Over forty percent of Hogwarts students are late to their first class. The castle's labyrinthine design makes punctuality a challenge even for upperclassmen, 142 staircases of varying widths and temperaments snake through the building, some leading to different destinations on Fridays, others vanishing mid-step to strand unwary climbers.
The doors prove equally treacherous. Some respond only to polite requests, others require tickling in precisely the right spot, while certain solid walls masquerade as entrances to confound the unwary. Portrait inhabitants frequently abandon their frames to visit neighbors, rendering them useless as landmarks, and the poltergeist Peeves delights in adding chaos to an already bewildering environment.
This morning, however, Peeves encountered the worst possible target for his mischief.
CRACK!
The poltergeist struck the floor with a resounding impact, clutching the back of his head where Mirabel's kick had connected. Before he could even process the pain, slender fingers seized his translucent skull and hauled him upright with casual ease.
The impossibility of the situation—a living girl gripping an incorporeal being as naturally as breathing—left Peeves speechless with confusion.
"You have remarkable nerve, poltergeist," Mirabel said, her voice carrying deadly calm. "Throwing refuse at someone as wonderful as myself. How fortunate that I'm feeling generous enough to personally reward such audacity."
"How... how are you touching me?" Peeves stammered, his usual confidence evaporating. "Ghosts can't be—"
"Confused?" Mirabel's grip tightened, magical energy coiling around her fingers like invisible chains. "How delightfully ignorant. Perhaps you'll understand better after experiencing my latest discovery."
The ability to manipulate incorporeal beings through concentrated magical force was a technique known only to those who could perform wandless magic—a skill Mirabel had mastered years ago. She saw no reason to enlighten the trembling poltergeist about such subtleties.
"Rejoice," she continued with mock enthusiasm. "I discovered the perfect spell for creatures like you in the library yesterday. You'll make an excellent test subject."
"W-what spell?" Peeves's voice cracked with growing terror.
"Expellianima—a ward against malevolent spirits. Typically used to banish troublesome ghosts." Her smile turned predatory. "Though I confess curiosity about its effects at point-blank range."
Peeves thrashed desperately, but Mirabel's grip held fast. Panic flooded his ethereal features as she raised her free hand, magical energy crackling between her fingers.
"Expellianima!"
White light erupted from her palm, engulfing Peeves's head in searing radiance. His form convulsed violently as the banishment spell tore through his essence—not enough to destroy him permanently, but more than sufficient to cause excruciating agony.
"Stop! Stop!" he shrieked, writhing like a caught fish. "I'm dissolving! I'm going to fade away!"
"Fascinating," Mirabel mused, observing his suffering with clinical interest. "I wonder if sufficient repetition could force even a poltergeist to move on to whatever comes next. The experimental possibilities are quite exciting."
"Please! I surrender! I'll never bother you again!"
"Oh?" Mirabel paused, a new idea taking shape. "Will you swear absolute obedience to my commands?"
"I... well, that's a bit—"
The moment hesitation crossed Peeves's features, Mirabel's left hand closed around his throat while her right hand blazed with renewed magical force.
"Expellianima!"
The enhanced spell burned through him like liquid fire, tearing another agonized scream from his translucent lips.
"Choose carefully," Mirabel said, her voice honey-sweet with menace. "Dissolution or servitude. I'm perfectly content with either outcome."
"Servitude! I choose servitude!" Peeves sobbed, all dignity abandoned. "I'll obey! I'll do anything you command!"
"Excellent." Mirabel released him with evident satisfaction, letting him collapse to the stone floor in a twitching heap. She placed one polished shoe on his head, applying just enough pressure to emphasize her dominance.
"Your first task is cleaning up this mess you've created. Every scrap of garbage, every speck of dust. Immediately."
"Yes... yes, mistress," Peeves whispered, thoroughly broken.
Mirabel turned gracefully, her robes swirling as she noticed Edith Reinagle peeking around the corner, wide-eyed with terror.
"What's wrong, Reinagle?" Mirabel's tone shifted to warmth so abrupt it was almost jarring. "Don't lurk in shadows like that. Professor Snape's Potions class starts soon—we should head to the dungeons."
"Mirabel," Edith said faintly, emerging on unsteady legs, "you're absolutely terrifying. I actually feel sorry for Peeves."
"He brought it upon himself," Mirabel replied with casual dismissal. "Actions have consequences."
•~•
The Potions classroom embodied everything sinister about dungeon environments. Glass jars lined the walls, their contents floating in murky preservatives—severed hands, eyeballs, and creatures Edith preferred not to identify. The air hung heavy with chemical vapors and an underlying mustiness that spoke of centuries without sunlight.
Professor Snape stood motionless behind his desk, black eyes surveying the assembled students with predatory attention. His pale, angular face might have been carved from marble for all the warmth it displayed.
After completing attendance with perfunctory efficiency, his voice stopped cold at one particular name.
"Ah yes. Harry Potter." The words dripped with honeyed malice. "Our new celebrity."
Scattered chuckles rippled through the Slytherin section as they savored their Head of House's obvious disdain for the famous Gryffindor.
Snape launched immediately into his introductory speech about the subtle science and exact art of potion-making, emphasizing that flashy wand-waving had no place in his domain. Then, without warning, his attention snapped to Harry like a striking serpent.
"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry's face went blank, clearly unprepared for such advanced questioning before the class had even begun. Hermione's hand shot up eagerly, but Snape ignored her completely, his dark gaze fixed on Harry's growing discomfort.
"I don't know, sir," Harry admitted.
"Tut, tut. Fame clearly isn't everything."
Mirabel watched this exchange with calculating interest. An opportunity had presented itself—one that aligned perfectly with her longer-term objectives. If Snape favored Slytherin students, as his reputation suggested, then her participation might yield useful advantages.
The House Cup traditionally went to Slytherin through accumulated points, but last year Dumbledore had awarded Gryffindor a dramatic last-minute victory. Mirabel found such blatant favoritism irritating, but it also represented a potential weakness to exploit.
If I significantly boost Slytherin's point total, she mused, will Dumbledore maintain his facade of fairness, or reveal his true bias? Either outcome provides valuable intelligence.
She raised her hand with deliberate confidence.
Snape's eyes lit up with genuine interest. "You have an answer, Beresford?"
"Naturally. Powdered asphodel root combined with wormwood creates a powerful sleeping draught known as the Draught of Living Death. However, the complete recipe also requires chopped valerian root and hellebore essence, so those two ingredients alone are insufficient." She smiled with sharp amusement. "Rather devious, Professor, posing trick questions on the first day."
Snape's answering grin held genuine appreciation. "Perfect. Five points to Slytherin."
"My pleasure."
The dynamic became clear immediately—Snape awarded points to Slytherin at every opportunity while mercilessly targeting other houses. This explained Slytherin's six-year winning streak despite having no monopoly on talented students.
"Potter," Snape continued his assault, "where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Clearly you didn't think to open a book before attending my class." His voice turned silky with malice. "Pity."
Mirabel stifled laughter at the beautifully cruel misdirection. The question seemed geographical but actually concerned anatomy—bezoars weren't found in any particular location but extracted from goat stomachs.
Her hand rose again, and Snape called on her immediately.
"Of course I know, Professor. Bezoars are calcified masses removed from goat stomachs. Despite the name 'stone,' they resemble desiccated organs and serve as universal antidote ingredients." She paused meaningfully. "I don't suppose you often hear complaints about your teaching methods?"
"Occasionally," Snape replied with dark humor. "Five more points to Slytherin. Though I should mention that disrespect toward instructors results in point deductions."
His next question proved equally treacherous: "What's the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
When Harry suggested asking Hermione instead, Snape pounced on the implicit criticism.
"Five points from Gryffindor for your impertinence, Potter."
Then, without waiting for Mirabel to volunteer: "Beresford?"
"Another delightful trap, Professor. Monkshood and wolfsbane are identical—the same plant with different common names. It's also called aconite, or by its Muggle designation, Aconitum napellus. Therefore, there is no difference."
"Excellent. Five points to Slytherin."
They exchanged knowing smirks, two predators recognizing each other's skill. Edith watched this display with growing alarm, muttering about "terrible teamwork" under her breath.
The practical lesson that followed continued Snape's pattern of Slytherin favoritism and Gryffindor persecution. Students worked in pairs brewing simple boil-cure potions while Snape circulated, offering encouragement to Slytherins and criticism to everyone else.
When Neville's cauldron melted catastrophically, splashing acidic potion across several students including Harry, Snape somehow managed to blame Harry for failing to prevent the accident—another point deduction.
By class's end, Mirabel had earned Slytherin fifteen additional points while Gryffindor lost six more than in the original timeline. A promising start to her campaign of strategic accumulation.
Now the real question, she thought with anticipation, is how far Dumbledore will bend his precious principles to ensure Gryffindor's victory. This should prove most illuminating.
•~•
Friday afternoon found Mirabel ensconced in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by towers of advanced textbooks. While other first-years struggled with basic spells, she absorbed sixth and seventh-year material with voracious appetite.
The knowledge served multiple purposes. Surface learning provided ammunition for classroom superiority, but deeper study revealed possibilities for spell modification and original development. Every incantation could be improved, every technique refined for greater efficiency or alternative applications.
Her notebook filled with observations and theoretical improvements, written in cramped handwriting that captured thoughts faster than most people could speak. Existing magic represented merely a foundation—the true potential lay in what could be built upon that base.
The Unforgivable Curses are forbidden, she noted mentally, but the underlying principles aren't unique. Fear and psychological pressure can achieve similar control without triggering legal consequences.
Her research had already yielded several promising developments, drawn from knowledge that existed only in her memories of fictional stories. Magic that had never existed in this reality could be crafted through careful theoretical work and rigorous testing.
Hours passed unnoticed as she pushed further into advanced territory. When the current batch of books yielded diminishing returns, she gathered them for return to the library—not to end her studies, but to acquire fresh material for continued research.
The Restricted Section called to her with almost physical pull, its forbidden knowledge representing the next stage of her development. Too dangerous to attempt now, with Madam Pince's watchful attention and fellow students potentially witnessing any transgression.
Halloween, she decided. When the troll incident provides perfect distraction, I'll make my move. Until then, I'll build foundations and sharpen my capabilities.
The path to ultimate power couldn't be rushed. For now, she would wear the mask of a gifted but ultimately harmless student, hiding her true nature beneath layers of careful deception.
But beneath that facade, her ambitions grew stronger with each passing day. Soon enough, the wizarding world would learn what Mirabel Beresford was truly capable of achieving.
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Author's Notes: This episode established Mirabel's dominance over supernatural entities through her unique magical abilities, while demonstrating her strategic approach to accumulating power within Hogwarts' systems. Her alliance with Snape provides a useful tool for manipulating house points, setting up an interesting test of Dumbledore's commitment to fairness. Meanwhile, her independent research reveals the depth of her magical ambitions and hints at future developments that will push far beyond standard wizarding education.