Clang! Clang! Clang!
Another day at the Burrow began with the ghoul banging on the pipes.
Whenever the ghoul felt the house was too quiet, it would make some noise to remind the Weasley family of its presence.
At first, every time it made a racket, Eda wanted to go up and kill it. But now, she had grown used to the ghoul's presence—its morning banging had become her alarm clock.
As the noise rang out, the Burrow seemed to come to life, stirring with activity. Eda was woken by this peculiar alarm. While tying up her hair, she also woke Ginny, who shared the room with her.
"Fuuaa~~"
Wearing pajamas with little bear prints, Eda yawned as she walked down the stairs.
The mirror on the kitchen mantelpiece was once again calling her a "messy slob."
In that mirror's view, there was no such thing as a neat person in this world—especially not in the Burrow. Everyone here was a mess in its eyes.
Eda stood by the sink peeling potatoes by hand. Back when she was at Nurmengard, she had suffered greatly for not knowing how to cook, so on her very first day back at the Burrow, she had asked Mrs. Weasley to teach her.
She didn't expect to be as good as Mrs. Weasley—her only standard was that the food she made shouldn't taste awful. As long as it could be swallowed, it was a victory.
After a while, Mr. Weasley came home looking worn and dusty. He collapsed into a chair in the kitchen, eyes closed. Clearly, a night of overtime had left him utterly exhausted.
Mr. Weasley had been working around the clock lately, as the Ministry of Magic was currently running a campaign to search and confiscate banned items. But despite the Ministry staff's relentless overtime, they hadn't had much success—they had barely caught a few "kittens," let alone any "tigers."
Anyone with the guts to hide contraband in their home was no amateur. They'd either gotten wind of the raids ahead of time or were so thorough that no trace could be found.
These searches, apart from exhausting the Ministry officials to death, served practically no purpose.
Eda thought they were looking in the wrong place altogether. If they came to search the Burrow, they'd hit the jackpot for sure—like that turquoise Ford sitting in the shed. Mr. Weasley had spent a fortune acquiring it.
When the holidays had just started, it was in that very Ford that Mr. Weasley had gone to King's Cross Station to pick everyone up.
The backseat of a regular family sedan had somehow fit five people comfortably. If that car hadn't been magically modified by Mr. Weasley, Eda swore she'd eat the potato in her hand raw.
And did you think a simple Extension Charm was enough to satisfy Mr. Weasley? Absolutely not.
Humans have always longed for the sky—and this summer, Mr. Weasley had gone and fitted his beloved car with a flight kit.
To prevent Muggles from seeing it in the air, he even threw in an invisibility mechanism.
Say what you will about Mr. Weasley's magical skills—in the world of car modification, the man definitely deserved a place of honor. Tweaking suspension or engines was child's play—how many of them could say they'd built a flying Ford?
Not just built one—most people had never even seen one.
Even the Weasley kids hadn't seen it. Mr. Weasley had been so swamped with overtime that he hadn't found the chance to test-fly it yet.
After Mr. Weasley got home, the rest of the kids began trickling into the kitchen.
The first to arrive was Percy, sporting his signature bird's nest hair. A few days ago, he'd received his O.W.L. results, but even twelve Outstanding certificates hadn't managed to cheer him up. He'd been sulking all holiday, as if someone had stripped him of his prefect badge.
As soon as the twins stepped into the kitchen, they started talking. Fred eagerly asked, "Dad, did you find anything interesting in the raid last night?"
Were the twins genuinely interested in their father's utterly unexciting job?
Of course not. Ministry officials rarely found any real contraband—just some magically modified Muggle items. The twins were hoping to hear about those, fishing for inspiration straight from their dad.
"That sort of thing isn't interesting at all—and it's dangerous," Mr. Weasley said seriously. "Most of the time, those items are used on Muggles, which can cause them serious harm. Wizards shouldn't do that."
Breakfast was ready, and the family began gathering around the table. Just as Mr. Weasley launched into a lecture about the dangers of misusing Muggle objects and how wizards should coexist with Muggles, Mrs. Weasley shut him down with a single sentence.
"I don't know how dangerous abusing Muggle items might be," she said as she served fried eggs, "but I do know that junk heap in the shed could cost you your job, Arthur! Breaking the law, abusing your authority—go ahead, guess what the Ministry would do to you?"
Mr. Weasley lowered his head and didn't argue back. He thought of something—something that could change the subject.
He said, "Eda, how was your visit to Little Whinging the other day? Any trouble?"
A few days earlier, Eda had taken a short trip to Little Whinging. She'd placed white lilies in front of a gravestone, spent a moment remembering that kind old lady, then quietly left the cemetery.
"No, everything went smoothly," Eda replied. "I just visited the graveyard and came right back. Didn't stay long."
Two completely unrelated topics, awkwardly stitched together—but at least it got Mrs. Weasley to stop harping on about the Ford. In that sense, Mr. Weasley's topic-switching tactic had worked. And Eda had finally figured out why the twins weren't very good at changing the subject—it was all in the delivery.
"Little Whinging? When did you go to Little Whinging?" Ron, the designated food-devourer, finally looked up. That familiar address stirred him enough to temporarily override his eating instincts—he thought of his friend who lived there.
Holding a sausage in one hand, Ron said, "Eda, next time you go, take me with you! I've written Harry loads of letters this summer, but he hasn't answered a single one. I'm worried something's happened."
Old Errol had really suffered this holiday—dragging his aging body back and forth to Little Whinging time after time, yet never returning with a reply from Harry.
And it wasn't just Ron. Hermione had also written to Harry, with no response. The two friends who had faced life and death by his side were growing genuinely worried about losing contact with him.
"Harry will be fine. You should be more worried about yourself, Ronald," said Mrs. Weasley. "If you really can't stop worrying, then wait a few days until your father has time, and let him go check on Harry."
Ron fell silent, clearly disheartened. He truly was worried about Harry—especially after everything they had gone through in their first year. He felt that danger was always lurking near Harry.
After breakfast, Eda changed into a light-colored robe and left the Burrow, heading for the Leaky Cauldron.
Back at the table, she hadn't told the full truth. It was true that she hadn't stayed long in the cemetery—but she also hadn't returned directly to the Burrow afterward.
She had gone somewhere else.
She had visited the grave of Glover Cecile.
Glover Cecile's grave was located in the countryside of Cornwall, a place with beautiful, winding coastlines, lush green valleys, and the famous Cornish pixies.
These tiny blue-skinned pixies could grow up to eight inches tall and loved to cause all sorts of mischief, pulling pranks of every kind imaginable. Doesn't that description remind you of Fred and George?
However, Eda didn't run into any of these pixies during her time in Cornwall. She went straight to the small town where Cecile and his family had once lived. Cecile was buried there.
Even with the address Dumbledore had given her, it still took Eda a long time to find Glover Cecile's gravestone—because it bore no name. The only inscription read:
"Here lies a penitent soul."
The gravestone had been requested by Cecile in his will, and even the burial plot had been selected by him before his death. It was the closest spot he could find to the Cecile family's burial ground.
After his death, Dumbledore had followed the will's instructions and buried him there, so that Cecile could rest close to his family and atone for his sins.
A year ago, Dumbledore had buried Cecile alone. No one came to mourn him. Eda had refused to attend the funeral—she couldn't bring herself to face the professor who had forced her to kill.
Now, one year later, Eda had come to visit Cecile's grave.
She could finally face him—the professor who had taught her a lesson with his life.
As she was leaving, Eda spoke softly to the nameless tombstone:
"Even now, I haven't forgiven your selfishness. But I'll always be grateful for your generosity."
...
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