From the Diary of Ginny Weasley

This started as a response fic to Amy&EmmaGranger’s cat-fight challenge and eventually snowballed into Bridget Jones rip-off...er…homage that had nothing to do with cat fights. I’m not crazy about this fic, but I’d like some thoughts on Ginny’s voice/POV. R/R please…(bats eyelashes and smiles prettily).

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters. I own nothing, so don’t sue.

Excerpted from the Diary of Ginny Weasley.

Monday, February 10th: Today was a good day, with loads of evil fought (evil being split ends) and many wrongs righted. Practice went well, though I think Ron peaks every time he gets a bloody goal. Ha Ha (laughing out loud). Wow, gives new meaning to the word ‘beater.’

Okay. Ewww. That’s gross.

Resolution: must get mind out of gutter. No, wait. New resolution: revise resolution. Must get boyfriend who won't mind gutter and climb in for a bit of ‘toss the twap.’ One who won’t snog bitchy little Cho-like Ravenclaws behind the bleachers after games. Well, at least with that bipolar cow out of the running, my virtue stands a chance of being compromised this semester. Mmmmm. Here's hoping. (Feeling hopeful now;-)

Tuesday, February 11th: No time to chat. Too tired from game. (Begs Diary’s forgiveness and promises loads more info tomorrow). Meanwhile, I’ve decided to leave you with a question for future mulling: why must all potential boyfriends be evil? Evil and lickable. Mmmmm. Yum. Definitely bad. Utterly wicked and up to no good. "It’s wrong Ginny," I tell myself. "Oh so wrong..." (dramatically swoons onto desk and starts weeping, all the while secretly fondling flower said lickable Slytherin slipped into robe during game). I believe this is a Very Important Question and must be thought over. And over. And over. On my way to meet him in the tower.

Friday, February 14th: Many things have happened of the Must Record variety and I simply Must Record them. Found self in the common room again last night. I was sitting in my usual corner, nursing a destructive fit of boredom by carving things on the wall. I’m particularly proud of last night’s little piece of vandalism. Has lots of arrows and hearts and a little blob that’s supposed to be a cat. Loads better than ‘Doom to All Mudbloods’ in snake’s blood and whatnot.

Yes, I’m still battling insomnia: the opium addict’s disease. That being said, it's probably genetic. Could definitely see relatives as drug stealers (a chromosome imbalance would explain Ron’s reaction time on the field today). I remember Bill pacing round the backyard at three in the morning, stepping over garden gnomes and reciting constellations (the big softy).

Anyway, so there I was, reading a paperback, minding my own business, when who should walk in at four in the morning but Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Not their official names, mind you, at least not yet. Just a fond nickname the house provided. Not very original, but what it lacks in wit, it makes up for in accuracy. The inseparable duo of Hogwarts. The power couple of the twenty-first century. Now if only they’d realize it. [Sighs, caught up with the angsty romance of it all].

Once upon a time I might have been jealous. Well, what girl in her right mind wouldn’t? After all, pseudo-messiah or not, he’s still the most bleeding gorgeous thing at Hogwarts. Lickability aside, however, I'm amazed Hermione still puts up with him. For the record: a hero complex and an inferiority complex do not mix. (Note To Self: rear children accordingly).

So, Hermione storms through the common room, fiery-eyed and angry, all covered with mud. Great gods she was mad. Her hands balled into fists as she turned towards an equally filthy Harry. I think she was counting. Oh, right, counting to ten. Trying to calm herself down. "That’da girl," I thought. Wouldn’t want to accidentally castrate your would-be boyfriend. Hardly help your frustration. Rather the opposite I imagine.

“Harry,” she said through gritted teeth.

Harry didn’t answer. Just looked at her with those big green eyes. Not his puppy dog-I’m-so-unloved-and-therefore-adorable eyes but his I’m-a-self-righteous-prick-who-knows-what’s-best-for-my-friends eyes. I hate that look. Been on the receiving end more than once (especially since the public exposure of an ongoing flirtation with a too-attractive-for-his-own-good-but-still- amazingly-sweet-knobheaded Slytherin, who shall remain nameless).

“Harry,” she says again. Of course at this point, I’m taking notes. It’s not everyday, mind you, that I see the golden girl of Hogwarts taking potshots at her handsome prince. (Fights back giggles). Wow, I just reduced the epic love story of Hogwarts into a puppet-show plot. I should get a job writing for the Daily Prophet.

“What were you thinking?” She asks breathlessly. “Honestly Harry...” she trails off. Goddess she looks pale. Didn’t see it before, too busy taking in the mud and all, but she’s really really white. Can’t be healthy being in love with the Boy-Who-Puts-Himself-In-Avoidable-Danger-Every- Five-F**king-Minutes.

“You can’t keep doing that,” she finishes. Her eyes are all teary now. I can’t see Harry’s face though, his back’s turned to me (Dammit).

She adds softly, “you’re too important.”

Harry takes a step towards her and says, “and you’re not?”

“That...that’s not the point!” Her eyes widen as she nearly shouts that first bit. Wow. Never heard her yell like that. And judging from Harry’s reaction, neither had he.

“You can’t keep running off...” she lowered her voice to hushed whisper. “It doesn’t matter (something) think…something something. Something else.”

(Baugh!) Gods this was frustrating. I couldn’t hear a thing. I moved closer, stealth-like of course. I could see them better now, but I still didn’t hear…

“Harry,” Hermione’s shaky voice interrupted my thoughts.

She took a step towards him. I felt a surge of pride, what with her taking on the Boy Who Lived all by her lonesome. Girl power and so forth. “I’m not some second-rate sidekick in this,” she started jabbing at him with her finger, “and I’m not going to have you hovering over me while I do my bloody job. Which, I might add, I am more than capable of doing By Myself and Without You.”

She leaned towards him threateningly, “So the next time you decide to “rescue” me from the centaurs, try and use some blasted restraint before you end up getting us both killed.”

Centaurs? Killed? Huh?...Of course I have no idea what’s going on there. Sounds like diplomatic grunt work of the Dumbledore variety. Grunt work that I’m more than happy to leave to Hermes, minister of magic in the making and all. Guess Harry didn’t see it that way though, just looking to protect his girl; although, knowing Harry, said ‘protection’ probably meant swooping in on his broomstick, fueled by half-cocked theories and half-cocked, um, other manly bits.

Speaking of half-cocked (must stop saying this, having too much fun saying this), Harry suddenly gripped her shoulders and pulled her to him, meeting her gaze with narrowed eyes. “It won’t happen again,” he said coolly, “because there won’t be a next time. You’re not going back.”

“I’m not…?”

“…going back into the forest. Not again. Not even if I’m with you.”

“Not even if you’re what?” She repeated slowly, her eyes taking on an ominous glint.

“Okay… great,” I think. Her eyes are nearly black with rage and Harry’s knuckles are turning white against her shoulders. I chose that moment to duck under a table and start praying. Finding some solace in the Holy Father before I was killed in a crossfire sounded like a mighty fine plan. Let’s see, our Father who are (art?) in heaven...? (Bites lips nervously, trying to think of what comes next). Damn. (Oh, wait, pun alert).

“It’s. Not. Your. Decision,” she said through gritted teeth.

"Mummy..." I whimpered (though in a very courageous, Gryffindor fashion).

“You’re not going back,” he answered evenly.

“Who are you to say…” her voice was getting pretty shrill now.

“I’m not letting you put yourself…” he interrupted her firmly.

“Again, it’s not your decision.”

“Yes, sweets, I’m afraid it is,” Harry said gravely.

“What right…?” Hermione’s answer was cut short by her muffled yelp.

An eerie silence descended over the room as I cautiously peaked over the desk. I expected to find them, I don't know, in dueling stance with wands drawn or something. Instead I found them in an equally entertaining and no less thrilling position: the golden gods of Hogwarts were madly groping each other. Harry’s arm was around her waist, lifting her to him, winding his hand through her loose hair as he plundered her mouth. For her part, Hermione wasn’t offering much resistance, sighing his name as she ran her hands over his back and under his robe, clutching at him desperately. (Gives Hermione thumbs up). Go girl.

Truth be told, I wasn’t thinking much about everlasting peace anymore. Well, excepting the part where I asked myself about what god in what life I had pleased. Alright, maybe I was enjoying it a bit too much. But hey, overprotected teenager here, got to get my kicks in somehow. To my credit I left at that point. Well, not at that point. I toddled off when they fell in a groaning heap onto the sofa, reminding myself to do a cleansing charm for it later. I mean, good gods, they’re not the only ones who use it. Or at least who’d like to use it if only the nummy opportunity would present itself.

And, well, that’s about it. The next morning (this morning) Harry and Hermione acted the same as ever. Sure, their eyes never left each other’s and Ron told me they cut Potions III and Terry mentioned their skipping the prefet meetings and, well, yeah, things are a little sappy-mushy in Hogwarts right now. The birds are singing and the sunlight’s beaming and everything smells like sex and candy. Mmmmm. Sex and candy.

Note To Self: Must get new boyfriend. And no, will not meet potential candidate of the Slytherin variety after Herbology. (Even though his hard steel eyes held the promise of other hard steely things). Yum. This is Very Important and must be mulled over. And over. Right now. On my way to the tower.

End