Disclaimer: Sadly, Harry Potter is not mine.

When I woke up this morning, I thought today would be a good day.

In reality, though, the day could not have ended up worse. Walking through the hall, I reflect that not only have I lost Gryffindor 30 house points in Potions, but I also have been chucked.

By Jack.

By Jack the Hufflepuff.

By Jack the Hufflepuff, on a post-it.

It simply reads:

Ginny, I donte want too sea you annymore. -Jack

I am so angry I could spit fire. Well, I realize that I could by simply casting a spell, but that's not what I'm talking about.

I am not sad.

And this is not the kind of "I am not sad" I say to convince myself. I am actually not sad. I have wanted to chuck Jack for a while now, but couldn't find a nice way about it. Apparently, Jack does not have such tact. Nor, any sense of proper grammar.

Stupid prick. What if I were some sensitive bint? I might’ve cried! I suppose that really, Jack has done me a favour. I will not be seen as an evil wench who chucked her caring boyfriend. And, as a bonus, I will never have to put up with Jack's "Relationship Talks".

"Ginny, I think it’s time to have one of our relationship talks," he would say. And then he would proceed to talk about himself and all his woes until I snogged him just to shut him up.

Serves me right for thinking Hufflepuffs were datable.

I tuck the offending post-it into my potions text, and make my way down to the Great Hall for lunch. Well, it's all in the past now, isn't it? The very recent, just occurred past, but the past nevertheless. The past is in the past. Well, of course it's in the past, where else would the past be?

It's also just occurred to me that I am now dateless for the Hogsmeade trip next week. Damn Jack, I was supposed to go with him. But I guess that would be awkward, what with him chucking me and all.

I just wish the love of my life would pop up and announce himself, but I am reluctant to try out any more tests, seeing as today, Test Day 7, was also a failure.

Test 7: Decided that the love of my life was heroic. Theorized (or daydreamed, whatever) that maybe I would trip, and loverboy would catch me before I fell. Or, seeing as I am quite clumsy, I thought that maybe if I dropped my books, he would pick them up. Decided to go with the second test, as it would not result in broken legs if loverboy was incidentally having an off day.

I had stopped and looked around the crowded hall. It was worth a try, certainly. It sure seemed like a good idea at the time.

I extended my hands, dropping the books unceremoniously. They made a sharp thud, and a few people gave me a queer look before turning back to whatever it was that they were doing.

Test 7 Results: Complete, utter, FAILURE.

Okay, so that was bad enough, wasn’t it? You would think that if I had done something really horrible, and the gods wanted to punish me, their task would be complete. But really, someone up there must hate me. How else would I end up here, lying on the ground, with a really horrible weight on top of me? As if falling on my arse isn't bad enough, some really fat fuckwit has to land on top of me.

I try to get up, but I can't. I let out a string of curses my mother would wash my mouth out for, but stop when I realize the person on top of me is cursing also, in a very sharp male voice.

Now really, what right do they have? They're on top aren't they? And is their nose currently spouting out blood? And is it their hair that is being painfully pulled out?

Now really, I can barely breathe! "Get off me!" I try to shout. But with my now bleeding nose and the fact that I was being smothered, it came out, "Gebobmeh!"

Amazingly, the mysterious fuckwit understands. "I’m trying, you silly girl!" He replies.

Silly? Who’s he calling silly? Who is this guy?

The sharp voice speaks again: "Your hair is caught on my watch; I'm trying to loosen it!"

Yes, well, that explains why my scalp is burning me. I can tell whoever he is, he's in a hurry to get off me. I must admit, I am somewhat insulted. Really, most boys would be happy to have a girl lying under them, no matter what the circumstances. Stupid poufter. I am suffocating here, why can't he move his fat arse?

"My arse is not fat!" Comes the indignant reply.

Shit. Must've said that out loud. He is moving too slow, much too slow. I reach out and give the guy a sharp pinch at what I thought would be his wrist.

"Oh my God!" Is exclaimed, and the weight is off me almost instantly. Gods, if I had known that, I wouldn't have waited so damn long. Relieved to finally have the ability to move, I look up at the fuckwit.

He said it right: Oh. My. God. Another string of curses fills my mind, and I am completely mortified.

Draco Malfoy is currently holding his private parts and glaring down at me, wincing in pain. "Are you mad?! Do you have any idea what type of damage you could have caused?!"

Ohgodsohgodsohgodsohgodsohgods.

He is going to kill me, isn't he? So this is it, huh? This is how my life will finally end. The thought that I survived being possessed by Voldemort, only to be killed by an angry 18-year-old pops into my head.

I couldn't help it. Really, I tried. But I absolutely could not stop the laugh that bubbled out of me.

Draco Malfoy looks really angry, and really, I should stop laughing. But it's like Newton's third law or something. For every action, there is a reaction. And the more I try to stop laughing, the harder I laugh. And, oh gods, is that all blood from my nose? Stop laughing Ginny, stop it right now. Malfoy is pulling out his wand. He's going to curse me! Stop laughing, Ginny!

I cannot stop laughing. I am going to die laughing.

No. I am a fighter. I am a survivor. I am still bloody well laughing.

Malfoy is still screaming, but I can barely hear him over my own laughter. Oh, no, he's raising his wand. Quickly, with mad speed I didn't know I possessed, I grab my fallen text and bolt down the hall.

Chortling the entire bloody way.

Well, here it is. I'm not quite sure how the professional ones are drawn up, but this will have to do.

The last will and testament of Ginny Weasley

Seeing as I am still underage, and will not be seventeen (17) until next month, all my belongings still belong to my mum (Molly Weasley). But mum, if you would not mind, can you please dig into the bottom of my trunk, where you will find a pair of radish earrings and a radish necklace? Give those to Luna Lovegood in a fortnight, on her birthday. Also, just because I am dead, it does not mean you are allowed to read my diary. Really mum, you should respect my memory by respecting my privacy. Also, I do not think daddy can handle both girls in the family dying within days of each other. Because you will most certainly have a heart attack if you crack that book open.

I would like my father (Arthur Weasley) to please keep mum calm at all times. Poor Bill, Charlie, Fred and George do not need to put up with her hysterics. Percy and Ron deserve to, though. Dad, Ron has a stack of PlayWizards under the loose floorboard in his bedroom. Right beneath that hideous Canons mat he insists on keeping. You can tell mum about them, but only when you think Ron has been acting too smug.

Bill, I love you.

Charlie, I love you too.

Fred, George, I love you when you are not turning me into a headless chicken. Well, really, I cannot love you all unconditionally, you know.

Ron, I love you, but you really need to learn to piss off. You are not my bloody keeper, arsehole. And really, for all your over-protectiveness, you could not stop Draco Malfoy from murdering me. Nice job, dimwit.

Percy, I love you, but I do not like you. Talk to mum and dad for Christ's sake. Bloody fucktard.

Mum, I love you loads.

Daddy, I love you loads too.

And you two better make damn well sure Draco Malfoy does not get away with killing me. Order member or not, he cannot just walk around killing people who have given him temporary erectile dysfunction.

Er, long story . . .

Well, there it is then. When Draco Malfoy finally comes in here to A.K. me, I know the last of my life has been sorted. I really think this is some nice piece of work. I even wrote it just like Professors Binns and McGonagall taught us, no contractions, follow written numbers with their quick-form in brackets. I'm quite proud, really. I think I would celebrate even, if it weren't for the fact that I wrote it because I was going to die.

Where the bloody hell is Madam Pomfrey? I've been sitting here for half an hour, and my nose still has not stopped bleeding. Miracle potion, my arse. This is supposed to be an infirmary. People are supposed to get treated here. Where's my treatment, huh? I highly doubt the Board pays the old bat to skive off work and go have a fag. I'm going to find her. I think I really am losing too much blood. That'll be my excuse, anyway.

I get up from the criticky old bed and try to be as quiet as possible. I'm not sure why I'm being so sneaky, but I can feel a tiny thrill going through me. Secret agent Ginny Weasley creeps through the abandoned corridor, so quiet she's practically floating on air. A giant Blast-Ended Skrewt falls from the sky, right in her path. Without so much as flick of her wand, she blasts the creature into oblivion.

Shut up, brain.

What's the harm in being quiet? It'll be much easier to catch Pomfrey skiving off this way. Then, next time I get a Quidditch injury, I can make her let me have visitors. I'm being as quiet as possible. I'm breathing very lightly. I'm wiping up all the blood running from my nostrils. Only a few more feet, and I'll be on solid stone floor, with no potential of it creaking under my foot. Creeeeeaaaaaaaakkk.

Shite.

I look around, but no one's come rushing to me, demanding I get back into bed. Alright. Still good to go. I manage to get out the door, and my feet hit cold stone floor. I'm in the Infirmary corridor. I'm about to turn left, walk down the hall, and exit the Hospital wing, when I hear hushed voices way down the hall, to the right.

Well then. I turn right, obviously. Anything said in hushed voices is obviously going to be delightfully juicy. I'm getting closer and closer to the door, and the voices are becoming louder.

" . . . Fix it!" A vaguely familiar tone insists.

"Trouble . . . new situation . . . never before dealt with . . ." That has to be Pomfrey.

What is it that she's talking about? What's a new situation she's never dealt with? What's going on?

" . . . don't care! . . . permanent damage . . . " The first voice is sounding whiney.

Permanent damage? Has Madam Pomfrey permanently damaged someone? I creep to the door and press my ear into the keyhole. The hushed voices are getting quiet again, and I can barely hear anything. Madam Pomfrey says something else, and the barely recognizable voice gets quite angry. " . . . bloody well going to KILL her!"

"Mr. Malfoy, I'm sure it's not that bad!" Pomfrey insists.

I stifle a gasp, and press my ear harder into the door. Malfoy? Permanently damaged? Oh fuck. This has got to be because of me. But honestly, it really can't have been that bad. My mind flashes back to last year, when Ron was driving me mad, and I had given him a love-pinch. Ron cried. A lot. Not just a tear or two, but a whole mess of sobs.

And I definitely did not give Draco Malfoy a love-pinch.

He said he was bloody well going to kill me! I believe him, I really do. He's capable of it, I just know it. And he'll laugh the entire time. And then when I fall to the ground, lifeless, he'll do something really horrid, like pee in my face.

What?

He's quite capable of it all, I'll have you know!

I'm scared, I really am. Okay, I think Professor McGonagall will protect me. She has to, as her duty as the new Headmistress. It has to be written in some I'm-the-new-Headmistress-of-Hogwarts pamphlet or handbook somewhere.

A moan of agony floats through the door, and I hear Madam Pomfrey ask, "Better?"

A frustrated yell follows the question. Okay, alright. I just need to stay calm.

I feel like I'm going to throw up. Luckily I haven't eaten anything, so at most, all I'll have will be a few dry heaves. It's really not safe here. I'll just back away slowly, and no one need ever know that I was here.

Oh, no. No. Please don't, stomach. Please, not now. NOT NOW!

But I have no control over it. A loud rumble echoes through the hall. Damn, I should not have skipped lunch. I have an appetite that would rival a Blast-Ended Skrewt, or even Ron.

The voices inside have stopped abruptly. Oh, God, no! I'm backing away as quickly and quietly as I can, but to no avail. The door whips open, and I'm face to face with a wide-eyed Mediwitch, and an absolutely apoplectic Draco Malfoy.

Fuck.

Fuck fuckity fuck.