Ginny Weasley's Diary

Monday, 10 October 1994

Am sitting in the back of Transfiguration class - in disgrace. The class assignment was to take a live chicken and transform its colour from Cornish White to Sussex Red. I got the thing right, transforming a white chicken into a red chicken. Well, I admit, more to the point, I turned a live white chicken into a dead red chicken. McGonagall pitched a right fuss and all over a silly chicken; a silly dead chicken.

"Miss Weasley, I despair for you. At this rate, you will never develop proficiency in transfiguration. Last week you turned a hedgehog into a three-legged butter dish. If only you would apply yourself properly to your tasks, I'm sure you would be as talented as your brothers!"

Oh, how I hate when McGonagall wags my brothers Bill, Charlie, Percy, the twins and Ron over my head like some six-bladed sword of truth. McGonagall is so wrong as I am already slopping over with talent! It should come as no surprise that one of my many talents, taught to me by Tom Riddle himself, is chicken killing. Considering the source, it is hardly my fault that most of my talents reek a bit of dark magic. Made grave mistake, telling McGonagall so and she snapped at me.

"Talent? You call chicken killing a talent? My dear Miss Weasley, the killing of chickens is not a talent, as it serves no earthly good to anyone."

Hypocritical woman! Only last week she set our class to transforming hedgehogs into glass butter dishes! What need has anyone for a butter dish that smells a bit off? Who could possibly need a stinky butter dish that rolls itself into a ball when approached for a pat of butter for one's toast? And of no less importance, just who would wish a dot of butter with a trace of fleas on it for Merlyn's sake?

I had the brains to not come right out and ask Professor McGonagall, why transfiguration of innocent urchins into glassware is any more or less 'useful' than chicken killing. I did tell McGonagall that I know enough not to look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, nor do I question my talents even if the source was Tom 'scary-enough-to-make-you-piddle' Riddle. That was when McGonagall took me by the ear, dragged me to the rear of her classroom with threatened detention if I made any more 'clever comments', the old cow! Why must McGonagall fancy chickens for Transfiguration assignments anyway? Where are those lovely green-shelled beetles she used to have us change into shirt buttons? For a change, why can't we transform a darling duck or perhaps a sweet little budgie? If I walk into Transformation class to see one more infernal chicken, I am going to do something desperate.

The remainder of class was appalling; six more birds of gallinaceous persuasion met their death by my wand. Take note however, I am proud to say, said chickens, having lived their lives white as snow, left this world red as copper Knuts. You would think I got some measure of credit for that, but McGonagall was not impressed at all, and clucked her tongue at me. Am not sure I wasn't being insulted.

Evil Slytherin and thoughtless Gryffindor classmates thought my chicken conversion exercises enormously amusing. By noon the story of chickens meeting an untimely 'death by Ginny Weasley', made its rounds in Hogwarts. Later that afternoon I climbed stairs on my way to Divination class and some nasty boys shouted at me from below. 'Oy, Weasley girl! There's a rogue chicken attacking Hogwarts, SAVE US!' Everyone laughed.

I yelled to those boys, "Your laughing sounds like a yard full of hens, watch out I don't forget myself and make short work of you!" The annoying gits laughed all the harder.

After a full day of taunting, I was distraught. Ron, Harry and Hermione, the dear things, decided I could use some cheering up. They insisted I tag along with them to visit their giant playmate, Hagrid. I hadn't seen Hagrid since the first day of term. When we got to Hagrid's hut, Ron and Harry thought it might be fun to surprise Hagrid with my presence, so I hid behind Ron. When Hagrid opened his front door and saw Ron, Harry and Hermione, he was cheered.

"Hello!" Hagrid said, all grins. "Haven't seen you lot about much lately! Come in, set yourselves down and have a cup of..."

For all we know Hagrid might have offered us a cup of cat whiskers, because he never finished his sentence. When wicked Ron stepped aside to reveal me standing behind him, Hagrid blanched. Quite scary that was - when Hagrid blanches he looks like the top of some Himalayan mountain peak after a blizzard. Hagrid's little black eyes - the only thing little about him - grew to the size of goose eggs.

"Oh G-G-Ginny g-girl! D-D-Didn't see you a' hiding back there. 'Scuse me. Be right back." And off Hagrid flew, out of his back door!

I forgot, as I bet evil Ron and Harry hadn't, Hagrid is still not quite over my chicken killing exploits from my first year. Hagrid lives under the delusion that if I see his chickens, feathers will fly. Mind, I don't mean fly, as in floating feathers under the Wingardium Leviosa charm in Flitwick's class. I mean feathers flying as in the Hogwarts lake will run with blood most fowl!

Honestly - just one time you kill chickens in blood lust, finger-paint chicken blood on castle walls and Bob's your uncle, you are, scarred for life! Oh. That's right. I did that twice. But still, how unfair, and for Merlyn's sake, it isn't as if the chickens I murdered suffered. Much.

Needless to say it was an awkward tea, Hagrid not taking his worried eyes off of me for even a second. Worse, I forgot about Fang and when I stooped down to stroke the poor drooling hound, he broke out into screams of 'Yike, yike, yike' and let loose a flood of pee, deep enough to float ducks. Apparently poor Fang hasn't forgotten my clandestine chicken killing past either. Bother.

Well, suffice to say, that after that antediluvian event, Ron, Harry and Hermione gave Hagrid our hasty excuses and hustled me back up to the castle. For some reason, the visit to Hagrid's did not cheer me up one bit.

Drat! Forgot to tell Hagrid, Mum says baking soda does wonders to remove stains and odors.

I wonder if Hagrid hid his chickens from me in the Forbidden Forest? Not that I really care or want to know exactly, but I wonder, would a werewolf-nipped chicken become a werechicken or simply an entree? Alas! An inquisitive mind can be such a burden.

Tuesday, 11 October 1994

What a day this was! It is night, 10.00 pm and I sit in my four-poster writing by wand light. Silly me. I'd started today with the idea the chicken taunting would have wound itself down. How wrong was I? By noon I was fed up to my highest freckles trying to ignore all the jibes and insults thrown at me by irritating classmates with annoyingly adept memories. Decided to skip lunch, ignore my hunger pangs and concentrate on how slender I would be by the end of my 'trial by poultry'. I took a walk, headed for the lake. I was passing the Quidditch stadium and someone called out to me.

"So... the 'littlest' Weasley. Shame, no chickens here for you to off. Could you make do killing a sparrow or perhaps a pigeon would be more to your taste?"

I stopped dead in my tracks. I recognized that drawling voice, drawn out thin like the cheapest taffy. I turned around. It was Draco Malfoy, hardly recognizable without his bookends, Crabbe and Goyle. He stood there by the stadium exit, dressed in a jumper and short track trousers. His cold eyes glared at me from that pointed face of his, with those cruel, firm pink lips twisted upwards into a leer.

A leer, how DARE he! I was so cool. I surveyed the evil boy with an air of ultimate boredom! I glared at him from the top of his tussled albino-like hair, down past his trousers with all of their depraved implications, down past his creamy thighs down his calves to, to, to,

Had to pause from diary entry to fetch a cool glass of water. Someone should open a window in here. Now where did I leave off? Oh yes, Malfoy's calves, high muscle definition, and, and,

When musing over that evil boy why does my train of thought derail? I ought to have walked away, from Malfoy but his gaze met mine, those suggestive eyes of his glaring at me, no doubt with thoughts of... of....

Damn it! Happened again.

Anyway, Malfoy said, "So Ginny 'hens-b-gone' Weasley ... I hear you are up to your old chicken killing tricks again?" He slurred his voice in that 'how cool am I' accent of his.

What audacity that scoundrel has! So I said, "You conceited Slytherin! Do not call me names. Now go away before I mistake your pointy face for a chicken's and something dreadful happens!" Oh I was in NO mood for that Slytherin's nonsense.

The evil boy smirked, flicked his eyebrows, which did not unnerve me, as I know he only does it for the effect. He walked towards me but I did not scream, yelp, or wet myself in manner of cowardly boarhound.

"So," Malfoy said most nastily. And then, Malfoy walked right up to me, bold as you please and put that smirky, pale face of his right into mine! I ought to have smacked him, but I froze! He stared at me and licked his lips like a wolf about to enjoy a meal.

"You prefer I call you something else then Miss Weasley? How about a new name then? How do you like, 'Virgin-yah' Weasley ..."

Can you believe that? I did not like the road he was traveling. Oh, I'll never know why didn't I slap that malevolent, revolting Slytherin on the spot!

"Oh but perhaps after your 'adventures' with the Heir of Slytherin...? Yes... rumour has it, Miss Weasley, you are no longer a..."

A voice, belonging to neither Malfoy nor me, screamed out, "Mutatiocastra Pullus!"

I screamed! Before me, for one second, Malfoy, stunned, stared into my warm brown eyes with his cold grey ones! He glowed all over with a shimmery, silvery light, and then PUFF! He disappeared in a cloud of greenish smoke. I fell backwards a couple of steps and looked down. There lay Malfoy's green track clothes and his deep green jumper. And there stood Malfoy. He was still pointy faced, long legged and vaguely albino in colouring. He looked very much the same as he always does, except that he was only a foot tall... and in the form of a pretty little, silvery-white rooster.

"So dearest," asked Blaise Zabini, my dear delightful friend. He walked up to me, the pile of clothing and the 'rooster'. As Blaise walked, he twirled his wand like a baton. "Malfoy implied rude things about you, didn't he my poor innocent girl? What did you do to make Malfoy go after you like that?

It occurred to me that Blaise was most likely after ways to have Malfoy come after him with similar zeal. I told naughty Blaise, "You know very well, I did nothing at all. Malfoy is just evil, and all considered, I am rather an easy target."

Blaise laughed and gave me a kindly hug, which I needed, my knees were shaking. I do love Blaise. He is like a brother, as protective of me as any of my six brothers. Too bad he has no sisters of his own to spoil.

"I must say, Malfoy seems quite fit, for a rooster, doesn't he?" Blaise said in a fascinated voice. Everything about Malfoy fascinates Blaise. "Very fit indeed."

As if to prove Mr. Zabini's observations, Malfoy clucked and trotted about, searching for bugs, green and silver ones most likely, in the waning winter grasses. He scratched about with his little clawed foot. Suddenly the little creature made a loud cluck, nabbed and swallowed an enormous wriggling worm! Blaise's eyes near bugged out of his head when he saw that long, red thing disappear down Malfoy's throat. Gak! I thought I would barf!

I gave Blaise a stern look. "You were in the stadium, watching Malfoy practicing for Quidditch, weren't you, you naughty boy?"

I was spot on. Blaise never misses an opportunity to watch Malfoy parading about in his short silk trousers at Quidditch practice. If Malfoy ever finds out who hides in the stands to watch him at practice, he would pitch a troll-sized fit. Lots of fits; there are lots of witches who hang about to stare at Malfoy during Slytherin practice. There are small handfuls wizards as well. I am sure I am prejudiced, because I think none of the other wizards are as nice looking as Blaise, or as sweet.

"And so what if I was watching Malfoy at practice, Ginny-girl? It is just as well I was here, no telling what Malfoy would have done to you," said Blaise. "I do wish Malfoy would flirt with me the way he flirts with you." Poor Blaise sounded so forlorn.

"Malfoy was not flirting with me, the hateful thing," said I, all offended. Blaise is madly, hopelessly in love with Malfoy. Honestly; Malfoy does not flirt with me or anyone else for that matter. Malfoy loves no one that I can tell, save for himself.

"So Luv," Blaise told me with a wink. "That little chicken charm ought to last for hours. I suspect we'd better hide the evidence!"

For only a little bit I admit I hoped that Blaise alluded to having me practice my best chicken-killing hex on Malfoy. But that isn't what Blaise meant by 'hide the evidence'; he wasn't about to allow me to murder his darling blondie Slytherin love interest. My, how our hopes spring eternal.

The next half hour, Malfoy lead Blaise and I on a merry chase. Had no idea chickens can run so bloody fast. Mum's chickens aren't half as fast - must be anemic. Happily the Slytherin rooster preferred to race along by the lake, so no one saw us running about. Eventually we cornered the dumb cluck. Looking a bit wistful, Blaise tucked crowing Malfoy under his arm and stroked Malfoy's long silky feathers. Who ever thought feathers would suit Malfoy? I fetched Malfoy's Quidditch clothing, still giving off a bit of green smoke, and we high-tailed it over to Hagrid's chicken coops, out behind his garden.

Our luck held. Hagrid was nowhere to be found. Blaise opened one of Hagrid's chicken coops to the rear of the garden. Poor, dear Blaise looked so solemn as he kissed the little silvery-white cock on the head and then gently tossed the transmogrified object of his unrequited love into the hen house. Honestly. I ought have told Blaise that Malfoy would do us all far better good as a rooster than as a wizard. I mean, as a rooster Malfoy couldn't lay eggs, but he could at least have provided a nourishing meal, however stringy. Are evil thoughts as damnable as evil deeds? I suppose either way I am doomed.

After that, all afternoon I could not stop giggling. By dinnertime Ron, for one, thought I'd lost my mind. I made excuses to leave the Great Hall early, and made my way alone down to Hagrid's hut to have a peek at Malfoy, to check if the chicken charm wore off. The spell had not worn off, and the little rooster was right in the pen where Blaise and I placed him hours earlier. Chickenhood seemed to agree with Malfoy.

Just my luck, Hagrid bolted out of his hut, armed with his crossbow. Happily he did not shoot me, but wanted to know what I wanted. I'm sure he thought I was back with intent to kill all of his chickens. I was very sweet and told Hagrid I was admiring his new rooster, the little white one with the snarky look on its beak.

"Oh, I don't recall as I have any white rooster." Hagrid looked so puzzled by the new bird I almost felt guilty. Hagrid said, "I suppose tha' little cockerel wandered over from somewheres, and squeezed into the coop because he saw all of my pretty pullets?" Just then, bold as you please, rooster Malfoy chased down one of Hagrid's red pullets and right in front of our eyes... uh... well, actually, never mind. Suffice to say the hen looked rather frazzled afterwards. Content too. I mean, for a hen. Really, it is hard to tell what a hen might mean when it clucks like that. Malfoy, I mean the rooster, crowed and beat his wings. You wouldn't think a creature with a beak and no lips could smile, would you?

The chicken 'interlude' set Hagrid to blushing something fierce. I had to cover my face with my scarf so Hagrid couldn't hear me laughing and think I was being indelicate. I believe it can be safely concluded, Malfoy took to being a chicken rather too well.

I bet if Blaise had been there he'd have been envious of that silly hen.

Hagrid is such a dear. He invited me in for a cup of tea and we had a lovely chat. He told me all about his chickens, all their names, and what an ordeal it was for him to kill some of his birds when he needed their blood to feed his baby dragon Norbert four years ago. Hagrid really is a sweet fellow. We paid one more visit to see Malfoy, I mean, the new rooster. When we got to the coop Hagrid was shocked - and I was not - to see the door to the coop door was ajar and the new rooster gone. I helped Hagrid round up the few disappointed hens that escaped from through the open coop door. Hagrid said it was getting late and that he would walk me back up to the castle.

When we went round the hut, who ran up to us, but Ron, Harry and Hermione! They were quite besides themselves laughing. Hermione was bright pink and giggling so hard I was sure she must be under a Cheering Charm gone wrong.

"Hagrid! Ginny!" Harry was so doubled over from laughing, his spectacles fell off his face. "You'll never guess whom we just saw!"

"Oh, I don't know," said I, all innocent like. "Um... Malfoy?"

"Did you see him Ginny," asked Hermione, still giggling.

I modestly shook my head, "No. I've been visiting here with Hagrid."

Said Hermione scandalized, "Ginny, you'll never guess what!"

"Shut up Hermione," said annoying brother Ron. He abruptly stopped laughing. "Ginny doesn't need to hear any details."

"Why Ron, why not?" said Hermione, still rift with giggles. "Malfoy was starkers! Running up the slope towards the castle as though a basilisk was on his tail!"

Thought I, 'more likely he thought he saw a hen up the hill.'

Ron was fuming! He gave Hermione a murderous look. "Ginny didn't need to know that deviant git Malfoy is running about starkers!"

Harry fell down to the ground, laughing and rolling around helpless with glee. "Malfoy! Starkers!" That Harry is easily entertained.

Hagrid looked scandalized. "Malfoy? Running about the grounds... with no clothes on? You lot have gone daft. Why would Malfoy...?"

"I have no time to discuss the activities of Slytherin boys. It's nearly curfew," said I in the manner of a mature young witch with no time for trifles such as naked, dead sexy, blondie Slytherin boys running rampant across the Hogwarts grounds with their best features a-flapping in the breeze.

The others thought I was insulted because they had been rude enough to mention a naked boy in my presence. Ron was right chuffed by 'baby sister's' delicate sensibilities. I was not being delicate or mature. Truth be told, I was being absolutely livid! After all, had I left Hagrid's earlier, I might have had a peek at Malfoy on the run for myself. Damn, damn, damn.

It took a bit, but we managed to get near-hysterical Harry to his feet. Then Hagrid insisted on all of us drinking tea to 'calm our nerves', and then he walked us all back up to the castle.

So all in all, I must say, it was a lovely day. I saved a lovely silvery-white plume from the little rooster's long tail to present to my new hero, Blaise. Poor misguided, love smitten, distracted Blaise; in so many ways, he has set his heart on one foolish little cock. I mean, Malfoy. I mean... Oh never mind.

Yes, it was a lovely day after all and I have a suspicion tomorrow will dawn even lovelier. I'm sure by breakfast time, everyone will have completely forgotten my little incident with chickens in McGonagall's class. There will be far better things to gossip about; there seems to be a rumour about that Draco Malfoy ran starkers across the Hogwarts grounds last evening. Fancy that!