A/N: I've always wanted to write a diary fic. Let me know what you think & then I'll decide whether or not to keep it up.
11 November, 9:00
Dear package of bound, recycled parchment:
And here I was thinking that it was Snape who gave the worst detentions in the castle. WRONG! After tonight, one can only come to the conclusion that it is in fact Minerva McGonagall who deserves that illustrious honour. Of all the rotten schemes the septuagenarian could have cooked up, she decides to force a quill and a notebook into my hands and force me to start writing in an effing diary?! Pardon my French, McGonagall, but what the hell?!
Sorry, maybe I should back up. Hi. My name is Katie Bell. The reason I'm introducing myself to an inanimate object instead of frolicking about in the common room upstairs with the rest of the idiots I call my friends is because Peeves—resident poltergeist and pest—chose to chuck a few ink pellets at me this morning during breakfast, and I decided (contrary to McGonagall's view of propriety) to defend myself. Was that really that awful? I think not. However, the old wench was in a sour mood and went and gave me detention. Do you know that the Weasley twins don't even have detention tonight and I do? Now that is saying something. So, then, I've decided to offer my sincerest apologies to you, package of bound recycled parchment, that you are here in McGonagall's office with me. I really feel that you would be in better use if you were still alive in the rainforest contributing to the ecosystem somewhere instead of having to have me record my—as my kind professor phrases them—"irrational lash outs" on you. Alas, here we both are. And I own you. Well…sort of. No offence, but I'm not claiming you quite yet. I've previously been opposed to diaries, having been of the opinion that they are dangerous, and for blonde pre-teens with crushes on Cedric Diggory. After all, as LeAnn so informed me the other day, "to write in a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit." And that's how I feel.
I've just made an executive decision. You will, from here on out, function as a "thoughts book". That way, it doesn't imply any sort of commitment and I don't have to feel obligated to you. Ha ha. Just kidding. Like you actually want me filling you up with my nonsense speculations on my not so terribly interesting life, coupled with my "release of pent-up emotions". As you might have guessed, that's another McGonagall-ism.
More or less, thoughts book, according to McGonagall, I have an issue with rage and instead of releasing it on the nearest person (or in this case, dead person), I am now to record my frustrations in you. Apparently it's healthier this way. Then, if I get angry and the whole castle ends up knowing it, McGonagall checks you to see if I've written. If I have, there's leniency. If not, I go to Professor Dumbledore.
What do I think of this idea? Well, I shall tell you. It's a load of rubbish. I'll bet you ten sickles that McGonagall's dishing out her own form of release on me. I'd wager even higher that her own diary is a collection of venting about her unrequited love for Professor Dumbledore because he's gay. Ha ha.
Oh, what joy. My time of captivity has ended.
To my dear thoughts book:
I'm having another moment. Supposed best friend and room mate Alicia Anne Spinnet is laying on her bed, pretending to be enraptured with this month's issue of Teenage Witch whilst twirling her perfect blonde hair around her left index finger. She's really trying to bait me. She's just doing it to show off her lovely golden hair and remind me that mine's the colour of dried cat feces. Everyone thinks she's too innocent to do something like that, but I know better. I know the workings of her twisted little mind. She dreams about shagging our old quidditch captain Oliver Wood. I know. I read her diary. Ha ha.
In other news, I returned to the common room to find my five friends plotting a "Let's Make Fun of Katie" night. "Let's Make Fun of Katie" night happens at least once a week and is primarily orchestrated by George Weasley. Granted, his twin Fred helps quite a bit, but it's usually George. Why does he enjoy torturing me so much? Easy. He's a bastard. Tonight, I can safely say that it was all George as Angelina and Fred have gone and decided to make idiots of themselves by openly declaring their relationship status. I can't decide how I feel about all of this. For one, it will be nice to get a break from all the nights Angelina comes back to the dorms tousle haired, then puffy eyed the next night because Fred has shagged her and then decided to ignore her. Well, I guess I don't actually know if Fred is shagging her. I sincerely hope not. One, that's disgusting, and two, friends should remain friends. Shouldn't they?!
ANYWAY. The reason I'm not a fan of "Frangelina" (other than the fact that I can now see them doing the dirty in public) is because of Lee Jordan. Lee's our other friend and he's head over heels for Angie. Consequently, he's been in a bit of a sour mood since September, and is no fun. So Fred and Angie are snogging, Lee's moping, and Alicia's off being dreamy about Wood, so it's up to George to bug the hell out of me. And he does a bloody good job, I must say. I walk through the portrait door and he's all, "Here comes the ink pellet queen, lot!" And Angie and Fred unglue themselves from each other and Lee and Alicia look up and George pelts me with about five more ink pellets. Obviously, I tackle him, and even more obviously he screams like the girl he is and runs up the stairs to his dorm. I could murder that boy and feel no remorse but for the fact that Fred would be heartbroken and mopey that his twin's gone, and then Ange will be mopey and cry all night, and I would not be able to sleep. And we all know I need my beauty sleep if I'm going to become a gold digger and marry Viktor Krum when I graduate. Yes, good plan. So George must live.
Alicia's spinning her hair again. I'm going to cut all of it off one day. With a knife. It's going to be painful.
12 November, 7:30 AM
Quidditch Locker Room
Dearest Effing Thoughts Book:
I hate giving into you and consequently McGonagall, but if it means escaping more undeserved detentions, I might as well…Here's my first rant of the morning.
I HATE GEORGE WEASLEY!!! I hate everything about him! From his stupid freckled face to his long left pointer toe! (Do you even call it a pointer toe? The second one? I have no idea, do I look like an anatomy expert to you!?) Anyway, today after quidditch practice, d'you know what he did?! Of course you don't, you're just a bunch of pieces of parchment my Transfiguration professor decided to burden me down with. Er…no offense. I suppose it's not your fault that's all you are. I suppose I'm not much better—just a seventeen year old quidditch player with a rage issue.
Anyway. Back to George.
So I'm back after a great practice showering in the girl's locker room (did you note the word "girl's"? Because it's very important to this story), just taking a bit of time to relax after Ange's grilling practice. I swear, she's like Oliver reincarnated. If I wasn't convinced of Alicia's sexuality, I'd place a wager that she would start following Ange around and writing about shagging her in her diary. Oh, ew. Forget I wrote that. Have gotten distracted. My apologies.
So I'm showering, and I decide to have a bit of a sing before breakfast, so I'm singing this Weird Sisters song I heard on the radio yesterday, when George Weasley bursts into my shower and just stares at me. And I'm completely naked! And I'm like "AHHH!" and he's like "AHHH!" and I'm like "What the hell are you doing in here, George!?" and he just continues to yell and throws his hands over his eyes and runs out the shower stall and trips over the bench outside and slams his stupid head into a set of lockers. Naturally, I can't just leave the idiot lying unconscious on my locker room floor, so I throw on a robe and go over to him, and I would have been sympathetic, but he's just seen me naked, so I roll him over and slap him in the face. And I say, "George! Bloody hell! Why are you spying on me, you little voyeur?!" And he comes up with some rubbish about thinking there was a cat drowning in the shower.
Did you read that right?! He thought my singing was a drowning cat!! So I clocked him in the jaw and he pushed me off, yelling that he's been permanently blinded by the vision of me naked, and runs out. And here I am, ranting to you, thoughts book, instead of outside skinning George Weasley alive and being sent to Azkaban at the tender age of seventeen.
I feel slightly better. But that's not going to stop me from drowning the moronic redhead in his morning Yorkshire pudding. Ha.