The dilapidated attic room, perched precariously on the roofline of an old London building, was a silent sanctuary. Dust motes danced in the single, weak afternoon sunbeam that slanted through the grime-coated skylight, illuminating the intense focus of the room's occupant.
It was May 1991. The occupant was an eleven-year-old Chinese girl named Tiera Wu.
Her concentration was absolute. Her black-gloved left hand pressed firmly against a sheet of old, yellowed parchment—Merlin's journal—which was covered in arcane, spidery script. With her free right hand, she rapidly drew complex, interwoven geometric sigils onto a fresh piece of parchment.
These were not mere diagrams; they were intricate mental preparation anchors, visual structures to contain and focus the chaotic surge of power required for the truly forbidden magic she was seeking to master.
After precisely thirty minutes of exhaustive, focused drawing—the theoretical limit for her current level of spiritual endurance—Tiera set down her charcoal pencil. She leaned back in the rickety wooden chair, her young body already fatigued from the sheer mental strain. She then reached for the small, corked vial on the table. Inside sloshed a few ounces of pale blue liquid.
This was the infamous Herlis Potion.
She lifted the vial and swallowed the entire dose in one agonizing gulp.
"Hngh…" Tiera instantly recoiled. The liquid was thick, metallic, and intensely bitter, like frozen copper mixed with ground stone. It coated her throat with a cold, numbing film. She clamped her hand over her mouth, managing to suppress the involuntary urge to vomit, and forced the liquid down.
The moment the Herlis Potion settled in her stomach, the world dissolved.
Tiera felt herself instantly plunged back into the horrific climax of the laboratory explosion. Time stretched, warped, and became an instrument of pure agony. She was not just remembering her death; she was reliving it in excruciating, frame-by-frame sensory detail.
The heavy, ultra-low-temperature refrigerator descended with impossible slowness, its mass casting a vast, terrifying shadow. The brief four seconds of physical death seemed to stretch into an eternity.
She felt the dull, bone-jarring sting of the metal hitting her body, followed by the crystalline, agonizing sensation of her skull crushing, inch by inch. The pain was excruciatingly precise, a flawless replay of the moment her physical body was destroyed, an experience her subconscious had perfectly preserved.
She gasped, sweat instantly soaking the sheets of the thin mattress below. She had kicked the chair violently during the ordeal, and her body was shaking uncontrollably.
It felt like minutes, or hours, but eventually, the hellish torment receded. Tiera awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. Yet, beneath the residual terror, her spirit felt light, sharp, and remarkably cheerful, as if she had just emerged from a profound, deep sleep.
"I feel hopeless when I think about having to keep drinking this," Tiera sighed, pushing herself up. She picked up the chair she'd knocked over, straightened the workspace, and went downstairs to the communal bathroom for a quick, scalding shower to wash away the sweat and the lingering fear.
Rest was crucial before commencing her next spell practice. Tiera's schedule was rigid: she had only one day a week—Sunday—short enough to work her magic without interruption. She had to use every available minute.
It had been five long, lonely years since she had left the orphanage. Despite possessing a hidden cache of ancient coins—a legacy from her past life—Tiera had been cautious. She initially pawned only enough to survive for a month or two, planning to find legitimate employment.
Finding work as a six-year-old in 1986 London was nearly impossible. She was either flat-out rejected or, more terrifyingly, approached by unscrupulous individuals looking to sell her into exploitative underground operations. Long-term unemployment forced Tiera to learn from other street children, resorting to petty theft simply to eat.
Things changed during a botched attempt at theft. She was stopped, not by police, but by a plump, beautiful, and kind Chinese woman who ran a small restaurant in Chinatown. Observing that Tiera's English was far more fluent than her own husband's spoken language, she offered her a lifeline: a job as a cashier.
It was a simple contract: six days a week with one day off (Sunday), a modest monthly salary of £20, plus food and accommodation. Her primary duty was to sit at the cash register, translating dishes for non-Chinese customers. When business peaked, she would retreat to the kitchen to help with simple prep work.
The attic she now occupied was a crucial piece of luck. It belonged to a close friend of the restaurant owners, who had loaned it to them for temporary care while she was abroad. It was vacant, discreet, and perfect for Tiera's secret work. Every pound she earned, Tiera saved, meticulously building a small buffer.
Even the complicated process of brewing the Herlis Elixir was relatively inexpensive. This was thanks to the extra-dimensional space that housed the Library of Alexandria. The climate there meant most herbs grew rapidly.
Consulting the Guide to Magical Herbs on the library's third-floor bookshelf, Tiera easily gathered the majority of the raw materials for the Herlis Potion. The small, final portion—a rare, processed powder—she purchased from a Chinese apothecary in Chinatown, successfully blending her two worlds.
"Case, case, case…"
Just as Tiera was about to stand up to begin learning a new, more advanced spell, a tapping sound came from the skylight.
A few seconds later, a magnificent spotted owl landed silently outside the grimy glass. Clenched firmly in its beak was a thick paper letter. It tapped the glass three times with its short, hooked beak.
"Case, case, case…"
Could it be? Tiera's mind raced with a possibility she'd almost dared not entertain. She fell off the narrow bed in her excitement, scrambling to her feet. She snatched a rusty iron bar she kept nearby and hurriedly slid the heavy skylight open.
The spotted owl gracefully fluttered into the attic, landing with an almost audible thud on Tiera's rough wooden desk. It released the letter, stood erect behind the chair, and began calmly smoothing its feathers, its large amber eyes fixed on Tiera with an expectation that was intensely unnerving.
Tiera carefully picked up the thin white envelope. On the back, her name and her attic address were written in elegant, looping emerald green ink. A crisp red seal affixed the closure. The front bore a wax seal, a proud, glossy red crest featuring a large capital 'H', surrounded by the detailed crests of the four Houses.
Her hands trembling slightly, Tiera delicately used a paper cutter to slice the edge of the envelope, peeling back the wax seal. She withdrew the parchment, which still carried the faint, clean scent of fresh ink, and began to read, her eyes meticulously absorbing every word.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Mugwump, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Ms. Wu:
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The list of required books and equipment is attached.
The semester is scheduled to begin on September 1st. We await your reply by no later than July 31st.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress
The accompanying list was just as fascinating, detailing the required uniform, textbooks (including the famous Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 by Miranda Goshawk), and equipment like a cauldron and phials.
It's real! It's actually real!
A wave of joyous, disbelieving energy washed over Tiera. She reached out and gently rubbed the spotted owl, which responded with an irritated flap of its wings.
Her moment of euphoria lasted only a few seconds before her practical mind took over. She grabbed a fresh sheet of white paper and dipped her pen in ink, formulating her reply with intelligence and careful strategy.
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
It is an immense privilege and honor to be invited to study magic at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
She paused, thinking about her lack of connection to the magical world.
However, I must inform you that I have no connection to the wizarding world. I am an orphan and have never been exposed to magic. While I am immensely curious about this path, I have no idea how to prepare the items on the attached list, nor do I know how to navigate the travel arrangements to Hogwarts.
If you would be so kind, and if it is convenient for your staff, might I respectfully request that a faculty member who resides or is currently visiting London take me under their guidance to introduce me to the world of wizards and help me prepare for my first year?
Sincerely,
Student Tiera Wu
She folded the letter and offered it to the owl.
The owl, however, refused to take the envelope. It hooted once, flapped its wings, and then stared at Tiera with a very demanding, almost disdainful, expression.
"Ah, of course, you must be hungry after such a long journey," Tiera realized, understanding the protocol of an exhausted messenger. "Excellent. I have a tasty treat for you right here."
She opened the attic door and quickly ran downstairs. When she returned moments later, she was holding a plump, gray rat by the scruff of its neck.
This was a former subject—a lab rat she had been using to test the stability of her rudimentary Levitation Charm practice. Since the Herlis Potion had proved successful, the rat was now being repurposed as a meal for the diligent messenger.
"Squeak-squeak—" The gray rat screamed wildly in Tiera's grip, unable to turn and bite.
Tiera held the wriggling creature out toward the owl's beak. The owl glanced at the mouse, then back at Tiera's face. It gave a short, judgmental Hoot, pecked Tiera's hand lightly to snatch the reply letter, and then, without so much as a second look at the terrified rodent, spread its massive wings and flew out the skylight, vanishing into the London sky.
"Don't owls like to eat mice?" Tiera asked, bewildered, looking down at the frantically struggling rat in her hand. She hadn't offered enough payment. She shrugged, looking at the creature. "Do you want it cooked, then?"