Chapter Summary: Ginny’s upset. Fred and George help her deal with her problem.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea.
Author’s Notes: Another ‘The Red-Haired Trio’ story. Dankeshon to my beta, Ladybug.
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Five-year-old Ginny Weasley stumbled through the door, sobbing and rubbing her eyes on her sleeve. She didn’t look like her head was on fire! She didn’t!
“Something wrong, Gin-kin?” Fred asked, doing his homework with singular-minded intensity. George was colouring a complicated mess of scribbles on the carpet next to him.
“I don’t look like my head’s on fire,” she choked, cheeks flushed with the force of her rubbing. There was a fabric-imprint just below her eye that played join-the-dots with her freckles.
“Er … yes?” George said, sounding unconvinced.
“I DON’T!” Her shriek was loud enough to disturb the ghoul, who began rattling his chains.
“Shh, of course you don’t.” Sun-kissed arms opened and the little girl hurtled into her brother’s embrace, while George rearranged himself to hug both his brother and his sister, completing the odd tangle of limbs.
“Now, who said our ickle Gin-kin had a fire head?” George cooed sappily, causing the child in question to giggle and poke him.
“This mean boy in my playgroup. And I don’t!”
“Ginny-winny, all us Weasleys have fire-red hair,” Fred pointed out. “It’s what makes us special. The colour of our hair shows we’re loved.”
A sniffle. “It does?” Ginny’s voice was quieter than usual, desperately seeking reassurance.
“Sure! It’s like … fire head?” George cooed sappily, causing the child in question to giggle and poke him.
“This mean boy in my playgroup. And I don’t!”
“Ginny-winny, all us Weasleys have fire-red hair,” Fred pointed out. “It’s what makes us special. The colour of our hair shows we’re loved.”
A sniffle. “It does?” Ginny’s voice was quieter than usual, desperately seeking reassurance.
“Sure! It’s like … the colour of our hair shows our feelings. The Malfoy gits have icy-blond hair, shows they don’t have any. We have bright red hair, which shows we’re …” George trailed off for a moment, trying to think of the word Mum had used to explain it to him not long ago. “Passionate.” Yes, that was it.
“Oh. Well …” Ginny screwed her face up, pouting. “I still don’t like him teasing me! He said I was scrawny an’ ugly an’ a weak little cry baby girl an’ I’m not!”
“He’s a boy, boys are stupid,” Fred said placidly (thus proving his point).
“How about we teach you to fight so you can show him you’re not weak. Then he won’t tease you anymore,” George said, glaring at his twin warningly. There was a thin line between comforting their little sister and making derogatory marks about their sex.
Ginny jumped up, inadvertently kneeing George in the stomach and elbowing Fred in the face. “Okay!”
The twins got up slowly, rubbing their respective injuries.
“This won’t take long,” George muttered.
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The next day she skipped home from playgroup.
“Well?” Fred asked.
George just stood there, one red eyebrow raised.
Ginny smiled happily. “He doesn’t think I’m scrawny no more.”
The twins laughed, and hoisted her onto their shoulders, evenly balanced.