The Golden Hour of Penacony always seemed steeped in decadent luxury.
Golden light flowed down the streets like an endless, glittering performance.
Stelle, a Trailblazer who had just temporarily stepped away from Penacony’s grand, tumultuous main story, was currently immersed in an endeavor far simpler, yet no less deeply satisfying.
With a look of deep contentment, she shut the lid of a golden trash can.
“Not a bad haul.” She dusted off her clean hands as if she had just completed a monumental Trailblaze Mission, taking stock of the newly acquired items in her inventory—pieces of trash of mysterious utility, yet glowing with an alluring, rare sheen.
Just then, a faint fluctuation rippled from behind her.
That feeling…
it was like an undiscovered treasure chest, an enticing question mark quietly pulsing on a gorgeous UI menu!
She spun around instantly.
Her Trailblazer instinct locked her gaze onto the shadows deep within the alleyway—where a rusty iron trash bin sat completely out of place.
Nestled silently amid the shimmering decorations, it looked incongruous, yet inexplicably familiar, as if issuing the most primal siren call directly to her soul.
Without a second thought, Stelle strode forward and, with a sense of solemn reverence, flipped open the heavy lid.
There was no blinding gleam of legendary loot, nor the foul stench of rotting garbage.
Inside was only a swirling, profound darkness that seemed to hold an entire cosmos within it.
Before she could even process this strange anomaly, a massive gravitational pull caught her!
Her entire body was yanked irresistibly into the dark void.
“Whoa—!
Talk about a wild slide!” Even as the world spun wildly out of control, she somehow found time to marvel out loud.
Everything whirled.
The surrounding scenery dissolved like an oil painting sucked into a whirlpool—splendid architecture, streaming golden light, floating Watchmaker iconography—all twisted into a dizzying blur of colorful streaks.
She felt as though she were plummeting down an endless slide at breakneck speed, weightlessness clutching at her chest.
Amid the chaotic noise, she almost thought she caught the sound of gloating laughter.
But the sensation vanished in a flash, so fast it felt like a hallucination.
*Thump!
Clatter—!* A heavy thud was immediately followed by the racket of rolling wooden barrels, marking the end of her fall.
The sharp tang of alcohol, aged wood, and a complex aroma of cooked food rushed into her nostrils, replacing Penacony’s sweet, dream-scented air.
Stelle shook her dizzy head, barely pushing herself up from a heap of collapsed barrels and clutter.
A few sticky scraps of wrapping paper and a candy wrapper printed with odd symbols slid off her hair.
Absentmindedly, she pinched the wrapper and unfolded it in the dim light.
The symbols were twisted and strange, looking nothing like any galactic common language she knew.
She squinted at it for two seconds before flicking it aside, interest thoroughly lost.
Then she realized she was in a crowded, noisy room.
Rough wooden tables and chairs stood beneath flickering flames in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the mottled walls.
The air was thick with an energy unlike anything she had encountered on any world—ancient and hidden.
Immediately after, a sharp sense of wrongness hit her.
Her sleeves draped past her fingertips, her pant legs bunched up over her feet, and her line of sight was unnaturally low to the ground.
She looked down at her noticeably smaller hands and body, quickly deducing that her physical age had regressed.
Intrigued, she even pinched her now-chubby little cheek.
Encounters with strange ailments were common on Trailblaze journeys, though size alterations were a relatively rare debuff.
Besides, she had no memory of being this young before.
Then she noticed that the noise had vanished.
The entire room had fallen dead silent.
Everyone dressed in strange robes was staring at her in unison with expressions as though they had seen a ghost.
An old witch wearing thick glasses froze with her goblet suspended in midair; a wizened wizard nearly singed his nose on his pipe; and another fellow attempted to hide behind his cloak, failing miserably.
In the eerie silence, the curtain behind the bar was yanked open.
Tom, the landlord, poked his head out, his face sour with annoyance at the disturbance.
“What in the blazes—” His complaining cut off abruptly as his eyes locked onto the strange little girl crawling out from the trash heap in his storeroom.
The rag in his hand dropped onto the bar counter.
“Merlin’s fattest underpants!” Tom cried out, his voice cracking with shock as he nearly tumbled around the bar.
“W-Who on earth do you belong to?
How did you get into my storeroom?!” Stelle stood up unsteadily, ignoring the dust clinging to her clothes.
She looked at Tom, scanned the surrounding patrons who remained petrified, and finally brought her gaze back to Tom’s bewildered, panicked face.
She lifted her head, pointed at the unassuming, massive trash bin, and answered in a completely matter-of-fact tone: “I rummaged through a trash can, and then I was here.” The Leaky Cauldron fell into a dead silence where even breathing could barely be heard.
The only sound was the crackle of burning wood in the fireplace, accompanied by a sharp, involuntary gasp from someone in the corner.
Tom gawk-mouthed, feeling his brain short-circuit.
Rummaged through a trash can?
And ended up here?
This was his pub’s storeroom!
In all his long years, he had heard of countless ways to enter The Leaky Cauldron—Floo powder, Apparition…
But climbing in through a trash bin?
That was crazier than hearing a troll had passed an exam in Potions!
He stared at the girl’s unnaturally serene face, then at the ordinary trash bin, until a ridiculous yet seemingly sole logical explanation popped into his head: This had to be a young witch who had just suffered an outburst of accidental magic due to wildly unstable power!
Such uncontrolled magical outbursts usually happened only to young witches and wizards under extreme emotional stress.
Though she looked…
well, she looked almost eager to do it again.
He immediately recognized the gravity of the situation.
An unsupervised, magically volatile, potentially homeless little witch!
This was far beyond what a mere pub owner could handle.
“Y-You stay right there!
Don’t move!” Tom said, a note of panic in his voice.
He pointed at Stelle, then realized it might be inappropriate and quickly lowered his hand.
“I mean, are you alright?
Are you hurt?
Where are your parents?” Stelle shook her head to indicate she was fine.
As for where her family was, she simply blinked and offered no reply.
Her attention had already been drawn to another wooden crate stacked with old rags in the corner, and she ambled over to start digging through it.
Seeing this, Tom was even more convinced of his theory.
He hastily shouted to the nearest dazed witch, “Doris, keep an eye on the shop and this kid for me!
Don’t let her rummage up any more trouble!” Then he practically sprinted out the front door of the pub—he had to owl Dumbledore right away!
…
About half an hour later, the quiet main room of The Leaky Cauldron twisted slightly.
With a soft *crack*, two figures appeared abruptly in the center of the room.
It was none other than Dumbledore and McGonagall.
They looked solemn, clearly having received Tom’s rambling yet alarming emergency note.
“Where is she, Tom?” Dumbledore asked.
Tom pointed nervously toward the storeroom.
“Inside, Headmaster.
She seems fine, just a bit odd.
She’s been inspecting everything in my storeroom.” Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall exchanged a look and pushed open the storeroom door.
The scene inside matched Tom’s description.
The overturned barrels had been righted, and the mess partially tidied.
The little girl was sitting on an overturned barrel, holding what appeared to be a broken clock part, engrossed in attempting to disassemble it.
Hearing the door open, she looked up.
Stelle’s eyes first landed on Professor McGonagall’s tightly pulled bun and thin-lipped grimace.
Professor McGonagall’s brow furrowed at the sight of the little girl drowned in oversized clothes.
Without asking any questions, she swiftly drew her wand and flicked it toward Stelle.
“*Reducio*.” Stelle felt a peculiar shrinking and shifting in her garments, as if countless invisible hands were tailoring them in real time.
In the blink of an eye, the baggy clothes resized into a perfect fit.
She glanced down and gave her now-fitting clothes a gentle tug.
Then her gaze shifted to Dumbledore, lingering on his long, silver-white beard and half-moon spectacles.
Stelle’s eyes lit up slightly.
She set the clock piece down and hopped off the barrel.
Rather than walking straight up to Dumbledore, she began to circle him and Professor McGonagall like a curious little creature, head tilted, her clear eyes sweeping over their robes and wand tips like searchlights.
Finally, her focus locked onto Dumbledore’s silver beard, which hung all the way down to his waist.
Stopping right in front of him, she didn’t say anything at first.
Instead, she flashed a two-fingered “V” sign beneath her own chin, pointed at his beard, blinked innocently, and then solemnly mimed a digging-and-rummaging motion in the air a few inches away from his beard.
Then she looked up and muttered under her breath, her tone laced with an unmistakable hint of mischief, yet just loud enough for both professors to hear clearly: “Can you hide loot in here?” Professor McGonagall drew in a sharp breath, her expression freezing as though a troll had just sauntered into Hogwarts Castle.
Dumbledore clearly paled in shock for a split second, his long silver eyebrows lifting high in surprise.
In all his long years, having braved countless storms and received endless glances of awe or curiosity, having someone treat his beard like a potential treasure stash to its face was definitely a first.
After a moment of astonishment, a mixture of deep curiosity, intense intrigue, and amusement at her childlike antic washed over his weathered face.
Far from pulling back, he leaned down slightly to bring his beard closer into Stelle’s view, his bright blue eyes twinkling warmly at her.
“A most fascinating hypothesis, my dear child,” he said softly.
“Many have wondered about it, but you are the very first to inspect it from such a…
functional perspective.” “However, before we test that theory,” he continued, his tone remaining gentle yet guiding, “perhaps we might first discuss who you are?
And how you came to choose…
ah, this rather peculiar entryway in Mr.
Tom’s storeroom?” Looking into his twinkling blue eyes, which seemed to harbor a sea of Stelles, Stelle felt as though she had encountered an ultra-high-level NPC with unpredictable behavior patterns.
She didn’t answer his question regarding her identity directly.
Instead, she pointed once more to the righted trash bin, speaking with an eagerness to share: “I rummaged through a trash can, and then I was here.” Hearing the absurd claim a second time, and taking in the girl’s clear, subtly triumphant gaze, Dumbledore showed no signs of disbelief.
He merely stroked his long beard thoughtfully, murmuring softly: “Ah, an unconventional spatial jump phenomenon?
How fascinating.” He straightened up and addressed Professor McGonagall, who was still recovering from the shock to her worldview.
“It appears, Minerva, that we must welcome a rather special new student to Hogwarts.
Perhaps the manner of her arrival is itself the most unique acceptance letter of all.” The corners of his mouth curved into a meaningful smile.
“I have a strong premonition that this academic year will be extraordinarily interesting.”