Ch: 18

"Good morning, Mirabelle."

"Oh, good morning, Edith."

I awakened from a comfortable sleep and made my way to the Great Hall, exchanging pleasantries with Edith before settling at the Slytherin table. The morning light filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a warm glow across the polished wooden surfaces.

Mornings set the tone for everything that follows. How you feel throughout the day depends entirely on whether you can begin it in good spirits. That's why Mirabelle treasured this breakfast time above all else—it was the engine that powered her through each day, as essential as fuel to a car. Without this peaceful ritual, maintaining her composure would be impossible.

"What's our first lesson?" Edith asked, spreading marmalade on her toast with practiced efficiency.

"Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration."

"Ugh, right from the start." Edith's shoulders sagged dramatically.

Edith harbored a particular dislike for McGonagall that went beyond mere house rivalry. While the professor's status as Head of Gryffindor certainly didn't help, what truly bothered Edith was the suffocating atmosphere of rigid discipline that surrounded the woman. Combined with Edith's natural struggles with transformation magic, it created the perfect storm of academic dread.

Could there be a worse combination than your least favorite subject taught by your least favorite teacher? The ominous weather outside seemed to mirror Edith's gloomy prospects for the day.

"If it were any other class, I could handle it, but of all the subjects..." Edith muttered, stabbing her sausage with unnecessary force.

"Don't be so dramatic. Your beloved flying lessons come right after."

I methodically cut my bacon and eggs into precise pieces, spearing them with my fork and savoring each bite. The bacon's natural saltiness eliminated any need for additional sauce, while the buttered toast achieved that perfect balance—crispy exterior yielding to soft, warm bread beneath. The house-elves had outdone themselves once again.

After swallowing, I washed everything down with cool milk and took a deep, satisfied breath. This quiet, peaceful interlude represented pure bliss—a uniquely human experience that creatures unfamiliar with culinary culture could never appreciate. Closing my eyes, I immersed myself in the moment, letting the contentment wash over me.

This was one of my secret morning pleasures: savoring the afterglow of a perfect meal.

However—

"STEALING A CAR IS GROUNDS FOR EXPULSION! YOU'D BETTER WATCH YOURSELF—WE WON'T STAND FOR THIS! DID YOU STOP TO THINK FOR EVEN ONE SECOND HOW YOUR FATHER AND I FELT WHEN WE DISCOVERED OUR CAR MISSING?!"

A thunderous voice suddenly erupted through the hall, shattering my peaceful reverie like glass. The sound reverberated off the vaulted ceiling, making the very stones tremble and causing dishes to rattle on every table like an earthquake had struck.

"LAST NIGHT, DUMBLEDORE'S LETTER ARRIVED, AND I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER MIGHT DIE OF EMBARRASSMENT! I DIDN'T RAISE MY CHILDREN TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS! YOU AND HARRY COULD HAVE BEEN KILLED! I'VE HAD ENOUGH! YOUR FATHER WAS QUESTIONED BY THE MINISTRY—ALL BECAUSE OF YOU! IF YOU BREAK ONE MORE RULE, I'LL DRAG YOU HOME IMMEDIATELY!"

After that one-sided tirade, the deafening voice finally subsided, leaving an uncomfortable silence in its wake. Every student in the hall craned their necks to locate the source of the commotion, eventually spotting Harry and Ron looking as though they wished the floor would swallow them whole.

A Howler. Of course.

"That was... intense. So that's what a Howler sounds like up close," Edith whispered, her face pale. "If I remember correctly, they amplify sound several hundred times beyond normal volume."

"And if you don't open them quickly, they explode," I added absently.

"Exactly. Quite the incentive to— Mirabelle?"

But I didn't respond. Instead, I rose from my seat with deliberate, controlled movements, my hand sliding into my robes to withdraw my staff—a magnificent weapon crafted from vampire tree wood, disproportionately large for my frame but perfectly suited for both walking and, when necessary, delivering devastating blows.

Behind me, Edith caught a glimpse of something that made her blood run cold: the shadow of an enormous black demon with razor-sharp bear claws flickering at my back, accompanied by an ominous breathing sound that seemed to whisper death itself.

"Wait, Mirabelle! What are you planning to do with that staff?" Edith's voice cracked with genuine alarm.

"Something quite simple," I replied, my voice deadly calm. "I'm going to kill that inconsiderate fool."

"What?!"

While I'd like to believe she was merely speaking figuratively, the murderous aura radiating from Mirabelle suggested otherwise. Edith, desperate to prevent her friend from committing actual homicide, threw herself at Mirabelle and clung to her with all her strength.

If she let go now, there would genuinely be casualties at the Gryffindor table! In her current state, Mirabelle might actually launch a lethal curse at Weasley!

"Let go, Edith! That buffoon deserves a thousand deaths for interrupting my breakfast!"

"It was beyond his control! The Howler was sent by his mother—he's as much a victim as anyone!"

"I don't care. Circumstances are irrelevant."

"Why do you have such a short fuse when it comes to food?"

Thanks to Edith's desperate intervention, Mirabelle gradually regained her composure and postponed Ron's execution—though 'postponed' was admittedly a terrifying concept. For now, they could only hope that time would cool her murderous rage.

As a footnote to this incident, from that day forward, Ronald Weasley found himself struck by an inexplicable aura of impending doom whenever he wandered within thirty meters of Mirabelle Beresford.

•~•

Transfiguration and Flying

McGonagall's Transfiguration lesson focused on converting beetles into buttons—a deceptively simple assignment that exposed how much magical knowledge had evaporated from students' minds over the summer holidays. Surprisingly few managed to complete the transformation successfully.

Naturally, Mirabelle numbered among the successful minority, while Edith and Malfoy found themselves struggling with the majority.

The break that followed provided a welcome respite, particularly for second-year students who could now participate in Quidditch and were eager to test their flying skills. Mirabelle and Edith took a leisurely stroll around the grounds, observing their classmates' aerial attempts.

"Look at this beauty," Malfoy's voice carried across the courtyard as he gathered his usual crowd of admirers. "The latest Nimbus 2001—makes Potter's Nimbus 2000 look like a toy broom."

He held aloft the sleek racing broom, its polished wood gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. The satisfaction radiating from him was almost palpable—clearly, he'd been nursing wounded pride ever since Harry received his exceptional Nimbus 2000 the previous year.

Spotting Mirabelle nearby, he strutted over with characteristic arrogance. "So, Beresford, do you still think I'm inferior to Potter?"

"Hmm?" Mirabelle glanced up with the sort of disinterested expression one might reserve for particularly tedious homework. "Oh, it's you."

The broom in his hands was indeed impressive—fine craftsmanship that seemed almost wasted on its current owner.

"By the way, you did bring your own broom, didn't you? Second-years are allowed personal brooms now. You're not still using school equipment like some Weasley, are you?"

"Of course I brought my own." Mirabelle produced her broom with casual grace.

It was an unfamiliar design of breathtaking beauty—silver-handled with an elegant, streamlined silhouette that made even the Clean Sweep models look bulky by comparison. The tail tapered to a razor-sharp point, and golden letters spelled out "Silver Arrow" along the shaft, beneath which gleamed the logo of its maker: Leonardo.

Even at first glance, its superior quality was unmistakable. It easily matched Malfoy's Nimbus 2001—no, if appearances weren't deceiving, it seemed even more exquisitely crafted.

"Th-that's...?" Malfoy's confident demeanor cracked slightly.

"The Silver Arrow. No longer in production, but I had it specially recreated."

Typically, only officially registered, authentic brooms were permitted for student use, with unauthorized modifications or magical enhancements strictly forbidden. Minor maintenance to suit individual flying habits represented the extent of allowed customization.

However, the Silver Arrow existed as a unique exception. Originally handcrafted by individual artisans, each broom possessed distinct characteristics—no two were identical. Consequently, any broom bearing Leonardo's authentic mark and logo was recognized as a legitimate "Silver Arrow" and approved for use.

This particular broom had indeed been created by Leonard Jukes himself, making it one of the last existing examples of exceptional performance artistry. Banning its use would be impossible under current regulations, which remained deliberately flexible to accommodate the handmade nature of these legendary brooms.

Of course, classification was merely a technicality. In terms of actual performance, this was something else entirely.

The broom had been completely rebuilt incorporating not only cutting-edge Nimbus technology but also innovations from the yet-unreleased Firebolt design. It was no longer simply a Silver Arrow—it had evolved into something that could rightfully be called the Silver Arrow Mark II, a next-generation racing broom designed to soar into a new era of flight.

"Well, you have a decent broom, but the Nimbus 2001—"

"Oh my goodness, Miss Beresford! Is that perhaps a genuine Silver Arrow?!"

Madam Hooch's excited voice cut through Malfoy's attempt at face-saving as she approached with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. She'd likely come to check on students during their break, but the sight of Mirabelle's broom had clearly captured her complete attention.

Apparently, she numbered among those who truly appreciated the Silver Arrow's legendary status.

"Ah, that slender design, the perfect grip balance, and that arrow-sharp tail... it brings back such memories." Her eyes gleamed with nostalgic fervor. "This is genuinely magnificent. I learned to fly on one just like it when I was about your age. Such a tragedy that they discontinued the line. If the series were still available, it would have completely dominated the market—probably outselling even the Nimbus line."

"Was it really that exceptional?" Edith asked, genuinely curious about Madam Hooch's obvious enthusiasm.

Regardless of quality, it remained an older model from a bygone era. Questioning whether it could truly compete with modern Nimbus and Clean Sweep designs seemed only natural.

Madam Hooch nodded with absolute conviction. "Oh yes, absolutely. It was the pinnacle of broom technology in its time—everyone wanted a Silver Arrow. Demand so far exceeded production capacity that finding one in stores became nearly impossible. Without question, it ranks among the finest brooms still in use today."

She turned to Mirabelle with barely contained excitement. "Miss Beresford... might I possibly take it for a quick flight after classes?"

"I suppose that would be acceptable."

"Oh, wonderful! Thank you so much. I'll be counting the minutes until class ends."

Edith smiled wryly as she watched Madam Hooch practically skip back to supervising the other students, her face glowing with childlike anticipation. The professor's attachment to the Silver Arrow was both touching and amusing—like watching someone rediscover a beloved childhood toy.

Meanwhile, Malfoy glared at Mirabelle's broom with undisguised resentment, his earlier bravado completely deflated.

"H-hmph! Equipment doesn't determine everything!" he declared with wounded pride before stalking away, shoulders hunched in defeat.

The irony wasn't lost on anyone—he'd spent the last ten minutes boasting about his broom's superiority.

Edith pulled out her own Clean Sweep No. 7, examining it with new perspective. "Looking at all these impressive brooms makes mine seem rather plain by comparison."

"I like it though," Mirabelle observed. "Nimbus brooms have their merits, but I personally prefer something with more stability and reliability."

"Haha, it's not particularly fancy, but it gets the job done."

The Clean Sweep series held the distinction of being the world's first mass-produced competition broom, manufactured by Clean Sweep Broom Company. Before its introduction, competitive brooms were exclusively handcrafted by individual artisans like those who made the Silver Arrow. However, supply couldn't meet rapidly increasing demand, forcing handmade brooms out of mainstream markets.

Mass-produced magical brooms like the Nimbus and Comet series filled the void, with Clean Sweep pioneering this revolutionary approach. Starting with Model No. 1, each subsequent number represented incremental improvements to a design that prioritized outstanding stability above all else. Its cornering capabilities, in particular, ranked among the industry's finest.

"I wonder why Malfoy always picks fights with you," Edith mused, watching students soar overhead. "It only makes him look foolish."

"I have no idea. His motivations don't interest me."

"You're absolutely ruthless..."

Perhaps Malfoy was secretly a masochist, Edith thought, though voicing such a theory would probably send the boy into apoplectic rage.

•~•

Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts

Snape's afternoon Potions class covered the efficient use of herbs like lavender and sage, teaching students proper mixing techniques before dividing them into groups for practical application. During the exercise, one of Malfoy's cronies botched his mixture, producing smoke that reeked of rotten eggs, yet somehow escaped punishment.

Had Harry Potter made the same mistake, house points would have vanished faster than morning mist.

After Potions came the day's final challenge: Defense Against the Dark Arts. As Mirabelle and Edith approached the classroom, they encountered Harry and his two friends emerging with expressions of exhausted frustration.

Gryffindor had Defense class before Slytherin, and judging by Harry's agitated manner, the lesson had been thoroughly disappointing.

"Hermione, you're giving Lockhart far too much credit. Did you see that disaster? He couldn't even handle a few pixies!"

"No, Harry, I think he was trying to give us hands-on experience—"

"You call having your wand stolen by a pixie and hiding under a desk 'experience'? Wake up, Hermione!"

Edith frowned at this exchange, studying Harry's group with growing suspicion. A man who had supposedly defeated vampires and werewolves couldn't subdue a handful of pixies? That seemed absurd beyond belief.

Yet remembering Mirabelle's earlier assessment at the welcome feast made it difficult to dismiss such concerns entirely.

As they passed, Harry glanced at Mirabelle as though wanting to speak—probably about their confrontation with Quirrell—but her intimidating aura rendered him speechless. He eventually walked away without saying a word.

Once everyone had settled in the classroom, Lockhart cleared his throat dramatically and produced one of his books. The cover featured his own photograph, winking at the camera with practiced charm.

Pointing at his image, he announced: "Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. Though I'm not particularly proud of that last one—I didn't pacify the Cardiff werewolf with my smile, after all."

He apparently considered this tremendously witty. However, only a handful of students managed polite chuckles while the majority regarded their instructor with barely concealed disdain.

Oblivious to the cold reception, Lockhart continued in his insufferably arrogant tone: "You all have my books, naturally? And I'm certain you've read at least one or two? Excellent! Today we'll begin with a brief quiz—nothing strenuous, merely checking your familiarity with my published works. You should achieve perfect scores easily enough."

Lockhart clearly assumed his students had already devoured his entire bibliography. As he distributed test papers, he elaborated: "Sadly, when Gryffindor took this same examination earlier, only Miss Hermione Granger achieved a perfect score. I'm confident Slytherin will demonstrate superior dedication."

When Mirabelle examined her test paper, her first instinct was to tear it into confetti. The questions focused entirely on trivial details: Lockhart's favorite color, his secret ambitions, his birthday, and similar narcissistic minutiae. Worse yet, both sides were covered with this drivel in excruciating detail.

The urge to grab Lockhart by his perfectly styled hair and introduce his face to the stone floor was almost overwhelming. Mirabelle clenched her fists, but Edith's restraining hand and urgent whisper of "Calm down!" helped her regain minimal composure.

Clicking her tongue softly, she forced down her irritation and picked up her quill, focusing on the tedious task of filling in blanks.

Attacking him here would be satisfying but counterproductive. This was merely a repeat of last year's pattern—nothing had changed.

But perhaps she could view this differently. What if this represented an opportunity rather than an obstacle? You could only crush something after making full use of it first.

Thirty minutes later, Lockhart collected the papers and theatrically flipped through them, shaking his head with exaggerated dismay.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. What's this? No one mentioned that my favorite color is lilac? It seems few students have properly read 'Voyages with Vampires'—otherwise you'd know the vampire I defeated subsisted entirely on lettuce."

He fixed his gaze on Edith with mock disappointment. "Miss Edith, my secret ambition is hardly 'becoming the world's most famous person.' That makes me sound like some desperate attention-seeker craving celebrity."

The description was uncomfortably accurate, but no one dared voice such observations.

Lockhart then pulled out an answer sheet with renewed enthusiasm. "However, Miss Beresford correctly recalled that the first Muggle vessel I ever sailed was called the 'Nebrod.' She also knew that the ideal birthday gift would represent a harmony between magical and non-magical worlds. Perfect score! Ten points to Slytherin!"

The points were welcome, even if their source was less than inspiring.

The remainder of the lesson consisted entirely of Lockhart recounting his alleged past exploits while providing nothing resembling actual instruction. One might assume this was merely first-day orientation, but nearly half the students were already convinced this pattern would continue throughout the year.

As soon as that ridiculous excuse for education ended, Mirabelle rose and approached Lockhart's desk.

"Might I have a word, Professor Lockhart?"

"Of course, Miss Beresford! What can I do for you?"

"I'm hoping to gain deeper insight into the 'Illusory Matches' featured in 'Year with the Yeti,' but unfortunately, the reference materials I need are restricted in the library. I was wondering if you might lend me your authority and signature? With your permission, I could access the forbidden section and develop a more thorough understanding of your... remarkable achievements."

"Ah, 'Year with the Yeti'! One of my most cherished works. Did you enjoy it?"

"Immensely. I was particularly impressed by the sophisticated narrative structure."

With calculated flattery disguising complete sarcasm—insults he was too dense to recognize—she requested Lockhart's signature. This ignorant fool probably had no comprehension of why certain books were forbidden to younger students, nor would he bother investigating.

That ignorance made him useful. Accessing forbidden texts required exceptional justification under normal circumstances, yet this man would grant permission with casual indifference.

Mirabelle intended to exploit this weakness fully.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in supporting the year's most exceptional student, alongside Miss Granger of course."

Lockhart signed the permission slip without even checking which book Mirabelle intended to borrow. Even if he had looked, he likely wouldn't have noticed that her target bore no relation to "Illusory Matches" and was, in fact, far more dangerous.

A forbidden tome containing dark magic for achieving ambitious goals now lay within her legal reach.

Lockhart would never realize the catastrophic nature of what he'd just authorized, nor could he imagine the future casualties this decision might cause.

Mirabelle selected a book on "time manipulation"—a collection of ancient, forbidden spells that included the theoretical foundations for creating devices like Time-Turners.

That knowledge had just fallen into the hands of perhaps the last person who should possess it.

•~•

Author's Note: Madam Hooch was absolutely thrilled with the Silver Arrow, declaring, "With this Silver Arrow, we can reach the 'other side' of speed!" while McGonagall desperately tried to restore her sanity.

This episode covered three main events: breakfast disruption, broom comparisons, and Lockhart's appalling lesson—all occurring on the first day of term.

Mirabelle has now acquired a forbidden book on time manipulation, which she will undoubtedly put to use eventually. The Harry Potter universe shouldn't be underestimated—it's filled with dangerous magic and artifacts appearing regularly.

Professor Lockhart somehow managed to avoid triggering his own death flags this time. Had he attempted something like his original stunt with Harry—"I'll demonstrate my skills, so Miss Beresford, please play the villain I defeat!"—he would have been finished.

Incidentally, the pixies weren't released because Gryffindor had already taught them a lesson before Slytherin's class. Had the order been reversed... Lockhart is indeed a fortunate man.

———

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