Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Headmaster's office on the eighth floor of the main castle tower.

It was a spacious and beautiful square room, with bizarre silver instruments placed on tables with spindle-shaped legs.

Although it was summer, a dazzling fire still danced in the fireplace within the room.

Near the center of the room stood an old man with a flowing silver-white beard – Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and also recognized as the greatest wizard of the modern era in the wizarding world.

Before him was a large table with claw-shaped legs, behind which stood a shelf holding a tattered old sorting hat.

"Dumbledore, what do you think of this year's lyrics?"

The hat wriggled, a wide seam splitting open along its brim like a mouth, and it spoke.

"A delightful song, I'm sure the students will love it."

Dumbledore clapped his hands with interest, his silver-white beard swaying in time with the rhythm.

"Oh, and apart from that, there's an important matter regarding Harry Potter's sorting..."

He paused, raised his index finger, and just as he was about to say something, he suddenly stopped and looked behind him.

The fire in the fireplace behind him flared up, emitting a crackling sound, and a slightly reproving female voice spoke.

"Professor Dumbledore, I hope that the important matter you mentioned in the owl post isn't referring to discussing lyrics with the Sorting Hat. Sending out acceptance letters to nearly a thousand students is no easy task, you know."

A tall, dark-haired witch in emerald green robes stepped out of the fireplace.

Her black hair was tied into a tight bun, her lips were pursed, and her expression was slightly impatient, as if she had been dealing with something tricky.

Minerva McGonagall, the Transfiguration professor at Hogwarts, the head of Gryffindor House, and also the Deputy Headmistress of the magical school.

"Of course not. I just thought you might need a little help with this year's student admission notifications. Perhaps some raspberry jam to start with?"

Dumbledore turned around, smiled warmly, and handed Professor McGonagall a small jar, no more than two inches tall, filled with bright red jam.

"No, thank you."

Professor McGonagall replied coldly, clearly not thinking that a small jar of raspberry jam would solve her problems.

"Undoubtedly, judging from the magical feedback, all twenty-odd letters sent to Harry via owl have been intercepted by the Dursleys. However, as long as Harry hasn't personally opened the envelope, the magic quill will automatically rewrite and resend them. That family will eventually yield to reality."

Dumbledore winked his bright blue eyes cleverly. "In that case, I'll take care of notifying Harry. Hagrid will also serve as a temporary postman when necessary."

"Hagrid? Well, it seems you've made up your mind. You always have your own reasons."

McGonagall frowned, snorted noncommittally, and continued, "If it's just that, you could have written it in the owl post. Is there anything else that absolutely requires a face-to-face discussion?"

"Yes."

Dumbledore's blue eyes, behind his half-moon spectacles, flashed, and he picked up a crumpled piece of paper from the table and handed it to Professor McGonagall, speaking slowly.

"In fact, this year's freshmen class has another child besides Harry who hasn't received a letter. To be precise, according to Filch's inventory of the owlery, all owls flying to her residence have disappeared."

"Disappeared owls? Do you mean..."

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, somewhat puzzled.

"I don't know. But according to the Ministry of Magic's statistics on magical outbursts, the magic within her has reached a critical value. If it continues to lack guidance, she may become an Obscurial."

Dumbledore shook his head, answering with a serious expression, then looked at Professor McGonagall with a hint of apology.

"I'm sorry, I should have gone to investigate this child's situation. But Harry's situation, you understand. So, I might need to trouble you to pay her a visit in person."

"We all understand that person's influence is still present."

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, shrugged helplessly to show her understanding, "Besides, as Deputy Headmistress, this is also my job. What's the child's name?"

"Eileen, Eileen Kaslana, that's the name she gave herself, and she currently lives in a Muggle orphanage in the Scottish Highlands."

Dumbledore adjusted the glasses on his crooked nose, adding, "Oh, and be mindful of your communication style, if I remember correctly, she has Veela blood, which might make her a little difficult to handle."

————

Scotland, on the banks of Loch Lomond, the largest inland lake in the British Isles, sits an inconspicuous town.

On the south side of the town is a simple church, and connected directly behind the church is a small orphanage. The priest and the head of the orphanage are both a Spaniard named Benítez.

The orphanage is not large, and most of the children have been transferred from other orphanages. Including Benítez, there are only seven people in total.

Without a doubt, among the many children, Eileen Kaslana, with a pair of star-like lake-blue eyes and waist-length silver hair, is an especially unique existence.

Not only because she is the only child with a surname, but more importantly, for several years, the entire orphanage's financial distribution and meal preparation have been almost entirely managed and arranged by Eileen.

At this time, a group of children was gathered around the kitchen door, eagerly watching Eileen prepare breakfast for everyone.

Like most orphanage children, the ten-year-old Eileen was smaller than her peers, only just over four feet tall. She could only reach the kitchen counter by standing on a small wooden stool.

However, if you only looked at her skilled posture of tossing the pan and using the spatula, no one would think that she was a girl not yet eleven years old.

In the sizzling frying pan, the tempting aroma of fried eggs spread out, mixed with the toasted fragrance of the pre-baked bread slices placed aside, making the children gathered at the door unconsciously swallow hard.

The orphanage's funding was always tight, and they could only smell this aroma on Sunday mornings for breakfast.

Next to the frying pan, a large, black iron pot seemed to be stewing some kind of poultry, the boiling broth having been simmered until milky white, with a few golden-colored oil droplets floating on top. A particularly mellow fragrance wafted out, and just smelling the aroma alone made one feel warm all over.

After placing the last fried egg on the iron plate, Eileen picked up a spoon and tasted the boiling broth next to her, slightly smacking her lips as if it needed to be simmered a little longer.

Eileen bent down, looked at the fire in the stove that had become less bright, frowned, and casually picked up a stack of thick parchment paper envelopes from the table and stuffed them into the stove, using fire tongs to poke them inside, making the flames burn brightly again.

After doing all of this, the girl nimbly jumped off the small wooden stool she used as a step, turned around, and glanced at the little gluttons gathered at the door, put on a stern face, and clapped her hands.

"Alright, everyone go back to the dining table immediately! Otherwise, you won't get any chicken soup today."

The girl put her hands on her hips, trying to puff up her flat chest, trying to make herself seem more imposing, threatening in a super fierce tone.

"Sister Eileen, is the priest still not able to have breakfast with us today?"

The question came from Bran, the youngest child in the orphanage. Perhaps because of his young age, he was particularly clingy and could be considered Eileen's number one little follower in the orphanage.

Eileen shook her head, pushing Bran out of the kitchen while answering in a rather annoyed tone.

"I've said it so many times, Headmaster Benítez's typhoid fever hasn't healed yet, and it's easy to infect you. However, I estimate that drinking chicken soup for another day or two should completely cure him."

"Then..."

Bran tiptoed, his gaze passing over the wooden table and moving to the rolling iron pot, swallowing his saliva.

"After the headmaster gets better, can we still have Scottish Round-Faced Chicken soup every day?"

"That..."

Eileen turned her head and glanced at the fire burning below the iron pot. Among the dancing flames, thick parchment envelopes were slowly curling up and igniting, a unique shield emblem on the envelopes flashing for a moment.

Even though she had been transmigrated to this strange world for almost six years, as a seasoned fan of the "Harry Potter" series, she recognized the emblem at first glance – the main body of the emblem was composed of a red background gold lion, a blue background bronze eagle, a yellow background black badger, and a green background silver snake, with a capital letter "h" in the center – the famous Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's crest.

However, even if she was a fan of the "Harry Potter" series in her previous life, it didn't mean that Eileen was willing to step into the magical world to accompany the savior trio through the plot missions.

Having been reborn with so much difficulty, she didn't want to waste her precious time on a group of middle school students (the entire Hogwarts student body) and someone who was at most a rural terrorist (Voldemort)'s battle of wits and courage. The great internet era that was about to begin in the Muggle world was much more exciting than the magical world.

Just as she had guessed, the letters from Hogwarts had special magic attached to them, not only...

Therefore, she caught the owls and stewed them into soup as soon as possible, and incidentally burned the letters directly – a constant supply of meat was much more important to the children in the orphanage than magic.

In any case, in her eyes, the characters in the novels and movies were just strangers, far less important than the orphanage members who had lived together for several years. Moreover, she knew nothing about her own magical talents. Compared to going to the strange and dangerous Hogwarts to study, she, who had transmigrated, could better take care of the children around her by understanding historical trends.

Squatting down, Eileen ruffled Bran's chestnut hair, took off a dark brown owl feather that had accidentally stuck to his hair, and threw it into the fire behind her. The flames licked at the feather, emitting a crackling sound.

"Don't worry. Before I open that envelope, we'll have this kind of Scottish Round-Faced Chicken every day."

"Then... what does a Scottish Round-Faced Chicken look like?"

Bran asked curiously.

Eileen shook her head, did not answer, stood up, ended the discussion about the Scottish Round-Faced Chicken, patted Bran on the head and said with a smile.

"Alright, you'll know when you grow up. Now go sit down in the dining room. After breakfast, you have to do morning lessons with everyone obediently."

————

(The cute round-faced chicken is begging for food, asking for recommendation tickets, sob, sob, it's more than three thousand words a chapter!)

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