CHAPTER THREE
Just then, the front door slammed.
“He’s back!” said George. “Dad’s home!”
They hurried through the garden and back into the house.
Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off
and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little
hair he had was as red as any of his children’s. He was wearing long
green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.
“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all
sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus
Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned. . . .”
Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.
“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.
“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,”
yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that
wasn’t my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for ques-
tioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that’s the Commit-
tee on Experimental Charms, thank goodness. . . .”
“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said
George.
“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that
keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they
need it. . . . Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no
Muggle would admit their key keeps shrinking — they’ll insist
they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ig-
nore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face. . . . But the things
our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”
“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”
Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword.
Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.
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