There is a little girl in a cottage up in the highlands of Scotland that day and night sat dreaming of an owl perched on her fence and a letter rough under her fingertips. To Mathilda Scamander, it would say, The Room in the Suitcase. And this letter would bring her coloured joy, a burst of excitement, a rush of adrenaline because Mathilda would be going to Hogwarts. A place where she could unyieldingly create magic, a place her grandfather had told her a million stories about. A place where she could make a family of friends, discuss the rights of mythical creatures, create potions and learn charms. So as she awoke that day, with a Niffler, called Trumpet, gnawing at her golden ring on her right hand and a demi guise named Harp, petting her matted hair, and her grandfather working tirelessly with one steady hand to tend to the injuries of a Knarl, and saw the Hogwarts letter laying on the desk just next to his hand, she just about died.