Ginny Weasley's Diary

Tuesday, 27 September, 1994

Writing a great deal lately. I wonder if I ought to become a writer? For a long while I had no intention of becoming a housewitch as Mum chose. At first I did not see the point of getting an education and using it to make red-haired boys remember to take out the garbage. But being more mature now, I think being a housewitch quite acceptable, provided one has a staff of at least 10 to 15 house elves.

Neville and I are hiding out with Myrtle for the usual reasons - avoidance of death march around the castle perimeter with Blaise Zabini and Lisa Turpin. Why did I ever place those two in charge of my exercise routine? Worst of all, since spend half my time hiding, terribly miss formerly 'kindly Blaise' and 'dear friend Lisa' - my own personal, heartless, brown shirted, hobnail booted exercise mavens.

I'm sitting here in Myrtle's toilet with Miss Moaning M herself and Neville, who is terrified of Myrtle. It's Neville's own fault, ought to have known better than to take a pee in Myrtle's toilets. Myrtle rose up out the U-bend while poor Neville was in mid-pee and ill-fated Nev and his shoes will never be the same again. Come to think of it, Myrtle is nearly cheery since the incident so I suppose she'll never be the same again either. Spying on poor Neville is probably as close as poor Myrtle ever got to having a genuine relationship with a wizard. Oh, other than she moons over Harry 'heavy sigh' Potter just like every other red-blooded witch or phantasmorical female being at Hogwarts.

I believe the closest Myrtle has ever come to having a genuine relationship with a wizard may be Neville; after all Myrtle has seen Neville's bits and bobs. Myrtle is dead but she is not giving in to defeat just yet. Myrtle is wailing away because I have 'no sensitivity to the plight of a girl cut down in her youth'. Right, Myrtle, cry me a river. That sort of theatrics may work with Ron, Harry and Hermione, but it doesn't cut it with me. There, that put a proper lid on the noisy thing. Really, I am not unfeeling, but have sensitive ears.

To be a writer, it is said one should write about what one knows, and mostly for entertainment of myself, Neville and Myrtle, I continue my writing about my brothers. I am reading most of my diary entries aloud. Myrtle, being only familiar with Ron, she wants to know how cute my other brothers are, or aren't. What can I tell her? Brothers are brothers and how can I gauge the cuteness level of boys I've seen have pee in Mum's pansy patch?

I do know that Bill - who was always too cool to water Mum's pansies - is my favorite older brother. Bill left home first. Is easy to qualify as my 'favorite' brother, said brother must only pack bags and leave home. Anyone with six or more brothers would understand. Would even adore vile brother Fred if he would only leave. Now, darling Charlie is my second favorite brother, as he left the home second. Percy the Twit will leave next, no doubt, so he will be my third favorite... no wait... Guess not. There is always an exception to any rule.

Myself, I think Bill rather plain, tall with a ponytail that Mum itches to cut off. The girls of Otter St. Catchpole who ceased eating, giving up the will to live in Bill's absence, beg to differ with me. After Bill's departure, Otter St. Catchpole was suddenly the modeling center of Devon, more visible collarbones in Devon than anywhere for a hundred kilometers around. And the sweets shop went belly up too. Bill was inadvertently quite a boon to the local economy.

Bill left to take up work as a curse breaker in exotic Egypt. Summer before last, our whole family visited Bill in Egypt, a lovely trip. I quite took to the pyramids, which vile Fred claims is because I am roughly the same shape. I so hate Fred. The truth of my affection for the pyramids is I am nearly sure in a past life I was an Egyptian princess or perhaps a cat. Cheeky Neville here says I was actually a catty princess!

Cannot believe Neville said such a thing, which proves my reasoning, hanging with wicked Blaise has done Neville a world of good. Neville is gradually losing his unfortunate 'Gran-ified' edge. Mind, Nev's Gran is a lovely soul I'm sure, but the dear old cow has had far too much of a civilizing influence on the boy. Personally, have no gripe against general civility in a boy, i.e., lowering toilet seat, blowing nose into cloth instead of sleeve or worse, but some roughness makes a boy, a boy.

Hanging with the likes of Ron, Harry, Dean and Seamus also help Neville develop a much stronger boy edge. Only yesterday I saw Neville spit in a hall corner. Quite a notable improvement over his second year when Neville, in Blaise sort of way, would whip out a large lacy linen handkerchief to spit in. Nothing wrong with lacy hanky for gay boy like Blaise but for red-blooded boy who intends to experience snog with Lavender (!!!!) at some point, a hanky is but pitiful cry for help. Under the de-civilizing influence of Ron and particularly Seamus, I'm sure Neville will be peeing in the Hogwarts rose garden in no time. Harry and Dean aren't as much help decivilizing Neville. Harry would have been murdered had he dared wet the shrubbery at his Aunt and Uncles, while Dean, with his many girl cousins is shy and quite lucky to have escaped the horrors of lacey hankies or sitting down for a pee.

Anyway, last saw Bill over the summer at the World Quidditch Cup match. Bill spoiled me something fierce, and I miss him.

Wednesday, 28 September, 1994

Myrtle's bathroom is still ideal hideout! Blaise and Lisa found Neville and I only once since Monday. Bad news is am not sure how good girls toilet is for Neville. Judging by direction of feet, caught him sitting to pee. Such things must be nipped in the pud. Sent Myrtle in to set the boy back on his feet. Worked wonderfully, sent Neville fleeing, and yours truly nearly caught a glimpse. Not interested in Neville but having seen all of brothers' a comparative study is always of interest. Believe if Neville receives even one more shock in loo, boy will be unable to pee without immediate presence and watery noises the likes of Victoria Falls.

Back to discussion on brothers. My second favorite brother is Charlie, who works as a dragon keeper in Romania. I have just confided a great family secret known only to Mum and myself to Neville and Myrtle. Just before Charlie left for Romania - he was offered a seeker position with Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons. No small thing that, the Weasley men folk would soil themselves, die on the spot if they knew they lost the chance to have a 'Chuggin' Chuddley' in the family. If brother Ron found out he would be found hanging from third floor of the Burrow with his Chudley banner wrapped around his skinny freckled neck. Dad would have died of major coronary if found out his own son would rather shovel dragon dung as starting dragon keeper than fly seeker for the Cannons.

That last bit I read out loud, made naughty Neville laugh. I warn Neville that Ron is safe only if Neville can keep his mouth shut and not tell my Ron or twins about Charlie ditching the Chudleys for dragons.

Happily, our Charlie is no longer a digger of dung. Clever Charlie rose fast through the ranks of dragon keepers and is now a first class dragon breeder, for which he needn't remove his trousers. That is a Weasley sort of big family joke, currently causing Neville to laugh and fart at the same time. Yes, the boy-ification of Neville is coming along swimmingly. That and poor Neville really needs to stay away from black pudding at breakfast. Not everyone lucky enough to have my reliable constitution. Neville's constitution is rather reliable, but in a different sort of way. May have to move to other side of bathroom. Ghosts have almost no sense of smell, yet poor Myrtle wrinkled her nose and did swan dive into her loo.

Where was I? On topic of breeding, Brother Charlie has no girlfriend but would marry readily enough if he could only find a massive witch with great scales who breaths fire and lays eggs. Not that I fancy such a sister-in-law, but some day I must make an attempt to introduce Charlie to Millicent Bulstrode. Mercy. You ought to hear Neville, now I've read that out loud.

Myrtle has emerged from her U-bend. No surprise she wants details on the twins. I've answered questions on twins all my life. Why are two boys so much more intriguing to people than one? Poor Ron never got half the attention of the twins and he surely deserved it. When Ron was only eight he could pee twice as far as either of the twins. I suspect that was not a wise bit of information to give to Myrtle although I must say, I've never seen her laugh so hard. I cruelly told Neville he ought not make fun of his own future wife. D. cruel of me and I apologized.

Neville asks why peeing always seems to come up whenever I discuss my six brothers. That he even asks such a question is proof of his Gran's influences. It is also easy to tell Neville has no brothers or I'm sure he would fully understand how important peeing is to boys raised free-range like chickens. And I bet that were Neville raised with brothers he would be able to 'hit' a bull's-eye at fifteen paces too. Diary will probably grow legs, leap up and race away when I write this, but Mum always kept a handful of cereal flakes on toilet tank. Kept a flake floating in toilet as a target to encourage her sons to make an effort to aim. Mum says floating cereal target practice increased the cleanliness of the Burrow bathrooms by 55%. Fat lot of good that target practice did for me. I have massive inferiority complex from years of futile attempts to aim any way except straight down - more or less. Number of times I used toilet in middle of night and fell in, by far exceed number of times hit floating cereal target other than by accident. Am not a stranger to humiliation.

Myrtle fussing that I must return to topic of brothers, and tell of F&G. Twin brothers are, identical, but how anyone confuses Fred and George for each other is beyond me. Even Mum mistakes them on occasion. I can tell them apart in an instant, as long as they're naked. So no one gets the wrong idea, it is the freckle pattern on their stomachs that gives them away. George has a lion head on his stomach and Fred has serpent; I read nothing into that. I do feel a need to mention however, that the sorting hat could really use a little band and brim adjustment.

I think I won't read my identification method out loud to Myrtle or to Neville because is far more fun to keep them guessing. Blaise and Lisa have been told my identification method, and they laughed themselves silly.

Have been quite too long, and now Neville and Myrtle are clamoring to know why I always refer to 'dear' George and 'vile' Fred. That is easy enough to explain. When I was only five years old - and a darling child I was too - vile Fred took me into the forest on the farside of Ottery St. Catchpole, and left me there. I was lost for nearly a day. Fred claimed that I wandered away while we were stopped for a rest. We were looking for a Common Welsh Green that Fred 'claims' was seen in the forest. Likely story. Hasn't been a Common Welsh Green near Ottery St. Catchpole since Godric Gryffindor wore short trousers. I believe it was no coincidence that the day Fred 'lost' me, his favorite dessert, a nice trifle, was on for dinner. I believe wicked Fred was attempting to cut down on the general mealtime competition for said trifle.

And that is not all for which I shall never, ever, ever forgive evil Fred. When on aforementioned vacation visiting Bill in Egypt, I woke one morning to find myself hugging a mass of grey rags - the remains of a mummified cat. Eeeewww! My screams woke the entire Inn. Wicked Fred thought it 'funny' to put a desiccated kitty into my bed. Mum stopped just short of murdering Fred - if only Mum had staying power! I itched something fierce for weeks. Who knew I was allergic to mummified felines? I hate Fred and am only sorry that contrariwise it is also my duty as his sister to love him. A maddening balancing act I assure you. If the rules on such ever change, I am so not going to love Fred. I must say, most interesting thing, vile Fred has a romantic interest he thinks I am not aware of. I once saw him kissing the Gryffindor team chaser, one Angelina Johnson under the Quidditch stadium. Angelina otherwise seems so normal and sensible. What can she possibly see in vile Fred? Strange how such an odious boy as Fred could have an identical twin, my dearest kindred spirit, George. Fate is funny that way, for dearest George is the answer to every sister's prayers for an understanding and kindly brother. When I lost my beloved pet knarl, it was George who found her for me. No need to say who lost my knarl in the first place? Hint: his name tantalizingly rhymes with DEAD!

I am not reading this next part of my diary out loud for either Myrtle or for Neville. Myrtle is wildly interested in hearing more on Ron, whom she knows well from my unfortunate Chamber of Secrets year. I don't think Myrtle needs to hear my views on Ron, and it would be awkward for Neville to hear too as he is Ron's dorm mate.

Myrtle is moaning that I am not sharing my writings with her, and I put her off by telling her I am charting my period. That shut her up and made Neville turn fourteen shades of red. Boys are so easily put off. If Albus Dumbledore didn't want anyone to go on the third floor back before I started school here, he ought to have owled me for advice. I'd have told him to line the third floor corridor with clean tampons and sanitary napkins. Hermione would have had to pass Fluffy all on her own. I assure you, Ron and Harry would have sooner jumped into the Dark Lord's lap as cross a line like that!

Neville is fussing; he wants to leave the girls toilets. I'm sure the boy thinks he will catch something if he stays here too long. Interesting opportunity to test Neville's gullibility. Will tell him that Harry and Ron felt uncomfortable after working on polyjuice potion with Hermione in Myrtle's girls toilets if they did not wear brassieres under their robes. Will tell Neville that Harry and Ron said they enjoyed feeling 'full figured'. Hum... wonder if Neville will believe me? Oh well. I suppose there is only one way to find out. Do I have a bra large enough to fit Neville? Will have to check.

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