11

The first requirement is fresh blood from our relatives.

Next, six hundred and sixty-six bats.

A young sacrifice is needed—preferably a pure maiden.

The ceremony must take place beneath a full moon.

Place six roses, stained with the blood of sacrifices and kin, into the goblet.

Three o'clock in the morning.

In the Slytherin girls' dormitory, where everyone slept peacefully, one bed trembled with restless movement. Beneath the covers, Mirabelle had pulled her blankets over her head, conjured a soft magical light, and opened the forbidden tome she'd smuggled from the restricted section.

Though she'd managed to steal it successfully, its prolonged absence would certainly raise suspicion. She needed to read everything quickly, memorize every detail, and return it before dawn. Fortunately, her brilliant mind retained everything after a single reading—no need for tedious copying.

The tome was thick, filled with detailed ritual procedures, necessary tools, and methods for obtaining them. It contained case studies of past practitioners—their failures, successes, advantages, and fatal mistakes. All of it she could memorize.

I don't know how Voldemort managed it, but he survived even after losing his physical form. The quickest way to counter that would be to achieve immortality myself. However, I must admit this method still falls short of Voldemort's level of immortality...

If she aimed for world domination, she would inevitably face both Voldemort and Dumbledore. Against the immortal Dark Lord and the greatest wizard of the century, even she would struggle to claim victory. Honestly, in her current state, she had no chance of winning.

That's why Mirabelle sought a way to level the playing field. The method lay within this book—the ritual.

"Squeak."

A soft cry near her pillow caught her attention. Looking over, she saw her pet black rat standing there, whiskers twitching.

Pyotr had rarely been seen since Mirabelle entered the school, but there was good reason for his absence. He'd been busy controlling the rat population throughout Hogwarts.

No creature knew the castle's structure and hidden passages better than rats. They scurried everywhere, accessed every corner, witnessed every secret. Mirabelle realized that if she could control them all—make them her familiars—she could surveil the entire grounds of Hogwarts.

The thought had led to immediate action. She'd sent the magically enhanced Pyotr into the castle's depths, tasking him with rallying the rodent masses.

While Hogwarts appeared peaceful on the surface, a fierce war for territorial dominance raged in the shadows—fought entirely by rats.

"Squeak..."

"Half the school under your control already? Well done, Pyotr. Now lead your forces and conquer the remainder."

She channeled magic through her fingertips, casting a strengthening spell on the black rat. Already more intelligent and aggressive than ordinary rats, Pyotr was the perfect general for this underground army. With the additional magical enhancement, no common rat could hope to challenge his authority.

Following her orders, the black rat vanished into the darkness, leaving only silence behind.

If this plan succeeds, there won't be a corner of this castle I can't monitor. I could track everyone's movements—students, teachers, everyone. Ideally, I'd keep constant surveillance on Dumbledore himself...

After finishing the tome, she closed it and hid it beneath her sheets. Then she stifled a small yawn and buried her face in her pillow.

For now, everything proceeded smoothly. She hoped this progress would continue until year's end.

With these thoughts, Mirabelle drifted into unconsciousness.

•~•

Quidditch stood as the most beloved sport in the wizarding world. Everyone knew of this game, which allegedly originated on Queerditch Marsh in eleventh-century England. Throughout the magical community, adults and children alike embraced the sport with passionate enthusiasm.

Hogwarts proved no exception.

The Quidditch stands overflowed with spectators, some clutching omnioculars for better views.

"The fateful match is about to begin! Today's battle: Gryffindor versus Slytherin! For six long years, Gryffindor has suffered under Slytherin's underhanded and brutal tactics. Today, I truly hope they'll claim their revenge!"

"Jordan!"

"My apologies, Professor McGonagall."

Lee Jordan, Gryffindor's commentator, sat in the announcer's booth while McGonagall scolded him for his obvious bias. Though the match hadn't yet begun, the stands already buzzed with electric excitement.

Mirabelle and Edith entered the stadium fashionably late.

"Oh no... just as I thought, every seat's taken. Mirabelle, you really shouldn't have slept in..."

"It's fine. It's a rare free day, after all."

"It's not exactly a holiday—just class cancellation for Quidditch, you know."

Edith brimmed with enthusiasm, clutching a megaphone, cheering flags, and spirit sticks. In stark contrast, Mirabelle seemed thoroughly unmotivated. Having stayed awake until after three o'clock the previous night, she rubbed her sleepy eyes while Edith led her unsteadily forward.

From Mirabelle's perspective, this match's outcome was already decided. Watching held no purpose, offered no value. But Edith couldn't possibly know that, which was why she'd been dragged here against her will.

Just as Edith resigned herself to standing throughout the match, several students suddenly appeared before them.

"My lady! Good morning!"

"Miss! How are you feeling today?"

The Slytherin students materialized as if from nowhere. They were second, third, and fourth years—their exact ages irrelevant as they all knelt before Mirabelle, heads bowed in reverence.

Ever since the troll incident, their numbers had increased dramatically, much to Edith's growing frustration. A substantial portion of Slytherin house, regardless of year, had become captivated by Mirabelle, treating her like royalty.

Fortunately, they caused no direct harm, but their strange devotion made Edith's life complicated simply for being Mirabelle's friend.

"What? No available seats? Men, the young lady and her companion are in distress! Surrender your seats immediately!"

"Please, my lady! Your friend as well!"

"...Ah... yes, thank you..."

Still half-asleep, Mirabelle and Edith settled into the vacated seats while the boys crowded around them, offering freshly purchased drinks and an assortment of snacks.

Don't these boys feel any shame, fawning over an eleven-year-old girl like this? Edith thought, though she kept the observation to herself.

"Miss! Please, have a drink!"

"Miss! Allow me to fan you!"

"Miss! Let me massage your shoulders!"

It was insufferably annoying.

Edith considered asking Mirabelle to dismiss them, but suspected that would only intensify their devotion in some twisted way. She sighed, accepting that she'd simply have to adapt to this new reality.

The match began, and truthfully, there wasn't much worth describing.

As Mirabelle had anticipated, Gryffindor claimed victory. Though Harry Potter's broom went berserk during the game, he ultimately managed to catch the Golden Snitch and end the match.

For Mirabelle, the outcome had been obvious—hardly an exciting spectacle. However, it confirmed that Quirrell was indeed targeting Harry, exactly as she'd expected. That knowledge alone made the tedious morning worthwhile.

•~•

December twenty-fifth marked Christmas, the holy day celebrating Jesus Christ's birth. Though originally a Muggle celebration, it remained special at Hogwarts.

On this sacred day, all classes were cancelled as holiday observance, and students could return home. Of course, they could choose to remain at school for Hogwarts' Christmas festivities, but Mirabelle decided to visit her family estate.

She harbored no particular desire to spend Christmas with that family, but failing to return home might arouse suspicion. Moreover, several components required for the ritual were legally prohibited and impossible to obtain at Hogwarts.

For those, she'd need someone to procure them on her behalf—specifically, Holger the house-elf.

To allow him proper preparation time for the ritual, returning home seemed the wisest course.

The Beresford family resided in a mansion—no, a castle—standing on the outskirts of Albania. (This was a magical territory bearing no relation to the Muggle Republic of Albania and appeared on no non-magical maps.)

Surrounded by a five-meter-high stone wall, the grounds covered 6,500 square meters of meticulously maintained gardens. Every tree and flower bloomed in perfect arrangement—all species unique to the wizarding world, impossible to find in Muggle society, and each one a valuable potion ingredient.

At the property's edge lay private recreational areas: swimming pools, tennis courts, even a full Quidditch pitch. Yet not a single garden gnome infested the grounds—those common magical pests had been systematically eliminated.

Trained hellhounds roamed freely throughout the estate, ready to kill and devour any unauthorized intruders who dared trespass.

Beyond this immaculate garden rose a mansion reminiscent of a miniature castle.

Dozens of house servants lined the entrance pathway, creating a formal reception for the Beresford heir. As Mirabelle passed, they bowed in perfect unison, greeting her with synchronized "Welcome home, Miss."

Standing before the massive, gate-like doors, two maids rushed forward to grant her entry.

Inside the manor, the head butler awaited her arrival. Mirabelle surrendered her luggage without a backward glance and continued deeper into the house.

In the drawing room, her father, mother, older brother, and younger brother had already assembled.

When her older brother spotted her—his blonde hair slicked back, his expression perpetually stern—he fixed her with his usual disapproving glare. She'd grown accustomed to it by now.

Though born the family's eldest son, he'd been consistently overshadowed by his talented younger sister's achievements. This perceived humiliation had bred deep resentment toward his capable sibling.

Ignoring his hostile stare, Mirabelle took her designated seat and addressed her father.

"I have returned, Father."

"Mm... how has school life been treating you?"

"Everything proceeds smoothly."

Her father, Heathcote Beresford, was an imposing man with silver hair swept back in pristine waves. His thick eyebrows and gaunt cheekbones gave him a severe appearance, accentuated by formal robes reminiscent of ancien régime court fashion. The elaborate frills adorning his collar and sleeves spoke of refined, expensive taste.

Her mother, Mavis Beresford, was a stunning woman with golden hair cascading to her waist and piercing blue eyes. She wore a crimson gown with a daringly low neckline and held an ornate fan imported from Japan—its elegant design had apparently caught her fancy.

"Have you encountered the Malfoy boy yet?"

"Yes. However, he hardly warrants concern, Father. Merely a spoiled child."

"I see. Hah! Lucius... it seems you lack skill in child-rearing. There's no comparison to my Mirabelle... hehehe..."

Heathcote maintained a fierce rivalry with the Malfoy family, particularly its current patriarch, Lucius Malfoy. For a man who demanded supremacy in all things, the Malfoys represented a persistent thorn in his pride.

In power, lineage, history, and estate—the Malfoys held advantages over the Beresfords in every category. This resentment intensified due to Lucius Malfoy's former status as a Death Eater.

Though Heathcote would employ any means necessary to destroy his opponents and win his legal cases, Lucius Malfoy remained the one adversary he'd failed to convict.

"Affection shouldn't be distributed carelessly... and spoiling is absolutely forbidden. In all matters, one must be selective—love only the finest specimen. They should love only the most capable person destined to lead the family and allow only them to inherit... that's the sole method for maintaining family dignity. Don't you agree, Simon?"

"...As you say... Sir..."

When questioned, the eldest son—Simon Beresford—answered through gritted teeth, his face twisting with barely contained frustration.

Despite being the firstborn male, he wasn't permitted to address Heathcote as "Father." In fact, no one except Mirabelle could call their parents by parental titles.

This was because Mirabelle had been confirmed as the next family head, making her the sole recipient of Mr. and Mrs. Beresford's affection.

Simon, having lost the succession competition, had already been designated as Mirabelle's future "retainer."

Such was the Beresford way—the defeated and weak were ruthlessly discarded and trampled underfoot, even if they were blood relatives.

"Incidentally, Mirabelle, I received an owl from your school recently."

"Oh... what did the correspondence contain?"

"While the letter praised your academic excellence, it also criticized your lack of cooperation and individualistic tendencies. Apparently, they're displeased that you're accumulating followers rather than friends."

Despite the school's complaints, Heathcote's expression showed clear amusement. Understanding his true feelings, Mirabelle responded with her own cold smile.

"Is that problematic?"

"Not at all... she is my daughter, after all. The future head of the Beresford family must be exactly thus."

Always emerge victorious—that was this family's unbreakable law.

To her relatives, Mirabelle's naturally tyrannical temperament marked her as a true prodigy.

Heathcote's mood brightened as he poured wine and placed the glass before Mirabelle. Though she was only eleven, such trivial concerns held no weight today.

Mirabelle accepted the offered wine, slowly savoring its complex flavor.

"Now that I consider it... is 'the Boy Who Lived'—Harry Potter—attending as well? What manner of person is he?"

"...He possesses some noteworthy qualities. Considering his eleven years of Muggle upbringing, his adaptation isn't poor. He demonstrates natural talent, particularly with flying. However, I question whether he's truly powerful enough to defeat... that person."

With that assessment, she took another sip of wine and set the glass down.

Her younger brother, Sidney Beresford, quickly grasped the bottle and refilled her glass with practiced efficiency. Unlike his older sibling, this brother harbored no apparent resentment about serving Mirabelle. He moved with admirable grace, like a perfectly trained butler.

"Please, Sister."

"Yes. You're becoming considerably more attentive, Sidney."

"I am deeply grateful for your acknowledgment."

With waist-length silver hair inherited from their father and refined features from their mother, this younger brother was genuinely talented. Though inferior to Mirabelle, he possessed superior intellect, magical power, and quick wit.

Had his health been robust, he might have been considered alongside Mirabelle as a potential heir.

However, Mirabelle suspected that even with perfect health, he would have voluntarily stepped aside. His "conditioning" had already been completed.

Being one year her junior, he'd spent his entire life closest to Mirabelle, under her constant care and influence. From birth onward, he'd been exposed to the overwhelming aura of dominance she naturally projected.

Consequently, Mirabelle's authority had become absolute within Sidney's mind. Even at his young age, he'd already transformed into the perfect servant.

The very concept of opposing Mirabelle simply didn't exist within his consciousness.

However, his older brother Simon clearly despised this sight.

Simon shot to his feet, violently kicking his chair, and roared in frustration.

"I refuse to accept this! I still cannot accept it! Why should a woman become the next family head?! Father, why can't it be me?!"

"Simon, sit down. You're embarrassing yourself."

"I won't acknowledge it! Mirabelle, I am—"

"What a pathetic display! Have you forgotten making identical declarations a year ago? You attacked Mirabelle before she'd even reached maturity, then got thoroughly defeated by a ten-year-old girl!"

Heathcote's sharp rebuke silenced Simon immediately.

Simon's face contorted with humiliation as he fled the room.

Watching his retreat, Mirabelle found herself thinking:

Would a relative's blood work for the ritual...?

---

Author's Note: This installment contained three scenes: staying up late, watching Quidditch, and returning home briefly.

This marks our first glimpse of Mirabelle's family, though several other members exist. I mentioned previously that "Beresford has at least five siblings"... most will likely remain nameless background characters.

Managing too many original characters becomes tedious. Therefore, you don't need to memorize Heathcote, Mavis, Simon, and Sidney from this chapter. Simply remembering "they're a twisted family" will suffice for reading this story.

Focus on remembering Mirabelle and Edith from the original content—that's the kind of story I want this to be.

Heathcote's mindset might seem difficult to understand, but it's easier if you compare it to Pokémon training. Essentially, he's like a trainer obsessed with perfect individual values.

Lucius represents the type who would lovingly raise his first Charmander regardless of poor stats, while Heathcote would readily release his entire team back to the wild once he started selective breeding.