Tyler came into the dining room and found four dishes and a bowl of soup already waiting on the table. Timo had prepared the meal exactly the way he liked it, warm, fragrant, and far more satisfying than the plain food most old British wizarding households seemed perfectly happy to eat.
He had lived in Britain for eleven years, but even now, he still could not fully get used to their idea of comfort food. There were only so many boiled vegetables, meat pies, and heavy puddings one person could endure before longing for something with a little more life in it.
Timo hurried over and pulled out his chair with both hands. Once Tyler sat down, the house-elf moved around him with practiced care, setting out the cutlery, arranging the dishes, and filling a bowl before placing it neatly at Tyler's side.
"What a rotten little aristocratic system," Tyler muttered under his breath. He criticized it with perfect calm, then accepted Timo's service just as comfortably.
House-elves were a strange part of wizarding society. Their magic was old, powerful, and deeply tied to households, but generations of strict tradition had shaped them into creatures who found purpose in service.
They handled every bit of housework, followed nearly every command, and were bound to their masters' families unless released. If they failed or disobeyed, even by accident, they usually fell into frantic self-reproach before anyone else could say a word.
To a house-elf, the greatest right in the world was not freedom, but the chance to obey. The only common way for a house-elf to be freed was for its master to give it clothes, though many elves treated freedom like exile rather than liberation.
Tyler understood how uncomfortable the arrangement looked from the outside. Understanding that, however, did not stop him from using the convenience placed directly in front of him.
"Timo, your cooking keeps getting better," Tyler said after drinking a bowl of soup. The flavor was rich and clean, and it warmed him enough that his tone softened without much effort.
"Oh!" Timo's enormous eyes instantly filled with tears. "Young master is too kind to Timo. Timo wants to serve young master forever and ever!"
The little house-elf shook with excitement, his thin fingers clutching the edge of his spotless pillowcase. He looked as though he might faint from happiness at any second.
Tyler had seen this reaction too many times to be surprised by it anymore. House-elves were all like this, dramatic to the point of making normal conversation difficult.
A few words of praise could make them sob, while the slightest scolding could leave them wringing their ears in distress. Timo was tidier and calmer than most, but in the end, he was still a house-elf.
Hoo-hoo!
While Tyler was enjoying his lunch, an owl suddenly flew in through the dining room window and landed neatly on the table. It folded its wings, gave a dignified little shake of its feathers, and fixed Tyler with the serious look of a messenger that expected to be dealt with at once.
A letter was tied to its left leg. The parchment envelope looked thick and official, the sort of thing no owl would carry unless it came from somewhere important.
Owls were the messengers of the wizarding world, and they were far cleverer than ordinary birds. They could find witches and wizards across long distances, track hidden homes, and deliver letters to people who had never given out an address.
Even protective charms rarely stopped them unless they were designed specifically to do so. Ordinary secrecy meant very little to a properly trained post owl.
"Timo, that should be my Hogwarts acceptance letter," Tyler said, setting down his spoon. His expression did not change much, but his pale blue eyes sharpened slightly.
"Get it for me." His voice stayed light, but the words carried the calm certainty of someone who had been expecting this moment for years.
From the moment Tyler had realized this was the world of Harry Potter, he had known he would almost certainly receive an acceptance letter from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There was magic in his body, and not a small amount of it either.
He had felt it for as long as he could remember, gathered deep inside him like pressure behind glass. It was not loud, but it was always there, waiting for a wand, a spell, and a proper education to give it shape.
In the wizarding world, most magical children showed accidental magic before they turned eleven. A fit of anger might shatter a window, fear might make them vanish from danger, and panic could twist the world in ways no Muggle could explain.
Once accidental magic appeared, it proved the child had magic and could become a witch or wizard. If a child reached eleven without any sign of magic, the situation was usually clear.
Even someone born into a wizarding family was not guaranteed magical ability, and blood alone did not secure a place in that hidden world. Those unfortunate children were called Squibs.
Squibs could not attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They would not receive a letter, buy a wand, sit under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, or study Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and Defence Against the Dark Arts.
In other words, receiving a Hogwarts letter meant that the magical world had officially recognized you. It was an invitation, a judgment, and a promise all at once.
And who could refuse that? Becoming a wizard and learning magic was the sort of chance no sane person would willingly throw away.
"Yes, young master," Timo said at once. He hurried to the owl, carefully untied the letter from its leg, and presented it to Tyler with both hands.
The envelope had no stamp. It was made of thick parchment, and the address was written in neat green ink: Mr. Tyler Blake, Number Seventeen, Godric's Hollow.
Tyler turned it over, and the wax seal bore the crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A large letter H stood at the center of the crest, surrounded by a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a serpent.
Those four animals represented the four Hogwarts houses. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin had carried the names of the school's founders for a thousand years.
Tyler opened the envelope and drew out the parchment inside. The letter was formal, old-fashioned, and almost exactly as he remembered from the story.
At the top was written Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, followed by the name of the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. Beneath it were his titles: Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.
The body of the letter was addressed to Mr. Blake. It informed him that he had been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, with a list of necessary books and equipment enclosed.
Term would begin on September 1. The school expected his reply by owl no later than July 31, and the letter was signed by Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.
"Oh!" Timo cried as soon as he saw the letter clearly. His bulging eyes filled with tears again, and his voice trembled with pride. "It is a letter from Hogwarts! Young master is going to Hogwarts soon, and Timo is so moved!"
Tyler ignored Timo's sniffles and reached for a clean piece of parchment. He wrote his reply immediately, calm and precise, then folded it and handed it back to the owl.
Before letting the bird leave, he picked a few pieces of meat from the table and offered them as payment. The owl accepted the treat with obvious satisfaction, clicking its beak once before lifting its leg for the return letter to be tied on.
Hoo.
The owl gave a pleased little call. Then it spread its wings, pushed off from the table, and flew straight out through the dining room window.
In general, young wizards born into wizarding families did not need a Hogwarts professor to guide them through Diagon Alley. Only Muggle-born children, who had no knowledge of the wizarding world, needed a professor to explain things and escort them while buying their school supplies.
Tyler had lived in the wizarding world for eleven years. He knew how wizarding money worked, knew where to buy robes and books, and knew enough about Diagon Alley that he could get through the trip without anyone holding his hand.
Besides, he had Timo. A house-elf might be timid in front of outsiders, but when it came to errands, luggage, and keeping a young master fed, clean, and on schedule, few servants were more reliable.
"Timo, come with me to Diagon Alley tomorrow," Tyler ordered. "We'll buy everything I need for school."
"Yes, young master," Timo said at once. He was still wiping his tears, but the moment Tyler gave an order, he answered without the slightest delay.
After lunch, Tyler took a short nap. When he woke, the afternoon sun had shifted across the windows, and the manor had settled into the quiet warmth of a summer day.
He did not linger upstairs for long. Once he was fully awake, he left his room and made his way down to the basement beneath the villa.
The basement had been transformed into a private workspace. It was where Tyler practiced magic, studied dangerous theory, and brewed potions that no ordinary eleven-year-old should have been able to recognize, let alone attempt.
The walls were lined with shelves of ingredients and tools. Glass jars held dried roots, powdered minerals, beetle eyes, silver leaves, and things that shifted slightly when no one touched them.
At the center of the room stood a workbench. On it sat a cauldron, simmering over a low flame with a steady, bubbling sound.
Glug. Glug. Glug.
Inside the cauldron boiled a turquoise liquid. Bubbles rose to the surface one after another, bursting with faint wisps of steam that curled upward and vanished into the air.
Tyler stood before the workbench and watched the potion closely. His pale blue eyes reflected the strange color of the liquid, and for a moment, his calm expression gave way to something sharper.
"It's the final step," he whispered. "Only the final step is left, and I'm missing one key thing—the Philosopher's Stone."
He stared at the boiling potion, and a fierce anticipation flickered through his beautiful eyes. His fingers rested lightly against the edge of the workbench, steady despite the excitement gathering beneath his skin.
"Soon," Tyler murmured to himself. "Very soon. I'll be able to get that precious Philosopher's Stone."