It's a Wednesday. She's six and three quarter's years old, and counting the days until she's seven (because that's when Mum says she can get a toy broomstick) and playing in her mother's room. She's not really supposed to be here, but Mum's cooking supper and Da's watching the telly and she's tired of playing with her dolls (she doesn't like 'em much anyway, she much prefers wrestling with her cousin Sirius, but he's away at grimy ol' Grimmauld Place). So she's wandered into her parents' bedroom and clambered onto their bed, staring at the ceiling. She wants to touch all the pretty things on the old wooden dresser, but she broke three glasses and her Mum's favorite china peacock set last week, so instead she's lying on her back, playing with her hair and making it change lengths.
She knows she can also make it change colours, but she hasn't figured out how to keep the colour for very long. Finally deciding this is how she'll ease her boredom, she sits up and runs her eyes over the room for inspiration. They land on a small, elegantly decorated tube standing upright near the dresser mirror.
She scrambles to the edge of the bed, nearly falling off in the process. The young girl pauses in her movements, steadying her position, before picking up the small tube and opening it. It is lipstick in a beautifully bright shade of pink. Never before has she seen a colour this startling, and she can't describe the swooping feeling in her tummy, but she knows this is meant to be.
"Perfect," the tiny witch inhales and she immediately furrows her brow in concentration. After what seems like eternity, she peeks one eyelid open in hope, but her hair hasn't changed at all. She scowls ever more fiercely, and slowly but surely the frayed ends melt into a pastel rose, all the way to her roots. This time she watches the changes through the mirror, but something is still off. It's simply not… right, it doesn't match the lipstick quite yet. She ponders for several minutes, her stomach rumbling due to the delicious aroma wafting from downstairs, but she's reluctant to leave until she's got it just right.
Abruptly she breaks into a wide smile and without hesitation, hoists herself on top of the dresser and scribbles on the mirror with the lipstick. She claps her hands in delight, examining the drawn hair in the mirror. It's all messy and spiky and all together what she really likes, and after a few moments, she skims her palm over the top of her head.
It matches exactly, but it's too late for the little girl, for her mother suddenly enters the room and shouts in exasperation.
"Nympha-DOR-a! Get off there this instant!"
There is no guilt in the miniature witch's expression nor shame in her stride as she scarpers from the room. Her infuriated mother chases after her, and catches her, and it isn't until they stumble across the last two steps before the kitchen that they realize they're both giggling madly, cheeks flushed. Mother cuddles daughter closely, and all is forgiven as they settle down for their meal.
Cute, yes? Leave constructive criticism please :)