Our Table
Ginny's home was a collage of possessives, thrown together as haphazardly as their house itself, mixed together for variety, and stomped on a couple of times for good measure. There were odds and ends poking out where they were expected, and often, where they weren't, each of them carrying with them a whiff of their owner.
There was Ginny's room, with its spring-like feel - she'd gone through summer and winter and finally autumn, though autumn only after she'd gone off to Hogwarts, but she preferred spring's livelier and fresher feel. Inside Ginny's room was, of course, her bed, and her bookshelf cluttered with everything from wands to textbooks (though her textbooks were far less prominent) and even a few, old, Harry Potter plushies, shoved back in a dark corner to collect dust, never to see daylight again. There was an aura of neatness despite Ginny's determined messier preferences that meant mum, lovely, understanding, overbearing mum of wonderful scents and tastes had been through, bringing a warmly mother-y taste that was significantly more aged than Ginny's spring.
Ginny's room was predominantly feminine, a little island of beauty if not peace or elegance, and everyone knew that it was off-limits to all but Ginny and her mum without explicit permission (Fred generally said that they didn't want to come anyways, but that didn't stop him from sneaking in whenever he could), but there were traces of her brothers scattered around. On her floor, Ron's Chudley Cannons sock made itself seen with its glaring colors, while Percy had dropped one of his quills in here, and it had left splotches on her carpet that just wouldn't come out (Ginny suspected Fred and George). On her table, a fang that Charlie had left lay, and Ginny hadn't felt like giving back rested. (Whenever Ginny missed him too much, she picked it up and imagined he was there, but she always put it back before anyone saw).
Looking around Ginny's home, though, it would have been difficult to guess that there were six boys and one easily distracted father were in residence here. Mum made most of their home her area, and not just her kitchen or living room either. She was always going into their rooms and tidying up a bit, and no matter how much they complained, they were always grateful when they found themselves searching for a sock that always magically appeared back where it was supposed to be.
Besides, Percy's room was so neat, though there was always something off about it. It was organized methodically, but it lacked that thing that made a room a room and a neat room appealing. It was dry and precise, and if it weren't for splotches of color splashed around, Ginny would have disapproved heartily of it. But as it were, Percy's room was endearingly him with its perfectly smoothed out sheets and always cleaned up table and almost but not quite perfectly lined up clothes, and somehow, all of them ended up spending more time in Percy's room than anyone else's, even Fred and George, despite their loudly professed dislike of Percy and his neatness.
Fred and George's room, for their part, was chaotic and wholly unnavigable. You never knew when you might end up making something explode or knocking over some experimental potion that blew up in your face. Everyone except mum knocked before they entered, a wise move, because their room was certifiably dangerous. Somehow mum managed to neutralize all and any potential spots of danger, even (and Fred and George had admitted to doing this) when they had deliberately set traps for her. Ginny, Ron, Charlie, and Bill had always (without telling them) used Fred and George's room as one of their most frequent subject of dares, until finally Bill had declared it off-limits - it was just too difficult to explain their injuries to mum.
There were other intimately personal areas as well, as well as objects that, if their house was ever turned into a museum, should be framed and hung up, like Ron's old teddy bear that Fred and George had turned into a spider and made him acrophobic ever since, or Charlie's worn out broom that he'd abandoned after it was half-scorched by dragon fire. Most of their house was told in 'Ron's' and 'Bill's' and 'dad's' or sometimes 'ghoulie's', whether it be mum's house (everyone acknowledged that it was hers, except perhaps mum herself) or dad's car - even their front door was jokingly 'Percy's door' after he'd crashed into it that one time, but there was one place in their house that was indisputably, unchangeably theirs, and that was Our Table.
Ginny always capitalized Our Table when she thought about it. Somehow, it just fit, because Our Table was more than a word with a possessive tacked on; it was a name, an item, an identity, because Our Table just wasn't her table Ron's table or Charlie's table or even mum's table, it was Our Table, and it was special.
There was a little Weasley family history written in Our Table, and if you had time, you could sit down at Our Table and trace over years of accumulated marks and bumps and burns and figure out what had happened, over years.
Our Table was a mahogany rectangle with an otherwise smooth surface, just big enough to fit all of their family (and that included Harry and Hermione, now). It had begun as a wedding present for mum and dad, back, long long ago, and slowly grown to fit everyone in their family. This had been done without any intervention on their parents' part - it was Aunt Muriel who had given them Our Table, though it hadn't been Our Table back then, and it had come able to elongate itself to suit its family's needs. Ginny wasn't sure if that was a joke or not, but it couldn't be a joke - Aunt Muriel just didn't have a sense of humor.
If you had a sharp eye or had heard about Our Table's special qualities, it was easy to tell that Our Table might have once been something other than a long rectangle was slightly stretched out grains that most people would probably have interpreted as an odd kind of wood. And certainly, it was an odd piece of wood, just not how they assumed. But Our Table had so much more of interest than slightly elongated grains that nobody paid attention to.
On one side of Our Table, for instance, there was a suspicious looking part literally scraped off, from back when Bill had been just a baby and mum hadn't known how to deal with children (and wasn't that a strange thought?). She'd been trying to teach him something - accounts disagreed on what - and in frustration, baby Bill had bit down on Our Table, not imagining then how sacred his mark would later become (Hermione's pointed offer to repair it, so many years later, had gotten even Percy up on his feet to stop her) and scraped off a long piece of wood. Mum had, then and there, made up her mind that nothing on Our Table would ever be repaired, and when guests came, simply covered it with a napkin-holder.
Then there was a burn that covered large areas of Our Table that came from not Fred and George's experiments but Charlie, who'd committed that unthinkable crime of brewing a potion on Our Table, and proved that mum was really sentimental enough that she wouldn't ever change anything on Our Table. Charlie had been scolded heavily for it, but there lay Charlie's potion and there it would stay, though Ginny had discovered one day that mum had covered it with a translucent spray to prevent contact. Having seen potions explode before, Ginny thought that that was probably a good thing.
Outsiders would never understand Our Table - indeed, Ginny herself didn't think she always understood it - but it was theirs.
And for their family, that was everything.