Disclaimer: I do not own the wonderful world of HP.
Question: If you had been possessed, at the tender age of eleven, by a Dark Lord who was channelling his soul into you through the diary into which you poured your heart out, would you be stupid enough to confide in another diary?
Answer of a Sane Individual: No, of course not!
Answer of a Ginny Weasley: Yes, of course!
The look on Mum's face when I told her I wanted to buy a diary the next time we went to Diagon Alley was priceless. She dropped the mirror she was cleaning and it shattered as it hit the floor, screeching out four letter words. She hastily waved her wand in a Reparo and set the mirror aside, where it continued to grumble ("I'm an old mirror, I am, and I ain't done nothin' to deserve this kind of treatment! Why I remember this woman with a hideous daughter called Snow White. Now, that was a lady who used to treat me fine.").
Mum sat down at the kitchen table and motioned for me to sit down facing her. I complied because I couldn't really see any way of getting a new diary without her help. To put it simply, I'm broke. We're not exactly a family that's rolling in riches and times have been pretty hard lately, even though we still have a bit of money left over from the Daily Prophet Lottery. An awkward sort of silence hung around us for a while because Mum's a lot better at dealing with boys than girls after all these years. Anyway, she leaned across a table and asked me softly whether I was still having dreams of You Know Who's diary.
"No, Mum," I said, shaking my head. "I just want a new diary."
Her eyes were filled with worry and concern. It exasperated me. Honestly, hadn't I proved that I was capable of taking care of myself in the Department of Mysteries. "Why?" she asked.
Ah, now there lay a massive rub. I couldn't just tell her the real reason I wanted a diary. Heck, at this point, even I'm feeling a little sceptical regarding it. Very healthy scepticism, of course, the kind you have about something that you know might work.
It all began when I spotted a copy of last month's Witch Weekly lying on this very kitchen table and decided to read it. Mum and Dad were busy going over some Order documents that they had enchanted to look blank if I tried to read over their shoulders. Ron was out, picking Hermione up from the train station her parents had agreed to meet him at. Bill was still in London. He was temporarily staying with Fred and George above their joke shop. I didn't envy him much there, knowing that he'd be soundly pranked despite being their favourite older brother. Charlie was in Romania. He wouldn't be back until a week after I had left for Hogwarts. Overall, I was feeling fairly lonely and generally ill-tempered. It was this happy mood that caused me to sink to the lowest of low reading in the form of Witch Weekly's baby blue pages.
'How to Seduce a Wizard a Week!' screamed one lurid pink headline. Below it, was another one entitled, 'Harry Potter: The Chosen One? 97% witches would choose him in a heartbeat!' I flipped over to that page and found a disgustingly gushy article which painted a picture of a mythical Harry that bore absolutely no resemblance to the real person. Phrases like 'sexy as sin but with a heart of gold' literally leapt out of the page, with streamers attached to rein them back in, and made me snort. Harry was good-looking, true, although I hadn't really thought of him that way for quite some time. But he was nothing like the shirt-ripping, six-pack bloke they'd made him out to be. He was sweet and charming and a little dorky, taking everything simple far too seriously and turning into a brooding idiot the second things went wrong. He held his feelings in until they exploded, like that time in Grimmauld Place when he was yelling at Ron and Hermione. Merlin's defective wooden earpieces, my ears still ring just thinking about it. And that's saying something, considering my Mum's regular volume of conversation is about a hundred decibels higher than most people's.
Finally, I gave up on reading that rag and tossed it aside. It missed the table by inches, landing on the floor. I groaned and bent to pick it up. Its pages were fluttering on the floor and an article near the end of the magazine caught my eye. It said, in a flowery script that was pretty muted compared to the rest of the page, 'Is He Still at the Back of Your Head?'
I hesitated for a second and then looked around the room. Ron wasn't home yet and my parents were immersed in their work, talking in hushed voices. I picked the magazine up and ran to my room, shutting the door behind me with a little dragon claw lock that Charlie had given me as a birthday present on my thirteenth. My heart was thudding erratically as I started to read:
You poor dear! You've done everything you can to get over him, haven't you?
I nodded vigorously.
You've tossed away all those pictures of him that you collected, you've got a new boyfriend and maybe even managed to become 'just friends' with him.
But there's still a tiny part of you that would squeal and jump into his arms the second he came around, isn't there?
Get rid of it, girl! You're an amazing person and if hasn't seen that yet, chances are that he never will. Now, it's time for you to get over him completely and totally! How? It's so simple you'll wonder why you hadn't thought of this before!
Write down your feelings for him over a period of six months and then set them aflame, destroying them all and reducing them to ashes! The writing itself will help you pour your feelings out of your body and the fire will symbolise your phoenix-like rebirth from the ashes of your crush!
And remember, the only person who matters is you.
Ciao!
Even though I was dating the perfectly hot Dean Thomas now, a small part of me still wanted Harry. Maybe it was my pride speaking, maybe it was my ego which rebelled at the thought of a boy who had rejected me. Not outright, he was too polite for that, but he had subtly shown me that he preferred a certain dark haired Ravenclaw Seeker. Which was fine with me, really. Because my inner-fangirl was long gone by now. Honest.
But what if I could get rid of him completely? I tore the article out of the magazine and shoved it into Ron's old Potions textbook, which now belonged to me.
"Within a year, Harry," I thought, "I'll be able to treat you exactly the way I treat Ron."
"Ginny, dear?" said Mum, leading me into a small shop in Diagon Alley. "Which diary do you want?"
Thankfully, I hadn't needed to tell her that I wanted to keep the existence of my new diary a secret. She had understood that one on her own and brought me here alone.
The first thing that hit me about the shop was the smell of owl droppings that emanated from everywhere. It was like one of Owl Nation's Peeing Competition. (And don't ask me how I know about Owl Nation's existence or its Peeing Competition. That's a very long story involving my Aunts Agatha and Muriel, who I'm convinced are a part of Hags Anonymous.)
As I looked around the shop, my heart sank. Sure, I'm used to buying second hand things all the time and I'm not particularly fussy like Per... or touchy like Ron. But this diary was special to me. After my first, traumatising experience with a diary I wanted it to be to be the polar opposite of Tom Riddle's. Ashamed as I was to admit it, I wanted one of those fussy baby blue things with white faux-fur. I didn't want another battered old thing to remind me of my rubbish first year at Hogwarts.
An old man, stooped low over a cane, came up next to me and wheezed, "Good mornin', miss. What'll you be wantin' today?"
I was fascinated by the way his thousand wrinkles and hundred jaws wriggled every time he opened his mouth. They reminded me of the earthworms in our garden.
Behind me, my mother coughed and said, "We would like a diary please."
I was about to make an irritated remark about being able to talk for myself when the proprietor asked, "Whose diary?"
Mum flinched although I like to think that I succeeded in keeping my face impassive.
"No one's," I said crisply. "I'd like a blank diary for myself."
He cackled like a character from one of the Tales of Beedle the Bard and rubbed his hands together. "I have the very item for you."
I was about to tell him not to bother, sure that anything that pleased this lunatic geriatric wasn't something that I wanted to own, when he stepped behind a dusty red curtain. I pushed it aside and followed him. "Excuse me?"
The words dried up in my throat as I saw the sheer amount of garbage stored in the there. It was enough to make Grimmauld Place look like the world's cleanest zone. There Doxies had merely inhabited the curtains. Here, they were... er... actively reproducing all over them. I averted my eyes from the disgusting spectacle although I couldn't resist taking a quick peek. For Fred's research's benefit, of course.
The smell arising from the carpet was even worse that the stench outside and I almost retched. I had never been inside this particular store before and couldn't believe that Mum frequented it. For a second, Percy's angry face flashed before my eyes, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting as he announced that our monetary difficulties were entirely Dad's fault. Then I heard something crunching and realised that it was the debris hidden in the carpet. The old man was back from whichever pile of useless objects he had been concealed behind and was waving three boxes in my face eagerly.
I shrank back but his enthusiasm didn't waver. "See 'em! You'll love 'em, I guarantee it!"
Tentatively, I picked up the three boxes and was extremely relived when none of them chose to attack me and/or spill cockroach poop on my hands as I was half scared they would. The first box, which was covered in flaking neon paint, let out a slight squeak as I opened it. The diary inside it wasn't too bad, an old leather bound affair that would have been extremely sober had it not been for the miniature parrots flying around on the cover. One of them banged his head against the edge and began to squawk indignantly. After a few seconds of feather rustling, it realised that the others weren't paying it any attention and started flying again, only to fall down after crashing into the binding.
"That's very... unique," I said, feeling as though I was just being introduced to Luna Lovegood all over again.
"See the next, see the next," urged the old man, pressing another box into my hands. He seemed almost inhumanly happy about the whole thing. I wondered whether he and Mr. Ollivander were distant cousins. That would explain the strange sales manner mania.
I kept the first box aside and opened the second. The diary within was pretty much perfect. It looked exactly like the way my dream diary had, new and shiny in a pretty shade of blue. It was feminine but not so girly that I would have to endure Fred and George's teasing for the rest of my life, just the rest of the month.
"It's just what I'd thought of," I told my mum. She smiled and reached for her purse. Just then, the proprietor said, "Of course, its just whatcha wanted. Its readin' yer mind after all. Alters it's appeance to suit ya."
Mum's hand stilled and she shot me a worried look. It took me a second to realise why. My face was stony, hands curved around the book as if ready to tear it apart.
"I don't think this is the one she wants," said Mum hurriedly. She relieved the book up from my grasp. Holding it gingerly between the tips of her index finger and thumb, she deposited it back into the box. Away from me, it changed into a faded old diary reminding me forcibly of...
My hands balled up into fists and even after all these years, I had the ridiculous urge to just burn the damn thing. Or stick a giant sword through it. Or feed it to Buckbeak. Or just do something!
The third and final box was all that was left now and strangely enough, the shopkeeper was quiet as I approached it. Just as I was about to lift the lid, he sighed and walked around to the back of the shop mumbling, "Looks like there ain't gonna be a sale today."
With some trepidation I opened the box. The book inside appeared to be an ordinary diary. Its cover was a slightly faded shade of green. But that didn't make the book look horribly second-hand. Instead it made it look sort of comfortable, like the eternal untidiness of my home makes it look welcoming rather than dirty. Or at least it does to me. Although it would help A LOT if even one of my brothers picked up his own dirty socks.
But the second I tried to pick it up, razor sharp teeth appeared on the cover from nowhere and snapped at me. I drew my hand back quickly as I rather liked having four limbs.
Then, I turned to mum and said, "I love it!" I could feel the wide grin threatening to tear my face apart. Mum was confused but she nodded anyway and went off to look for the old man. His jubilant cries of "Sold! Sold at last!" reached my ears a few seconds later so I picked up the box and went outside the store to wait for Mum.
It was a boiling hot day and sweat began to form across my brow almost the second I stepped out but I didn't care. I was so happy I could sing. Actually, I did hum a few bars of 'Chuck that Cheering Charm' but an elderly witch walking past gave me an alarmed look and asked me if I was choking. Oh well, I suppose not every one recognises the world's greatest Bathroom Singer at first glance.
The diary was nothing like what I'd wanted yet it was absolutely perfect. It reminded me of what Michael had called me shortly before our break up: a pretty bird with teeth. Since we were arguing at the time I don't think he meant it in a flattering way but it made me feel almost cool. In those days I was still in the process of getting over Harry Potter and while my massive ego hadn't been destroyed by his Yule Ball rejection it was a little bruised.
Don't get me wrong, I've been handling not being treated like a girl for ages. Been born into a family with six boys (seven, if you count Dad) isn't exactly a lesson in How to Be a Girl 101. But Ron's nickname for me (Gin, which sounds very boyish, at least to me) or Fred and George's teasing about the slight delay in the arrival of my more feminine body parts never hurt me the way Harry's outright rejection did. He just plopped down next to Ron and announced that Cho Chang had turned him down when he asked her. In front of me! The girl who had oh-so-obviously been nursing a massive crush on him! It was then that I realised that the object of my affections was an insensitive dolt and I took my equally insensitive dolt-ish pleasure in telling Hermione that he'd been rejected the second she entered the common room. And my voice was so loud that I think China heard me. Ha, take that you prat!
As you can guess from the above incident, I've inherited the prized Weasley temper. I'm so proud I could burst.
I heard a tinkling sound behind me and looked up, surprised. Turns out the door of that shop had a couple of old-fashioned bells hanging there that rang when Mum came out, clutching my now brown-paper wrapped book. I must have missed those while going in because of the stench.
Mum handed me the book and suggested that we Apparate home immediately. I was a little puzzled but as I looked around us, I understood the reason behind her nervousness. The shop which we had just visited was at a junction, right between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. With Voldemort's return and the escape of all those convicted Death Eaters, it was difficult to tell the difference between the two lanes anymore. Knockturn Alley was a little darker and filled with a slightly stranger crowd but people on both ends looked frightened and were walking around in clumps that reminded me of mushrooms. I got the distinct impression that Mum wouldn't have brought me here at all if she didn't believe that the diary was some kind of closure for me as far as First Year was concerned. Her eyes were darting about the crowd, as though she'd be able to spot a Death Eater just by scanning the faces of the crowd. (Actually, being an Order member, she probably could do just that.)
Although she usually hid it behind a bright smile that my Dad and brothers were too thick to see through (men), my Mum was actually a lot more worried about the War than any of us. My Dad was resigned since he knew that it was inevitable. My brothers and I couldn't wait to start fighting against that scum. But all of us were sure of our roles. Mum wasn't and she was still hoping that things would somehow work out. That Voldemort would just go back to the forests of Albania and haunt snakes forever and Harry, Ron and Hermione would be completely safe at last. I think Ron gets his insecurity from her. He's not too sure of his role within his group of friends and I can tell that it frustrates him. I just wish that the two of them would see how important they are already.
I grabbed Mum's hand and we used Side-Along for the first time. She's (shh) not very good at Apparition and so we Weasleys have an unspoken contract to always use Floo Powder and never give her the opportunity to use her less than stellar skills.
The next thing I knew was a dizzy, puke-inducing feeling and within seconds we were standing near our house. We'd have to walk the rest of the way due to the numerous safety spells on the Burrow. Mum opened her mouth to say something to me but she never got to complete her sentence. Her mouth opened and closed without producing any sound. I closed my eyes as I wondered just how bad I must look. Hopefully, I didn't have a nose stuck to the back of my head like Charlie did the last time.
Mum let go of my hand and let out a small shriek of horror as she looked at my face. "Oh, Ginny, dear," she fretted. "I'm so sorry!"
She was apologizing. I must look truly terrible. I wondered whether the Cirque de Freak had any openings.
"Let's just get home now, I'm sure that I can fix this," said Mum, pulling herself together. She held my hand firmly and guided me towards the house.
It had rained the day before and small, squelchy puddles were still spread all over the dirt path which was the quickest way to the Burrow. I strained to catch a glimpse on my face in one of them. Instead, all I succeeded in doing was stepping into some exceptionally disgusting mud (which, judging by the smell, had a bit of dung mixed into it. The result was quite aromatic, I assure you.)
Any other day, Mum would have buried me into that very dung for getting my only good pair of shoes dirty but thankfully, today she just made a sympathetic noise and tightened her grip on my hand. She even reassured me that she would clean my foul footwear!
Hmm... I could get used to this. Nobody can pamper a girl better than my Mum. And I wouldn't really mind not going out of the house all that often. Except then I wouldn't be able to play Quidditch. Or shamelessly ogle the handsome Muggle boy in the village. I know, I know, I have a boyfriend. But a girl can look, can't she?
Finally, we made it home in one piece, albeit a slightly misarranged piece in my case. As soon as Mum opened the door a very unwelcome sight met my eyes. Standing before me, holding my cup of tea was the silly Veela I was sure that Harry had a crush on.
Except... I squinted. Was that Bill with his arm around her waist? Wow, those private language lessons of his seem to include body language.
"Gin?" he said, shocked. Then he looked at Mum accusingly, "You Apparated again, didn't you?"
She nodded guiltily.
He sighed. "Well, this wasn't quite the introduction I had planned. But anyway, Fleur this is my Mum. And this girl here who's missing her lips is my sister, Ginny."
Fleur was still examining my apparently missing lips with a kind of disgusted fascinated. But she tore her gaze away from them and extended her hand towards Mum, politely enquiring, " 'Ow do you do?"
Behind her, Bill chuckled and said, "You've been practising, haven't you?"
She blushed.
Oh, just gag me now. I considered waving my hands around to remind people around my injured state but I saw Mum glancing at me and decided that I didn't need to bother.
In front of us, Bill was still talking. He seemed a little nervous and was speaking fast. "And Mum, this is my fiancé, Fleur Delacour."
I counted to three as a moment passed in stunned silence before Mum practically screamed, "WHAT?"
I expected Fleur to look a little scared, or at least taken aback. However, either she possessed more guts than brains or Bill had taught her really well because she didn't lose her composure for a second. Instead, her eyes narrowed and her smile grew fixed. "Bill an' I love each ozer very much an' we are 'oping zat you shall 'elp me with ze wedding."
Mum's expression softened for a moment and she said, "I see."
Bill's expression was a strange combination of stunned and relieved. Mine was an about-to-puke expression. And it wasn't just because of Fleur's presence either. It was because I really did feel like vomiting. My skin started turning green.
"Mum."
"... I'm not quite sure if the middle of a war is the right time to get married though. How long have you two known each other?"
Bill cleared his throat, embarrassed and Fleur looked at Mum defiantly. She said, 'We 'ave..."
"MUM!"
I puked. All over Fleur. As far as ways to endear yourself to your future sister-in-law go, that one was pretty way down on the list. She shouted something in French and moved away, as if getting away from a diseased Wrackspurt. Bill held her hand at once and soothingly told her that he'd take her to the toilet to wash it off immediately. He shot me an apologetic look as her walked out, to which I responded with a weak finger. He grinned and ushered his fiancé (ugh!) out of the room.
Mum waved her wand and I found myself being floated over to the sofa. A cool sensation spread across my brow and I felt a bit better. I heard Mum bustling about the room and soon, she sat down next to me and said gently, "Here, this will make you feel better."
I drank the potion she was offering me and almost gagged. It tasted worse than Luna's Gurdyroot tea. "Sure it isn't poison?" I rasped, just to confirm my suspicions. I was absolutely certain it was.
After a few minutes, Mum made me sit up so that she could examine the Case of the Missing Lips more thoroughly. After a few 'Hmm's that made me feel extremely nervous, she opened a book and ran her finger down the index. "I think I'll have to brew some Essence of Dittany, Ginny. We don't have any lying around right now and with prices being what they are..." She broke off and scrutinised my face again. "Unless, I suppose this might just work." She swished her wand around in an elaborate movement that made me feel dizzy again just looking at it. Purple light emanated from the tip of Mum's wand in a lazy coil of smoke and settle around my mouth. I felt a strange, tingling sensation around the place where my lips formerly were. Suddenly, there was a loud pop, accompanied by a sharp burst of pain that disappeared quickly. I raised my hand to my face and touched my lips. They felt a little off but I suppose that was only to be expected since they'd only just re-appeared.
I was about to ask Mum which spell she'd used (it sounded like the kind of handy thing a rule-breaker who'll probably wind up at least attempting to Apparate without a license needs) but I was stopped short by her expression. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. Now, I know Mum's been under a lot of pressure lately. She tries to hide it by barking orders at everyone who crosses her path but it's blatantly obvious in the way she watches Ron and Hermione as they sit down and play wizard's chess by the fire every night. She's worried about all of us, of course, but she's especially scared that Ron, Harry and Hermione will do something stupidly heroic again this year. It's like an annual let's-get-ourselves-killed-fest with the three of them. While it's true that I was involved in the fight last year, that was my first time in any serious danger that I had placed myself in voluntarily. Alright, a Basilisk is plenty dangerous but I wasn't even conscious around it.
And I had a certain idiot with a hero complex around to help me out.
I think that was the first time I ever really saw Harry. Oh, I'd seen him plenty of times before (a lot more often than he knew or would be entirely comfortable knowing) but this was the first time I saw past his looks and fame. Until then, I'd been a too-embarrassing-to-even-recall fan. I found out about his pigheadedness, his sheer stupidity and his appalling lack of coordination when using a sword. But I also noticed his bravery and loyalty and his determination to help everyone. I have a strong suspicion that he would have gone down to that Chamber to save Filch just as readily as he came for me.
"Oh, Ginny," said Mum, bursting into sudden tears and startling me out of my brief Memory Lane walk.
"What is it, Mum?" I asked, alarmed. My mind wandered from Death Eater attacks to Warbles in the bathroom sink.
"I've made it worse!"
Instantly, my concern disappeared and my blood froze. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at her apologetic face. "What," I said, through gritted teeth, "Did you do?"
Just then there was a loud bang and the door flew open to reveal Ron and Hermione, both looking rosy cheeked and entirely too happy to match my current frame of mind.
"I can't believe that Muggles can do that! This beats Martin Miggs!" said Ron, clutching his stomach and doubling over in laughter. I hoped he choked to death.
"Mrs. Weasley! Ginny!" said Hermione, catching sight of us sitting (or in my case, lying down on) the sofa. "I almost didn't see you there!"
She seemed a little flustered and if I didn't have such strong faith in my brother's stupidity I could have supposed they'd been snogging. Then again, this was Hermione Granger after all. Her Boggart had recently changed to a piece of parchment that declared she'd failed all her NEWTs. It really didn't take much to upset her.
She hurried over to us while Ron shut the door, still chuckling.
"Merlin, Ginny! What happened to you?" she said, when she caught sight of me. One of her hands rose to cover her open mouth.
Great work, Hermione. Say the one thing guaranteed to bring my stupid brother over to view me at my freakiest. I looked back to see Ron's expression but he had disappeared from the room. Good riddance.
"Ask Mum," I responded sourly, folding my arms in front of me and giving her an accusing glare.
"I'm afraid I'm not very good at Apparating."
"No shit, Sherlock," I muttered, leaning back. This particular phrase was my favourite from the several I had memorised out of my Muggle-born roommate Tessa's vocabulary.
Hermione examined my face with almost clinical detachment before pronouncing, "I think I can fix this."
Hurrah! I wondered if she would be offended if I kissed her right then, icky mouth and all aside.
"But you're not allowed to do any underage magic," reminded Mum.
Wait, what? Your only daughter is injured, remember? Before I could launch an indignant protest, Hermione reassured her, "It's a potion that I brewed in school. I just keep some with me, in case..." she blushed.
Hmm... I smell a rat that stinks worse than Scabbers.
But there'll be plenty of time to uncover it AFTER my lips stop sprouting fungus.
"I'll just go get the vial. It's in my bag upstairs," said Hermione, thudding up the rickety stairs. Funny, I could have sworn that was Ron's bedroom she just went to, not her own. The rat just grew bigger than Buckbeak. This is definitely worth a definitive Weasley Watch. I wonder if Fred and George will help me with the investigative work. Not that my own detective skills are even remotely defective. It's just that their products tend to come in rather useful when practising the fine art of poking into other people's business.
"Well then, I'll leave you to Hermione, Ginny," said Mum, getting up. "I have to cook up something for your father, not that he ever comes home on time these days." Her attempt to disguise her anxiety as irritation was hugely unsuccessful but I didn't have the heart to tell her so. Or the eardrum capacity for her loud protests.
She bustled out of the room and I glanced at the clock. It was the only normal one in our house, with the usual twelve celestial bodies and four golden hands rather than Weasley faces. The medium hand was still on Neptune, so I figured Dad wouldn't be home for some more time.
"Hermione," said Ron, barging into the room. He stopped short when he took a look at my face. "Blimey, Gin, have you been snorting Dragon Dung?"
"Oh, yes, that's it," I replied sarcastically.
Just then, Fleur entered the room. Ron's jaw dropped to the floor when he saw her. "What in..." he said weakly. Bill walked in behind her and grinned at him, fang earring glinting in the light from the window. With a start, I realised just how late it was as I saw the moon shining brightly outside.
She gave a disdainful sniff as she looked around and my dislike for the dainty Veela grew. I was aware that The Burrow was not the most luxurious of houses but it was my home and I loved it. That airheaded French girl obviously didn't think much of it and I resented that. I remembered Harry's very different reaction when he had first arrived here, just before the start of my first year. His green eyes shone behind his glasses and he had beamed without even realising it.
She turned her gaze to me and took an involuntary step back, her face a mask of utmost horror.
"Beel," she said faintly. Bill held her hand steadily and said, "Its okay, Fleur. It's just a simple case of a spell gone wrong. Ginny'll be fully patched up by morning."
"But she 'as green pigem!" protested Fleur.
"Pigem?"
"I think she means pigment," suggested Ron helpfully. She smiled at him and Ron's ears turned maroon. Honestly. Boys are so predictable. With a single green eyed exception.
"Zat is the theeng zat comes from ze," she asked Bill, pointing at her nose. Understanding dawned on his face and he laughed. "I think you mean phlegm."
She laughed with him. I've got to admit, my opinion of her improved slightly at that. Fleur didn't really look like the kind of girl who could handle people laughing at her, let alone join them. But her momentary escalation in my eyes was instantly dashed down by her next sentence. "So your seester 'as green phlem?"
Now, really, haven't these people tortured an injured girl enough already?
"It seems so," said Bill dryly. Oh to see my favourite brother turned traitor! I had thought that he would leap to my defence, being the only sane person left in the room, apart from me, of course. Fleur was clearly barking and Ron's face was still an interesting shade of puce.
"Oh go on," I huffed, crossing my arms defensively, "Everyone make fun of the poor, injured girl."
Bill laughed, a little wickedly. It's at times like this that I can see why he gets along so well with the twins. "You're lucky Fred's out. He loves nasal jokes."
"Don't remind me," shuddered Ron.
"Mum!" I howled, reverting back to my five year old self.
She came running at once, ladle in hand, and I pointed an accusing finger at my brothers, who developed an immediate and profound interest in the floor. As she began to storm them down, I rubbed my hands together in glee and gave Ron a smug look. Fortunately, Mum had dragged him out of his Veela-stupor and he was coherent enough to glare at me. Unfortunately, Mum saw him doing so and her volume doubled.
Just then, Hermione returned with a vial full of some minty potion. She looked confused as she took in the room. I was sitting on the couch, snorting laughter and fungus, Ron's neck had turned maroon when she entered and Mum still continued scolding him. Fleur seemed bemused and a little frightened and Bill grabbed her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
Then Hermione blinked away her puzzlement and walked up to me. "Apply this over the infected area, Ginny."
Ah, Hermione, looks like you've finally got the hang of being an honorary Weasley. Congrats. I'll buy you a red wig soon, I promise.
As always, Hermione's potion worked and within seconds, I was back to normal. Or as normal as I'll ever be. But still, it was a definite improvement not to have fungus slipping between my teeth every five seconds.
Note to Self: Check Mum's books to see which spell she used. This spell has definite potential for misuse when mixed with a Bat Bogey Hex.
Mum's voice had reached a slightly more human pitch now and the words she said made my ears prick up. I swung around on the sofa so fast that I nearly knocked Hermione over.
"He's coming here?" I asked. "Harry, I mean?"
Ron rolled his eyes and said, "That's what Mum said."
I ignored my brother and slid back down the sofa with an "Oh."
Question: How am I supposed to ignore a bloke who's living in the same house as me?
Answer of a Sane Individual: I'll avoid him as far as possible and spend more time outdoors. At meal times, I'll be polite yet distant.
Answer of a Ginny Weasley: I'll wing it.