A/N: This is the second in a series of oneshots I'm doing. Sorry if the transitions are strange-fanfiction's stupid stupidness is getting in the way again. If you read 'Fresh Pickled', this is in a COMPLETELY different style. Be forewarned. Ginny was stuffed in my head so long, she got a little...er, cracked. This is set in her 5th year. As ever, you are vunderful! Hope you like.
Disclaim, etc.
His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,
His hair as dark as a blackboard,
I wish he was mine, he's really divine,
The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
5 September 1996
Dear Mum,
I'm doing well—term's just started, so there's not been much homework. Although, Snape did assign a rather nasty essay on the second day back. I'm not surprised at all, I've heard he's even worse to Ron and Harry's year; you wouldn't believe the things he's said to them.
I really think it'd be brilliant if we found another Potions Master (you know, just doddering around somewhere)—someone competent, of course, but someone with a healthy amount of conditioner and perhaps a jolly sense of adventure. Wouldn't that be fun? Except, if he began saying rot things like—"11 feet on the essence of mandrake root, due this Wednesday! Isn't it exciting, students? Aren't we all just shivering with anticipation, quivering with excitement? I wonder, who shall collapse first? Oh, what fun!"—if he said horrendous things like that, then I might become very miffed. Very miffed, indeed.
How are the garden gnomes and/or chickens and/or you holding up? Not falling apart now that all of us are gone for another year?
I'm joking, of course, Mum, I know you are a formidable woman and can hold together anything. Now, the garden gnomes, I'm not too sure about. I know one of them has gotten rather protective of Fred (how he knows the difference between he and George, I never know, but he always seems to manage rather excellently). What was his name? Judice? Jodie? Jorge ? Josefina? Squashes?
You never know, with gnomes.
How's Dad at work? Any…new developments…in his independent project? Everything in order? Don't tell me that Fletcher bloke's gotten off again.
Love you, Mum, and Dad. Miss you as well. I can't wait to see you—all—at Christmas!
Much Love,
Ginny
P.S. I don't know what you told Ron, but he's been trying to force feed Harry whenever he pauses to breathe during mealtimes. Is he aiming to make him obese? I could help, if you like, though I don't think it'll do much—that boy will always be a string bean.
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8 September 1996
6-something-AM, i.e. ENTIRELY TOO EARLY
Common Room
Hermione's mad.
Batty as Trelawney and X Lovegood put together.
She woke me up this morning, shook me awake without so much as a by-your-leave, and actually seemed insulted when she had to dodge as I flailed my arms in protest.
"Well!" she huffed. "I suppose I should know better, considering who your brother is, but as it's for your own good, I don't think I'll let you be. No, Ginny, you need to get up. It's important."
Important, my arse, I tried to grumble angrily. What came out was not coherent and shall not be recorded.
Hermione seemed to understand the sentiment, in any case, and expelled another insulted "Well!" before hauling my Quidditch-abused body out of my cocoon of sheets and into the cold, unforgiving morning light—which was just peeking over the horizon.
"What are you playing at?" I growled, secretly pleased to hear proper words emerge at such an accursed hour. "The sun isn't even up yet! Why should I be?"
This made perfect sense to me, but it has now been made apparent that Hermione popped out of the vaginal canal and toddled straight into the loony bin. "Oh, don't be obtuse, Ginny. Put these on and be in the Common Room in five minutes. I'll come back in ten if you aren't down by then."
I grabbed the proffered articles of clothing and began pulling them on, hardly caring which ligament went where. If I came down with my knickers in a literal twist and my trainers on backwards, it would be utterly Hermione's fault.
Thankfully, I seem to have more presence of mind than I give myself credit for, as I was in the Common Room with one minute to spare, hair (somewhat) tamed and clothes (mostly) on.
And do you know, diary, what was so incredibly important that Hermione felt she had every right to drag me out of my Harry-dreams, throw clothing at me like I was some unwanted whore, and insist—nay, demand—that I follow her down to the cold, empty Common Room? Do you know?
"I thought you might like to do some early morning revision. Start the morning off right, you know. It did wonders for my memory last year."
She thought I might like some early morning revision.
"HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER—"
"Shhh!" she admonished, looking at me as if I were several Knuts short of a Sickle. "You'll wake the whole House, Ginny, honestly. I'm helping you—"
"Well, stop."
She pointedly ignored me. "I'm helping you because this is your O.W.L. year, and I want you to have all the advantage you can get. It's a nasty year—the professors overload everyone to ridiculous limits, and as it's me saying this, and not Ron, I think you should listen. Listen!" she hissed, when I opened my mouth to protest (loudly). "I'm trying to help you! So turn to page three, all right?"
She shoved her old Charms book in my hands and glowered at me fiercely. I sat down slowly and warily began flipping through.
Here, I must interject, in case Hermione ever happens to read this (which should never happen. Ever. I will find you and hex you into a hellish oblivion.): That Charms book—and all your other old books—will likely save my arse many times over. It's absolutely brilliant. There are little scribbles in the sidelines—main ideas and themes, shortcuts and mnemonics—and color-coded tabs, and—and tiny pictures!
I stood up, quite suddenly. Hermione squeaked as I tackled her, arms flapping in what she probably thought was self-defense (note to future-Ginny: must teach H proper ways to incapacitate attackers, she's currently rubbish). I hugged her tightly. "Hermione Granger, you are amazing. I shall build a temple to your loyal, brilliant self and I will be the high priestess. I love you, I love you, I love you, and you are my best friend in the whole of Hogwarts."
I was very proud of my little speech (I think it was properly obsequious, don't you?), so you can imagine my dismay when all the response Hermione could manage was a pained groan. I leapt back wildly. "Oh no, I've squished her!"
She rolled over and sighed heavily, as if deeply grieved, but her lips were twitching madly. "No. You haven't. Though it was a valiant effort."
"I'm glad. It would hardly do if the high priestess were to accidentally smother her goddess. I might have gotten a demerit!"
Hermione gasped. "My goodness, can you imagine the headlines?"
I framed the air in front of me. "Deity Strangled By Sycophant. Wizarding World Shocked And Bewildered."
"It'd be horrid press for the sisterhood."
I nodded sagely. "We have a hard enough time getting recruits already. We keep losing them to the Potter Fan Club."
Much muffled giggling ensued.
Hermione is now deep in her own revision, as I am pretending to be. She looks up on occasion to smile encouragingly at me. I nod back with as studious an air as I can muster.
Early morning revision.
Psh. PLEASE.
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22 October 1996
Charms
2:45 PM
Oh, where, oh, where, has my bowtruckle gone? Oh, where, oh, where can he be? With his tree cut short and his roots grown long, oh, where, oh, where can he be?
Note-taking day in Charms. Very boring.
Mmm. Ho-hum. Diddly-dee.
xxxxxx
Still Charms
2:50 PM
I've been staring at the same tuft of Flitwick's hair for the better part of an hour. Which is quite the accomplishment, you know. Flitwick moves about a lot. Whenever he gets particularly excited, he'll quiver, and the little white tuft will waver as if bowing.
That's rather gentlemanly, don't you think?
I wonder if I can get my hair to curtsy back?
I'll ask Luna.
Luna!
Oh, hello, Ginny. Are we passing notes?
Yes. Luna, do you know how I could make my hair curtsy?
I've never passed notes in class before. It feels rather lovely.
Doesn't it? Do you happen to know how to make one's hair curtsy?
Well, I suppose you could curl it. That seems very ladylike. Do you mean, curtsy magically? You could invite a Tortellian gnedrungle to nest in your hair—they're known for granting favours to their hosts.
…I'm not too keen on hair infestations…
That isn't surprising. Hardly anyone is. How's Harry?
Harry?
Yes. Harry Potter. How is he?
How should I know? He seems fine.
Well, you're in love with him, aren't you? I should think you'd want to keep track of his welfare.
In—Luna, what? I am not—in love! Love! Ha! Ha-ha...
Really? Oh. Well, then, I'll let Padma know he's free.
What? Padma—and Harry? Don't be ridiculous. Harry's too busy to date.
Is that why you can't be in love with him?
We should focus on Flitwick's lecture. It might come up on our O.W.L. examination.
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Still Charms
3-ish PM
Oh, hell. Thank you, Luna.
I've been trying to avoid any unhealthy thinking, and have done quite excellently up until now. Not even Flitwick's courteous little tuft is enough to distract me properly.
Don't fail me now, little tuft!
Sigh.
I try looking out the window for something—anything—interesting. There are the Herbology greenhouses, steam curling against the insulated glass. There, the Forbidden Forest, brooding like some huge, disgruntled bear. There, the Quidditch Pitch, with its gleaming brass hoops and looming spectator bleachers. And everywhere, the grounds rolling outwards, a shining and radiant green the color of Harry's eyes—
Damn it.
I shall make a list. Lists always make me feel incredibly sane.
Absolutely and Utterly Undeniable Facts of Life
-The sky is blue (except when it is grey, or black, or green. In those cases, the sky is…er, not blue).
-Malfoy will always be a snarky prat, just like Snape will always be mortally afraid of a proper shower.
-Voldemort is evil, yes, but his strongest quality is being melodramatic. Doesn't he realize how easy it is to confuse 'Voldemort' with 'Moldy Warts'? It's shockingly appropriate. He does look like fungus.
-Harry is the Boy-Who-Lived. Therefore he is too busy for dating Padma.
-Malfoy will forever be the Amazing Bouncing Ferret.
-Hermione is in love with Ron.
-I am no longer a squeaky first year. I am a strong, independent woman. I do not need a boy.
-Although, having one would be nice…
-But unnecessary.
-Ginevra Molly Weasley is not in love with Harry James Potter.
Yes. That's right. She is not.
xxxxxxxxxx
Still still Charms
Later later
Oh, bugger it.
Yes she is.
xxxxxxxxxx
Still still still Charms
Later later later
Have been trying to copy down notes.
Has not been going well.
The blackboard looks like Harry's hair.
xxxxxxxxxx
Charms, etc.
Later, etc.
List making time.
Top Ten Reasons Why Saint Potter Is Divine
-His eyes remind me of a childhood friend—a toad-friend, yes, but he was a very clever toad.
-He's absurdly modest; especially about things he's tremendous at. It's oddly… cute.
-He's been playing Quidditch for five years. Five years of intense training in every type of weather. Have you ever seen a Quidditch-toned body? It's brilliant. Lean, sinewy muscles, broad shoulders, and the abs…those are my favorite. And you know the best part? The Gryffindor changing room. Yes. Quidditch is most definitely my preferred sport.
-I trust him (him and his incorrigible mop of hair).
-He's got a smile brighter than any Lumos spell.
-Amazing broom skills; Quidditch God; et cetera
-Unparalleled Gryffindorian instincts—he's an ace at being wherever he is most unwanted, saving the world, attracting the most dangerous creature within a thirty kilometer radius and giving it a good strong poke…
-Some would consider this to be brash stupidity combined with extraordinarily abysmal luck, but those more advanced in the areas of wisdom and general knowingness such as myself assert that it is only stupidity if he pokes the dragon and, er, dies. Which he hasn't yet. So clearly, it is bravery.
-The ability to live through the summer without killing his repulsive whale of a cousin.
-His Patronus is a stag. Sexy.
-Precious hands which catch golden snitches in record time, and might one day (fingers crossed) caress my cheek.
-And…now I shall give in to my inner fluttering female by saying: there's just something about him.
Erm… I suppose that's eleven, isn't it?
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Hogwarts Library Log.
Librarian-at-hand: Madam Irma Pince
Concerning: Anomaly
Date: 17 November 1996
Details: Book titled 'Wanton Warlocks', Author Carya Callipygos, Section Recreational Novels. Seems to be the object of extreme popularity among the female population. Unsure how to approach matter. More research necessary.
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20 November 1996
7:32 PM
Fifth Year Dormitory. Bed. Hiding Behind Hangings.
I'm fairly bouncing with glee. Bouncing!
Who knew crime could be so invigorating?
I finally nicked Lavender's ridiculous book.
I've gotten rather tired of her 'maturing literary interests'—namely, of having to settle Hermione after another night of Lavender's nonsense ("I'm finally about to doze off, and then, she'll—she'll giggle or gasp or—" here, Hermione always gives a delicate shudder "—coo like some common tart! It's repulsive! There are people trying to sleep! And…and, study!").
It's shameless, really, the way she flaunts the thing, waving it about like some sort of badge of her femininity. Someone needs to lecture the girl, and firmly. Reading racy novels does not usher you into womanhood.
(At least, that's what Hermione says. I couldn't give a Cockroach Cluster what methods Lavender Brown may or may not exhaust in order to 'feel like a woman'. The whole idea is ridiculous. I suspect Hermione just hates Lavender because of her –erm, occasional foibles—with Ron, and she is trying to justify it so as to avoid coming to terms with her jealousy.
Hmm.
You know, I can be extremely observant.
What a comforting thing to discover about oneself.)
Anyway, I nicked it. From beneath Lavender's pillow —shudder— and even though I had to skip dinner to do it, it will be worth it. Because I cannot take one more day of Hermione-angst. It's too unnatural.
She had better be bringing me some things from dinner. I gave up my utterly wide-eyed, innocent lifestyle for one of crime and debauchery. I've gone into a spiral of degenerative misdeeds, the likes of which shall no doubt stain the very fabric of my soul! The least she could do is bring me a bit of chicken. A miniscule dollop of mashed potatoes.
Perhaps some pudding.
xxxxxxxxx
Still in the dormitory. Still ravenously hungry.
Later PM
I've gotten incredibly bored of not eating.
I have also gotten bored of pretending to do my homework. What's the point of pretending to do things if no one's around to think I'm doing them?
It's entirely useless.
Except, it makes me feel productive.
xxxxxxxxxx
Still, still in dormitory. Still hungry.
A bit later PM
Something occurred to me just now: no matter how much work I pretend to do, the professors will still be grading nothing if I don't eventually do it.
So I should—maybe, maybe—actually do some work.
Blast.
xxxxxxxxx
I haven't moved. No food has appeared.
PM
I have finished my Charms essay! Huzzah!
You know, I find I feel even more productive when I produce something.
How very odd.
On to Potions (May Snape Rot In The Lowest Level Of Hell Like The Grease-Slicked Bogey He Is).
xxxxxxxxx
Dormitory. Stomach still suspiciously empty.
Later PM
Have abandoned Potions essay for more interesting target: Lavender's book.
There has to be some reason why she always carted it around with her. And it isn't just her—I've heard Parvati and even Audrey Vance, the 6th year who (if the rumours are true) knows more about true womanhood than any adolescent has a right to, whisper excitedly about it, as if it were some delicious cult ritual.
I find I am curious. What is so compelling about one flimsy paperback?
I look at the cover incredulously. Pictured there is an impossibly rippled chest, pastured with dark curls, delicately wafting in a phantom breeze. There is a wand sticking out of the man's front trouser pocket, but there is little else to see; the photo cuts off at the shoulders and –er, waist area. The title is emblazoned across the top in bold pink script.
'Wanton Warlocks'? Snort.
I flip to the first page, amused. This will, at least, be worth a good belly laugh or two.
xxxxxxxxx
Dorm, etc.
Late late
Oh. My. Gods.
This is so much better than pudding.
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Hogwarts Library Log.
Librarian-at-hand: Madam Irma Pince
Concerning: Transitive measures
Date: 21 November 1996. Afternoon.
Details: Book titled 'Wanton Warlocks', Author Carya Callipygos, Section Recreational Novels. Have examined WW closely. Have found no unusual hexes, jinxes, compulsions, things of that nature to be affecting the book. Female students appear to be reading it entirely of their own will. Read WW to discover its 'charm'.
Am horrified.
Book seems to be some sort of tawdry attempt at romance—contains words too graphic with disturbing imagery and ghastly amounts of…'connubial relations'. Suspect some described events may even be illegal. Cannot have such a benighted novel fouling my shelves. Have decided to move it and all its copies to the Restricted Section immediately. Shall burn its waiting list.
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23 November 1996
Transfiguration
Morning
Lavender is a foul harpy. I don't understand how Ron tolerates her.
She's taken back the book! Said she didn't think I'd "stoop that low". She's shocked and bewildered—how could Won-Won's little sister do such a thing? Won-Won, who is so honourable and true?
Oh, spare me.
(Hermione is very pleased with me. At breakfast she kept piling my plate up with bacon, and whenever I reached for something, she was suddenly there. "More jam, Ginny?" she'd ask, beaming.)
In any case, it was apparently a library book, so I'll have to check it back out. I've not finished.
I need to finish.
...
Heh.
xxxxxxxxxx
Great Hall
Lunch
Pince has made it restricted!
What's that nasty vulture playing at?
Well. Well.
That's not going to stop me.
vvvvvv-vvvvvv-vvvvvv-vvvvvv
DETENTION SLIP
From the desk of Argus Filch
Name: Ginny Weasley
Crime: Sneaking about library after curfew. Carrying a suspicious book. Directing an abundance of cheek at an elder.
Suggested sentence: Scouring third floor boys' lavatory, magic-less
To take place: 29 November 1996
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[A/N: Carya is goddess of the walnut tree, and Callipygos means beautiful buttocks. Thought it was appropriate.
In any case, dear readers, how you like, mm? I would so appreciate any feedback! Please review.]