October 31st brought Halloween's festive spirit to Hogwarts. The Great Hall blazed with elaborate decorations, carved jack-o'-lanterns cast flickering shadows across the walls while tables groaned under the weight of countless pumpkin-based delicacies.
Mirabelle would have preferred to savor each dish with her usual methodical appreciation, but circumstances demanded haste. Tonight's celebration would be cut short by an unwelcome intruder, meaning she had precious little time before the feast ended abruptly.
The pumpkin gratin has an interesting texture, she mused, sampling each creation with practiced efficiency. Unusual flavor profile, but not unpleasant. Though pumpkins truly shine in desserts—these pancakes are exceptional.
The sweet pumpkin melded perfectly with the tender dough, creating a harmony of flavors that danced across her palate. She moved systematically through pumpkin pie, pudding, and tart, each dessert leaning toward the sweeter side but satisfying nonetheless.
A dinner dominated by confections made for a pleasant change of pace. After finishing her survey of the offerings, she cleansed her palate with fragrant tea and dabbed her lips with a crisp napkin.
"You're not eating much tonight," Edith observed, eyeing Mirabelle's relatively modest portions.
"I have restrained days occasionally," Mirabelle replied with a slight shrug.
"I think you just eat too much normally..." Edith sighed, comparing her friend's slender frame to her own slightly rounder midsection. "Seriously, how do you never gain weight?"
Since arriving at Hogwarts, the delicious food had proven irresistible, and Edith felt certain she'd gained weight since enrollment. Yet Mirabelle, who consumed even larger quantities, showed no change whatsoever.
"I burn what I consume," Mirabelle explained matter-of-factly.
"Burn it?"
"Magic may appear effortless, but it demands tremendous energy. I practice daily without exception, so the calories I consume disappear rapidly. It's possible to have an energy deficit, but overeating cannot create a surplus when one's magical output is sufficiently high."
Magic required mental construction followed by manifestation through sheer willpower. Even unconscious spellcasting placed immense strain on the brain, forcing it to operate far beyond normal parameters. Since glucose served as the brain's primary fuel source, Mirabelle deliberately consumed sweets to maintain optimal magical performance.
This wasn't mere indulgence—it was calculated preparation.
"Though I suppose I might simply have favorable metabolism," she added with characteristic directness.
"That's hardly fair..." Edith complained, rubbing her slightly softer stomach.
She'd recently attempted dieting by reducing portion sizes, but the results remained disappointingly minimal. No wonder she felt envious of Mirabelle's apparent immunity to weight gain.
As Edith brooded over this injustice, Professor Quirrell burst into the Great Hall. His turban sat askew, and his normally pale complexion had turned ashen with terror. He staggered toward the High Table, his voice trembling as he addressed Dumbledore.
"Troll... in the dungeons...! Thought you ought to know."
Having delivered this dire announcement, the irresponsible professor promptly fainted, leaving chaos in his wake.
Pandemonium erupted instantly. Students screamed in terror, voices overlapping in a cacophony of fear and confusion. Some embraced nearby friends, others shouted contradictory instructions, and a few brave souls declared their intention to hunt the creature down.
Mass hysteria gripped not only the first-years but upperclassmen as well, creating such bedlam that individual voices became indistinguishable from the general roar.
The Slytherin table mirrored this chaos—Draco half-sobbed in panic while Edith looked to Mirabelle with worried eyes.
But Mirabelle remained perfectly calm. With her usual composed demeanor, she drew her wand and sent scarlet sparks shooting into the air, forcibly silencing every Slytherin student. Then she slammed her palm against the table with thunderous force, commanding absolute attention.
"Quiet, you fools," she said, her voice carrying despite its softness. "Your hysteria is pathetic."
Just a reprimand from a first-year student—someone who'd been at Hogwarts mere months. Yet somehow, not a single person could muster an argument against her words. Even seventh-years fell silent before her commanding presence.
Malfoy was the first to find his voice, approaching her with visible trepidation.
"B-but! There's a troll loose in the castle..."
"So?" Mirabelle swirled her wine goblet with perfect nonchalance. "What can one lumbering sack of flesh accomplish against wizards?"
Her voice carried absolute confidence—not arrogance or bluffing, but genuine belief that trolls posed no meaningful threat.
"You have nothing to fear while I'm here," she continued, taking a leisurely sip of wine.
That quiet statement somehow radiated such unshakable certainty that doubt seemed impossible. Her imposing presence calmed and captivated every Slytherin heart.
Everything will be fine, they found themselves thinking. With her here, we're safe.
"Listen carefully, you lot," Mirabelle continued, her golden eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "Are you toothless pigs? Clawless animals? Of course not. You possess fangs called wands and claws called magic."
When people experienced overwhelming fear, they sought refuge—someone they could trust absolutely. Very well, she would fill that void.
Fear and security were the twin pillars of control.
"What's frightening about one troll? What cause for terror exists here?" Her crystal-clear voice penetrated every corner of the Slytherin table, seeping into their minds whether they willed it or not. "That creature is merely a large target. You're not weak enough to be cowed by such a thing."
This was Mirabelle's true talent—the ability to overwhelm and entrance others through sheer force of personality. The gift of a natural leader who could suppress all opposition and bend others to her vision through intimidation and fascination combined.
"Let's show this intruder exactly whom it's chosen to challenge," she declared, rising from her seat. "Inferior creatures require discipline, and you're more than capable of providing it."
When she finished speaking, the Slytherins rose as one.
That's right—what's one troll? they thought. What's a mere beast compared to wizards? We have Disarming Charms, Stunning Spells, Impediment Jinxes. We have magic itself as our weapon.
This is our school. Now is the time to defend it!
"Prefects!" one seventh-year called out, swept up in the moment. "Escort any underclassmen who can't fight to the dormitories! All capable upperclassmen, follow me! We'll protect Hogwarts!"
"Do we know the troll's location?" another asked.
"Quirrell said the dungeons... probably no students there, but we should verify. We'll eliminate the threat immediately."
A group of primarily older Slytherins assembled, each gripping their wand with renewed purpose. Fear had vanished, replaced by immense confidence and fierce pride.
We're making the right choice. We're following the right leader.
That illusion erased all doubt and terror.
The teachers panicked at this unexpected surge of militant enthusiasm, attempting to restore order, but the Slytherins proved unstoppable. Even Dumbledore's crackling fireworks failed to dampen their fighting spirit.
Their commander wasn't a teacher or prefect—for this moment, they followed a small golden-haired girl.
As the Slytherin students awaited orders with burning eyes, Mirabelle finally gave her command.
"Excellent. Show me the true power of wizards."
The Slytherins nodded like soldiers acknowledging their officer, filing out of the hall with military precision. They marched toward the dungeons, united in purpose—to crush, destroy, and utterly demolish the foolish creature that dared invade their castle.