There was a very famous street in London called Charing Cross Road.
This street was world-renowned for its bookstores—modern bookstores and antiquarian shops alike could be found there. You could always find something you loved.
At the same time, it was also the entrance to another world—a place where young witches and wizards born to Muggle families first caught a glimpse of magic.
This entrance was an old, shabby pub—small, dim, yet cozy. It was protected by many powerful concealment charms, preventing it from being discovered or disturbed by Muggles.
For centuries, it had been more than just a pub or a place to gossip about wizarding news. It was also a haven and shelter for witches and wizards.
At this moment, it was the busiest time of day for the pub. The cramped space was packed with patrons—it was a little noisy, but full of life.
Eda weaved through the chatting customers with a tray in hand, occasionally chiming in with a few words of her own. At first, she had stayed at the Leaky Cauldron simply to earn money. Now, she had one more reason to stay—she had come to love the warmth and vitality of the place.
In one corner, a few down-on-their-luck young wizards were criticizing the state of affairs. Their robes were a bit worn, and they drank the cheapest brandy.
Elsewhere, some people gathered to talk about family matters, sharing little stories from everyday life or confiding in one another about their troubles.
There were also those boasting of their exploits—claiming to have encountered a dark wizard somewhere, or seen some dark creature.
Whenever they reached the critical part of their story, they would clear their throat or give a little cough—and inevitably, some curious patron would buy them another drink, just to hear the rest.
These stories—some true, some not—didn't need to be verified. As long as they were told vividly and entertainingly, that was enough.
Of course, seeing someone successfully score a drink with a tale would inspire others to imitate them. But few could actually manage it.
Storytelling sounded simple, like something anyone with a mouth could do, but in practice, it was much harder than it seemed. Just having a mouth wasn't enough.
Only those who could tell a good story could earn themselves a drink. Such people weren't common in the pub, which was precisely why others were willing to buy them drinks. If everyone could tell good stories, this kind of "stories-for-drinks" exchange would've long disappeared.
This world never lacked brilliant storytellers—but you wouldn't find them in the Leaky Cauldron. People with such talent wouldn't settle in a small place like this—they'd go write books and make big money, like Gilderoy Lockhart.
Gilderoy Lockhart—a writer who, through his books and the incredible adventures described within them, had earned himself the Order of Merlin, Third Class.
He had just released his latest book, Magical Me, and it sparked a frenzy among witches.
Witches of all ages were pouring into Diagon Alley in waves.
Every bookstore was overrun by Lockhart's adoring fans. If not for the fact that she had an entire household to take care of, Eda believed that Mrs. Weasley would be among them—she deeply admired the talented and "charmingly smiling" famous author.
Lately, the pub had frequently echoed with praise for Lockhart.
In his books, he could do just about anything and had accomplished many amazing feats. If those things were all true, then yes, he certainly deserved the praise.
Eda had once casually brought up Gilderoy Lockhart in a conversation with Professor McGonagall. McGonagall held a very poor opinion of the famous author—she thought Lockhart was a vain, self-aggrandizing glory-seeker.
Despite Lockhart's ever-growing list of heroic exploits, they still hadn't managed to change Professor McGonagall's bad impression of him.
Thinking of the bestselling author reminded Eda of the wizard who had once encountered both a vampire and a werewolf in the Balkans. Last year, Eda had casually suggested he write a book about it, and the man had taken her words as divine instruction.
He'd gone off to actually write one—and Eda never saw him again.
She didn't know whether that wizard, who had been misled by her offhand remark, had managed to finish the book, whether he had it published, or even if he'd starved to death.
Eda now felt that her casual comment had been a sin, and all she could hope was that he was still alive.
With the emptied tray in hand, Eda returned to the bar, picked up a glass, and started slacking off—a skill she had mastered naturally, no teaching required.
Though she was slacking, Eda didn't let her mind wander. As she polished the glass in her hand, she kept an eye on the pub's patrons, watching to see if they needed anything.
Multitasking was easy for Eda these days. After all, Snape's "torment-style" teaching methods had been very effective.
Slacking off was a soothing experience. And just like that, as Eda spent her time working and goofing off at the Leaky Cauldron, the entire month of July slipped by.
One evening in early August, Eda had been in her room preparing to rest when the sneaky twins came to call her out. When she followed the brothers outside, she found Ron was there too.
Seeing that Eda looked a bit confused, Fred got straight to the point and said, "Eda, we're going to get Harry. Do you want to come with us?"
"Wow! How are you planning to go?" Eda asked. "Don't tell me you're thinking of taking Mr. Weasley's car?"
Watching the three of them remain silent, Eda immediately confirmed her suspicion—they really were planning to use the modified Ford. She continued, "You all know how Mrs. Weasley feels about that car. If you dare touch it…"
"We've definitely thought about the consequences," Ron said. "But Eda, you heard what Dad said too—Harry needs us right now."
It all started with a piece of news that Mr. Weasley had brought home—news about Harry Potter.
Harry had been warned by the Ministry of Magic for using magic outside of school—and in front of Muggles, no less—violating the "Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery."
Upon hearing this, Ron couldn't sit still. He believed Harry must have had a good reason for using magic outside of school. Combined with the fact that Harry hadn't written back at all, Ron was convinced Harry wasn't doing well.
After two days of racking his brain, Ron turned to Fred and George, hoping his older brothers could come up with a plan to rescue Harry from whatever trouble he was in.
The solution the twins came up with was the modified Ford that could fly—under the cover of night, they'd fly to Privet Drive, pick up the missing Harry, and then fly back to the Burrow before anyone noticed.
"Don't worry, nothing will go wrong," Fred said. "We'll pick Harry up and come right back. By the time we get home, the sun probably won't even be up yet. Mum won't know a thing."
"Yup! When Harry gets to the Burrow, Mum's attention will definitely shift to him," George said. "Even if she figures out what we did, she won't punish us—she won't have the time."
The three brothers were full of confidence in their plan. They believed they could rescue Harry from the miserable life with Muggles, satisfy their own curiosity in the process, and avoid being punished by Mrs. Weasley—killing three birds with one stone.
Eda really wanted to ask where this bizarre confidence came from—the belief that Mrs. Weasley wouldn't punish them just because Harry was coming.
In reality, Fred, George, and Ron were enough to pull this off. Eda's participation was optional. The twins and Ron were only extending the invitation to Eda as a courtesy, to keep her in the loop.
If Eda went with them, it would be like gaining an extra helping hand. If she chose not to, and they didn't make it back in time, Eda could still help delay Mrs. Weasley and provide cover for them.
"So, what do you say—want to come?" Fred coaxed. "A flying car—you've definitely never ridden one before. Don't you want to give it a try?"
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