CHAPTER THREE
scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Harry sat
down on the edge of his seat, looking around. He had never been
in a wizard house before.
The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no
numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like Time to
make tea, Time to feed the chickens, and You’re late. Books were
stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like
Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, and One Minute
Feasts — It’s Magic! And unless Harry’s ears were deceiving him, the
old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was
“Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina
Warbeck.”
Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little
haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages
into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like
“don’t know what you were thinking of,” and “never would have
believed it.”
“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping eight or
nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I have been worried about
you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you our-
selves if you hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she
was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), “flying an illegal car
halfway across the country — anyone could have seen you —”
She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which be-
gan to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.
“It was cloudy, Mum!” said Fred.
“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley
snapped.
“They were starving him, Mum!” said George.
34