Bwahaha.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Oh, dear.

It seems that making Ron's bogies sprout bat wings that flap with the ferocity of Crookshanks on a mission is more of a frightening occurrence than I had thought.

However, it really is quite funny. There goes the table…

Ron, really. Knocking over tables just because you're in the possession of a batty face isn't the best thing to do, even if it was accidental—yes, that is indeed the oven; don't fall into it…

My brother has problems. And oh, is it nice to watch him while he is in their grip.

It is also quite nice when one has a magical oven, which snaps its mouth shut whenever something is placed inside it. I have never before seen anyone with his bum stuck in an oven, but better now than never.

Bwahaha.

It is also great fun when you know that Mum isn't home. She's the only one that can control that beast of an oven.

He may be stuck in there for a long time.

But serve him right for locking me in the pantry. Even though it was purely accidental, Ginevra Weasley does not stand for this. He is supremely unlucky that I had my wand with me. Also supremely unlucky that Fred and George knocked a fist-sized hole in the door when they were four with Dad's wand. No one has figured out how to repair it yet.

Oh, dear.

It seems the oven may be heating up.

Ron is howling.

Really, we do have an unmanageable oven. It is all Dad's fault, too. He did the same thing to the oven as he did to the car that Harry and Ron frightened off (though how one can frighten a car is really beyond me. It must be one of those special talents that everyone else would die to live without…er, wait...), so that now our oven has its own personality. It likes Mum, though. And I wouldn't be complaining if I were her; it's a great advantage to have an oven in love with you, because then it does its best to cook food right. It also doesn't do funny things like trying to roast your bum.

I wonder how I will explain this to Mum. Even though it really is all Ron's fault, Mum may likely not see it that way. But it was most certainly all his fault. It is not a nice thing to do, spying through people's drawers.

No, not those drawers!

Well, fine, those drawers. But they were off of me.

Yes, yes, yes, my idiot brother was rooting through my underwear drawer. Shut up.

Well, I decided to make him pay. And it has worked. His bum is now being bitten to death by an oven. Bwahaha. Do not mess with Ginny Weasley, pratwhelk!

If he spreads around what he found in my drawers—shut up—then I may very well have to die.

It is not fair.

Go away.

Okay, okay. So I did embroider I LOVE HARRY POTTER onto some otherwise hideous plaid granny knickers, but that was in third year, for snapping at Ron. My dearest wish has changed from a consuming desire to kiss Harry Potter, thank you very much. However, that may well change, thanks to the over-exuberant mouth that belongs to Ronald Bilius Weasley. I think it is quite appropriate that his middle name is so very similar to the word "bile".

Before you ask, no, I did not entertain any fantasies involving Harry Potter and my underwear.

I was simply bored.

Should I try to help?

Oh, dear. The tongs are attacking him. Who knew that the fireplace tongs were in love with Mum as well? I must tell her that.

My mother is clearly an attractive specimen to household objects.

That is a truly frightening thought.

I will move on now.

Bwahahaha.

Revenge is sweet. And I, Ginevra Weasley, am the best of the best.

I should team up with Fred and George. They have just rocketed downstairs, complete with camera.

Ron will never live this down.

And I, on the better and more important hand, will never live without it.

It efficiently erases the highlight of my life.

Well, almost.

The highlight of my life so far has been the knowledge that Ron Weasley has doodled Hermione all over his socks. Seems to be a family thing. However, that proves that it is indeed profitable to fold laundry around here.

Speaking of Ron…

Bwahahaha.