For those of you who don't know me, I am Rocky, and this here is my latest fic!

Basically, the story behind this one is that I wanted to write something for Roxanne, because I feel for her. And so I wrote it in diary form!

Loosely based on Bridget Jones's Diary form, but not following the same plot and equipped with Hogwarts.

Disclaimer: Me no own HP :D

December 26th

11.30 p.m. I've decided to be good.

Not the kind of good where you cut down on calories (although this probably wouldn't be a bad thing after hearing Abrah Venison hiss that I had "thighs the size of tree trunks"), or the kind of good where I start to take in strangers from the cold and feed and clothe them and give them all of my money (I fear no-one can honestly be that nice; even if they were they'd never be able to do it again). No. I'm going to be good as in I will be perfectly pleasant to everybody, even Abrah bloody Venison, the poisonous cow who has the nasty habit of being in every single one of my lessons with her blonde hair and huge tits, each smirking at me and my flabby thighs. I will not rise to it, for rising to it will be bad, and I will therefore be a bad person. It all works out in my head, you understand.

Uncle Harry bought me this diary for Christmas. It's a shit present really, but I promised I'd use it. After all, I did buy him a chocolate frog, which had ended up having his bloody card in it. Oh, the irony. But he accepted it with good grace, saying that he hadn't got this one yet.

So, putting two and two together in a fashion of extreme cleverness, I have decided that I will record my acts of goodness in this diary for the next year. Yes, I know. Genius. That way, I can look back on all the times I almost rose to the challenge and stopped myself, to remind myself what a good person I am.

Today, however, is not the day I begin my Acts of Goodness. After all, it is Boxing Day, which is in fact an extension on Christmas when all you do is stuff your face with cold leftovers and reflect on how overindulged you are after yesterday. Did you know, on average a person consumes over seven thousand calories on Christmas Day alone? It's amazing when you think about it; it's pretty hard to exceed your GDAs anyway. But, with Gran's fabulous cooking, I'm not at all surprised. And I was having a competition with James, Fred, Lily and Louis over who could fit the most Pringles in their mouth at once (James won; it's probably because he can't keep his shut). Anyway, returning to my former point, I failed upon my good deeds on this day. And it was all because of my idiot of a brother.

Fred's a twat. A ginger twat. Which only makes his twat-ness a whole lot more twat-tish. After a conversation in which we had decided that from now on we would be a voice of confidence to each other, I decided to mention my insecurities with my legs. It's not like they're enormous or anything, in fact, I think they could be a lot worse. But they aren't stick thin, and they're a bit too wide to be classed as curvy. It also doesn't help that I'm about as flat-chested as bloody Fred himself. It annoys me that body varies dress size. How can I be a size eight on top and a size fourteen on bottom? That doesn't even make sense. There are about a thousand other things I'm not happy with; I hate having glasses, my hair's too curly, there isn't a type of foundation that perfectly matches my skin tone, my eyebrows are darker than the rest of my head and that makes them look bushy... The normal adolescent girl problems. Although, every other girl in the world is prettier than me, obviously, and so I don't see how they're entitled to moan. Especially Abrah Venison. Though I'm sure she moans merely to spite me.

But I mustn't rise to it.

Frederick, after listening intently to my insecurities, laughed, and proceeded to make some wise crack about my appearance that rubbed me up the wrong way. So I did the only thing that merited the current situation. I smacked him one.

Dad thinks it's hilarious, but he's always one to make a joke out of a crummy situation.

"Still trying to be good, sweetheart?" he had said to me with a smirk. I had snapped at him angrily.

Mum hadn't found it quite so funny, but she was a driven feminist so didn't mind so much about me punching Fred, she was more annoyed that he had laughed at my 'cuddliness' as my best friend describes it, and that I had even considered telling him.

"If you ever need to speak to someone in confidence," she told me later, "speak to me. Fred isn't exactly sensitive."

"He was telling me about his girl troubles," I snapped angrily. "I didn't laugh at him about them, and they were pretty ridiculous. He's all about Lydia McKinnon at the moment, and she's way out of his league."

"I don't care," Mum told me. "You trust no boy with your secrets."

"Not even Adam?" My best friend: tall, handsome, raven-haired and remarkably homosexual.

Mum considered. "Maybe Adam. But not Fred. If I had ever trusted any information with Uncle Tiberius..."

Mum continued her rant, whilst I smiled amusedly. My mother was all for her feminist opinions when it suited her, but she wasn't truly extreme. After all, she was partial to occasional flirting, and she had married my father.

If Dad was any more laid back, he'd be dead. Sometimes he acts more like a friend than a father, and I think this irritates Mum, who wants him to "set standards" and "help with the parenting".

"Dad, do you think I'm fat?" I asked him later that day as we sat together, listening to a Quidditch match aired over the Wireless.

Dad looked up at me. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I'm not thin, and I want to know if that qualifies me as grossly overweight or not."

Dad studied me. "Nope," he said.

"'Nope' what?"

"You're curvy, Rox," he told me with a smile. "You're not enormous, but you're not a twig either. You look like a woman rather than a little boy. Your Mum was curvy too."

I smiled. "You know all the right things to say."

"I've had practice."

And with that, he returned to reading his book, and I was left to wonder if he really meant what he had just said.

Other than that, not much else happened today. I got a letter from Fearne, my other best friend, telling me all about how her sister had broken her laptop by spilling tea on it and how in return, she had broken Gill's nose. Maybe it was just a Christmas thing, siblings punching each other. I'm sure Uncle Charlie punched Uncle Percy one year. Though he did deserve it. Maybe Fearne needs to start being good as well.

My Acts of Goodness will officially start tomorrow, I have decided. After all, we're visiting the Potters, and there will be plenty of opportunity to avoid rising to provocation.

As for now, I feel that an early night is called for. Perhaps three stone will spontaneously combust whilst I sleep. Or maybe world peace will break out overnight and we will all live forever more in happiness (whether because of the peace or the mysterious loss of weight).

We can all live in hope.