Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, eighth floor of the main tower, Headmaster's office.
It was a spacious and beautifully arranged square room, adorned with peculiar silverware atop a spindle-legged table.
Despite the summer season, the fireplace in the room continued to dance with a brilliant glow.
Standing near the center of the room was an elderly man with flowing silver-white beard—Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts and the widely acknowledged greatest wizard of the current wizarding world.
In front of him stood a massive table with claw-shaped legs and a shelf behind it, holding a worn-out pointed wizard's hat.
"Dumbledore, how do you find this year's lyrics?" The hat twisted, a wide seam opening at its brim, resembling a mouth, as it spoke.
"Beautiful lyrics. I believe the students will surely enjoy them," Dumbledore replied with enthusiasm, applauding lightly as his silver beard swayed in rhythm.
"Also, besides that, there's another important matter regarding Harry Potter's sorting..."
He paused. Dumbledore raised a finger, about to say something, but suddenly halted and looked behind him.
The fire in the fireplace behind him surged, emitting a crisp crackle, and a reproachful female voice echoed.
"Professor Dumbledore, I hope the important matter you mentioned in the owl post isn't about discussing lyrics with the Sorting Hat. Sending admission letters to nearly a thousand students is no easy task."
Emerging from the fireplace was a tall witch in emerald-green robes.
Her jet-black hair was tightly tied up, lips pursed with a slightly impatient expression, as if she had been handling some tricky business before.
Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor, Head of Gryffindor House, and the school's Deputy Headmistress.
"Of course not. I just thought you might need a little help with this year's new student admission. Perhaps a bit of raspberry jam first?" Dumbledore turned, smiling gently, offering Professor McGonagall a small bottle filled with red jam, less than two inches tall.
"No, thank you." McGonagall replied coldly, evidently not convinced that a small jar of raspberry jam could solve her concerns.
"Undoubtedly, according to the magical feedback, over twenty letters sent by owls to Harry were intercepted by the Dursleys. However, as long as Harry hasn't personally opened any of the letters, the magical quill will continue rewriting and sending them until that family gives in to reality."
Dumbledore blinked his bright blue eyes, flexibly adding, "So, I'll take care of informing Harry. If necessary, Hagrid will act as a temporary messenger."
"Hagrid? Well, it seems you've made up your mind; you always have your reasons."
McGonagall frowned, noncommittal, making a nasal sound and continued, "If that's all, what specifically needs face-to-face discussion mentioned in the owl post?"
"Yes."
Dumbledore's half-moon glasses flashed, slightly serious, as he picked up a crumpled note from the table and handed it to Professor McGonagall, saying slowly, "In fact, among the new students this year, besides Harry, there's another child who hasn't received any letters. To be precise, based on Filch's count in the owlery, all the owls sent to her residence have gone missing."
"Missing owls? You mean..."
McGonagall pursed her lips, slightly puzzled.
"I don't know. But based on the Ministry's readings of magical outbursts, her magical levels have reached a critical point. Without proper guidance, she might become an Obscurial."
Dumbledore shook his head, answering seriously, then glanced apologetically at McGonagall.
"Apologies, I should have attended to this child myself. But you know the situation with Harry. So, I might need to trouble you to visit her in person."
"We understand; his influence still lingers."
McGonagall sighed, shrugging in resignation. "Besides, as Deputy Headmistress, it's part of my duties. What's her name?"
"Elena, Elena Kaslana. That's the name she chose for herself. Currently residing in a Muggle orphanage in the Scottish Highlands."
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses on his crooked nose, adding, "Also, mind your approach; if I recall correctly, she has some Veela heritage, might be a bit challenging."
---
Scotland, by the shores of Loch Lomond, the largest inland lake in the British Isles, lay an inconspicuous small town.
To the south of the town stood a humble small church, and behind it connected a modest orphanage. Both managed by a Spaniard named Benedictus, serving seven children altogether, mostly transferred from other orphanages.
Among the children, Elena Kaslana stood out with her dazzling lake-blue eyes and waist-length silver hair. She was not only the only child with a surname but also because, years ago, she had taken charge of managing the orphanage's finances and meal preparations almost single-handedly.
At this moment, a group of children gathered at the kitchen door, eagerly watching Elena preparing breakfast for everyone.
Like most children in the orphanage, ten-year-old Elena was slight and slightly shorter than her peers, barely reaching four feet tall and needing a small wooden stool to reach the kitchen countertop.
However, her adept stirring and flipping of the frying pan would never give away that she was anything less than an eleven-year-old girl.
The sizzling frying pan emitted an enticing aroma of eggs, blending with the toasty scent of pre-baked bread on the side, prompting the children at the door to unconsciously salivate.
Funds at the orphanage were tight, so this aroma was a luxury they only smelled during Sunday breakfasts.
Next to the frying pan, a blackened iron pot seemed to simmer with some kind of poultry. The bubbling broth had turned milky white, with golden oil droplets floating on top, emanating a uniquely rich fragrance that warmed the senses.
After scooping the last piece of fried egg onto an iron plate, Elena tasted the bubbling broth with a spoon, pursing her lips, deciding it needed a bit more time.
Bending down, she inspected the now dimly lit fireplace below the pot, frowning. She casually tossed a thick parchment envelope, made of sheepskin, into the fire and prodded it with tongs to reignite the flames.
Having completed these tasks, the girl lightly hopped off the footstool, surveyed the eager faces at the door, and sternly clapped her hands.
"Alright, everyone back to the dining table now! Otherwise, there'll be no chicken soup for today."
She stood hands-on-hips, trying to appear more imposing, her tone scarily threatening.
"Elena, can't the priest join us for breakfast today?"
The youngest orphan, Bran, asked. Due to his age, he was especially clingy, considering himself Elena's number one shadow in the orphanage.
Elena shook her head, pushing Bran out of the kitchen, answering with slight irritation, "I've told you many times, Father Benedictus is still recovering from the flu. He might infect all of you. But I reckon one or two more days of chicken soup should get him back on his feet."
"Then..."
Standing on tiptoe, Bran peered over
the wooden table to the simmering iron pot, swallowing hard.
"After the headmaster's better, can we still have Scottish Round-Face Plump Chicken soup every day?"
"Well..."
Elena turned to glance at the fire burning beneath the iron pot, where thick parchment envelopes were slowly curling and igniting. On each envelope was an intricate shield emblem that flashed briefly—a shield featuring a red lion on gold, a bronze eagle on blue, a black badger on yellow, and a silver snake on green, with a capital letter "H" at its center—the famous crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Despite being a fervent fan of the Harry Potter series in her previous life, recognizing the crest at first glance, Elena wasn't eager to enter the magical world and join the Trio's quest for adventure.
She had been given a second chance at life and didn't want to waste it on a group of school kids (the entire Hogwarts populace) and a rural terrorist at best (Voldemort). The impending era of the Muggle world with its grand internet was far more appealing than the wizarding world, in her opinion.
Even though she was a fan of the series, it didn't mean she was willing to delve into the world of magic and accompany the Trio in their plot-heavy missions.
As she suspected, the Hogwarts letters had magical properties; not only did the address change according to her actual location, but the school probably had magic to determine if the young wizard had indeed opened and read the content.
So, she immediately seized the owl bringing the letter, prioritizing the soup and children over magical revelations. Continuous meat supply was far more crucial to the orphanage kids than any magic.
Regardless of the novels and movies, they were merely strangers to her; the orphans she had lived with for years were far more important. Moreover, unaware of her magical talents, she considered safeguarding the children with her knowledge of historical trends more important than attending Hogwarts, a potentially perilous and unfamiliar place.
Kneeling down, Elena ruffled Bran's chestnut hair, plucking a dark brown owl feather and tossed it into the fire behind her. The flames licked at the feather, emitting a faint crackle.
"Don't worry. Until I open that letter, we'll have this Scottish Round-Face Plump Chicken every day."
"So... what does a Scottish Round-Face Plump Chicken look like?"
Curious, Bran inquired.
Elena shook her head without answering, stood up, concluded the discussion about the Scottish Round-Face Plump Chicken, patted Bran's head, and said with a smile,
"Alright, you'll find out when you're older. Now, go sit in the dining room and behave. We have morning classes after breakfast."