Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

Edith remained silent for several moments after witnessing Mirabel's past. The emotions stirred within her—a mixture of anger and sadness—left her unable to decide how to feel. Was she supposed to be furious? Was she supposed to mourn? She didn't know.

Her memories of her sister were faint, almost nonexistent. Her parents divorced when she was too young to remember much, and until seeing Mirabel's memories, she couldn't even recall her sister's face.

And yet, these tears streaming down her cheeks—what were they for? Were they for the tragedy that befell the two? Or for the grief of never being able to see her sister again? She didn't know, and despite not understanding, Edith couldn't stop the flow of her tears.

She couldn't justify all of Mirabel's actions. She couldn't see them as entirely right. What Mirabel was doing now could never be considered absolute justice. Yet, Edith couldn't help but feel anger at what had happened to her sister and her friend.

After all, how could one not harbor resentment after such events? How could one not feel rage? Thinking about Mirabel's heart and the pain she must have carried, Edith felt her chest tighten unbearably.

"This… this is the past of the person I've come to know," Mary spoke. "The Ministry's greatest failure."

Edith lowered her gaze at Mary's words.

Mirabel was not good, that much was already clear. But if the tables were turned—if Edith found herself in Mirabel's place—could she truly say she'd act differently? If the people she loved were murdered by the whims of the Ministry, could she avoid being consumed by hatred?

"What you choose to do after seeing this is up to you," Mary said, walking through Hogsmeade as the scenery shifted back to the village.

Edith, still unable to make sense of her feelings, struggled to discern what was right. But one thing, at least, became clear.

"…I want to meet Mirabel again," she said softly. "I don't know what I can do when I see her, but… I just know that if things stay the way they are, no one will be happy."

"You really are kind, aren't you?" Mary replied with a small smile.

The answer Edith had reached was undoubtedly foolish. Wanting to meet someone who had declared they'd kill you the next time they met was nothing short of reckless.

And yet, Edith wanted to believe. She wanted to believe there was still humanity left in Mirabel.

Otherwise, Mirabel would never have kept her sister's spirit with her for so long.

Back then, in their fourth year, Edith had failed to grab Mirabel's hand. Just the other day, she had brushed it aside once more.

It might already be too late. She might already be beyond saving. But if she was given another chance… this time, Edith wanted to take her hand.

No matter how much Mirabel hated her. No matter if Mirabel dismissed it as childish playacting.

To Edith, Mirabel was still an important friend.

Eventually, they arrived in front of Hogwarts. Mary stopped walking, signaling the end of this journey.

"I can't go beyond this point," Mary said. "But you, Edith, you can still go back."

"…Yeah," Edith nodded.

"Go on, then. Potter and the others are waiting for you."

Mary gently pushed Edith forward and then turned around. The dead could not walk further than this. From here on, the path was one for the living—one for Edith and her companions to weave.

"Mary… will I ever see you again?"

"Well, who knows?" Mary replied playfully, not turning back. "I could say you will, or I could say you won't."

Without stopping, Mary continued walking back the way she came. But Edith could sense a soft smile on her face, even from behind.

Mary's voice was kind but teasing as she spoke.

"I'll always be with you, Edith. In that sense, we'll always see each other."

With those words, the world around Edith faded to white.

And then—the dream ended.

"…Edith! Edith!"

A voice calling her name brought her back to consciousness. Slowly, Edith opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was Hermione's tear-streaked face, contorted with worry. Harry stood beside her, looking equally concerned.

Edith understood: she had returned.

…She was alive.

"Thank goodness… truly, you're safe…!

I was so worried about what would happen if you died, Edith…"

As Hermione clung to her, Edith gently patted her head before raising her upper body. A sharp pain radiated through her chest, and she winced slightly. Even though the Killing Curse had been deflected by a protective spell, it hadn't left her entirely unscathed.

"I'm glad you're okay... but what exactly happened? The Killing Curse should have hit you, but it rebounded... and then struck him, shattering his body."

Harry, bewildered, tried to make sense of what he had witnessed. He didn't seem to realize that what had occurred was a recreation of his own past. However, the most confused person at that moment was undoubtedly Sidney.

Sidney had lost the entire right half of his body and stared at them in stunned silence. He likely couldn't comprehend what had just transpired.

"..."

Despite not fully grasping the situation, Sidney's objective hadn't changed. With half his body gone, he began casting magic once more. No arm, no leg, half a body missing—so what? None of that was a reason to stop fighting.

With a flick of his wand, he transformed his own body, forcibly reattaching the lost portions and morphing himself into a grotesque creature. Having abandoned even the semblance of a human form, Sidney lunged at Edith, but the moment he touched her, his body began to crack apart.

"…!?"

Though his expression didn't change, Edith could sense his surprise. While her protective magic was active, no malicious entity could touch her. Just as Quirrell had been unable to lay a hand on Harry, Sidney—having cast the Killing Curse at Edith—was now rendered powerless by the protective magic.

Closing her eyes, Edith spoke softly to the pitiful, broken figure before her.

"I'm sorry... but I have to stop Mirabel."

The parts of Sidney's body that had touched Edith cracked, burned, and disintegrated. He could no longer even make contact with her. Whether it was due to exhaustion or the sheer strength of the protective spell, Sidney collapsed as if his strings had been cut.

As his crumbling body fell, Edith caught him, gently cradling him in her arms. His physical form continued to disintegrate and vanish, yet he felt no pain. Perhaps it was because Edith held no malice toward him.

"This is something I have to do…"

What Sidney felt in those moments was an unfamiliar warmth. As he faded away, he was enveloped by an inexplicable comfort. Thinking back, he had never felt such kindness before.

His sister had never once treated him as her brother; she had only seen him as a tool. And he, in turn, had accepted that. Yet perhaps, deep down, he had longed—just once—to be held like this.

"So… I'm sorry…"

As Sidney's body disintegrated, he felt his heart strangely at peace. Opening his eyes slightly, he gazed at the world around him.

A world that, until now, had only reflected gold.

But now, for the first time, he saw colors clearly. Harry Potter's black hair, Hermione Granger's chestnut locks, and Edith Reineagle's soft brown tresses as she held him close.

As his consciousness faded, he thought to himself:

—Ah, so this is what the world looks like.

With that final thought, Sidney Beresford vanished from the world. Whether his last moments were filled with a sense of salvation or he felt nothing at all remains a mystery known only to him.

—A weapon.

Neville Longbottom had never desired the power to fight as much as he did now.

A wand, a club, anything would suffice. At this moment, he needed the strength to protect this school.

But his wand was nowhere to be found, having been flung away and lost in the chaos after being disarmed.

As Professor McGonagall and the other teachers fought desperately to fend off the attackers, Neville stood there, unable to do anything. His helplessness was beyond shameful—it was utterly miserable.

"Thank goodness… truly, you're safe…!

I was so worried about what would happen if you died, Edith…"

As Hermione clung to her, Edith gently patted her head before raising her upper body. A sharp pain radiated through her chest, and she winced slightly. Even though the Killing Curse had been deflected by a protective spell, it hadn't left her entirely unscathed.

"I'm glad you're okay... but what exactly happened? The Killing Curse should have hit you, but it rebounded... and then struck him, shattering his body."

Harry, bewildered, tried to make sense of what he had witnessed. He didn't seem to realize that what had occurred was a recreation of his own past. However, the most confused person at that moment was undoubtedly Sidney.

Sidney had lost the entire right half of his body and stared at them in stunned silence. He likely couldn't comprehend what had just transpired.

"..."

Despite not fully grasping the situation, Sidney's objective hadn't changed. With half his body gone, he began casting magic once more. No arm, no leg, half a body missing—so what? None of that was a reason to stop fighting.

With a flick of his wand, he transformed his own body, forcibly reattaching the lost portions and morphing himself into a grotesque creature. Having abandoned even the semblance of a human form, Sidney lunged at Edith, but the moment he touched her, his body began to crack apart.

"…!?"

Though his expression didn't change, Edith could sense his surprise. While her protective magic was active, no malicious entity could touch her. Just as Quirrell had been unable to lay a hand on Harry, Sidney—having cast the Killing Curse at Edith—was now rendered powerless by the protective magic.

Closing her eyes, Edith spoke softly to the pitiful, broken figure before her.

"I'm sorry... but I have to stop Mirabel."

The parts of Sidney's body that had touched Edith cracked, burned, and disintegrated. He could no longer even make contact with her. Whether it was due to exhaustion or the sheer strength of the protective spell, Sidney collapsed as if his strings had been cut.

As his crumbling body fell, Edith caught him, gently cradling him in her arms. His physical form continued to disintegrate and vanish, yet he felt no pain. Perhaps it was because Edith held no malice toward him.

"This is something I have to do…"

What Sidney felt in those moments was an unfamiliar warmth. As he faded away, he was enveloped by an inexplicable comfort. Thinking back, he had never felt such kindness before.

His sister had never once treated him as her brother; she had only seen him as a tool. And he, in turn, had accepted that. Yet perhaps, deep down, he had longed—just once—to be held like this.

"So… I'm sorry…"

As Sidney's body disintegrated, he felt his heart strangely at peace. Opening his eyes slightly, he gazed at the world around him.

A world that, until now, had only reflected gold.

But now, for the first time, he saw colors clearly. Harry Potter's black hair, Hermione Granger's chestnut locks, and Edith Reineagle's soft brown tresses as she held him close.

As his consciousness faded, he thought to himself:

—Ah, so this is what the world looks like.

With that final thought, Sidney Beresford vanished from the world. Whether his last moments were filled with a sense of salvation or he felt nothing at all remains a mystery known only to him.

—A weapon.

Neville Longbottom had never desired the power to fight as much as he did now.

A wand, a club, anything would suffice. At this moment, he needed the strength to protect this school.

But his wand was nowhere to be found, having been flung away and lost in the chaos after being disarmed.

As Professor McGonagall and the other teachers fought desperately to fend off the attackers, Neville stood there, unable to do anything. His helplessness was beyond shameful—it was utterly miserable.

Should I charge forward barehanded?

Such a desperate thought crossed Neville's mind as he observed Quirrell directing the Basilisks and Vampires.

Yes, it would be better to act than to remain idle. Even without a wand, sacrificing his own life could at least waste one of the enemy's spells. If his body could serve as a shield, someone else might survive.

Just as he was about to put this reckless plan into action, something landed on his head, blocking his vision.

"Wa—!"

"Do not entertain such foolish thoughts, Longbottom."

What had been placed on him was the Sorting Hat—an object he had worn once before.

Raising the hat, Neville met Professor McGonagall's eyes, her brows furrowed in mild irritation.

"Longbottom, you have already demonstrated your courage. I will not allow you to throw your life away in vain."

Neville's defiant stance had inspired courage in the other Hogwarts students. Should he die meaninglessly, their morale might collapse entirely. McGonagall made sure Neville understood this, then cast spells to fend off nearby foes.

"That hat contains a sword that only a true Gryffindor can draw. You will be able to wield it."

With that, McGonagall plunged back into the chaos of battle.

Neville followed, now surging forward into the fight. For some reason, he felt no fear. Instead, he carried an odd certainty that he could make a difference.

Guided by instinct, he reached into the hat and pulled out a magnificent silver sword.

Gripping the weapon with both hands, Neville charged ahead without hesitation.

His target: the Basilisks, the deadliest force on the battlefield. Zeroing in on one of them, he swung the sword in a passing strike, severing its head in a single motion.

I can do this!

The success filled Neville with newfound confidence. With this sword, he could fight the Basilisks. He could defeat these monsters.

Riding the wave of momentum, he turned to face the next Basilisk—only to be met by a flash of green light.

Quirrell had cast the Killing Curse.

Neville dodged just in time, rolling across the ground.

"I underestimated you. I never thought you'd grow capable of killing a Basilisk. They are crucial assets for future battles... I can't let you continue to do as you please."

Quirrell, now brimming with hostility, pointed his wand at Neville.

This was bad. No matter how sharp the sword, it was still just a sword. Without closing the distance, it would be useless. And the range advantage of a wand was insurmountable.

But before Quirrell could act, Fred and George Weasley stepped between him and Neville.

"Hey, George, looks like our hero here is without a wand," Fred quipped.

"Indeed, Fred. That's a bit of a pickle, isn't it? Guess he'll just have to turn tail and run," George replied with mock seriousness.

Even in the face of danger, the twins laughed, exchanging jokes with their usual irreverence.

This was their strength. Not blind foolishness, but the ability to find humor and defiance even in the direst situations.

"Accio!"

Fred summoned Neville's wand and tossed it to him.

"Thanks!" Neville said, readying himself for the fight. But before he could act, the twins stopped him.

"Nope, not here, mate," Fred said.

"Exactly. There's a stage more fitting for a hero like you," George added with a grin, pointing toward the outside.

They meant for Neville to confront the true menace—the Golden Tyrant of Durmstrang, Mirabel Beresford.

"But... I…"

"Say no more, Neville," Fred interrupted.

"Yeah, we've got it covered. Besides, haven't you been itching to head out there?" George added, his tone light but his eyes sharp.

Neville was taken aback.

Even in the heat of battle, the twins had noticed his resolve. Their ability to read the battlefield while engaging in combat themselves was extraordinary.

Neville hesitated.

"Yes, I've thought someone should take down Mirabel. But surely... you two are better suited for the task."

Fred and George exchanged a glance, then shook their heads.

"We won't do," Fred said bluntly.

"Huh?"

"I mean, not just us—probably no one but you can do it," he added.

Fred spoke with frustration, flicking his wand. Sparks shot out from its tip, wrapping around Quirrell to impede his movements. It was a spell tailored for disruption—just the kind of thing the mischievous twins excelled at.

"We gave up," Fred admitted.

"…Gave up?"

"Yeah. When Quirrell urged us to surrender, everyone but you thought it was over. If someone like us were to stand before her, we'd lose before the fight even began."

Facing Mirabel required an unshakable resolve. Her overwhelming presence had grown so formidable that anyone with a weak heart would crumble just by being near her. To confront her, one needed a will strong enough to resist that crushing weight.

"That's why we can't do it. We can't fight her. Honestly, handling Quirrell and his minions here is the best we can manage."

"And yeah, we feel bad for you," George added. "Shoving the toughest job onto you like this…"

As they blocked Quirrell's spells and held him in place, their words carried a tinge of regret and self-reproach. It was clear they were angry at their own inability to rise to the challenge.

"So please, Neville… Take our place and take her down. Avenge Percy for us!"

This wasn't a plea from older students to their junior—it was an appeal from one man to another, acknowledging Neville as an equal.

Neville gave a firm nod and turned away without a word. Words weren't needed now. What mattered was acting swiftly to end this battle and minimize the casualties.

Quirrell tried to pursue Neville, but the twins intercepted him once again.

"I don't get it," Quirrell muttered irritably. "Why defy her so stubbornly, even while trembling with fear? The future she envisions would benefit even you. Why resist?"

"Hah! Like we care about her grand vision," Fred sneered. "We just don't want our shiny new shop getting trashed."

"Exactly," George chimed in. "And we need those silly customers to marvel at our prank toys. A world without that fun? No thanks!"

Mirabel's vision for the world might lead to some kind of evolution, but at what cost? Would there be any freedom in a world governed entirely by one person's will? Such a world would be nothing more than a gilded cage.

Whether it was the right path or not didn't matter to the Weasley twins. What mattered was their aversion to it, plain and simple. That alone was reason enough to fight.

"Foolish children, unable to see the bigger picture," Quirrell spat in frustration.

Fred and George grinned defiantly. "You're right—we can't see the future. All we see is the 'now.' And right now, if we let Mirabel have her way, the people we love will suffer. They'll cry. If being an adult means letting that happen, then we'll stay kids forever."

They exchanged a determined nod, laughed together, and dove back into the chaos of their fight against Quirrell.

Deep within the forest away from the castle, two figures stood amidst the aftermath of a fierce battle. One remained standing, while the other lay in two pieces on the ground, severed and lifeless.

Victory had been decided.

The figure still standing, Dumbledore, looked down at his defeated opponent, Gellert Grindelwald.

"Heh… Lost again, have I?" Grindelwald chuckled weakly. "Not once have I ever managed to defeat you…"

"Gellert…"

"Ah, but I knew it. I regained my youth, surpassed the bounds of humanity… And because of that, I could never win against you."

Grindelwald was no longer human. Mirabel's magic had turned him into a semi-immortal vampire. But unlike Mirabel, who wielded the Philosopher's Stone to recover instantly from any wound, Grindelwald's regeneration was slower, and a fatal wound to his heart still spelled the end.

It was precisely this vulnerability that Dumbledore had exploited. In the split second their paths crossed, Dumbledore had disarmed Grindelwald, transformed his wand, and driven a stake of pale wood—the age-old bane of vampires—through his heart.

"I will die soon, old friend," Grindelwald rasped. "So allow me to tell you the truth at last."

"The truth?"

"Yes… The one question you never asked me back when we fought all those years ago. The one truth you feared the most, which kept you from confronting me sooner."

In the days of Grindelwald's rise, Dumbledore had delayed their confrontation for as long as possible. Even knowing the cost of his inaction, he hesitated to act. It wasn't Grindelwald's power that he feared—it was the truths their battle might reveal about his own past.

Even now, those truths weighed heavily on Dumbledore, chains that bound his heart. And now, Grindelwald, on the brink of death, was reaching to unfasten those chains.

"The one who killed your sister... who killed Ariana was not your spell.

It was mine... It was my spell that ended her life."

Long ago, Dumbledore and Grindelwald had an intense argument that escalated into a deadly duel. Aberforth, Dumbledore's younger brother, was also involved in the chaos, which tragically ended with Ariana's death. That moment shattered their bond irreparably.

Since then, Dumbledore had been tormented by the possibility that it was his spell that killed her. The thought that he might have caused his sister's death had haunted him. He dreaded learning the truth more than anything.

But now, Grindelwald had absolved him of that burden.

"I was afraid," Grindelwald confessed. "I feared you would condemn me for my sin, so I fled in silence. It was all my fault... Forgive me, Albus..."

Tears streamed from Grindelwald's eyes as he admitted his guilt. It had all begun with that fateful mistake. If only he had exercised restraint... If only they had chosen a different path, one where they stood united, this future could have been avoided.

But regret could not change the past. It was too late.

Grindelwald's trembling hand was suddenly clasped by Dumbledore's strong grip.

"Thank you... for telling me, my friend.

And forgive me for the weakness of my heart, for causing you to bear the agony of keeping this secret for so long."

"Friend... You still call me your friend? Even after all I've done? After I betrayed you, Albus? After I became this... this monster, you still call me a friend?"

"Of course, Gellert. Of course."

The bond that had been broken so long ago was now being reforged, even if only for the brief time left in Grindelwald's life. To others, this might seem meaningless. But to them, it was salvation.

"Thank you, Albus... my friend."

Grindelwald's face showed a rare sense of peace. His body would soon perish, his soul likely condemned to hell. But he felt no regret. He was, at this moment, the happiest he had ever been.

Yet, before his end, there was one final warning he had to give. Summoning his remaining strength, Grindelwald spoke:

"Beware of Beresford, Albus... She is a terrifying woman. She will stop at nothing for victory. She would sacrifice family, friends, even loyal followers without a second thought."

Grindelwald had seen it many times during his time with her. Mirabel Beresford would use any means necessary, showing no mercy to her adversaries. She had even allowed her own family to be collateral damage, or perhaps even deliberately manipulated events to push Voldemort toward certain actions.

"She needs no one... She loves nothing. She speaks of ruling the magical world, but even that means nothing to her. Even if she were to turn the magical world into a barren wasteland, she would feel not a flicker of sorrow."

Her supposed dream of governing the magical world? It was dubious at best.

For now, her idea of a 'superior world' still had a few who met her arbitrary standards. But over centuries—perhaps millennia—her view would evolve. Eventually, she would see herself as the only superior being. At that point, she might destroy the magical world as casually as a child breaking a toy.

"She has no brakes, Albus. No hesitation, no conscience to stop her.

The magical world needs you now, Albus. There's nowhere left to run. You must face her."

Dumbledore had spent his life running—from his responsibilities, from Ariana's death, from his guilt. He had even avoided power, fearing his own weakness and the tragedies that might follow.

But now, there was no escape.

"I understand," Dumbledore said solemnly.

Grindelwald smiled faintly, as though content with the answer. He held out his wand.

"A wand's loyalty belongs to its master. And it seems mine wishes to go to you. Take it with you... in my place."

"Yes... Let us fight together, Gellert."

Dumbledore accepted the wand and grasped Grindelwald's hand tightly.

And then it happened. Grindelwald's body began to turn to ash, crumbling away piece by piece. Yet the arm Dumbledore held onto remained, as if it, too, refused to let go.

"Farewell, Albus... Don't lose."

Finally, the last remnants of Grindelwald's body disintegrated, leaving only a handful of ash in Dumbledore's grasp. He clenched it tightly, his heart heavy with grief.

But there was no time to mourn.

With the wand entrusted to him, Dumbledore stood tall before his fallen friend's remains. There was no time for a proper burial; the world was already in peril.

The past had been left behind. Dumbledore was no longer the young, idealistic Albus.

Now, he was the seasoned, wise wizard of many years—

Albus Dumbledore.

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