In the shadow of Albanian mountains, where ancient magic still whispered through weathered stone, stood the Beresford mansion. Within its opulent walls lived Mirabelle Beresford, a girl who had known, from her very first breath, that she was destined for greatness.
Most humans enter the world as blank slates, their minds empty vessels waiting to be filled. Mirabelle was different. The moment consciousness bloomed within her infant mind, she possessed not just awareness, but a treasure trove of memories that belonged to another life entirely.
Reincarnation, a phenomenon documented throughout wizarding history, though rarely achieved without powerful magic. Yet Mirabelle had retained her past life's knowledge without casting a single spell. This alone convinced her of her exceptional nature.
She called these borrowed memories her "inheritance from a previous existence," refusing to acknowledge their true source. The previous personality had been mundane, a forgettable Muggle office worker who lived each day in dreary monotony. Such an ordinary creature could never have produced someone as magnificent as Mirabelle Beresford.
No, she had conquered that weak soul, claimed its knowledge as her rightful prize. She was the victor, the superior being who had crushed mediocrity beneath her will.
Among the stolen memories lay one invaluable gem: knowledge of the "Harry Potter" series. That boring woman had been reading about this very world, following the adventures written as mere fiction. Though she'd only completed five of seven volumes, Mirabelle understood the crucial events leading to the Dark Lord's resurrection.
Armed with foreknowledge that no one else possessed, she knew herself to be heaven's chosen instrument. Fate itself had granted her this advantage.
Her natural talents only reinforced this belief. Her mind operated like a perfectly calibrated machine, anything seen once became permanent memory, every book absorbed rendered obsolete. By age one, she could speak with eloquence and write with precision that would shame adults.
Her physical prowess matched her mental acuity. Even grown men found themselves outmatched by her speed and strength, though she was careful to hide the full extent of her abilities.
But magic, magic was where she truly excelled. The ancient Beresford bloodline ran thick with power, and their heir had inherited every drop. Her pure-blood parents, recognizing her potential, subjected her to rigorous training that bordered on cruelty. Lesser children might have broken under such pressure.
Mirabelle thrived.
Every humiliation became fuel for her ambition. Each painful lesson transformed into personal strength. Her parents' harsh methods only sharpened her resolve, though they remained oblivious to the cold calculation in their daughter's golden eyes.
She would remember every slight, every moment of degradation. When the time came, these inferior beings who dared call themselves her betters would learn the true meaning of hierarchy.
The brutal education only reinforced her emerging philosophy: only the superior had the right to dominate others. Strength determined worth, and she possessed strength in abundance.
Then there was her appearance, a masterpiece that made even art pale in comparison. When asked to name the world's most beautiful creation, Mirabelle would answer without hesitation: herself.
Silken blonde hair cascaded to her waist, catching light like spun gold even in the darkest corners. Her porcelain skin remained unmarked by time or wear, soft as morning clouds beneath trembling fingertips. Sharp golden eyes, reminiscent of a hunting cat, missed nothing and forgave less. Her features had been carved by divine hands—the perfect nose, cherry-red lips, teeth like matched pearls.
Even at eleven, she radiated an otherworldly allure that made grown wizards stumble over their words. Every movement flowed like liquid grace, every gesture calculated to maximize her impact.
Her only imperfection, if it could be called that, was her still-developing figure, though time would surely remedy that minor flaw. A foolish servant had once made the mistake of commenting on this perceived shortcoming. He'd fled the mansion that very night, eyes wide with terror, though no one could extract an explanation for his sudden departure.
These gifts had created a monster of ego and ambition. No obstacle had ever truly challenged her. No enemy had survived her attention. No goal had remained beyond her reach.
Perhaps, if she had encountered genuine failure early on, her personality might have developed differently. She might have learned humility, gratitude, or simple human decency.
But her talents wouldn't allow such growth. Every potential barrier crumbled before her like sand castles before the tide. Fate and genius conspired to prove, again and again, that she was beyond ordinary limitations.
And so she reached her eleventh birthday unchanged, a beautiful, brilliant, utterly ruthless creature who believed the world existed solely for her pleasure.
To Holger, the house-elf bound to serve the Beresford family, the young mistress remained an enigma wrapped in contradictions.
House-elves typically endured harsh treatment from their pure-blood masters. The Beresfords were no exception, viewing Holger as little more than animate furniture to be kicked when their moods soured.
Yet Mirabelle had never raised her voice to him, never struck him in anger. Instead, she offered something far more dangerous: respect.
Holger understood her true nature. She looked down upon everyone with equal disdain, including him. But somehow, her contempt for him seemed... lesser. More distant. As if he occupied a different category entirely from the human servants who scurried through the halls.
One day, curiosity finally overcame caution.
"Why does young mistress treat Holger kindly?" he asked, wringing his gnarled hands nervously.
A slow smile curved her perfect lips, not kind, but predatory.
"Because you're superior, Holger."
The house-elf's ears flapped in distress. "No, no! Holger is not superior! Young mistress must not say such things!"
But Mirabelle's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "It's simple fact. You house-elves wield wandless magic that makes these so-called pure-bloods look like children playing with toys. You could kill everyone in this mansion except me, if you chose."
"Murder!" Holger squeaked, horrified. "Holger would never—"
"Of course not," she purred, reaching out to trace one delicate finger along his trembling chin. Despite her youth, the gesture carried an adult's calculated sensuality—wrong on someone so young, yet somehow perfectly natural on her. "But the capability remains. You are magnificent, Holger. I cannot bear watching magnificent beings degraded by their inferiors."
Her golden eyes held his gaze like a serpent hypnotizing prey. When she spoke again, her voice carried honey and poison in equal measure.
"I know what you truly desire, despite your species' reputation for servitude. You want freedom. You crave a master worthy of your abilities."
Holger's breath caught as she gestured toward her father's discarded socks and her own pillowcase, items that had been carefully placed within reach.
The rules were absolute: house-elves served until death, unless their master gifted them clothing. Then, and only then, could they claim independence.
"Accept these gifts, and you'll be free," she continued, her voice a silken web drawing him deeper. "What you do after that moment... entirely your choice. But if you desire a master who truly understands your worth..." She indicated the pillowcase. "Wear this and pledge yourself to me alone. Not to the Beresford name, but to Mirabelle Beresford personally."
The trap was elegant in its simplicity. House-elves wore only the most basic coverings as symbols of their bondage, pillowcases, towels, sacks. If he donned her pillowcase after accepting freedom, it would signal voluntary servitude to her alone.
"But young mistress—"
"I can promise you this with absolute certainty: no master will ever value you more highly than I do. No master will ever prove more worthy of your service." Her smile widened, revealing teeth like matched daggers. "I will never treat you as these fools do. I will give you work that challenges your abilities, and be the master you've always deserved."
The socks materialized in Holger's trembling hands before he could protest. She'd already stepped back, arms crossed in supreme confidence, as if the outcome had never been in doubt.
"Now you are free. Do as you wish."
Freedom. The concept made Holger's mind reel. He could leave this place forever, seek his fortune in the wider world, or even strike down the girl who'd orchestrated his liberation.
Yet as he stared into those hypnotic golden eyes, only one choice seemed possible.
She understood him. Valued him. Saw potential that others dismissed. Beyond that, something in her presence made his magic sing with anticipation, a natural dominance that called to his deepest instincts.
He slipped the pillowcase over his head without hesitation.
"Holger pledges his service to Mistress Mirabelle."
Her hand brushed his cheek with surprising gentleness, sending unexpected warmth through his ancient bones. For a moment, he felt truly cherished, until she withdrew her touch, leaving him aching for more.
"Excellent. Now then, your first assignment awaits." Her expression shifted to pure calculation. "Teach me wandless magic, Holger. Show me everything your kind knows."
Shock rendered him speechless. A pure-blood learning from a house-elf? Unthinkable!
"But mistress, the biological differences—"
"Don't compare me to ordinary humans," she interrupted, dismissing his concern with an elegant wave. "Nothing is impossible for me. If flight can be achieved without broomsticks, then wandless magic can be mastered regardless of species."
She was right, of course. Within ten months, she'd not only learned wandless magic but exceeded Holger's own abilities. The day she first conjured fire with nothing but focused will, he finally understood the truth that would shape their relationship forever:
This creature was beyond normal classification. She existed in a category entirely her own.
On her eleventh birthday, the Hogwarts letter arrived as expected, and destiny began its inexorable march.
The great war was beginning, though only she knew it. Harry Potter would soon take center stage in the battle against Lord Voldemort, but Mirabelle understood the true timeline. The Dark Lord's resurrection lay four years in the future, providing her with a perfect opportunity for preparation.
She would not waste these precious years. Currently, she lacked the power and knowledge necessary to challenge either Dumbledore or the Death Eaters. Even genius required proper cultivation.
Throughout history, the greatest leaders had never achieved immediate dominance. They prepared in shadows, gathering strength and allies, until the moment arrived to claim their rightful thrones.
These four years would serve as her chrysalis period. She would absorb every scrap of knowledge Hogwarts offered, master arts that others barely comprehended, and position herself for the coming upheaval.
When Voldemort finally returned, the wizarding world would face not two opposing forces, but three. The boy who lived, the Dark Lord who conquered death, and Mirabelle Beresford, who would prove superior to both.
This was not merely a conflict between good and evil, but a contest to determine who deserved ultimate authority. The strong would rise, the weak would perish, and from the ashes would emerge a new order with herself at its apex.
Blood purity was an obstacle to her vision, making Voldemort's ideology fundamentally flawed. He was a relic of the past, clinging to outdated prejudices. True superiority transcended such primitive concerns, it came from power, intelligence, and the will to use both without hesitation.
As she contemplated the inevitable confrontation with the self-styled Dark Lord, anticipation set her pulse racing.
The one destined to rule this world was not some half-dead remnant of yesterday's wars.
It was Mirabelle Beresford.
And she would accept no rivals to her throne.
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Author's Note: This concludes the opening chapter. What did you think?
My goal with Mirabelle was to create a "rival character stronger than Draco Malfoy." While Draco serves as Harry's original rival, he never quite achieves the impact I hoped for. He's too petty, too narrow in his thinking. I wanted someone on the level of Vegeta from Dragon Ball, a true rival worthy of the name.
So I crafted Mirabelle as a "Vegeta-class rival," a villain protagonist who embraces her dark nature without shame. I've loaded her with classic villain traits: arrogance, narcissism, contempt for others, elitist thinking, power-worship, and complete lack of introspection. She represents everything Slytherin house stands for, taken to its logical extreme.
She has no connection to the justice, kindness, or courage typical protagonists display. She's an elite villain by birth and choice. If a stranger were dying before her eyes, she'd step over their corpse with the words "let the weak perish." The Sorting Hat wouldn't even need to touch her head, Slytherin would claim her instantly.
Q: Is this kind of protagonist acceptable?A: No, she's completely problematic.