Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

"Don't lose focus. Concentrate on your happiest memory."

"Ugh… Ngh…"

In the pristine white villa towering over Magnolia Crescent, two girls faced each other.

The brown-haired Edith Linagle stood with her eyes closed, extending her wand as if trying to summon a memory. Opposite her, the blonde-haired Mirabel Beresford crossed her arms, observing.

"Grr... Ugh…"

Before Mirabel's watchful gaze, silver mist began to emerge from Edith's wand. Slowly and delicately, it started taking the form of an animal, as if it were flowing like a cloud. However, Mirabel's face showed no sign of approval.

Instead, she let out a sharp "Hmph" and immediately criticized Edith's Patronus.

"Formation time: seven seconds… Far too slow. If you dawdle like this in front of a Dementor, it'll drain your happiness before you even summon your Patronus."

"Well, even if you say that…"

"Battling a Dementor is a race against time. The longer you delay, the more happiness it saps, leaving you unable to think clearly. If that happens, you won't even recall the 'happy memory' that serves as the key to summoning a Patronus. The critical skill in mastering this spell is how quickly you can conjure the Patronus before the Dementor's influence takes hold."

While the Patronus Charm is the Dementor's natural enemy, the opposite is also true. Summoning a Patronus requires happiness, which Dementors drain. Without that happiness, forming a Patronus becomes impossible, leaving the victim defenseless.

The essence of the Patronus Charm is simple: "Summon it before it's drained." Everything hinges on this principle.

"Still, finding a truly impactful memory isn't easy… By the way, Mirabel, what kind of memory do you recall?"

"…"

"Mirabel?"

Edith's question came from the reasonable belief that learning from someone experienced with the Patronus Charm could provide valuable insight. However, Mirabel did not respond. Instead, her expression momentarily stiffened, only for her to click her tongue and return to her usual composure. She spoke coldly.

"What brings happiness varies from person to person. My experience would only confuse you."

She dismissed the question with disinterest and sat down, taking a sip of tea from a cup nearby. Her eyebrow twitched slightly.

"Hmm, this is slightly better," she muttered, leaving Edith puzzled.

Judging by the sheepish reaction of the masked butler standing nearby, it seemed his tea-making skills were not well-regarded. Edith inferred that he must have improved slightly, though Mirabel's criticism still stung.

"Let's take a break, Linagle. Sit down."

"Oh, okay."

Prompted by Mirabel, Edith sat opposite her and sipped the tea handed to her. It tasted a bit weaker than the tea served at school, but as Edith wasn't particularly discerning, she didn't give it much thought. As she nibbled on a cookie, she suddenly looked up as if something had crossed her mind.

"By the way, Mirabel, are you going to watch the Quidditch World Cup finals?"

"The World Cup, huh… I'm not disinterested, but I just watched the Japan vs. Ireland match the other day. As long as I know the result, that's enough for me."

The Quidditch World Cup is a monumental event in the wizarding world, eagerly awaited by all magical folk. This year, the finals between Ireland and Bulgaria were being held in the UK—a rare occurrence, as the UK hadn't hosted in 30 years. The British wizarding community was buzzing with excitement, and Edith was no exception. She wished she could attend.

"What about you, Linagle?"

"Ah, no luck for me… I couldn't get tickets again…"

Edith slumped her shoulders in defeat at Mirabel's question.

Tickets to the World Cup finals were highly coveted and nearly impossible to acquire. Many wizards and witches across the UK shared the same dream, leading to intense competition. Only a fortunate few managed to secure seats through fierce bidding wars or sheer luck.

"The Linagle family isn't particularly wealthy, nor do they have connections. Besides, I'm not their real daughter, so I feel bad being selfish…"

"Oh? This is the first I've heard of that."

"I didn't mention it?"

"No, you didn't."

Mirabel munched on a cookie, waiting for Edith to continue. She didn't pry into personal matters but was willing to listen if Edith chose to share. Surprisingly, Edith seemed unaffected by the subject and began speaking casually.

"My current father is my mother's second husband.

Back when I was little, my real parents—oh, I mean my biological father and mother—had a huge fight and ended up divorcing."

"Well, that's a common enough story."

"Yeah. The reason for their fight was apparently the conflict between wizards and Muggles. My mother is a half-blood witch, but her family was a renowned pure-blood lineage, so she leaned toward pure-blood ideology.

But my father was a Muggle. They had a fling one summer, and, well, that's how I came about. Naturally, a relationship built on that kind of whim couldn't last."

"...Pure-blood ideology again. And then what happened?"

Pure-blood ideology seems to crop up everywhere. Mirabel sighed in exasperation and motioned for Edith to continue. Edith took a sip of tea to moisten her throat before speaking again.

"After that, my father took my sister, and my mother took me, and they split up. Later, my mother remarried into the Linagle family."

"...You had a sister?"

"Yeah, though I don't even remember her face anymore.

Then my mother passed away from illness when I was nine… So now, I'm technically considered an adopted child in the Linagle family."

"That ties back to your earlier comment about feeling out of place, doesn't it?"

Edith nodded as she reached for her third cookie. Despite her words, her expression showed no hint of bitterness about her status as an adopted child. On the contrary, she seemed content with her current life.

"Well, it doesn't really bother me. My father treats me like his own daughter."

"Oh? This is rich coming from the same girl who was so obsessed with bloodlines just two years ago, wallowing in self-pity."

"Ugh! Don't bring that up again! I've moved on, okay?"

"Ha, ha, no need to get so angry. I'm complimenting you, you know."

With a mischievous smile, Mirabel toyed with her now-empty teacup. After a moment, she seemed intrigued and posed another question.

"By the way, you mentioned your mother's family was pure-blood. What was their name?"

"My mother's family? Let me think… I think it was 'Valentine.' So my original name would have been Edith Valentine."

Crash!

The sharp sound of shattering porcelain echoed through the room, and fragments of the white teacup scattered across the floor.

Startled, Edith looked up to see an expression on Mirabel's face that she had never seen before in all their years of acquaintance.

Normally, Mirabel's golden eyes shone with a dangerous confidence, but now they wavered. For a moment, she looked like a lost child.

Her blank, emotionless face stared at Edith in utter disbelief. The term dazed could hardly do justice to her expression.

"...Valentine... you said?"

"Mi-Mirabel? What's wrong?"

"...No, it can't be… That's impossible… It must be a coincidence… Yes, that has to be it… But… she did mention a sister back then…"

"Hey! Mirabel! What's going on? Are you okay?!"

"...!"

Edith's worried voice seemed to snap Mirabel back to her senses. She blinked as if awakening from a trance, quickly looking around and realizing her lapse.

She snapped her fingers, summoning the butler to clean up the broken porcelain, and then turned her gaze away awkwardly.

"...Sorry. That name just caught me off guard—it sounded familiar."

"Caught you off guard? That's an understatement! What's going on?!"

"It's nothing… Don't worry about it…"

Her voice was uncharacteristically weak, but her golden eyes held a clear intent: she was shutting the conversation down.

Edith realized that pressing further would be futile. Mirabel wouldn't say anything more and would only feign ignorance.

But one thing was now glaringly obvious.

Whether through coincidence or bloodline, the name Valentine was a sensitive subject for Mirabel—a veritable landmine.

And Edith couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a coincidence.

Because…

…Because in the wizarding world, there was only one pure-blood family named Valentine.

On the train to Hogwarts, Mirabel and Edith were searching for an empty compartment when they bumped into Harry and his friends, who had just boarded.

As usual, Harry and Hermione were together, but this time they were joined by Ron Weasley, who had spent the previous year in the hospital. However, there was something different about Ron—he seemed calmer, lacking the sharpness and tension he used to carry.

"Hey, Harry, Hermione. How have you been?"

"It was the best summer ever," Harry replied with a cheerful smile.

"Glad to see you're doing well, Edith," Hermione added warmly.

Harry and Hermione responded to Edith's greeting with their usual friendliness. Despite belonging to Gryffindor and Slytherin—houses traditionally at odds—there was no hostility between these three. Over the past two years, they had built a bond that transcended house rivalry.

It was remarkable how unpredictable life at Hogwarts could be.

"Oh, Ron's finally out of the hospital. It's been a while!" Edith said with a bright smile.

"Uh… yeah," Ron mumbled, glancing away.

Once quick to snap at Slytherins simply for their house affiliation, Ron's response was now subdued. Edith frowned, puzzled by the drastic change in his demeanor.

"What happened to him? Don't tell me his memory still isn't fully recovered?"

"No, his memory is fine now," Hermione said hesitantly, "but spending a year in the hospital seems to have changed him a bit… And with a year away, everything probably feels different to him. I think he'll return to being the old Ron eventually, though."

Hermione's explanation was uncertain, her voice tinged with worry. She said she believed Ron would recover, but her lack of confidence was clear. Given the circumstances, it wouldn't be surprising if his personality never returned to what it once was.

"But he's showing signs of improvement!" Hermione added quickly. "He seemed happy during the Quidditch World Cup. It was like a celebration for his release."

"Oh, you got to see the finals? That's amazing…" Edith said, her tone tinged with envy.

The mention of the Quidditch World Cup made Edith's eyes light up with admiration. Though the Weasley family wasn't wealthy, Arthur Weasley's position at the Ministry of Magic provided him with connections. Using those connections, he had secured premium seats for the finals as a treat for Ron's recovery, inviting Harry and Hermione along.

"Oh no, Edith! Harry and I really wanted to invite you too!" Hermione said hastily.

"It's okay, I understand," Edith replied with a wry smile.

She appreciated Hermione's sincerity, knowing that neither she nor Harry was the type to exclude others thoughtlessly. Edith also recognized that she wasn't particularly close to Ron, so it made sense. Still, she couldn't help feeling a little disappointed about missing out on such an exciting event.

"But it wasn't just fun and games, was it?" Mirabel interjected with a teasing tone. "The papers said some rogue Death Eaters caused trouble and even cast the Dark Mark."

"Ah, yeah, that…" Harry said awkwardly, trailing off.

The Quidditch World Cup should have been nothing but an enjoyable outing, but trouble had a way of finding Harry. After the exhilarating match, they had witnessed masked figures tormenting Muggles by levitating them into the air. To make matters worse, the Dark Mark—a skull-shaped signal associated with Voldemort—had been cast into the sky, plunging the crowd into chaos.

"Hey, Harry… I don't suppose… there's any chance he might really be coming back, is there?" Edith asked tentatively, her voice filled with dread.

The Dark Mark hadn't been seen in years, making its sudden reappearance a chilling omen. Whispers of Voldemort's return had begun circulating.

"I don't think so," Harry replied, though his tone betrayed his uncertainty.

Harry wanted to believe it was just a rumor. However, he had recently seen Voldemort in his dreams, a detail he hadn't shared. The lingering unease gnawed at him.

Voldemort had no physical body and could only survive by parasitizing others. The idea of him regaining a proper form seemed unfathomable.

"Besides, he doesn't even have a body right now. There's no way he could come back."

"He can," Mirabel stated flatly.

Mirabel's matter-of-fact declaration cut through Harry's hopeful denial. Everyone turned to her, their gazes filled with shock and curiosity.

"What… what do you mean, Mirabel?"

"There exists an ancient dark magic," Mirabel began. "It's a ritual that creates a potion using the bones of a parent, flesh willingly given by a loyal servant, and the blood of an enemy who despises them. With these components, one can fully regenerate a physical body."

A dark magic so potent that it could regenerate—or perhaps even create—a body anew. Mirabel had been researching it herself as part of her own unconventional "ritual." This interest stemmed from a book she had stolen from the restricted section during her first year, though it was incomplete.

It made sense, of course—Dumbledore would never leave such dangerous knowledge intact. Determined to complete the fragmented information, Mirabel pursued independent research, with this bodily creation magic becoming a key focus.

"W-wait! I've never heard of such a spell, not even in books! How do you know about such deep, dark magic?" Hermione exclaimed, her voice rising in alarm.

"Granger, are you familiar with Durmstrang Institute?" Mirabel asked.

"Of course," Hermione replied quickly. "I even overheard Malfoy earlier bragging that he was originally supposed to attend there."

"Then this will be simple. I have certain connections to that school. The level of dark magic knowledge available at Durmstrang is something I've almost entirely acquired myself."

At the mention of "connections," Harry and the others exchanged puzzled glances, but Hermione seemed to realize something. Her eyes widened, and she brought a hand to her mouth in a sudden gesture of understanding.

"Now that you mention it… I remember reading in Great Wizards of Magical Schools—the name of Durmstrang's current deputy headmaster! It was… Mavis Beresford!"

"Correct," Mirabel said with a sly smile.

She confirmed Hermione's deduction with a smirk. Though she wasn't fond of her mother, there was no denying that her mother's position as deputy headmaster of Durmstrang was a significant advantage. It had allowed Mirabel access to a wealth of dark magic knowledge from a young age, including books her mother could procure on her behalf.

Some of the spells Mirabel had invented wouldn't have been possible without this foundation, and the knowledge was crucial for perfecting the "ritual" she planned to perform this year.

"But enough about my mother," Mirabel dismissed casually. "To return to the point: Voldemort's resurrection is entirely possible, provided the necessary conditions are met."

"Wha—no way! He could really come back?" Ron exclaimed, his face pale.

Harry turned to Mirabel, his expression stricken. He wasn't the only one—Ron, Hermione, Edith, everyone present looked at her in fear, awaiting her next words. They were clearly hoping she would laugh and call it a joke. But Mirabel was not the type to sugarcoat anything. She spoke the unvarnished truth without hesitation.

"Believe what you want," Mirabel said coldly. "But you'd best be careful, Potter. If I were Voldemort, I'd seek the highest-quality blood to ensure my return is triumphant."

"H-highest-quality blood…?" Harry stammered.

"Indeed. Who better than the very person responsible for my downfall? A boy celebrated as a hero throughout the wizarding world, known as the Boy Who Lived. There's no greater enemy to fuel such a ritual."

Mirabel leaned in, her dark smile widening as she patted Harry on the shoulder and whispered in his ear. Her voice was teasing yet filled with a sinister excitement, as if she were savoring the anticipation.

"Your blood, Harry Potter. Take care this year and watch your back."

The words sent a shiver through Harry's entire body. He felt paralyzed, as though bound by an invisible force, and a wave of cold terror coursed through him.

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