Wizard World and the Ambitious Girl

On Magnolia Crescent Street, a row of ordinary suburban houses lined the quiet road. Among them stood a conspicuously unnatural white mansion, towering over twenty meters high, yet not a single passerby seemed to notice its imposing presence.

Everyone walked past as if the towering structure belonged there, their eyes sliding over it without recognition. The only person in the vicinity who might sense something amiss about this mansion would be Harry Potter himself.

This was no coincidence. The mansion was a wizard's villa, protected by powerful enchantments designed to repel Muggles. Like the Leaky Cauldron tucked away in London's bustling streets, it stood proudly in the heart of a Muggle town, invisible to those without magical sight.

Originally built on a whim by Heathcote Beresford, head of the ancient Beresford family, the villa had been abandoned when its owner grew bored with his novelty purchase. Now, however, two figures occupied the supposedly empty residence.

"So you're telling me you know absolutely nothing?"

Sitting regally in an ornate chair, her legs crossed with aristocratic arrogance, Mirabelle Beresford, heir to the Beresford legacy, fixed her servant with a withering stare. She lifted a delicate china teacup to her lips, took a measured sip, and grimaced.

"This tastes terrible," she muttered, setting the cup down with barely concealed disgust.

The tea had been prepared by a young man whose face was wrapped in white bandages, concealing what lay beneath. His name was Quirinus Quirrell, formerly the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

At the end of the previous school year, he had clashed with Mirabelle over the legendary Philosopher's Stone. His defeat had been swift and absolute. Now, bound by a loyalty curse of her own design, he served as her unwilling attendant.

"Y-yes, my lady, that's correct," Quirrell stammered, his bandaged fingers trembling as he wrung his hands. "All I know is that my former master, that person, has lost his physical form. Without a host to possess, he exists as little more than mist..."

"To survive in such a state," Mirabelle mused, her voice carrying a note of grudging respect, "he truly is a monster."

She had hoped that Quirrell, as a former Death Eater, might possess valuable intelligence about Voldemort's weaknesses. The results, however, were disappointingly sparse. It seemed that someone who had only recently joined the Dark Lord's ranks held no crucial secrets.

Though she had anticipated this outcome, the letdown still stung. Mirabelle sighed and forced herself to take another sip of the poorly brewed tea.

"Well, it can't be helped," she said finally, her tone shifting to business-like efficiency. "Then let's put your other knowledge to good use."

"Knowledge?" Quirrell's voice cracked slightly.

"Indeed. You managed to work under Voldemort while maintaining your position as a Hogwarts professor. That requires a certain talent for evading Ministry oversight, doesn't it?" Her smile was sharp as a blade. "In the near future, this mansion will be used for a particular ritual. I need you to devise methods to deceive the Ministry of Magic."

"What?!" The color drained from Quirrell's visible skin.

Mirabelle spoke as if requesting something as simple as afternoon tea, but the task she described was monumentally difficult. Every underage witch and wizard carried a magical "trace", a Ministry enchantment that detected unauthorized spellcasting outside of school. The moment any student performed magic in the Muggle world, Ministry officials would Apparate to their location within minutes.

Conducting an elaborate ritual under such circumstances seemed impossible. Anyone with even basic knowledge of Ministry protocols would have dismissed the request as fantasy.

"I'll leave the methodology entirely to your discretion," Mirabelle continued with casual indifference. "You have one year to complete the preparations."

"One year?! But what if I, what if I can't accomplish it?!" Panic crept into Quirrell's voice as cold realization set in.

Mirabelle said nothing. Instead, she simply smiled, a chilling expression that never reached her eyes, and let her gaze linger on Quirrell with predatory intensity.

The unspoken message was crystal clear: Failure means death.

In some ways, this girl was more ruthlessly efficient than Voldemort himself. Where the Dark Lord might torture or punish, Mirabelle simply discarded broken tools without a second thought, as casually as tossing a damaged toy into the rubbish bin.

He had to avoid that fate at all costs. If she abandoned him, his future would be sealed, neither fully alive nor mercifully dead, trapped in an existence worse than either.

"I, I will stake my life on fulfilling your expectations!" Quirrell declared with desperate fervor.

Without another word, he bolted from the mansion, using the Floo Network to return to his own dwelling. The grace period had begun: one year to find a way to satisfy his terrifying young mistress and outwit the Ministry of Magic itself.

His very humanity depended on success.

"I hate insects!" Quirrell's anguished cry echoed through the empty fireplace as green flames carried him away.

First, he had to complete this seemingly impossible task and earn his master's approval, no matter the cost. It was his only path to survival.

(...He seemed remarkably motivated...)

Back in her family's ancestral home, Mirabelle reflected on her servant's frantic response with mild bewilderment. Truthfully, the instructions had been more of a test than a genuine expectation. She had already begun formulating her own solutions to the Ministry problem.

The exercise was simply meant to gauge Quirrell's capabilities and resourcefulness. If he managed to create even a minor distraction for Ministry officials, she would consider it a success. If not, she had planned to deliver a light reprimand and move on.

Her reassuring smile had been intended to ease his anxiety, but somehow it had achieved the opposite effect, driving Quirrell to near-panic. The miscommunication left Mirabelle slightly perplexed.

(Well, motivation is beneficial,) she reasoned.

If the misunderstanding spurred him to greater effort, then perhaps it served a purpose after all.

Satisfied with this logic, Mirabelle made her way to the family drawing room, where her father, younger brother, and second-eldest sibling awaited her return. Her eldest brother Simon was conspicuously absent, though his whereabouts were of no consequence to Mirabelle.

"Ah, Mirabelle, welcome home," her father greeted warmly. "How did your examinations go this term?"

"Harry Potter managed to outmaneuver us," she replied with characteristic directness. "He prevented Slytherin from monopolizing the House Cup at the final moment."

She opened her school bag and placed her grade report on the polished mahogany table. Her father's expression grew serious as he scanned the parchment, but gradually his features relaxed, culminating in an undignified grin that he quickly suppressed with a theatrical cough.

"First place in every subject and 126 points contributed to your House," he announced with poorly concealed pride. "Truly worthy of my daughter. Well done, Mirabelle. Incidentally, how did young Malfoy perform?"

"427 points out of a possible 500 across all subjects, placing him 27th overall," Mirabelle recited from memory. "Quite respectable, really. He contributed 32 points to Slytherin House."

"Ha! Remarkable how thoroughly my daughter surpassed him," her father chuckled with satisfaction.

What he didn't mention, and what the official records couldn't quite capture, was that Mirabelle had somehow achieved 970 points out of a possible 500. The impossible score resulted from her demonstration of advanced practical skills that exceeded seventh-year expectations, earning her unprecedented bonus points from impressed professors.

Hermione Granger had claimed second place with 614 points, a formidable achievement for a Muggle-born student that Mirabelle respected despite herself. Had Hermione enjoyed the same pureblood advantages and early magical education, the competition might have been far closer.

"Missing out on complete House dominance is regrettable," her father continued, "but circumstances were beyond your control. Is there anything you desire as a reward? Name it, and I'll see it procured."

"Nothing particular comes to mind," Mirabelle replied thoughtfully.

Her true cravings, authentic Japanese sushi or properly prepared tempura, seemed impossibly exotic for their current location. Besides, she had already mastered Apparition despite her young age, allowing her to satisfy such culinary desires independently when the mood struck.

"Speaking of next term," her father said, shifting topics, "I understand you'll be eligible for Quidditch participation."

"Yes. What of it?"

"Will the Malfoy boy be joining the team?"

"Most likely. He was more frustrated than anyone by the first-year prohibition." Mirabelle sipped the tea a house-elf had prepared, infinitely superior to Quirrell's amateur attempt. This was how proper tea should taste.

"Then you should join the team and thoroughly crush young Malfoy," her father declared with vindictive glee. "With the Silver Arrow that Leonardo crafted and your natural abilities, victory would be assured."

"Father," Mirabelle said patiently, "Malfoy is also in Slytherin. My success would only bring him reflected glory."

"Ah, true enough. Perhaps Quidditch isn't worth pursuing, then."

To Mirabelle, Draco Malfoy represented little more than a minor inconvenience. A spoiled child raised on privilege and flattery could never become her true rival or pose any meaningful threat.

The real sources of potential challenge lay in Gryffindor House: Hermione Granger and Harry Potter. Hermione possessed both brilliant intelligence and raw talent, while Harry demonstrated explosive magical power that defied conventional expectations.

Neither could match Mirabelle's current abilities, but their rate of growth was impressive. If they continued developing at their present pace, the future might hold genuine competition.

The prospect was genuinely exciting.

(By the time they catch up to my current level,) she mused, (I'll have ascended to even greater heights.)

Her first-year failure had resulted from underestimating Dumbledore's true capabilities. However, that setback had provided valuable insight into the summit she needed to reach.

The peak was formidable, but not insurmountable.

With renewed confidence, Mirabelle finished her tea.

Later that day, having traveled to Diagon Alley via Floo Powder, Mirabelle stared at her Hogwarts supply list with undisguised disgust. The required textbooks consisted almost entirely of Gilderoy Lockhart's autobiographical works.

While the books might serve adequately as light fiction, she couldn't fathom how such drivel could function as educational material. What made the situation even more insufferable was Lockhart's physical presence at Flourish and Blotts, where he conducted book signings that attracted hordes of middle-aged witches and created impossible queues.

After enduring the crowds long enough to purchase her required texts, Mirabelle escaped to the shadowy confines of Knockturn Alley, hoping to find something more intellectually stimulating.

(Hopefully something interesting awaits,) she thought.

Borgin and Burkes remained the premier destination for acquiring questionable magical artifacts. Without hesitation, Mirabelle navigated the dim, twisted alleyway and entered the dusty shop.

To her surprise, she discovered another customer already browsing the wares, a familiar figure with pale skin, sharp features, and distinctive platinum hair. Draco Malfoy stood before a display case, accompanied by a man who appeared to be an adult version of himself.

Ah, Lucius Malfoy.

"B-Beresford!" Draco stammered, his eyes widening with alarm. "What are you doing here?"

"Don't be so paranoid," Mirabelle replied coolly. "I have no business with you."

She attempted to approach the counter, but Lucius stepped into her path, studying her with calculating eyes while she returned his gaze with an openly provocative smile.

Lucius might have intended to appear intimidating, but compared to Dumbledore's overwhelming presence, he seemed like a child playing at menace. If anything, Mirabelle's composed confidence left him feeling unsettled.

"So you're Beresford's daughter," Lucius said, his voice carrying forced authority. "I've heard countless stories about you from various sources. They say you're quite the accomplished young witch."

"I've heard of you as well, Lucius Malfoy," Mirabelle replied with silky politeness. "A clever man who leveraged his past as a Death Eater into a position far beyond his natural merit."

Tension crackled between them like electricity before a thunderstorm. To casual observers, they might have appeared evenly matched, but Lucius found himself increasingly overwhelmed by the girl's unnatural poise.

He had heard the rumors, of course, tales of an arrogant, unnervingly mature child who commanded respect through sheer force of personality. Confronting her directly, however, exceeded his worst expectations.

What is this creature? he wondered. Is this truly a girl the same age as my son?

The encounter felt less like facing a child than confronting some ancient entity wearing a young face. The realization was deeply disturbing.

I see why Draco struggles with her...

"Didn't your father teach you proper deference to your superiors?" Lucius asked, attempting to reassert control.

"If you knew my father as well as you claim," Mirabelle responded with cutting precision, "you'd understand why I owe you no courtesy whatsoever."

Lucius's jaw tightened as he clicked his tongue in frustration. She was absolutely correct, Heathcote Beresford had never shown the Malfoy family anything resembling respect.

That persistent old snake was still hunting for evidence to send Lucius to Azkaban, waiting with predatory patience for any sign of renewed Death Eater activity.

"Your family," Lucius snarled, "is worse than the Weasleys."

Having no desire to continue the confrontation, he turned and stalked from the shop. Draco hurried after him, leaving Mirabelle alone with the nervous proprietor.

"Er... my lady," the hunchbacked man called Borgin stammered, running anxious fingers through his greasy black hair, "were you interested in purchasing anything?"

Truthfully, Mirabelle had come merely to browse, intending to leave empty-handed if nothing caught her interest. However, after creating such a scene, making a purchase seemed appropriate.

Her gaze fell upon a peculiar stone mask propped against the far wall, cracked and weathered, with an undeniably sinister aura.

It would make a perfect gift for Quirrell, whose face had been horribly burned during his battle with Harry Potter over the Philosopher's Stone. The mask would serve the dual purpose of concealing his disfigurement while protecting his identity.

"Ah, you're interested in that mask," Borgin said, following her gaze. "It's enchanted with recognition-blocking charms. Simply wearing it renders the user completely unidentifiable to observers. Perfect for concealing one's identity."

"Intriguing. And what about this hand?"

"Ah, the 'Silver Hand.' It functions identically to a natural limb and is highly prized as a prosthetic replacement."

Quirrell had also lost an arm to Harry's burning touch, making the silver hand a practical necessity. The items would restore both his appearance and functionality.

After paying the somewhat inflated prices, Mirabelle departed the shop with her purchases. Her pre-term shopping was now complete; only the return to Hogwarts remained.

The sole remaining concern was the incompetent Professor Lockhart, but if he proved as useless as expected, he would likely face dismissal within the year.

While she disliked the situation, taking direct action against a Hogwarts professor seemed inadvisable. For now, she would treat Lockhart's books as nothing more than entertainment novels.

After actually reading them, she had to admit they were surprisingly engaging. Perhaps the man possessed more talent as a storyteller than as a wizard.

---

Author's Note:

Quirrell: "There's a death star hanging over my head..."

Just one more chance...

And so begins the Chamber of Secrets arc! This episode focused on family time and shopping rather than school adventures, but establishes important groundwork for what's to come.

The stone mask Mirabelle purchased has no connection to JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, so wearing it won't transform anyone into a vampire.

The "interlude trip" mentioned will take place between this family time and the shopping expedition during the summer holidays.

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