Wizard World and the Ambitious Girl

It was well past two in the morning when Harry finally returned to the castle, his detention complete. Despite knowing he should head straight to his dormitory, he found himself climbing to the third floor, drawn by an inexplicable need to understand the shadow that had made his scar ache with its mere presence.

Half-wondering if she would truly be waiting at such an ungodly hour, Harry slipped into the abandoned girls' bathroom. He knew the risks—if caught entering the girls' lavatory again, expulsion would be certain. Yet something deeper than curiosity compelled him forward, a gnawing sense that he needed to know the truth about that dark figure in the Forbidden Forest.

"Beresford... are you there?" he whispered, still concealed beneath his invisibility cloak.

Silence answered him, broken only by the soft squeak of a mouse scurrying across the grimy floor.

"Maybe she's not here?" Harry murmured, surveying the depressing state of the bathroom.

The mirror hung cracked and tarnished, its surface reflecting distorted images. Stains marred the walls like old bruises, while the stone sinks bore chips and scratches from years of neglect. The wooden stall doors, their paint peeling like diseased skin, were covered in crude scratches and graffiti. This lavatory had clearly been abandoned for years—the perfect place for clandestine conversations, though Harry wouldn't normally venture near such a place under any other circumstances.

"Oh? Is someone there?"

A voice echoed from the innermost stall, and Harry nearly responded before catching himself. That wasn't Mirabelle's voice, the tone was entirely different, higher and more petulant.

His suspicion proved correct as a translucent figure emerged: a female ghost with stringy hair pulled into untidy pigtails, thick spectacles perched on her nose, and a complexion marred by spectral acne. She glanced around restlessly, her head tilting with curiosity as she drifted toward Harry's location.

The invisibility cloak should have concealed him completely, yet Peeves had somehow sensed his presence despite the magical concealment. Perhaps this ghost possessed similar abilities. Harry tensed, preparing for discovery, when a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"It's just me, Myrtle. Sorry to disturb your solitude for a moment."

"Oh, it's you, Beresford," the ghost—Myrtle—replied with obvious recognition.

Once again, Harry had no idea where Mirabelle had materialized from. She appeared as suddenly as she had in the Forbidden Forest, effortlessly guiding Myrtle back to her stall before turning toward Harry's hiding spot. A knowing smirk played at the corners of her mouth.

"That's quite an impressive invisibility cloak, Potter. Even I would miss you if I weren't looking carefully."

Harry's heart leaped. Could she actually see through it? No—that was impossible. Even Snape and the other professors couldn't penetrate its magic. Like Peeves, she must simply possess the ability to sense that "someone" was present, nothing more.

Convinced of this reasoning, Harry pulled off the cloak, revealing himself in the dim bathroom light.

"Tell me, Beresford," he demanded without preamble. "What was that shadow that killed the unicorn?"

"Before I explain that," Mirabelle replied calmly, "let me first tell you about the properties of unicorn blood."

Harry's impatience flared—he wanted answers, not a lecture—but Mirabelle remained unmoved. She could have simply provided the conclusion, but that wouldn't convince this stubborn boy. Explaining complex matters to obstinate people required a more methodical approach.

"Unicorn blood possesses the power to sustain life for those on death's threshold," she began, her voice taking on an almost professorial tone. "However, such power comes with a terrible price."

"What kind of price?" Harry asked, his earlier urgency tempered by growing unease.

"Those who drink unicorn blood become cursed—forever," Mirabelle continued, her words hanging heavy in the stagnant air. "Even a single drop condemns the drinker to a half-life, neither truly alive nor properly dead. They become like the walking corpses you read about—zombies, ghouls, creatures caught between worlds."

Harry swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. The thought of eternal damnation was terrifying beyond measure. Surely death would be preferable to such a fate?

Reading his expression, Mirabelle pressed on. "But what if there existed a way to discard that cursed, dying body? What if one could create an entirely new form?"

"A new body?" Harry echoed, confusion evident in his voice.

"Indeed. What if there existed something miraculous—something that could restore lost power and grant true eternal life? If such a thing were real, and if one only needed to survive long enough to obtain it..." She paused meaningfully. "Don't you think someone might consider the curse a worthwhile sacrifice?"

Harry stared at her, the implications slowly dawning. A cold realization crept up his spine like icy fingers.

"You're talking about something that's here, aren't you? Hidden in this very school!"

Mirabelle's smile widened. "These items were once secured in Gringotts Bank, but Hagrid retrieved them and brought them here for safekeeping. There exists a legendary stone—the only one of its kind in the world—said to grant immortality and capable of transmuting base metals into pure gold."

The pieces clicked together with terrifying clarity. "The Philosopher's Stone!"

"Precisely."

"But who?" Harry's voice cracked with rising panic. "Who would dare target the Stone?"

"You already know the answer, Potter. You know the name of the one who has waited so long to reclaim his power—the one who clings to life, biding his time for the perfect opportunity."

The truth hit Harry like a physical blow. Blood drained from his face as an icy chill seized his heart. His scar began to throb with familiar, painful intensity, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead despite the bathroom's stifling atmosphere.

"The shadow I saw... was that Voldemort?" The name came out as barely a whisper.

Mirabelle didn't need to respond—her satisfied smile provided confirmation enough.

"B-but the three-headed dog guards that place!" Harry stammered, grasping for reassurance. "No one can pass unless Hagrid reveals how to get by it!"

"Quite true."

"Then we're safe! Hagrid would never betray Dumbledore—he'd never tell anyone!"

Yes, that had to be right. The Philosopher's Stone remained protected by the fearsome Cerberus, and only Hagrid knew the secret to bypassing it. Hagrid's loyalty to Dumbledore was absolute—he would die before revealing such crucial information.

Mirabelle's laugh was soft but chilling. "Do you really believe that?"

"What... what do you mean?"

"Oh, Hagrid would certainly never betray Dumbledore, not even under pain of death," she agreed readily. "But Potter... there's no need for betrayal to extract information from him."

"I don't understand..."

"That man is far more careless than you realize."

The words rang with uncomfortable truth. Hagrid was undoubtedly loyal—his devotion to Dumbledore was beyond question. But he was also completely unsuited for keeping secrets. His mind was simple, his temper quick, and his composure fragile. He fell for even the most transparent leading questions, invariably revealing information that should remain classified. He could be trusted with one's life, but not with sensitive intelligence.

"Whether you believe me or not is entirely your choice," Mirabelle said with a casual shrug. "I've said what needed saying."

She had planted the seeds of doubt perfectly. Harry's sense of justice would now compel him forward, filling him with heroic purpose. He would rush to protect the Stone, convinced of his noble mission. Mirabelle no longer needed to act directly—she could simply observe Harry's heroics while enjoying her tea, then claim the Stone at the crucial moment.

"Well, I should return to my dormitory. Do try not to get caught," she said, turning to leave.

"Wait!" Harry called desperately. "How do you know about the Philosopher's Stone? And why are you telling me this?"

Mirabelle paused, glancing back with a defiant smile. "You're not the only ones who have discovered the truth. Our goals align—we both seek to protect the Stone from Voldemort."

"You're... you're trying to protect it too?"

"I have high hopes for you, Harry Potter," she said enigmatically, then vanished as suddenly as she had appeared.

Now came the waiting game. A rat was already positioned near the fourth-floor corridor, ready to alert Mirabelle to any visitors. With her ability to Apparate within the school grounds and her network of rodent spies, she wouldn't miss the decisive moment. All preparations for obtaining the Stone were complete.

The end-of-year examinations proved remarkably easy for first-year students, and Mirabelle completed them without difficulty. Having received advanced education at Beresford, she had mastered this material years ago. There was no reason to struggle now, and she felt confident she had achieved perfect scores on both written and practical components.

The professors' pale expressions during practical examinations made it clear that Mirabelle was operating on an entirely different level from her peers. In Professor Flitwick's test, she was asked to make a pineapple tap-dance across a desk—instead, she made not only the pineapple but every piece of furniture in the classroom perform an elaborate dance routine. For Professor McGonagall's examination, she transformed a mouse into an exquisite, gleaming golden snuffbox that drew gasps of admiration.

Normally such theatrical displays would be considered showing off, but in this context they held genuine significance. Examinations were typically graded on a scale of one hundred points, with standards set for year-level expectations. However, students who demonstrated magic exceeding those standards could earn scores above one hundred—120, 150, or even higher were possible for truly exceptional performances.

Mirabelle suspected that besides herself, Hermione and perhaps a few other first-years would also exceed the standard benchmarks.

"Ahhh, finally finished!" Edith stretched luxuriously, relief evident in every line of her body. "No more exam studying for a while!"

Edith had spent the past several days cramming frantically, stress evident in the dark circles under her eyes and the slight hollowing of her cheeks. She wasn't the type for advance preparation—three days of intensive study was her preferred method.

Her scores probably wouldn't be stellar, but as she put it, "As long as I don't fail, I'll be fine."

"How did you do, Mirabelle? I think I messed up the Transfiguration portion a bit."

"That's a foolish question. Everything was perfect, naturally."

"Wow... still as confident as ever..." Edith gave a wry smile.

From anyone else, such certainty would seem like empty boasting. But this friend possessed genuine talent that made such confidence warranted.

Edith herself was far from incompetent. While her written examinations were admittedly poor, her practical skills placed her among the top students. Despite claiming weakness in Transfiguration, she had passed the practical test without incident, earning Professor McGonagall's approval.

However, ask her to "name three great wizards who used Transfiguration to defeat werewolves in the late fifteenth century," and she would draw a complete blank.

"I'm still amazed you can cast magic so quickly with that ridiculously oversized wand. The thing's nearly half your height!"

"Well, it suits me perfectly."

Mirabelle's wand was indeed enormous—absurdly so. Most wizards' wands measured between twenty and thirty centimeters, and even Hagrid's, considered exceptionally large, was only forty-one centimeters. This put Mirabelle's wand in a category entirely its own.

When Edith first saw it, she had exclaimed "It's huge!" while their instructor had merely commented "It's... quite large" with obvious understatement.

For comparison, Edith's wand contained a Pegasus feather core with a birch wood construction, measuring twenty-eight centimeters. According to its owner, it was "light, flexible, and obedient"—basically, utterly unremarkable.

"Anyway, what are your plans now, Mirabelle? I'm going to eat dinner and sleep early."

"I think I'll also rest quietly in my room tonight," Mirabelle replied casually.

Tonight she needed to maintain the appearance of relaxation while avoiding suspicious activities. If everything proceeded according to plan, this would be the night Harry and his friends made their move.

Even if events unfolded differently from her expectations, it wouldn't pose problems for Mirabelle. In the extreme scenario where Quirrell obtained the Stone without Harry's interference—though that seemed impossible—she could still intervene at the crucial moment.

The only truly problematic outcome would be if neither Harry nor Quirrell acted, and Dumbledore simply retrieved the Stone himself. In that case, she might resort to stealing the Mirror of Erised along with its contents.

However, her concerns proved unfounded. Her rodent spy network had overheard Harry and his friends planning their nighttime expedition to the hidden chamber. Additionally, Dumbledore had received an urgent owl from the Ministry and departed for London, not expected to return until after midnight.

Everything was falling into place perfectly.

The Slytherin table displayed an array of pasta, pizza, risotto, and fresh bread—all classic Italian cuisine. Mirabelle was clearly in exceptional spirits, serving herself larger portions than usual, her demeanor suggesting she might burst into song at any moment.

Edith watched this display with curiosity. "Do you particularly enjoy Italian food, Mirabelle?"

"Indeed, I adore both Japanese and Italian cuisine. I often wish our country possessed even half the culinary consciousness of these two nations."

Mirabelle began with the risotto, scooping the creamy rice with obvious anticipation. The tender grains, infused with tomato's sweet acidity, released layers of flavor with each bite. Chopped celery provided a refreshing contrast, creating a perfect balance of richness and brightness.

While rice typically evoked thoughts of Japanese cuisine, dishes like this demonstrated the ingredient's incredible versatility.

Next came the carbonara, the thick noodles twirled expertly around her fork. The rich cheese sauce clung to each strand, creating an irresistibly indulgent combination. There was something almost magical about how cheese and butter could stimulate the appetite so powerfully.

Those who dismissed such creations as mere "Muggle food" would never understand the true artistry involved—a culinary magic that surpassed many so-called wizarding achievements.

The pizza followed: freshly baked dough topped with bacon, tomatoes, squid, parsley, and cheese. The sight alone made her mouth water, emotions stirring at the visual feast. She restrained herself from biting too quickly—the heat would burn her tongue. Instead, she took measured bites, chewing slowly to savor each component.

Why did tomatoes and cheese complement each other so perfectly? She recalled a manga character from her previous life observing that "the cheese brings out the tomato, and the tomato brings out the cheese." The description was apt—this represented perfect flavor harmony, bringing genuine happiness to the palate.

Inspired by this memory, she served herself Insalata Caprese: fresh tomatoes topped with mozzarella cheese. Having remembered that manga, it would be criminal not to try this classic combination.

At first glance, it appeared almost too simple—just tomatoes with cheese. But simple dishes were often the most deceptive. Japanese sushi might look like mere fish on rice, yet required incredible skill to perfect.

She pierced a tomato slice with its cheese topping, consuming both together. The combination proved every bit as harmonious as expected, the flavors dancing beautifully across her palate. While perhaps not achieving the transcendent deliciousness described in that manga, it created a refreshing dish that one could enjoy endlessly without fatigue.

The mozzarella itself possessed minimal flavor, but when combined with tomatoes, its richness and smooth texture emerged, actually enhancing the tomato's natural taste rather than competing with it.

After finishing her salad, Mirabelle sipped water and wiped her mouth with obvious satisfaction. This had been excellent preparation for tonight's endeavors—she felt incredibly energized, as if she could perform advanced magic even without her wand.

"Shall we return to the common room?" she suggested.

"Are you sure you're done, Edith? You've barely touched your food..."

"Leave me alone, I'm dieting."

"You're hardly overweight enough to worry about that. If anything, you should gain some weight..."

"Easy for you to say! You never gain weight no matter how much you eat—you'll never understand my struggle!"

Chatting companionably, they made their way back to the Slytherin dormitory. Mirabelle had nothing left to do but wait for Harry and his friends to make their move.

According to Peter, who had perched on her shoulder, Quirrell was already in motion, having ventured deeper into the hidden chambers. Would he somehow claim the Philosopher's Stone? Or would Harry arrive in time to secure it, just as she remembered from the original story?

Either scenario suited Mirabelle perfectly. Regardless of what Voldemort or Potter accomplished, her role remained unchanged. The process mattered little—only the final outcome, with her holding the Stone at the story's conclusion.

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Author's Note:

The next episode will finally feature the battle for the Stone. Quirrell and Voldemort pursue their goal, followed by Harry, Hermione, and Ron. Meanwhile, Dumbledore senses something amiss and rushes back, with Mirabelle hiding and waiting for her opportunity. Who will ultimately possess the Philosopher's Stone at the end of this three-way (or four-way?) battle? Well, you can probably guess, but please wait for the next episode.

Regarding Hogwarts cuisine: I've actually modified the food descriptions from the original. Honestly, the books typically feature only British fare. This becomes clear in "Goblet of Fire," when international students visit and French cuisine appears—Harry and Ron react with surprise, having never seen such dishes before (only Hermione recognized them). This indicates that non-British food rarely appears at Hogwarts normally.

So why does this story casually feature Japanese and Italian cuisine? To be honest, describing only British food presents significant limitations—the repertoire is too limited, and I've experienced too few British dishes to describe them effectively. Given Mirabelle's character, she probably visited the kitchens and made "requests" (which amount to threats) to the house-elves working there.

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