of ‘important information’ could he have, anyway? Hello, Weasley, I’ve just come to
alert you of the fact that I am an idiot who can't seem to keep my hands off of you? Just in
case you forget. Because that’s what he is. And in fact, I had been planning on avoiding him today,
since I presumed things might be a little awkward between us. One can't just kiss another and
expect that to be platonic, or in our case, malevolent. On the other hand, just because he has
kissed me several times now does not mean I have grown the least bit fond of him, and would
therefore feel inclined to spend any part of my Christmas with him. I am not that easy to 'win
over.' I don't go gallivanting off with any old bloke that knows how to lay one on me.
Honestly.




--




Besides. I don’t have anything to *wear*.

Blast it all. It’s been less than an hour since I’ve been awake and already my head is swimming
with images of that stupid bird. I don’t care how well he kisses. I’ll just slide on down to the
common room and look for presents.



*Later*


This year’s present haul is on par to all other years, so I feel no need for commentary. In
fact, I have much more important things to ponder.

There seems to be quite a lot of gossip circulating around Susan Bones. I couldn’t quite hear
what it was about—but it is probably about last night’s puking prank. I can’t believe she is
getting credit for that! Susan Bones? As if. She’s about as vicious as a Labrador. Honestly, I hope
that the students here have not gotten any stupider as an unknown side affect of the Puking
Pastilles. Must write Fred and/or George about this matter.

Am now going outside for a little breather. I left Malfoy’s cloak on my bed and everyone in my
dorm, including myself have been complaining about it.

“Ginny, can’t you do something about that rancid odor? I think they're your socks.”

What nice dorm-mates I have. Anyway, to remedy this invasion of masculine scent (the not so good
kind) I simply threw it out the window. And that takes care of that. Why can't everyone be as
ingenious as I am?




*Around 2:00 P.M.*




I was slowly circling Hogwarts castle when I bumped into The White One.

“Gee—you look even paler against snow, Malfoy,” I commented observantly.

“Did you get my note?” he asked gruffly. I put my gloved hands on my hips.

“Well, no need to get that impatient tone with me! If you had given it time, I’m sure I would
have mentioned it!”

“Weasley,” he sighed, looking at me like I was a helpless dolt. “Your attention span, if it were
a human being, would be the smallest midget in the world.”

“Golly, everyone’s being so friendly today!” I said acerbically. “It really must be the holiday
spirit.”

“Must be,” Malfoy smirked. Then Awkward Silence came over and both of us stood there, toeing the
ground. From the corner of my eyes, I saw a couple of little first year girls giggling at us.

“Find something funny, do you?” I asked the little brats. They replied with a particularly loud
chortle. “Bloody annoying, aren’t they? Think they know everything. Remind me a bit of you.” There
we go. I had insulted him, and now we were back on track. Things got a little less uncomfortable.
But apparently, Malfoy was not in the mood for a game of Insults and Degradation, because he gave
me a sharp, silencing gaze.

“Augh.” Malfoy made a sound of slight frustration, his glare still withstanding. “Just meet me
at the tower tonight.”

“No,” I said pettily. “I don’t see any incentive to do so.” Malfoy grinned widely, in stark
constrast to the scowl he had a minute ago--giving me a shock. He's so bloody moody.

“An opportunity to see me—that’s no incentive?” I blushed and snorted at once. The cad—he really
was in love with himself. Which was too bad, because I’m sure if he weren’t so narcissistic, he
wouldn’t be such a wanker, and that would mean that I could stalk him without feeling immoral.

Please disregard what I've just penned. Just remember that I am a clinical case.

“Hardly,” I said casually (and avoiding his stare) or as casually as I could with an orange-red
face.

“Well, then I promise to give little Ginny a snog or two if she shows up,” he said. I whipped my
head in his direction and saw that he was laughing. Oh, yes, Draco. You are a very funny boy.

"I'm sure you'll be laughing when I give you this!" I said. And then I punched
him.



Gods, I'm just joking--stop accusing me of destroying his face. Nevermind. I'll just
continue with the story, shall I?


“I know Ginny liked kissing,” he said teasingly. I stomped my foot childishly.

“Ginny did not! Ginny thought it was repulsive and she hopes you never, ever do it again.” Draco
shrugged in an ‘I-Don’t-Quite-Believe-You’ manner. I grabbed his hair and pulled, watching in
satisfaction as he winced. (This I am serious about. I'm pretty sure I got at least a few
hairs. Don't tell a soul, but I pocketed them. Yes, I realize now that that is pretty pitiable,
but it seemed like a good idea at the time.)

“I don’t like your stupid kissing, alright?” I snarled. “On my lists of things I like, it is
last. So don’t even think about it.”

“Do you mean that?” he asked with watery eyes. I stood awkwardly as he began to sob.

Once again, that was a joke. Don't I *wish* I could see Malfoy break down—remember, I
am still holding onto his precious golden locks. Very firmly. Threatening the very root of what
makes him Malfoy—for without his hair, what would he be? A very pale and bald boy. Oh, cruelty is
one thing I am very close to mastering.

“Yes, I do.” I donned a bewildered look. I hoped my face was not twitching, as it sometimes
liked to do when I'm lying. “Why would I want to be snogged by you, anyway, when I could snog
tons of other men?" Lie. Because in fact, I don't have anyone else to snog.
"Didn't I tell you last night to stop it?” I sputtered as I let go of him. He straightened
up immediately, his hand flying to his head to make sure his hair was alright, and backed away from
me. Well, at least we know his precious tresses are genuine.

“Well, right then. I’ll be on my way. Just be there, Ginny. I’m sure I’ll have chocolate. Or
something.”

I pretended to look piqued at the idea that I could be bought with chocolate. But in fact, I
probably could be, if it were dark chocolate.

As I made my way back up to the castle, the earlier group of Giggling First Years returned for
an encore.

“Bugger off!” I barked rudely. I know I should be nicer to the little ones, but they all have
such high voice registers, it is like they are a bunch of cute aliens come to brainwash us. So
perhaps that explains the general ‘stupid’ aura of this entire castle. All one must do is eradicate
the pipsqueaks. Unfortunately, this is easier said than done.

“Are you with him?” one of them asked. I stopped in my tracks and faced her. I gasped in
confusion. This girl had no face! Only a thick bush of curly, curly brown hair.

“Where are you?” I asked in extreme concern. The child let out a laugh and used her tiny fingers
to part her hair in the middle, therefore revealing two large blue eyes and a pair of pudgy, rosy
cheeks.

“Are you with him?” she repeated.

“Pardon me?” I did not really understand 1st year lingo.

“Are you going out with that blonde fellow?” she asked brightly. I made several various noises,
all effectively expressing my outrage at the question.

“NO!” I bellowed. The girl did not flinch. Apparently, the only language she and her friends
know is that of Giggle and Point.

“Well, we think he’s *handsome*,” she sang, her eye lashes fluttering ridiculously.

“Good thing I don’t give a damn what you think then, you hairy chimp,” I muttered flamingly.

Honestly, 1st years these days are so…brash. How dare they assume such things about
the rat and I? Our relationship is strictly hate-based. Without that conjoining hate factor, we
would have no reason to interact, no reason to spend the majority of our days sniping at each
other. And there would be no reason for me to think of him all day, every day.

Oh, no. This looks very bad for me.

I’ll just sit here in my room, rock myself back and forth in a corner and repeat, ‘Hate-love
relationships are rubbish.” If you say something long enough, and fast enough, with no room for
meandering thoughts—will it come true?



*A Few Minutes Later*


No, apparently not. The only thing that does is make you light-headed and cranky.

I think instead I will go downstairs and pretend to be sociable.

--

Never mind that. Ron is in very suspicious mood.

“Go away, Ginny, we’re talking about something important,” he said. Hermione looked anxious and
Harry, grim. Then again, Harry always looks grim. I heard he had constipation. Life really
wasn't fair for him at times.

“Oh, okay, then,” I said in an offhand manner. “Don’t stay up talking about me for too long.”
Ron began to shake his fist at me, then thought better of it and instead flung a chess piece at me.
The pawn shouted rather frightfully as he traveled about 5 feet into the air. Poor fellow—he’s
always being misused by my brother.

“Ronald!” Hermione shrieked in outrage.

“Yea, I know,” he muttered. “I missed.”

What. An. Arsehole.



*Moments Later, In My Dorm*


Outside it is dark, and I am sitting in my room on Christmas Day, scribbling all over pictures
of Ronald. His pictures are rather indignant about this.

“I’ll say, what have we ever done to you?” it asked. I shrugged.

“Well, the idiot you represent is a bit of a bastard,” I said. Ron’s pictures frowned.

“I’m sorry. We didn’t ask for this job, you know—to stand around in boring pictures. I mean, if
we were anyplace remotely interesting, it might fare better—but the only interesting place he’s
been to is Egypt and to Luna Lovegood’s bedroom—“

I squeaked. Picture-Ron with the marker mustache looked at me in surprise.

“Have I said something?”

“Yes. I don’t really want to hear about my brother’s sex life.” Just the thought of my brother
attempting to reproduce with someone, as if to create an army of himself (except tinier), is
disgusting. I have asked Mum over and over again when we were going to get him neutered, but she
always clucks her tongue and walks away. If she thinks this is a matter to be taken lightly, she is
very misinformed. The fate of the world stands in the bloody woman’s hands. Honestly, when will
these common folk learn?

I swear that I did not just look at the clock for the hundredth time in the past minute. I swear
I do not know what time it is. Because it is definitely not nearing 7:00. NO, STOP IT GINNY—DON’T
PUT THE QUILL DOWN—DO NOT WALK OVER TO YOUR TRUNK AND PICK OUT SOMETHING DECENT TO WEAR FOR
MALFOY—DO NOT GO TO THE ASTRONOMY TOWER—

Blast it. Good-bye diary. It looks like I am going to be observing some stars, as well as prats
tonight.




*Around 4:00 AM. Hahahahahahha.*




Well, we did more than simply observe tonight. Some rather big things have happened and I hate
to keep you in suspense. It’s all quite funny, if you think about it for a prolonged amount of time
like I have. Or that may be simply because it is 4:00 A.M.

I pulled on a clean sweater and a pair of corduroys, along with a jacket before heading off to
the tower. Admittedly, my hair was a little greasy, but nothing could be done about that now.
Besides, if Snape was allowed to keep his hair so (I'm sure he is one of the world's
largest source for oil, haha) mine was certainly passible.

Upon reaching the tower, I saw Draco standing near the edge of one wall, amongst the turrets.
And he was not bloody alone. As I finished climbing the last stair and the tower came into full
view, I saw Susan Bones, talking loudly with her arms crossed. I thought of turning back.

“Oh, so this is why you kept egging me on to come here, Malfoy?” I asked. “So I could see you
and Bones converse? Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t find that entirely too interesting.” I sulked.
Draco rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be such a jealous bint, Ginny. I don’t know what *she’s* doing here.”

“I’m here to straighten out a few things with you, that’s what!” Susan shouted. Perhaps she was
not as vicious as a Labrador after all.

“Don’t let him get to you, Susan—he is always like this. Smelly and mean and irresponsible—and
did I mention smelly?” Draco flashed me A Look. Oh, ho. Yes, now that he had given me that
threatening look, of course I would shut up.

“I didn’t ask for your advice, did I?” Susan snapped rather testily. I blinked. “So if you
please, can you go away?”

Even sputtering did not seem to cut it at this point.

“Well,” Draco said. “That wasn’t very nice.” My face contorted nastily.

“Yes, I’m sure you’re in ecstasy right about now, Malfoy. Someone else to do the dirty work for
you! You just sit back, relax, and let your dear Susan insult me.” Draco narrowed his eyes at me
and cursed.

“Jesus, you bloody women are useless. I DON’T BLOODY KNOW WHAT SHE’S DOING HERE! SO HOWEVER
SURPRISING IT MAY BE, THIS IS NOT MY FAULT.” Susan pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“You! You were the one that told everyone that I was going on a date with you!”




--




Sorry about that. Needed a refreshment. Also, one of my dorm-mates began moaning quite loudly
about someone named 'Harold' so I moved down to the common room.

Anyway, after Susan said her shocking little bit, and I officially felt as if I were immersed in
a Soap-Operatic world (muggle term, just in case you’re confused) Draco said, ‘What?’ He has such a
way with words.

“You know,” she seethed. “You told people that I was supposed to have gone on a date with you,
at Madam Puddifoot’s.” I looked at Draco and blinked my eyes a fair few times, hoping some kind of
realization would dawn on me. And it did. That day that we had dined in Hogsmeade—and my brother
had come in—and Draco had lied about who he was supposed to be here with. Why couldn't Ron keep
his mouth shut?

“That? That!” Draco jumped up and down. “That was—“

“You don’t have to explain.” My head whipped towards Susan. She did not look so angry anymore.
Just apprehensive.“All I came here to do, was to tell you that despite who you are, you don’t have
to be shy about asking a girl out on a date. Getting other people to do it for you is silly. Though
you aren’t the nicest boy in the world, I’d be willing to give it a shot, Draco. So that's why
I came. So I could tell you personally that I'd give you a chance.”

Oh, I was angry. Why was I so angry? Well, for one, she was making advances toward Draco Malfoy.
This was wrong, and I felt it my civic duty to tell her so. Second of all--well, I don't know
why else. She had been a little rude to me, though. And NO it was not an act of jealousy! Why
should I care who Malfoy dates? Nevertheless, I just about launched myself at the silly girl, but
Draco, with surprisingly good judgment, reached out and stopped me.

“Now, the thing about that is—“ he began nervously, his arms still acting as a barrier between
Susan and myself. (Arms that were also dangerously close to my bosom, the pervert.) Which was a
funny thing, because Malfoy was rarely ever nervous.

“Yes, you tell the idiot, Draco,” I said triumphantly, eyes shining with feverous excitement. I
was nearly rabid. Susan looked at me haughtily, not knowing the utter humiliation that was about to
fall mercilessly upon her head. The embarrassment she would feel upon realizing that Draco
didn't want to go anywhere with *her*.

But my moment never came. There was a poof on the other side of the tower, and a smoke of foggy
purple began to rise from the ground.

“The hell?” Draco provided for all of us. A dark hooded figure arose from the lavender mist.

“Hello?” it said. “Hello—er, where am I? Is this Hogwarts?” The figure, who sounded like an
effeminate male, whipped out a map.

“These stupid things never really help, do they?” he said with an anxious chuckle.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked boldly. The figure looked up—or it would have looked up, if it
had eyes. We could not tell yet if it did or not.

“The name’s Voldemort. Lord Voldemort.” Then, he giggled. “Oh, that *does* have a nice ring
to it, doesn’t it? Must tell Nott to put that on our business cards.”

Susan shrieked. Draco looked casually surprised, and I was nearly apoplectic with anger.

“Oh, great! What a party! What, is today Random Cameo day? I was only trying to do as this
maniac here begged me to do—that is, to meet him here at 7:00—I had no idea we were going to have
company. But no, feel free to stay. This is awesome. Bones, Malfoy, Voldie, and myself. Best mates
forever, really.” My sarcasm was oozing. Malfoy got a sour look on his face, the way he does when I
ramble on for too long. Susan seemed to be in near tears. I almost felt bad for her—this must have
been her virgin encounter with a dark lord.

Voldemort, on the other hand, paused in thought. “A party? Will refreshments be provided?”

“Shut up, you great idiot!” I hissed. Voldemort pouted. Or he might have. Once again, his facial
expressions remained a mystery to us. But I'm guessing that he was probably pouting.

“Ginny, you’re so rude to me at times. I thought we were past that 1st year
mix-up.”

“Tom,” I said in what I hoped would be a patient voice. “Sometimes, people do bad, foolish
things. And sometimes there can be no forgiveness. I’m sorry to say this, but there is no way that
we can ever be friends.”

“If you insist, Ginny. And to tell you the truth, I’ve lost all your contact numbers anyway. So,
how have *you* been, young Malfoy?” You-Know-Who turned to Draco.

“Er—alright, I suppose.”

“Right, right. That’s good. Still getting top marks, are you?” Apparently, Voldemort was feeling
very conversational today.

“Well—yes, sir. Of course sir.”

“Very well. I’ll have to tell Lucius what a fine son he has. Thinking of coming into the family
business? Your father told you, didn't he? Yes, it's true--your Lord Voldemort has started
his own undergarments company. It's growing quite rapidly, I must say. Right now, it's
tentatively named Voldemort's Secret, but that might change soon since some inconsequential
muggle company with a similar name wants to file a lawsuit.” I couldn’t help but snicker. Draco
looked mightily uncomfortable. Ah, I could just imagine him going into the knicker industry. And
besides, he usually did not enjoy answering so many questions in such a short amount of time. It
tended to hurt his head.

“I suppose so, sir,” Draco scratched his temple. “Haven’t really thought about it much.”

“Well, my boy, it is something that you can never start thinking about too early. Why, I knew
what I wanted to be from the tender age of six!” I snorted.

“But then again, you were a very messed up little boy,” I said sweetly. Voldemort sighed.

“Ginny, *please*. As I was saying; there really is no better job out there. You get free
dental— and for that matter, all health care is fully provided for--an amazing retirement plan—and
we recently increased everyone’s salary. Plus, we now have a pool table in the playroom. Your
father plays a mean game of billiards. Yes, Draco--in short, there was never a better time then now
to join your lord. Do you model? Because we need models, and you look like a firm boy.”

“Alright, sir," Draco said meekly. "I’ll be sure to consider it.” Voldemort
nodded.

“You do that. And you, Ginny?” he said in a suddenly sneering voice. “Did you know we got sued
recently? For apparently being biased sons of bitches. The Wizengamot ordered that we were to hire
more women, or else they would do everything in their power to shut our little organization down.
Honestly, this equal rights rubbish is really beginning to bother me. All I know is that there was
nothing of this sort when I was a young lad.”

“Look at me, Voldie,” I said, pointing at myself. “I’m trying quite hard not to laugh. That’s
how funny you are. Like I would ever work for you.”

“Ah, well, I surmised as much. Perhaps the young lady over there? Do you like thongs?” He
pointed at Susan. Susan cowered.

“All of you are barking mad!” she shrieked. Voldemort crossed his arms.

“Well, really, now. I have been getting therapy for it, so at least I’m being proactive about
it. I couldn’t say the same for this one.”

“It’s been nice talking to you, Voldemort,” I said in a bored manner. I didn’t really warm up to
the idea of spending the rest of my Christmas talking to insane megalomaniacs (who were newly
obsessed with ladie's under things, I might point out.)

“Going so soon?” Voldemort whined. Draco butt in.

“Well, we’re rather busy, you know. Doing things.” Voldemort giggled. Yes, giggled. It was
traumatizing, but we quickly recovered.

“Oh, I see how you two are. Ah, how sweet young love is. Write me for a Valentine's Day
discount for her, Draco--all lingerie will be buy one get one!”

“Bloody hell!” I shouted. “What is wrong with everyone? Just because Malfoy and I dedicate a lot
of time bantering with each other does NOT mean that we are in love! Please cleanse your brain of
this thought! AND I CERTAINLY DON'T WANT ANY KINKY UNDERWEAR FROM HIM! I mean, am I right or
what, Malfoy?” Draco shifted uncomfortably next to me. I turned on him.

“*Am I right or what, Malfoy?*” I repeated dangerously. I punched his arm for effect.

“You’re correct,” he said quickly.

“Good. Now—have a Merry Christmas Voldemort. Go back to your lair, have Avery fix yourself a cup
of Coffee, and read a nice book--*no erotica*. Good-bye—“

“HALT!” Another voice suddenly shouted. I groaned. This really was not my day. We all turned
around to see Harry, Hermione and Ron standing in front of us. Oh, no. This was bad. Voldemort was
nearly floating off the ground in pleasure.

“Potter! How delightful!” He clapped his ‘hands’ together.

“I’m going to kill you, Voldemort,” Harry greeted. Well, gee, wasn’t he a party pooper.

“Not if I kill you first!” Voldemort trilled gleefully. Hermione chucked a book at him. Yes, we
were all one big happy…deranged family.

“Ha,” Harry said with conviction. “As if you could kill me. You’ve been trying for the last 17
years.” He gave a grin. “Sometimes, dearest lord of mine, you just have to know when to give
up.”

“Don’t rub it in, now!” Voldemort boomed. “That’s bad form, and you know it, Potter.” Harry
shrugged.

“It is pretty low, I admit. But then again, you are scum.”

“Oh, I love this part.” Voldemort shivered in excitement. He drew his wand. “Audience, need
input. Shall I kill him now, or play with him a bit?”

“Yes, please do tell,” said Harry, fiercely. “Either way, one of us will be a dead man by the
end of this.” Ron piped up.

“Well, I’d rather like it if you'd two would get it over with. I was in the middle of a
chess match, you know.”

“This is stupid,” I said crossly.

“Ginny, we are in no need of your pessimism, so please do shut up,” Voldemort said happily. I
couldn’t figure out for the life of me why he was acting so gaily. Perhaps he had snorted something
before prancing on over here.

“Wait, wait,” Draco stepped in between Harry and Voldemort. “If you two are to fight and battle
all of your frustrations out in a manly way, shouldn’t we tell the women to go downstairs?”

You can imagine how silent everyone was at that. Draco, seeming to have realized how…almost
noble he had just sounded, chuckled.

“Only kidding, of course.” Harry glared at him.

“Save your belly-splitting humor for some other time, ferret.”

“Right, scar head. Will do.” He stepped aside. Harry flipped out his own wand with an
extravagant flourish. Voldemort bounced on the balls of his feet. The aging lord was clearly having
the time of his life.

“So,” Voldemort said casually. “I’ve always thought it rather funny—the prospect of a seventeen
year old boy, with no astonishing intelligence, defeating me. I’m quite a bit older than you, you
know.”

“Wisdom does not always have to do with age,” Hermione interjected. “Obviously, since it has
eluded you completely.” Point for Hermione. Voldemort, on the other hand, seemed exasperated by
her. With a wave of his wand, she flew against the walls of the tower, and was chained, her body
restricted from much movement.

“HEY! You let her go!” Harry shouted sonorously. I had never seen him so angry, and had I been
Hermione, I would have been quite happy that he was so in love with me. Instead, Hermione looked
miffed.

“If--if you chain her— you chain me, too!” Ron shouted bravely. And yes, although even I will
admit that the thought was fearless and very much Gryffindor, it was not much help to Harry.

“Ron—what the hell are you saying?” Harry howled. “You’re supposed to help me!” Voldemort took
no heed. He obliged Ron and soon, he too sat chained against the wall. Hermione shot him a, ‘Do You
Possess A Brain?’ look. Ron, for his part, continued to look foolishly valiant. That brother of
mine.

“Aw, the others look left out, don't they? With that said—“

Susan and I both found us also chained to walls. It was like a new fad. Draco let out a grunt of
protest.

“That really wasn’t very nice….”

“Says the king of Kindness,” I said sardonically. Draco scowled.

“I was only defending you, Weasley! Can’t you stomach just one heroic attempt from me?”

“No,” I said annoyingly. “My brain wouldn’t be able to process it.”

“My brain wouldn’t be able to process it,” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice. “God, you
infuriate me, Weasley.”

“Glad to know that I’m succeeding at life.”

“Well, Draco?” Voldemort turned to Heroic Draco. “Why don’t you stand by Voldemort’s side to
defeat Harry? I heard you never liked him much, either.”

“Why do you need that bastard, anyway, Voldemort? Scared that you won't be able to do it
personally? Not that it matters--or have you already forgotten what the prophecy says? It's me
and you, Voldie, just me and you.” Harry took a step towards Voldemort, poising his wand towards
where his face would be, if he were to lower his hood.

“He has got a point, you know,” Draco said as he backed away. What a coward. “I mean, if the
future insists that I am no help, who am I to disobey? I am not one to flout prophecies.” Voldemort
ignored him and appeared to heed Harry--but did not chain Malfoy. Lucky git. Instead, he too
pointed his wand at Harry’s forehead.

“Fine,” he said with a touch of a whine. “Want me to give you another scar?”

“No,” Harry said without missing a beat. “My turn. Can’t expect you to do all the giving around
here.”

Those last words from Harry was the catalyst for the duel. There were a few hexes thrown around,
neither of them entirely life-threatening. Both men (well, is Voldemort really considered a man
anymore? Even if he does still retain human form, I’d bet that his man bits have just about fallen
off, they’re so old. Ah, nasty images in head) managed to dodge all curses and hexes thrown their
way. After a while of throwing and dodging occurring, everyone was growing bored.

“This is quite dull,” I said. “Things usually aren’t when you two are together. Maybe you’re
losing your touch, Voldie,”I said gently.

“I am not!” Then, to Harry—“*Cruciatus*!”

“No need for that, Voldemort,” Harry said with a wolfish grin as he moved to the side. “Looking
at you is pain enough.”

“That was weak, Harry—I was expecting something better from you.” Then, there was a girlish
shriek. (Was Voldemort.) “OMG! Look!” Harry, alarmed by the urgency of his scream, looked up
towards the dark sky.

In the split second that Harry turned his eyes away from the dark lord, he had him chained
against the wall, too, right next to Hermione. I let out a groan of disappointment and hit my head
against the wall; hoping it would knock me unconscious. The wall behind me cracked, but I remained
perfectly fine.

“Harry!” Hermione chided. “You fell for the oldest trick in the book!” Harry shrugged.

“He said, ‘O-M-G’. How often does he say that? I figured a pterodactyl was flying over us or
something.”

“You know those are extinct.”

“Not according to Luna Lovegood,” Ron said informatively.

“Well, now that we’ve lost our leading man, what do we do?” I asked sensibly—quite possibly the
only sensible one around here.

“Draco—get over here and help me knock these darling people unconscious so that we can take them
over to HQ.”

I looked suspiciously at Draco. He looked uncomfortable, something he has been for much of this
time. I should have felt bad for him, but I was too busy pitying myself.

“Go ahead, Draco,” I said loudly. “Turn to the dark side. See if any of us care.”

“Er—I thought you were just going to kill Potter and leave it at that?” Malfoy said in a hopeful
tone. Voldemort’s shoulders sagged.

“But that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Besides, we have a new laboratory and I’d like to do a
few *tests* on them. Nothing too fancy, of course.”

“Perfect,” I said.

“Ginny…” Draco warned. “Please, no more of your cynicism.” He was *so* rude. Not only was
he on Voldemort’s side now—he was trying to rob me of my natural right to talk. A right that I beg
to say I do not abuse.

“What? I was only going to congratulate Tommy here for his excellent career choices. He must be
the first Dark Lord turned Evil Scientist. What does it feel like to set such a huge
precedent?”

“Rather good,” Voldemort replied smugly. “Well, hurry up, Draco, I’ve got a date with Bellatrix
in an hour.”

Draco contemplated. He looks really funny when he’s contemplating something, you know. His eyes
darted around, looking from me to Voldemort, to Harry, to Ron, to Hermione and to finally Susan,
who really shouldn’t have had any part in this. She seemed to have gotten over her initial shock
and was now amusing herself quite well. Her nails were now a shocking orange color.

“Draco!” Voldemort scolded. Draco gulped, then nodded. Bastard, I thought. He was really going
to betray all of us. Especially after all he and I had been through! I had even gotten him a
Christmas gift (I hoped it was refundable. If I got out of here alive, of course.) Voldemort first
turned to Hermione, before stunning her. Hermione slumped over, and Harry let out a moan.

I was watching Voldemort advance onto Harry when it happened. Draco, who seemed to be perspiring
despite the currently nippy weather conditions, slowly took out his wand from underneath his robes.
(Please, no dirty thoughts on that.)

“Draco, what are you—“

Draco only had a split second to think, he said later, when questioned about his motives and
choices. It supposedly explained everything. (Not that it convinced me.)

Draco shouted a very familiar spell, and the next I looked at Voldemort, he was stumbling around
confusedly, very wet and sticky with…bat bogeys.

“*Dissendium*!” Harry’s binds broke apart, and he looked in bewilderment at Draco.

“WHAT ARE YOU JUST SITTING THERE FOR? KILL HIM ALREADY!” Draco bellowed. Harry came to his
senses and nodded.

“Wait—no, Harry! Ah, will you just *give* me a second? Voldemort tittered, trying
desperately to swat the bogeys off of him. A fruitless attempt, as Draco would have known.

“*Avada Kedavra*!” And just like that, Voldemort, boogers and all, fell to the ground.

There were no words. It seemed that the moment, all of a sudden, had become a bit too solemn for
anyone to speak—even verbose me. None of us dared recognize the fact that it was finally
done—Voldemort was gone. I briefly wondered what would become of Voldemort's Secret.

“Well,” Draco finally managed to say, and by doing so, successfully severed the quietude. “Now
that *that’s* over.” He lazily pointed a wand towards Hermione.

“*Ennervate*.” Hermione blinked a few times, before her sense of where she was returned to
her.

“What—what happened?” she stuttered. Ron shrugged.

“Harry did it,” he said. “He defeated the old bugger. S'about time, I'd say.” Hermione’s
head turned towards Harry so fast, a sonic boom could be heard. (Not really, you know.
Hyperbole.)

“Oh, Harry!” She tried to throw her arms around her neck before realizing that she was still
chained. Harry laughed and freed her, and *then* Hermione kissed him. While the two friends
made out (it was sickeningly sweet), Draco freed everyone else. When he got to me, he looked
thoroughly depressed.

“Should I let you go, I wonder?” he said musingly. I stomped my heels on the ground.

“Yes! You should! My arms hurt.”

“What will *you* give me for it?” He said this as he looked towards Harry and Hermione. I
blushed, guessing at his meaning.

“I--I don’t know. A pat on the back, I suppose.” His gaze returned to me and it unnerved me to
see how very serious he looked. Without another word directed towards me, he broke my chains and I
stood up tentatively, my legs a little wobbly at first.

“Malfoy?” I asked. “Are you quite OK?” I asked. He shrugged and continued to look morose. But
there were no more time for me to act uncharacteristically caring for him. Dumbledore and Co. burst
in through the door of the Astronomy Tower (I hoped this would be the last surprise appearance of
the day).

“Where is he?” he asked gravely. When in fact, the situation was not so grave.

“The crazy bat?” I said. “Dead.” I pointed towards the ground.

“Ah,” said Dumbledore mystifyingly. Professor McGonagall gave a yelp.

“That’s him?” she asked, pointing a shaky finger towards the late Voldemort. “Pray tell why he’s
so…sticky?”

“That was Malfoy’s doing,” Ron said, crinkling his nose in disgust. “We all know how brilliant
*he* is.” Draco said nothing to this.

“True,” Dumbledore agreed with Ron. “Well, children, I am sure all of you have had a very trying
night.”

“Not really—“ I began, but was cut off by Dumbledore again.

“But we must question you on all the events that have taken place this evening, as it seems we
are a wee bit late.”

“A wee bit?” Harry scoffed. “We did all of the bloody work!”

“Interesting,” Dumbledore said ponderously. “Follow me, students.” We did as we were told. It
seemed we had no other choice. Harry went first, followed by Hermione (holding hands, might I add.)
Ron was making polite conversation with Susan. Draco did not so much as glance at me all the way
there. Touchy fellow, he is.

Anyway: Cut to scene in Dumbledore’s office. We were very cramped. The professors decided
against rousing everyone now to tell them the good news—after all, Voldemort would still be dead in
the morning, so there would be no harm. Or perhaps it was the fact that all of them wanted to here
what had really happened, so no one claimed the job of telling the poor, un-enlightened students.
When Dumbledore folded his hands and asked us to please explain what had happened, there was a
brief moment in which none of us quite knew what to say.

“You had to be there?” Ron tried. Professor McGonagall flashed him a dangerous look.

“Really, now. This isn’t funny.” Just because they had missed all of the excitement.

“Well, actually, Harry, Ron and I couldn’t tell you from the beginning. We walked in on Ginny,
Draco and Susan facing off with Voldemort.”

Dumbledore’s gaze turned to me.

“Miss Weasley. Care to tell us all that has happened, from the very beginning? I know it must
have been hard.”

“It wasn’t very hard, you know—“ I started to stay, but Draco’s loud voice interjected.

“*I’ll* tell you how it really went.” Harry groaned.

“Why, so we can hear your biased and misconstrued version of things? No thanks, Draco. I’d
rather read it in paperback, when you’ve no doubt published your recollection on how you were part
of Voldemort’s death. I'm sure you'll manage to sound as if you'd done it all.”

“No need to be so snippy, Harry,” I said defensively. And it really was uncalled for. Just
because he was not the Boy-Who-Killed-You-Know-Who.

“As I was saying before Potty interrupted—“

“Oh, very mature, Malfoy, *really*.”

“Susan, Ginny and I were up on the tower having a nice discussion, when Voldemort appeared with
a poof of blue smoke.”

“It was lavender,” I corrected him.

“Does it matter? And that was it, really. We talked to Voldemort for a while, until Potter’s
excellent nose must have smelled something that wasn’t his business.”

“Not my business?” Harry howled. “It was Lord Voldemort—he’s been *my* business for
*years*!” Dumbledore, at this point, silenced the two bickering boys.

“May I ask what you, Miss Weasley and Miss Bones were doing up on the Astronomy Tower at 7:00 on
Christmas evening?” McGonagall asked innocently. She raised an eyebrow. Ron began turning red.

“Yea…what were you all doing up there?” he said, his voice with an edge of anger. He looked at
me suspiciously.

“Don’t look at me!” I said indignantly. “Because that’s exactly what I’d like to know too!”

“I just needed to talk to Draco about something,” Susan said with a shrug. “I don’t know why he
asked Ginny to be there.”

All eyes turned to Malfoy. He threw his hands up.

“I too needed to discuss something with little Weasel! Is it a crime now, to talk to
Gryffindors?” he asked incredulously.

“It is if you’re talking to my sister in a privately disclosed location,” Ron said
threateningly.

"Alright, alright, calm down," McGonagall said, clearly alarmed at Malfoy. She must
not have known about how truly affected he was. "It was just a question."

"A question with hidden subtext!" he said indignantly.

“STOP!” Hermione shouted, standing up. “All of you seem to be missing the point here. This is
not about Ginny or Draco or why they were on top of the Astronomy Tower. This is about how Harry
killed Voldemort.”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said with a nod, popping a Bertie Bott’s bean in his mouth.

“It’s always about Potter,” Draco sulked, before crossing his arms, leaning back and his chair
and closing his mouth. It got a whole lot quieter from there. Everyone took turns in successfully
explaining how Harry had finally achieved his life goal (wouldn’t it be nice to be able to cross
off number one on your ‘To-Do Before I Die’ list) and they even answered everyone’s questions until
the professors were quite satisfied and acknowledged the fact that children needed sleep.

“Ginny, wake up.” Unfortunately, I must admit that the reason I cannot and will not explain much
of our time in Dumbledore’s office in detail, is because I fell asleep somewhere along Harry
talking about Hermione getting chained. It was very late, after all, and I already knew what was
going to happen. The chair had been mightily comfortable, too.

“Wha? Is it over?” I asked blearily.

“Yes,” Draco said. He tugged at my arms, attempting to get me to stand up.

“Come on, Weasley. I’m not going to carry you.”

“Why not?” I asked innocently. Draco did not retort. Instead, he showed a lack of fortitude by
giving up attempts to move me, and followed everyone else out the door. I hurried out. He was
already nearly down the spiral staircase. I did not catch up to him until I was halfway towards the
wrong direction of the Gryffindor common room, but nearer to the Slytherin dungeons.

“Gee,” I said. “I was just kidding Malfoy. No need to get in a strife about little things like
that.” He continued to ignore me.

“I’m not ‘in a strife’ over anything, Weasley, so I don’t quite understand why you’ve come all
the way over here to talk to me. It’s not attractive to seem so eager.”

“You’re a real jerk sometimes, Malfoy,” I said quietly.

“Am I?” He turned towards me. “That’s funny. But I suppose you are right. I am an immense jerk.
I must be, to be so sour about Harry Potter getting all his glory again.” He continued towards the
dungeons. I followed. If I were to be ‘unattractively eager’ tonight, I would risk it.

“What do you mean? Don’t tell me you’re in another jealous bout.” He ignored me.

“I’m not jealous,” he said. “I’d just like a little credit where credit is due. Potter would
have become a lab test were it not for me.” I thought about his words, and had to admit to myself
that he spoke the truth. Harry should have shown some gratitude to blondie. It was almost cute, how
peeved Malfoy seemed about not being appreciated. Perhaps he was more human than I had previously
thought.

“No matter,” Draco continued bitterly. “I’m sure Potter is used to tools like me. Good night,
Weasley.”

What I did next I gave only an infinitesimal second of thought, but it seemed only right, after
all. So if it seemed rash and, er, hypocritial, you must understand.

“Wait,” I said, running up to him. “You forgot something.” Draco turned around, looking very
exhausted.

“What?” he asked. I leaned in, on my tiptoes, and placed a kiss on his lips.

“It turns out, Draco, that you were quite heroic tonight,” I said with a smile. No sarcasm
involved. “And you know what else? My brain *has* processed it, and I’m stomaching it quite
fine. More than fine, really.”

“Oh.” Draco stood stiffly, looking awkward. And by Gods—his cheeks were turning pink! I wished I
had brought Colin and his camera along.

“Would you barf if I told you I was proud of you?” I teased. Draco grinned widely.

“I wouldn't advise you to risk it,” he said, before turning around and disappearing into the
Slytherin dorms. And yes…I did stare at Malfoy’s arse as he retreated. But surely I deserve that
much after such a long and trying day. Cut me some slack, will you?

Things To Do:

Interrogate Malfoy tomorrow. We may have ended on a good note, but there are still plenty of
things that he has left unexplained. I suspect that he—well, I won’t say it now. But I am
suspecting something. Ginny has caught on to whatever he is up to.
Give him his gift. One more day of his eau de toilet (ha-ha, am so punny) and I shall have to
cut off my own nose.
Still need to find sender of diary.
Still need to find a way to not fail potions.




In closing-- Merry Christmas, diary.









*Note on Draco's use of the spell Dissendium: This spell is not originally used to cut or break
things, but according to the Lexicon, its roots also mean to divide or sever, so I supposed it
could slide as a spell allowing chains to be broken.



8. In Which Draco and Ginny Kiss A Lot
--------------------------------------

**Notes:** Look—I’m updating in less than a month. Thanks to study hall, less time is needed
for homework. Life is suddenly good.

More importantly, thanks to everyone who reviewed. Your feedback truly means a lot to me. I
really mean it.

**Disclaimer:** Sometimes, if you wish for something hard enough, it comes true. Other times,
it doesn’t. Harry Potter still isn’t mine.



**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**
Chapter 8

--

**December 26**

Hermione just told a joke. She and Ron were in a discussion over his abysmal grades. Ron argued
that they were not too bad. (They are. Mum is going to kill him. Finally, after nearly eighteen
years of waiting.)

“Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt,” she said in reply to Ron’s adamant defense of his
marks.

“Yes it is! And don’t even bother arguing—I’ve seen it,” Ron said.

“Are you serious?" Hermione asked Ron. Ron said that yes, he was.

"Ron--it was a pun--a play on words. Denial? The Nile?” Hermione looked desperate, and
Harry—sympathetic. Ron, however, only slipped further into confusion.

“You…made a funny?”

“Hermione’s a very funny girl,” Harry defended. Ron scowled.

“Shut up, Harry. Just because she’s your girlfriend.”

So I suppose that if Ron can try and not deny the truth, I can too. Today I woke up today and
owled Malfoy. Fine, I admit it. But does it really matter? We still pleasantly dislike one another,
so there is no need for anyone to get their knickers in a twist.

*Let’s talk. Meet me outside at 8:00. Will punch you if you don’t show.*

*Ginny*

I thought my note was quite diplomatic, but I don't think Malfoy understood. He lacks depth
of perception. He lacks perception period. Such a dull boy.



*Weasley*

*It is bloody 7:00 in the morning. I see ‘no incentive’ to go carousing on outside in the
freezing cold with you at this godforsaken hour. Why don’t you busy yourself and write me later,
when I am not so tired and can actually see the words I’m writing? You know. Think about how
pathetic you are; that should occupy you for a few hours at least.*

*Malfoy*

I can’t believe him. One minute, I let myself think that he will be nicer from now on. I’ll bet
anyone that he’s one of those blokes that love one-night stands. You have a wild, passionate night
of sex, and the next morning, it’s like he’s had a severe blow to the head and can’t remember for
the life of him who you are. Or at least, he won’t remember until you grab him by the bollocks and
threaten to avada-kedavra him.

He’s so tactless. Good thing we have school uniforms, or else I’m quite sure he’d be the type to
always wear the wrong shirt with the wrong pants. Lucky for us, it seems that his clothes are not
handpicked by Draco himself (he could never take the pains of actually trying on his own
clothes—never!) but are instead bought by his mum, most probably. And his mum has some degree of
taste, since she only seems to buy white, black and green. And in those colors, he looks decent.
Well alright, so he looks smashing. Injustice ranges far and wide.

Nevertheless—back to the letter. I figured I could not leave it at that. Someone had to pull his
head out of his arse. And I, being the brave soul that I am, willingly take that job.




*Touché, Malfoy. But two can play that game. If you come, I’m sure I can tell Draco how proud
I am of him and shower him with other sappy compliments. Draco certainly liked that last night,
didn’t he? I’ve never seen you blush before, but I must say, pink is an interesting color on
you.*

*Weasley, laughing.*




I think I’ll go downstairs to the kitchens to see if there’s any food.

--

Bloody hell. Malfoy’s owl is disturbing. First, he nearly gouged my brother’s eye out (not that
I would have complained, but I suppose it’s the concept of the thing)—and now, he gave all the poor
house-elves the fright of their lives. I was enjoying myself a cup of hot chocolate, and all of a
sudden there was a big, black thing swooping in from the portrait hole. I guess I had forgotten to
close it. Oops.

“SQUAWK, SQUAWK!” he demanded, poking my forehead with Malfoy’s note. Demented thing doesn't
even know he's supposed to hoot, not squawk.

“Alright, alright,” I said submissively (to an OWL, no less.) I guess the apple really doesn’t
fall far from the tree. Malfoy’s owl reflects him perfectly. The bird is haughty, proud and
absolutely shameless, flaunting his feathers as if he is really something. A bit furrier than
Malfoy, though, I must admit in order to be completely fair. (But who knows? Malfoy could secretly
be a furry. God, I hope not.) Other than that, they could pass as blood brothers. I swear they have
the same insolent stare.

Anyway, I read Malfoy’s letter and I think I may have a chance at winning this round. I have
successfully broken down his surprisingly weak defenses. It seems that all one has to do to see a
submissive Malfoy is to attack his vanity. It's too easy.




*I DID NOT BLUSH. It was the poor lighting of the lower levels, I assure you. I have told
father to tell that idiot Filch to do something about it. And anyway, do I have a choice in meeting
you or not? Just want to know what my options are.*

*Non-Blushing Malfoy*




Oh, how cute. He’s embarrassed to know that I’ve caught on. I must find out more about what
makes his skin turn such hues. Poor lighting my arse.




*Of course you have a choice, Malfoy. Either you do as I say, or I hurt you. You have five
minutes to make your choice, or else you can say goodbye to any potential Little Draco’s you had in
mind.*

*P.S. Your owl is mental. Don’t you have anything else you can use?*




Well, I suppose I should go back to my dorm. The house-elves look nearly mutinous, and I don’t
want to lose my only connection to the world’s best chocolate. Also, Malfoy’s Owl has attached
himself to my hair and is refusing to go back to Malfoy with note. My owl persuasion skills are not
as honed as I would like, I suppose.




--

*You bloody women are so hard to please. Bring me something to eat, will you?*

*A Very Sleepy Malfoy*

*P.S. My owl is not crazy—I’ve just trained him to recognize commoners. He has
**taste**.*



I decided not to tell him that I'd had to coax him with owl treats for ten minutes straight
before he would let go of my hair, which he seemed quite taken to. Malfoy might cry at the
knowledge.

Needless to say, must go. I have some things to discuss with His Blondness and would rather do
it before the rest of the school wakes up and realizes that there is one less negligee loving dark
lord roaming the streets.

--

Will dive straight into Meeting Outside since I am rather hungry and ready to go down to
breakfast, where there will, no doubt, be a lengthy and abstract speech from Dumbledore. And half
of us will not know what the bat is talking about, but I am told it is part of his charm. Also, I
am currently in no mood to gaily talk about him (Malfoy). God, I can’t even think up a new and
creative insult for him. A sad day indeed. Please tell me you’ll weep for me.

“Here,” I said to Malfoy as I rounded the corner and saw him standing, eyes half closed. I
handed him a doughnut.

“Mmmehag,” he mumbled incoherently. He reached for the doughnut—missed, tried again with the
same result, then finally snatched it on the third try. And threw it back at me upon closer
inspection.

“It has a bite taken out of it!” he said. Oh, so now he could speak clearly, couldn’t he?

“So? I got a little hungry on the way here. It’s quite a long walk,” I said in defense of
myself.

“Grrr.” He grabbed the poor, abused hunk of dough back and stuffed it in his mouth. He refused
to talk at all until he was finished chewing (and he chews meticulously—he says he just likes to
mind his manners and eat slowly and gracefully, but I know it is spite.)

“What do you want?” he asked when he had swallowed the last morsel. I stuffed my hands in my
pocket and gave him a suspicious look.

“We have some things to discuss Malfoy…things like—” I stopped. Malfoy’s eyes were completely
closed. I swore I could hear a slight hitch in his breath, signaling that he had traveled into the
otherworld. “You git! Wake up--I’m speaking!” How dare he! I swatted at his head and he came to his
senses with a start.

“Can we please concentrate?” I asked impatiently.

“Well, it’s not my fault! It’s only five past eight, Ginny, and I didn’t go to sleep last night
until four, as you should well know.”

“You can sleep later,” I said. “And I even went through the trouble of getting you a doughnut.
The least you could do is pay attention.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, I see,” I said with narrowed eyes. “Pity then. I’m sure your mummy and daddy would have
liked to have grandchildren.”

“FINE,” Draco said hastily. “Prattle on all you want.” He smiled mockingly. “I’ll pretend I
care.”

“Ooh, you,” I said. “I just came here to clarify a few things with you, since it seems that you
like to be vague about things.”

“Er—“

“And I don’t like to be vague at all. So why did you want me to meet you on the tower last
night?” I gleefully noted how fidgety Malfoy looked. It looked like I had reason to be suspicious
after all. Perhaps some sneaking around was in order. Secret Agent Ginny was on the prowl,
searching for irritating blond vermin and uncovering the truth behind their various shady
schemes.

“Nothing, really,” he said, his tone attempting to sound indifferent. Ha. Like I would let him
brush it off like that.

“Like I’m going to let your brush it off like that! If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have
been traumatized by the disturbed man that is Voldemort.”

Draco frowned and pointed at himself. “And if it hadn’t been for me, the possibility of being
traumatized by the disturbed man that is Voldemort would still exist today. Don’t you forget
it.”

“You are completely missing the point, Draco!” I informed him. “I would just like an explanation
as to why I had to spend my Christmas in such strange company. Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes,” he said childishly, before opting to simply cross his arms and look the other way. “And
it’s all about you, isn’t it? What if I don’t want to discuss this? What if I didn’t want to be
here? Why are you being so selfish?”

“Yes, Draco, give me a lecture on selflessness, because I’m sure you stay up late at night,
tossing and turning as you think desperately about the wants and needs of other people.”

“You give me less credit than I deserve,” he said darkly. “Don’t pretend to know me that well,
Weasley.” I scoffed.

“No, I give you exactly what you should receive. I consider you as someone who is extremely
impossible to live with. And I’ve got you pegged, don’t I?” I put my hands on my hips. His lips
drooped into a sneer.

“Good thing I’m not living with you then. Especially since I’d be living in a cardboard box, if
I were I lodging with you.”

“Oh? Does it make you feel all better, Draco, to throw in that extra derogatory comment, though
it is completely irrelevant to our argument?”

“Yes,” he sniffed. “It does. And I still don’t want to talk about anything you’ve
mentioned.”

“Honestly, it’s like babysitting a four-year-old,” I muttered.

“Then why don’t you leave? You’re the one who’s forcing me to talk to you. Maybe I don’t want to
speak to you ever again! It’s not like you’ve been trailing me for this entire bloody month!”

I was shocked. How could he be so…wrong? Of course he wanted to talk to me. That was virtually
all he did—and oh, he was just much too proud and foolish to admit it. He would call that dignity,
but it wasn’t. He just had an extremely squashed brain. Maybe he was not getting sufficient oxygen
through to it.

And need I say this? I was pissed. Besides, I did not *trail* him—he was the one that
followed *me* around. And for the record, it had only been 29 days--not a full month. Showed
what he knew—nothing. Nevertheless, one must appear to be unaffected by these things from time to
time.

“Works for me,” I said as coolly as I could with a shaky voice. “From now on, you and I are
strangers.”

“Goody,” Malfoy responded to my retreating figure. “It’s like having Christmas two days in a
row, really!”

That pompous bigot. Am never talking to him again. I swear it.




*After Breakfast, In Library*




I was right; breakfast was quite an affair. When everyone was seated, Dumbledore stepped onto
his podium for a speech.

“As some of you may already know—“ he began.

“Yes, yes, we know--well, *I* do. Harry Potter is a girl,” Luna said matter-of-factly.
“Read about it in The Quibbler today. Front page stuff, you know.”

“Er—I’m afraid he’s not, Miss Lovegood,” Dumbledore said. “At least--not that I’m aware of.”
However, Ron looked suddenly suspicious of his best friend.

“Can I poke around at your bits then, Harry? Just to make sure.”

“Holy hell,” Harry groaned tiredly.

“Oh, don’t be silly! Of course Harry’s not a boy. I would know.”

“Yea, I’m sure you would,” Ron muttered. “You two were really loud last night, just to let you
know. Neville Longbottom’s face is still red.”

Hermione looked mortified and Harry looked halfway between being pleased and embarrassed. I
turned my attention back to poor Dumbledore, who looked like he hadn’t washed his beard in
weeks.

“…And indeed, what I have to say today does involve Harry. Yes, children—last night, Harry
Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, right here in the depths of our beloved castle.”

Us children were silent. Then, a roar of applause slowly rose, and Harry was ushered to stand
up. I took at peek at Draco Malfoy and saw him looking rather sour. Serves the git right—

“However, I believe a very special mention is also owed to Draco Malfoy, who, when presented
with a choice, chose wisdom over foolishness,” Dumbledore said.

In case you’re not yet familiar with our resident crackpot--Dumbledore is…a very crazy man. I
state that fondly. However--you can’t just say things like that—people will get confused.
Consequently, the only people that clapped were the professors. Dumbledore was not fazed by the
students’ lack of ardor for the blond one. Neither did Draco seem to mind—he was too busy being
pink again. He did not even notice the murderous glares his house mates were shooting him. I
shouldn’t have been thinking of how cute he looked when he was blushing, but those sorts of
thoughts come instinctively now. I guess my condition is degenerative.

“It takes much bravery to stand in the face of death. We are honored and proud that such
great-hearted people reside among us.”

Blah blah blah. People cried, congratulated and thanked Harry, Hermione and Ron, and there was
generally a big hubbub over The-Boy-Who-Lived. As bloody usual. It was rather sentimental, but I am
not a very sentimental person. I hope it is not as if Malfoy’s influence is getting to me. I don’t
want to become the cold, misogynist that he is. Well, I’m definitely not a misogynist. Just not
cold then. My goal from now on is not to be cold.

Currently, I have found refuge in the library. Because honestly, who wants to study, when
everyone is partying over Voldemort’s defeat? And with the addition of hip music, which I can hear
all the over here?

But I am not in much of a partying mood. I should be studying for potions, anyway. That’s my
reward for helping in the capture of the world’s most dangerous villain.

Also, if I surround myself with books, the chance of running into Draco lessens by about ninety
percent. If there is one thing I have learned from my short time with him, it is that he does not
like libraries.

--

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. I see Draco. I liked it better when he was Mr. Predictable.

--

So he walked over to me and at first, acted like nothing had happened. This is fairly normal,
since we were only in the early stages of the Silent Treatment. When considering the Life Cycle of
a Fight, neither of us would look ashamed or the slightest bit guilty until (at least) the 30th.
Such is the rule. But Draco likes throwing the rulebook to hell anyway, the snotty little
rebel.

“I suppose I should apologize,” he said suddenly, with his back still turned against me. I
choked on my saliva.

“Ex—excuse me?” I stuttered. I jammed a finger into my ear to check for anything wonky. Draco
turned around and rolled his eyes.

“I said I was sorry. Please don’t squeeze this for all it is worth. Save me from too much
embarrassment, will you? I’ll never ask you to be merciful again.”

“Uh—well,” I said intelligently. “I’m just shocked. You—you’re—“

“Shut up, Weasley,” he said. I did as he told me to as he swooped down kissed me thoroughly.

Oh, geez. I don't know if I can write about this without making my face permanently red.

Oh, well—must not get distracted. I have to remind myself that I am simply an unbiased outsider
recounting this events from an objective point of you—but bloody hell, do you know what it feels
like, to be snogged like that? One feels quite content.

Except this time, he wasn’t stopping. He was having to strain, as he was quite tall and had to
lean quite a bit to reach me (sitting) on the other side of the table.

“My back,” he said, beginning to pull back. I decided to compromise (since it wouldn’t do if he
injured his spinal chord) and instead climbed onto the table, before grabbing his face back and
smashing his lips to mine.

“Mmrgh,” he mumbled pleasantly. I took it as a sign of approval--especially since his hands
started to wander towards my bosom-regions. It’s a wonder he knew where to find them, since my
entire body is virtually a vast, flat wasteland.

I yelped, though, when I felt my shirt getting looser and looser—and when I realized that my
blouse was completely open, for all of the world to see my modest cotton brassiere.

“Malfoy…” I half squeaked, half whispered. “How far do you intend to go with this?”

“Don’t know,” he said, his breathing ragged. When he saw my eyes open and lucid, he stopped
moving for a moment. I leaned my face against his. “Hadn’t really planned on anything, you
know.”

“Just a question then, “ I said. I was glad that he was not holding my hands—then he would have
known how sweaty they were. “Do you like me, Malfoy?”

He nearly sprang backwards. He would have run into the bookcases if I hadn’t been holding onto
his face, which happens to be connected to the rest of his body.

“Er—what?”

Ugh. I felt entirely and thoroughly embarrassed. Here I was, sitting ungracefully on top of a
rickety library table (thank God Madam Pince was not around), being paid much attention by the lips
of an Olympic God, I swear, and I had to go and ruin it all with a silly and inconsequential thing
like whether or not we liked each other. Although it would have been nice for him to like me, since
he did seem so intent on being attached to my face…and really, it was a bit bastard-like of him if
he was just kissing me so he could get off….

But boys will be boys.

“Well, alright,” I said, pushing myself away from him and carefully climbing off of the table.
“It’s okay, of course, if you don’t—you know. And I accept your apology.”

“Actually, Ginny, that’s not what I really meant—“

“It’s quite alright, Malfoy. I have to go…ah, get some schoolwork done.”

I rushed out of there without a second glance to him. One question worth asking, though—how do I
manage to make a fool of myself at every given opportunity? Is it a curse that I don’t know about?
Possibly a curse bestowed on all Weasley. Would certainly explain horrendous red hair and freckles
as well as our ‘natural grace.’ By which I mean lack thereof.

I suppose it was nice knowing him for a while. Well, nice knowing his ruddy lips, anyway.

I’ll finally face the ugly truth, then; I have a bloody crush on Draco Malfoy.

You may laugh now.

--

Have been attempting to starve myself all evening. But stomach finally persuaded me with a
particularly loud and ferocious growl. It does not like being mistreated. I suppose I agree—my
stomach doesn’t deserve to pay for what my stupid brain has done.

If I want to return to safe sanity as soon as I can, I must banish all thought of That Boy
starting now.



--


Is it possible for one to oblivate oneself?



--

Maybe I shouldn't try. I rather enjoy knowing what my own name is.

--


Will go down to dinner. I wonder if Lavender or Parvati has any wigs handy.

--

Malfoy was not at dinner. He must be truly disgusted with my forwardness. But honestly, how was
I to know that I had been deluding myself in fantasies all this time? He had certainly seemed like
a willing participant all along. I don’t remember blackmailing him to be near me.

That’s it. He is such a jerk! All this time, he’s been leading me on. I suppose he enjoys doing
these sorts of things to poor unsuspecting girls like me. It is a nefarious thing to do, so
naturally it has his stupid name written all over it. I’ve always hated that name anyway. What kind
of name is ‘Draco’? It sounds ridiculous.

--

Er. According to Hermione, Draco means ‘dragon’ in Latin. Can you see me rolling over the floor?
His parents must be truly affected to think of naming their only son after a terrible,
fire-breathing beast. How cute and cuddly!

Ah. Hermione also says Malfoy means ‘bad faith’ in French.

“Why is it you know so much about Draco Stinking Malfoy’s name anyway?” I asked.

“It was an interesting name, alright?” Hermione cried, thrusting a book titled ‘Names and Their
Origins’ at me. She's making a habit of throwing her favorite possessions at people. “I was
bored! SUE ME. GEEZ.”

And then she stormed out of the room. One would think that she would be in a good mood,
considering she had just had a tumble in bed with Harry, but I guess not everyone gets off on the
same thing.

But it really does work out great for me. I’m obsessed with a boy named Dragon Bad Faith. Be
honest—is there any hope left for me? Was there any hope, ever?




*Later*

I was just outside to wander around the halls, and I saw something peculiar. No, I did not run
into my sibling. I saw Malfoy round the corner and nearly collide with me, and I was about to be
mortified, but then I noticed that Lucius Malfoy was right behind him. Which made me too surprised
to be anything else.

“Er,” I said awkwardly. “Hey.”

“Is this that *Weasley* girl?” Lucius Malfoy asked his son in a very hoity-toity
manner.

“Obviously,” Draco muttered, shrugging at my redness.

“Don’t give me your sass, Draco,” Lucius snapped. “I haven’t even had my daily massage yet.”
With a disdainful glance down towards me, he strutted on.

“Come along, Draco,” he said.

“Going somewhere?” I finally remembered that I had a voice. Draco gave me a dark look.

“Yes. Father-son bonding sessions—you know—“

“Death Eater meeting,” Lucius butt in, his voice saccharine sweet and mismatching his cold eyes.
“We hope that Draco will make us proud. Or else.”

“Bloody hell!” I cried. Wouldn’t you too? To find out, on top of it all, that the object of your
distorted affections was secretly training to become cohorts with Voldemort?

“Pardon me?” Malfoy (Sr.) asked.

“I’m sorry,” I gushed. Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Haven’t you heard? Your leader’s kind of
dead.” Take that, you bastard who spawned Draco.

“Yes,” Lucius agreed. “Quite regrettable, I know. Luckily, I’m capable enough to be executive
dark lord in his place. Can’t say the same for this lump of a boy, though.” Lucius shoved Draco.
Draco scowled.

“Tell me, since you go to school with my son—is he the sissy I think he is?”

I moved uncomfortably, not knowing how to address the question. Draco gave me an eager look.

“No!” I said. Why was I defending him anyway? I was in the process of trying to hate him. I
begged my cranium to remember that teensy fact. “Draco is very manly! Big, strong, capable and
heroic!”

Draco had nodded along to each of those adjectives—except for heroic. And judging by the
expression of distaste on his father’s pale face, I had said the wrong thing.

“Heroic?” Lucius spat, eyeing Draco like an insect. “I have failed as a father.” Then, much more
harshly—“Come along! We have much work to do. It takes time to mend such gaping holes in character,
Draco.”

“I don’t think so,” Draco said pensively. I blinked in surprise at him.

“What?” Lucius asked.

“You've been in a bad mood all week. And the more and more you talk about how magnificent it
will be to be lord over the world, guess what?” Draco shrugged. “I don’t know if I *want* to
take over the world.”

Lucius sputtered. “Draco! This—this is what we’ve been talking of since your birth! This was—it
was the plan! You can’t abandon it! It’s absolutely blasphemous.”

Draco donned a saddened look on his face. Saddened but determined.

“Look, dad. I’m willing to duel you here in an overly dramatic father-son face off scene if need
be, although there are way too many in fanon as it is and the author doesn’t really want to write
another duel scene. The only kind of action she does involves snogging.”

“Now, listen here, sonny—if this is one of those teenage rebellion concepts—“

That was when he lost it. (Draco.)

“GOD! I don’t bloody want to have people bow down to me and call me ‘lord’, okay? That’s never
really been one of my life goals!” Draco shouted, looking quite irate now. “Although the theory is
nice, in reality, I find it creepy. To have a bunch of men and women follow me around just so I can
try and rid the world of mudbloods and halfbloods and muggle? It's tiresome--it requires a lot
of my time. I’d much rather bathe in money, in peace, at my manor while house-elves serve me hand
and foot—and did I mention not having aurors constantly after my blood? Because that would be a
major plus for my life, not having to worry about being killed. As you can see, your plan doesn’t
work out for me. So bugger off, Dad!”

“Well I never!” Lucius exclaimed. After a moment of fuming, he eyed Draco speculatively. “Where
is your ambition, boy? Your natural Slytherin ambition?”

“I *am* ambitious,” Draco snapped. “I'm ambitious enough to do whatever the hell I want
to do and not what you'd like for me to do, you old fart.”

“Fine!” Lucius shouted. “Do what you want! I'm sick of you being so mean to me!”

“You were mean first,” Draco said sulkily.

"That's because mean is my middle name," Lucius said. "But I have no more
time to waste on boys who will not become dark lords. I'll see you at home."

“Yes,” Draco said. “Please go away.”

“Fine, then,” said Lucius, tight-lipped. “I suppose your mother and I will have to get busy
tonight in preparation for a new heir. We shall call him Edmund.”

“Right. Owl me later.” Draco waved his father off coolly. Lucius gazed at his son one last time,
then turned to me.

“This is your doing, isn’t it? Ah, well. I pity you,” he said hatefully. Fishing in his pocket,
he drew a lacy red thing and threw it at me. “There. Collect your pity prize.”

Then he left, striding down the hall in what was his most dignified stride. Draco’s eyes were
fixed on former lacy red thing, and then he burst into loud laughter.

“My father,” he chuckled, “just gave you a pair of knickers.”

“Yes?” I snapped. “So what? Perhaps he mistook me for a house-elf.”

“Possibly,” Draco said seriously. He stepped closer to me. “Or maybe he’s nutters.” I grew
nervous of his nearing proximity, and quickly thought of something distracting to say.

“I heard insanity ran in the family.” Oh, good one Gin. That’s right—insult him when he’s trying
to be halfway nice to you. Another step closer. I felt as if I were under a microscope—the
microscope of his stare. He was nearly directly above me now, his face inches from mine.

“It does,” he agreed. “I suppose that’s why I like you so much, Weasley.” My breath went
suddenly erratic.

“You smell like soap.” I said the first thing that came to mind. Which wasn’t much, considering
my vision was being invaded by his looming face. He smiled. Actually, smirked and looked smug.
Strangely enough, instead of making me feel irritated, there was like a strange little shaky thing
going on in my stomach area. Quite weird.

I stood as tall as I could and kissed him, my arms around his shoulders to keep myself from
falling into him. It was a nice kiss, I admit. It wasn’t rough like the one we had just hours
before, but it wasn’t as tentative or shy as our other-other ones. I realized then that none of our
kisses were ever the same. Each one was different. Here, I would make some insightful analogy to
how kisses are as unique as snowflakes, but if I did, I know I would stumble upon this passage
later and retch. Let’s always try to keep food in the stomach.

“Ginny,” Draco groaned after a few moments of locking lips. “I think we should definitely move
this to somewhere more private.”

I looked up and around me. At least five pairs of eyes were watching intently. Hogwarts, the
home of the voyeurs.

“You!” I screeched, springing away from Malfoy. “All of you! How dare you! What right do you
have to—“

“This is a public hallway, Weasley,” Terry Boot said coldly. Just because he never got any
action. “You deserve it. And with him, too! Honestly, what were you thinking? You're scarring
the little ones.”

“Please, Terry, I have enough brothers as it is,” I said commandingly. But Terry speaks quite
loudly so I’m afraid my retort went unheard.

“He-he’s got chicken lips! Dirty lips! Bad!”

“How would you know?” Draco sneered. “You’ve never kissed me before.”

“I don’t *need* to,” Terry said haughtily. “You’re a Malfoy and—“

Poor Terry—he never really got to finish his sentence. Draco has pretty quick reflexes, and
before he knew it, Terry was in his embrace and Terry had received the first real kiss of his life.
A gasp rose from the small crowd. I would have been jealous if I’d not been laughing so hard. As
soon as Draco let go of Terry, he stumbled and ran into the wall as he became reacquainted with the
world.

“Well,” Draco stated in his usual arrogant manner. “I know I’m a damn good kisser. Can’t say the
same about you. But practice, dear Boot. Practice is the key. Not on me, mind you. Or her,” he
added, pointing to me.

“Disgusting!” Terry spat, his face crimson and his eyes wild with fright. “Don’t you ever touch
me again, Malfoy! Don’t you ever!”

“Ah, Boot,” Draco sighed. “You know you will dream of these lips at night.”

“Pervert!” With a few other weak squeaks of insults, Terry grabbed his friends and waddled away
as fast as they could. We were alone once more. I just hoped Terry would not run his mouth around
Ron or Harry or Hermione.

“So,” I said. Why were things suddenly awkward when we were isolated? Feelings are funny.

“Yea,” Draco muttered. His cocky attitude was gone. “So.”

“That was interesting.”

“I suppose so.”

“Oh, this is silly,” I said exasperatedly. “I bloody like you. A lot.” Heck, I had been bold
once. Why not again? As long as I got to hit myself on the head with a large metal object, it was
okay. Draco smiled slowly; whether or not he was laughing at me or was simply expressing happiness,
I could not tell.

“I bloody like you, too. Also a lot.” My cheeks flamed instantly, and I looked down at the
floor.

“That’s settled,” I mumbled. Then, my head shot back up. I had thought of something else to say.
“I don’t know why I do like you, Malfoy. More than half the time you’re just a bastard who can’t
get enough of himself. I mean, I’d think that you would probably wank to an image of yourself.”

“Weasley, you can't go blabbering all my secrets,” Draco said dryly. I gently punched his
arm. Er—at least I hoped he was joking.

“The point is that I shouldn’t like you at all. I should hate your stupid guts. But I
don’t.”

“Alright,” he said with a cock of his eyebrow. “Does that change anything?”

“No. I guess not.”

“Then can you shut up so we can start snogging again?”

“Blimey. Uh—sure. What the hell.” Commence gross noises.




However, I am finally back in my own dorm. I feel that today has been a productive day.




Lip Status: Very swollen. Am afraid that under these conditions, even Ron would notice (and that
would prove to be very, very bad for me.) But only because my lips are currently about half of my
face and are blocking airflow into my nostrils.




Things To Do:

1. STILL NEED TO STUDY POTIONS GINNY. JUST BECAUSE THERE IS A SHINY PRETTY BLOND BOY.

2. Still need to find out who sent this diary.

3. I can’t remember.

4. I can’t remember.

5. Still can’t remember

6. Merlin, please help me.





I'm definitely going to visit the Underworld for this. So is he, for that matter. Though he
won't be dark lord over Earth, it looks like he will be lord over something: Hell. And just as
I predicted, too! See that, Gin? Some dreams *do* come true.




9. Mystery Solved
-----------------

**Author’s note:** I’m afraid that this fic is coming to an end. This chapter will be the
last ‘chapter’—the next will be the epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has kept up with me this far.
Your feedback has meant so much.

**Disclaimer:** I don’t own, please.




**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**

Chapter 9

--

*December 27*

Naturally, one would expect that things between Malfoy and I would be fine now that we have
decided we are chums. (Well, a bit more than chums, since I don’t think casual friends usually jump
each other upon sight.)

Wrong. Malfoy is an inherent jerk. This means that he has some sort of built-in urge to be
cruel. He must have been acting nice for too long, because his alarm went off. He sent me a note
early this morning, therefore ruining my entire day. He doesn’t even have the decency for good
timing—not even good timing, merely *considerate* timing. Do you see the evil of his ways?




*Weasley,*

*First of all, I have a conscience. Second of all, I sent you the diary.*

*Goodbye,*

*Malfoy*




I feel faint writing it.


--




WHAT IS ‘I sent you the diary’ SUPPOSED TO MEAN?


--




I really don’t understand my unfortunate luck. Have I done something to offend the Gods? If I
sell my soul to Satan, will I be compensated? I just want to hurt Malfoy’s well-formed face, that’s
all.


--




What is it with his family and dishing out diaries? Diaries: The new way to tell someone you
hate them. Good one, Malfoy family. You guys are inescapably clever. I hope your hair turns
pink.




--



Ha. Little Malfoy had the nerve to write me again.




*Why aren’t you replying? Don’t tell me you’re angry.*

*Malfoy*




Well! Nothing gets past him, does it? But I suppose I should do what the precious wanker
wants—I’ll write him back, alright.



*Dear Draco Apple Doesn’t Fall Far From The Tree Malfoy,*

*Dying is an option you should consider.*

*Fondly skipping after you with a kitchen knife,*

*Weasley*




Such finely penned words have never existed. And now to see about that knife. I need a large
one—anything too small would never get through his thick skull.



*After Breakfast*

Malfoy has been trying to get me to look at him all breakfast. What I can’t get past is what a
stupid blighter he’s being. Just when I had accepted and somewhat embraced my regrettable fondness
for him; he decides to renounce his Snogging Ginny privileges by telling me the *truth*? His
Slytherin mates would not be very proud. It’s not as if they are already ready to pounce on him for
helping HP. Too bad even his father has turned against him. The Slyths are even passing around
‘Draco Sucks Balls’ t-shirts. I’m thinking of investing. Oy, I see Theodore Nott passing them out.
Better go persuade him to let me have one. I hope they haven’t run out of the orange colored
ones.




--




The shirts aren’t half bad, you know. In fact, they're lovely, though I think I'm a
little biased. The cotton is really soft, and everyone’s really getting into the spirit of things.
Harry got one in plain white, while Ron chose a disgusting goldenrod color. Hermione is still
tentative to buy one. Honestly, the girl’s problem is that she thinks things through too much. So I
did the thinking for her.

“You don’t think that the guy who calls you a mudblood sucks balls?” I asked her. Hermione
blinked, and then hailed Nott so loudly, everyone started. After much deliberation, she chose a
pale blue.

I must give my compliments to whoever made these—I’m sure they could find a profitable business
in making anti-Draco shirts.




--




I see Malfoy. In the same room as me.

He’s getting closer. I dearly hope that my hate is radiating. Maybe it'll create a force
field around me and will repel Malfoy if he tries to get too close.




--




He. Is. Bloody. Impossible. But I shall try and keep my head while I recollect what has
happened. And then I’ll have license to chop him to bits if I want.

“Ginny?” he said as his malice-ridden eyes caught sight of my skulking form. “What the hell are
you *wearing*?”

“Can’t you read?” I retorted snobbishly. “Everyone knows, Malfoy. You suck balls.” Malfoy
fidgeted awkwardly and scanned the library before zooming in on me. His pale face (clearly the
pallor of someone possessed by Satan himself) loomed uncomfortably close to mine. For a brief and
deluded moment, my natural reflexes considered kissing him. Luckily, my wit saved myself from such
shame in time.

“Take it off, Ginny,” he demanded in a hoarse mutter. “You are a disgrace.” I’m the disgrace? He
is the one that has betrayed his own kind.

“As if,” I whispered back. “I’m going to help bring you down in any way I can, fiend.”

“Look, I know you’re incensed about the diary thing—“

“Incensed?” I howled. “Your choice of vocabulary fails, Malfoy. I am beyond angry. The flaunting
of this shirt is only a tiny fraction of the hatred I feel for you right now. If thoughts could
kill, you’d be so far down under that you’d fall out of the bottom of this Earth.”

Malfoy must have seen that there was no swaying me—he took a step back and gave malcontent
sigh.

“Really, Ginny,” he said with a slight whine. “If you’re going to wear my doom and demise, at
least choose a color other than orange! It clashes with your hair.”

“Away with you, you effeminate scoundrel,” I declared.

“No, Gin,” said Malfoy with a rueful smile. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I can’t have
my girl walking around with a shirt claims I suck balls. *Diffindo!*”

I gasped and shrieked all in the same breath as my beautiful, orange-hued revenge fell away to
pieces. It was a moment too late that I realized I now stood gawking at Malfoy—in my brassiere.

“YOU!” I screamed, exacerbated. “PUT MY SHIRT BACK MALFOY. PUT IT BACK RIGHT NOW YOU STUPID
DOLT—“

“Now, Ginny, calm down,” Malfoy said. Why was he grinning? What could possibly be so damned
funny about being publicly embarrassed?

“I—AM—HALF—NAKED—YOU—GIGANTOUS—ARSE!” I punctuated each word by giving Malfoy a punch in the
stomach.

“Yes, the knowledge hasn’t escaped me. Shut up, you,” he said crossly before his hands flew to
his own shirt and he began buttoning down.

“What—what are you doing?” I sniffed, after deciding that my voice had had enough of
yelling.

“What? Do you want to walk all the way back to your dorm like this?” he asked peevishly.

“No,” I answered truthfully.

“Then keep quiet.” As he finished with the last button, he flung off his white oxford shirt and
gruffly handed it to me. I looked away, feeling furiously embarrassed, more so than ever. There was
a shirtless boy in front of me—how do you think I should have reacted? Besides, I was supposed to
be more-than-incensed with him, which meant no sexual thoughts. And I was quite sure that were I to
gaze at his body for too long, I would start feeling faint with lust. I hate being so hormonal;
it’s a bloody nuisance.

“Oh, stop blushing and just take the damn thing!” Malfoy said irritably. “I haven’t got all
day.”

I obliged and—all the while staring at a bookshelf—snatched the shirt Draco held in his hand. I
squeaked as someone walked past us and quickly darted in between two bookcases to put on Draco’s
shirt. Regrettably, he seemed to be still using the same dratted cologne.

“No thanks?” Draco’s annoying head appeared from above the table I was hiding behind.

“No,” I fumed. “You don’t deserve any gratitude. I still hate you. Your shirt smells exactly
like you.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for which part?”

“That my shirt smells like me.” At the heated look that crossed my face, he quickly took back
his words.

“Only kidding, Weasley,” he said hastily. “I’m sorry I tried to play an evil trick on you.”

“Evil trick?” I asked. “So you admit that your intentions were nothing short of hateful?”

“I thought it’d be funny, Weasley—I never thought you’d actually *write* in it.”

“Oh, yes, your sense of humor is really too much!” I said hotly. “Your father nearly killed me
with that diary! Imagine what I was thinking when I was told that his son had sent me this one! I
felt betrayed—as if all our quality bonding time had meant nothing!”

To my surprise, though, Draco managed to look rueful. He shoved his hands in his pockets and
gave a shamed shrug.

“Ah, I’m an idiot sometimes,” he admitted. “And I’m a wicked person. But I promise not to do it
again.”

“Oh, you won’t. Because if there is a next time, you’d be repenting in a quite different
place—try eating dirt six feet under.”

“Oh, Ginny, your death threats are always such a turn on,” Malfoy muttered with a smirk. He
kneeled down so his face was level with mine, then used his hands to push my shoulders back against
the wall, then kissed me. I suppose he is not a complete fool, then. At least he knows how to get a
girl to forgive and forget.

We were having a nice enough time, and Malfoy was fully groping my breasts when, unfortunately,
the trio decided to go on a field trip to the library. You don’t know what a huge turn off it is to
hear my brother’s voice in a moment of passion.

“Ginny? Is that you back there?” came his obnoxious tones. “What is that you’re doing? Who’s
that on top of you?”

Malfoy jumped off of me like he had been burned, and I struggled to close my (well, his) shirt
as fast as I could, but Ron and Harry were already onto us.

“Ginny! What the bloody hell were you doing with Malfoy?” Ron roared, his ears already
crimson.

“Studying,” I squeaked.

“I don’t think so,” said Ron tersely, angry lines etched into his forehead. “Get up, Ginny.” His
fists were clenched.

“Listen here, Weasley,” Malfoy began in what he considered to be a reasonable tone. “We were
only being a little friendly. No harm done.”

I could imagine the effect of Draco’s poorly chosen words before I actually heard it. I must
work on getting him to say as little as possible in front of Ron.

“NO HARM DONE?” Ron’s voice was three times its normal volume, it seemed. “YOU HAD YOUR DIRTY
HAND DOWN MY SISTER’S SHIRT—WHO HAPPENS TO BE WEARING Y*OUR* SHIRT! YEA, I THINK THERE WAS A
BIT OF HARM DONE HERE, MORON. GINNY, GET THE HELL UP—*NOW*!”

“OK, Ron,” I said petulantly, one hand holding tight onto the opening of Malfoy’s shirt while
the other grabbed onto the table to hoist myself up. “Don’t have a cow.”

To this, Ron could find no proper answer, but instead resorted to uttering a string of very
obscene words.

“Shame on you, Malfoy,” Harry said with a shake of his head. With that farewell, Ron and Harry
dragged me back to Gryffindor tower.

Oh, well. It was only a matter of time before the Dense Duo would catch on.




--




Have I ever told you how much I love Hermione? Because I have intense affection for her. She
just gave Harry and Ron a proper telling off, and I must say that she has never been so beneficial
to me. What a grand friend. Truly. I must remember her birthday next time.

After I tumbled in through the portrait hole, (but not before the Fat Lady complained about my
smell) the boys tried to explain to Hermione what had happened.

“Snogging!” Ron bellowed, waving wildly. “Malfoy! Why?” The idiot was so enraged that he could
not seem to form complete sentences. It’s times like these, when I hinder him nearly speechless,
that I am truly proud of being Ginny Weasley.

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione sighed with a roll of her eyes. “They fancy one another. Kissing is what
people do when like each other.”

To this, Harry gave a nod of affirmation and smiled smugly as if to say, ‘This is true.’ Ron
groaned in disgust and continued his argument on why I was a horrid sister.

“But of all the boys, Hermione! Why Malfoy?”

“Don’t worry,” I said lightly. “It’s a question I ask myself everyday.” All of them ignored me,
which is a funny thing, because this is really only my business, not theirs.

“The why doesn’t matter, Ron,” Hermione said with utmost patience. “You can’t stop them, so you
might as well get used to it.”

There. Why can’t everyone have such a mindset? If life throws you lemons—get used to being hit
with round yellow objects. What a great sentiment.



*Evening*


Right. So I think Ron is through wailing for the night. Who knew he would throw such a tantrum?
Or perhaps Hermione has baited him with a few chocolate frogs—but either way, there is silence in
Gryffindor Tower. I should take this opportunity to try and think clearly. Earlier, when the common
room had been a battleground, I slipped outside to finally give Malfoy his present.

“Here,” I said as I caught sight of him. I thrust the small package at him and he caught it with
a puzzled frown.

“What’s this?”

“Your belated Christmas gift. Though you don’t deserve one.”

“I didn’t get you anything,” he said truthfully. I rolled my eyes.

“I know. But I also know that you are an insensitive wart and apparently I can’t do anything
about it. So I guess I’ll have to live with it.” Sometimes I believe that I am too kind. I waited
as Malfoy unwrapped the gift.

“Cologne?” he said with a chuckle. “Is this supposed to mean something?”

“Yes,” I said with a smile. “You stink.”

“Oh, well. At least I don’t suck balls anymore,” Draco said.

“True.” And with that, we concluded our meeting with a nice snog.




--



*Nighttime*

My poor, distraught soul! I was sleeping soundly in my bed when I heard a loud, ferocious and
fervent tapping at the door. You can imagine the number my heart did when I saw Malfoy’s horrible
demon creature—I mean, owl, practically shattering the glass with his large beak. I quickly let him
in, in fear of the racket waking the other girls. Then I’d have to explain why Malfoy’s pet was
pursuing me.

Anyway, the stupid animal came with a large parcel. I supposed that Malfoy had felt guilty about
not getting me anything for Christmas, so this was to make up for it. With a satisfied smile, I
tore the wrapping.

It was another damned diary.

But this one was even prettier than the one I’m writing in now—not to mention that my name was
inscribed on the front cover (in GOLD ink, no less.) I suppose there is going to be a decided
advantage of having a rich boy on my side. Its dark blue cover is quite possibly the most beautiful
thing I’ve ever seen.

But I think, dearest diary, that you’ll find what was inside the cover to be much more
interesting: It was a little note from him.




*I know you’ve almost filled the pages of the other one, so I figured I’d scare you one more
time. Enjoy.*

*Malfoy*

*P.S. Be my girlfriend.*




Oh God.





Things To Do:

1. Find a boyfriend—Oh, wait, what’s that? I already have one! Never mind, then.

2. Find out who sent me this diary—Hang on, my boyfriend sent me it! Silly me to forget.

3. Study Potions—hey, Ginny, don’t you have an excellent boyfriend who’s fairly adept at
potions? Why, yes, I do!

So. In case you still don’t understand:




I, GINNY WEASLEY, HAVE A BOYFRIEND. Valentine’s Day is going to be absolutely
*smashing*.