THE BURROW
“Oh, dear,” said George.
Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her
hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a
flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.
“So,” she said.
“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was
a jaunty, winning voice.
“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley
in a deadly whisper.
“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”
All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but
they cowered as her rage broke over them.
“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my
mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived —
you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this
from Bill or Charlie o r Percy —”
“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF
PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s
chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could
have lost your father his job —”
It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself
hoarse before she turned on Harry, who backed away.
“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry, dear,” she said. “Come in
and have some breakfast.”
She turned and walked back into the house and Harry, after a
nervous glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.
The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a
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