Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Deep in the magical world's recesses lay a hidden refuge.

Situated far underground where sunlight never reached, it was a place for those shunned by the light.

A shadow moved through the darkness of a cave leading to this secluded village.

The figure, relying on the glow of a Lumos spell, had striking golden hair swaying as they walked. It was Mirabel Beresford, who had just turned 12 this year.

Instead of her usual uniform, she wore practical explorer's gear and a sun hat—a departure from her typical appearance.

Though it wasn't strictly necessary to wear such attire since magic could easily suffice, it hinted that Mirabel might be the type to embrace a role fully, starting with the look.

She confidently navigated the minimally maintained path, stepping over—and sometimes crushing—skulls scattered along the way.

Watching her from a distance were bats clinging to the cave ceiling.

These weren't ordinary bats—they were bloodthirsty and ferocious, typically thrilled to attack intruders, especially humans. Yet, none dared approach the girl.

The reason was simple: they didn't want to share the same fate as dozens of their kin who now littered her path.

Unbothered by the watchful bats, Mirabel eventually reached an open space.

The place she arrived at was a damp, oppressive village.

A hidden refuge deep underground, untouched by sunlight.

Only a select few species lived in such a place—beings of the dark, unable to walk freely in the outside world.

Among them were those who had once instilled terror as the kings of the night.

Vampires.

The Kings of the Night.Nosferatu.

Vampires.

Dracula.

They were symbols of fear and incarnations of nightmares.

They were legends, their names alone causing people to tremble.

Nearly immortal, they could rise from ashes even after destruction—a monster among monsters.

Once, they were indeed kings.

…But that was long ago.

Now, they were mere relics of the past, relegated to stories, biographies, or occasional rare sightings—a shadow of their former selves.

In Mirabel's world of "canon knowledge," vampires rarely appeared, reduced to name-only existences.

In Gilderoy Lockhart's autobiographies, they were convenient punching bags, and in the works of Eldred Worple, they were nothing more than puppets. The legends of their grandeur were no longer reflected in their modern portrayal.

"…How pitiful. So this is the fate of those who once ruled the night," Mirabel murmured with a mixture of scorn and pity.

The sight of these once-great beings now hiding in obscurity epitomized the losers left behind by time.

Their fearsome reputation had been usurped by Voldemort, rendering their existence nearly irrelevant.

Voldemort, who had sought to dominate all dark creatures, had never once employed vampires.

Seeing this village, the reason was clear.

Indeed, there was no point in enlisting them.

"…Do you have some business here, young lady?"

After some time spent observing the village, a man emerged from the shadows.

He had sunken cheeks and a pale, bluish-white face.

The sharp fangs protruding from his mouth made it clear he was not human.

Yet, there was no trace of vitality in his expression—it was the face of someone oppressed and defeated.

"Are you… a vampire?"

"Indeed. And you… a wizard seeking glory, perhaps?"

The man looked at Mirabel with lifeless, dead eyes filled with resignation and despair.

He showed no anger toward the intruder, only slumping his shoulders as though he had given up on everything.

Mirabel sneered at him and threw sharp words his way.

"Ha! Killing the likes of you wouldn't be anything to brag about.

At least a rat puts up more of a fight when it bites."

It was a statement of pure, unvarnished truth.

Once, the very mention of vampires would send shivers through the West, the ultimate symbol of terror.

Even in the Muggle world, they remain a staple of fiction, depicted as fearsome creatures. But to see such once-dreaded beings reduced to pathetic losers? It was beyond ridicule—it stirred anger.

Vampires were born with extraordinary power, destined as conquerors from birth.

And yet, here they were. What could explain such a downfall?

"Then, may I ask what you've come here for?"

"I seek the secret of your so-called near-immortality. Let's see… I'd like one of your arms and a fang. Surely those will regenerate in no more than a day, won't they?"

Mirabel had long desired to transcend humanity and achieve immortality.

The most potent means to such an end was undoubtedly the dark art of creating a Horcrux. But Mirabel refused to pursue this path.

After all, creating a Horcrux required tearing apart one's soul, severely weakening the essence of one's being.

Moreover, the grotesque physical changes that accompanied the process were utterly unacceptable to her.

She could not tolerate defiling what she considered the pinnacle of artistry—herself.

Not to mention, Horcruxes were far from infallible.

While they granted eternal life as long as they remained intact, the Horcruxes themselves were defenseless. Powerful spells, such as Fiendfyre, could easily destroy them.

Mirabel had briefly considered compensating for this vulnerability by creating multiple Horcruxes, but she quickly dismissed the idea as a monumental folly.

Each Horcrux creation would significantly weaken the soul. To repeat the process multiple times would reduce the soul to a worthless, tattered remnant of its former self.

Thus, Mirabel immediately ruled out Horcruxes as a viable option.

What Mirabel sought, therefore, was immortality that did not weaken her in any way.

An eternal existence that would preserve every part of her essence without compromise.

To obtain such a perfect eternity—worthy of a transcendent ruler—was her ideal!

And in vampires, Mirabel saw the key to achieving this goal.

Thus, she had come here.

"Our fangs are our pride… we cannot give them up so easily."

"…Hmph."

To the weary vampire's response, Mirabel offered only a smile.

It was not a sneer.

It was a gentle smile, one that seemed almost approving.

"I'm relieved. It seems you haven't entirely lost your pride after all."

If the vampire had simply handed over its fangs without resistance, it would have been disappointing.

Yes, this was as it should be.

A superior being must never discard its final shred of pride.

This was precisely the reaction Mirabel had hoped for.

"Then, vampire, listen closely. Because you still possess pride, I will say this:

If you truly value that pride… entrust it to me."

"What…?"

"Are you content with this?

Can you accept that the clan once hailed as the Kings of the Night has been left behind by time, reduced to such miserable, defeated creatures?"

The fall of the vampire's name and status was due to the rise of other factions of darkness.

Dementors, Death Eaters, and Voldemort—the mantle of fear had shifted to them.

Certainly, vampires were a race burdened with numerous weaknesses.

They were repelled by garlic, unable to cross running water, vulnerable to sunlight, and afraid of crosses.

They could be destroyed with a stake of white wood, purified by silver weapons, and cowered before the Bible.

It was no wonder that people no longer feared them.

Yet, even so, vampires remained among the closest beings to immortality.

This effortless path to immortality was precisely what intrigued Mirabel.

Though she didn't know the exact process, the fact that one could become a vampire simply by being bitten made it far less risky than creating a Horcrux.

If she could uncover the mechanics behind it—perhaps even artificially create immortal beings—it would revolutionize everything.

This was why Mirabel sought the vampire's body parts and fangs.

"It's disgraceful… but it's inevitable. Such is the tide of time.

We have been left behind, unable to keep pace with the changing world."

"I see. But what if the tide were to return?"

"What?"

"The tide will rise again. No, I will summon it.

I will cast aside outdated ideals and build a new order and a new world.

Wouldn't you like to reclaim the glory you once had in that world?"

It was the rambling of a foolish girl.

Dismissing it as such would have been easy.

And yet, there was a strange conviction in her words—a compelling charisma that made one want to believe her.

It was terrifying… A vampire, supposed to possess the power to enthrall, now found itself captivated by a mere human girl.

Unconsciously, the vampire swallowed hard.

"Well, at this stage, I won't blame you for calling it a pipe dream.

So, here's what I propose… I'll give you something in return."

"Something in return?"

"Heh… Don't play coy. You've been eyeing it greedily this whole time, haven't you?"

Mirabel smiled faintly and, without using her wand, cast a severing spell.

Her palm split open, and crimson blood poured forth.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it? Tell me, vampire."

"…!"

"The blood of a maiden blessed with the world's greatest beauty and talent. A feast for the likes of you."

It might have seemed arrogant to declare herself the world's greatest, but the vampire could not deny it.

No matter how much they tried to resist, their eyes burned red with desire, their throat parched as if dying of thirst.

Before they realized it, their tongue was out, and their gaze was fixed on the crimson liquid.

No. This mustn't happen. That blood was a deal with the devil, a path from which there would be no return.

"Now, what will you do? Will you continue to live miserably, having lost your pride?

Or will you entrust your pride to me and carve a path toward the future?

Either way, it's all the same to me. Refuse, and I'll simply take what I need by force."

The girl claimed this was a concession.

If she wished, she could have taken their fangs and arm by force without any negotiation.

Her decision not to do so was a sign of respect for the vampire race.

What arrogance, what selfishness.

And yet, her overwhelming self-confidence was reminiscent of what they had once been.

The vampires who had ruled the night without equal—this girl was the very embodiment of their lost pride.

Before he knew it, the vampire had stuck out his tongue and gulped down the blood offered to him.

Like a dog bowing at her feet, he drank the crimson liquid that dripped from above.

Watching this, Mirabel declared triumphantly:

"The deal is sealed, then?"

Satisfied by the taste of fresh blood, the vampire gave a small nod and severed his own arm with his claws.

He then pulled out one of his fangs, offering both to the girl.

Mirabel silently accepted them, freezing the items with magic and nodding in satisfaction.

"I have received them. You have my gratitude for your cooperation."

With her goal achieved, the girl turned her back, as if she had no more use for him.

However, as she neared the village's exit, the vampire called out in a panic.

"W-wait! Please, tell me your name!"

"Mirabel Beresford… the name of the new order.

If you find yourself interested in the next wave, feel free to seek me out."

With those words, the girl finally left the hidden village.

The remaining vampire watched her small figure disappear into the distance, sensing the dawn of a new era.

There was no doubt—the tide of time was approaching.

A golden wave equal to, if not surpassing, that of Voldemort's time.

A revolutionary tsunami that would mercilessly sweep away all opposition and dismantle the old order she spoke of.

Sensing its arrival, the vampire bowed his head in the direction the girl had gone.

The time had come for the fallen vampires to rise again.

Of this, he was certain.

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