Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

Harry and his friends were running through the hallways of Hogwarts.

In Edith's pocket was the arch, shrunken with magic.

It was their trump card, the only thing that could defeat Mirabel. After much deliberation, Harry and the others decided that entrusting it to Edith was the best course of action.

Harry would face Voldemort. Edith would face Mirabel.

Each of them had a fated battle to fight.

And so, the arch was entrusted to Edith.

"Wait... what is that!?"

Harry, who was leading the group, suddenly stopped in his tracks.

Hermione followed, gasping as she clasped her hand over her mouth.

Before them lay a body.

It was someone familiar, a red-haired youth wearing Hogwarts robes.

"No... it can't be...!"

This was war.

They had always known that someone might die. They had steeled themselves for that possibility.

But now, seeing someone they knew lying lifeless in front of them, all that resolve crumbled.

"Ron... no...!"

Tears streamed down Hermione's face as she uttered his name.

The body was unmistakably Ron—Ronald Weasley.

He lay on the ground, his eyes wide open in terror, frozen in death.

Why? Why was Ron dead? Why here?

Harry stumbled toward him, reaching out to touch his friend's body.

But before he could, a flash of red light intervened, sending Harry flying.

"Stop, Potter! Don't touch it!"

The one who had cast the spell—Snape—was now running toward them, his face tight with urgency.

Seeing him, Harry's anger flared.

So Snape was the enemy after all. Attacking him was proof enough.

No, Harry thought bitterly, he should never have trusted Snape in the first place.

Consumed by rage, Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at Snape.

But before he could cast a spell, Edith grabbed his hand.

"Wait, Harry."

"Why are you stopping me?! He just attacked me!"

"No, it wasn't an attack. Professor Snape was protecting you."

Unlike Harry, whose distrust of Snape only grew stronger, Edith remained calm.

If Snape had truly been an enemy, Harry would have been seriously injured—or unconscious—from that spell.

But instead, the spell had merely knocked him away.

This could only mean one thing: Snape had a reason to keep Harry from touching Ron's body, even if it meant using force.

"That body... it's cursed. Likely a curse that activates upon touch."

If Harry had touched Ron, the curse would have triggered instantly, targeting Harry.

And once the curse was activated, it would be nearly impossible to survive—even someone like Dumbledore wouldn't have escaped its deadly effects.

Though Voldemort's protective spells would likely keep Harry alive, he'd have been rendered immobile, vulnerable to attack.

Snape's intervention had prevented that fate.

"That's the truth. And that body isn't Ronald Weasley... it's another student, transformed to look like him."

Without looking at Harry, Snape spoke.

There was no time for pleasantries.

If this cursed decoy had been left here, the culprit clearly intended to target Harry.

And whoever had set the trap could still be lurking nearby.

"Who... who would do something like this?!"

"Who else? Only the Dark Lord."

There was no one else who would go to such lengths to kill Harry.

As if to confirm Snape's words, a figure emerged from around the corner.

Clad in a dark robe, with slit-like pupils, nostrils resembling mere slits, and lips that barely existed—there stood Voldemort, the greatest terror of the wizarding world.

"Severus Snape... you traitor..."

Grinding his teeth in fury, Voldemort glared at Snape with seething hatred.

The betrayal of a servant he had considered loyal above all others was enough to send him into a blind rage.

But Snape stood his ground, returning Voldemort's glare with unwavering defiance.

"You're wrong, my Lord. I have been Dumbledore's servant all along. Ever since the day you targeted Lily, I have been your enemy."

Harry's eyes widened in shock at Snape's revelation.

This was the first time he'd heard anything like this.

Could it be true?

If so, Snape had been trying to protect his mother.

But hadn't Snape called his mother a "Mudblood"? Harry couldn't reconcile these conflicting images of Snape.

"Yes, you wanted her once," Voldemort sneered. "But after her death, didn't you acknowledge that there were purer, worthier women?"

"Of course, I said so—to deceive you.

But my heart has always belonged to Lily. From childhood until my last breath, I have loved her."

It was love.

That was the sole driving force behind Severus Snape's actions.

Pure-blood, Muggle-born—none of that mattered to him.

He simply loved Lily Evans.

And because of that, he had protected her son, even though Harry was the son of the man Snape hated most.

All for Lily. No other reason was necessary.

"How many years have passed since then? And still, you cling to such a meaningless obsession for a woman who never even looked back at you?"

"Forever."

Snape drew his wand and faced Voldemort.

There was no fear in his stance.

It was as if he had been waiting for this moment all along.

How many times had he swallowed his rage?

How many times had he bowed his head to the man who caused his greatest pain?

Ever since the day his careless actions had led to Lily's death, he had lived with regret and torment.

But now, it was finally time to put an end to it all.

Harry's words cut into Snape's heart like a knife.

He hadn't known. He hadn't known that Lily had met such an end—begging for her son's life only to be murdered by Voldemort like an insect.

That defiant woman, who had loved her son enough to plead for him, deserved to have her will carried forward. Snape resolved that he must now fulfill that will. He must protect the remnant of her love, even if it cost him everything. This was the only atonement left for him to offer.

"Go, Potter. You have something you must do, don't you?"

"But…"

If they left now, Snape would be left alone to face Voldemort one-on-one. It was inevitable that he would be killed sooner or later.

Snape was a brilliant wizard, but expecting him to defeat the Dark Lord was too optimistic. That's why Harry hesitated, but Snape barked at him, snapping him out of it.

"Don't lose sight of what you must do! What is your task, Potter?!"

Snape's words forced Harry to think.

What was his duty?

Preventing further casualties? Defeating Mirabel?

Certainly, those were important goals. But those were Edith's responsibilities, not his.

As Dumbledore had explained to him the night before the final battle, his role was…

"…I'm sorry, Edith, Hermione. I have to stay here. I must stay."

Harry, his resolve firm, stepped forward to stand beside Snape.

"Potter… I told you to go."

"No. I refuse. My duty is to face Voldemort here."

Harry's mission was not to fight Mirabel but to face Voldemort.

Edith had her own destiny, just as he had his.

Mirabel was Edith's battle. Fighting Voldemort was his.

As Harry steeled himself for the battle, Hermione stepped up beside him.

"Hermione, you don't have to stay too!"

"I'm not leaving. I won't let you face this alone after everything. Your fight is my fight. And if we die, we die together, Harry."

Snape, Harry, and Hermione faced Voldemort, wands raised.

Edith moved to join them, but Hermione held out a hand to stop her.

"Go, Edith."

"But—"

"This is our battle. You have yours."

Everyone had a role to play.

Now, as Harry and the others prepared to confront Voldemort, Edith needed to face her own destiny.

"You don't have time to worry about us, Edith. Your opponent is far more monstrous than Voldemort."

Edith knew these words were no exaggeration.

Not a day had passed when she didn't recall the battle at the Ministry of Magic.

The overwhelming strength of her opponent was burned into her memory.

And terrifyingly, she knew that her evolving foe had likely become even deadlier since then.

"I understand…"

She would leave Voldemort to them.

It wasn't that she wasn't worried.

But she chose to believe in them.

She believed they could win.

So she didn't look back.

They each had a role to fulfill.

"Harry, Hermione, Professor Snape—please, don't die!"

"Yes. And you stay safe too, Edith!"

They might never meet again.

Edith didn't voice that fear as she broke into a run.

Her destination loomed like a dark shadow over Hogwarts: the enormous castle of Durmstrang Institute.

In the deepest chamber of Durmstrang—the throne room—countless corpses lay scattered across the cold stone floor.

These were not the bodies of Mirabel's subordinates. No, they were the last of the Death Eaters who had stormed in, determined to bring her down.

Amicus Carrow, Alecto Carrow, Thorfinn Rowle, and Gibbon. Among them were several other formidable wizards. Each of them was a powerful sorcerer in their own right.

But no matter how skilled they were, none of them could hope to stand against a demon like Mirabel. If it had been Voldemort himself, it might have been a different story, but his followers were no match.

The battle was over in a mere three minutes. In that short time, every last one of them had been reduced to lifeless, unrecognizable heaps of flesh.

"Tch, what a pitiful bunch."

The demon responsible for this carnage sat upon the throne, not a single drop of blood marring her figure.

She hadn't even deemed them worthy of standing for the fight. Her legs crossed elegantly, she swirled the wine glass in her hand, savoring its aroma.

The blood of those insignificant foes now filled the glass. It wasn't anything special, but as an aperitif, it would suffice.

"Well, I wonder if you all will prove more entertaining."

With a playful glint in her eye, Mirabel gazed at the new visitors.

Mad-Eye Moody, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Nymphadora Tonks—all members of the Order of the Phoenix.

At the center of them all was Albus Dumbledore, the figure they all rallied behind.

And there, standing beside them, was Edith Reinagel.

The last one… yes, it was Neville Longbottom, wasn't it?

An odd addition, but still, the lineup was nothing short of grand.

Now this could be enjoyable.

"Mirabel… Before we begin, I ask you just one question."

Dumbledore's calm, unwavering voice echoed through the hall.

"Can you not lay down your arms?"

"Oh? How generous of you. You're saying you'll spare me if I surrender?"

"…No, it is not I who will grant mercy. I am asking you to grant mercy."

The unexpected words from Dumbledore left Mirabel momentarily stunned.

This was not a concession. It was a plea—a plea from the great wizard himself, the one hailed as the strongest sorcerer of the age.

"I know your past, Mirabel."

"…!"

"It was only then that I realized… how empty and meaningless the words I have spoken to you all these years have been.

How ignorant I was. How foolish I had been."

Dumbledore's voice was filled with regret.

Life is a series of pain and remorse. Even the man revered as a perfect being was no exception.

If anything, perhaps Dumbledore was the one who had walked the most sorrowful path, weighed down by regrets.

Here and now, he was no longer the "greatest wizard"—just a worn-out old man, stripped of all pretenses.

"You were right. I was running away… Afraid of my own mistakes."

"In the past, I was asked countless times to become Minister for Magic.

But—ah, please forgive my arrogance—I had talents greater than most. I could do more than others.

And because I could, the mistakes I made were also far more devastating."

Dumbledore spoke with the voice of a man confessing his sins.

"I feared those mistakes. So, I became a headmaster instead.

I thought that if I could nurture young talents like you, I could leave behind a legacy of change, accomplishing what I could not do myself."

This was a truth Dumbledore had never revealed to anyone before.

A man who had swelled with pride, fallen into regret, and fled from his own shortcomings.

"But I was wrong.

I was so afraid of mistakes that I ended up making an even greater one.

…I won't ask you to forgive me now.

But if even a small part of you still recognizes me… would you give this world one more chance?

Together, let us change this world—into a world where there's no need for bloodshed like this."

At his gentle, sincere plea, Mirabel lowered her lashes.

And she thought—Perhaps, all along, this was what I had been waiting to hear.

With a look of understanding that she had never shown before, she turned to Dumbledore and spoke.

"…If only I'd heard those words sooner… Professor Dumbledore."

If only she had heard them back then.

Back in her first year.

Back in her second year.

Back in her third year. Or even her fourth.

Even at the battle in the Department of Mysteries.

If only those words had reached her back then, perhaps their paths would have crossed instead of diverged.

But now it was too late—far too late.

The invasion of the wizarding world had already begun.

She had trampled over countless lives, staining herself in their blood.

Her path of retreat had long since been cut off.

There was no turning back now. No stopping.

She was Mirabel Beresford—this was who she was.

And because of that, she could not stop.

"I, too, shall offer you one final concession.

Lay down your arms and submit to me. Do that, and I shall spare you."

"If I submit, will you stop your slaughter?"

"That is impossible. The vermin infesting the wizarding world must be eradicated.

That is already a settled matter."

The annihilation of pureblood ideology. A complete reset of wizarding history.

To achieve that, she had started this war.

Her goal was to unify the magical worlds of Ireland, Britain, France, and Germany, erasing the very existence of the "British wizarding world" from this earth.

Reduce its entire history to ashes and start anew in a utopia of her own making.

There was no place for the old, rusted ideology of blood purity.

No need for a doctrine that stifled progress.

"The vast majority of wizards alive in this world today are of pureblood descent.

By eliminating them, you would be slaughtering nearly all of wizardkind."

"How convenient. It would be best to cut away every root of the future's curse."

The ideology of blood purity did not include coexistence with Muggle-borns.

If that was their wish, so be it—she would make sure they remained separate forever.

But it would not be her side that perished.

The only ones who would vanish from this world would be them.

The wizarding world had no need for them.

The Choice for the Future of the Magical World

Deep within Durmstrang, in the throne room, countless corpses lay scattered.

These were not the bodies of Mirabel's subordinates. They were the final Death Eaters who had stormed in to defeat her.

Alecto and Amycus Carrow.

Thorfinn Rowle and Gibbon.

Several others, all of them powerful wizards.

But no matter how strong they were, they were no match for a demon like her. Even if it had been Voldemort himself, it might have been a different story, but his lackeys were nowhere near sufficient.

In just three minutes after the battle began, the Death Eaters were annihilated, reduced to nothing but silent lumps of flesh.

"Hah, what a disappointing lot."

The demon who had accomplished this sat on the throne, not a single drop of blood on her.

She didn't even need to stand to face opponents of this caliber.

With her legs crossed, she swirled the wine glass in her hand, savoring its aroma.

It was nothing more than the blood of those weaklings, but perhaps it served well enough as an aperitif.

"Well then, will you all entertain me this time?"

With a gleam of amusement in her eyes, Mirabel gazed at the new arrivals.

Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Nymphadora Tonks.

Members of the Order of the Phoenix, led by none other than Albus Dumbledore himself.

Additionally, Edith Reineagle was present.

And one more… Neville Longbottom, was it?

An odd one had slipped into the lineup, but it was certainly a splendid gathering.

Perhaps this would be more entertaining.

"Mirabel… before we begin, I have only one question to ask you.

Is there no way you could lay down your arms?"

"Ho? How merciful of you. If I lay down my arms, will you let me go?"

"…No, it is not I who will let you go. I want you to let us go."

The unexpected words from Dumbledore's mouth caused Mirabel to reveal a look of surprise.

This was not a concession.

It was a plea — the great wizard himself was begging her for leniency.

"I know of your past, Mirabel."

"…!"

"It was only after learning of it that I realized how hollow the words I have spoken to you have been all this time.

How foolish I have been… no, how foolish the entire magical world has been."

Dumbledore spoke as though he were confessing his sins.

Life is an endless chain of anguish and regret.

Even this old man, revered as a perfect being by those around him, was no exception.

If anything, he was a man who had lived a life full of nothing but regrets.

In this moment, the figure standing before her was not a "great wizard," but simply one exhausted old man.

"I ran away, just as you said... I was afraid of making mistakes.

Time and again, I was urged to become Minister of Magic.

But — ah, forgive my arrogance for saying this — I knew I was more capable than most. I had too many talents.

And because of that, my mistakes tended to be larger as well.

I feared that, so I chose to become a school headmaster instead.

Perhaps I thought that by guiding young talents like you, I could achieve what I myself could not."

These were words he had never revealed to anyone.

Words from a man who had lived a life of arrogance, regret, and retreat.

"But I made another mistake.

Fearing my own errors, I committed an even greater one.

… I am not asking you to forgive me.

But if there is even a shred of recognition for me left in your heart…

Then, I ask of you, grant this world one more chance.

Join us, Mirabel.

Together, let us transform this world into one where such needless bloodshed is no longer necessary."

As she listened to Dumbledore's quiet plea, Mirabel lowered her gaze.

And she realized something — perhaps she had always been waiting for these words.

With an understanding gaze that she had never shown before, Mirabel looked at the old man and spoke.

"…I wish I had heard those words sooner, Professor Dumbledore."

If only she had heard them back then.

When she was a first-year.

Or a second-year.

Or during her third year… or her fourth.

Or perhaps, even during that battle in the Department of Mysteries.

But it was too late now.

Too late.

The invasion of the wizarding world had already begun.

She had trampled over countless lives, staining her own hands with blood.

Her path of retreat had already been cut off.

There was no turning back.

There was no stopping.

Because she was Mirabel Beresford, she could no longer stop.

"I too, shall offer a final concession.

If you lay down your arms and pledge loyalty to me, I shall let you live."

"And if I submit, will you cease the killing?"

"That is impossible. I will exterminate every inferior species infesting the wizarding world. That has already been decided."

The eradication of the Pureblood ideology.

The total reset of wizarding history.

That was the objective of this war.

To unify the magical worlds of Ireland, Britain, France, and Germany and erase the very existence of "British Wizarding Society" from the world.

To reduce all its history to dust and begin anew in an ideal world.

A world where old, rusted pureblood ideology had no place.

Where stagnant thoughts that hindered evolution would no longer exist.

"Most of the pureblood wizards alive in the wizarding world now follow the pureblood ideology…

To exterminate that ideology would mean to eliminate every single pureblood wizard."

"That works perfectly. It would sever every root of future conflict."

There is no coexistence between the ideology of pureblood supremacy and the acceptance of Muggle-borns.

If left unresolved, it will continue to create seeds of conflict.

Another Voldemort will rise.

A second, a third.

The cycle of strife would repeat endlessly.

Thus, the choice must be made.

Which should be preserved for the future?

Which should be discarded?

"And so you would discard the old ways?"

"It's the natural order, Dumbledore. All living beings evolve this way.

Just as the Neanderthals vanished from the earth,

Just as the ancient hominins disappeared,

The wizarding world, too, must evolve."

From the perspective of biological evolution, Mirabel's logic was perhaps correct.

But Dumbledore could not bring himself to agree.

He could no longer change his path.

He could not betray the trust of those who followed him.

Because he was Albus Dumbledore, this was the one thing he could never yield.

"I shall give you my answer… The answer is NO."

"Is that so… well, that was the answer I expected."

At that moment, it was likely the two of them understood each other better than ever before.

They both had something they believed in.

Something they could not allow to exist.

As their gazes met, they saw deeper into each other's hearts than ever before.

For the first time, they understood one another.

And because they understood each other, they knew they could never reconcile.

For the paths they walked would never coexist.

With the fire of resolve burning in his eyes, Dumbledore met Mirabel's gaze.

She smiled at him, softly, gently, like a calm breeze.

But such tenderness had no place here.

Her smile twisted into the fierce visage of a brutal tyrant, baring her madness for all to see.

There was no stopping now.

There would be no stopping.

They had come too far, and the only path left was for one side to be destroyed.

"Negotiations have failed—

All of you, die."

And in that moment, Mirabel's malice erupted like an inferno.

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