Mary Orwell.
She was a girl who had lost her parents at a young age and was taken in by the Beresford family from an orphanage.
Her role: to be a playmate for the youngest daughter, Mirabelle.
However, the term "playmate" here meant something entirely different from the norm.
The nuance was closer to a "toy" than a "friend." In essence, she was treated as something Mirabelle could "play" with however she pleased, a handling that utterly ignored her basic human rights.
It didn't matter if she was hurt, beaten, or, in the worst-case scenario, broken. This was something only the Beresford family, with their vast wealth, influence, and connections to the underworld, could get away with.
The corruption of the Ministry of Magic, which turned a blind eye so long as they were bribed, was undoubtedly also a factor.
At the time, Mirabelle was receiving an education from her parents that bordered on abuse. Mary was the outlet her parents had given her to vent her pent-up frustration and anger.
It was the Beresford couple's own twisted form of affection, a warped consideration to provide their daughter with a release for her rage so that her mind wouldn't break under the strain of her cruel upbringing.
But Mirabelle did not do it. Her pride would not allow her to fall so low.
Consequently, Mary did not function as the tool she was originally intended to be. She was reluctantly reassigned as Mirabelle's exclusive attendant, and her treatment improved, if only slightly.
Therefore, to Mary, Mirabelle was a savior.
Even if Mirabelle herself had no intention of doing so, her pride had saved Mary.
That was why Mary learned her duties, trying to be of some small use to Mirabelle, and resolved that she would do anything for her.
However, Mirabelle despised being coddled or helped by others and rejected Mary.
Mirabelle trusted no one, and she was painfully alone.
But, from a certain point, she began to change.
The thorniness she always wore vanished, and the glare in her eyes, like that of a wounded predator, softened.
Spurred by her encounter with the silver-haired girl, she gradually became calmer and, at times, would even show a smile as gentle as soft sunlight.
Mary loved watching her change.
It was a shame that she herself had not been the one to save her, but seeing her savior no longer alone was an irreplaceable happiness.
And so, Mary was grateful, and she prayed.
Please, let their happiness continue.
She prayed to God that Mirabelle Beresford and Letis Valentine, this golden girl and silver girl, could laugh together forever...
However—if something like a "God" truly existed in this world, or if something like "Fate" held any sway, that prayer would never be answered.
Because Mirabelle was born a natural-born failure, crafted as a natural-born evil, and burdened with the role of the "Villain" destined to stand against the "Hero."
Therefore, God, or perhaps Fate, would mercilessly swing its arm down.
The story only works because evil is evil.
There is no need for goodness. A demon need only be wicked.
And so, first, the obstacle must be removed.
An angel who might redeem the demon—is unnecessary to the story.
***
At Hogwarts, students become eligible to become Prefects from their fifth year onward.
One boy and one girl are selected from each House to serve, and each is given a badge modeled after their House symbol.
This year, the group chosen for the honor of Prefect was a rather difficult bunch, and even the upperclassman explaining their duties in the special compartment looked vaguely disgusted.
Gryffindor: Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.
The two were famous for being close friends, but while Hermione was a fine choice, Ron as a Prefect raised questions.
In the first place, he himself was a habitual rule-breaker and could not, even generously, be called a model student.
Why on earth had he been made a Prefect? It was only natural that everyone questioned Dumbledore's judgment.
Hufflepuff: Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott.
Ravenclaw: Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil.
There were no particular problems here. They were perfectly model students.
And the biggest problem of all was the Slytherin Prefects: Draco Malfoy and Mirabelle Beresford.
Two undeniable problem children, they were likely the students least suited for the role in the entire school.
But Malfoy had been chosen through connections, and Mirabelle had been chosen for her academic grades, which silenced all opposition.
From the other students' perspective, it was simply: "What is Snape thinking?"
After the upperclassman's explanation ended, the Prefects began to return to the regular train cars.
On the way, Malfoy approached Mirabelle, speaking smugly.
"Hey, Beresford. You seemed to think highly of Potter, but this proves I'm superior to him. I'm a Prefect, and he isn't!"
"...What a pathetic man."
"What?"
"Do you really think you became a Prefect through your own power?"
Faced with Mirabelle's emotionless eyes, Malfoy was rendered speechless.
He knew it himself, even without her saying it.
He knew he hadn't been chosen for his ability, but because of his father's connections.
Still, he had nothing else to boast about.
And so, he had no choice but to comically brandish that weapon to make himself look bigger.
"If you're going to treat Harry Potter as your rival, at least get your own weapon first. Everything you have right now is borrowed. Your position, your entourage, and that badge."
"Gh..."
Pointedly reminded of the truth he didn't want to face, Malfoy's face flushed bright red.
It was always like this. This golden girl didn't understand the feelings of the weak.
Because she could do anything herself, she never considered the feelings of those who couldn't.
Before he knew it, Malfoy had clenched his fists, tears welling in his eyes.
Glancing at him, Mirabelle sighed, looking annoyed.
"Don't rely on your parents' coattails. In the end, the only one you can rely on is yourself. First, find your own weapon. A special skill, anything. ...If you do that, well, I might acknowledge you. A little."
Perhaps she thought she had gone a little too far, or maybe it was just a passing whim.
For Mirabelle, she spoke rare, almost kind words, then immediately looked away.
Malfoy's eyes widened. He looked at Mirabelle, but since she was facing away, he couldn't see her expression.
"I'm going to patrol the cars. Don't talk to me about such trivial things again."
"Ah, right..."
With that, Mirabelle left the special compartment without a backward glance at Malfoy.
Left behind, Malfoy just stared in the direction she had gone, looking completely dumbfounded.
But he soon seemed to remember his own duties and hurried out of the compartment.
The Sorting Ceremony proceeded as usual, but something was wrong.
The Sorting Hat sings a song every year, and its contents are always slightly different.
But it had never once sung a song that sounded like a warning.
The first-years didn't seem to notice this abnormality, but all the other students were in an uproar, exchanging hushed opinions with those next to them.
Edees and Mirabelle were no exception; they discussed the song with grim faces.
"Hey, Mirabelle... that just now..."
"Yes, no doubt about it. It's a warning about Voldemort's return."
"It means if the Houses don't unite, we'll crumble from within, right?"
"It's already too late for that."
While listening to the Sorting Hat sort the first-years into their Houses, Mirabelle clicked her tongue softly.
The Sorting Hat's warning was correct. Hogwarts needed to solidify its unity from within, or it would collapse easily.
Correct... but late. Far too late.
How many children of Death Eaters do you think are at Hogwarts right now? How many guardians under Voldemort's influence are there?
If it truly wanted to unite the school from within, it should have expelled those students long ago, or better yet, never admitted them in the first place.
And now, among the teachers, an imbecile dispatched from the Ministry of Magic had slipped in.
Unfortunately, no matter how solidly you build the foundation, it's pointless if rotten wood is mixed in from the start.
After that, the customary feast began, and the students dove into the delicious food before them.
But this year, the pleasant afterglow of the meal was thoroughly ruined.
The cause was Dolores Umbridge, who, starting this year, would be the "Defence Against the Dark Arts" teacher.
She was an ugly woman in a pink cardigan, with an annoyingly high-pitched, simpering voice and a face like a toad.
Her grating voice, her affected little cough, and above all, the content of her speech were more than enough to shatter the meal's pleasant mood.
To put it simply, she announced that from this year, the Ministry of Magic would be "interfering" in Hogwarts classes.
"...Mirabelle."
"Yes. This is the worst. It seems the Ministry isn't satisfied with just being incompetent; now they intend to drag us down with them."
An incompetent ally is more dreadful than a competent enemy.
Mirabelle looked weary at the bottomless stupidity of the Ministry, which perfectly embodied those very words.
The Ministry and Cornelius Fudge were idiots and incompetents, but when it came to tripping up their allies, they were in a class of their own.
Edees, too, was keenly feeling the truth of Mirabelle's words from last year: "Don't count on the Ministry."
It was no use. She understood now that the organization was completely rotten to the core.
After Umbridge's speech, there were announcements about Quidditch, and then the feast concluded.
As a Prefect, Mirabelle had to guide the first-years, so she left her seat early.
Watching her go, Edees suddenly noticed something strange... or perhaps, not so strange, just unusual.
"...She left food? That's rare."
Mirabelle's meal at her seat was "left behind."
Despite her appearance, she was a big eater and had an extraordinary attachment to food.
According to her, all the nutrients were consumed by her magical energy expenditure, but in any case, it was a mystery how she ate so much without gaining weight.
That Mirabelle left food?
It wasn't that strange to leave food; Edees herself did it on rare occasions.
But this was the first time she had ever seen Mirabelle leave food behind.
"Maybe she has an upset stomach."
Well, it wasn't worth worrying about.
Edees dismissed any further questions and stood up to head to the Slytherin dormitory.
***
"I see. The Deathly Hallows...
The Tales of Beedle the Bard... To think such a secret was hidden in a fairy tale everyone knows.
And now, after so many years, the Hallows are trying to gather."
In a dark room, the voices of two people could be heard.
One was a small shadow hidden completely by a robe: Nosferatu.
The other was a handsome man with characteristic golden curls: Gellert Grindelwald.
Until just the other day, he should have been an old, decrepit man, but that frail visage was gone.
Here stood the powerful dark wizard, having regained the body and youth of his prime.
What means were used to achieve this... only they knew.
"Gathering? Is that not hasty, Nosferatu?"
"Not at all. If 'Fate' has a will of its own, it is undoubtedly trying to gather the Hallows in one place, now."
"Your basis?"
"As you know, the three brothers in this story actually existed.
Antioch Peverell, who obtained the Elder Wand.
Cadmus Peverell, who gained the Resurrection Stone.
And Ignotus Peverell, who gained the Cloak of Invisibility."
Nosferatu opened the book in their hand, looking amused.
The story written there was a fairy tale known to everyone in the magical world.
Once upon a time, there were three brothers skilled in magic. As they crossed a bridge, "Death" in a cloak spoke to them.
"Death" praised the brothers' magic and offered them each a reward.
The eldest brother asked for a wand that could defeat anyone. The second asked for a stone that could bring back the dead.
And the third asked for a cloak of invisibility that could never be found, and it was given.
But the eldest brother boasted of the wand, was attacked in his sleep, and died. The second brother brought back the woman he loved, but could not truly be with her, and killed himself.
In the end, only the third brother lived to a ripe old age. The story ended with this common fairy tale conclusion.
However, a truth unknown to most was hidden in this tale.
These three Hallows and the three brothers were real.
And now, their descendants are gathering in this modern age.
"Using my information network, I traced the family trees and found some interesting facts.
First, Cadmus Peverell. His bloodline merged with the Slytherin line at one point, and later joined the Gaunt family. His descendant is that Voldemort."
"...Oh? So he is the rightful heir to the Resurrection Stone."
"Indeed. Next, Ignotus Peverell. This bloodline flows to the Potter family... that is, to Harry Potter. Furthermore, Potter already possesses the Cloak, which is believed to be the Hallow."
Voldemort and Harry Potter.
The two nemeses were distant relatives, unbeknownst to either of them.
They were the rightful owners of two Hallows: the Resurrection Stone and the Cloak of Invisibility.
"And the last one, Antioch Peverell... his bloodline, in a sense, remains the strongest in the modern era."
"...Surely not."
"Fufufu... It seems you've realized.
Yes. That man's soul, obsessed with power and craving victory, was passed down to his descendants like a curse.
A cursed family obsessed with being the victor, no matter the means—that is, the Beresford family."
Nosferatu laughed mockingly and crossed their legs.
Was he, or perhaps she, sitting on a chair? No, it was not a chair.
It was a person!
And not just any person. It was, unbelievably, the Minister for Magic of France.
That person, with vacant eyes, drooling, and even an ecstatic expression, was serving as Nosferatu's chair.
"Don't you think it's a well-crafted fate? The descendants of the three brothers, each in a different position, are trying to kill each other in this era.
I cannot help but feel the deliberate manipulation of 'Death'."
"Indeed... And I suppose you are the 'Death' who toys with those three."
At Grindelwald's words, Nosferatu laughed from beneath their hood.
Their eyes fell upon the wizards kneeling in the room.
All of them were formidable bodyguards assigned to protect the Minister who was now a chair.
But against Nosferatu and Grindelwald, they were no more than children.
In the end, they were all brainwashed, bowing their heads to their new masters.
"Kuku... The French Ministry of Magic might fall surprisingly easily.
Now that I control the Minister, the real power is already in my hands... All that's left is to replace the upper echelon, one by one, without being noticed."
"Don't make it sound so easy, you monster," Grindelwald said. "No one but you could pull this off so simply."
No one yet realizes.
Not Harry, not Dumbledore, not Voldemort, not even Mirabelle at the school.
They do not notice the massive conspiracy unfolding just outside their awareness.
And the colossal malice orchestrating it.
On this day, without a single soul knowing—the leadership of the French Ministry of Magic was replaced.
***
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