Disclaimer: Me, owning the Harry Potter series? ME? breaks out into hysterical laughter starts to sob Yeah, right.
Fred Weasley raised the bottle up to his eye level and studied the contents. It wasn't moving. Maybe it needed some air…. He popped the cork out of the top and the small pink blob shot out of the bottle and stuck to the ceiling. Muttering to himself, Fred looked around for something sturdy enough to climb on and spotted one of the legs of an ancient stepstool peeking out from under a pile of rubbish and old failed experiments. He tugged it out and balanced on the spindly thing as it creaked and wobbled and tried to throw him off. Reaching up towards the pink thing on the ceiling, precariously balanced on the stool, he swatted at it with a tissue, barely missing each time. He wasn't tall enough. That was the problem with being shorter…Fred strained, but still nothing. Getting irritated, he jumped, swiped, and the pink thing flew over and broke the mirror as the battered old stepstool shattered under Fred.
Generally not being fond of being shattered to pieces, the mirror started shrieking hysterically and cursing Fred in terms more colorful than he though mirrors should know. George came bolting in at the sound of the mirror breaking and Fred falling on his butt to see his twin brother almost destroying what was left of the mirror trying to remove something resembling old gum. George walked over and touched the pink thing to see if it was really that sticky or if Fred had finally cracked, and it stuck to his extended finger.
"Gaa, slimy!" He shook his hand violently in an act of persuasion for the pink thing to kindly remove itself NOW and it let go, sailing out the opened door. Instead of sticking to the far wall in the hallway outside the twins' room, it abruptly changed direction and scooted upstairs towards Ron's unoccupied room.
"What the bloody heck IS that!" George shouted.
Fred half grinned. "Remember last week when you fell asleep at the desk testing one of our sleeping pills? Well, you started talking in your sleep, and saying various charms, and I didn't have the heart to disturb you by removing your wand from your hand…"
"So you expounded and experimented with a piece of old gum that is now loose in the house." George continued. "How…"
A large, resounding crash was heard in Ron's room and the sounds of a very terrified tank of frogs permeated the air.
"Mum's going to kill us, you do know that, right?" George asked as the twins bolted up the stairs.
They were greeted to the sight of some very angry Chudley Cannons posters floating around the room like a tornado had just hit. Everything was either floating around slowly or still being ripped to shreds. There was a small galleon-sized perfectly round hole through one side of the fishtank Ron used for his unpopular frogs, and somehow his bed had been tipped over and the sheets stacked neatly in the dresser.
Slowly, cautiously, the twins entered the very orange room with wands at ready. A frog burped. Fred inched over to investigate. As he bent down to remove the possibly ill frog from its tank mates, it belched loudly again and the pink thing came shooting out of its mouth, barely missing Fred's face. It flew around the room, knocking over a lamp it had apparently missed on its first destructive sweep and broke the window before charging at the twins. They threw themselves on the ground as the pink thing zoomed down the hall and out of sight.
"This…this could present a problem…" George panted, eyes wide.
"Come on-we can't let it disappear-."
They jumped up and bolted down a few levels of stairs to reinforce themselves and locate the pink blob from Hell. Following the sound of the crashes, they reached the third floor and paused, looking at the door, then each other. The Forbidden Zone. Ginny's room.
The crashing stopped, and a curtain of silence settled down. Wincing slightly, Fred reached out and turned the worn knob, sloooooowly opening the door…revealing the pinkest room any human had ever witnessed and survived.
"Well," George rubbed his eyes, which were burning from the sight of so much feminity, "Crap."
"Funny," Fred frowned, "Ginny always struck me as more of a yellow person myself…."
They stepped in after removing their shoes of respect for their baby sister's (in their minds) thick pink shag carpet, warily looking around. A slight shudder to the left-
The pink flew out instead of destroying everything. Fred guessed it was as repulsed by the frilly pink horror of a bedroom as he was. They followed it downstairs and into the kitchen. When the boys cornered it, it opened the drawer of cutlery.
They retreated hastily. Breaking into their father's shed full of useless crap, they armed themselves in muggle artifacts and braced themselves.
Fred and George crept silently across the yard in true SWAT style, only whispering when absolutely necessary.
"Get your butt out of my face."
"Why are you looking at it?"
CLANG!
"OW-what was that for?"
"Are you still looking at my butt?"
"I wasn't looking at your butt, it was looking at me!"
As shown, they were very quiet. While they were entering the house from the back door, Molly Weasley and her husband were entering from the front laden with groceries and cleaning products. Molly couldn't see where she was going, but still knew. Living in the same house for over twenty years, it was hard not to know every nook and cranny and the contents thereof. Living with seven kids and a muggle-crazy husband, it was hard to surprise her with anything.
Yet the mother and her battle-ready twin sons still scared the bejeezus out of each other as they collided by the staircase. Groceries flew and Fred got CLANGed in the helmet again.
"What in the world…" Molly began, studying her obviously insane sons with a growing sense of dread. Fred had her large industrial-sized silver pot on his head, some weird scrap of ugly puce-colored fabric- her first knit sweater, she recalled- and an oversized wooden spoon she remembered losing years ago. George had a big red plastic bucket on his head from the days when their dad would insist on washing the Ford Anglia muggle-style, what looked like two large pieces of wood tied together over his shoulders that read YARD SALE, and a dented and beat up rusty trashcan lid held like a shield. They looked so ridiculous it was almost funny, but Molly wasn't too close to laughter.
"Hi, Mum…" George began.
"How's the…shopping?" Fred continued.
Arthur Weasley set the load of groceries on the table when he thought he saw something fly through the air and grabbed his wand.
Molly spoke slowly, not trusting her ability to keep her voice down. "What…is…going…on?" Her petite round hand closed over her wand in her pocket.
"Is something wrong?" Fred looked at George.
"I don't think so, we were just-"
"Babysitting Ickle Ronniekin's froggies-"
A giant crash from the kitchen confirmed Molly's fears. Arthur muttered something unrepeatable and tried to see into the kitchen without actually moving.
Molly, however, turned and marched right into the kitchen with the nerves of a mother. The crashing sounds got deafening.
The kitchen went quiet suddenly, like someone pressed 'off' on a stereo. The men of the Weasley home waited anxiously, wands ready. A plate from Arthur's mother's antique china set rolled out in a wide lazy circle, slowly coming to a stop at their feet. Molly stood in the doorway, hands on hips, feet solidly on the ground in that mother-knows-best stance everyone fears secretly.
"What is THIS…"
The twins flinched.
"…adorable thing?"
The twins were confused.
"It just did the dishes, stocked the cupboard, dusted, and cleaned that little window above the sink you two always seem to miss." She studied her baffled sons. "You weren't going to hurt it, were you?"
"…No, Mum."
"Good, because it doesn't seem to have caused any harm. Come, little pink…thing…." They disappeared back into the kitchen, Arthur following to see that small window Molly spoke about. He wondered how long it had been there.
"It's like…that's unfair." George was almost speechless at his mother's uncharacteristic behavior.
"We've created a monster," Fred shivered, "Let's NOT mass-produce that."
"Definitely not."
The pink thing floated back into the area the twins were still standing in and snapped a photo of the oddly-apparelled twin boys with a camera. Fred could have sworn it cackled.
They hated the pink thing even more when copies of the photo appeared almost overnight all over the house and in various other parts of London where certain members of the Order lived. One of the other members went so far as to enlarge a photo and hang it above the sink in Grimmauld Place, covering the grimy old window.