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And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, "Arthur, is that you." "Yes," came Mr. Weasley's weary voice. "But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!" "Oh, honestly..." "Molly!" "All right, all right... What is your dearest ambition." "To find out how airplanes stay up." Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.
"Molly! I've got to ask you your question first!" "Arthur, really, this is just silly. ..." "What do you like me to call you when we're alone together." Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.
"Mollywobbles," whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.
"Correct," said Mr. Weasley. "Now you can let me in." Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.
"I still don't see why we have to go through that every time you come home," said Mrs.
Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. "I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!" "I know, dear, but it's Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good — onion soup." Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.
"Harry! We didn't expect you until morning!" They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs.
Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.
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