Hogwarts on the tip of your tongue

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor of the castle. This spacious and beautifully appointed square room features a spindle-legged table adorned with an array of peculiar silverware. Despite it being summer, the fireplace in the room crackles with bright flames, casting a warm glow. In the center of the room stands an elderly man with a flowing silver-white beard—Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts and widely regarded as the greatest wizard of the modern age. Before him is a large table with claw-shaped legs, behind which sits a shelf holding a tattered pointed wizard hat. “Dumbledore, what do you think of this year's lyrics?” The hat wriggles, a wide seam opening along its brim as if it were a mouth, producing a voice. “It’s a wonderful song; I’m sure the students will love it.” Dumbledore clapped his hands with interest, his silver beard swaying in rhythm. “By the way, there’s something important to discuss regarding Harry Potter’s sorting…” Pausing, Dumbledore raised his index finger, preparing to say something, when he suddenly fell silent and looked behind him. The flames in the fireplace surged, crackling loudly, and a slightly reproachful female voice emerged. “Professor Dumbledore, I hope the important matter you mentioned in the owl's letter is not just about discussing lyrics with the Sorting Hat. You know, sending out enrollment notices to nearly a thousand students is no easy task.” A tall, black-haired witch in a green robe stepped out of the fireplace. Her dark hair was tightly styled in a bun, her lips pressed together, and her expression slightly impatient, as if she had been dealing with something troublesome. Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor House, and also the Deputy Headmistress of the school. “Of course not. I just thought you might need a little help with this year’s new student enrollment notices. How about some raspberry jam to start?” Dumbledore turned around, smiling gently, and handed Professor McGonagall a small bottle less than two inches tall, filled with bright red jam. “No, thank you.” Professor McGonagall replied coldly, clearly not believing that a small bottle of raspberry jam could solve her troubles. “Undoubtedly, based on the magical feedback, over twenty letters sent to Harry by owl have all been intercepted by the Dursleys. However, as long as Harry hasn’t opened the envelopes himself, the magical quill will automatically rewrite and resend them, and that family will eventually have to face reality.” Dumbledore blinked his bright blue eyes, “In that case, I’ll take care of notifying Harry. If necessary, Hagrid will also act as a temporary postman.” “Hagrid? Well, it seems you’ve made up your mind; you always have your reasons.” McGonagall frowned, making a noncommittal sound, and continued, “If that’s all, it could just be written in the owl’s letter. Is there anything that absolutely needs to be discussed in person?” “Yes.” Dumbledore’s blue eyes flashed beneath his half-moon glasses as he solemnly picked up a crumpled note from the table and handed it to Professor McGonagall, saying slowly, “In fact, this year’s new students, besides Harry, there’s another child who hasn’t received her letter. To be precise, according to Filch’s count of the owlery, all the owls sent to her residence have gone missing.” “Missing owls? You mean…” Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, looking puzzled. “I don’t know. But according to the Ministry of Magic’s statistics on the magnitude of magical disturbances, her magical power has reached a critical level. If she continues to lack guidance, she may very well become a Squib.” Dumbledore shook his head, his expression serious, then looked at Professor McGonagall with a hint of apology. “I’m sorry; I should have gone to see this child myself. But you know the situation with Harry. So, I may need to trouble you to visit her personally.” “We all understand; that person’s influence is still present.” Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and shrugged in resignation, “Besides, as Deputy Headmistress, it’s part of my job. What’s the child’s name?” “Elena, Elena Caslan. That’s the name she chose for herself. She currently lives in a Muggle orphanage in the Scottish Highlands.” Dumbledore adjusted his glasses on his crooked nose and added, “By the way, be mindful of your communication style. If I remember correctly, she has some half-blood enchantress lineage, which might make her a bit difficult to handle.” … In Scotland, by the largest inland lake in the British Isles, Loch Lomond, lies an unremarkable small town. To the south of the town stands a modest little church, and behind it connects to a small orphanage. The priest and the orphanage’s headmaster are both Spaniards named Benitez. The orphanage is not large, mostly housing children transferred from other orphanages, totaling only seven people, including Benitez. Undoubtedly, among the many children, Elena Caslan, with her starry lake-blue eyes and waist-length silver hair, is a particularly special presence. Not only is she the only child with a surname, but more importantly, for several years now, she has been responsible for managing the orphanage’s finances and meal preparations. At this moment, a group of children is gathered at the kitchen door, eagerly watching Elena as she prepares breakfast for everyone. Like most children in orphanages, ten-year-old Elena is smaller than her peers, standing at just about 1.2 meters tall, only able to reach the kitchen counter by standing on a small stool. However, anyone observing her skillful flipping of the frying pan would never guess that she is a girl not yet eleven years old. The sizzling frying pan emits the enticing aroma of fried eggs, mingling with the toasty scent of bread that has been baked in advance and set aside, causing the children gathered at the door to swallow hard in anticipation. The orphanage’s budget is always tight, and they can only smell this aroma during Sunday breakfasts. Next to the frying pan, a large black pot seems to be simmering some kind of poultry, with the bubbling broth turning milky white, floating with golden droplets of oil, releasing a particularly rich fragrance that warms the heart. After serving the last fried egg onto a plate, Elena took a spoon and tasted the bubbling broth beside her, smacking her lips slightly, as if it needed to simmer a bit longer. Elena bent down to check the now dimming fire, frowned, and casually grabbed a stack of thick parchment envelopes from the table, tossing them into the fire, using the tongs to poke at them to rekindle the flames. After completing all of this, the girl lightly jumped down from the small stool, turned around, and surveyed the little gluttons gathered at the door. With a serious expression, she clapped her hands. “Alright, now everyone go back to the dining table immediately! Otherwise, you won’t get any chicken soup today.” With her hands on her hips, the girl tried to stand tall, attempting to appear more imposing, threatening in a fierce tone. “Sister Elena, can’t the priest have breakfast with us today?” The question came from Bran, the youngest child in the orphanage. Perhaps due to his age, he is particularly clingy, making him Elena’s number one little follower. Elena shook her head, pushing Bran out of the kitchen while answering impatiently. “I’ve told you many times, Headmaster Benitez’s typhoid hasn’t healed yet, and it’s contagious for you all. But I estimate that after a day or two of chicken soup, he should be fully recovered.” “Then…” Bran tiptoed, his gaze drifting over the wooden table to the bubbling pot, swallowing hard. “After the headmaster gets better, can we still have Scottish Round-Faced Fat Chicken soup every day?” “Well…” Elena turned her head to glance at the fire burning beneath the pot, where envelopes made of thick parchment slowly curled and ignited, revealing a distinctive shield emblem that flashed by. Even though it has been nearly six years since she crossed into this strange world, as a devoted fan of the Harry Potter series, she recognized that emblem at first glance—it features a red background with a golden lion, a blue background with a bronze eagle, a yellow background with a black badger, and a green background with a silver snake, with a large letter “H” at its center—the famous crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. However, just because she was a fan of the Harry Potter series in her past life does not mean that Elena is willing to step into the magical world to accompany the trio of saviors on their quest. Having been reborn, she does not want to waste her precious time battling wits with a bunch of teenagers (the entire Hogwarts) and a rural terrorist at best (Voldemort). The upcoming era of the internet in the Muggle world is far more exciting than the magical world. As she suspected, the letters from Hogwarts are imbued with special magic, not only changing the address according to her actual residence but also allowing the school to determine whether the young wizard has actually opened the envelope to read its contents. Therefore, she immediately caught the owl and made soup, conveniently burning the letter as well—endless meat for the children in the orphanage is far more important than any magic. After all, the characters in the novels and movies are, in her eyes, just strangers, far less important than the people she has lived with for years in the orphanage. Moreover, she knows nothing about her own magical talent. Compared to attending the dangerous and unfamiliar Hogwarts, she is better equipped to take care of the children around her, thanks to her understanding of historical trends. Squatting down, Elena ruffled Bran’s chestnut hair, plucking a black-brown owl feather that had accidentally stuck to his hair and tossing it into the fire behind her, where the flames crackled softly against the feather. “Don’t worry. As long as I haven’t opened that envelope, there will be Scottish Round-Faced Fat Chicken every day.” “Then… what does Scottish Round-Faced Fat Chicken look like?” Bran asked curiously. Elena shook her head, not answering, stood up, and ended the discussion about the Scottish Round-Faced Fat Chicken, patting Bran’s head and smiling. “Alright, you’ll know when you grow up. Now go sit at the dining table; after breakfast, you all need to behave and do your morning lessons together.”