Arthur, is that you?” asked Mrs. Weasley. “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.