Daisy's father said, and she herself agreed, that the Weasleys were one peculiar bunch.
They weren't as affluent, sociable, and affable as her other neighbours. They never came to the local kids' birthdays, they never invited the local kids to their...
DAISY HAD RECEIVED so many inputs, ideas, and questions from the other children.
She could tell that Mr. Weasley had more to say and ask as well, but Mrs. Weasley kept holding him back. And despite Sirius' silence, she could feel his expectant eyes from time to time. He looked so hopeful.
Daisy tried to be selfish, to not think about everyone's expectation. She tried to think about what's best for her. However, she also couldn't shoo away the thought that what was best for her could also be the best for everyone around her.
The problem was, everyone had their own preferred solution. Some even clashed with the other.
So, Daisy stayed silent about the ordeal.
That noon, she was still excused from chores due to her unfit figure. She sat on the drawing room's bench, occasionally looking out the window towards the empty road then back inside the room, where the four boys used their normal broom to imagine a scene of swordfight while Hermione and Ginny cleaned the furniture with wet napkins.
The brown-haired girl kept on shaking her head in disapproval while the ginger girl didn't seem to mind the ruckus.
Suddenly, a newcomer came strutting in, acting as though it couldn't see them. It shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly, toward the far end of the room, muttering under its breath all the while in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog's.
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"...so many forbidden colors, this Christmas, because of this bunch of nasty blood traitors and brats messing up my Mistress's house, oh my poor Mistress, if she knew, if she knew the scum they've let in her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do..."
Daisy looked at it with eyes wide and full of wonder. She had seen pictures and drawings of house-elves in printing, but never in real life.
It looked very old. Bald, with a quantity of white hair frowning out of its large, batlike ears. Except for the filthy rag tied like a loincloth around its middle, it was completely naked.
"Hello, Kreacher," said Fred very loudly.
The house-elf froze in his tracks, stopped muttering, and then gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.
"Kreacher did not see Young Master," he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audibly, "Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is."
