Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

After returning from Hogsmeade, the Halloween party held at Hogwarts was nothing short of spectacular.

Carved Jack-o'-lanterns adorned the Great Hall, and hundreds of bats fluttered around the ceiling.

Orange streamers weaved their way through the stormy, enchanted ceiling, while an array of pumpkin-themed dishes adorned the tables in grand fashion.

Everywhere, students in costumes were singing "Trick or Treat" in unison, exchanging sweets with one another.

Since everyone had just returned from Hogsmeade, they were all armed with candy, making it the perfect opportunity to fully indulge in Halloween festivities.

A few days later, the long-awaited first Quidditch match of the season finally arrived.

The weather, to put it bluntly, was "abysmal."

The wind howled like the roar of a wild beast, the rain pelted down like a barrage of shotgun pellets, and the thunderclaps sounded like cannon fire being launched right next to their ears.

Every tree swayed like the Whomping Willow, and any umbrella that was opened was instantly turned inside out.

And it was under these conditions that the highly anticipated match between Gryffindor and Slytherin was about to begin.

"Before the match starts, I'm going to cast a spell on all of you."

Suddenly, and without warning, it was Mirabel — the substitute player for the Slytherin team — who declared this.

Her position was none other than the Seeker, the star role of Quidditch. This arrangement was made at the strong request of Marcus Flint.

As for Draco Malfoy, the original Seeker, he sat on the bench sulking. "Ugh, if only my arm were a little better!" he whined, casting a pathetic glance at the cast around his arm.

But no one cared. He had been benched, plain and simple. His absence wasn't a problem.

He sat alone on the bench, gazing dejectedly at his cast. There was something strangely pitiful about his figure.

…Of course, everyone present knew perfectly well that Malfoy's injury had long since healed.

But even if that weren't the case, Mirabel would have ousted him anyway, all in pursuit of certain victory.

To put it bluntly, there was something "jinxed" about Malfoy. It felt as if merely having him on the team increased the odds of losing — like a "death flag" being raised in a game.

"A spell? But enhancing physical abilities is against the rules."

"It's nothing so extravagant. I'm just going to share my thoughts with you all."

As she spoke, she snapped her fingers.

Suddenly, every member of the Slytherin team felt a jolt of electricity run through their heads. Their minds became unnervingly clear, as if a fog that had been clouding their thoughts had suddenly lifted.

It was like a wall they hadn't even realized was there had been removed, giving them a liberating sense of clarity.

But, of course, it wasn't all that simple. The gap left by that "removed wall" was immediately and shamelessly filled by Mirabel's voice.

『How is it? Can you hear me?』

"Whoa!?"

"Gah!?"

Montague and Adrian, both Slytherin players, jumped in shock at the sudden voice echoing inside their heads.

This spell, "Disputatio Sensu" (Conversation of Senses), was a spell that was typically only taught in the sixth year. But that didn't matter to Mirabel.

The spell allowed her to send telepathic messages one-way, though it didn't let her hear the recipient's thoughts. While it had its limitations, Mirabel quite liked it.

After all, being able to send instructions directly into someone's head in an instant was incredibly useful.

"Good, you can all hear me.

For the duration of this match, I'll be sending instructions directly to your minds.

For today only, consider me — not Flint — to be the commander of this team."

"…Is Marcus really okay with that?"

The words that just came from Mirabel's mouth were, in essence, a declaration that the captain had been replaced.

Adrian glanced toward Marcus with a hint of discontent.

But Marcus's face showed no hesitation.

He had already thrown away any trivial pride he might have had in favor of one thing — victory.

He had bet everything on Mirabel.

"I don't mind. Think of her words as if they were mine."

"…Alright, if that's how you feel about it."

Accepting Marcus's resolve, Adrian and the other teammates stopped any further protest.

After all, Gryffindor's team was being hailed as the "strongest team in Hogwarts history."

To face an opponent like that, they had no choice but to rely on the wild card that was Mirabel.

And it was Marcus who had brought that "joker" into their deck.

If it was for his sake, they could no longer afford to grumble.

Seeing her teammates fall into line, Mirabel surveyed them with satisfaction and continued speaking.

"Strategy and tactics will be conveyed to you as the match progresses, but there is one thing I want all of you to follow from the start.

For this match only, I'm putting a complete ban on any rough play that could even remotely be seen as 'dirty' or 'unsportsmanlike.'"

The entire Slytherin team collectively gasped.

One of Slytherin's most infamous traits was its reliance on rough, borderline-illegal play.

Other houses criticized it relentlessly, but it was also one of the very tactics that had brought Slytherin victory time and time again.

No matter how much they were scorned or despised, they would claw their way to victory. That unyielding obsession with winning was the essence of Slytherin's playstyle.

But Mirabel had just declared that it would be sealed away.

"What kind of nonsense is that!? It doesn't matter how dirty it is — as long as we win, it's fine!

You're the same as us, aren't you?! You think so too, don't you?!"

"Don't tell me you're just another one of those goody-two-shoes sportsmen who value chivalry like the Gryffindors!?"

Naturally, frustration erupted from the team.

But in the face of their growing discontent, Mirabel's expression didn't waver.

With a fearless grin, she spoke, her voice cutting clearly through the downpour as if it defied the storm itself.

"I'm the type of person who, if I'm going to win, I win completely."

"Huh?"

"I break their confidence, crush their pride, and trample their self-respect until they can never stand back up. That, to me, is victory.

That's why I won't give them any excuses.

'I lost because they played dirty.'

'If we'd played fair, we wouldn't have lost.'

'If it was purely about skill, I would have won.'

'If I had just one more chance, I'd win.'

— I'm not giving them any of those escape routes.

If they face me, they'll face a loss so absolute they won't have a single excuse left to cling to."

With a smile that was both beautiful and merciless, the girl declared what it meant to win.

She revealed what true victory and absolute defeat were.

"Not a shred of an excuse. Not a fragment of hope. Not even a single grain of mercy.

We'll crush them. Trample them. Grind them into the ground until there's nothing left.

That is true victory.

And that is the kind of victory every single one of you truly desires, isn't it?"

Her voice rang out clearly, like a hymn, and her words left the team breathless.

Yes. She was right.

To crush Gryffindor head-on with fair play, following their self-righteous sense of "chivalry" and "sportsmanship," and to utterly destroy them within their own rules — what greater feeling of triumph and superiority could there be?

"Then let's do it.

We'll take Gryffindor's precious little code of chivalry, and their so-called 'sportsmanship,' and beat them at their own game.

We'll make sure there's no room for argument. No chance for them to make excuses.

We'll break them on their home ground, by their rules, and carve the most humiliating loss possible into their memory.

Victory will taste all the sweeter for it."

Someone gulped audibly.

And then, with a glance, the players communicated silently.

"Oi, who was it that called her a 'goody-two-shoes sportsman' just now!?"

Another player, face twitching with a strained smile, silently responded with his eyes.

"Yeah… that was me. Sorry about that."

"A 'goody-two-shoes sportsman'? 'Chivalry'? Where?!"

There wasn't a hint of "chivalry" in her. Not a drop of "sportsmanship."

This girl had no intention of showing respect for her opponents. None whatsoever.

The only thing in her heart was the overwhelming desire to break them.

Her will was brutal, pure, and unshakable.

"Any objections?"

"NO, MA'AM!!"

The five players (all except for Marcus) replied in unison, snapping into a rigid, upright stance.

At that moment, they understood it perfectly.

This was not someone you defy.

This was not someone you make an enemy of.

"Good. Then let's go."

With that, Mirabel reached for her trusted broom — the Silver Arrow — gripping it with absolute confidence.

Following her lead, the Slytherin team pulled out their Nimbus 2001s, mounted them, and prepared for flight.

With a swift motion, they all took to the air, rising into the stormy sky, each flying to their designated position.

Gryffindor followed suit, each player taking their respective spots in midair.

Hovering above the pitch, Mirabel and Harry faced each other directly.

"Yo, Potter. Your glasses look like they're having a rough time in the rain."

"Beresford…!"

Even in the midst of the downpour, she remained as calm and self-assured as ever.

Harry's voice was strained, like he was trying to force something down.

It was finally here. The moment he'd always known would come.

Since the day he entered Hogwarts, he'd felt it, lurking at the edge of his mind.

He had always known that one day, he would have to face her.

He had always asked himself — "Can I win if that day comes?"

And now, that opponent was right before him.

The Tyrant of Slytherin was floating in front of him as an enemy.

He could feel his heart faltering.

But he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to look straight at her.

"It's fine," he told himself.

"This is the Quidditch pitch. This is the air — this is my field."

Sure, he might not be able to win against her in academics.

Sure, he might not be able to beat her in magic.

But in the sky, in a Quidditch match… I won't lose to anyone.

"Those are good eyes. The eyes of someone who believes in their own skill and talent, someone who thinks they'll never lose, no matter the opponent. It's a face that only the truly exceptional are allowed to wear.

And you, Potter, have the talent to justify that confidence."

"You might not believe me, but I have a deep fondness for people like you."

The whistle signaling the start of the match echoed sharply, and the players moved all at once.

But Mirabel paid no attention, as if none of it mattered, and continued speaking.

"However, the one thing I won't tolerate is you thinking you can beat me.

There is only ever one person at the top — and that is me, Mirabel.

You need to understand that you are not the best rider at Hogwarts.

You're second. Right behind me."

Due to the rain, Harry couldn't see it, but the match had already begun with Slytherin scoring the first goal.

Like a storm cutting through the downpour, the Slytherin players moved with razor-sharp speed and precision.

They didn't play like the usual chaotic Slytherin team but as a unified, perfectly synchronized force — almost as if they were a single living entity driven by one will.

"But you shouldn't feel ashamed about it.

Even if you can't beat me, it's an undeniable fact that you're a brilliant rider.

Well, it's just bad luck that your opponent this time happens to be me…

But I'll give you this much, Potter — I, more than anyone, recognize your talent."

"Tch! You're talking like you've already won!"

"That's right. 'I've already won,' Potter.

The moment I took to this pitch, the outcome was set in stone."

Harry glared at Mirabel, unable to even spare a glance for the unfolding struggle below, where Gryffindor was already on the defensive.

He could tell. She was serious.

She was dead serious when she said that absurd line.

To her, her victory was an absolute certainty.

No matter what happened, she believed she could never lose.

It was as if she believed in it with the same inevitability as a burp after drinking soda, or points being deducted by McGonagall when you broke a rule.

It wasn't just confidence — she had already accepted her victory as a fact of life.

What arrogance.

What self-importance.

What overwhelming pride!

"Not that it matters, since you're nowhere near ready for a real match."

"What did you say?!"

"Your glasses are soaked, aren't they?

You can't even see the Snitch flying behind me, can you?"

Harry's breath caught in his throat.

He quickly glanced over her shoulder — and for just a second, he thought he saw a flicker of gold.

Cold chills ran down his spine.

If what she said was true, that meant she had seen the Snitch.

And worse — she had deliberately ignored it.

"Why didn't you catch it?"

"Simple.

I wanted you to understand that you're beneath me.

Victory only has meaning if I crush you at your very best."

Her lips curled into a gentle smile — one that, under different circumstances, might have been called "kind."

Mirabel was arrogant, self-centered, and utterly domineering.

But toward those she recognized as worthy, she showed an unexpected sort of leniency.

Sometimes, she even displayed something that resembled kindness.

And without a doubt, Harry was one of the few people who had earned that recognition.

But in this arena, on this Quidditch pitch, that "kindness" was nothing more than mockery.

"First, you should do something about those glasses.

Ask Granger. I'm sure she can figure something out for you."

"…!!!"

Humiliation.

It was the bitter, seething taste of pure humiliation.

Even though she could end the match whenever she wanted, she deliberately chose not to.

She wouldn't catch the Snitch until Harry was at his best.

"Don't underestimate me!" — he wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs.

But he didn't.

He gritted his teeth, swallowing the words.

Because, humiliating as it was, she was right.

"TIMEOUT! Get back here, Harry!"

Hearing the call from Captain Oliver Wood, Harry glanced at Mirabel before quickly descending.

She was right.

At this rate, he'd have no chance at all.

If he wanted to win, he first had to create a situation where victory was even possible.

(Hmph... His face is all red with anger, but he still chooses the best option to win without hesitation.)

(Yes. He really is something else.

Even without being the 'hero,' he's still someone worth recognizing.)

With a satisfied grin, Mirabel slowly descended to the ground.

Her teammates, Marcus included, were already gathered on the sidelines, and when they saw her approaching, smiles spread across their faces.

"80 to 0, huh? The gap's really starting to widen."

"Yeah! We're gonna win this! We've got this match in the bag!"

The match had become completely one-sided.

On one side, Gryffindor struggled to coordinate in the pouring rain.

On the other, the Slytherin team moved as one, perfectly synchronized under Mirabel's telepathic orders.

The difference in their coordination was undeniable, and the gap between the two teams had grown to an unprecedented extent.

At this point, Gryffindor's only chance at a comeback was for their Seeker, Harry, to catch the Snitch.

"But, Mirabel, are you sure this is okay? Wouldn't it have been better to just grab the Snitch before Potter got back to full strength?"

"Don't say something so dull, Flint.

I've been looking forward to this battle against him.

Beating Potter while he's blinded by foggy glasses is about as satisfying as beating Weasley's pet rat."

Mirabel's evaluation of Harry was genuine, free of any falsehood or pretense.

That's why she was genuinely looking forward to this match against him.

When it came to Quidditch, Mirabel could even be seen as something of a Harry Potter fan.

...Though, of course, no normal fan would ever think of crushing the player they admire.

"You lot just need to follow my orders without question. That's the best way for us to win."

"Yeah… I trust you. I trust you completely. Your word is absolute, Mirabel."

There's an old proverb from a distant island nation in Asia: "The proud will not last long."

Another similar saying warns of being "tripped up by what lies at your feet."

Both serve as cautionary reminders not to let arrogance, carelessness, or overconfidence take hold.

If one were to follow that logic, then this girl, with her overwhelming self-assurance, should have been fated to lose.

But in front of Mirabel, there were no signs of storm clouds brewing — only a shining road of victory.

And that's why those who followed her couldn't help but believe in her.

To them, Mirabel was absolute.

"Time to restart! Let's go!"

The whistle blew, and the players returned to their positions.

Mirabel took to the skies once more, flying up to face Harry.

"Looks like you've got a proper pair of glasses this time, Potter."

"Yeah, thanks to Hermione."

Harry's glasses were now completely water-repellent.

Thanks to Hermione's waterproofing charm, his field of vision had greatly improved.

The Gryffindor Seeker had returned, ready for action.

But Mirabel's expression didn't change.

After all, this was exactly what she had been waiting for.

However, there was still one more "pest" she needed to deal with.

Her battle with Harry would only be fun after she had cleared the field.

A flash of lightning lit up the sky, and Harry's gaze shifted upward, locking onto the top of the spectator stands.

It was obvious what had caught his attention.

A black dog.

It could only be Sirius Black.

Harry's focus was completely taken by the sight, and Mirabel, noticing it, muttered quietly:

"Looks like it's time."

"Potter."

"…What is it?"

"Hold firm for just 5 seconds."

"Huh?"

Harry was about to ask "What do you mean?"

But the words never came.

All sound around him suddenly vanished.

Everything went dark.

He looked down and finally saw what was happening.

A swarm of over a hundred Dementors had invaded the pitch.

In front of them, descending with sharp, fearless precision, was Mirabel.

Harry's eyes locked onto the Dementors' cloaked figures, and before he knew it, his consciousness began to fade.

His head throbbed, and deep within his mind, he heard a voice.

It was a woman's voice, pleading, crying desperately.

"Not Harry! Please, not Harry!"

It was his mother's voice, screaming and begging for his life against Voldemort.

Meanwhile, Mirabel continued her sharp dive, all while channeling her magic.

The cause of Harry's disorientation was obvious.

The Dementors, driven by hunger and frustration, had rudely invaded the Quidditch pitch.

Restricted by Dumbledore from attacking students, the Dementors had been on edge, their hunger for souls unsatisfied.

The intense emotions stirred by the Quidditch match had been too much for them to resist.

Of all the players on the field, Harry was the most susceptible to their influence.

Mirabel had estimated it would take about five seconds for Harry to lose consciousness after the Dementors arrived.

If she failed to eliminate all the Dementors within that time, Harry would pass out, and the match would automatically end in Slytherin's victory.

But that wasn't the victory Mirabel wanted.

She would never accept a victory tainted by such interference.

For Mirabel, a tainted victory was no victory at all.

"Hmph! So you've finally come, you filthy beggars!"

Five seconds...

An overwhelmingly short amount of time.

Even if Harry didn't catch the Snitch, if he lost consciousness, he wouldn't wake up for a while.

The Nimbus 2000 would also shatter from the fall.

To prevent that, she needed more than five seconds.

And Mirabel... had that "time."

"You vile insects, filth with less worth than dog feces...

Did you really think you could smear dirt on MY victory—

It was one year ago.

The time when she used that worthless teacher, Lockhart, to sneak a book out from the Restricted Section.

The book she obtained was a forbidden tome that described, in detail, a device known as the "Time-Turner."

When Mirabel read it, she had no doubts.

"I can do this."

Her reasoning was simple:

If a Time-Turner existed, then someone, somewhere, had already reached the mysterious realm of time magic.

If someone else could do it, there was no reason she couldn't.

With that unshakable self-assurance as her foundation, Mirabel achieved it.

The ultimate magic that ruled not just "time"—but the very "world" itself.

"—You pests have NO idea how to know your place!"

"Time Stay! Stop, Time!"

In that moment, everything stopped.

The nearly unconscious Harry, Dumbledore, who had leapt into the pitch in a panic, and all the players on their brooms.

The Dementors.

The spectators.

Even the rain and the wind.

Not a single thing moved.

This was the result of Mirabel's study of the Time-Turner.

The ultimate forbidden spell that manipulated time itself.

In this moment, the "world" belonged solely to Mirabel.

Only she could move.

This was her world.

Within this frozen time, Mirabel unleashed a spell she had developed specifically for Dementors.

"Invalerent Patronum!!"

A Patronus that had evolved beyond mere defense — an Offensive Patronus.

A form of pure, radiant white light emerged from behind Mirabel, revealing itself in full for the first time.

Long, flowing silver hair that reached its back.

Gentle, calm facial features.

Slender, supple limbs.

It was... unmistakably, a human.

Patronuses typically took the form of animals, reflecting the summoner's personality, memories, and emotions.

But Mirabel's Patronus took the form of a human girl.

A small, young girl with delicate features.

"Devour them all, Letis!"

She called the name of her Patronus, a being without will or mind.

The small girl charged directly into the mass of Dementors.

One strike.

With her impossibly thin arm, she pierced through a Dementor's abdomen.

"Disgusting… You're all so disgusting…

Your appearance, your movements, your existence, your nature —

Everything about you is offensive to me.

You insects, no, you trash that dares to block my path—!"

The attacks did not stop.

The small girl's delicate body moved with the grace of a dancer.

She spun, weaved, and darted between the frozen Dementors, cutting them apart one after another.

The Dementors, vile creatures that inspired fear in wizards and Muggles alike, could not even resist.

Within this world where time itself had stopped, they were nothing more than prey.

"Annoying, annoying, annoying, annoying, annoying, annoying…"

If someone else had been able to witness this sight,

Could they have believed it?

Would anyone believe that a silver-haired girl, who looked no older than 10,

was gracefully and mercilessly slaughtering Dementors like a performer on stage?

"Annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying annoying!!"

The silver-haired girl danced.

The bodies of Dementors were smashed, torn, and shattered.

The golden-haired girl sang.

The most accursed beings on earth, stripped of all agency,

were utterly trampled.

"ANNOYING! ANNOYING! ANNOYING! ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING ANNOYING AAAAAAAHHH!!!"

With every shout from Mirabel, the movements of the silver-haired girl grew faster and more ferocious.

The small figure danced with wild intensity, weaving through the swarm of Dementors.

She crushed them, one after another, as if following a rehearsed choreography.

By the time she had attacked all the Dementors, Mirabel dismissed her Patronus.

At the 8-second mark of frozen time, she made her declaration.

"—And now, time will move once more."

The next moment, nobody understood what had happened.

For Mirabel, 8 seconds had passed.

But to everyone else, it had been only a single instant.

In that instant, every single Dementor, as if struck by a speeding car, was violently hurled off the pitch.

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