Chapter 5: Fangs Hidden Beneath Peace
This is largely due to the castle's bizarre and convoluted mechanisms. The 142 staircases range from grand and spacious to narrow and precarious. Some lead to different places on Fridays, others have steps that vanish midway. There are doors that only open with a polite request, others that require you to tickle a specific spot, and walls that appear as doors but are impenetrable. The variety is excessive, to say the least.
The portraits are no help either, as the figures frequently visit one another, making them unreliable landmarks. Meanwhile, the poltergeist Peeves, who delights in tormenting students, also contributes to the high rate of tardiness.
But now, Peeves was facing his worst nightmare: a student unlike any he had ever encountered.
Thud! Peeves was struck hard on the back of the head and rolled pitifully across the floor.
Before he could even groan in pain, a girl approached him, grabbed his head in her hand, and hoisted him up.
Despite being a poltergeist, Peeves was inexplicably caught in her grasp—a fact that left him utterly baffled.
"Hey, poltergeist," she said. "You've got some nerve dumping trash on me. But don't worry, this Mirabel will personally reward your boldness."
"Uh… w-why can you touch me? Or rather… how can you touch me?"
The one squeezing Peeves's head was Mirabel Beresford, a first-year Slytherin.
She was able to grab Peeves thanks to a clever application of magic. While human hands cannot touch ghosts or poltergeists, magic can. By concentrating pure magic into her palm, Mirabel was physically holding onto him.
This was a skill unique to Mirabel, who had mastered spellcasting without a wand. Naturally, she had no intention of explaining her technique to him.
"Rejoice, poltergeist. I found the perfect spell for you in the library recently. You'll make an excellent test subject."
"W-what kind of spell is that…?"
"A banishing spell. It's used to expel ghosts and spirits."
A ghost-banishing spell!?
Normally, it would merely drive ghosts away. But at point-blank range, while being physically restrained, the spell would have far more devastating consequences.
Peeves flailed desperately, trying to escape, but Mirabel's grip on his head was unyielding.
She coldly uttered the incantation:
"Expelianima! Begone, spirit!"
A white flash seared Peeves's head, his body convulsing violently.
While the spell couldn't kill him—it wasn't designed for poltergeists—it was alarmingly effective.
Or perhaps… if not killing him, it might just ascend him to another plane of existence.
Peeves writhed frantically, trembling with terror as he screamed:
"Ahhh! Stop it! I'm gonna ascend! I'll ascend for real!"
"Good. Why not just go? If this spell truly erases poltergeists, it would be fascinating to see."
"P-please! Help me! I promise I'll stop pulling pranks!"
This was an experiment.
How much stronger would a ghost-banishing spell become when cast at zero range? Could it work on even higher-level spirits like poltergeists? Would it ascend them, or simply torture them?
The possibilities intrigued Mirabel.
But as she listened to Peeves's frantic pleas, a new idea came to her.
"Can you swear never to defy me again?"
"I-I swear! I swear!"
"Will you obey my every word without question?"
"Uh… well, that's a bit…"
The moment Peeves hesitated, Mirabel tightened her grip on his neck with her free hand!
She chanted again, and the white flash grew even brighter, scorching Peeves with its intensity.
"Ahhh! Stop it! I'll really disappear at this rate!"
"Make your choice. Vanish for good, or submit!"
"I'll submit! I'll do whatever you say! Just stop, please!"
Hearing Peeves's tearful plea, Mirabel smiled in satisfaction.
She finally released him, tossing him aside like a piece of trash. As Peeves lay on the floor, trembling and twitching, she ground her foot against his head.
"Alright, here's your first order. Clean up every last piece of trash you scattered."
"…Yes…"
Having put him in his place, Mirabel seemed content. She flicked her robes elegantly and turned her gaze to the corner ahead.
Peeking nervously from behind the corner was Edith Rainagel, her face pale and trembling.
Mirabel let out a small chuckle at her reaction and spoke in a voice surprisingly gentle compared to moments ago.
"What's wrong, Rainagel? Stop hiding and come out already. Our next class is Potions with Professor Snape. Let's hurry to the dungeons."
"Mirabel… you're ruthless. I actually feel bad for Peeves now."
"Hmph. That's what he gets for trying to prank me."
The next class, Potions, was a joint lesson with Gryffindor.
Mirabel and Edith descended the stairs to the dungeon classroom. Professor Snape, being the Head of Slytherin, naturally had his classroom near the Slytherin common room. The walls were lined with shelves filled with jars, each containing strange creatures preserved in alcohol.
Snape was already at the front of the classroom. Once all the students were seated, he began taking attendance.
However, when he reached Harry's name, he paused and spoke with an unsettlingly soft tone.
"Ah, yes. Harry Potter… our new celebrity."
The Slytherins snickered at his remark, mocking Harry.
After finishing the roll call, Snape scanned the class and began a brief lecture on the nature of potion-making. He explained that it was not about waving wands but rather mastering the subtle science and precise art of magical concoctions.
As soon as he finished his introduction, Snape suddenly barked, "Potter!" and pointed his wand at Harry.
"What do you get if you combine powdered root of asphodel with an infusion of wormwood?"
Caught off guard, Harry was at a loss for words, his eyes darting nervously.
To be fair, most of the students wouldn't have known the answer either—it was their very first lesson, after all. Hermione raised her hand eagerly, but Snape ignored her entirely.
"I… I don't know," Harry admitted.
"Disappointing. Fame alone won't get you far," Snape sneered.
Watching the exchange, Mirabel's thoughts began to stir.
If memory served, Snape had a bias toward Slytherin. Would he have called on a Slytherin student instead of a Gryffindor like Hermione? Perhaps he would even award points for a correct answer.
Mirabel wasn't particularly concerned about house points, but she had a competitive streak. She vividly remembered how Dumbledore had blatantly favored Gryffindor—more specifically, Harry—during the awarding of the House Cup at the end of the year. That had been infuriating.
But what if she, as a new variable in the timeline, significantly boosted Slytherin's score? Would Dumbledore stick to the original outcome and grant Gryffindor the win, or would he bend the rules even further to ensure Gryffindor's victory?
If it was the former, it might prove he was somewhat fair. If it was the latter, it would reveal just how partial and sentimental he truly was.
(Hmm, it could be an interesting test… A way to liven up an otherwise dull school life. In that case, I'll aim to rack up as many points as possible.)
With a calm demeanor, Mirabel raised her hand.
Snape's dark eyes gleamed as he noticed her.
"Oh? You know the answer, Beresford?"
"Of course. When powdered root of asphodel is combined with an infusion of wormwood, it creates the 'Draught of Living Death,' a powerful sleeping potion. However, it also requires additional ingredients such as chopped valerian root and the juice of sopophorous beans to complete. Merely combining the first two won't suffice. A trick question on the first day—Professor, you're quite devious."
Mirabel grinned slyly, and Snape responded with a rare, oily smile.
"Perfect, Beresford. Five points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, Professor."
As expected, Mirabel's hunch was correct: Snape seized every opportunity to award points to Slytherin.
This, perhaps, was the secret behind Slytherin's six consecutive House Cup victories.
He mercilessly deducted points from other houses while generously showering Slytherin with them.
Indeed, this approach increased Slytherin's odds of winning the House Cup considerably.
Of course, the heads of other houses could theoretically do the same. However, aside from Dumbledore, there was no teacher as blatantly biased toward a single house as Snape.
Take McGonagall, for example. She was so strict that she deducted points from her own house without hesitation.
This unwavering favoritism was likely what had ensured Slytherin's victories over the years.
"Now, Potter, let me ask you another question. If you were told to find a bezoar, where would you look?"
"…I don't know."
"Did it never occur to you to open your textbook before coming to class, Potter?"
What an awful teacher, Mirabel thought, stifling a laugh.
The first question had been from fifth-year curriculum, and this one was an even worse trap.
The phrasing of the question, "Where would you look?" was misleading—it suggested a physical location. But that was far from the answer.
Bezoars weren't tied to any specific location or region.
When Mirabel raised her hand again, Snape, delighted, ignored Hermione and called on her.
"Oh, Beresford... You know this one as well?"
"Of course. A bezoar is taken from the stomach of a goat. Despite being called a 'stone,' it resembles a shriveled organ. It's a common ingredient in most antidotes. By the way, Professor, do people often tell you that you have a rather unpleasant personality?"
"Hmm, they might," Snape replied with a sly smirk. "Very well, five points to Slytherin.
However, such insolent remarks toward a teacher will result in deductions next time. Be careful."
Snape, seemingly in a good mood, continued to focus his verbal assault on Harry.
The next question he posed was yet another trap.
Knowing from her prior knowledge of the story that Snape despised Harry, Mirabel thought his deep-seated hatred almost seemed… enjoyable. She struggled to hold back her laughter.
"Potter, what is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"
"I… don't know. But I bet Hermione does, so maybe you should ask her."
Harry responded calmly, but his attempt to point out Snape's deliberate ignorance of Hermione backfired.
He had forgotten Snape's earlier comment, which already provided the teacher with an excuse to deduct points.
Snape glanced briefly at Hermione and said curtly, "Sit down." Then, with a malicious smile, he turned back to Harry.
"Potter, did you not hear me when I said insolence toward a teacher would result in point deductions? Five points from Gryffindor."
"!?"
"Now then, Beresford… Do you know the answer?"
Ah, this time he called on her without her even raising her hand. Snape, it seemed, had a knack for reading the room.
Mirabel smirked mischievously and answered.
"That's another trick question. Monkshood and wolfsbane are just different names for the same plant. It's also known as aconite or, in Muggle terms, tori-kabuto. So the answer is, 'There's no difference.'"
"Excellent. Another five points to Slytherin."
The two exchanged villainous smiles, as if sharing a silent conversation.
"You're quite devious yourself, aren't you?""Oh, not at all."
They seemed to share an unspoken understanding, and each gave the other a sly thumbs-up.
Watching this, Edith sighed in exasperation.
"What an outrageous display of teamwork," she muttered.
"By the way, class, why aren't you writing this down?" Snape's voice cut through the room.
The sound of quills scratching against parchment immediately filled the air.
The rest of the class followed the same pattern of relentless attacks on Gryffindor and blatant favoritism toward Slytherin.
Snape paired the students to brew a simple potion to cure boils, but aside from his clear favorite, Malfoy, and the flawless pairing of Mirabel and Edith, he criticized every other student.
Neville, in particular, suffered unjust treatment. After botching his potion, which melted his cauldron and spilled onto him, causing boils to erupt across his body, he was escorted to the infirmary.
Once Neville was gone, Snape turned to Harry and unjustly deducted a point.
"You were standing nearby—why didn't you warn him? One point from Gryffindor," he declared, clearly looking for any excuse.
With this, Slytherin's score increased by 15 points compared to the original timeline Mirabel knew, while Gryffindor's score dropped by 6 points (instead of the original 2-point deduction).
To bridge this gap, Gryffindor would need to somehow gain 21 points.
But even this could still fall within the margin of error.
Thus, the plan was simple: continue to widen the gap so extensively that Dumbledore would have no choice but to concede.
(Now then... just how far can you push your favoritism for Gryffindor, Dumbledore?)
Poison must be met with poison.
If the headmaster favored Gryffindor, then Mirabel would simply make good use of Snape's bias toward Slytherin.
What she had thought would be a dull period of laying low had suddenly become quite interesting.
She even began to look forward to the year-end banquet a year from now as she headed off to her next class.
It was a Friday afternoon with no classes.
In the Slytherin common room deep underground, Mirabel sat at a table surrounded by books, engrossed in her studies.
Piles of books borrowed from the library were stacked before her—so many that even Hermione, known for her diligence, would not be able to outmatch her in sheer volume.
However, the quality of Mirabel's reading material was far superior. She was delving into texts meant for sixth and seventh years, clearly far ahead of her peers.
(...As expected, this is all there is... If I want anything more advanced, I'll have to go to the Restricted Section.)
Mirabel had decided to dedicate these four years as a period of preparation, using the time to build her strength.
Merely attending the school's proper classes would not provide her with what she sought.
To be frank, Mirabel didn't hold high expectations for the school's curriculum. Her interest lay in the vast library of texts the school possessed. Self-study through those books was her primary goal from the beginning.
(This spell could definitely be improved... And it has great versatility. Depending on how it's used, it might even be adapted for other purposes.)
Organizing the knowledge she gained in her mind, she wrote down her thoughts in a notebook.
Improving existing spells for better efficiency, devising alternative uses, and creating entirely original spells—these were not tasks a first-year student could typically undertake.
But Mirabel was convinced she could do it. She believed that what might be impossible for others was entirely achievable for her.
This confidence, this belief, was the source of her strength.
It wasn't about thinking I might be able to do it. It was about being certain I can.
Like breathing or snapping an HB pencil in half—it had to be something she regarded as a matter of course.
This unwavering self-assurance was the foundation of her power.
(With the right application, it might even be possible to recreate some of the magic I remember from those stories... I had dismissed them as mere fiction, but who knows?)
By this point, Mirabel's work on crafting original spells and refining magical techniques had already led her into uncharted territory.
Drawing from the "stories" she alone remembered from her past life, Mirabel had even succeeded in creating some spells based on fictional magic.
(Spells like Crucio and Imperio are forbidden and unusable. But the key is that as long as it isn't banned, it's fair game. Controlling others isn't limited to hypnosis. Instilling fear is another viable method.)
While turning pages with her left hand, her right hand raced across her notebook at an extraordinary pace.
Her gaze darted across the page, and she muttered softly to herself as she organized her thoughts.
(Hmm... If I adjust it this way, the firepower of Incendio should increase by about 10%. The difficulty would rise accordingly, but that won't be an issue for me.)
Having reached this point in her research, Mirabel closed the book she was reading.
Gathering the completed books, she headed to the library to return them.
Of course, she didn't stop there. She picked up new, unread texts before leaving the library.
In truth, her interest was now fully fixed on the Restricted Section. However, it was still too early to attempt accessing it. Sneaking in now would only result in getting caught.
The ideal time would be when no one was watching—perhaps during a distraction like a troll invading the castle.
(I'll wait until Halloween… In the meantime, solidifying my foundation isn't a bad idea.)
Ambition cannot be realized in a single step.
For now, she would simply hide her fangs and continue sharpening her claws—for the day her plans would come to fruition.
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