George Weasley

Sodding muggle police are all power mad wankers. And they just want to throw you in jail if you're ginger, or tell them they have a nice rack, even if it's true and it's a compliment anyway.

Angel tried to grab my precious bits.

( Private )

Oi, Troy, I found the rest of those receipt things. They're a bit shredded though.

So Fredders and me had to go to the Bank this morning, because we're rich and successful, and not evil. We didn't get a sodding thing done, because it was a madhouse, but it did give us chance to test out a new idea.

See, we've been pondering setting up queues for when the Junior Quidditch league comes to the shop in massive hordes of screaming children that make us want to feed them to a troll. But we weren't sure if it would work.

There was loads of people at the bank, and they'd set up a helpful queue of frothing, furious people. Most of them were all annoyed that their rampant wankery evil kept them from their money. But the goblins or someone had set up a queue to serve people in the order they came. It looked like thus. Approximately:

( Gringott's Queue )

The bit about queues is that once they're in them, people will just follow along. So Fredders and I decided to make it more efficient. And changed it to something like this.

( Gringott's Queue, Fixed )

By the time they got to the end that was the beginning, there was one fat bloke who was turning fuschia, and a lady who almost chewed off her own cheek.

I'm never sodding drinking again. Nothing but water and sugary shite from now on.

( Private to Fred )

We've got an overstock sale on Trick Wands and Skiving Snackboxes - buy one get one this week, because I can't be buggered to move boxes from one place to another.

Muggleborns today. Tomorrow half bloods they don't like, then blood traitors, then people wore the wrong shoes to their last invite-only Flaming Arsehole party.

This is bollocks. Even you people with your head shoved up your own rear ends, pretending that everything's fine have to see that now, right?

( Private to Order )

( Private to Muggleborn friends )

So, turns out work is hard. And journals are very losey. As in they get themselves lost easily, and I can't read Fredders, because I'm not speaking to him outside of working and special things of brilliance and when I have something to say or feel like it.

I found it under the puff' display. So I think they've started to read. I don't know if we should be afraid, or charge more for them.

( Private to Fred )

So Fred and I are daring sorts. Life on the edge. Succesful, impossibly handsome businessmen. The like of which the world has never seen. We don't follow rules.

Except for one.

And Fred made it.

AND BROKE IT.

So when everything's mucked up, it's his fault.

Also, Pucey has a face like a pit bull, and Ryan's really lucky he looks like his mum. SOMEONE with Quidditch connections needs to get me tickets to a match. WOOD. I WON'T BRING A SIGN ABOUT YOUR PRICK THIS TIME. Probably. At least not until the product advertisements are made.

And what the hell happened to Ginny? Gin? What's going on? Why was Charlie writing in giant, page-killing letters? Is everyone at Hogwarts sitting with a thumb up their arse these days?

( Private to Weasleys )

I might have accidentally invented a line of sex toys that Verity agreed to test, last night.

And I think I made it up with Percy and he might come over for curry or something. I don't know. We were chatting.

But he's going to try to put a hold on Zonko's, since he says there's some other offers in the works for it and he saw the paperwork go through or some shite like that.

I'm brilliant when I'm drunk. Or maybe drunk when I'm brilliant. It's hard to tell. Either way, new product line should be in testing soon. I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seat.

These journal things are getting less entertaining. Someone should think of better ways to use them. That make me money, preferably.

( Private to Twins, Verity )

( Private to Fred )

( Private to Percy )

My journal's been overrun with gullible tiny Hufflepuffs, now. Do they make some kind of journal tonic for those?

I'm going to give up my job at the shop and start up a new career as a reporter. I've no experience and don't actually know anything about writing or sussing out the truth from bullshite. But I don't really think that'll be a problem if I go for a job at the Prophet, yeah? I'm writing up a few sample articles, in case the editors over there are reading.

Human Rodent Hybrids Flourishing
According to reports by some bloke who lives in Surrey and spends his days stroking it off by the window, humans are rampantly breeding with some breeds of undiscerning rats and creating hideous, half-animal, half-human babies.

Sources won't actually go on record to say anything, because they're not nutters, but I've seen Malfoy, so I know it's most likely true. The rats could do better, but they're rats, so I suppose we have to give them a bit leeway. The mutant offspring are polluting the world though, so we should probably drown them all.
- Article by George Weasley, aspiring reporter.

Someone Died, I think Maybe Their Name Was Bob
The other day I was out, and this old lady was talking about a guy she knew, who just died. She had a tiny dog in her handbag, and she was clearly too old to function, but she thought Bob had died of nefarious means.

It's clear that someone murdered Bob. Probably because Dumbledore told them to. It's appalling that no one's reported on this sooner.

Though she thought maybe Bob slipped on a bit of orange peel, too.
- Article by George Weasley, who still writes better than anyone at the Prophet.

Roger Davies & Oliver Wood, Actually Female
"No really, it's true," says Angelina Johnson. "I have more of a piece then them. Davies kept asking to borrow a dress, and if he could transfer to the Harpies." The Harpies wouldn't comment, but Jones, who is brilliant and would look amazing on a calender in tasteful underthings, would probably have said that they were both too ugly, and that the Harpies have too high a reputation to take on some broomshaggers.

Davies, who makes a hideous female, spends his weekends helping little old ladies across the street, and then steals their knickers and wears them. Wood hasn't been seen since there was a recall on those Fastsweeps that vibrated too hard when you turned. He didn't turn his back in.
- Article by George Weasley, who forgot to say that Johnson might not have said that.

When I get married to five insatiable and beautiful cousins of Fleur's, hopefully, I'm doing it in secret.

To sum up, these journals are a bit of gold, really. My brother and Davies are flirting with excessive question marks. OI. YOU TWO. PUTTING "Don't" at the start and a "?" at the end doesn't make it a question! Also it's obvious that you two want to run off to shack up together or something, so stop trying to hide it behind those flirty, dirty little question marks. And Davies, if you're just after Fred's half of the shop, it's no good, when he marries up it all reverts to me, since he'll have lost his bloody mind, clearly.

In addition, Wood has nasty, dirty thoughts about his broom. Someone made someone lemon squares who wasn't me, and I'm offended, and Ang sends porn.

What good is having all these friends who fondle brooms for a living when I have no tickets to matches. SOMEONE GIVE ME TICKETS TO THE NEXT PUDDLEMERE MATCH. I have an important agenda.

And who knew there was a Men of Quidditch calendar? YOU BLOKES SHOULD BE ASHAMED.

Ang, do you think you could get Gwenog Jones to pose for us if we do one for you ladies? To keep things EQUAL. MEN SHOULDN'T GET ALL THE ATTENTION, and all that. Also if there is already one, there should be two. So we can take the pictures. And sell it.