Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

"...A dream, huh..."

Sitting up in bed, she muttered.

Even though it had been five years, the fact that she still dreams about it is nothing but pathetic.

She thought this, and with a self-deprecating smile, she got out of bed.

The sky was still dark, and none of the students sleeping in the same room showed signs of waking up.

She threw on a robe over her pajamas and headed for the exit.

Whenever she had that dream, she would get excited and be unable to sleep.

"Peaves."

"Y-yes! Here!"

"Cause some trouble and draw Filch's attention."

With Peaves as bait, she walked through the school halls.

Unlike Harry and the others, who sneak around, she moved boldly, as if she were walking through her own home. Her confident strides were almost refreshing, surpassing audacity.

After reaching the second floor, she moved to the balcony, sitting in one of the chairs there as if she owned it.

Snapping her fingers, a wine bottle and glass appeared in front of her, filling the glass on their own.

"It's almost time... soon, this temporary peace will come to an end."

Mirabelle's gaze was directed at the Quidditch pitch below.

The second task had already been completed, leaving only one remaining.

And the stage for that final task—the maze of hedges—was nearly complete.

"...I'm not regretting it, not at all. I've been waiting for this moment."

Mirabelle spoke as if to someone, but of course, no one was there.

Instead, standing beside her was a small, silver-haired girl, the Patronus she had created with her magic.

Of course, the Patronus couldn't talk. The illusion of the girl remained silent, standing there motionless.

"Five years since then... It feels both short and long.

I've grown a lot, leaving you behind. I'm even taller than you now."

She looked up at the crescent moon and took a sip of her glass.

It was a strong drink, but it was just what she needed.

She swallowed, feeling the burn in her throat, and let out a breath.

"You haven't changed. You still look just as young as you did in my memories."

The form of a Patronus depends on the person's image of them.

Since Mirabelle had never seen her best friend grown up, she couldn't form that image.

She tipped her glass again and drank it all in one go.

"But finally... I too have reached a point where I can stop time.

And the world you wished for will come."

The alcohol was starting to hit, and her cheeks flushed.

She wanted to drink a little more, but she couldn't let herself get too drunk and embarrass herself by showing weakness the next morning.

She must never show her weaknesses to anyone.

There was no one left in this world who could see her vulnerability. She had to always be strong, always be the one in control.

"Coexistence between Muggles and wizards... Your wish will come true.

We will eliminate the fools who are obsessed only with blood, and leave only the truly worthy.

The world will change, by my hand... and yet..."

At that point, Mirabelle crushed the glass in her hand.

The shards cut her fingers, and red blood fell onto the floor of the balcony.

"And yet... why won't you smile, Letis?"

The Patronus did not answer.

It just looked at Mirabelle with a sad expression, as though on the verge of tears.

It never smiled. Even though she should have remembered the smile, it never appeared.

Mirabelle concluded that it was because she wasn't ready yet.

Yes, the game had barely begun. The starting point was just getting closer.

It was a little too much to expect a smile at this stage.

To receive her smile, she had to achieve everything and initiate a bloody cleansing of the wizarding world.

"...Heh heh... Watch, Letis.

The blood, fear, and lives of the scum that have corrupted the wizarding world.

I'll offer it to you and that moon."

She raised her bloodied hand, still holding the broken glass shards, toward the sky, as if trying to grasp the moon.

Her empty palm, not yet holding anything.

But soon, she would seize everything.

Only she could do this. No one else could, but she would.

The world must be entrusted to Mirabelle, the one at its center.

"Mi...ra...bel?"

"...!"

Suddenly.

A familiar voice struck her ears, even though no one was supposed to be there.

Mirabelle immediately dispelled the Patronus and turned around. Standing there was Edith, her friend since their first year.

"...Lynagru, huh? What brings you here at this late hour?"

"Uh, well, I saw that Mirabelle left... What about you, Mirabelle? What are you doing out at this hour?"

It seemed like she hadn't even noticed that Mirabelle was awake.

Even though she had just had that dream, it was quite careless of her.

Internally, Mirabelle clicked her tongue but immediately suppressed her unease.

She then put on her usual, somewhat haughty and sarcastic smile and spoke.

"What, I thought it would be nice to enjoy a drink while watching the moon. The Slytherin dormitory in the dungeon is inconvenient at times like this."

With a snap of her fingers, she made the bottle and the broken glass vanish. Then, she stood up and was about to leave.

However, Edith hurriedly grabbed her hand.

"Wait, Mirabelle, you're hurt! What happened?!"

"It's nothing, just dropped a glass. It's not something you should worry about."

"Let go of my hand, Lynagru."

Despite Mirabelle's words, Edith did not let go. She still held onto Mirabelle's arm with a worried expression.

For some reason, she felt as though she couldn't let go right now.

If she didn't stop her here, something... irreversible might change.

That feeling echoed in some corner of her heart.

...But...

"—I said let go, Lynagru."

The moment Mirabelle's golden eyes seemed to gleam, a cold shiver ran down Edith's spine.

It was as though she were standing naked in the midst of a freezing blizzard, a fierce chill creeping through her body.

Her body felt heavy, as if she had a fever of 40 degrees Celsius, and her breath became labored, making her feel as though Hogwarts had suddenly appeared at the top of a mountain. Cold sweat poured from her.

Mirabelle had unleashed her usual aura of dominance and intimidation—her power to make others submit.

She had used it fully, and no matter how familiar Edith was with Mirabelle, she couldn't resist this.

Before she knew it, Edith had released Mirabelle's hand.

"That's better."

"Ah..."

She had let go. Even though her heart screamed that it shouldn't happen, fear had made her comply.

Mirabelle shook off Edith's hand and turned her back, walking away.

It wasn't too late yet. She could still catch up if she tried.

But Edith's feet wouldn't move.

"...The night's cold. You should head back soon."

That was all Mirabelle said, and her back grew distant.

So far... too far.

Until now, Edith had thought she was gradually getting closer to Mirabelle.

They had been together since their first year, argued (even if it was one-sided) in their second year.

By the end of their third year, Mirabelle had even taught her magic...

She had foolishly believed that their distance was shrinking little by little.

But it wasn't like that. The distance between her and Mirabelle hadn't changed. Mirabelle wouldn't allow anyone to enter her heart.

The towering emotional wall between herself and Mirabelle had never felt so real.

June 24.

The long-awaited final day of the Triwizard Tournament, where the winner would be decided.

The stands were already full of excitement even before the match began, and the audience eagerly awaited the start.

The final task was to navigate a maze on the Quidditch pitch, and whoever reached the trophy placed at the goal would be declared the winner.

Currently in the lead was Harry, who held first place.

It was only natural that Harry would have the advantage, given that the rules allowed competitors to start in order of their ranking.

Next would be Cedric in second, Viktor Krum in third, and Fleur would go last.

Though Fleur had a disadvantageous start, there was still a chance for her to win.

Whether they cried or laughed, this competition would decide everything.

Everyone focused on the pitch, eager not to miss the historic moment of the long-awaited winner of the Triwizard Tournament.

And because of that, no one except Edith noticed something strange.

Mirabelle was nowhere to be seen in the stands.

In a white mansion on the outskirts of Albania, the head of the household, Heathcourt Belesford, was enjoying his tea time.

He was a member of an old noble family, known as Lord Belesford, and a skilled dark wizard hunter with a reputation in the Ministry of Magic. He had sent many criminals to Azkaban over the years.

Although he was relaxing now, his work was usually hectic, especially recently with the rising signs of dark magic.

For him, this tea time was a rare moment of peace.

Then, an unexpected visitor arrived.

"...Why are you here?"

"Well? Why do you think? ...Father."

Sitting across from him and drinking tea was his daughter, Mirabelle.

She wore an unyielding smile as she looked at Heathcourt.

While he was used to seeing his daughter's face, on this day, he couldn't shake the sense that something was off.

"I thought you were still supposed to be on break."

"Yes, by now, the Triwizard Tournament should be at its peak."

"...Then why are you here?"

Something was wrong. Something felt off.

The atmosphere in the house was different from usual. The pressure coming from his daughter felt more intense than normal.

Even the housemaids were acting strange. They had quickly refilled Mirabelle's tea, but they hadn't even glanced at him.

The house-elf, Holger, who had served the family for years, was also staying close to Mirabelle as if he were following her.

"I used the house-elf magic of 'Appearing.' That school's wards are no match for fairy magic. I've been sneaking out regularly for quite some time now."

"...That's not what I mean. I'm asking why you're here, even though it's not a break."

Something was wrong. Heathcourt's instincts, honed from years of fighting dark wizards, were screaming at him.

"Run. Leave here immediately."

The alarm bells in his mind were louder than ever.

But in front of him was not an enemy, but his beloved daughter.

Though he had been strict with her when she was younger, it was only because he had high expectations for her. And she had responded beautifully to those expectations.

He had done everything he could to provide for her, even giving her access to dark magical texts when necessary.

Any external threat to his position had been eliminated in secret...

Yet now, standing in front of him was the daughter he had loved. What was there to fear?

"It's nothing, really... it's just a trivial matter. I simply want a little help."

"...Go ahead."

"Thank you, Father... There's a dark magic I'm about to try... It requires fresh blood and a sacrifice."

"...I see, it's a magic that cannot be made public. I don't want you to delve too much into the dark arts, but... very well. I will use my influence to arrange for a few prisoners from Azkaban."

Dark magic often involves horrific rituals requiring sacrifices or lives. It's troubling that his daughter has become so involved with it, but Heathcourt has always believed that to combat the dark, one must embrace it as well. That's why he accepted that his wife is the deputy head of Durmstrang and has connections with Karkaroff. He never spoke against his daughter using dark magic either.

However, in response to her father's understanding, Mirabelle sneered. It was unbearable how foolish her father still thought this was some game.

"No, no... that won't be necessary. The sacrifices I need cannot be substituted by those prisoners."

"I want your life, Heathcourt Bellesford."

It happened in an instant. Heathcourt kicked his chair back and reached for his wand, but before he could even move, Mirabelle's spell was already complete. A flash of light from her hand, without using a wand, pierced Heathcourt's arm and sent his wand flying.

At the same time, the house elf pointed at him, binding Heathcourt's movements.

"Mirabelle, you—! What do you think you're doing!? Have you lost your mind!?"

"Hehe, I'm perfectly calm, Father... or should I say, Heathcourt?"

At this moment, Mirabelle fully discarded the false respect she had shown this man. She no longer needed to pretend in front of him. This man was no longer the head of the Bellesford family—he was simply a pitiful sacrifice.

"Ugh, is there no one around? Someone, come! Come here!"

In response to his cries, maids and butlers appeared from various corners of the house. They were all skilled wizards and witches, capable of acting as bodyguards in an emergency.

Seeing them all rush in with their wands raised, Heathcourt smiled in confidence, certain of his victory. But the next moment, that smile froze completely.

They all had their wands pointed at him.

"!!! You... what is this!? What are you doing?!"

"Hehehe... as you can see, not one of us here swears loyalty to you anymore."

Now speaking without even a hint of politeness, Mirabelle addressed her panicking father. Her golden eyes glowed ominously, and her mouth twisted into a mocking grin. At the sight, Heathcourt gasped. He was seeing his daughter's true nature for the first time—her monstrous, terrifying face.

Overwhelmed by this, Heathcourt's clenched fist began to sweat.

"When... when did you start planning this?"

"Five years ago, you foolish father. For five whole years, you lived in bliss without even noticing that your house was taken over."

At the mention of five years ago, Heathcourt's face contorted in despair. Five years ago, Mirabelle was just ten years old. How could it be? Had a mere ten-year-old child taken over the house? How had he not noticed? The realization of his own incompetence struck him hard.

"Why, Mirabelle... Why...?"

"I've raised you with love... why are you doing this?"

Mirabelle, still wearing a cold smirk, stared at her father. She casually drew her wand.

Before Heathcourt could even react, she had already pointed it at him and released her spell without hesitation.

"Crucio."

"Ahhhhhh!! Aaaahhhhhh!! AAAAAAAAAAAGH!!"

The Unforgivable Curse that was forbidden to be used on people. She used it on her own father, watching as he writhed in pain. Mirabelle approached him, looking down at him, and then stomped on his head, forcing him to stop moving.

"Love? Ah, that incomprehensible emotion? Parental love, familial love, friendship, charity... I don't understand any of it. It's a mistake to think I could ever feel such petty emotions for others."

There is no love in Mirabelle's heart. Whether it's for her father, her brother, or anyone else close to her, everyone is just a tool, an enemy, or an irrelevant nobody.

This is not a lie or anything else. It's the truth. Mirabelle is incapable of loving anyone in this world. She doesn't understand others' love, nor does she extend any of her own. For her, love is simply a weakness, a chain that she doesn't need.

And even if she became weak, there is no one left in this world to chain herself to.

"Ah, but there is one thing I do understand, Heathcourt. 'Self-love.' This is the one thing I can understand. It's a truly wonderful feeling. I love myself. I am filled with myself. Therefore, I don't need anyone else."

Mirabelle loves only herself. Friendship, affection, charity—everything comes back to herself. She is complete within herself, and thus cannot love anyone else. This distortion is her strength. Because she loves no one but herself, she can do anything, and be as cruel as she wants.

She can destroy the brakes of conscience and only step on the accelerator.

To expect her to share the same values as ordinary people is a mistake.

"I don't need love. It only weakens me. For true strength, that emotion is nothing but a hindrance, Heathcourt."

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