Ginny Weasley's Diary

Fryday Friday, 21 October 1994

It is late and however fascinating the Goblin Wars may have been, I can no longer concentrate on uninspiring History of Magic homework. It is far easier to think on how I may convince my loving but stubborn parents to transfer me out of Hogwarts. It is only a week or so from now that foreign students from Bowedbaton and Dumbstring will arrive at Hogwarts. Hermione was cross with me a few minutes ago because I can never remember the correct name for those foreign schools. I'm rather like Neville in my forgetfulness of such unusual names. But no matter. I will learn the names of the schools soon enough!

I plan to owl my parents every day, in the hope that I can convince them my life at Hogwarts is pants. At end of school year I hope to flee with some foreign student, visit with him or her (I don't particularly care, but can bet your last Knut that Mum will care) over the summer and learn whatever language they speak, so come next autumn I may attend their school. But what is the use? I reckon my sweet but unreasonable parents will no doubt respond to my pleas for transferring to foreign school with flimsy excuse like 'we're already sending four of you lot to Hogwarts! We can hardly afford sending our youngest, off to some 'la-de-da' foreign school to eat garden snails in fancy sauces and attempt adapting her uncivil tongue to a new language!'

Oh, why must parents be so obstinate and unable to adapt to new ideas? Wouldn't one think that in order to assure their baby daughter's future happiness, my parents would to be willing to subsist on one square meal a day? Surely Mum and Dad will understand their youngest child, their own darling red-haired daughter, the joy of their rapidly oncoming old age, cannot possibly be expected to continue attending Hogwarts after what happened today?

I can hardly believe the truth of it, for I have suffered yet another 'incident' from which I am quite certain there will be no recovery. Must therefore reluctantly abandon Hogwarts forever. I record the entire dismal experience here in my diary so in future will be able to identify the precise day that my life went wrong. Some day I shall be able to look back on my life, shake my fist at the sky and ask, 'why must the cosmos retaliate against me for reducing the size of my own bum? Surely one's bum is one's to do with as one pleases? Were there so many pretty and perfect rears in the universe that the addition of my own now perfect bum tipped the cosmic scales askew? Was there a shortage of fat bums in the universe? Is that why I was singled out for punishment? Do plump bums require protection in manner of endangered species such as Norwegian Ridgeback Dragons?

The reason for my smaller bum is the zealousness of my exercise coaches, Blaise Zabini and Lisa Turpin, both of who insist - admittedly at my request -I honor my pledge to take exercise regularly. Had I realized how ambitiously my request was to be honored, I would have thought twice before making said request. Morning, evening and some noontimes, if Blaise and Lisa managed to snag Neville Longbottom and myself, they forced us to exercise in form of long marches about the castle grounds. Though it has only been a few weeks, the steady exercise paid off in Galleons, resulting in my legs trim and my arse... I mean my rear, noticeably smaller. And mine is not the only shapely bum. Lisa says that Neville will must soon be renamed Neville 'Smallerbottom'.

All well and good one might think. But there are consequences to everything. I have noticed on weekends when I do not much bother to wear robes, Hogwarts boys of both desirable and undesirable types, taking peeks at my bottom. And there are other consequences too - dire consequences!

The day started rather lovely. I was clad in my pleated grey skirt, jumper and proper school robes. I marched up the marble staircase on my way to the Great Hall for breakfast. All around me, scads of students were headed upstairs on their way to breakfast. Also nearby on stairs were annoying third-year Gryffindor girls who believe themselves so very smart. Evil girls were as always, gossiping and sniggering. I held my freckled nose in the air, full of confidence due to top condition of my bottom. I let rude and immature witches see that I had better things to do than overhear their uninteresting chatter about rumours concerning boring Pansy Parkinson's love life. Besides, I could ask Blaise for the details after breakfast; 'Pug Mug' Parkinson and Malfoy. As if!

All of a sudden I felt a wicked draft of cold air on my person... to be more precise I felt the breeze on my newly slender bum. I spun around on the top stair and there it was, laying two steps below me - my knickers! There the horrid pants lay, on the step looking as large as a carnival tent. I came to the sudden stupefying realization that unlike my shrinking bottom, pants had not shrunk. Horrid overlarge pants' waistband malfunctioned, allowing pants to precipitously slide off my rump after which I unknowingly stepped right out of said pants, bold as you please!

I panicked. To my stunned amazement, fellow students continued up stairs, apparently too blind or distracted to notice massive bloomers lying on steps like sail for ships at sea! I stood nervously as others passed me on their way up the stairs, sure at any second the whole of Hogwarts would take notice of my amazing, disappearing pants lying on stairs and laugh. I told myself, hold up your chin Miss Weasley! There are worst catastrophes besides loss of clean underclothes in public. Right.

Nearly convinced myself of blatant self-lie too.

Then looked down stairs and there, on way upstairs was Draco Malfoy with near-simian friends Crabbe and Goyle! Evil Malfoy wore a smirk on his face, as he does nearly 100 percent of the time. D. difficult to tell if foul boy wore everyday smirk or "Hello! What was that slipping off of Ginny Weasley?" smirk. It was devilishly unclear if obnoxious Slytherin boy had looked up when 'things' were headed down. GAK!

I thought fast and before evil Malfoy and his evil mates, or anyone else for that matter, could notice d. drawers, I jumped down two steps and gave blasted pants a kick that sent them sailing through the side banisters! I think if anyone noticed anything, they would have only thought I was kicking something HUGE and white off the staircase. If anyone observed me they'd have thought I had booted Hufflepuff's Fat Friar a bit closer to heaven.

Decided was too unnerved for breakfast after all. I scarpered down the steps past Malfoy and straight to Gryffindor tower and up seven flights in less time than it takes to kick bogeys from pair of knickers. When got to Gryffindor commons, I stood panting, staring into portrait face of pink clad, annoying fat lady. Could not remember d password!

Pink Lady - Password?

Me - Open up, my stupid knickers fell off!

Pink Lady - My dear Miss Weasley. Knickers are inanimate. Knickers do not therefore possess intelligence. In point of fact -

Me - O P E N THE FLIPPING DOOR!

Pink Lady - I shall, my dear. If and when, you provide the password.

ME - Flaming Friesland fowl! DO YOU HEAR ME? My knickers fell off; my bum is... is... bare, and COLD, now open up!

Pink Lady - My dear Miss Weasley. The password is not 'open up'. Nor is the password 'my knickers fell off'. No password has ever possessed so very many syllables.

Me - OPEN UP THE FLIPPIN' DOOR!

Pink Lady -My dear, calm yourself. The password is not 'OPEN UP THE...

Me (Losing mind, pulling wand and pointing it at pink portrait with deliberate intent to bat-bogey hex annoying oil painting.) - Open up - NOW!

For a fat person, the pink lady can move lickity split. I could hear the pink lady screaming from a painting further down the hall, but she left without opening the blasted portrait door. I was about to scream myself hoarse, but luckily the door opened and a second year boy climbed out so I was able to get in.

Must point out that later in the day formerly kindly Pink Lady squealed on me to Professor McGonagall who gave me a lecture and three day's detention. I'll be d. lucky if Mum doesn't send me a howler. Thank heavens howlers are so costly or the twins would receive howlers on a near daily basis. I wonder if there is a discount for purchase of howlers in bulk? Must owl Mum about that. Could save Mum enough money to provide her beloved daughter with a bathroom all her own at the Burrow, but I digress. Once I was safe in the haven of my dorm room, I pulled on a pair of clean - which really ought to go without saying - knickers and knotted the sagging waistband to insure tight fit. I cowered on my four-poster. I was safe. Nobody, expect perhaps evil Malfoy saw anything. I wondered, if indeed evil Malfoy saw anything, would evil boy say so to anyone? And if such scandalous words did leave Malfoy's clever tongue and emerge from those full sensuous lips...

Took usual five full minutes contemplating contemptuous Malfoy lips, to regain ladylike composure. Perhaps it was actually ten minutes, but anyway, I decided to save sanity by ignoring the detestable Malfoy's influence on unfortunate pants event. After all, to save remainder of my sanity I decided must assume Malfoy saw nothing on the stairs other than rumps of the shapely witches just ahead of him on stairs. One never finds Malfoy marching up stairs behind wizards if witches - shapely witches, are available; the wicked git. However distracted by shapely witches, I reasoned had Malfoy watched me losing my pants, surely the depraved git would have made a scathing comment as I ran past him for purpose of showing off to his dastardly companions. I reckoned, had Malfoy seen anything, he would no doubt have made great efforts to spread the word of my misfortune from the highest turrets of the castle! So, as halls of Hogwarts were currently not resounding with raucous laugher and shouts of 'Ginny Weasley lost her knickers' surely my secret is safe and pants are just a pair of pants lying abandoned at bottom of front hall stairs?

GREAT CORNISH COCHINS! It suddenly it dawned on me... Mum's unnatural fear that thieves have nothing better to do with their time than nick pants! Mum plastered initials on every single item of my underclothes, including my annoyingly under-stressed brassier, and those of my equally unfortunate brothers! Oh. I don't mean that my brothers wear brassieres, training or otherwise. Brothers are not that interesting. Occurred to me that if anyone finds my initialed knickers, the dratted pants will be returned to me! Knickers will return like homing pigeon to haunt me forever! When horrid Chamber of Secrets is once again near-forgotten legend, people will still be sniggering over youngest Weasley's meandering pants.

Surely the git who finds my voluminous knickers will tell all and I, a young and innocent witch will be teased about my 'knockabout knickers' until well after I am tired old witch with 47 Weasley grandchildren and am in possession of more freckles than hair!

But still, I tried not to panic. I thought hard... there MUST be several witches at Hogwarts with the initials G.W., right? Surely G.W. is common enough? I reckoned there must be scads of G.W. types here at Hogwarts, mustn't there be? For sake of own sanity, quickly made a list of alternate students on whom ownership of allegedly missing knickers might be pinned... ouch!

Gilbert Warrington, Slytherin - young brother of witless Clive Warrington of Slytherin. Perfect! A delicate wizard, Gilbert looks as if at one time or another has at least given thought to wearing of girl's knickers. Note to self: Potential dates for gay boys at Hogwarts is at best limited; alert Blaise of possible male companionship.

Gina Whistlestop, Ravenclaw - Gina is absolutely a girl and most certainly wears knickers. Rats. Unfortunately the child is so small she could easily use said knickers as tent for camping.

Gemma Whipple, Hufflepuff - Aha! Now we are talking. Gemma, a likely target for missing knickers! Heard her family has scads of money with which they no doubt purchase scads of lovely knickers composed of costly materials for Gemma. Bonus! Assuming missing pants can be pegged on Gemma - so to speak - following an unfortunate 'trial by knickers', Gemma's family can afford expensive therapy at St. Mungos. But would anyone believe threadbare knickers with wasted waistband belonged to silk knickered Hufflepuff? Why oh why couldn't Gemma be abysmally poor in manner of my own family? Counterpoint, why couldn't my own family be affluent enough to afford knickers that kept pace with family bums?

Come to think on it, why must otherwise sensible Mum insist on purchasing knickers from kindly elderly witch in Ottery St. Catchpole? A poor witch who never wears her spectacles when sewing. And even if the poor old witch could see, she cannot spell to save her blasted life. Bother. No one is going to believe Gemma Whipple wears knickers carefully wand worked to read Fryday.

Could have been worse. If had lost pants yesterday would have lost the pair labeled Turdsday.

Damn! Can think of no other students in entire school with initials G.W. unless my brother, George Weasely is willing to accept alternate life style so as to spare his adorable baby sister of permanently damaging trauma. If only parents could afford psychiatric care to reverse traumatizing damage to mind of kindhearted brother accused of wearing his sister's knickers under his trousers. Damn, damn, damn.

Having run out of thoughts to torture self with, abruptly returned to remaining senses, and ceased making unnecessary and idiotic mental list. What is wrong with me? Obvious solution, now front hall is empty to retrieve - excuse the expression - sodding knickers! Tore out of commons. Ran back down seven flights of stairs. Made my way across the main foyer and whipped around other side of central stairs, skidded to a halt.

Knickers not there!

I stared helplessly into every corner, still NO knickers! Where in Merlyn's white beard would knickers have got to? Last time I checked, knickers had leg holes, but NO legs. Looked up and down the side of staircase, and down the hall and even checked the chandeliers least my pants, apparently bored with my simple lifestyle, were occupied swinging about, learning trapeze act without my permission. Only comforting thought is knickers are clean which is more than can be said for pants belonging to any of my brothers. For Mum to attempt a laundry day at the Burrow I believe she is required to take on a hazardous-materials license from the Ministry of Magic, Department of Skidmarks or some such.

It is nearly midnight, but how can I get any sleep at all? My fugitive knickers are somewhere in Hogwarts castle, lying in wait like giant - pardon the expression - dung bomb, any minute about to go off in my innocent and oh so freckled face. And all due to Mum's insistence on labeling pants of her near and dear. Small comfort that at least knickers are clean. Distressing thought. What if the caretaker Filch found my knickers, mistook them for a rag - all of my knickers are a bit raggedy - and used them to clean doorknobs or toilets or some such? GAK!

Honestly. For a thirteen year old wouldn't you think I've already suffered quite enough for one lifetime?

Saturday, 22 October 1994

Tossed and turned all night. Had ghastly dreams. Dreamt pair of gigantic unclean knickers chased me all around Hogwarts like cotton knit basilisk, screaming 'WASH ME GINNY WEASLEY, WASH ME!" In dream, while I ran from the scary pants, the entire male population of castle watched and wildly laughed at me. Has anyone ever died from shame in their sleep? And how would one figure out if they did? From redness of cheeks or look of abject humiliation? Will ask Hermione.

Was not hungry but decided to have breakfast least the remainder of my remaining knickers follow the lead of errant pair and also fall from my thin arse. Was d. depressed. I met Lisa, Blaise and Neville on the way to the Great Hall. I told them about my amazing disappearing knickers. At first all three seemed suitably somber and sad for me. Then Neville blushed, Lisa burst out laughing and Blaise, evil, snarky Blaise said, "You naughty girl! I recommend from now on you glue your knickers to your ignorant arse to avoid any more trauma! I say... you're rather... 'wanting' for flesh up top. Have any of your brassieres similarly gone 'walkabout'?"

I wanted to slap Blaise! But instead I decided to maintain what was left of my dignity. After all, I'm not the only witch who has lost her knickers in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, or so say the knowledgeable twin brothers.

At breakfast in the Great Hall I sat with vile Fred and dear George, who were in cahoots about how they intend to spend the Galleons they intend to gain by winning the Triwizard Tournament. They will have to pass the age line to enter but if anyone can pass the line, those two can. They promised they would give me ten Galleons if they win, a windfall for me, and more than enough to buy new properly-fitted, tight-waisted, gravity-defying knickers, one pair and a spare, for every day of the week, prepared by elderly crone in possession of dictionary.

While the twins rabbited on about their plans for their winnings, day's post owls flew in to the Hall. Hermione received her copy of the Daily Profit. Ron received a post from our brother Charlie in Rumania. Ron laughed because he said Charlie's post ended with 'see you soon' which is hardly the case, him being so far away. Poor nearly-a-brother Harry, as usual, received no post at all.

I was digging into my kippers when a little Tawny Owl landed in front of me, landing on a fat brown package he needed to get on with delivering. I tried to shoo the mite away but he refused to leave. Finally I brushed the owl back and stared at the brown paper package he sat upon. It read:

Ginny 'G. W.' Weasley, Great Hall, Gryffindor Table, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Thankfully, had the sense to place package on my lap under the table before opening it to reveal - my runaway, fugitive, high flying, peregrinating, transitory knickers! My heart was beating so fast and so loud, I was sure all activity would stop so everyone in Great Hall could stare at silly witch with pants on her lap. Pants were accompanied on their journey by a note, as follows:

Dear Miss Ginny Weasley,

I have reason to believe the enclosed delicate item belongs to you. I recommend you keep a closer eye on your unmentionables. Happy to be of service.

Secret Admirer

Secret admirer! I have a secret admirer, and a gentlemanly one at that! One who has already had a peek at my knickers - an unnerving thought, I assure you. My face was so red at that point, dear brother George asked me if I was ill, or needed to be escorted back up to the dorms.

Had sudden and disturbing thought! What if my secret admirer is Malfoy? I thought I was going to wet myself from the excitement. Well, I did have a clean spare handy for such an occasion. For several minutes my imagination ran away with me, but then I regained my mature composure.

Managed to tear eyes away from the note to notice the Tawny Owl would not budge from my place, nor would it accept a bit of kipper or toast. It occurred to me the bird was awaiting an answer to its post. Vile Fred noticed the package and only a sharp kick dissuaded him from nicking it. That was a narrow escape because vile Fred would likely have lifted his wand to make my poor pants fly about the Great Hall like a small cotton ghost. My face grew red and hot, and I borrowed parchment and quill from Hermione - who is never without means of writing, any time of day or night. I wrote as follows:

Dear Secret Admirer,

How dare you assume that errant pants belong to a well brought up young lady such as myself. Perhaps pants initials are in fact upside down, and therefore read not GW, but 'MQ'. Do I resemble the sort of witch who goes about willy-nilly leaving her knickers lying about in need of escort? I shall forgive you this instance, as your underlying intentions were gentlemanly. But I must request that you do not, never ever again, deliver to me the unfortunate underpinnings of some wretched witch less lady-like or mature than myself.

Yours truly,

G.W.

P.S. I return the scrumptiously clean knickers to you with hope you find their true owner. I am sure by now she must be quite cold.

This morning seems not hours, but days ago. I am in my pyjamas, tucked in my four-poster and it is quite late. Slept a bit but had nightmare in which old fashioned, white pantalets style knickers, flew onto my face like rabid albino vampire bat, and sucking the life out of me with toothed lacework. Woke up screaming and scared daylights out of dorm mates. Am d. worried. Scary knickers are still out there... waiting for me... Those clean but hellish knickers. Oh why did I not keep the accursed things and rip them to tiny bits of shredded cloth while had the chance?

Can knickers be possessed in manner of enchanted shack or teapot? Must remember to ask McGonagall tomorrow when I report to her for detention. Damn, damn, double damn.

2