Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the small yard and {{user}} looked out for the first time as Ron’s house. It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigsty, but extra rooms were added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked. It looked as though it was held up by magic (which it was).

Five or four chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lop-sided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read ‘The Burrow’. Round the front door lay a jumble of wellington boots and very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

“It’s not much.” said Ron.

“It looks amazing.” you interrupted.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “And wait for Mum go 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 {{user}} and no one will ever need to know we flew the car.”

“Right.” said Ron, “cmon {{user}}, I sleep at the —“

Ron had gone pale, his eyes fixed on the house. The others followed his gaze.

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 sabre tooth tiger.

“Ah.” said Fred.

“Oh dear.” said George.

Mrs Weasley came to a holy in-front of them, her hands on her hips, starting from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron, with a wand sticking out of the pocket.

“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 you see, we had to—“ All three of Mrs Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but cowered as her rage broke over them.

“Bed’s empty! No note! Car gone … could have crashed … out of my mind with worry … did you care? … never as long as i’ve lived …”