Ch: 19

"Trick or Treat!" The cheerful voices of students echoed through the Great Hall as Dumbledore laughed warmly from the High Table. With a the

"Trick or Treat!"

The cheerful voices of students echoed through the Great Hall as Dumbledore laughed warmly from the High Table. With a theatrical wave of his wand, pumpkin pie, golden scones, fluffy chiffon cake, and chocolate chip cookies materialized across the tables, their aromas mingling with the autumn air.

Today was October 31st—Halloween. Since last year's festivities had been interrupted by a troll rampaging through the castle, the students' anticipation burned particularly bright this year, filling the hall with an excitement that crackled like static electricity.

"Hey Mirabelle," Edith said, biting into a warm scone that crumbled sweetly between her teeth, "have you heard that Malfoy is now Seeker on the Quidditch team?"

"Yes." Mirabelle's response came flat and disinterested as she cut precise pieces from her slice of cake. "Apparently he bought his way onto the team by giving all his teammates Nimbus 2001s."

It didn't matter to Mirabelle how Malfoy had secured his position. In her mind, a broom—no matter how expensive—couldn't compensate for lack of natural talent. She was certain that with such tactics, Malfoy would never be able to defeat Harry Potter.

"This puts Slytherin in a stronger position," Edith mused, "but what do you think of this year's Quidditch Cup chances?"

"If Malfoy had become a Beater instead of Seeker, he might have had a real shot at winning. But he's not cut out to be a Seeker." Mirabelle's voice carried the certainty of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome.

"So that means..."

"Barring any unforeseen circumstances like last year, Gryffindor will claim victory."

Last year, despite being only a first-year, Harry Potter had displayed extraordinary talent that led his team to the brink of championship glory. However, he had collapsed unconscious before the final match, allowing the Quidditch Cup to slip into Slytherin's hands. The prevailing opinion—one Mirabelle shared—was that without that incident, Gryffindor would have emerged triumphant.

"Why don't you join the team yourself, Mirabelle? You could easily lead us to victory."

"Quidditch practice is a waste of precious time. If I have spare hours, I'd rather spend them studying magic." Mirabelle's fork clinked against her plate as she spoke with characteristic pragmatism.

"You're already strong enough as you are. What more do you hope to achieve through additional study? Are you planning to conquer the world?"

"What if I said yes?"

Edith's laugh caught in her throat. "Your jokes don't sound like jokes, so please stop..."

In truth, this wasn't a jest at all—Mirabelle was completely serious—but she doubted anyone would believe such an admission. Edith smiled nervously while taking another bite of her pumpkin cookie, its spiced sweetness doing little to ease her growing uneasiness.

Without further comment, Mirabelle returned to methodically cutting her chiffon cake into perfect triangles. As the soft sponge dissolved on her tongue, she contemplated that perhaps it was time to act.

Originally, she had planned to eliminate the Basilisk immediately upon arriving at school. She knew the serpent lurked within the Chamber of Secrets, and had assumed that sending rats to scout the chamber would allow her to pinpoint its location, then teleport directly there to confront the beast.

But the situation proved far more complex than anticipated.

When she had dispatched mice to search for the secret chamber, they returned empty-handed, offering nothing but complaints about their fruitless hunt. Despite knowing the chamber lay somewhere beneath the castle and ordering intensive searches of the underground areas, they found nothing. It seemed that being a "secret" chamber meant it was nearly impenetrable through any entrance except the intended one.

Whether protected by magical barriers or some other enchantment, the chamber remained beyond the reach of mere rodents.

(Or perhaps Tom Riddle implemented additional safeguards...) she mused.

Either way, she had clearly underestimated the Chamber of Secrets' defenses. Upon this realization, she had called off the rats' investigation and adopted a "wait and see" strategy. Without knowing the chamber's exact coordinates, teleportation remained impossible—or rather, attempting it blindly would result in her body being torn apart by the unstable magic.

(The problem is timing.)

There would be four opportunities to encounter the Basilisk when it emerged.

The first would be when Argus Filch's beloved cat, Mrs. Norris, was attacked.

The second would occur when Gryffindor first-year Colin Creevey fell victim.

The third would involve Hufflepuff's Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick.

And the fourth would see both Hermione Granger and Ravenclaw's Penelope Clearwater petrified.

For absolute certainty, the fourth encounter would be optimal. Unlike the other three incidents, she knew the exact time and location of the fourth attack. The previous three were described only vaguely—"in the hallway" or "near the stairs"—making precise preparation impossible. Even if she had somehow attached tracking rats to the victims, the Basilisk would have devoured them before any useful information reached her.

But the fourth attack was different. She knew it would occur near the library on the day of a Quidditch match—specifically, during the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff game.

With a known location, she could set traps to prevent escape and plan the perfect ambush.

There was no need to rush the Basilisk's elimination. Mirabelle felt no concern for however many cats or students might be sacrificed in the meantime—their potential deaths were merely acceptable casualties. What mattered was ensuring complete success when she finally struck.

It seemed this year would prove as tediously predictable as the last, filled with endless waiting for the proper moment to arrive. The thought dampened her mood considerably.

"The Chamber of Secrets has been opened. Enemies of the heir, beware."

The discovery came after the Halloween feast had ended, as students meandered back to their respective dormitories through the castle's shadowy corridors.

An eerie presence permeated the third-floor hallway, causing numerous students to halt mid-step, drawn by an inexplicable sense of wrongness. Crimson letters gleamed wetly on the stone wall, a dark puddle spread across the floor like spilled ink, and Mrs. Norris hung motionless from a torch bracket, her yellow eyes vacant and glassy. Harry Potter and his friends stood frozen before the scene, their faces pale with shock and confusion.

The sight shattered the lingering warmth of the Halloween celebration, plunging the gathered students into stunned silence.

Eventually, Draco Malfoy's delighted voice shattered the quiet, echoing off the ancient stones.

"Enemies of the heir, beware! You'll be next, Mudbloods!"

His excitement was palpable as his words reverberated through the corridor, drawing the immediate attention of Argus Filch and several professors who came rushing to investigate the commotion.

Upon seeing Harry near the petrified cat, Filch began shouting accusations. "You did this! You murdered her!" His weathered face contorted with rage as he confronted the bewildered second-year.

While no rational person would believe a twelve-year-old capable of such dark magic, Filch's fury made him deaf to reason. Perhaps some prior incident had already painted Harry as a suspect in the caretaker's mind.

"Argus, please accompany me," Dumbledore said with calm authority, gently cradling the stiffened cat. "Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger—you as well."

"Headmaster, my office is available if needed. It's just upstairs," Professor Lockhart offered with his characteristic theatrical flair.

"Thank you, Gilderoy."

Dumbledore departed with the trio in tow, leaving the remaining students to process what they had witnessed. Initial silence gave way to nervous whispers, then heated speculation about the night's events.

Edith turned to Mirabelle with poorly concealed anxiety, her voice pitched higher than usual. "'The Chamber of Secrets has been opened'... Mirabelle, what does this mean?"

"It's certainly nothing good," Mirabelle replied with deliberate vagueness, though she understood the message's full implications.

Before she could elaborate, Malfoy approached with a predatory grin. "Allow me to enlighten you."

Apparently, he intended to play teacher—how magnanimous of him.

"This school houses a Chamber of Secrets, a legacy left by our great founder, Salazar Slytherin. The noble Slytherin believed that Muggle-borns—that is, Mudbloods—were unfit to study magic. So he sealed away a monster within the secret chamber, one that would purge the school of tainted blood."

"A monster?" Edith whispered, unconsciously stepping closer to Mirabelle.

"Indeed, Reinhart. A terrible creature that can only be controlled by Slytherin's heir. And now, the Chamber of Secrets has been opened. The enemies of the bloodline will be eliminated, leaving only the chosen pure-blood wizards at Hogwarts."

Malfoy's gray eyes fixed on Mirabelle with malicious satisfaction. Despite her impeccable pure-blood lineage, she possessed every quality that would mark her as an enemy of the heir. Her very existence was a rejection of Slytherin's ideology.

"Beresford," he continued, savoring each word, "you've previously rejected the concept of blood purity. Perhaps it's time to reconsider your position? If you acknowledge your superior breeding and apologize for your past... indiscretions... perhaps you might be forgiven?"

"...Hehehe..."

Rather than showing fear at Malfoy's veiled threats, Mirabelle remained utterly unmoved. Instead, a dark, mocking smile spread across her face as she regarded him with obvious contempt.

"How refreshing to see a coward attempting to use borrowed authority."

"What?!" Malfoy's confident expression wavered.

"Don't make me laugh, Malfoy. Why would someone like me ever pander to such pathetically small-minded ideologies? If this supposed heir dares to come before me, I'll tear them apart and display their corpse as a warning to others."

Her words carried such casual certainty that both Malfoy and Edith felt their throats constrict with involuntary fear. This wasn't mere bravado—there was something in Mirabelle's tone that suggested she could and would follow through on such promises.

The terrifying conviction in her voice painted a vivid image: this girl would face down the legendary monster of Slytherin with genuine excitement, relishing the opportunity to prove her superiority.

"The legacy of Slytherin... that antiquated ideology itself," Mirabelle continued, her smile growing more predatory, "it will feel exquisite to tear it apart with my own hands."

Confronted with such unwavering confidence—backed by what felt like genuine capability—Malfoy's face drained of color. He stumbled backward several steps before turning and hurrying away, his earlier bravado completely evaporated.

After watching his retreat with satisfaction, the two Slytherin girls began their own journey back to the dungeons. They descended the stone steps in comfortable silence until they reached the entrance to their common room.

Edith seemed to wrestle with internal conflict before finally speaking, her voice carefully controlled. "Mirabelle... about your conversation with Malfoy earlier... even if you're being honest about your capabilities, it might be wise to moderate such statements."

Mirabelle raised an elegant eyebrow. "Oh?"

"If you want to survive comfortably in Slytherin, you can't completely dismiss blood purity beliefs. It's just... practical politics."

"I see. That's irrelevant to me." Mirabelle's dismissal was absolute and immediate.

Edith couldn't suppress a bitter laugh. This friend of hers was truly unshakeable—always confident, arrogant, and utterly selfish. She never backed down, never compromised, never showed even a moment's doubt. Even now, her attitude remained as if she were the center of the universe, her arrogance growing stronger rather than diminishing.

Part of Edith envied that unwavering certainty. Mirabelle was undoubtedly wrong about many things, certainly among the worst kinds of people in terms of empathy and consideration. But simultaneously, Edith wondered how liberating it must feel to live so completely according to one's own desires.

How proud could someone be if they lived without fear, remaining true to themselves without any pretense or compromise?

The thought stirred unexpected jealousy in Edith's chest.

"Mirabelle... even if she had been born to Muggle parents, she would have been exactly the same."

"Naturally. Even if my parents were Muggles, I would still be myself." Mirabelle's response carried the weight of absolute conviction.

"That's true... but most people aren't like that, you know?" Edith's smile turned self-deprecating.

Mirabelle was certainly strong, but not everyone possessed such inner fortitude.

"There are students in Slytherin who aren't pure-bloods, but they never admit it openly."

"Hmph. Presumably because they fear ostracism from their peers. How pathetic." Mirabelle's disdain was palpable.

"Yes, it really is pathetic. But sometimes pathetic things feel necessary." Edith's voice grew quieter, more introspective. "Some students spend their entire school years pretending to be something they're not—lying about their blood status, joining in when others mock Muggle-borns, all while secretly terrified of discovery. That's how they survive."

Edith opened her mouth as if to continue, but no words emerged. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, before asking the question that had been weighing on her heart.

"Mirabelle... what do you think of students like that?"

The question carried a complex mixture of hope and terror, anticipation and dread.

Mirabelle couldn't discern the deeper meaning behind Edith's inquiry, but it didn't matter. Regardless of who asked such questions, her answer would always remain consistent. She invariably acted and spoke according to her own unwavering values.

Therefore, without hesitation, she delivered her characteristically blunt assessment.

"They're weaklings trapped by their own despicable insecurities. What of it?"

"...You really are completely unwavering, aren't you?"

Edith's smile carried profound sadness as she turned away, heading in the opposite direction from their dormitory.

"Sorry, I need to visit the bathroom. Go ahead without me."

She hurried off before Mirabelle could respond, leaving her standing alone in the shadowy corridor.

Mirabelle suspected the question had stemmed from Edith's personal struggles and anxieties. Her answer clearly hadn't been what her dormmate had hoped to hear.

However, that didn't mean she had any intention of altering her opinions. If this conversation caused Edith to distance herself, then their friendship had never been meant to endure anyway.

No... come to think of it, could what we had even be called friendship to begin with?

Shaking her head slightly, she turned toward the dormitory entrance—only to stop abruptly upon sensing another presence.

"Mirabelle..."

"Headmaster Dumbledore?"

She couldn't determine how long he had been standing there, hidden in the corridor's shadows. The elderly wizard emerged from around the corner, his famous blue eyes twinkling with what appeared to be grandfatherly warmth—an expression Mirabelle found particularly irritating. Those eyes seemed to peer directly into her soul, seeing far more than she was comfortable revealing.

Dumbledore glanced meaningfully in the direction Edith had fled before speaking quietly. "Aren't you going to follow her?"

"That's none of your concern." Though phrased as a question, Mirabelle recognized the underlying suggestion—or perhaps command—and cut it off immediately.

"Mirabelle, she's suffering emotionally... surely you can sense that?"

"You know that, yet you still don't pursue her yourself. You're not someone who fails to understand such obvious truths."

Edith's pain and internal conflicts were her own responsibility to resolve. Certainly, it would be possible to chase after her now and create the appearance of offering comfort—reaching out with reassurances and promises of protection.

In fact, expanding her collection of useful "pieces" through such tactics represented a valid strategy that many would employ.

But for now, Mirabelle had no intention of using such manipulative approaches on Edith.

"Not everyone possesses the strength you carry," Dumbledore said gently. "People worry, suffer, and support each other—that's how human beings live. Don't you think you should offer support as her friend?"

"Support is only necessary for the weak who cannot stand independently. Such relationships never last regardless. If I were to allow someone to stand beside me, they would need to possess the strength to stand on their own feet."

Mirabelle's words were delivered with clinical detachment. She had no use for people who couldn't keep pace with her ambitions.

When she spoke, Dumbledore saw a haunting reflection of his younger self—as if his past had materialized before him, transcending the boundaries of time.

She certainly resembled the wizard he had once been. Dumbledore had also been proud of his exceptional talents in his youth, never encountering another wizard who could stand as his equal. That singular genius had fostered a deep loneliness in his heart.

That isolation was precisely why he had been so drawn to Gellert Grindelwald—the first person he had ever met who seemed to exist on the same intellectual plane.

"Friends are life's greatest treasure, Mirabelle. You only realize their value after you've lost them."

This girl's potential appeared limitless. Depending on the path she chose, she could become the next Voldemort, repeat his own mistakes, or perhaps transcend both Gryffindor and Slytherin to become something entirely new.

It wasn't impossible to imagine her surpassing every great wizard in history, becoming a hero unlike any who had come before.

That's precisely why he couldn't bear the thought of her living a twisted existence like his own youth had been.

"That's none of your business, Headmaster."

However, Dumbledore's words fell on deaf ears. Mirabelle snorted with obvious irritation and walked into the dormitory, leaving him standing alone in the corridor.

Perhaps there truly is no reaching her, Dumbledore thought with growing concern.

He wanted to believe that no one was born inherently evil, that some spark of human feeling existed within her heart. But observing her behavior and listening to her words provided little evidence supporting such hope.

She did have Edith as what might generously be called a friend, and he had hoped this relationship might reveal some capacity for genuine affection. But tonight's exchange suggested even that fragile connection was tenuous at best.

Currently, Edith seemed to represent the only avenue through which Mirabelle displayed anything resembling humanity—yet even that relationship appeared brittle and temporary.

Does this girl truly possess any human feelings at all?

The question troubled him deeply as he shook his head in frustration.

If I don't maintain faith in her potential for goodness, who else can be expected to believe?

Author's Note: Good evening everyone. This time, I brought you three storylines: Halloween, the Basilisk's appearance, and the growing rift in Mirabelle's relationship with Edith. Many of you may have wondered why a sensible person like Edith would befriend someone like Mirabelle. Here's the reason: Mirabelle is virtually the only Slytherin student who openly opposes blood purity ideologies, which made her feel like a safe harbor for non-pure-blood students. Well everyone, I'll see you tomorrow.

Bonus Scene:

Meanwhile, in the girls' bathroom...

Edith: sniffling quietly

Hermione, who happened to be washing her hands: (This feels like déjà vu...)

Moaning Myrtle, floating nearby: "I don't understand why everyone's always crying in my bathroom..."

***

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