June 16th, 1984
HOW DID THE good acquaintance happen?
Well, it happened one afternoon, when Daisy accidentally nudged her father's elbow and spilled coffee all over his new suit.
"WHY YOU BRAT—"
See, Mr. Barry Allen, despite being fully upfront about his belief that manner and attitude must be one's highest virtues, often lost his cool to the explosion of his temper. Whenever he did, his voice would reach an inhumane volume, his limbs would swing oh-so-powerfully, and little Daisy would end up sprouting (at least) a bruise or blood somewhere.
"YOU MADE ME— THIS WAS BRAND NEW! THE TAILOR JUST LEFT THE HOUSE A FEW HOURS AGO!"
Daisy nursed her purplish cheek and felt droplets of treacherous tears rolling through her petite fingers. She choked out, "I— I'm sorry, Father. I'm really sorry."
"SORRY'S NOT GONNA CUT IT. WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO WITH THIS— THIS RAG, HUH?!"
"Sir, if I may," Ms. Sofia Sloan, Daisy's governess, timidly interjected, "Why don't we take a breath and calm down? It is her birthday after all—"
"DAMN RIGHT IT'S HER BIRTHDAY. I MADE THIS SUIT SPECIFICALLY FOR HER BIRTHDAY!"
Daisy wiped her snot with the back of her hand and looked up tearfully at Ms. Sloan, who could only return the look apologetically. Then to the picture of her late mother, who only showed a static smile in her golden frame.
Mother couldn't help her anymore.
"JUST— GET OUT OF HERE! GET OUT, NOW!"
And she ran.
Daisy ran out of the sunroom, through the garden, passed the tall gate, through a horde of bushes, trees, and corn plants, until she was out of sight and out of breath.
Her polished Mary Jane shoes mindlessly stomped on every puddle she met. Her heart screamed for her to get as far away as she could. Her eyes watered uncontrollably, blurring her sight, until she found herself tripping over some root.
Wow, just her luck.
Daisy crouched back, eyeing her muddy palms and knees in distaste, and cried.
And cried.
And cried.
And cried.
And cried—
"Hello."
Daisy lifted her head, hiccuping, and saw a young boy cutting his way through the trees slowly towards her.
Tall, red haired, freckled, crooked smile, dressed in lousy T-shirt, dirt-coloured jacket, and worn out pants.
The boy continued, "Why are you crying in my family's lawn?"
"I'm sorry," Daisy said softly, though she didn't have any intention nor the strength to stand up and leave.
"Eh, it's fine. I'm Fred Weasley."
"Oh," Daisy gaped, "Oh."
Parents of the surrounding families had misused the Weasleys' lack of participation in neighbourhood events to invent a series of horror stories to keep their own children from wandering off at night or to uncharted territories. Including the Allens.
Daisy grew up with imaginative (though she was too young to distinguish her parents' lies from truths), awful stories about the surname 'Weasley'.
"Why?"
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the muggle next door | f.w. golden trio era
FanfictionDaisy'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...
