Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

It was the night of the third Christmas since Mirabel had started her studies at Hogwarts.

In the southwest of England lies Devon, a county unique in the nation for having two separate coastlines. Within Devon, there is a place called Exmouth.

Situated at the western edge of the UNESCO World Heritage site, the "Jurassic Coast," this area housed a small, inconspicuous cottage hidden from the eyes of Muggles.

The owner of this cottage, who was about to turn 667 years old, was arguably the oldest man in human history.

His name was Nicolas Flamel, the alchemist renowned for being the first to create the Philosopher's Stone. He was also a partner of Albus Dumbledore.

For centuries, Nicolas had enjoyed the extended life granted by the Philosopher's Stone, but even he could not escape the end.

Having decided he had lived long enough, he resolved—after consulting with Dumbledore—to destroy the Philosopher's Stone. He made peace with his affairs and chose to pass away alongside his wife.

Yet, even as the elderly alchemist prepared for a peaceful end, malevolence refused to overlook him.

Drawn by the great feat of creating the Philosopher's Stone, this malice reached out toward the dying man.

This world harbored entities so irredeemable and uncontrollable that their existence itself seemed to embody pure evil.

That night, Nicolas was enjoying a modest, perhaps final, Christmas celebration with his wife, Perenelle, and their pet Kneazle.

On the table lay roasted chicken, a cake, and other simple Christmas dishes, complemented by understated decorations.

It was a far cry from the grand festivities of Hogwarts' Christmas parties—no dazzling lights, no extravagant displays.

But for Nicolas, this humble gathering brought immense happiness. It was a Christmas filled with contentment, fitting for what might be his last.

The only regret was the state of their pet, who seemed likely to pass before them. Ill and frail, it could barely eat or stand. Despite Nicolas's efforts, his elderly magic could not heal the creature entirely.

This sorrow lingered, but the overall moment was serene and joyful.

However, this blissful moment was suddenly shattered.

Without warning, and without even the characteristic sound accompanying Apparition, two intruders materialized inside the room.

One was a hunched man whose face was obscured by a sinister mask. His prosthetic arm gleamed eerily, exuding an unsettling presence.

The other was a beautiful girl with golden hair and eyes to match. Her divine beauty, however, was starkly contrasted by the overwhelming malice radiating from her.

"Who are you?!"

Instinctively, Nicolas reached for his wand, but his reaction was far too slow.

An old man on the brink of death could never hope to outpace her—Mirabel.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Stupefy! Paralysis!"

Two red flashes of light—one from Mirabel's hand and another from Quirrell's wand—struck Nicolas and Perenelle.

Nicolas's wand was knocked away, and his wife collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut.

Before Nicolas could resist further, Quirrell restrained him.

"Who are you? What is your purpose in doing this?"

"Calm yourself. We mean no further harm," said the girl, her tone disturbingly casual as though the intrusion and attack were trivial matters.

"Allow me to introduce myself," she began, with an air of feigned politeness.

"It's an honor to meet you, the great Nicolas Flamel."

"Spare me your insincerity! What do you want?" Nicolas demanded, his wrinkled face contorted in anger.

Mirabel's lips curled into a twisted smile.

"Your work is remarkable; I hold it in great respect," she said. "But let's not pretend—I'm not here to flatter you."

Her voice carried no hint of remorse.

"I want to create the Philosopher's Stone. That is my goal."

"What?!"

"I've been working on recreating the Philosopher's Stone, but progress has stalled.

Analyzing the fragment I possess has brought me 90% of the way there, but the remaining 10% eludes me. It might take another four or five years to complete, but I can't afford to wait that long.

So I've come to you, the original creator, for assistance."

Mirabel revealed the fragment of the stone she had obtained in her first year. By studying it, she had come incredibly close to completing her goal. Yet, the pinnacle of alchemy was no easy feat.

Thus, Mirabel decided to take a shortcut—stealing Nicolas's memories.

"I don't need your approval. I'll extract your memories by force."

"...The Philosopher's Stone... was a joint effort with Dumbledore.

Even if you take my memories, you won't be able to replicate it..."

Nicolas's voice was strained as he spoke, but Mirabel's smile only grew wider, more mocking.

"Such a poor liar, Nicolas Flamel."

"!!"

Her abrupt conclusion left Nicolas stunned. Quirrell, though clueless as to why she was so certain, could tell from Nicolas's reaction that she had hit the mark.

"Wh-why...?"

"Nicolas Flamel. Born in 1330, now 667 years old.

In the Muggle world, you were a publisher by trade. In the wizarding world, you are known as the first person to successfully create the Philosopher's Stone.

And you are also famous for your alchemical collaboration with Albus Dumbledore. Correct?"

"So... what of it?"

"Ha... I see. Written that way, it almost seems as though the Philosopher's Stone was created through your collaboration with Dumbledore.

Perhaps there are even quite a few who genuinely believe that."

Mirabel smirked. "But only a naive child would be fooled by such nonsense. Isn't that right, Quirrell?"

Amused, Mirabel sought agreement from her companion, but Quirrell only looked puzzled, his confusion apparent.

It seemed even he had been under the same false impression.

With a sigh, Mirabel decided she would deal with him later.

"Albus Dumbledore's history stretches back, at most, a mere century—113 years, to be exact.

That's not even one-fifth of your life, Nicolas.

Now, even a ten-year-old could manage this math. 667 minus 113 equals 554.

How did you survive for those 554 years before Dumbledore even appeared?"

"...!"

"The answer is simple: the Philosopher's Stone.

There's no other conceivable way for a human to live for over 550 years.

And this is clearly evident from the fact that, now deprived of the Philosopher's Stone, you are slowly approaching death."

Nicolas turned pale at Mirabel's words, and Quirrell nodded in realization.

It made sense. The timeline didn't add up.

Even under the absurd assumption that Dumbledore collaborated on the Philosopher's Stone as an infant, Nicolas would have already been over 550 years old at the time.

The idea of him surviving those centuries without the Stone was impossible.

And if it were possible, Nicolas wouldn't now be preparing for his own death.

"Judging by your current appearance, you likely completed the Philosopher's Stone in your sixties—roughly 457 years ago.

Dumbledore wasn't even born yet."

"...!"

"Then why have you acted in a way that led people to believe the Stone was a collaborative effort with Dumbledore?

And why, despite achieving such an extraordinary feat, are you remembered only as a historical figure of modest significance?"

Though Nicolas Flamel's name was well-known in the wizarding world, it carried surprisingly little weight.

Books barely mentioned him, and even Hermione Granger initially had no idea who he was.

Mirabel suspected this obscurity was deliberate.

"Now, this is speculation on my part," Mirabel continued, "but I imagine that Dumbledore, much like myself, initially sought you out for the Philosopher's Stone."

Dumbledore once remarked that "humans have a tendency to desire what is worst for them."

Mirabel inferred from this that he had, at some point, pursued something related to immortality.

Dumbledore considered prolonged life to be "the worst." It stood to reason, then, that he had once yearned for eternal life, only to later revile it.

Yet despite his apparent disdain for immortality, he kept a phoenix—a symbol of rebirth and eternal life.

Clearly, whatever he claimed, Dumbledore harbored a deep fascination with the idea of conquering death.

"Whether his motives were altruistic or purely selfish, I couldn't care less.

And as for what transpired between you two, I don't know.

But in the end, the two of you reconciled."

"Urgh... grr..."

"And here's where my speculation continues.

I suspect that the two of you struck a deal."

Mirabel's tone grew sharper.

"You, Nicolas, don't seem to enjoy the spotlight.

For someone like you, the title of 'the great Albus Dumbledore' must have made an excellent shield.

By framing the Stone as a joint creation, public attention naturally shifted to him, leaving you in the background."

Nicolas could say nothing.

His pale, stricken face made it clear that Mirabel had struck a nerve.

Ignoring his silence, Mirabel pressed on, undeterred.

"In return, Dumbledore was given the Elixir of Life. That would explain why he's been alive for 113 years and is still active.

The Philosopher's Stone is your creation alone, Nicolas. Dumbledore merely benefited from it later."

"....."

"Well? Do you have any objections to that?"

In truth, Mirabel didn't care whether her deductions about the meeting between Dumbledore and Nicolas were correct or not.

The only thing that mattered was this: The Philosopher's Stone was created by Nicolas alone.

Any additional details or conjectures held no real value or meaning.

And from Nicolas's expression, it was clear that this critical point was indisputable.

There was no need to press further.

"Now that you've attained eternal life... what do you plan to do with it?"

"To rule the wizarding world."

"What!?"

"First, I'll eradicate pure-blood supremacists like Voldemort. Then, I'll crush the corrupt Ministry of Magic.

That much can be achieved within a normal human lifespan. But the problem lies in what comes after.

After dismantling the current system, building a new, ideal order will take more time than a mortal life can offer."

"You're insane...!"

"Even if I succeeded, what happens after my death? The answer is clear: it would all fall apart. Humans are quick to stray from the path.

There must be someone to guide them. An absolute ruler is necessary."

"Have you lost your mind, you foolish girl?!"

Though Nicolas asked if she was sane, he already knew the answer.

—Of course not!

No rational person could arrive at such a conclusion. No sound mind could harbor such twisted ambition.

This girl intended to rule the wizarding world forever!

"Heh... I don't expect to be understood. I'm fine being my own sole supporter."

Ignoring Nicolas's insults, Mirabel grabbed him by the neck and forced him to face her.

To use the mind-reading spell Legilimency, eye contact was essential.

Naturally, Nicolas attempted to counter with Occlumency, but he found himself unable to activate it properly.

The sight of Mirabel's two golden eyes peering into his own drained all his will to resist.

"I'll take it—your knowledge."

"St-stop...!"

An irresistible charm, combined with the pain of having his memories forcibly invaded, overwhelmed Nicolas.

Caught between the two, his consciousness began to fade into darkness.

When he finally lost consciousness, Mirabel seated him in a chair, snapped her fingers to restore the house to its original state, and stroked the kneazle lying on the floor.

Without sparing another glance, she left the cottage.

A few minutes later, Nicolas and his wife awoke, unable to remember anything about their terrifying visitor.

All they noticed was that their kneazle seemed inexplicably healthier, leaving them puzzled.

Most of the students, including Mirabel, had returned home for Christmas, leaving Hogwarts castle nearly deserted.

In the quiet library, Harry and his friends gathered, much as they had the year before.

Sitting around a small table were Harry, Hermione, and Edith.

Their attention was focused on a single broomstick laid out on the table before them.

"So... this was sent to you as a Christmas present?"

"Yeah," Harry replied cheerfully, nodding at Edith, who made no effort to hide her skepticism.

Every Christmas, Harry received several presents. They came from people like Hermione, Mrs. Weasley, or other friends at Hogwarts.

But this year, he received a gift far beyond anything he'd ever gotten—a spectacular item that eclipsed all the others combined.

Sitting on the table was a broomstick: the Firebolt, a marvel of craftsmanship.

"Who sent it?"

"I don't know. There wasn't a card."

Receiving such an extraordinary Christmas gift might have been cause for celebration, but there was one glaring issue.

The broom was too valuable—far too valuable—and the sender hadn't even included their name.

Who in the world would spend 500 Galleons to send Harry such a gift?

"It's just... creepy. Harry, this broom is really expensive, isn't it?"

"Probably. It's supposed to be the best broomstick out there."

"Then who would give you something this expensive without revealing their identity?"

While Harry was elated over the incredible broom, Hermione couldn't see it in a positive light.

Sure, if this was truly a gift of goodwill, it was wonderful. She didn't want to dampen her friend's joy.

But genuine concern for a friend meant more than simply celebrating and nodding along. True friendship wasn't about blindly agreeing—that was what sycophants like Crabbe and Goyle were to Malfoy.

So, despite knowing it might upset Harry, Hermione decided to voice her concerns.

"What about Dumbledore? He clearly likes you a lot. Didn't he give you the Invisibility Cloak too?"

"That was originally my dad's. There's no way he'd spend 500 Galleons on a single student."

"I don't know... if it's Dumbledore, I wouldn't put it past him," Edith remarked.

Edith's first guess was Dumbledore, but Harry dismissed the idea.

Even if Dumbledore had a soft spot for him, he was still the headmaster and supposed to treat all students equally.

...Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

"What about Mrs. Weasley? After what happened with Ron last year, she's been even more worried about you."

"No way! If she had that kind of money, she'd use it for Ron's medical bills."

Hermione's next suggestion was Mrs. Weasley, but Harry shut that down too.

She had indeed become overprotective of Harry, especially after Ron's incident last year. It was clear she was terrified of losing anyone else.

But realistically, there was no way she had the financial means to send such an expensive gift.

"...It couldn't be Beresford, could it? She's the one who said you should get an international-class broomstick."

"Not a chance. Even if the world turned upside down, it wouldn't be her. Mirabel might acknowledge me, but she'd never help me like this."

Finally, Edith brought up Mirabel as a long shot.

After all, it was Mirabel who had told Harry to get a top-tier broomstick if he wanted to beat her.

And knowing her arrogant personality, it wouldn't be surprising if she deliberately strengthened her rival to make things more interesting.

But Edith, who knew Mirabel well, dismissed the idea outright.

Mirabel respected only those who clawed their way up with their own strength. She would never acknowledge anyone who needed help to succeed.

"So, what are you going to do? You're not seriously thinking of using it just like that, are you?"

"No way, Harry! You have to report it to a professor first and have them check it!"

Harry, on the other hand, was dying to try out the amazing broom, but both Edith and Hermione were firmly against it.

The sender's identity and motive were completely unknown, and using it without caution was reckless.

What if it was cursed?

Especially with Sirius Black lurking nearby, they couldn't afford to take any chances.

"But... if I had this, I could compete with Beresford's Silver Arrow!"

"That's exactly what Black might be counting on! He could've sent it, knowing you'd think that way!"

Harry's main goal was to defeat Mirabel.

To do so, he needed a broomstick that could match her Silver Arrow.

The Firebolt, being the pinnacle of modern broomstick design, was perfect for the job. There was no doubt it could stand up to her.

But Hermione sharply shot down his reasoning, her voice rising with concern.

"Come on! We're going to a professor. They need to examine it first!"

"Wait! Just one ride! Just one quick ride!"

"No! What if something happens during that one ride?!"

"Just the tip! Just a tiny bit, I swear!"

"That's nonsense! No means no!!"

Harry, desperate to try the broom, was dragged off by Hermione without mercy.

Watching the scene, Edith thought idly, "Yeah, he's definitely going to end up under her thumb someday."

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