Summary: 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?
Jingle bells, Ronald yells, and Draco Malfoy smells (literally).
Note: This was written pre-OotP. Yes, that would indeed be before the reign of Attitude!Ginny. Pre-OotP Ginny tended to be characterized as vaguely shy, or at least appeared to be. In this fic, I have taken the liberty of exaggerating the idea for plot purposes.
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, arseholes.
I guess on the bright side, it is not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents. Yay, people like me.
On the darker, overpowering side, it is not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents from mysterious unknowns.
Even more sinister: It’s a diary. You know, bunch of cheap parchment strung together and bound by a cover. The whole bit.
‘Here is a diary, for you to pour your heart into.’
And whoever wrote this note could have chosen better wording.
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, or more specifically, his bollocks. Poor chap.
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 far prettier than I, and therefore probably more worthy of their attention. It’s not fair that evil things and people should look so pretty. Like Malfoy. I will admit 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. I suppose I should feel comforted about the fact that Voldemort doesn’t look pretty. At least, not 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: Oh, you are all so dense. Who else? 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! But Voldemort, you old BAT, 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 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.
Harry: [Having calmed down, nods fervently.] 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. She wants to know what I'm thinking, and she says 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.
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, for example, if a certain girl doesn't feel any impulses to read these magazines, does that mean thatI, I mean, she, is not really a woman?
Sigh. Alright, I admit. 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. Millicent Bulstrode could get a boy in that time, if she wanted to. Perhaps even I could. It should be, “In Less Than A Week”. Honestly, this magazine has no tact. I've a brilliant idea: Owl order boyfriends. It would be so much easier. Like blind dates, only you don't have to go anywhere. Complete satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back, and a one month warranty. Super. Now I can go patent this spiffy idea and rake in the money. Perhaps then, gaggles of handsome men will follow me.
Still, there is no harm in reading, at least until I get rich. There is nothing wrong with exercising my literate abilities. I'll probably have to read handfuls of lusty love letters a day once I'm famous.
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. How do I always manage to find out about these things?
Hermione: A “sewing machine” for her clothes making fetish. I heard it was efficient.
Hurrah, 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 thin 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. I won't shriek in fright and indignance and rip you with my bare hands before hurling you into the fire. Oh, God, I must be really awfully lonely.
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. But what exactly does this entail? Lots of yelling, and pointless fights? Threats? Random rebellions? I am so uninformed on how to be a proper teenager. Is there some kind of handbook for this?
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.
Jingle bells, Ronald yells, and Draco Malfoy smells (literally).
Note: This was written pre-OotP. Yes, that would indeed be before the reign of Attitude!Ginny. Pre-OotP Ginny tended to be characterized as vaguely shy, or at least appeared to be. In this fic, I have taken the liberty of exaggerating the idea for plot purposes.
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, arseholes.
I guess on the bright side, it is not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents. Yay, people like me.
On the darker, overpowering side, it is not even Christmas yet and I’m getting presents from mysterious unknowns.
Even more sinister: It’s a diary. You know, bunch of cheap parchment strung together and bound by a cover. The whole bit.
‘Here is a diary, for you to pour your heart into.’
And whoever wrote this note could have chosen better wording.
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, or more specifically, his bollocks. Poor chap.
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 far prettier than I, and therefore probably more worthy of their attention. It’s not fair that evil things and people should look so pretty. Like Malfoy. I will admit 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. I suppose I should feel comforted about the fact that Voldemort doesn’t look pretty. At least, not 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: Oh, you are all so dense. Who else? 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! But Voldemort, you old BAT, 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 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.
Harry: [Having calmed down, nods fervently.] 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. She wants to know what I'm thinking, and she says 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.
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, for example, if a certain girl doesn't feel any impulses to read these magazines, does that mean that
Sigh. Alright, I admit. 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. Millicent Bulstrode could get a boy in that time, if she wanted to. Perhaps even I could. It should be, “In Less Than A Week”. Honestly, this magazine has no tact. I've a brilliant idea: Owl order boyfriends. It would be so much easier. Like blind dates, only you don't have to go anywhere. Complete satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back, and a one month warranty. Super. Now I can go patent this spiffy idea and rake in the money. Perhaps then, gaggles of handsome men will follow me.
Still, there is no harm in reading, at least until I get rich. There is nothing wrong with exercising my literate abilities. I'll probably have to read handfuls of lusty love letters a day once I'm famous.
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. How do I always manage to find out about these things?
Hermione: A “sewing machine” for her clothes making fetish. I heard it was efficient.
Hurrah, 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 thin 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. I won't shriek in fright and indignance and rip you with my bare hands before hurling you into the fire. Oh, God, I must be really awfully lonely.
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. But what exactly does this entail? Lots of yelling, and pointless fights? Threats? Random rebellions? I am so uninformed on how to be a proper teenager. Is there some kind of handbook for this?
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.
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