Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

Mary Orwell.

She was a girl who lost her parents at a young age and was taken in by the Beresford family through an orphanage.

Her role was to be the playmate of the youngest daughter, Mirabel.

However, "playmate" in this case was far from ordinary.

Rather than a "friend," it was closer in meaning to a "toy." In other words, Mirabel was allowed to "play" with Mary however she liked — a treatment that completely disregarded human dignity.

It didn't matter if she hurt her, hit her, or even broke her beyond repair. The vast wealth, influence, and underground connections of the Beresford family made such cruelty possible.

And, of course, the Ministry of Magic's corruption — turning a blind eye in exchange for bribes — was not unrelated to this situation.

At that time, Mirabel was subjected to an upbringing that bordered on abuse from her parents. Mary had been given to her as an outlet for the frustration and anger that accumulated as a result.

To the Beresford couple, this was a twisted form of love. They believed they were preventing their daughter from mentally breaking under the harshness of her education by offering her a release valve for her emotions.

But Mirabel didn't go along with it. Her pride wouldn't allow her to stoop to that level.

As a result, Mary failed to serve as the "tool" she had originally been intended to be. With no other choice, her role was changed to Mirabel's personal attendant, and her treatment was slightly improved.

For Mary, Mirabel was a benefactor.

Even if Mirabel hadn't intended it that way, it was her pride that saved Mary.

That's why Mary tried her best to learn her duties, hoping to be of help to Mirabel in any way she could.

But Mirabel rejected her.

She refused to rely on others or grow close to anyone.

She allowed no one into her heart, remaining painfully alone.

But at some point, she began to change.

The sharp edge she always wore softened, and the gaze of a wounded predator that had once resided in her eyes disappeared.

After meeting a silver-haired girl, Mirabel began to show moments of calmness and even occasionally displayed a gentle smile, like sunlight filtering through the clouds.

Mary loved seeing that change in her.

It was a shame that she hadn't been able to save Mirabel herself, but even so, seeing her benefactor no longer alone was a happiness beyond measure.

So Mary felt gratitude and prayed.

— Please, may their happiness continue.

Mirabel Beresford and Letice Valentine.

She prayed to God that these girls of gold and silver could continue laughing together forever.

But—

If such a thing as God exists in this world, or if something called "fate" truly exists, then that prayer will never be answered.

Because Mirabel was born as a "defect" from the very start.

She was created as an "evil being" from the outset, destined to stand before the "protagonist" as the "villain."

Therefore, God — or perhaps fate — will ruthlessly bring down its hammer.

Evil must remain evil for the story to exist.

There is no need for virtue in a demon.

A demon is fine as long as it is wicked.

That is why the first step is to eliminate obstacles.

After all, stories have no need for angels who would reform demons.

From their fifth year onward, Hogwarts students are given both the right and the duty to serve as prefects.

Two prefects — one boy and one girl — are selected from each house, and they are given badges bearing the symbol of their house.

This year's selection of prefects was particularly unusual, and even the senior students assigned to explain their duties in the special carriage couldn't hide their discomfort.

From Gryffindor, the prefects were Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.

These two were well known as close friends, but while Hermione was an obvious choice, many questioned Ron's selection.

After all, Ron was a habitual rule-breaker and far from a model student.

It was only natural for many to doubt Dumbledore's decision to appoint him as a prefect.

From Hufflepuff, the prefects were Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott.

From Ravenclaw, they were Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil.

These choices posed no issues, as they were all exemplary students.

But the biggest problem lay with the Slytherin prefects — Draco Malfoy and Mirabel Beresford.

These two were indisputable troublemakers, arguably the least suitable students to be prefects.

But Malfoy had connections, and Mirabel had grades so exceptional that no one could argue against her selection.

For the other students, it was a moment of exasperation: What was Snape thinking?

Once the senior students finished their explanations, the prefects returned to the regular carriages.

On the way, Malfoy approached Mirabel, grinning triumphantly.

"Hey, Beresford. I heard you had high hopes for Potter, but now it's clear who's better. I'm a prefect, and he's not!"

"…Pitiful man."

"What was that?"

"Do you honestly think you were chosen as a prefect by your own merit?"

Mirabel's emotionless gaze pierced him, and Malfoy fell silent.

He didn't need to be told. Deep down, he already knew.

He knew that he had only been chosen because of his father's influence, not because of his own ability.

But even so, he had nothing else to boast about.

So he had no choice but to brandish this borrowed authority as if it were his own, like a child wielding a stick to look bigger.

"If you want to see Harry Potter as a rival, at least get yourself a weapon first.

Everything you have right now is borrowed — your status, your entourage, even that badge."

"Guh…"

Faced with the truth he didn't want to acknowledge, Malfoy's face turned red.

It was always like this. This golden girl never understood the feelings of the weak.

Because she could do anything, she didn't understand the feelings of those who couldn't.

Before he realized it, Malfoy's fists were clenched, and his eyes were brimming with tears.

Mirabel glanced at him and sighed in exasperation.

"Don't rely on your parent's influence. In the end, the only one you can depend on is yourself.

Find a weapon of your own — a talent, a skill, anything unique to you.

…If you do that, well, I might acknowledge you just a little."

Perhaps she realized she had gone too far, or maybe it was just a whim.

Unusually for Mirabel, she ended with a rare show of kindness, quickly averting her gaze.

Malfoy blinked in surprise, staring at her.

Her face was turned away, so he couldn't see her expression.

"I'm off to patrol the train cars. Don't bother me with pointless chatter."

"O-Okay…"

With that, Mirabel left the special carriage without so much as a glance at Malfoy.

Malfoy was left behind, staring at the direction she had gone as if he had been bewitched by a fox.

But soon, he seemed to remember his duties and hurriedly left the special carriage.

As usual, the Sorting Ceremony proceeded—but something was different this year.

The Sorting Hat sings a new song every year, with its lyrics varying slightly each time. However, never before had it delivered something akin to a warning.

The first-year students were oblivious to the oddity, but the older students quickly grew restless, exchanging opinions in whispers. Edith and Mirabel were no exception, their faces tense as they discussed the strange message in the hat's song.

"Hey, Mirabel… that song just now…"

"Yeah, no doubt about it. It's a warning about Voldemort's return."

"It was telling us that if the houses don't unite, we'll be destroyed from within, right?"

"Too little, too late."

As the Sorting Hat continued to assign the first-years to their respective houses, Mirabel clicked her tongue quietly.

The warning was spot on. Hogwarts would indeed collapse from within if it failed to strengthen its internal bonds.

It was right… but far too late.

How many children of Death Eaters are already here, walking these halls?

How many parents with ties to Voldemort have influence over their children enrolled at Hogwarts?

If they had truly wanted to reinforce unity from within, they should have expelled those students—or better yet, never admitted them in the first place.

And even on the faculty side, there was already a Ministry-planted fool mingling among them.

No matter how sturdy you make the foundation, if it's riddled with rot, the entire structure is doomed.

After the Sorting Ceremony, the feast began as usual. The students eagerly dove into the array of delicious food laid out before them.

But, at least for this year, the joy of the meal was thoroughly ruined.

The reason? The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher: Dolores Umbridge.

A woman draped in a pink cardigan, with a sickly sweet, high-pitched, baby-like voice, and the face of a toad.

Her grating voice, exaggerated coughs, and—more than anything—the content of her speech were more than enough to drain all enjoyment from the meal.

Put simply, she declared that from this year forward, the Ministry of Magic would be interfering in Hogwarts' curriculum.

"…Mirabel," Edith muttered.

"Yeah. It's the worst," Mirabel replied, a grim expression on her face. "Looks like the Ministry isn't content with just being useless—they've decided to drag us down with them."

There is nothing more dangerous than an incompetent ally.

The Ministry of Magic had just embodied this adage perfectly.

Mirabel sighed with exhaustion.

The Ministry and Cornelius Fudge were fools and incompetents, but when it came to sabotaging their allies, they were second to none.

Edith, too, recalled something Mirabel had told her last year: "Don't rely on the Ministry."

Now, she understood.

The Ministry was already thoroughly rotten. There was no saving it.

After Umbridge's speech, there were announcements about Quidditch and other school matters before the feast came to a close.

Because she was a prefect, Mirabel was one of the first to leave the table, tasked with leading the first-years to their dormitory.

Edith watched her friend leave, then noticed something odd—or, perhaps not odd enough to call "strange," but peculiar nonetheless.

"…She left food behind?"

Mirabel's plate still had food on it.

Mirabel, despite her appearance, was a voracious eater with a particular fondness for good food.

She claimed all the energy from her meals was burned up by magic usage, and despite eating so much, she never gained weight.

Yet this time, she'd left food on her plate.

Leaving food might not be such a big deal. Edith herself occasionally left food uneaten.

But for Mirabel to leave food behind—that was a first.

"Maybe her stomach's upset," Edith muttered.

But that was as far as her concern went.

It wasn't worth dwelling on.

So, without giving it another thought, Edith stood up and made her way to the Slytherin dormitory.

"I see… the Deathly Hallows, huh?"

"The Tales of Beedle the Bard"… Who would've thought there was such a hidden truth behind that beloved fairy tale?"

"And now, after all these long years, the Hallows are beginning to converge…"

In a dimly lit room, two voices echoed.

One belonged to a small, hooded figure shrouded in robes—Nosferatu.

The other belonged to a handsome man with striking golden curls—Gellert Grindelwald.

Just a short time ago, Grindelwald had been a frail old man, a shadow of his former self.

But that withered shell was gone.

Now, he stood with a youthful, powerful body restored to its prime.

How he achieved this transformation was a mystery known only to the two people in that room.

"Converging? Isn't that a bit hasty, Nosferatu?" Grindelwald said, his voice smooth and confident.

"Not at all. If fate or destiny possesses a will of its own, then surely, it seeks to gather the Hallows now," Nosferatu replied.

"And what proof do you have of that?" Grindelwald's eyes narrowed.

Nosferatu chuckled and flipped open the book he was holding.

"You know this tale as well as anyone, Gellert. The three brothers in the story were real people."

"Antioch Peverell, who claimed the Elder Wand."

"Cadmus Peverell, who obtained the Resurrection Stone."

"Ignotus Peverell, who was granted the Invisibility Cloak."

Nosferatu smiled wickedly as he traced his finger over the pages.

The story depicted on the page was well-known to anyone in the wizarding world.

Once, there were three wizard brothers skilled in magic.

One day, they came upon a river too treacherous to cross. So they conjured a bridge to cross it.

But as they reached the other side, they encountered Death—a hooded figure who congratulated them on their cleverness and offered them each a reward.

The eldest brother asked for a wand that would win every duel.

The second brother asked for a stone that could bring back the dead.

The youngest brother asked for a cloak that would make him invisible.

Death granted their wishes.

However, the eldest brother was soon killed in his sleep, his wand stolen.

The second brother, driven mad with grief, took his own life.

Only the youngest brother lived a full life, eventually passing his cloak on to his son.

And so the story ended, like many moral tales.

But hidden within that innocent story lay a deeper, darker truth that only a few were privy to.

"The Hallows are real, Gellert."

Nosferatu grinned slyly.

"And they are stirring."

The three Hallows and the three brothers truly existed.

And now, their descendants are beginning to converge in this modern era.

"After using my information network to trace their family trees, I discovered something rather interesting.

First, Cadmus Peverell — his bloodline merged with the Slytherin family at some point, and later, it became part of the Gaunt family. The descendant of that lineage is none other than Voldemort."

"...Oh. So, he's the rightful heir to the Resurrection Stone, then."

"Precisely. Next is Ignotus Peverell. His bloodline flows into the Potter family — in other words, Harry Potter.

Moreover, Potter already possesses a cloak that is almost certainly the legendary Invisibility Cloak."

Voldemort and Harry Potter.

These two mortal enemies were, unbeknownst to them, distantly related by blood.

They were also the rightful heirs to two of the Deathly Hallows — the Resurrection Stone and the Invisibility Cloak.

"And lastly, the third brother, Antioch Peverell... His bloodline, in a sense, is the most distinctly preserved in the modern era."

"...Don't tell me."

"Heh... Looks like you've figured it out.

Indeed. The obsession with power, the insatiable thirst for victory — that man's cursed soul has been passed down like a curse itself, infecting his descendants.

A cursed family, compelled to be winners no matter the cost — the Beresford family."

Nosferatu let out a mocking laugh, crossing his legs.

What he sat upon was not a chair.

It was a person!

And not just any person — it was none other than the Minister of Magic for the French Wizarding World.

The Minister sat slack-jawed, drooling with a vacant stare, his face twisted into an almost euphoric daze, now reduced to being Nosferatu's chair.

"Don't you think it's a well-woven fate?

The descendants of the three brothers, each taking a different position in this era, now on the verge of killing one another.

One can't help but feel the handiwork of 'Death' itself in all this."

"Indeed... And I suppose that makes you the 'Death' playing with those three, doesn't it?"

At Grindelwald's remark, Nosferatu chuckled softly beneath his hood.

His gaze drifted toward the figures kneeling in the room.

They were all elite security officers — bodyguards assigned to protect the Minister of Magic.

But against Nosferatu and Grindelwald, they were no more effective than children.

Now, here they knelt, completely brainwashed, bowing their heads to the two figures before them.

"Kukuku... It seems the French Wizarding World was surprisingly easy to topple.

With the Minister under control, it's only a matter of time before the real power is ours.

All that's left is to discreetly replace each of the upper echelons, one by one."

"Don't say it as if it's so simple, monster. No one but you could pull off something like this so effortlessly."

None of them had noticed yet.

Not Harry.

Not Dumbledore.

Not even Voldemort.

Nor Mirabel, who remained at Hogwarts.

None of them had any idea about the colossal conspiracy quietly unfolding just beyond their awareness.

Or the enormous malice that orchestrated it.

On this day, without anyone realizing it —

The upper echelons of the French Ministry of Magic had been replaced.

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