Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

"Congratulations on being accepted to Hogwarts. The Welcoming Feast will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, we must decide which house each of you will belong to."

A small room adjacent to the entrance hall of Hogwarts.

Standing before the gathered first-year students and explaining the sorting process was a witch clad in an emerald-green robe, her black hair framing a stern, deeply lined face.

Her name was Minerva McGonagall, the deputy headmistress of Hogwarts.

With a calm but clear voice that carried through the room, she addressed the students while her sharp eyes seemed to scrutinize each one.

"The Sorting is a very important ceremony. During your time at Hogwarts, your house will become like your family.

There are four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each has a proud history and has produced great witches and wizards.

Your good deeds will earn points for your house, while breaking the rules will result in points being deducted.

At the end of the year, the house with the highest score will be awarded the prestigious House Cup.

Whatever house you are placed in, we expect each of you to bring pride to it."

After finishing her explanation, McGonagall left the room, presumably to prepare for the Sorting.

Soon after, ghosts (yes, actual ghosts—apparently a common occurrence at this school) appeared and startled the students. Mirabel, however, didn't care much about the commotion.

Once the ghosts had made their introductions, McGonagall returned and led the first-years into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was a breathtakingly vast space, so magnificent that even Mirabel, raised in a noble household, was momentarily awestruck.

Thousands of candles illuminated the hall, where four long tables stood at the center, set with golden plates and goblets. Hundreds of older students were already seated, their eyes fixed on the newcomers.

At the head of the hall was a fifth table, reserved for the staff, including the school's headmaster, Dumbledore.

The ceiling was nothing short of spectacular. Enchanted to mimic the night sky, it spread out like a planetarium, displaying a dazzling expanse of stars.

While the students marveled at the scene, McGonagall placed a four-legged stool in front of them and set upon it a shabby wizard's hat.

But of course, this was no ordinary hat.

This was the Sorting Hat, an enchanted hat with the remarkable ability to determine the house each student belonged to.

As the brim of the hat split open like a mouth, it began to sing a song about the four houses. The performance was both comical and magical in its own way.

For those with courage and chivalry, Gryffindor awaits.

For the patient and hardworking, Hufflepuff is your home.

For the wise and witty, Ravenclaw calls your name.

And for the cunning and ambitious, Slytherin is the place for you.

To summarize the song, the Sorting Hat assigns students to houses based on their character traits, ensuring that those with similar dispositions become housemates.

"When your name is called in alphabetical order, step forward, sit on the stool, and put on the hat. First up: Abbott, Hannah!"

A blonde-haired girl with pigtails hurried to the stool, sat down, and placed the hat on her head.

There was a brief silence, and then the hat loudly declared the house it had chosen for her.

"Hufflepuff!"

Cheers erupted from the Hufflepuff table on the right, accompanied by a round of applause.

The girl called Hannah blushed shyly but made her way to the table, smiling bashfully as she sat down.

"Susan Bones!"

"Hufflepuff!"

"Terry Boot!"

"Ravenclaw!"

"Lavender Brown!"

"Move to the frontier!"

"Mandy Brocklehurst!"

"Ravenclaw!"

One by one, the names were called, and the students moved to their respective house tables.

Each time, cheers and applause from the upper-year students filled the hall.

Sorting students by personality would likely lead to uneven numbers in some years, Mirabel speculated.

Perhaps the number of students each house received was also an important factor for them.

"Mirabel Beresford!"

The moment Mirabel's name was called, she stepped forward.

Instantly, the lively atmosphere vanished as though it had been a lie.

The Great Hall fell into a profound silence.

As the girl walked toward the chair with measured steps, no one could tear their eyes away from her.

The sound of her footsteps, crisp and deliberate, echoed unnervingly clearly. Every one of her graceful movements captivated those watching.

What was this? Why this silence? Why wasn't anyone speaking?

Everyone wondered, yet no one could voice their thoughts. The oppressive atmosphere emanating from the girl had utterly engulfed them.

"..."

McGonagall swallowed hard.

She was only walking toward the chair, so why was the pressure so intense?

Could this truly be the presence of a first-year student?

McGonagall had encountered students like this before—rare individuals possessing an extraordinary charisma that set them apart.

For instance… yes, like him.

"!?"

"Headmaster Dumbledore? Wh-what's wrong?"

McGonagall wasn't the only one who was reminded of him.

Dumbledore leaned forward in his seat, his piercing gaze fixed on the girl.

No, not merely on her—through her, he was reliving a memory from fifty years ago.

It couldn't be, he thought. She wasn't him. Her lineage and everything about her were entirely unrelated.

And yet, seeing her had stirred the image of the darkest wizard to ever live in Dumbledore's mind. The realization sent a chill down his spine.

He wanted to dismiss it as a mistake, but a part of him resisted.

(…What is wrong with me? To see Tom Riddle… Voldemort… in a girl like that…!)

Amid the eerie silence that had engulfed the Great Hall, Mirabel sat on the chair and placed the Sorting Hat on her head.

It was, by all appearances, just an ordinary chair—a simple wooden seat like any other.

Yet, for a fleeting moment, everyone watching misperceived it as a throne.

Even the simple act of sitting seemed to exude the aura of a sovereign.

(…What… What is this…?)

The Sorting Hat spoke in a voice laden with distress, audible only to Mirabel. No one else could perceive the hat's torment, but it was unmistakably struggling. For the first time since its creation, it faced an unprecedented dilemma.

(Her thoughts… I cannot read them…!)

It was Mirabel's towering self-confidence that had built an impenetrable wall around her mind.

An unyielding barrier of self-love, a refusal to open her heart to anyone but herself.

This wasn't merely a matter of Occlumency. The hat was capable of seeing through such defenses to uncover thoughts and talents.

But with this girl, it was futile. Her thoughts were unreadable.

The only thing the hat could discern was her unparalleled belief in herself—a conviction so overwhelming that it defied comprehension.

(And yet… this talent… what is this…?)

The hat's torment didn't end there.

Though it couldn't read her thoughts, it should still have been able to identify her abilities and sort her accordingly.

But Mirabel's talent was beyond measure. Words like "genius" fell woefully short. It was an unfathomable, boundless force, like standing before an insurmountable wall.

The hat couldn't comprehend her.

It was absurd, almost terrifying.

The beautiful girl wearing the hat seemed less like a human and more like some incomprehensible creature.

No—perhaps that was accurate.

She was a monster.

---A monster of unprecedented talent.

"…S…Slytherin…"

In the end, the hat made its decision without ever fully understanding her thoughts or abilities.

Its sole criterion was her immense self-confidence, which even it couldn't measure.

And so, Slytherin was the natural choice for Mirabel.

To her, however, the answer was as predictable and uninteresting as she had expected.

It was obvious that a mere hat couldn't fully comprehend her.

She had been certain of that from the start, and reality confirmed her belief.

With a look of boredom, she tossed the hat onto the chair and strode toward the Slytherin table.

Normally, cheers would erupt at this moment, but no one uttered a word.

The unnatural atmosphere had swallowed them all.

As the Slytherin students stared at her in stunned silence, Mirabel flashed a mischievous smile and spoke.

"What's the matter, upperclassmen? Aren't you going to welcome me?"

"Ah… oh… s-sorry…"

"Fufu, I'm just kidding. I look forward to being in your care. Let's get along, shall we?"

She picked up a nearby goblet, and as if compelled, a third-year student closest to her hurriedly grabbed a bottle and poured wine into her glass.

There had been no command, no obligation to do so. Quite the opposite—it was the younger student who should defer to the elder.

And yet, as if it were the most natural thing, the wine was poured, and Mirabel, as though equally natural, sipped from the glass with graceful ease.

Watching this scene, the Slytherin students shared the same thought:

---A truly extraordinary first-year has joined us.

After the Sorting Ceremony was completed without incident, the welcoming feast for the first-years began.

Harry's sorting went exactly as described in familiar accounts, so there is no need to elaborate.

Various dishes adorned the tables, and the students eagerly devoured them.

Before Mirabel, too, lay a selection of dishes. She chose roast beef and served herself a portion.

Though she hailed from this country, Mirabel didn't particularly care for British cuisine.

But roast beef was a notable exception—a dish she considered the only one worthy of global pride.

She started with a Yorkshire pudding drizzled with gravy as an appetizer.

Then, the main course: the beef. The firm texture greeted her teeth, and as she bit through, the savory richness of the meat spread across her palate.

(Indeed… roast beef is indispensable. Yet, it's ironic that this dish might have contributed to the stagnation of British culinary culture…)

Next, her eyes landed on something unusual.

She reached for an omurice. At first glance, it blended seamlessly with the Western-style dishes, but in reality, it was an authentic piece of "Japanese cuisine."

Omurice originated as a Japanese creation inspired by foreign cuisines, a unique "Western-style Japanese food" rarely seen outside Japan.

Combining the semi-soft omelet with creamy sauce and the chicken rice beneath, she took a spoonful.

One bite, and the mellow egg, aromatic sauce, and seasoned chicken rice blended harmoniously.

Mirabel mused that such a medley of flavors, combining and elevating one another, was the essence of Japanese culinary brilliance.

This symphony of flavors, impossible with a single ingredient or dish, was a testament to Japanese ingenuity.

How remarkable, she thought, that they created such a dish purely from imagination. What, she wondered, did those people see that allowed them to achieve this?

*(…Hmm… hmm, this is quite something… even setting aside the pull of past-life memories, it suits my tastes well.

If possible, I'd like to try sushi or tempura, but the lack of opportunities is regretful.)*

She resolved that, upon taking control of the British magical world, she would actively incorporate Japanese cuisine into its culture.

As she enjoyed this moment of bliss, savoring the flavors, she nodded in satisfaction.

The first meal had thoroughly pleased her. In high spirits, Mirabel drained her wine glass and wiped her lips with a napkin.

As she did, the girl sitting next to her hesitantly struck up a conversation.

The girl, who had short light-brown hair and vibrant blue eyes, radiated a lively energy.

Her features were unremarkable but showed the potential to shine with effort—though without it, she would remain ordinary.

"Um… hey. You, uh, had such an air about you during the Sorting Ceremony—like a presence or something. Are you, you know, special? Like Harry Potter? Oh, I'm Edith Lynagall. My family's been pure-blood for three generations."

"…Special? I suppose you could say that.

My family, the Beresfords, is descended from nobility and has maintained pure-blood status for over fifteen generations.

As a result, I've been rigorously trained in various disciplines since I was young… If you sensed a certain dignity in my demeanor, it is likely a result of that."

The Beresford family was a name known to those in the British magical world—a lineage rivaling even the Black family.

They were staunch proponents of pure-blood supremacy, with a history of brutally rigorous child-rearing.

Their practice was to produce as many children as possible (historically never fewer than five siblings) and impose Spartan, almost abusive, training on all of them.

From this pool, the most outstanding child would be chosen as the next head of the family, while the others would be reduced to serving that one.

"To pass down only the most exceptional blood"—this was their way.

Generation after generation, only the chosen heir's bloodline was preserved, with all others cast aside.

The heir was further educated in leadership and economics, bound to a life of perpetual victory.

The current head of the Beresford family, Mirabel's father, Heathcote Beresford, was no exception.

A skilled Auror, Heathcote would convict criminals without regard for their actual guilt, ensuring his victories at any cost.

If evidence was lacking, he fabricated it. Bribery was not beneath him.

His unbroken string of successes left a trail of tears, pain, and victims in its wake—a cursed legacy.

Such was the Beresford family.

"Really? I wonder who's superior, you or that Malfoy guy?"

"In terms of family status, it would be him. Their lineage is longer than ours."

"In terms of family status, huh? Sounds like you're saying you beat him in other areas?"

In response to the question, Mirabel gave a sly smile and answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"As an individual, I win by a landslide. That pampered boy doesn't even come close to my level."

"Wow... Mirabel, are you, by any chance, incredibly confident?"

Edith asked hesitantly, her voice tinged with nervous laughter, as Mirabel spoke with unwavering conviction.

Mirabel maintained her smile as she replied, "No, it's simply an honest assessment of myself."

Hearing this, Edith was certain.

Ah, this girl is a massive egotist.

She radiated an unparalleled self-confidence that Edith had never seen before, and that very confidence seemed to be a source of strength for her.

As they continued their lighthearted conversation, a ghost silently appeared on the table, surveying the students.

The ghost, emaciated and drenched in blood, with hollow, vacant eyes, was the very image of a spectral apparition.

In an authoritative tone, the figure—none other than the Bloody Baron—addressed the new Slytherin students.

"Listen well, Slytherin first-years. Our house has claimed the House Cup for six consecutive years up to now. This is all thanks to the tireless efforts of your predecessors.

Will we seize the glory of a seventh victory, or will this streak end here? The choice lies with you. Personally, I expect you to aim for the seventh win."

While half-listening to the Baron's speech, Mirabel scooped a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and placed it in her mouth.

The refreshing chill spread across her palate, and the sweetness melted on her tongue, filling her mouth with delightful flavor. She savored it slowly before swallowing.

Even the sharp, brain-freezing twinge that accompanied it felt oddly pleasant. To Mirabel, this was the true charm of eating something cold.

"Whoever said 'desserts go to a different stomach' really knew what they were talking about," she thought.

Though she already felt full, the allure of desserts made her believe she could still eat more—a dangerous temptation.

"Hey, Mirabel, is there any class you're looking forward to? For me, it's flying lessons. Soaring freely through the sky—it's romantic, don't you think?"

"Not particularly... though I am somewhat interested in Potions. My parents were never experts in that field, so I've had few opportunities to study it."

Having finished her ice cream, Mirabel placed the spoon down and ended her meal.

Although she felt like she could eat more, she decided to save the other desserts for another day.

After all, she would be spending the next four years here. Opportunities would abound.

The welcoming feast eventually came to a close, and Dumbledore gave a few announcements and warnings:

Students were forbidden from entering the forest on the school grounds.

Magic was not to be used in the corridors.

Anyone interested in joining the Quidditch team should contact Madam Hooch (though this only applied to second-years and above, making it irrelevant to the first-years).

And, most gravely, anyone who valued their life should not enter the right-hand corridor on the fourth floor.

Finally, the students sang the school song together before being led to their respective houses.

As Mirabel descended the stone staircase leading to the Slytherin common room, her thoughts were not on the upcoming lessons.

No, her mind was already occupied with a different matter:

How to outwit Dumbledore and secure the Philosopher's Stone for herself.

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