Ginny wears a blue and green plaid jumper with buckles on the straps and a plain white blouse under that. Her fourteen year old legs are clad in thick white tights and black MaryJanes fit snugly on her feet. She still doesn't have much of a figure; no, her body is thin and willowy, without any of the curves that rest so comfortably on her mother. And she is still short--well, five foot exactly, and that's not tall.
"Yes, my darling?"
"Brush my hair for me, Mum?" she asks, and turns her back towards her mother. A comb appears as if by magic in Molly's hand, and she doesn't seem the least surprised at either the arrival of the comb or her only daughter's request.
"Of course, dearie!" And suddenly they are both sitting, and Molly is running the comb skillfully through the brilliant auburn hair.
Ginny winces as Molly tugs at a snarl. "Ouch, Mum, that hurts..."
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," she replies, her own honey-thick voice filled with concern. She slows in her strokes with the black plastic comb and takes her time to unravel the knot.
"Ouch, Mum, that hurts!" the daughter cries again, her beautiful face wrinkling in an expression of pain Molly is sure she couldn't have caused.
"But...darling, I'm not yanking at all..." She works even more carefully, and soon the knot is out. She brushes gladly through the red-head's hair from root to tip, satisfied.
"MUMSY!" Ginny screams in pain, and Molly drops the comb in surprise. Where the comb's teeth have traced, already blood is welling, mixing with and matting her fiery hair. Then they are standing, and Ginny is holding her head and wailing, and Molly is apologising as much as she can, horrified that somehow a comb tipped with glass has made its way into her possession, and even worse, that she has used it on her beloved daughter.
Molly's wand is suddenly in her hand as she calls desperately after her daughter. "Let me heal you, sweetie, I can heal you, with magic!"
And Ginny, her precious Ginny, only daughter and youngest child, turns to her and screams, her face and voice contorted into pure hatred and violence. "MAGIC ISN'T REAL!" she shrieks, and tears run down her face, and the tears aren't normal melted diamonds like they usually are but tiny drops of blood. And her eyes roll back in her head as she collapses to her knees, her head falling forward and the trails of blood from the comb are now rivers, flowing and staining that pure white blouse a broken, poisoned crimson...
And Molly can see the Gryffindor banners swaying from the ceiling above her, red, red as her daughter's hair, red as her daughter's blood, red as the roses she KNOWS are dying...
And a screaming sob rises into her own throat but she can't force it out, can't stop staring at what she's done to her beloved, darling daughter, and the black cheap comb is back in her hands and she trying to break it in half, but it holds fast. She claws at it, but her fingernails break off one by one until she's scratching at it with bloodied fingertips and STILL she can't scream, and everything is cold, colder than death, cold as Dementor's domain, but the blood is so icy hot and it burns...
She can scream, then, and she does, her voice piercing the bloodied fog with a shrill note of desperate anguish, catching with sobs and heavy with unshed tears, but she doesn't WANT to cry, because Weasleys cry blood, not diamonds...
Fred leaned over and cuffed George on the ear. "It's Mum again," he muttered. His twin rolled over to look at him without emotion.
"So?" he replied in a hissing whisper, then turned once more and returned to slumber. People can get used to anything.
Ron stared up at the ceiling, waiting for the scream to come, and when it did, he yawned. Finally. No use being woken up; might as well stay awake. He waited patiently for the high-pitched wail to swing its way down into noisy sobs, then weeping and sniffles, and when it grew quiet enough that he was able, he fluffed up his pillow and slept.
Percy flinched in his sleep, but did not wake. He was lost too deeply in his own world of dream-fog shadows to rouse for his mother's cry. His arms tightened around the worn pink bear, one-eyed and patched with great clumps of fur missing and half the rags inside gone, well loved by his only little sister. She didn't need it anymore and it provided him with a misty comfort. Her smell still lingered just behind the raggedy ears.
Bill woke abruptly to the sound of his mother's scream. He glanced at the clock beside his bed, the glowing yellow numerals vivid in the blackness of the night. Two seventeen. Right on schedule. Charlie, in his bed across the room, did the same. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, and for a second it's not apparent whether their gazes had crossed at all. Each murmuring a soft sigh or prayer, they drew their respective covers to their chins and stared moodily into the darkness.
Arthur gently shook his wife out of her nightmare and held her closely while she cried.
Shame it took a tragedy for them all to be home again.