Disclaimer: No comment.

Of Digging Holes and Snogging Goldfish

I mentally kicked myself and added yet another reason to the "Reasons Ginner-Pinners Should Check Herself into the St. Mungo's Center for the Incurably Insane."

So far, it went like this.

1. She does stupid things like stick her elbow in the butter dish whenever a certain green-eyed, raven-haired, scar-headed, bespectacled boy is within a 20-foot radius of her. And then her face turns a furious shade of red. She looks like she's just eaten a butt-load of Mexican food, is constipated, and the laxatives she's taken aren't working.

2. She falls out of chairs, causing said butter dish to land on said face when said bespectacled boy is within said 20-foot radius of her.

3. She takes out her frustrations and embarrassments on her kitchen table…and she uses her forehead to do so.

4. She thinks she can intimidate inanimate objects into doing what she wants them to do. (Remember the glaring incident? When she thought glaring and walking menacingly at the floo powder would cause it to become suicidal? Ya, thought so.)

5. A figment of her imagination in the form of a small, ugly, flying man clad in heart boxer-shorts is stalking her.

6. She thinks that said "figment" is real.

7. Moreover, said figment tells her that he is Cupid…and she believes him.

8. She very seriously considers drowning herself in the bathtub, and instead of ruling the possibility out because she doesn't really want to commit suicide, she rules it out because she would be wrinkly in her casket and people would think she looked like a shriveled-up prune. She would probably smell bad, too, come to think of it, and they would have to hand out nose-plugs to everyone so they didn't puke on the carnations.

9. She thinks being saved at the last minute from entering the realm of insectdom by the love of her life is bad luck.

10. Said situation in reason number 8 could actually be considered bad luck with the way things were going with her life.

11. She had spontaneous bouts of insanity whenever she tried to ask previously mentioned boy questions pertaining to his love life. As in, she mentioned potatoes in the same sentence as romantic outings such as hikes in the mountains or strolls on the beach.

12. She iss seriously debating whether or not she should turn herself into a cockroach.

13. She is making lists in her head while the figment laughs and the bespectacled boy imitates a goldfish.

I still wasn't in complete control of my mouth. And I was having a particularly nasty bout of spontaneous insanity (See before mentioned list).

So, naturally, I said the first thing that came into my mind.

That was an exceptionally horrendous thing to do.

"Some people say that snogging is just like pretending to be a goldfish," I said, "You just open and close you're mouth. Do you agree? Or do you have a better technique?"

Sweet Merlin.

Harry's mouth stopped moving as his jaw completely dropped and the potato he was previously pealing slipped out of his hand.

Butch let out an almighty shriek of mirth and began banging his head on the counter in hysteria. He was turning violently purple from lack of oxygen. He looked rather like an over-large blueberry wearing boxers and a beard. (A/N: Think Violet from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Now replace her facial features with Butch's and her clothes with boxers with hearts on them, un-swell her a little bit, and picture her banging her head on a counter…there, now you've got it.)

I opened my mouth to say Merlin-knew what else when a loud clanging noise came from the sink.

Thank Gryffindor for the accursed ghoul in the attic.

The noise seemed to snap Harry out of it, as he had closed his mouth, and was now only staring at me in bewilderment.

Thankfully it also ended my momentary loss of control over my mouth. Thank Merlin for small favors.

But now I was in a predicament. At least when I had been talking, I was temporarily insane. Now, I was fully in control of my mouth. What in the name of all that is holy could I say, now? I had just mentioned the word goldfish in the same sentence as the word snogging.

And the worst part was, I hadn't even gotten any answers out of him. He still hadn't said a word.

But that changed momentarily.

"Wha…why…you…holy hippogriffs, Gin! What in the name of sweet Merlin are you on about?"

"Ummmm…I didn't say anything?" It was worth a shot. Maybe he could imitate the memory of a goldfish as well as the mouth of one. I was pretty sure I had heard somewhere that they had a memory span of three seconds, or something like that.

"What is this about, Gin?"

This was it. I was going to tell him.

Goodbye Burrow! Goodbye accursed ghoul in the attic! Goodbye Tetra-Twerps! Alas! My life is ended! My time here is done! Farewell mashed potato mountain, you have defeated me!

I frantically searched my mind for more things to mentally say goodbye to. I was trying to stall my impending doom.

Nothing came to mind.

So, I took a deep breath and looked at Harry. "Just do it," said Butch. He had managed to get control of himself, though he was still rather red. He now slightly resembled an enlarged tomato. "It's not like you could dig your hole any deeper."

Ohhhh, how wrong he was.