Ginny Weasley's Diary

Thursday, 1 September 1994

One would think I would have learned enough to not use a diary by now, right? Ha, ha, ha. I admit I used to have an aversion to the things. A couple years of ago my Great Aunt Fiona spent a fortune buying me a beautiful diary for my birthday, the deluxe version; leather gold gilded with beautifully watermarked vellum paper and a tiny golden lock of a lovely satin ribbon with a key at the end. Dear Auntie Fiona was a bit distraught when immediately after unwrapping the diary from its decorative gold foil paper, I was sick all over the thing. Poor Aunt.

Mum and Dad thought 'we' should attempt to cure my diary phobia and this spanking new diary I write in is Dad's recommended solution to 'the problem'. I did notice this cardboard backed diary has plain brownish paper, and instead of a cunning little lock, ribbon and key there is a large rubber holding the thing shut. And as far as looks go, if I barf on this diary it would only amount to an improvement on its looks.

I reckon if the diary Auntie gave me had contained a dark and malevolent spirit, he would have lived in a high rent flat, and would have dressed nicely in dashing dress robes. A spirit inside of this new diary would live by the waterfront in an old tomato juice tin. He would think dressing up meant taking the catsup stains off of one's old trainers.

Enough of my diary phobic history! I'm sitting on the Hogwarts Express on the way to year three. I just woke from a nap, and my best friends are here with me, slumped all over the compartment seats.

There is Blaise Zabin, a fourth year Slytherin. I adore Blaise even though my brothers all hate him. I don't know why Blaize threatens them so much. Poor Blaize leads a tragic life, as he is deeply bestotted with one who does not return his affections. That is always tragic isn't it? Blaise has mourned ever since he started school at Hogwarts, poor soul. Blaise is my confident, my social planner and my weight trainer.

Also on board there is my long time friend Lisa Turpin a dear girl I've known since we were three. Her family lives over the chip shop in Ottercatchafishingpole. That's what we have called Ottery St. Catchpole since we were cheeky four year olds. Lisa is a forth year, and a Ravenclaw, or a 'Canaryclaw' as she calls it - she fancies yellow. Needless to say, I have already placed an order for George and Fred's canary creams when and if ever they get that confection perfected. Dear Terry kicks my arse when necessary so I don't make too big a fool of myself.

Last but not least there is Neville Longbottom, a forth year like Blaise, and a Gryffindor like myself. Neville is the sweetest boy at Hogwarts. Come to think on it, Neville is not as sweet as Blaise, but near to. I called Nev 'sweet' to his face once and he didn't speak to me for a week. Neville is brilliant but not in ways that show. Nev is quite shy and terrified that he is actually a squib and his being at Hogwarts will sooner or later prove him to be a sham. We all tell him he won't last out the week to humour him.

That is my little pack of school chums.

I AM THE DARK LORD AND YOU ARE IN MY POWER GINNY WEASLEY- MUWAH HA, HA!

Well, thank you very much Blaise. He wrote that line above. Knew he was up to something when he begged to borrow my virgin diary for just a bit. When someone wakes up he is going to find a half-chewed wad of Droobles Best Blowing gum in his ear. Any more gruesome surprises like the above and I will end up in the ward for dangerous witches in the rear of St. Mungo's. And make no mistake, Blaise will go too; if I go, I'm taking hostages.

Everyone but me is down for a nap. We have hours to go on our ride to Hogwarts.

Perhaps I will discuss my diary phobia in more detail. My first year at Hogwarts was disasterous. I fell wildly in love with words in a book, written by one, Tom Riddle, a handsome and dreamy 16 year old hunk of a teen memory, who more or less turned out to be what in muggle studies we were told is 'the Anti Christ'. I don't know precisely what that is, but handsome as I remember Tom being, he is surely not the type who one takes home to meet mother and father.

"Mum! Dad! Here, meet my fiancé. Let me introduce you.

Mum, Dad, Anti-Christ.

Anti-Christ, Mum, Dad.

Mother: Would you fancy some tea Mr. Anti-Christ? Would you take your tea with one jot of blood or two?"

Anti-Christ: Just one jot, Mrs. Weasley. I'm cutting down.

Mother: Oh, but my vein is open already, no bother. You're sure? Only one jot of blood?

Father: And what are your prospects Mr. Anti-Christ?

Anti-Christ: Oh, I don't know. Maybe take over the world, boil the saintly in large cauldrons and then maybe open a small flower shop in Liverpool.

Father: I like a lad with ambition!

After my first year and the Chamber of Secrets hoop-la, you would think my second year at Hogwarts was infinitely better if only by comparison. And you would be WRONG! Second year I couldn't walk the halls without other students pointing and saying in stage whispers, "Oooo is that Weasley who was raped by Tom Riddle in the Chamber Pot of Secrets!"

Of course that isn't what happened at all, nothing quite so dramatic. I did do naughty things under the Tom Riddle's influence, but I was so under a trance I couldn't remember most of it. Even now I can't remember much of it. I'm told I wrote on walls in chicken blood and such like, but we all have our naughty little moments, don't we? And anyway everything I wrote on the walls I spelled correctly.

Near the end of my first year Tom hit me with a stunning spell and Bob's your uncle, I had to be rescued by my brother Ron and Harry Potter. There was a gilded git involved as well but I can't even remember his name. I'm told he can't remember his name either. At least I remember my name. My name is... I'll get back to it.

Still, I wish I had started the rape rumor myself. Mind, the following year I was the only second year girl who got dates. Dates to the Astronomy Tower mind you! My brothers had kittens over that, even darling George. Wouldn't have expected Ron or beastly Fred to understand.

Anyway, it was no big deal. Soon as my dates discovered that I hadn't a clue about 'things' it was "date over, here's your knickers, ta ta!"

Oh lighten up diary, I am joking about the knickers. I never wore knickers on those dates.

Kidding! This is my diary and I shall be as silly as I wish. Knickers? Heavens, I wore armour plated UGLY protective boy-proof skivvies, as provided by formerly mentioned Great Aunt Fiona - the dear old cow. She loves me to a fault. She has money too. In a tin under the sink. I'm practically an heiress. Ron particularly hates when I joke about the Weasley family finances, or rather the lack thereof, but this is my diary so ha, ha, ha!

I was/am famous for other things since my first year at Hogwarts too. In my second year, last year everyone pointed at me and shouted, "Look! It's Ginny Weasley! The youngest of SEVEN Weasleys!" The youngest as in, Sleepy, Sneezy, Doc, Bashful, Happy, Grumpy and Ginny. No doubt they learned about those six other little gits in muggle studies.

Last year those awful Slytherin boys would point and say, "Look at old Ginger '*wat' Weasley. As if any of those bastards knew or had a butterfly's fart of a chance of seeing for themselves. I so hate Slytherin, all of them except for darling Blaise.

Of all the Slytherin, I most hate Draco Malfoy, who by the way is 'the' unrequited love of Blaise. Both myself and Blaise are unnaturally obsessed with Malfoy. One way or the other, myself or Blaise will either kill Malfoy or roger him at some point. Blaise and I have set our caps on it. I'm voting for an out and out Malfoy murder. We can dump his scurvy hide in the lake and it would serve him right.

I admit Malfoy is rather nice to look at. All right - roger first, murder second.

Vile Malfoy despises Blaise for being Blaise, and Malfoy hates me because I've the audacity to be a 'poor Weasley'. That sort of class bigotry bothers the boogeys out brother Ron and sometimes vile Fred, but they've always been overly sensitive. Dear George knows better. I think being 'poor' is harder on boys. Being a witch, poverty is practically a bonus. Some handsome wizard will some day sweep me up on his golden broomstick and fly away with me. Then roger me, leave me disheveled in a rancid cabbage patch and fly off to marry some wealthy witch like Pansy 'Pug Mug' Parkinson. The Slytherin *itch. I so hate her!

Have to go. Friends are waking up. Snack trolley witch is here and we're all starving like flippin' Marvin.

And Blaise hasn't noticed the gum in his ear yet. MUWAH HA, HA!

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