Disclaimer: Is this really necessary? I mean, we are on , it should be quite clear that everything on here is fanfiction, therefor, not completely original things from the specific authors. Just... ugh. Silly.

A/N: Excuse me, is this actually an update? Is this the longest chapter I've written in freaking ages? Are our characters actually getting somewhere in the romance department? Have I had to change the rating to M in fear of being kicked off of this website? Is it chock full of fic-related cliches, that are not only addressed but blatantly encouraged? Was I sick and exhausted and high on cold medication while writing the end and editing? Did I have to read the entire chapter out loud to myself 6 times to edit it appropriately? Does my neighbor think I'm a nutcase? Despite all of this crazyness, is this my favorite chapter so far? Did watching BBC America while I write this help a bit with some of my British slang?

Yes, I believe so but didn't really do a word or page count, check it out for yourself AKA oh fuck yes, yes I'm a coward but I may be right in that it needs to be M rated, oh yes and they're fantastic, also yes I am twitching and blowing my nose simultaneously as I write this, it was silly I even used voices, I'm pretty sure he's been thinking that since I moved in 4 months ago, quite possibly seeing as I need it 6 times and I am still quite pleased, my British slang has gotten way better (still not perfect, though) not only because of BBC America but also because I watch a fuckton of British television online. I am using American slang in this A/N because I frankly miss it a bit.

Without further ado...

The Processing Room Needs A Good Sweeping

9:19 PM

Sitting On The Floor Of The Same Classroom I Hid In Last Time I Left Detention (Let's Just Call It "The Processing Room.")

I… well… can't… what…

9:21 PM

The Processing Room

I'm having trouble putting the last hour into words. Give me a moment, Diary.

9:22 PM

The Processing Room

I really should find a better location for my designated processing room. If it's official enough to have a capitalized title, the floor should not be this dusty.

9:25 PM

The Processing Room, Which Needs A Good Sweeping

I suppose I should start at the beginning. As opposed to mid-way. Or at the end. Really, starting at the beginning should just go without saying. I'm getting off-topic again. FOCUS, GINNY.

I walked into Snape's classroom, half-expecting him to be cackling maniacally, seeing as how it is clearly his dearest ambition to make everyone else in the castle as miserable as he is. Unfortunately, real life is not quite as, let's say "vivid," as my imagination, and he was simply organizing his students' work, that constant scowl as present as ever. Maybe mum's right- your face could get stuck that way.

Professor Slimy Git didn't say a word to me as I entered the room. He simply gestured vaguely towards 50 cauldrons, which were stacked precariously in the corner of the room. I swish and flicked my wand, lifting the cauldron at the very top, only to have the other 49 come tumbling down.

"Evidently, lack of grace is passed down in the Weasley clan as regularly as out-of-date robes," a familiar voice drawled from the doorway.

"Sod off, Malfoy," I snapped, spinning around and glaring at him with as much ferocity as I could muster after being caught off-guard.

"Nice face, Weasely," he replied, sneering, "I'm shaking in my dragon-hide boots."

Snape seemed to take that as his cue to exit, ignoring Malfoy's incessant mocking, and collecting our wands as he left. He locked them into an ornately carved onyx box, alerting us that it would unlock itself once our time ran out, then proceeded to leave the classroom, not even waiting for a response, his robes billowing out behind him. (NTS: How does he do that? I wonder if he practices in front of a mirror, possibly pacing around his bedchambers, sneering and… swooshing? Is that an appropriate verb? Probably not. I do not care at the moment, as I am in a state of distress. We will get to that in a moment, Diary.)

Malfoy sat in one of the chairs, leaned back on two legs, and rested his feet on the desk in front of him.

"Are you going to help at all?" I snapped at him, giving my absolute best scowl, as I had the time to practice and summon it up this time. It was impressive, if I do say so myself. Which I do.

He scoffed. Scoffed! Didn't even bother dignifying me with an actual response. Git. So, naturally, because I am incredibly, brilliantly mature (Shut it, Diary), I reached for my wand and, upon remembering it had just been collected 10 minutes prior, I ran up to him (IN A WAY THAT WAS MATURE AND NOT AT ALL STUPID LOOKING) and kicked his chair, making the thing fall out right from under him. He landed with an "oof!" and glared at me. I turned around to hide my silent laughter, but was not entirely successful in my efforts.

"You know," I said, turning back around, "You really shouldn't sit like that. You could… hurt yourself."

"Oh Weasley, I didn't know you cared," he replied sarcastically, with that ever-present smirk on his face, gracefully pushing himself up into a standing position. (How does he do that? It's unfair. I would have been scrambling about on the slimy floor, attempting to rise up onto my slightly over-sized feet, and he manages to simply unfurl his limbs, effortlessly rising to his bloody perfect height and bloody perfectly proportioned feet. Not a single bit of slime smudged unflatteringly across his bloody perfect bum. Tosser.)

I could feel my face turning pink (Why is it always doing that to me? Damn Weasley genetics. I'm afraid I will always be the girl with the embarrassingly pink, and sometimes-even worse, red, face.) "I do not!" My flawless maturity and ability to respond with a nearly acceptable scathing remark was clearly shining through yet again.

He grinned in a way that could be mistaken as genuine, if one hadn't actually met Draco bloody anatomically perfect Malfoy. "Fine, I'll help. Merlin only knows you cannot accomplish anything on your own."

I was about to attempt to give another obviously witty and not at all fumbling response, but thought better of it. If he was actually willing to lend a hand, I was not about to fight him on it.

We worked in silence for roughly ten more cauldrons each (I was on my 8th, technically, but I will take it to my grave that we were working at the same pace). He was so focused on his work he almost looked human. And attractive. Not like I cared or noticed, and I most certainly did not glance in his direction every so often to admire the way his eyebrows furrowed, or the way he bit his bottom lip, or how his eyes seemed to practically shine. They were really a very pretty colour. A blue that was so light it was almost ice-like. It reminded me a bit of the way the Lake looked mid-January, right after the hols. I'd never noticed before.

I don't care. Not in the slightest. He repulses me, I assure you.

Don't judge me, Diary.

"Like what you see, Weasley?" He drawled, smirking again. Damn him and that sexy- NO, NOT SEXY, BLOODY RIDICULOUS, HONESTLY-, obnoxious smirk.

"I'm just worried that you'll bite straight through your bloody lip, and I'll have to clean it off the floor. So you can just… bugger off," Ace, Ginny. Truly. Another brilliant reply, and coupled by your bloody pink face, you're irresistible. He certainly has no idea that you were paying attention. That was in no way a confirmation. And now, if you continue talking to yourself, you can add "nutter" to the list of lovely qualities that make up your fantastic personality and life in general.

"Maybe later," He kept smirking, far too pleased with himself, and he winked- actually winked, right bloody fucking at me. But, not another word was said; we continued to work in silence for at least one more hour (I do not care about the redundancy I just wrote out. It is reaching the point in the story where everything changes, possibly going to shit. I do not care about the grammar in my very personal diary, and I doubt you do either, seeing as you do not read, because you are, in fact, a non-magical book.) I then kept my very inconspicuous, I assure you, glances to a minimum.

I had been a bit slower than him up to this point, but as my irritation and embarrassment increased with every passing moment, I was working faster and faster, taking all of my frustration out on the cauldrons. Poor things, never hurt a soul (maybe), and if I had more upper-body strength (my spells are brilliant, my actual brute strength? Not so much), I'm sure they would have turned to rubble. By the time we each had reached our 23rd cauldron, I had caught up completely (more redundancy?). We approached the significantly smaller pile at the same time, and each grabbed a cauldron. Rather, the same exact cauldron. Isn't that always the way, though?

Raised with my Gryffindor stubbornness and borderline unhealthy competitive streak, I refused to back down. I was not going to let that handle go, and, as he refused to lose a challenge to a Griffindor- a female, Weasley Griffindor at that- neither was he.

We tugged back and forth for longer than I am proud of, but I know for a fact I won that particular battle. Not like it really mattered, as once I gave it one final pull towards myself, I fell backwards, dragging the blond on top of me in the process.

The world stopped. Well, I doubt it physical ceased rotating on its axis, but you understand what I mean. Well, you would, if you knew that sort of information. But you are inanimate, as I apparently need to keep reminding myself.

Right, so, we were centimeters apart. Our noses were lightly touching, and I could feel his breath on my face. His hair was tickling my forehead, his arms beside my head, pulling my hair a bit, our bodies pressed together. Thank Merlin for gravity. It occasionally does beautiful things. Hem… I mean, what? I was not even remotely aroused or love-struck by the entire situation, really. (Did I just honestly write love-struck? Excuse me while I vomit.)

Along with the metaphorical world and the ceasing of its natural function, it appeared that I had stopped breathing. Which seemed unfair, as he was breathing quite heavily. At that moment I realized something very important- no, Diary, not some realization of love that I had been overlooking my entire Hogwarts career, you thoughtless fool- I really, physically, was not breathing. I smacked the idiot's (very toned) (and unnaturally pale) arm to receive the attention of a conscious him, not… hem... "Little" Malfoy, who was poking into my thigh very thoroughly, without abandon or shame, and did not seem very little at all. I must admit, as much as I hate to say it, I was slightly… impressed, if you catch my meaning.

He stopped leaning towards my face whilst tilting his head slightly to the left (Was he going in for a kiss? What was that about? His eyes were definitely closing. Pale eyelashes fluttering and all sorts of things I shouldn't have been noticing. For the record, I definitely would not be thrilled by the idea, I assure you. Really. I mean it), and his eyes popped open comically.

"Can't… breathe… gerroffame," I managed to squeak out.

"Right, right," he stuttered jumping off of me. He immediately noticed his… crisis, and turned a bit pink himself (He's human! Bloody brilliant!) . After realizing he'd shown such a display of a very private situation, he nearly sprinted to the box where our wands had been locked up (quite impressive really, as I've seen how difficult such an action can be in his predicament.) The charm had been lifted a few minutes before- our time was up. After making his way to the door at a ridiculous pace, he turned to look at me again, mouth opening and closing like a grindylow out of water. He turned on his heel and left the doorway as quickly as possible.

I couldn't help but stare after him. I'm sure I was looking like a right idiot myself. Suddenly, something occurred to me. "We never finished our cauldrons!" I shouted after him. Realizing there was no way I could manage to finished in my current condition, I mumbled, "Bugger it," and made my way to the recently named Processing Room.

So, you are all up to date.

I think it may be time to speak with a real person about this. Confiding in you strictly might actually be assisting my insanity to really bloom. No offense, of course.

I need to find Blaire and Larissa- it is time for a trip to the kitchens.

11:36

Kitchens, surrounded by food that I cannot bring myself to eat at the moment, and drinks I will abstain from on a Tuesday night. Honestly Blaire, this is just ridiculous.

"Snog him stupid," Blaire said tactlessly, not even bothering looking up from her drink, which looked like pumpkin juice, but smelled suspiciously like something else.

I shot her a glare. "Yes, Blaire, thank you for that. I need actual advice now, please," I said, turning to Larissa.

"She raises a valid point, Gin." Larissa at least had the decency to look vaguely sympathetic, but that did not put an end my frustrations.

"You are supposed to be my friends!" I cried, "Just tell me what to do!"

Blaire finally looked up from the depths of her very illegal-on-school-grounds drink, raising a single, pierced eyebrow. "I thought we just did," she turned to Larissa, on her left, "We did, didn't we? I'm still nearly sober."

"Not very good advice!" I was properly pouting now.

"Ginny," Larissa sighed, "Sit down, listen, and stop acting like a child."

Her voice was so gentle, exasperated, and commanding- I might as well have been home with my mum. But it did the job; my eyes wide, I sat down obediently. I was acting like a child. Actually, an hour later, I'm still acting like a child- less insolent, but a child all the same. In retrospect, I will probably act like a child for the rest of my life. A child who swears far too frequently, anyway. Okay, Ginny, we understand. You're immature and it's unclear to us all why you have friends. Get back on topic and stop speaking in the third person like an arse.

Erm, so, yes. Larissa kneeled down and looked me right in they eyes. I leaned forward a bit in anticipation, ready to hear her words of wisdom… and then she smacked me. Right across the mouth.

I opened my mouth to shout at her, due to my sort-of justified outrage (not really, but I shall pretend), but she immediately cut me off. "Ginevra Molly Weasley!" (NTS: When did she learn my embarrassing, ridiculous, hate-my-mother-forever, name? Oh Merlin, that would have been the most humiliating thing of the evening, if these were normal circumstances. Which they clearly were not.) "You have been complaining about this boy-on-his-way-to-being-a-man-and-although-he-nearly-looks-the-part-he's-as-immature-and-obnoxious-as-you-are-and-although-we-love-you-anyway-we'll-need-some-convincing-in-order-to-tolerate-him" (All in one breath, that was. Very impressive.)

She continued on, "Since the very first day we ever spent actual time together, you've done a truly fabulous job pretending to loath Mr. Draco Malfoy," I attempted to fight her on this assumption, as I am wont to do, but she raised her hand threateningly. I winced, and decided maybe it was best to let her finish. "And I am quite certain you've nearly convinced yourself of said loathing. Your level of denial is absurd and relatively unhealthy," I nodded slightly, tilting my head to the side. I questioned my mental health daily- being told I was a nutter (even though it was not an insult this time, just a light-hearted observation) was familiar territory. I was once again in my comfort zone. "Focus, Ginny. You're drifting again. Anyway, the fact of the matter is, you search him out, pretty conspicuously, every meal. You whine and moan like a petulant child after each and every detention, but you'll let something slip about how he looked, or something vaguely humorous he said, and your eyes will light up like a faerie on a Christmas Tree. And today, when you dragged us away from the dormitory (Not that we're complaining. I was hungry and Blaire was sober, neither of which suit us very well), you had your little mental break down. But, despite your little furrowing of the brow nonsense, attempting to display your confusion and frustration, you were smiling the whole bloody time. Face it, love- you fancy the bastard."

"…" My mouth opened and closed repeatedly for a full 40 seconds.

"Do you think she'll ever speak again?" Blaire mock-whispered to her potentially mad, but far to observant, best friend.

"Give her a moment," Larissa replied, "She's processing."

"Must she take so bloody long?" Blair rolled her eyes, but grinned widely. I was not insulted by her attitude- we had become close enough that I understood this was her bizarre, Blair-way of showing affection.

"Shh… I think ginger princess may be on the verge of forming proper sentences…"

"I… fancy… a total wanker," I croaked out.

"Yes, yes you do," Larissa said, patting me on the back in a way that she meant to be consoling, but the action was not really a success. It felt like more of a mockery of the gentle action. She and Blaire's matching smirks did not help matters, either.

"Well… bugger."

"Yes," the brunette said, nodding in agreement yet again.

"You may want to wait a bit for that," Blaire added, with a Harry-catching-the-Snitch grin, "While I would respect and be delighted by your debauchery, I never really pictured you as the slag of our little group of miscreants, and you know how I hate drastic change."

I smacked her on the arm, but it did not have the desired effect. She and Larissa just laughed, and began to dance around singing off key- something along the lines of "Ginny and Malfoy sitting in a tree! S-H-A-G-G-I-N-G!"

"That hardly even rhymes. And it completely lacks comedic timing… and surely would be far too dangerous," I added as an afterthought. Realizing they were not about to cease they ridiculous mucking about, I continued by shouting, "Stop that! What in Merlin's name do I do now?"

The two girls grinned at each other, and looked right at me, mischief in their eyes.

I was in trouble.