Note: This story is being re-written and re-posted.Well, that's a lie. It already has been re-written, so I'm simply taking the liberty of posting the updated version on ffnet. I cringed every time someone read and reviewed the old one, so it was either deleting the entire thing or giving it another go. And in a sense, this is not a re-write at all. Though the core concepts of the original fic remain, many other things have been drastically edited. For the better, I hope. In the meantime, omg plz review lol.

Summary: Like every typical (or perhaps not so typical) teenager, Ginny needs a place to find solace from her every day life, consisting of mysterious and possibly deadly diary senders, pretentious snob Malfoy, and an overbearing brother called Ronald Weasley. Will she be able to find the perpetrator before Christmas day?

To sum it up in one sentence: Jingle bells, Ronald yells, and Draco Malfoy smells (literally).

Note2: The characterizations in this work of fanfiction are often times exaggerated to the point of ludicrous silliness. I don't truly believe that these characters would actually behave in such manners. Then again, Ginny and co. aren't even real. So there you go.

Disclaimer: I do not own Ginny, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Voldemort or anything related to Harry Potter. Please don't sue me.

The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley

Chapter 1: Dear Diary Once More

November 28

When one is nearing Christmas time, it is safe to say that one is usually in a very jolly mood. It is also safe to say that one would be safe from evil stalkers/psychopaths/dark lord accomplices. Or any variant of your common everyday rogue. However, I, Ginny Weasley, seem to have committed some unmentionable and unforgivable sin in some distant past life, because I proudly possess the title of Unluckiest Person Ever. And though it is Christmas time, I find myself worrying over who it is that wants to kill me. No wonder this is called the jolliest season of the year.

I suppose on the bright side, it is not even Christmas yet and I am getting presents. And if I were able to embrace that bright side, I would delude myself in feeling oddly special (something you don't feel often when you live in a house with six older brothers). But negativity is so much easier for me. (Trelawney is always clucking her tongue at my 'negative energy'). Listen, it's honestly not my fault. I have a history, my family has a history, my friends have a history, even our pets have a history of somehow getting entwined in the dark arts.

Now, to get to the real point—on the darker, overpowering side of the matter, it is not even Christmas yet and I'm getting presents from mysterious unknowns.

Yes, I can hear you gasping—why, how horrid! My sympathies for you, Ginny. But there's more: It's a diary. If you didn't know, I had an itty-bitty unfortunate incident with another diary a few years back. It was rather impacting. I suppose that's what happens when a powerful wizard tries to brainwash you.

And alright. I will admit that just because someone has anonymously sent me a gift, it does not mean that someone is out to murder me. But at the very least, it is the work of an ill-advised prankster. I'm not particularly bright girl—not like Hermione is. Occasionally, I wear socks that don't match. So what? I am not completely stupid. And I most certainly do not suffer from short-term memory loss. I am not going to fall for the same vice twice, not if I can help it.

I planned on throwing it away. A girl like me has virtually no use for a diary, except perhaps fuel for the Gryffindor fire. It gets surprisingly drafty in the common room without it.

But just as I neared the roaring chasm of doom, seeking to banish this evil and potent talisman into nothingness for eternity--Harry, Herm and Ron came sauntering in. I told you that I had the worst sort of luck. In fact, it's best if everyone steered clear of me. For the good of mankind, I am willing to lead a hermitic life.

By Murphy's Law, it is only natural that the trio noticed the diary, especially since I had been using all of my mind power to lead their attention away from it. Not that I blame Harry or Ron or Hermione for noticing it. Whoever sent it to me had a consider amount of money to spend. It looks like a million gallons, which is far more than I've ever been able to say about myself.

It doesn't seem fair that evil things should often times look so pretty. Like Malfoy, for example. I will admit he looks very pretty at times, especially when his tie is slightly loosened and his hair is slightly mussed and—well, the point is that he is reasonably nice to look at. (Except that time when I hexed him. He did not look all that attractive as Bogey Man. Thank God) . But his aura reeks of such sinister intent, no one can stand to be near him for long, lest his aura rub off on you. It is so clearly obvious that justice does not exist in this world, yet the trio still persists. I, being a wise woman of sixteen, have moved beyond hopeless naiveté...Actually, Harry and company are probably just attention-whoring. Everyone knows it.

Anyway, I realized then that I would have to explain to Harry, Herm, and Ron about the perpetrator.

Ron: Who would send you a diary like that?

Me: (Huffily) If I knew, I wouldn't be lolling about the common room, would I? I would be out there, dishing out much deserved arse kicking!

Harry: Pffffft! (Yes, he really did say 'pffffft'). All of you lot are BLIND. This is why people die—because they fail to prepare themselves for what is right in front of their eyes. Who do you THINK did this? Neville's grandmother's purse? This has Voldemort's slimy name all over it. It's so blatant, it should be a crime.

Hermione: Right, because it's in Voldemort's interest to send expensive diaries to teenage girls residing in Hogwarts. How could I have been so stupid?

Harry: Open your eyes, Granger. Voldemort has a history of dabbling with diaries! She's living proof! (Points at me. I don't have the heart to tell Harry that pointing isn't polite).

Hermione: I doubt he'd use the same trick twice. It goes against some super villain code of conduct.

Harry: Honestly, were you always this idiotic, or has all the dust from those books you read eaten your brain? Ever heard of reverse psychology? Just because Ginny won't expect it is exactly the reason to send her a little gift. It's probably filled with venom. Or something. Well, I did hear of this one diary, given to a muggle tailor in Belgium—the leather of the book turned his skin a putrid green color—true story, you know—

(I drop said book).

Ron: I hate to say it, mate—but you're fucking insane.

Harry: (Scowls).

Hermione: Ginny? Do you have any clue who it might have been? Secret admirers, perhaps—

Ron: Great, are you crazy too?

Hermione: (With one eyebrow raised. We were in dangerous waters now). I beg your pardon?

Ron: Why would you go and ask my innocent baby sister a question like that? I thought you were the sensible one of our lot. She's obviously too young to be thinking about boys.

Me: Stop being a bigot, Ron. I've had boyfriends before.

Ron: Oh, yes, right—Michael Corner, wasn't it? Well, he wasn't much of a man, was he? Not much of a boy, either. Not much of anything, to be quite frank.

Me: Michael was very manly! And if you've forgotten, I had a thing with Dean and Dean must be a man in your books, since he's your mate.

Ron: Yea, well. S'not the point. The point is that you're not dating anyone now, nor will you be dating anytime soon. Not under my watch.

Hermione: Alright, alright, shut up, you two. We still haven't figured out what's happened here.

Ron: (Looking surprisingly thoughtful). It was probably Dumbledore's doing.

Harry: (Face lights up). Yea. Like he sent me my invisibility cloak, anonymously.

Hermione: But Harry, that was your dad's. He was just passing it on, as he should.

Harry: So? Maybe the diary was Mr. Weasley's. You don't know that it wasn't.

Hermione: I thought you said it was from You-Know-Who?

Harry: I said 'maybe.' What, do you think I know everything? I don't pretend to, unlike some people. (Yes, Harry was feeling a little snippy today).

Ron: Maybe it's a special diary. Maybe it's got, er, hidden magical properties, or some rubbish like that.

Hermione: What do you think, Ginny?

Me: Um.

Ron: Do you reckon its worth over a galleon, this?

Harry: (Scratching his head). I dunno…

Hermione: (Glares). Honestly, who cares?

The verdict was that I was to write in it. I think they are all quite batty and possibly in on this whole trick in the first place. Git Ron would do it. Nervous Harry might, too, if persuaded at a vulnerable moment. Hermione…Hermione probably hates me anyway, because I refused to be in her little elitist humanitarian club—Skew, was it? Or something like that. Maybe it was called Spew. I can't be bothered to remember.

After much deliberation, the three of them decided FOR ME that it would be OK for me to write in it. I think they simply grew tired of discussing me and my small artifact. So to put me out of their way, they told me there was nothing to worry about. Ha—I didn't buy that line even at age five. Harry recanted his earlier speech on why it had to have been Voldemort. Herm says that a diary is a good way to process your thoughts. Ron told her I didn't like to think. I should have socked him.

The point is that I will do no such thing. Write, I mean.

...Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I'm doing right now. It's just that I made a scene of the whole deal, acting furious at their conclusion and telling them to 'shove it' in inappropriate places…and so now I am very lonely, pretending to fume (alone) in my dorm.

I think they rather think of me as a dog.

November 29

A recollection of what has happened today in life:

Woke up. Ate breakfast. Ate chocolate. Ate homework. (Well alright, not really the latter. But it's not for lack of trying).

Then I rolled around bed for a while, reading Teen Witch Weekly. Although, I've never understood the obligation that every teenage girl feels to read these trashy magazines relating to such non-important topics as, "How To Pluck Your Eyebrows: The Right Way!"

Is it the natural flow of estrogen in all of us that compels us to do so? So, for example, if a certain girl doesn't feel any impulses to read these magazines, does that mean that I, I mean she, is not really a woman?

Errgh, too much philosophy for one day, as I'm sure you'd agree. Anyway, here's a gem: "How To Get A Boyfriend In Less Than A Month".

Honestly, this magazine has no tact. They write about three things: a) How to make yourself look alluring enough to acquire your very own beau. b) Why boys are so great. c) A never-ending list of the most eligible wizards in the entire world, written by half-witted drooling females. Who use the word 'fit' every other sentence.

Personally, I believe that I have come up with a much better enterprise (than trashy teen magazines, I mean): Owl order boyfriends. It would be an immediate hit. Like blind dates, only you don't have to go anywhere. You don't even have to change out of your pyjamas. They come wrapped in the ribbon of your choice. Complete satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back, and a one month warranty just in case your new love has some hidden surprises, and not the good sort either. I'm sure there must be others like me, others who are quite done with searching around for suitable males. I could go patent this spiffy idea now and rake in the money. Perhaps then gaggles of handsome men will follow me. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to start such a business. And even if I did know how, with my immense luck, it will probably go bankrupt in the first hour.

Still, there is no harm in reading such ineloquent text, at least until I get rich. There is nothing wrong with exercising my literate abilities. I'll probably have to read handfuls of lusty love letters a day once I'm famous.

December 1

Christmas has finally become far too superficial to be tolerable. They might as well call it the 'When-All-The-Signs-In-Hogsmeade-Flash-Green-And-Red" season. "A diamond necklace for her! ON SALE NOW!" says one, or "A sexy pair of boxers for him! 30 OFF ONLY UNTIL WEDNESDAY!"

I don't really know who would buy a lad boxers for Christmas. I would be pretty disappointed if I ended up getting under things for the Yuletide.

I would ignore Christmas shopping this year altogether, but then I would have several people add me to their hit lists. So I succumb to tradition.

Harry: Book on paranoia. I hope he'll take the hint. Then again, maybe taking the hint wouldn't be such a good idea for him. He could grow depressed. He might try to off himself.

Ron: Underwear. Is that mean? Probably. I'll throw in an extra box of chocolates. If he's nice. IF.

Hermione: A "sewing machine" for her clothes making fetish. She's been talking nonstop about getting one. I heard it was far more efficient than what we're used to. I don't believe it, but it's her present, not mine.

And that concludes Ginny Weasley's Intense Christmas Shopping List.

Hurrah, I am done. More sleep for Ginny.

December 2

Ron is mad at me. Poor thing thinks I care.

He's angry with me because I caught a cold from being out in the freezing cold with nothing but a thin robe on. I had forgotten my coat indoors! It wasn't like I was going to run all the way up several flights of moving stairs just to retrieve it. I don't see why he has to get in a right state when I'm the one who has to endure the burning throat, clogged nose, and scorching fever. I hate fever the most. It makes me look like I'm blushing at everything.

For example:

Harry: Hey, Ginny.

Me: Unnnh. Hello, Harry. (Face is furiously red from fever).

Ron: (Shakes head). Ginny, stop blushing at Harry. He's just saying hi.

Me: I'm not blushing! (Face turns redder from indignation).

Ron: (To Harry) She likes you.

Harry: (Looks smug).

Maybe I'll lie here on my bed, writing my will. I can feel death's woolly hands pulling at me.

Oh, bollocks. Never mind. That was just my scarf caught on the drawer handle.

December 3

The snow has all melted, and I am officially in a horrid mood.

In honor of this sad occasion, I have written a poem.

If I can stop one snowflake from melting, I shall not live in vain.

It sucks, doesn't it? You can tell me the truth. I won't shriek in fright and fury and rip you with my bare hands before hurling you into the fire. I promise. Oh, God, I must be really awfully lonely.

December 4

Hermione says it's not possible to die of boredom, but I tend to disagree. My boredom causes me to go into a sort of coma. I lie in on the common room sofa very, very still. So still, that Ron stumbled upon my rigid body and asked me if I was alive. Suspect he was disappointed when I blinked at him.

Ron is even more furious with me for scraping by with a 50 on my potions essay. He gave me his annual 'Big Brother' speech a little early. He told me to stop focusing so much on boys. He told me that boys were silly and stupid and not worth my attention. Slightly regretfully (because he was quite clearly under wrong impressions) I told him that not all males were like him.

Seriously, though. He could have just said, stop mooning over Harry (which I am not), Ginny. Go study, Ginny. Don't do this, Ginny. Do this instead, Ginny. You're a good girl, Ginny. Roll over and beg for a treat, Ginny.

Moreover, his advice would make more sense if I had any boys to concentrate on. None seem to be much interested in me, and really, it's sad that a girl of sixteen hasn't even properly snogged a lad yet. Or any single person for that matter, but that's beside the point. Am I really so disfigured?

Or maybe, as I had always hoped, it's not me, but this school. Maybe something happened to all its inhabitants while I was not looking and turned them all into ignoramuses. Maybe this is Make Ginny Feel Bad year. It isn't unusual for me to be last to board the clue train. But I doubt the problem lies within my schoolmates. All of my female classmates can't stop talking about their object of affection. And they can't stop comparing snogs. Over 99.9 percent of them, I bet, has had some sort of sexual encounter with the opposite sex. I just bet. That's just it then. I am simply a statistical anomaly. Grand.

December 6

My Life Problems:

1) Achieve expressing my opinions and thoughts out loud, to clear any misconceptions about me being shy. But what exactly does this entail? Lots of yelling and pointless brawling? I'd rather not. Threats? Random rebellions? I am so uninformed on how to be a proper teenager. Is there some kind of handbook for this?

2) I'm flunking Potions.

3) People fail to understand me. I fail to understand them. It's a mutual problem.

4) I don't have a boyfriend.

5) My brother is a total ponce.

6) Boredom. Coma. I have to get rid of it. Soon.

7) No snow. Am not feeling the spirit of Christmas.

8) I need to figure out who gave this diary to me before I make like Harry and blame everything on Voldemort.

But perhaps the newest and biggest problem has only just risen.

At the end of last year, Dumbledore decided that 'in light of recent events, the students of our dear castle should be offered a chance for emotional therapy,' a.k.a you-children-are-so-screwed-up. 'Self Discovery' class was open to students who needed a little help and guidance in their personal and social life:

Ron has been begging me to join.

It is a fact of life that when your brother begs you to join a class such as Self Discovery, one is a hapless loser. The former statement verily applies to me.

Ron gave me a pamphlet on what this class was about. I don't need to read it. I was so offended by his implications that I sat there gaping like a fish. He took his as one of my 'eh, my brain's on leave at the moment, just have your way with me' moments and threw my edited schedule in my lap. In the 10:00-11:00 block (used to be glorious, glorious free period) I now have a course called 'Self Discovery'. And in case you're wondering, yes, this does wonders for my self-esteem.

In conclusion:

9) Survive Self Discovery. In addition, find myself a paper bag to wear over my head, which will be hanging in shame.

As the ancient and sage philosophers say: Life is a bitch.