The Red Haired Weasel and the Amazing Bouncing Ferret

Ginny Weasley

September 29th 11:30 p.m.

Malfoy’s harassment is getting to be a constant thing. At first it wasn’t terrible. Like, for the first couple of days he would just sit at the Gryffindor table, never saying a word. Just sat there, eating silently, smirking occasionally when the situation called for it.

Now…

Now he’s attempting at conversation.

Don’t get me wrong. The look in Ron’s eyes when Malfoy asked me how I was… Well, priceless doesn’t quite cut it. But I’m convinced that, if so moved, my brother could hex the fair haired Slytherin into next Thursday.

And by “fair haired” I mean it in the most unflattering way. Because, really, his hair is the *most* unattractive part of him. It’s not blond, or white. I heard a Ravenclaw describe it once as silver.

Which would be accurate, except it gives the impression of handsomeness or something.

Which it certainly is *not.*

No.

And while we’re on the subject of unattractive parts of Malfoy, what’s wrong with his eyes? Not blue, I guess a sort of gray.

Well they’re ugly and I hate them.

I’m unbelievably grateful that I am not the poor wretch that has to stare at them all day long.

Unbelievably.

…

I am.

Ugh. Can you image being Malfoy’s…girlfriend? Probably not, considering you can’t imagine anything, being inanimate and all.

Well, since you can’t, I won’t.

Although, I mean, I suppose it wouldn’t be *horrible.* After all, he *can* dance. Inexplicable, but there it is. And he’s surprisingly smart. He’d have to be, since he’s Head Boy.

And I guess his confidence isn’t totally hideous. You know, if you like that whole, ‘I’m so intelligent and attractive that I an say whatever I want since it will be right’ vibe.

I however, do not like that vibe, and would rather be tortured by the dementors for the remainder of my existence than *ever* date Malfoy.

I would too.

Yes huh!

Stop that.

Okay, I am either exhausted or crazy. In any case, I am going to bed.

11:35 p.m.

Okay, perhaps I wouldn’t rather that, but you get what I mean.

Right, sleep.

September 30th 11:23 a.m.

I am never leaving my room again. I bet, if I ask her nicely, Hermione will bring me my meals. After all, everyone saw that humiliating display. Certainly she’ll understand my need for solace.

…

Apparently not, considering she’s banging on the door.

“Come on, Gin,” she’s saying.

Ha!

Yeah right. I am not answering.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Harry’s here too? Oh, please someone kill me.

I don’t have to wonder where Ron is. He’s probably chasing that… freak (have not had a chance to look up new nouns) around the school.

“Gin, I *can* just come in.”

I’m glaring at the door, in case you’re wondering. Stupid Hermione and her rights as Head Girl.

“Leave me alone,” I snap.

The door remains closed.

“Ginny, you can’t just skip classes because you’re embarrassed.”

Oh?

I can hear Harry sigh.

“Nobody was laughing at you.”

I’m not saying a word…

“I promise,” he adds. “The only people who said anything at all were laughing at *him.*”

Well, good. They should, and I hope that they do. FOR EVER!

Footsteps, and then…

“She in there?”

Oh, joy. Oh, bliss. The third member of the Dream Team.

“Yes,” Hermione’s answering, “but she won’t come out.”

I think my brother is going to attempt to break the door down.

No, wait. Harry is suggesting they all just let me alone. I love that guy.

“Did you catch him,” asks Hermione.

Ron says no, and as he begins to explain what happened, they all walk away.

I guess you want to know why I’m seriously considering transfiguring an oven out of my dresser and living in my room. Okay then. Picture this:

It’s breakfast time, and I go down as always. Malfoy was late, something that, although unexpected, was hardly noteworthy. Colin was describing how he’d narrowly escaped detention from Snape the day before (complete with expressive arm movements) when the doors to the dining area flew open.

And when I saw who was standing there and what he was holding, I thought I was going to be physically ill.

It was Draco Malfoy (who else did you think it’d be?), his arms full of red roses.

“Oh no,” I whispered, my words carrying though the room. Everyone sat quietly, watching. “Please, don’t let them be for me.”

Which was ridiculous. After all, there are *dozens* of Slytherin girls, all of whom would give their right eye for a rose from the guy. Just because he’d been sitting with me lately doesn’t mean…

My thoughts halted as he passed his houses table and stopped in front of mine.

In front of me.

Oh, this was so bad.

And to top it off, he dropped to his knees.

“When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,”

Shut up, shut up.

“For all the day they view things unrespected;”

Shut up, shut up.

“But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,”

Shut up, shut up.

“And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed,”

Shut up, shut up.

“Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,”

Shut up, shut up.

“How would thy shadow’s form happy show”

Shut up, please, for the love of Merlin, shut up.

“To the clear day with thy much clearer light,”

Oh, shut up.

“When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!”

Anyone know how to make the floor open up and swallow me?

“How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made”

…

“By looking on thee in the living day,”

Is it actually possible to die of embarrassment?

“When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade”

… Who would have guessed that a Malfoy knows Shakespeare? Sonnet 43, if I don’t miss my guess.

“Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!”

Shut up.

“All days are nights to see till I see thee,”

SHUT UP YOU FREAKING FERRET!!!!!

“And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.”

I sat there silently, staring down in disgust and suspicion. And get this: He was looking rather proud of himself, as if he’d just accomplished something he’d otherwise deemed impossible.

An envious sigh from a fellow Gryffindor caused me to return to reality.

“Get up,” I hissed through clenched teeth.

Incredibly, he shook his head, smiling. Then he went, “I’d rather kneel here at the feet of my sweet Virginia.”

HIS SWEET VIRGINIA?!

I’d show him sweet. I snatched the roses from his hands and whacked him right across his stupid, smug face. Then I jumped from my seat and fled the room, unable to look back.

Don’t even *think* about feeling sorry for him, by the way, because there is simply no way he could have been sincere. Shakespeare? Come on.

I hate him. I really truly do.

…

And I don’t find that spectacle romantic in the least.