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

This was a spacious and beautiful square room, with bizarre silver instruments placed on a spindle-legged table.

Even though it was summer, a dazzling fire still danced in the fireplace.

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

Before him was a massive table with claw-shaped legs, and behind the table was a shelf with a tattered, old, pointed wizard's hat resting on it.

"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 a voice emerged.

"A delightful song, I think the students will certainly enjoy it."

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

"Right, apart from that, there's another important matter concerning Harry Potter's Sorting..."

Dumbledore paused, raised his index finger, and was about to say something when he suddenly stopped and looked behind him.

The fire in the fireplace behind him flared up, making a sharp crackling sound, and a slightly reproachful female voice came out.

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

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

Her jet-black hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her lips were pursed with a slightly impatient expression, as if she had been dealing with some tricky matter.

Minerva McGonagall, Hogwarts' Transfiguration professor, 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 new student notifications. Perhaps some raspberry jam to start?"

Dumbledore turned around, smiled warmly, and handed Professor McGonagall a small jar, less 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 could 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 envelopes, the magic quill will automatically rewrite and resend them. That family will eventually yield to reality."

Dumbledore blinked his twinkling blue eyes, "In that case, I'll handle notifying Harry. If necessary, Hagrid can also act as a temporary postman."

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

McGonagall frowned, making a noncommittal noise, and continued, "If that's all, you could have written it in the owl post. Is there anything else that requires an in-person discussion?"

"Yes, there is."

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

"In fact, in this year's class, besides Harry, there's another child who hasn't received a letter. To be precise, according to Filch's tally of the owlery, all owls flying to her residence have gone missing."

"Missing owls? You mean..."

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips, looking a little puzzled.

"I don't know. But according to the Ministry of Magic's statistics on magic surge amplitude, the magic within her body has reached the critical value. If she continues to lack guidance, she may very well become an Obscurial."

Dumbledore shook his head, answering solemnly, then looked at Professor McGonagall apologetically.

"I'm sorry, I should have gone to see this child myself. But Harry's situation, you know. So, it may be necessary for you to pay her a visit in person."

"We all understand, that person's influence still lingers."

Professor McGonagall pursed her lips and shrugged helplessly, indicating 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. She currently lives in a Muggle orphanage in the Scottish Highlands."

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses on his crooked nose and added, "By the way, pay attention to your communication style. If I remember correctly, she has some Veela blood, so she might be a bit difficult."

---

Scotland, the shores of Loch Lomond, the largest inland lake in the British Isles, are home to an unremarkable small town.

On the south side of the town stands a simple church, and behind the church is a small orphanage. Both the priest and the director of the orphanage are a Spaniard named Benítez.

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

Undoubtedly, among the many children, Eileen Kaslana, with a pair of star-like lake-blue eyes and waist-length silver hair, is an exceptionally special existence.

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

At this moment, a group of children were surrounding the kitchen door, eagerly watching Eileen as she prepared breakfast for everyone.

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

However, just looking at her skillful movements with the pan and spatula, no one would think that this was a girl not even eleven years old.

The sizzling sound of the frying pan filled the air with the tempting aroma of fried eggs, mixed with the toasty fragrance of the pre-baked bread slices placed to the side, making the children surrounding the door unconsciously swallow hard.

The orphanage's funds were always tight, and they only got to smell this aroma on Sunday mornings.

Next to the frying pan, some kind of poultry seemed to be stewing in a dark, large iron pot. The rolling soup had been simmered until milky white, with a few golden-colored oil droplets floating on top. A particularly rich and fragrant aroma wafted out. Just smelling the scent could make one feel warm all over.

After putting the last fried egg into the iron pan, Eileen picked up a spoon and tasted the rolling soup next to her, slightly smacking her lips. It seemed that it needed to simmer a bit 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 envelopes from the table and stuffed them into the stove, poking at them with tongs to make the flames burn more fiercely again.

After doing all this, the girl lightly jumped off the small wooden stool she used as a step, turned around, glanced at the little gluttons surrounding the door, straightened her 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 out her flat chest to make herself look more imposing, and threatened in a very fierce tone.

"Sister Eileen, can't Father eat breakfast with us today either?"

The one who asked the question was 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 tag-along in the orphanage.

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

"I've told you many times, Father Benítez's typhoid fever hasn't gotten better yet, and it's easy for you to get infected. But I estimate that drinking chicken soup for another day or two should make him completely recover."

"Then..."

Bran stood on his tiptoes, his gaze passing over the wooden table to the rolling iron pot, and swallowed his saliva.

"After Father gets better, can we still drink soup made from Scottish Round-Faced Plump Chickens every day?"

"That..."

Eileen turned her head and glanced at the fire burning under the iron pot. Among the dancing flames, thick parchment envelopes were slowly curling and burning, and a unique shield emblem on the envelopes flashed and disappeared.

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

However, even though 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 quests.

She had finally been reborn, and she didn't want to waste her precious time on a group of middle schoolers (the entire student body of Hogwarts) 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 were attached with special magic, not only...

Therefore, she immediately caught the owl and made soup, and burned the letter directly.

She believed that even if someone from the school came to investigate, they would be outraged and revoke her admission, right?

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

"Don't worry. As long as I haven't opened that envelope, there will be these Scottish Round-Faced Plump Chickens every day."

"Then... what do Scottish Round-Faced Plump Chickens look like?"

Bran asked curiously.

Eileen shook her head, didn't answer, stood up, ended the discussion about the Scottish Round-Faced Plump Chicken, patted Bran's head, and said with a smile.

"Alright, you'll know when you grow up. Now go sit down in the dining room. After breakfast, be good and do your morning lessons with everyone."

---

(Cute and adorable You Meng is begging for food, please recommend tickets, sob sob sob, over three thousand words in a chapter!)