Ok, we are now entering the last few hours of moderate sanity. But, as of twelve o’clock today, I think it is safe to say that anything even resembling sanity will have been well and truly wiped out of my life.
Oh yes. They’re arriving at twelve.
You can see Mum’s stressed. She keeps cooking and cooking and cooking – usually, this is perfectly normal, as we Weasleys are born eaters, and we eat what she cooks as soon as she’s cooked it – but the only Weasleys around at the moment are Mum and me. I think the Delacours just don’t eat. Like, at all. They’ll maybe have a piece of fruit or something, and then that’ll be them until lunch. Poor Bill. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself in for.
I just asked Mum if I could sleep in the attic until everyone’s gone, but I don’t think she heard me. The attic really would be a much more peaceful place, I think. I mean, yeah, the ghoul thuds around all over the place, and ok, so that one time Ron and I decided to camp up there as kids turned into a complete disaster… (The ghoul decided to drop a heavy metal pole right onto my head just as I was drifting off; I screamed, Ron thought – only the gods know why – that I was being attacked by spiders, and started walloping me over the head with his pillow, adding his own yells to the din. The ghoul, delighted that he had managed to turn the formerly silent house into a war zone, became overly enthusiastic in his object-throwing and by the time Mum had clambered up the ladder, Ron had been knocked out by an old wooden chair that the ghoul had launched at him, and I was sobbing my eyes out, thinking that Ron was dead. Mum hadn’t even known we were up there, and by the time Ron came ‘round, she had sentenced us to gnome duty for a month and cancelled both our comic book subscriptions.) Still, at least the ghoul doesn’t giggle hysterically when I mention that I’ve only had three boyfriends, or sneer at the contents of my wardrobe. He just throws things at you. A far better companion, in my opinion.
Ah – must go. Mum’s now nagging at me to get dressed, and Fleur’s back with the catalogue. I expect the forks will start flying in a minute, if the new set of dress robes she’s picked out are anything like the last ones. Don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.
Date: Same day. In my room.
Well, I can hear them from up here. Mum and Fleur, I mean. I think we can be fairly certain that the new dress robes are just as bad, if not worse than the first ones. Mum keeps going on about, “My child!” and “Bad influence!” but I have no idea what it is Fleur’s screaming back, because most of it’s in French. It’s just as well, really, because I don’t think it’s apologies or calm negotiations; it kind of reminds me of that time at the Quidditch World Cup, when the Veela grew beaks and started chucking fire balls around. I really hope she doesn’t know how to do the whole fire-throwing thing; if she messes up the oven, how is Mum going to cook the food for the wedding? How’s she going to cook any food? We’d all starve!
I think Fleur’s still sore because the wedding’s not going to be in France like they planned originally. The Ministry doesn’t want too many people moving in and out of the country at the moment, what with the war and all, especially not their precious Chosen One. Of course, the Delacours are still coming into Britain, but there are considerably less Delacours than there are Weasleys.
Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Gabrielle just came in, threw herself down onto her little camp bed and started sobbing. I’ve never been very good with crying people – my brothers were never exactly the soppy type, which meant that I wasn’t either. I mean, can you imagine a cry-baby with six older brothers? They’d skin her alive! – so I had no idea what to do. I suppose my rather gruff, “What the hell is wrong with you?” didn’t help much, ‘cause she just started crying harder.
“They’re not listening to me!” she wailed at me, raising her head off of the mattress just high enough so that I could hear her. “I said I wanted a – a – cake, but they were shouting and wouldn’t listen!”
Yeah. A cake. And she’s crying. I picked up my diary and stomped off into Bill and Charlie’s old room. So now I’m crammed in the space between Charlie’s bed and the window, ‘cause it’s the only place you can’t see from the doorway. That way, if anyone decides to come looking for me, they won’t see me.
Oh no. The clock in here just chimed eleven. They’ll be here in an hour. I wonder if Gabrielle knows? If not, she’s in for one hell of a shock. I don’t know whether Laura and Vicky will pick on her – ‘cause she’s small and pretty and doesn’t speak perfect English – or whether they’ll be all friendly and get her to go around after them, doing everything for them like a little slave. She’s just the sort of person who would fall for something like that, too.
Well, it’d serve her right. Spoiled brat. It’s time she grew up a bit, but she’s not going to do that if everyone continues to drop everything to get her a cake when she wants one. I mean, she’s eleven, for crying out loud. So, if nothing else, the twins should teach her a lesson.
I remember the first time I met them. The twins, I mean. It wasn’t until the three of us were seven; their Dad had died, and their Mum hadn’t spoken to anyone in the family for years, so I was all prepared to be extra nice to them. I thought we would have fun; I didn’t know any other girls my age – actually, I didn’t really know any other girls at all. I mean, Mum taught me at home. Where would I have met them?
So I set out all my favourite toys, shooed Ron and Scabbers (who, at that time, still belonged to Percy) out of my bed where they had been hiding, and actually brushed my hair for once, shocking the rest of my family immensely.
Then they arrived, their hair smoothed into perfect pigtails, wearing matching party dresses and shiny little black shoes. Like Fred and George, the walked and talked simultaneously, though, with them, it wasn’t funny. Neither of them would do anything without consulting the other first. They even went to the loo together, which I found extremely weird.
They marched straight over to me, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, together, “You can be our slave. Come on, slavey.” And, like a complete prat, I followed them. Fetched them drinks and food when they asked for it, plumped their pillows for them, and handed over my most special toys. (Which, by the way, they promptly discarded on to the floor. At the time, I was greatly scandalised by this, but they didn’t seem bothered so I went along with it. I still felt sorry for them. Of course, the second they left I hurried straight to Mr Bumble and Miss Chicky, nursed them back to health and let them sleep in my bed for the next week.)
By the next time we met, aged now nine, I had wised up a bit and refused to do what they asked, insisting that this time it was their turn to be the slaves. They burst into tears and ran to their Mum and told her that I was bullying them. She shouted at me for a bit, until Bill came in. He got so mad and started screaming at her for daring to shout at his baby sister. (He was nineteen at that point, and considerably taller than her.) They left immediately, and the next time I saw the girls was at Hogwarts. They barged into Luna’s and my compartment on the Hogwarts Express, made several snide comments, then left. Haven’t really spoken to them since.
Why are they even coming? Bill doesn’t like them. Anyone who dares even look at his little sister the wrong way is evil in his book. And it’s his wedding. I bet they invited themselves – a chance to show off.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. It’s quarter to twelve. I’m going up to the attic. They’ll never find me there.
Date: Same day. Quarter past twelve.
Ok, Mum just found me. She wants me to come down and say hello. What am I going to do?