"…A dream, is it…"
She sat up in bed and murmured to herself. To still be dreaming of something that happened five years ago was the height of sentimentality. With a self-mocking smirk, she got out of bed.
The sky was still dark, and the other students sharing her room showed no signs of waking. Still in her nightclothes, she threw on a robe and headed for the door. On days she had that dream, she always felt agitated and couldn't get back to sleep.
"Peeves."
"Y-Yes! Right here!"
"Go on a rampage and keep Filch distracted."
Using Peeves as a decoy, she walked through the castle by night. She didn't sneak around or hide her presence like Harry and his friends. She strode through the halls as if she owned the place, with a boldness that went beyond audacity and was almost refreshing.
Reaching the second floor, she moved to a balcony and sat down in a chair there as if it were her own. She then snapped her fingers, and a wine bottle and glass appeared before her, the glass filling itself.
"It's almost time… Soon, this temporary peace will come to an end."
As Mirabelle swirled the glass, her gaze was fixed on the Quidditch pitch in the school grounds. The Second Task was over, leaving only one challenge remaining. And the stage for that final task—a maze of hedges—was nearing completion there.
"…Don't tell me… I'm not regretting it. This is the moment I have been waiting for."
Mirabelle spoke as if someone were there with her, but of course, there was not a single living soul present. In their place, however, stood a young girl shimmering with silver light. It was her own Patronus, conjured from her magic.
Naturally, a Patronus had no ability to converse. The ghostly girl gave no response, simply standing there.
"Five years since that day… It felt short, and yet it was a long time. I have grown so much, leaving you behind. I'm even taller than you now."
She looked up at the crescent moon in the sky and brought the glass to her lips. The alcohol was a bit strong, but for now, it was just right. She swallowed, ignoring the burning sensation in her throat, and let out a soft breath.
"You don't change. You remain just as you were in my memory, a young girl."
The form of a Patronus is influenced by the caster's own imagination. Mirabelle, who did not know what her friend looked like grown up, had no way of creating that image.
She tilted the glass again, downing its contents in one go.
"But at last… At last, I can stop my own time from moving forward. And the world you wished for will come to pass."
The alcohol was starting to take effect, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. She felt like drinking more, but she couldn't afford to show up the next morning still drunk and looking pathetic. She could not allow others to see her weaknesses.
The one person she would show her weakness to was no longer in this world. She had to be the strong one, the ruler, at all times.
"The coexistence of Muggles and wizards… Your wish will be fulfilled. I will leave behind only the superior, regardless of birth, and slaughter all the fools who cling to blood alone. The world will change, by my hand… And yet…"
She trailed off, crushing the glass in her hand. Shards of glass cut her fingers, and red blood dripped onto the balcony floor.
"And yet, why… won't you smile for me… Letis?"
The Patronus did not answer. It simply watched Mirabelle with a sad expression, as if on the verge of tears. It never smiled. It would not conjure the smile that was so clearly etched in Mirabelle's memory.
Mirabelle concluded the reason was that it was not enough.
That's right, it hadn't even begun. She had only just approached the starting line. It was too much to ask for her to be happy in a state like this. If she wanted her to smile, it had to be after everything was accomplished, after she had unleashed a bloody purge upon the wizarding world.
"…Kukuku… Just you watch, Letis. The blood, fear, and lives of the scum who have corrupted the wizarding world. I will offer it all to you, and to that moon."
She raised her blood-stained hand to the empty air, closing it as if to grasp the moon. For now, her palm held nothing. But soon, it would hold the entire world. She could do it. Even if no one else could, she alone could achieve it. The world had to be entrusted to her hands, for she was its center.
"Mira…belle…?"
"—!"
Suddenly.
In that place where no one should have spoken, a familiar voice struck her ear. She instantly dismissed the Patronus and spun around to see Edith, a girl she had been friends with since their first year.
"…Lynagull. What are you doing up so late?"
"Um, well, I saw you leaving… What about you, Mirabelle? What are you doing out at this hour?"
It seemed she hadn't even noticed that Edith was awake. Even after a dream like that, it was a careless oversight. Mirabelle clicked her tongue inwardly but immediately suppressed any sign of agitation. She formed her usual, somewhat pretentious and cynical smile.
"Oh, nothing. I just thought a late-night drink while watching the moon would be pleasant. The Slytherin dungeons are inconvenient for times like this."
With a snap of her fingers, she vanished the bottle and the broken glass. Then, she stood up to leave. But Edith hastily grabbed her hand.
"Wait, Mirabelle, you're hurt! What happened?!"
"I only dropped my glass. It's nothing for you to worry about. Now, let go of my hand, Lynagull."
But Edith did not obey. She continued to hold Mirabelle's arm, her face etched with concern. She didn't know why, but she felt she couldn't let go right now. If she didn't stop her here, something… something irreversible would change. A part of her was screaming this.
…But…
"—I said, let go, Lynagall."
The moment Mirabelle's golden eyes seemed to flash, a chill shot down Edith's spine. An intense, violent cold, as if she were standing naked in a freezing blizzard. Her body grew heavy and sluggish, as if she had a fever of forty degrees. Breathing became so difficult she felt as if Hogwarts had been instantly transported to a mountain peak, and a cold sweat broke out all over her body.
It was the unusual gift she always exuded—an aura of a ruler that intimidated and subjugated others. And now, she had unleashed it with its full force.
Even Edith, who was used to being around Mirabelle, could not resist when it was like this. Before she knew it, she had let go of Mirabelle's hand.
"That's better."
"Ah…"
I let go. Her heart had screamed at her not to, but she had yielded to her fear.
Mirabelle shook off Edith's hand, turned her back, and started to walk away.
It's not too late. If I chase her now, I can still catch up.
She thought this, but her feet wouldn't move.
"…The nights are cold. You should go back as well."
With only those words, Mirabelle's back grew distant.
Distant… Her back is so incredibly far away.
Until now, she had thought she was gradually getting closer. They had been together since first year, fought (though it was one-sided) in their second year. At the end of their third year, Mirabelle had even given her some pointers in magic… She had arbitrarily thought that the distance between them was shrinking, little by little.
But she was wrong. The distance to Mirabelle hadn't changed at all. She let no one into her heart.
The impossibly high wall around Mirabelle's heart. Edith was forced to recognize its existence more keenly than ever before.
June 24th.
The long-awaited final day, the day that would decide the winner of the Triwizard Tournament.
Even before the event began, the stands were already buzzing with excitement, the crowd eagerly awaiting the start. The final task was to navigate a maze built on the Quidditch pitch; the first to reach the Triwizard Cup placed at the goal would be the champion.
Currently, Harry held the advantage in first place. With a rule that had champions departing in order of their rank, it was only natural that Harry had the best odds. Following him would be Cedric in second place, Krum in third, and finally Fleur in fourth. Fleur was at a considerable disadvantage, but it didn't mean victory was impossible.
For better or for worse, everything would be decided today. Who would become the honored champion of the first Triwizard Tournament to be held in centuries? Every eye in the stadium was fixed on the pitch, unwilling to miss this historic moment.
And that was precisely why no one, apart from Edith, noticed it.
Nowhere in the stands could Mirabelle be seen.
In a chalk-white mansion in the outskirts of Albania, its master, Heathcote Beresford, was enjoying his tea time. As a man from an old, noble line, he was sometimes called Lord Beresford, one of the Ministry of Magic's most skilled Aurors, and a man who had thrown countless people into Azkaban.
He was relaxing now, but his work was usually relentless, and things had become particularly suspicious lately, with the appearance of the Dark Mark. For him, this tea time was a precious moment of peace.
Until an unexpected visitor arrived.
"…Why are you here?"
"Who knows? Why do you think? …Father."
Sitting across from Heathcote, also drinking tea, was his daughter, Mirabelle. She watched him with a bold smile. Her expression was familiar to him, but on this day, Heathcote felt a sense of foreboding.
"I was under the impression you were not on holiday yet."
"That's right. The Tournament should be in full swing right about now."
"…Then why are you here?"
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. The air in the mansion felt different. The intimidating presence his daughter emanated was different from usual. The maids were acting strangely, too. They had been quick to refill his daughter's tea but hadn't even glanced his way. Holger, the house-elf who had served the family for many years, was standing by his daughter's side as if in loyal attendance.
"I used the house-elf method of Apparition. It's easy to slip out of that school if you use elf magic. I've been leaving quite often for a long time now, you know."
"…That's not what I meant. I'm asking why you've come home when it isn't a holiday."
Something… something is wrong.
Heathcote's instincts, honed over many years of fighting criminals as an Auror, were screaming at him. Run. Get out of here, now. The alarm bells were ringing louder than ever before.
But the person before him was not an enemy; it was his beloved daughter. He had been strict with her in her youth, but that was only because he had high hopes for her talent, and she had splendidly lived up to them. He had granted her requests as much as possible, even providing her with literature on the Dark Arts when necessary. He had secretly crushed all outside enemies who vied for the position of family head… ah, and come to think of it, there was that time he had eliminated a Muggle-born chit who had gotten too close to his daughter without knowing her place.
After having loved and done so much for his daughter, what threat could he possibly feel?
"Oh, it's nothing of great importance… It's all a trivial matter. I just need a little cooperation."
"…Let's hear it."
"Thank you, Father… You see, there is a dark spell I am currently trying to master… And that spell requires fresh blood and a sacrifice."
"…I see, a spell that can't be made public. I'd rather you didn't delve too deeply into the darkness, but… very well. I will use my authority to arrange for two or three prisoners from Azkaban."
Some heinous dark spells required sacrifices or life itself. It was a problem that his daughter was getting so deeply involved, but Heathcote had always believed that to fight the darkness, one must also master it. That was why he accepted his wife being the deputy headmistress of Durmstrang and maintained his connection to Karkaroff. He had never said a word against his daughter using dark magic.
But in response to her father's understanding expression, Mirabelle returned a mocking smile. The foolishness of her father, who still thought this was someone else's problem, was unbearably amusing to her.
"No, no… that won't be necessary. The sacrifice I desire cannot be replaced by mere prisoners."
"—I want your life, Heathcote Beresford."
It happened in an instant.
It couldn't have taken even a full second for Heathcote to kick back his chair, stand, and reach for the wand in his pocket. But in that same moment, Mirabelle's spell was already complete.
A flash of a Disarming Charm, unleashed from her hand without a wand, pierced Heathcote's arm and sent his wand flying. Simultaneously, the house-elf pointed a finger, freezing Heathcote in place.
"! Mirabelle, you! What is the meaning of this?! Have you gone mad?!"
"Fufu, I am perfectly calm, Father… no, Heathcote."
At that moment, Mirabelle completely dropped her façade. There was no longer any need to show this man false respect. From this moment on, he was not the head of the Beresford family, but merely a pitiful sacrifice.
"Ugh, is anyone there?! Come! Come at once!"
As if in answer to Heathcote's cry, maids and butlers appeared from all over the mansion. They were all skilled wizards and witches who could also serve as bodyguards in an emergency. Seeing them all rush into the living room with their wands drawn, Heathcote smiled, certain of his victory.
But the next moment, that smile froze solid on his face.
Because they all pointed their wands at him.
"…!! Y-You lot! What is the meaning of this?!"
"Kukuku… It's exactly as you see. Not a single person here pledges their loyalty to you any longer."
Mirabelle, no longer even using polite language, spoke to her flustered father. Heathcote gasped as he saw her golden eyes gleam menacingly and the corners of her mouth curl into a sneer.
It was the first time he had seen his daughter's true nature. Her hideous, demonic face. Overwhelmed, Heathcote clenched his fists, unaware that they were slick with sweat.
"…Since when? Since when were you planning this?"
"Five years ago, you foolish man. For five long years, you lived in blissful ignorance, not even noticing that your own mansion had been taken over."
Five years ago. Hearing that number, Heathcote's face fell into a look of despair. And why wouldn't it? Five years ago, Mirabelle was only ten years old. His mansion was taken over by a mere ten-year-old girl?! And he hadn't even noticed?! This fact, which forced him to confront his own incompetence, crushed Heathcote as nothing ever had before.
"W-Why, Mirabelle… Why… I raised you with love… Why would you do this…"
"..."
Mirabelle stared at her father with a cold smile, then slowly drew her wand. By the time he registered it, it was too late. She pointed the formidable wand at her father and, without a shred of hesitation, unleashed a spell.
"Crucio."
"G-GYAAAAAAAHHHHHH AAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!"
An Unforgivable Curse, forbidden to be used on another human being. She used it on her own father and walked toward him, looking down as he writhed in agony. Then she stomped on his head, forcibly stopping his movements.
"Love? Ah, you mean that incomprehensible emotion. Familial love, parental love, friendship, compassion… apologies, but it is all beyond my understanding. You are gravely mistaken if you think I would harbor such a worthless emotion for another."
There was no 'love' in Mirabelle's heart. Father, brother, anyone close to her—without exception, they were all tools, enemies, or irrelevant nobodies. This was not a lie; it was the truth. It showed that in this world, there was not a single being that Mirabelle loved. She did not understand the love of others, nor did she direct any love of her own outward.
To Mirabelle, the emotion of love was nothing but a shackle that would only make her weaker, something she had no need to understand. And the one person for whom she might have considered wearing those shackles, even if it meant becoming weaker, was no longer in this world.
"Ah, however, there is one thing I can understand, Heathcote. 'Self-love'… This, even I can comprehend. It is a truly wonderful emotion. I love myself. I am fulfilled by myself alone. Therefore, I need no one else."
Mirabelle loved only herself. Friendship, affection, compassion—it all circled back to her. She was a complete, self-contained entity, and for that reason, she could not love others. This twisted nature was the source of Mirabelle's strength. Because she loved only herself, she could do anything and be limitlessly cruel. She had broken the brakes of conscience and could only step on the accelerator.
To expect this profoundly warped girl to share the same values as an ordinary person was a mistake in itself.
"I have no need for love. It would only make me weak. For the truly strong, that emotion is nothing but a hindrance, Heathcote."
***
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