Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did I'd be British, rich, and a hell of a lot older.
A/N: I know diaries have been done up the wazoo, but I haven't seen any dealing with Ginny after Harry leaves for the Horocruxes. So…uh…here it is. Love it! Embrace it! Review it!
Bloody wanker. Leaving me for sodding bits of rotting soul.
I LOATHE YOU HARRY POTTER!
I'm really, really bored. There isn't much to do when you're on house arrest. Mum's making sure of that. Sure, I could be cleaning or I could help set up for the wedding, but what's the fun in that? There's no fun, that's what.
I just need to find something to occupy me. Hmmm. Hello, my sweet Crookshanks.
Mum's not to pleased. I decided that Crookshanks, Hermione's overly annoying and fugly cat, needed a bit of lippy. Anything to help the less fortunate, right? Well anyhoo, Mum blew a major fuse when she saw what I had done. She sent me to my room for the rest of the afternoon. Bloody Hell.
I think I've just had the worst day I could possibly have. Like ever. I couldn't find you, you sodding thing, and by the time I did, I'd already wasted a healthy portion of my morning. Then Mum comes waltzing down to the kitchen where I had set up headquarters, and tells me that I'm to spend the day with Fleur. Phlegm. I'm to help her pick out the tablecloths. When I smartly ask Mum why she can't just conjure them, Mum tells me I'm being cheeky and that I should sober up and make myself useful. Cheers, Mum.
After a horrible afternoon of floral patterns and checkered prints, I have to be a slave in the kitchen as well. I had to peel an un-God-ly amount of potatoes for the wedding in a couple of days. When I ask Mum why can't she just peel the spuds by using magic, she starts shaking her head and sighing over and over and over again. After about 5 minutes, I gave in and started to peel.
My hands are all raw and scraped.
Not to mention, that Harry, Hermione, and Ron will all be coming back tomorrow. Now I'll have to face that sleazy git. Urgh.
I can't bloody sleep. I'm too anxious. You would be too if your ex-boyfriend was going to prance on in and invade your already miserable life. What will I say to him?
More importantly, what will I wear?
Okay. I've gone and dreamt that I'm laying on a beach and I'm sipping a cool beverage and a hot cabana boy and his mates are spritzing me with cool water.
I awake to find Crookshanks licking my face like mad with his cold and nasty tongue. The sodding twit. That cat must have a death wish. His days are numbered.
Numbered, I say.
I'm hungry and I can't sleep any longer so I've taken refuge in the kitchen. I've whipped up a little something. It's called biscuits. It's the new sensation. They're chocolate chip. They're tasty. They're all mine.
Only a few more hours until He gets here. 5 hours and 49 minutes to go.
But who's counting?
I can't decide what to do with my hair. Should I put it up? Should I curl it? Should I leave it down? Should I shave it all off?
Hmmm. Only 2 hours and 23 minutes left.
I don't even know what I'm going to wear yet! Time to panick.
That was me panicking, if you couldn't tell.
I'm looking at my clothes and I've just realized, that I have absolutely nothing cute to wear. I need the perfect outfit if I'm going to make him pine for me. I want him to throw himself at me and beg for forgiveness. Then we'll fall passionately to the floor and…..er…right….clothes.
Again, I have nothing to sodding wear. My jumpers all look hideous, not to mention it's too hot for them. I don't have any cute skirts. I only have shorts and trainers. Urgh. I disgust myself.
I need a hot chocolate. And a touch of Firewhiskey.
Only 2 hours and 7 minutes left.
I think I'm slowly dying.
Okay. Much better. Smashing.
I really need to get dressed now.
I think I'll go with shorts, a t-shirt, and my ratty trainers that I've had for a billion years.
Oh sweet Merlin. Only 31 minutes until He gets here.
I have no idea what I could possibly say to that insufferable git. He'll probably prance in and be miserable and make me feel absolutely useless.
Either that, or he'll fanny about and try and be all heroic.
AND the bloody wedding tomorrow! This will be the longest weekend of my entire and very impressionable life. I'll be scarred. I can just see it now. The Firewhiskey will be flowing and people will be dancing and…urgh. Bad mental image. Very bad.
You know what I just realized? I'm going to have to hide you. I don't want Hermione poking round my room and coming across you.
Merlin. Mum's calling. Time to roll out the welcoming carpet. Er…does that even exist? A welcoming carpet?
Bollux. What do I know?
Just don't be found, alright? But I don't really see the use in that considering you're a book, you don't speak, you can't move and I'm pretty sure you don't have a brain.
I'm leaving now.