CHAPTER THREE
“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the
ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small
yard, and Harry looked out for the first time at Ron’s house.
It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but
extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several sto-
ries high and so crooked it looked as though it were held up by
magic (which, Harry reminded himself, it probably was). Four or
five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign
stuck in the ground near the entrance read, the burrow. Around
the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty caul-
dron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around
the yard.
“It’s not much,” said Ron.
“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Privet Drive.
They got out of the car.
“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and wait for
Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding
downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and
she’ll be all pleased to see Harry and no one need ever know we
flew the car.”
“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, Harry, I sleep at the — at the
top —”
Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house.
The other three wheeled around.
Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens,
and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how
much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.
“Ah,” said Fred.
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