YAY! I finally got a story on SQ! Many thanks to Stella for helping me fix it up…

I hate them. I really do. Every last freckled one of them.

            You’d think they could have told me. You’d think they could have some speck of brotherly compassion in their empty heads. But no. They insist on ruining my life.

            It’s not enough that I’m the youngest. Or that I have to start school in a month. No, they have to embarrass me in front of HIM.

            He’s down there. Right now. In my house! He’ll be sleeping in a bedroom somewhere above mine! I’ll have to eat dinner with him everyday! We might even talk… like a conversation. He might even… notice…me….

            OH yes. I forgot. Of course he’ll notice me. As Ron’s idiot little sister. Thanks to that episode a few minutes ago. My brilliant introduction. I hate my brothers.

            I woke up this morning to shouting. Indistinct, muffled shouting, but shouting nonetheless. Since my room is a couple stories up, I couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but it had the ringing familiarity of my mum. Fred and George, was my first thought. I stifled a laugh. Who else would it be? And they’d been sneaking around for the last week – so I knew something had been up; apparently it had all broken loose last night. I wanted to go see what it was. It’s always rather entertaining to see someone other than yourself get yelled at – especially the twins, since they’re never too bothered by it.

            So, having drawn this conclusion, I bounded out of bed and down the creaky staircase, not bothering to listen more closely as I made my way to the kitchen.

            Which is why, of course, I found myself the very unsuspecting victim of a piercing green stare. HIM. Right there in the kitchen. No warning at all.

            It couldn’t have lasted more than ten seconds. His eyes connected with mine. And all I could think was how? HOW? My brothers. That’s how. And they hadn’t even told me!

            SO yes. I ran straight into the kitchen and skidded to a halt in my stocking feet. And looked up to find him looking right back at me. My throat went all dry; I felt like I was going to choke. And I know my eyes got real big and all the blood in my body suddenly decided to rush to my face. And, seriously, I think my heart stopped. For one long second. And he just looked at me.

            And then my brain seemed to turn back on – and all these ideas raced through my head. Like, “talk to him,” “introduce yourself,” “walk over and sit down by him,” “get breakfast, just like normal,” or “pretend you came down to ask mum a question.” But even though my brain had clicked, my body had not decided to function. And then one more thought came floating up, more awful then all the rest of them. That I was standing in the middle of my kitchen in my NIGHTDRESS. No dressing gown or anything. Just my summer nightie.

            I wanted to die right then and there. Crawl into one of the many cracks in our ancient kitchen tile. Or at least exit gracefully.

            But instead, I let out a squeak like a strangled bird and flew out of the kitchen, my heart now painfully loud in my ears. This time I heard the conversation as I ran. Heard Ron’s muffled and oh-so-kind introduction, and Fred’s louder, “Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph…” And I thought things couldn’t be worse. Now HE knows. How could he not? Stupid, stupid boys.

            Or rather, stupid me. Why did I do that? Why? Why? WHY? Do I have to be such an idiot? I had been planning for this meeting since that day on Platform 9 ¾ when I realized we’d be at school together. And in NONE of my fantasies was I wearing my nightdress. And in none of them had I been such a little girl about it.

            Sometimes I hate myself.

            I’ve been sitting in my room all morning now. No use going downstairs. I think I’ll stay up here for the rest of my pathetic life.

            There’s a noise on the stairs outside my bedroom. I tip-toe to my door and peek out – just in time to see a blaze of red hair followed by a rather messier mop of black appear over the landing.  I jump back from my door like it’s burned me – slamming it at the same time. Another brilliant move. I seem to get the most brilliant reflexes around this particular person.

            I place my ear to the door just in time to hear Ron as they continue up the stairs. “Ginny,” he explains. “You don’t know how weird it is for her to be this shy. She never shuts up normally --“ Gee, thanks Ron. As if I couldn’t make enough of an idiot of myself, you have to accentuate it with your charming descriptions.

            And what does he know about me being shy? I am never very good around strangers – especially boy strangers. Yes, once I’ve gotten to know them I “never shut up,” but I have trouble getting over that first hurdle. Or maybe it’s only with boys I…like. You’d think that having so many brothers would make me an expert in this area. After all, there should be some compensation for putting up with all this torment. I should have boys all figured out.

            But I’m not even allowed that small grace.

            And it’s not like there’s really anyone to talk about this with. I can’t tell my mum, because next thing I know she’ll probably be blurting it out over the dinner table to my father or something, or one of her friends. My brothers are out of the question (laughable thought!), as is my dad. And who else is there? I don’t really know anyone else. I’ve met a couple girls, but never any I’ve grown close too. Hopefully at Hogwarts I’ll be able to make some real friends.

            I do hope people like me. It’s so scary, going to school. Of course I’m very excited, I’ve been hearing about Hogwarts for all of my life. But with so many brothers – successful brothers, too – I feel a bit… pressured. What if I don’t get into Gryffindor?! My mum would be so disappointed.

            Perhaps I shall get a diary. Then I could tell it all these things I can’t say to my family. And then maybe I could figure something out.

            Yes. That’s it. A diary. I’ll ask mum for one when we go to Diagon Alley.

            A diary…