A Letter from Hogwarts

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dear Mr. Skofot? Tom? Leoqi, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...

Deputy Headmistress

Minerva McGonagall

Skofot gripped the letter, his fingertips whitening from the pressure, but the weakness debuff quickly drained even that small effort from him.

He stood frozen in place, his mind already churning like a storm-tossed sea.

A school of magic? Hogwarts?

I've been scraping by in this godforsaken alley for three years!

Hungry, gnawing on moldy bread; cold, scavenging tattered robes; constantly on guard against Muggles!

And now you tell me this world has magic?!

A surge of absurdity and fury, beyond words, nearly shattered his reason.

If... if he had known just a little sooner...

He stared fixedly at the date at the bottom of the letter and the deadline for a reply.

A thought quickly took shape.

He deliberately did not respond.

He carefully hid the letter away, then, as usual, dragged his even weaker, more exhausted body out of the attic, trying to find some food.

The effect of the [Rabbit Rhymer] card manifested fully in this moment of crisis.

His fragile, defiant demeanor, in a place like Knockturn Alley, did not inspire pity but instead drew predators like blood attracts sharks.

Two men with unpleasant faces blocked the dark alley where he stood.

"Look who it is? Our little poor thing looks like he needs some 'help' today."

One of them grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and reached out to touch Skofot's pale cheek.

"Let us have some fun."

Skofot wanted to resist, to pull out the gun he had hidden, but the "strength reduction" debuff left his arms limp, without even the strength to push them away.

He could only cower backward, his back pressing against the cold wall, his eyes—now inevitably brimming with physiological tears (the Brokenness Buff effect)—filled with helplessness and terror.

"Don't touch me..." His voice was weak, trembling.

The other man impatiently pulled out a knife: "Stop wasting time. See if he's got anything worth..."

Just as those filthy fingers were about to touch him, and the cold blade reflected a glint of light—

"Stupefy!"

A red beam of light struck the man with the knife with pinpoint accuracy, and he crumpled to the ground.

Then a second beam followed, and the first man collapsed as well.

A tall, stern-faced witch in deep green robes and square glasses appeared at the entrance of the alley, her wand still aimed at the two fallen figures.

Professor Minerva McGonagall strode in quickly, her gaze immediately landing on the boy pressed against the wall, as if trying to melt into it.

The boy was shockingly thin, his old robes hanging loosely on his frame, his cheeks hollow, his lips pale from lack of blood.

He looked up at her slightly, his tear-filled eyes holding lingering fear and the dazed confusion of a narrow escape, his long, wet lashes trembling.

He exuded a fragile, easily breakable vulnerability that made McGonagall's heart tighten sharply, despite her long experience with unruly students.

She immediately lowered her wand, trying to soften her expression as much as possible, but her voice still carried a hint of tension from the anger (directed at the thugs): "Child, it's alright. You're safe now."

She reached out her hand to him, intending to lead him away from this filthy place.

But the boy flinched like a frightened animal, shrinking back again, even though the cold wall left him nowhere to retreat.

He hugged his thin arms, lowered his head, and murmured in a voice barely audible, choked with sobs:

"Hungry... I'm so hungry..."

Those words struck McGonagall's heart like a heavy blow.

She looked at the boy, so weak he could barely stand, saw the most primal longing for food and survival in his eyes, and all her questions (like why he hadn't replied) were temporarily set aside.

A powerful surge of pity and responsibility welled up inside her.

Her expression completely softened, her eyes filled with compassion.

"Oh, dear child..."

She no longer tried to touch him rashly, but instead spoke in an extremely gentle, reassuring tone, "Come with me. I promise, you'll have hot food soon. Plenty of food. I swear it on my honor as a Hogwarts professor."

Professor McGonagall did not use Apparition.

She could tell that the child's current state couldn't withstand any form of magical travel.

She simply waved her wand gently and murmured, "Scourgify!" A faint light swept over the most obvious grime on Skofot, making him look less likely to draw stares—though his excessive thinness and that fragile air were already conspicuous enough.

She led him on foot through a few alleys until they reached the unassuming black door of the Leaky Cauldron.

Old Tom was wiping glasses behind the bar. When he saw Professor McGonagall enter with a strange boy, he started to greet her, but his eyes landed on Skofot, and the words caught in his throat.

Professor McGonagall offered no explanation, only said in a tone that brooked no argument, "Tom, a quiet corner. A bowl of hot oatmeal, extra milk. Some soft toasted bread with butter. A warm honey milk. Quickly."

Old Tom nodded hastily and pointed to a relatively secluded spot near the fireplace.

Sitting on the rough wooden chair, Skofot—or rather, Skofot's consciousness, blurred by weakness and the card's effects—was instinctively drawn to the scent of food.

When the warm oatmeal and soft bread were set before him, he didn't even wait for Professor McGonagall to say "eat." He grabbed the spoon and practically lunged at the food.

He devoured it ravenously, the spoon scraping against the bowl in frantic strokes. The soft bread was swallowed with barely any chewing, and he nearly choked several times.

"Tha... um... thank... Professor..." he forced out between gulps, his words muffled and garbled. Tears, from eating too fast and emotional overwhelm, mingled uncontrollably with the food, making him look even more pitiful and disheveled.

Professor McGonagall said nothing.

She just sat across from him, hands folded on the table, her gaze fixed on him through her spectacles. In her eyes were tightly suppressed shock and a surge of deep compassion.

She had seen students from poor families, but never a child so hungry, in such a... nearly critical state.

The way he ate wasn't about enjoying a meal; it was a primal struggle for survival.

She looked at his wrists, so thin they seemed like they could snap with a touch, at the stark bones protruding from his neck as he swallowed. A cold fury burned in her chest—anger at those who had let a child sink to this, and a belated fear for herself and the school's admissions process, for the oversight that might have been.

When his pace slowed slightly and most of the porridge was gone, Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice as calm as possible, softer than usual by more than a degree:

"Slow down, Mr. Leoqi. No one's going to take your food. If it's not enough, we can order more."

She noticed that even as he slowed, one hand instinctively guarded the bowl's rim, while the other clutched the bread tightly, as if afraid the food might vanish.

That detail made her heart clench again.

"Now,"

she continued once he finally set down the spoon and no longer seemed so ravenous, her tone regaining some of its usual rigor but still carrying warmth, "we need to talk. First, about your reply—or rather, the lack of one. Second, and more importantly, about your... living situation over the past few years."

Her sharp gaze swept over the boy's clearly ill-fitting and worn-out clothes, and his face, which even after eating still bore traces of exhaustion and fear.

"Hogwarts has a responsibility to ensure that every one of its students is at least safe and healthy before enrollment. Clearly, without our knowledge, you have not received the care you deserved."