Arguments
The mist clears...
Ginevra Molly Weasley, at just seven years of age, had an unnaturally high opinion of herself, and prefered to be called Ginny. Of course, she was a particularly precocious sort of little girl; her first word, "Why?" had come to pass at just six months, and by one year she could hold a decent conversation with you, if she considered your personage important or interesting enough, that is. She certainly did have a high opinion of herself, though perhaps it was justified. She was the only daughter in a family of seven children, and the youngest at that. She was also a rather pretty little girl, with flaming hair and blue eyes; and she knew it. But considering herself to be the best thing since sliced Cauldron Cake, and the centre of everyone's universe was an irritating quality to some, but necessary if one is to grow up amongst a family of very loud, very boisterous, elder children. Ginny's confidence certainly meant her voice was heard.
Today, though, Ginevra Molly Weasley had let the other Weasleys hear her voice a little too much, perhaps - and that very thought occurred to her, for the first time ever. Her bottom lip wobbled as she recalled the disasterous day; she had argued with everyone in and around the Burrow. It had started with her mother, as Molly and Ginny had had a frank difference in ideas in what Ginny should wear to play in the muddy orchard; Ginny had vouched for her new, silky-shell-pink dress whilst Mrs. Weasley had opted for a more practical outfit. The latter had won the battle, putting the former in her place. Ginny hated losing anything, and so was in an uncommonly bad mood. When she had lost at their feeble attempt at Quidditch, to a team comprising of Ron and the twins, she had stormed and cried and stamped her little foot until Mr. Weasley, immersed in his study of the "Toaster", became unimmersed and, unfairly, sent Ginny to bed. If Ginny hated anything more than losing, it was injustice; so she whined to her father and then to Bill, her eldest brother, who became equally tired of her, and bodily threw her into bed. This resulted in a bumped head and a little sympathy from Molly; and so she was allowed to play in the orchard with Percy. But this also soon turned to quarrel; for Percy was quite contented with reading. Ginny moaned and groaned but he ignored her; so she hit him with his own book. She was dismissed to her bedroom again - and argued with Charlie on the way there, just for good measure.
Yes; disasterous was the only way to describe this miserable Tuesday, she thought, as she lay, flat on her back in her bed, staring up at the vibrant orange ceiling - the room had used to belong to Ron. The reminder that everything she owned, excepting her beloved new dress, was second hand, together with the accumulating guilt as she mulled over the day in her mind, was enough to send her into rare, choking floods of tears.
There wasn't much she could do about it now, she decided. Except... apologise.
If there was anything Ginevra Molly Weasley hated more than losing and injustice - or even losing and injustice put together - it was admitting she was wrong.
She put on her satin-y silky little dress, with its flounces and puffed sleeves, and performed a little pirouette in front of the mirror. She wasn't generally this feminine, she thought, or rather "girly", as all seven-year-olds refer to it - in fact she was a tomboy. But Molly had brought her the dress, and she loved it because it was something of her own - her very own -
She pirouetted again, tripped over her own trainered feet, and collapsed in a heap on the threadbare rug.
"Very nice..." sniggered the mirror. "Very pretty. A born ballet dancer, aren't you, dearie..."
"Shut up." snapped the small girl in retort. "I'd like to see you do better! Stupid mirror!"
"Insults!" mocked the looking-glass in reply. "Well, in that case, dearie, I'd like to inform you that pink doesn't go with ginger hair."
"It's not ginger!" Ginny protested, with a soft, pathetic sniff; then she spoiled the effect and stuck out her tongue. "It's red. 'Sides, I was only joking."
"As was I!"
There was a long, sharp silence as Ginny stared defiantly at the mirror and her reflection stared back, equally defiantly.
Then -
"I'm sorry, dearie." said her mirror quietly. "Didn't mean to offend, but perhaps that weren't clear enough. But go downstairs and apologise to'm all, and you'll feel a long way better."
Ginny knew she should, and had decided to after hearing her mirror's kind advice; but nevertheless, she repeated her favourite saying. It had been, after all, her first word, and her character, views and personal philosophy of personality seemed to be built upon it. A sweet smile spread across her little freckled face, and she asked, so innocently;
"Why?"
Enter the mist, and his heart groaned as he was lifted out of that memory. He had so wanted to see more...