Gaunt ~ Book 2

Four~Gaunt

a/n: Same reminder.

At that moment there was a diversion in the shape of a small, redheaded figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

"Ginny," said Ron in an undertone to Harry and Marvolo. "My sister. She's been talking about you all summer."

"Yeah, she'll be wanting your autograph, Harry," said Fred with a grin, but he caught his mother's eye and bent his face over his plate without another word. Marvolo remembered first meeting Ron's younger, and only, sister when he had arrived. What Ron said was true, she wouldn't shut up about Harry. Nothing more was said until and five plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

"Blimey, I'm tired," yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. "I think I'll go to bed –"

"You will not," snapped Mrs. Weasley. "It's your own fault you've been up all night. You're going to de-gnome the garden for me; they're getting completely out of hand again –"

"Oh, Mum –"

"And you two," she said, glaring at Ron and George. "You can go to bed, dear," she added to Harry. "You didn't ask them to fly that wretched car –"

"I'll help Ron," Harry said quickly. "I've never seen a de-gnoming –"

"That's very sweet of you, dear, but it's dull work," said Mrs. Weasley. "Now, let's see what Lockhart's got to say on the subject –"

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece. George groaned.

"Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden –"

Marvolo glanced at the cover of Mrs. Weasley's book. She had pulled it down the first time Marvolo had seen a de-gnoming. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

"Oh, he is marvelous," she said. "He knows his household pests, all right, it's a wonderful book . . ."

"Mum fancies him," said Fred, in a very audible whisper. 

"Don't be so ridiculous, Fred," said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink. "All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there's a single gnome in the garden when I come out to inspect it."

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with Harry and Marvolo behind them.

"De-gnoming the garden is pretty easy if you don't mind a bit of pain and have a good throwing arm." Marvolo said to Harry as they entered the garden.

"Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know," Harry said to Ron moments later.

"Yeah, I've seen those things they think are gnomes," said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush. "like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. . . ."

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron straightened up. "This is a gnome," he said grimly.

"Gerroff me! Gerroff me!" squealed the gnome.

It certainly looked nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm's length as it kicked at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

"This is what you have to do," he said. He raised the gnome above his head ("Gerroff me!") and started swinging it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shock on Harry's face, Ron added, "It doesn't hurt them – you've just got to make them really dizzy so they can't find their way back into the gnome holes."

He let go of the gnome's ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in the field over the hedge.

"Pitiful," said Fred. "Bet I can get mine beyond that stump."

Marvolo grabbed a gnome and, not really wanting to throw something living (unless it was the Hogwarts caretaker's cat), decided to drop it over the hedge. Marvolo wished he had just thrown it over the hedge like last time. The gnome, like Harry's next to him, sensing weakness, sank it's razor-sharp teeth into Marvolo's finger and he had a hard job shaking it off – until –

"Wow, guys – that must have been fifty feet. . . ."

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

"See, they're not too bright," said George, seizing five or six gnomes at once. "The moment they know a de-gnoming's going on they storm up to have a look. You'd think they'd learn by now just to stay put."

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their shoulders hunched.

"They'll be back," said Ron, as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. "They love it here. . . . Dad's too soft with them; he thinks they're funny. . . ."

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 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 in my department, though. Mortlake has been taken away for questioning about some extremely odd ferrets, but that's the Committee 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 into nothing so they can never find it when they need it. . . . Of course, it's very hard to convict someone 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 ignore magic, even if it's staring them in the face. . . . But 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 started guiltily at his wife.

"C-cars, Molly, dear?"

"Yes, Arthur, cars," said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. "Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted was to take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly."

Mr. Weasley blinked.