Here I Am

Disclaimer: Let's see...looks I a sucessful author? Nope. Do I have two kids, with a third on the way, and a great husband? Nope. Am I the creator of a series of books that have captivated the whole world? Nope. Therefore, none of this belongs to me. Got it? Great. Keep going.

Summary: Some people have the most interesting life stories in the world, and they can make entire serials about each little up or down, as if the rest of the world really CARED. Well, I don't. I'm an average teenage girl, with an average life. I don't have an interesting life story. But here goes anyway.


Hi. My name is Ginny Weasley.

Ugh. What a beginning. Let's try that again.

Hello, Genevra Weasley, international sex symbol here.

Sex symbol? Me? HAH!

HI! My name is Ginny Weasley, and I am like, SO excited to be writing this!

Aargh. That's just as bad. Now I sound like Lavender Brown. Not that Lavender Brown isn't a perfectly nice person…she's just a little…

Well, two years ago, when we had that Yule Ball, she could not leave Hermione or me alone for even a moment. All we want to do is dress in peace and look presentable, and she's running in and out, trying to crimp my hair and then curl her eyelashes around her wand. Aggravating.

See? I have such an extended vocabulary.

Back to my point, Lavender was acting like a total ditz.

Actually, I take that back. She isn't really a ditz, and she doesn't talk in such an air-headed way. I just find her a little too shallow for my tastes.

Maybe I should try that whole introducing-myself thing again.

Oh, what the hell. I'm pretty sure that any insane person other than me who is mad enough to read this has got the gist by now.

Wait a minute, did I just insult myself?

No wonder my self-esteem's so low. You know, in a world full of me, there would be no Miss World. There wouldn't even be a Miss Country, or Miss Village.

In case you haven't picked up yet, I'm a very random person. Actually, this notebook was a pretty random idea (notice how I like saying the word "random"?). It's the first time I've had anything of the sort, since…well, first year. Yeah.

The only reason I even bothered to try again was because lately I've been feeling like I'm going slowly crazy. Like I'm one of those weird little clockwork puppets with a painted-on smile, and some twisted psycho is winding me up, tighter and tighter, just so they can see how far I go

before I snap.

Let me tell you, I'm pretty close to snapping.

Some weird, psychoanalytical part of me says that it's because after my first year I never really talked about anything, and now my past is catching up with me.

But that's not true. I did talk a bit to Hermione, and plus I talked to Bill. I figured he would understand, since he's always been the first in line to have hexes throw at him by some freaky thing who wants to use his guts for filet mignon.

God, the things some wizards used to guard their tombs are just really…mad.

Then again, they may have been mad, but those guys were rich. You can afford insanity when you're rolling in it.

Anyway, I talked to Bill and Hermione, and Hermione suggested this Muggle notebook as a "vent for my feelings". I got down on my knees and thanked her for her immense thoughtfulness.

Ok, you want the truth? I laughed like hell.

But in the end, me being the big softie I am, I gave in and was handed this black notebook, which I am trialling for the length of the summer.

I just looked back and realised that I spent most of the first page talking about Lavender Brown.

How much sadder can I get? Wait a minute, this is me we're talking about. I can get a lot sadder.

Ok, you know what? Now that I've finished insulting myself more, I'm going to shut this damn thing and go find something interesting to do.

Like burn this notebook.



So I didn't burn this notebook. I was busy chopping up my fingers in the kitchen.

I think it was meant to be potatoes originally…but that's beside the point.

You know what? It's Mum's fault. She knows I have no expertise in the culinary department, so why tell me to cut potatoes when she can do it perfectly well herself with a wand?

And it's Ron's fault. If he hadn't made me laugh so much, I wouldn't have missed the potatoes and sliced my fingers instead.

Stupid brother.

I shall now proceed, in a calm and collected fashion, to tell you what happened.

Just so you know, we're located in the Burrow – our rickety little, barely-standing house, and in case you think I cut potatoes in the bathroom or something, this took place in the kitchen.

So I'm standing there, cutting potatoes (badly), and staring out of the window at Fred and George, who are being forced to de-gnome the garden (it's a Sunday, so they haven't got the shop as an excuse to get away from Mum), and who are busy having a competition to see who can throw their gnome the farthest. It's the same competition we always have when we're forced into doing it.

Sometimes, I almost feel sorry for those little buggers.

Anyway, Mum, who is standing at the table, looking through some book, starts lecturing Ron on the state of his room. Ron does exactly what I do, which is to sit there, nod politely, and block

the sound out.

So Mum uses Harry as an incentive.

'Dumbledore said Harry could leave those relatives of his soon, so really Ron, wouldn't it be sensible to tidy it up so he has room to sleep?'

'Harry knows what my room's like, Mum. And besides, he lives in the same room as me for three-quarters of the year.'

'And how I pity him for that,' Mum mutters. I snort.

Really, I'm so ladylike, aren't I?

'Well, what about Hermione? I'm sure she doesn't need to be subjected to your mess.' Mum's back to focusing on her book.

Ron's head whips round so fast, I swear I heard something crack. 'What about Hermione?

What's she got to do with anything?'

And then, my dear mother, who has the best timing in the world, drops the bombshell.

'Didn't I tell you dear? I invited her to stay. She'll be here in two days.'

And, yes, you guessed it. The bomb explodes.

'WHAT?' Ron half-yells. 'Why didn't you tell me?'

'I thought I already had. Anyway, Pig would have been no use to you, even if you wanted to use him.'

This is very true. Pig is currently sitting in his cage in my brother's bedroom, with his beak stuck together by a trick Owl Treat. He's a cruel victim of Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes.

Well, to be fair, Gred and Forge though they were doing Ron a favour by shutting the poor bird up.

But that's beside the point.

The point is that my darling brother went bright red and started going on about the unfairness of it all. The expression on his face – I should have had a camera.

'But – why didn't you – couldn't you have -'

My mother, Queen of Humour.

'Why Ron, is there a problem?' she asks, with a pretty sweet expression on her face. Come to think of it, I probably learned mine off her.

'N-No!' Ron stutters. He looks ready to kill. Good thing I'm armed. He gets up. 'Fine, I'll go clean my room.'

And off he storms, while my mother winks at me. At this point, I am laughing pretty hard, about how easy my brother can be to manipulate.

So, because I'm so distracted, I bring my knife down, miss the potatoes, and cut my fingers instead.

That is the immensely interesting explanation of why I am sitting here, with one hand looking like I borrowed it off a mummy. Although mummies' bandages aren't usually bloodstained.

I'm so bored. I can't be asked to bother with homework, and if I go down, I will either be hit by the whirlwind of cleanliness that is now Ron, or used as a "tester" for Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes, since I now have only one hand to defend myself with. So, I'm going to pick the most interesting option: stare into space. See you.


Ok. I must be mad, but I'm back again, just for five minutes. Hermione's coming tomorrow, and Mum just told Ron that apparently Harry's allowed here in about two or three more days.

Urgh. I don't know why I'm in such a weird mood. It's not like I'm not happy that Hermione's coming, because I am, and I'm sure Ron wants to see Harry again. It's like…I'm restless. I heard Mum telling Dad the other day that I've changed since I came home from school, and I guess in a way it's true. I think I've grown up a bit.

Wow, listen to that. Ginny Weasley, baby of the family, has GROWN UP. Don't I sound mature?

Argh! I'm sick of this – this indecisiveness! You know what? I'm going to put it down to my dislike of the idea of having a house of raging teenage hormones for the rest of the summer. Not counting my own, of course. I'm going to go find something useful to do.


The only useful thing I could find to do was to sort out the socks from the laundry. Am going back to room.



I didn't think I would be writing in this again, but really, I had to go somewhere to control myself, so I've turned up here. I think I might burst with laughter if I go down.

Let me explain it to you simply. Hermione's supposed to arrive in the next fifteen minutes or so, and Ron (to use one of Mum's expressions) is having kittens.

Well, not literally, since then I'd be negotiating big deals with World of Wizards Freak Show, but he is stressing – a lot.

I'll make a list. In the last half an hour, I have seen him:

- pace round and round the living room

- check and recheck his bedroom is still immaculate (it's the first time I've seen the floor in about two years)

- quiz Mum on what we're having for lunch, and suggest random foods (well, Mum thinks they're random. She can't get over his new interest in cooking. I know that these random foods are, mysteriously enough, also Hermione's favourite foods. Isn't that odd?)

- stare out of the living room window obsessively (either he's looking for a car, or at his own reflection in the pane)

- compulsively straighten his clothes or ruffle his hair.

It's sickening, isn't it? I can't believe I ever looked up to this boy when I was little. Why did I ever think he was–

Oops, sorry about that. I just jumped, because there were two identical crashes downstairs. I can only assume them to be the arrival of our very own identical twins, Gred and Forge. From the sound of what Mum's yelling, they must have Apparated into her plant pots, and knocked them over. And if I'm not mistaken, that's – yep, that's Hermione ringing the front doorbell, to complete the pandemonium.

This is going to be fun.


Sorry I had to repost, but I wanted something to work differently, so here I am again. Like I said before, this was a seriously random thing, which I wrote during my summer exams (sensible, aren't I? I write fanfic when I'm supposed to be revising for the biggest exams of the year. That proves how much logic or common sense I have.) Anyway, it was a seriously random piece, so PLEASE review and let me know what you think, even if you reviewed before (you don't have to write tons, just a line to let me know how it is) because I deleted most of the other reviews without looking at them. Please?