Wizard World and the Ambitious Girl

Yet Mirabelle was still only a first-year student, a child, despite her frightening competence. Dumbledore believed even the most corrupted individuals deserved second chances, and his entire philosophy centered on redemption through patient guidance.

She deserved punishment, certainly, but not destruction. Not yet.

Perhaps he thought this way because she reminded him so powerfully of his younger self, the brilliant, arrogant boy who had harbored foolish dreams of wizarding supremacy. The youth whose talent had bred dangerous pride, whose ambition had ultimately cost him everything he truly valued.

"Can't I... guide my students toward the light?" he whispered to the empty chamber, Harry's unconscious form his only witness. "Am I truly so powerless?"

The future remained unwritten, and right and wrong would only become clear in retrospect. He had failed with Tom Riddle, unable to prevent that brilliant student's descent into darkness. The result had been history's most terrible Dark Lord, countless casualties, and the deaths of James and Lily Potter.

Each failure raised the same agonizing question: How could someone so allegedly wise prove so utterly ineffective at saving anyone who truly mattered?

And now, once again, he found himself unable to definitively stop a student from walking toward darkness. The cycle seemed destined to repeat itself.

"I won't give up," he said firmly, as if speaking the words aloud could make them true. "If I abandon her now, who will guide her back to the light? This time will be different. I won't allow another Tom Riddle to emerge under my watch."

Not giving up—that was the only path forward for this foolish old man whose youthful ambitions had led to his sister's death. He could not abandon his students, no matter how dire their potential, because doing so would mean abandoning hope itself.

Only by succeeding where he had previously failed could he ever face Ariana's memory with peace.

"Isn't that right, Ariana?" he asked the silent air, his voice heavy with grief that never seemed to fade. "I have to keep trying..."

Whether his dead sister heard such desperate pleas, no one would ever know.

Three days after the battle for the Philosopher's Stone, the end-of-year feast arrived with its usual fanfare and anticipation.

The Great Hall buzzed with excited conversation as students filled their house tables, speculation running wild about the final House Cup standings. Slytherin's colors, deep emerald and gleaming silver—decorated the walls and ceiling, while an enormous banner bearing the house serpent dominated the space behind the head table.

But would Slytherin actually retain their cup when the evening ended?

Thanks to her inherited memories, Mirabelle knew exactly what was coming. The knowledge sat in her stomach like a cold stone, making celebration feel premature and hollow.

"What's wrong, Mirabelle?" asked Reinagle, bouncing slightly in his seat with excitement. "You led us to victory in the House Cup, you should be celebrating! Your point contributions were extraordinary this year."

"It's too early for triumph," Mirabelle replied quietly, cutting her roast beef with mechanical precision. "Haven't you heard the rumors circulating?"

"Rumors? You mean about Harry Potter protecting some hidden treasure at the school?"

News of Harry's confrontation with Quirrell had spread throughout Hogwarts like wildfire, despite Dumbledore's attempts at damage control. Secret information had a way of becoming common knowledge when best friends and brilliant witches couldn't resist sharing dramatic stories.

The evidence supporting the rumors was overwhelming, Harry's injuries, Professor Quirrell's mysterious disappearance, and the sudden lifting of third-floor restrictions all painted a compelling picture. Public opinion had shifted dramatically in Harry's favor; where once he had been viewed with suspicion and dislike, he was now hailed as a hero who had risked everything to protect the school.

"Events like that don't go unrewarded," Mirabelle said grimly. "There will be last-minute point awards—possibly enough to dramatically alter the standings."

"Seriously?" Reinagle's enthusiasm dimmed noticeably.

"That old man loves his theatrical surprises. Depending on how generous he feels, Gryffindor could conceivably overtake us entirely."

Mirabelle had earned 126 points throughout the year, putting Slytherin far ahead of their competitors. But rules could be bent, precedents could be ignored, and Dumbledore had both the authority and motivation to ensure a more dramatically satisfying conclusion to the school year.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Dumbledore rose from his ornate chair and raised his hands for attention.

"Another year has passed!" his voice carried easily through the vast hall. "Before you dig into this magnificent feast, please indulge an old man's rambling. Hopefully your minds now contain more knowledge than they did twelve months ago... though summer vacation approaches, that blessed time when all learning is temporarily forgotten before the new term begins. Before such blissful ignorance sets in, let us hold our annual House Cup ceremony. The final standings are as follows:"

He paused dramatically, his twinkling eyes sweeping across the sea of expectant faces.

"Fourth place: Gryffindor, with 308 points. Third place: Hufflepuff, with 352 points. Second place: Ravenclaw, with 426 points. And in first place: Slytherin, with 598 points!"

Thunderous cheers erupted from the Slytherin table as students leaped to their feet, stamping the floor and shouting their triumph. Seven consecutive House Cups! The margin of victory was unprecedented, a landslide that spoke to their house's exceptional performance.

First-year students wept with joy at winning the cup in their inaugural year, while seventh-years openly sobbed at the perfection of claiming victory in every year of their education. This was the ultimate graduation ceremony, a flawless seven-year sweep that would be remembered for decades.

Yet Mirabelle remained seated, arms crossed, waiting for the inevitable reversal.

"Well done, Slytherin, well done indeed," Dumbledore continued, his tone suggesting the ceremony was far from over. "However, recent events must be taken into consideration."

The words fell like ice water on Slytherin's celebration. The hall fell completely silent, every student suddenly understanding that their joy might be premature.

"Ahem," Dumbledore cleared his throat with exaggerated politeness. "I have several last-minute point awards to announce. First, Mr. Ronald Weasley receives sixty points for Gryffindor, for the finest game of chess Hogwarts has witnessed in many years."

Gryffindor exploded into deafening cheers that seemed to shake the enchanted ceiling. The point total was ten higher than Mirabelle's inherited knowledge suggested—an ominous sign that Dumbledore intended to be even more generous than expected.

"Miss Hermione Granger," he continued when the noise subsided, "receives sixty points for Gryffindor, for demonstrating cool logic in the face of deadly fire."

More earth-shaking celebration from the red and gold table. Students hugged and danced and shouted themselves hoarse, suddenly realizing they had vaulted from last place to a competitive second. But they still trailed Slytherin by 170 points, a gap that seemed insurmountable.

Dumbledore's smile suggested otherwise.

"Mr. Harry Potter receives 120 points for Gryffindor, for exceptional courage and strength of character in the face of overwhelming darkness."

The gap had narrowed to fifty points. The noise transcended mere cheering, becoming a primal roar of jubilation that rattled windows and made the floor vibrate like an earthquake. Students from other houses joined in, swept up in the dramatic reversal of fortune.

Dumbledore raised his hands for silence, his eyes twinkling with theatrical timing.

"There are many types of courage," he said solemnly. "It takes tremendous bravery to stand against your enemies. But it requires equal courage to stand against your friends when they are wrong. Therefore, I award fifty points to Mr. Neville Longbottom."

Explosion was the only word that adequately described what happened next. The cheering transcended human vocal cords, becoming something elemental and wild. Every student not wearing green and silver leaped to their feet in celebration, the Great Hall transformed into a theater of pure chaos and joy.

The final score: a perfect tie. Slytherin couldn't monopolize the House Cup this year, but neither could Gryffindor claim total victory.

That manipulative old fox, Mirabelle thought, her fury carefully hidden behind a mask of stoic disappointment. He managed to engineer a tie. Was this his idea of mercy toward me?

Meanwhile, her housemates' faces reflected crushing disappointment and bitter frustration. They had been celebrating certain victory, only to watch it slip away through last-minute interventions that reeked of favoritism and manipulation.

Honestly, Mirabelle had expected Gryffindor to win outright. As the one who had attempted to steal the Stone, she deserved punishment, not consideration. But Dumbledore had chosen a different path.

The point awards had been deliberately inflated beyond what Harry and his friends had actually earned. The excess represented points deducted from Mirabelle herself—a punishment disguised as reward, visible only to those who understood the subtext.

Dumbledore had avoided exposing her misconduct to the entire school while still ensuring she faced consequences. The tie represented his judgment: that her actions warranted penalty but not complete humiliation.

Clever, ruthless old raccoon, she thought, watching him beam with grandfatherly warmth from the head table. Her estimation of his cunning had increased significantly. Despite her Occlumency preventing direct mind reading, he had played her as easily as if he'd held her hand of cards.

As she mechanically ate the celebratory feast, Mirabelle transformed her anger into cold resolve. This humiliation was the product of her own weakness and naivety, shortcomings that could be corrected through careful planning and patient growth.

She would accept this defeat, digest it, and use it as fuel for future victories. Dumbledore had shown mercy by allowing her to keep her place at Hogwarts. That mercy would prove to be his greatest mistake.

I will have revenge for this humiliation, she vowed silently, her grip tightening on her fork until her knuckles went white. Someday, Albus Dumbledore, you'll regret not finishing me when you had the chance.

When examination results were announced the following week, Mirabelle achieved the highest marks in her year, narrowly edging out Hermione Granger through superior performance in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions. Her 126 self-earned house points stood as a record for first-year achievement, making her the envy of students across all houses.

If Harry Potter was Gryffindor's golden hero, then Mirabelle had become Slytherin's dark prodigy. Some students had even begun referring to them as natural rivals, though such speculation held little interest for her.

Finally came time to pack for the journey home. Clothes, wand, textbooks, cauldron... and one small vial.

Mirabelle held the container up to the lamplight, examining its contents with grim satisfaction. Several tiny red fragments glittered within like crystallized drops of blood.

Philosopher's Stone fragments.

When Dumbledore had shattered the artifact, she had been prepared. A rat under her control, the same one that had been tracking Harry and his friends throughout their adventure, had been positioned to collect pieces before the headmaster's cleanup efforts could gather everything.

Mirabelle carefully placed her small trophy into her trunk, suppressing the bitter taste of incomplete victory. This handful of fragments was all she had managed to secure from the greatest magical treasure in recorded history.

But it was something. A foundation upon which greater achievements could be built, given time and careful research.

This humiliation would not be repeated. Next time, she would be ready for Dumbledore's interference. Next time, victory would not slip through her fingers.

This is not defeat, she told herself firmly, clicking the trunk closed with finality. This is education.

---

Author's Note: Are you frustrated? This concludes the Philosopher's Stone arc, with Mirabelle successfully obtaining stone fragments despite her setback.

Dumbledore's point manipulation was even more extreme than in the original story, but this was necessitated by Mirabelle's actions. If Slytherin had won outright, it would have appeared to reward her attempted theft. If they had lost completely, it would have seemed like punishment for her entire house rather than her alone.

The tie was Dumbledore's compromise solution. By awarding 120 more points than in the original timeline, he effectively deducted 120 points from Mirabelle while avoiding public exposure of her misconduct. From an outside perspective, the judging appeared incredibly unfair, but it represented Dumbledore's carefully calculated response to a complicated situation.

In other words, this draw was entirely Mirabelle's fault, and it represents Dumbledore's last-ditch effort to balance justice with mercy.