"Welcome, dear," called the witch behind the counter, her wild hair adorned with colorful feathers. "Looking for a familiar, are we?"
"Something useful," Mirabelle replied, scanning the assembled cages. "What do you recommend?"
"This transforming rabbit is quite popular," the witch suggested, indicating a cage where a white rabbit repeatedly shifted between its natural form and a black top hat. "Very entertaining for children."
"Amusing, but impractical." Mirabelle consulted her Hogwarts letter. "The school only permits cats, toads, owls, and rats. Something agile would be preferable."
Rats, she reasoned, could access spaces forbidden to humans—invaluable for reconnaissance and exploration.
"Ah, then perhaps this?" The witch gestured toward a cage containing what appeared to be an oversized yellow mouse with distinctive red cheek patches.
"Pi-ka-chu!" the creature chirped, electricity crackling between its ears.
"An electric mouse," the witch explained proudly. "Capable of generating up to one hundred thousand volts from specialized pouches in its cheeks..."
"Absolutely not." Mirabelle shook her head firmly. "I need mobility, not a walking lightning rod."
The next option proved more suitable—a sleek black rat that darted energetically around its enclosure. Its dark eyes gleamed with intelligence, and its movements suggested both speed and cunning.
"Black rats," the witch warned. "Somewhat aggressive and challenging to handle, but undeniably spirited."
"Perfect. I'll take it."
After exchanging three Galleons for ownership, the witch attempted to extract the rat from its cage. The creature immediately went berserk, clawing and biting at her hands with desperate fury until she finally managed to transfer it to Mirabelle.
The rat continued its frantic struggles until Mirabelle fixed it with her piercing golden stare. The intensity of her gaze seemed to freeze the animal in place, and gradually its resistance faded. For several tense seconds, girl and rat engaged in a silent battle of wills, each studying the other with calculating eyes.
Eventually, the rat looked away first, acknowledging its new mistress with grudging respect.
"Remarkable," the witch breathed. "Pyotr has never calmed so quickly for anyone."
Mirabelle tucked the newly christened Pyotr into her robes and departed for her final errand.
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions occupied a prime location in Diagon Alley, its windows displaying the latest in wizarding fashion. As Mirabelle approached, she noticed a towering figure standing outside—a giant of a man with wild hair, an untamed beard, and beetle-black eyes that suggested a lifetime spent outdoors. His massive frame and somewhat unkempt appearance marked him unmistakably as Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.
Mirabelle spared him no more than a passing glance as she entered the shop, her attention immediately captured by voices from within.
Two boys stood on fitting platforms, engaged in what appeared to be an increasingly heated discussion. The first was unremarkable except for his vivid green eyes and the lightning-bolt scar visible beneath his messy black hair—unmistakably Harry Potter, the famous Boy Who Lived. The second boy possessed the pale, pointed features and platinum hair characteristic of pure-blood aristocracy.
"—just look at that oaf!" the blonde boy was saying with undisguised contempt. "Hagrid the gamekeeper—a complete savage, from what I've heard. Lives in some hovel on the school grounds like a common peasant."
Harry's jaw tightened visibly. "I think he's brilliant."
"Really? How peculiar." The pale boy's gray eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Tell me, where are your parents?"
"They're dead."
"Oh." A brief pause. "But they were our kind, weren't they? Wizard blood?"
"Yes," Harry replied curtly, clearly hoping to end the conversation.
The blonde boy seemed oblivious to Harry's discomfort and continued his interrogation. "Going to Hogwarts as well, I assume?"
It was at this moment that he noticed Mirabelle's entrance and immediately redirected his attention.
"I say, are you bound for Hogwarts too?"
Harry followed the boy's gaze and felt his breath catch. The girl who had just entered possessed an otherworldly beauty that seemed almost too perfect for reality. Her golden hair caught the shop's lamplight like spun moonbeams, while her amber eyes held depths that seemed far older than her eleven years. Everything about her—from her perfectly proportioned features to her graceful bearing—suggested nobility bred through generations.
She was, without question, the most beautiful person Harry had ever encountered.
"If you're asking whether I'll be attending, then yes," Mirabelle replied smoothly.
"Excellent!" The blonde boy preened with satisfaction. "Tell me, are your parents our sort? Pure-blood, I mean?"
"Naturally."
"Splendid! You see, real wizards must be pure-blooded." His voice took on a lecturing tone, as if explaining fundamental truths to the ignorant. "The others simply don't belong, wouldn't you agree? Muggle-born wizards who'd never even heard of Hogwarts before receiving their letters—it's appalling, really. Admission should be restricted to established wizarding families with proper heritage."
Harry bristled at the blatant prejudice, but found himself curious about the golden-haired girl's response. Her expression shifted, a cold smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"How remarkably backward," she said, her melodious voice carrying unmistakable disdain. "We should welcome talent regardless of blood status—Muggle-born or otherwise. True progress comes from ability, not ancestry."
Harry felt a flutter of hope. Perhaps she would prove more reasonable than her pure-blood companion.
"What we actually need," Mirabelle continued, her smile growing sharper, "is to eliminate the incompetent parasites who achieve positions of power solely through bloodline advantages, despite possessing no actual merit. Whether they're pure-blood or Muggle-born is irrelevant—the worthless should be culled from our society entirely."
Harry's brief optimism crumbled into horror. Her philosophy was just as extreme as the blonde boy's, merely approaching elitism from a different angle. The casual mention of "culling" people sent chills down his spine.
"What?!" the pale boy sputtered, his composure finally cracking. "Are you suggesting we should expel noble pure-blood families?"
"I'm suggesting," Mirabelle replied with deadly calm, "that competence should determine worth, not heritage. The talented should rise regardless of birth, while the useless should be discarded whether they're aristocrats or commoners. Blood means nothing—only excellence deserves recognition, and mediocrity deserves elimination. Isn't that the most logical and beautiful system?"
Both philosophies horrified Harry equally. As he listened to these two radically different versions of supremacist thinking, he began to wonder desperately if all wizards harbored such dangerous beliefs.
"Your ideology is completely wrong!" the blonde boy declared, his pale face flushing with indignation.
"No," Mirabelle corrected with infuriating serenity, "your thinking is simply obsolete."
"This is pointless!" Unable to formulate a coherent counterargument, the boy spun on his heel and stormed from the shop, his expensive robes billowing dramatically behind him.
Mirabelle watched his retreat with obvious amusement before approaching the counter to collect her pre-ordered uniforms. Halfway there, she paused and turned back to Harry with a knowing smile.
"What's troubling you, Harry Potter? Surely you're not that concerned about my political views?"
Harry realized he'd been staring and quickly looked away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He also noticed that she'd known his identity without any introduction—though that was hardly unusual anymore. Everyone in the wizarding world seemed to recognize him on sight.
However, there was something distinctly different about this girl's recognition. Where others looked at him with admiration, reverence, or pity, her golden eyes held a calculating gleam that made him profoundly uncomfortable.
"I... well..." he stammered.
"The famous Boy Who Lived seems rather tongue-tied," she observed with gentle mockery. "That could prove problematic in your future endeavors."
Having completed her business, Mirabelle gathered her parcels and moved toward the exit. As she passed Harry, she offered a final comment that seemed both promise and threat.
"Farewell, Potter. We'll meet again at Hogwarts."
And with that, she disappeared into the bustling crowds of Diagon Alley, leaving Harry with his first—and decidedly unsettling—impression of Mirabelle Beresford.
---
Author's Notes
(´ω`)＜What a troublesome character!
This episode focused on Mirabelle's shopping expedition through Diagon Alley. Her wand turned out larger than Hagrid's umbrella and perfectly suitable for use as a blunt weapon.
I considered giving her an owl as a pet, but that felt too conventional, so I opted for a rat instead.
Then she encounters Harry and Draco, immediately establishing herself as a concerning presence in both their minds. What exactly is our protagonist doing?
Both Harry and Draco have now classified her as dangerous—which, to be fair, she absolutely is.
As mentioned at the beginning, Mirabelle's knowledge of the original story extends only through "Order of the Phoenix" (volume 5). This serves as a deliberate limitation on her actions. After all, if she knew the complete story through volume 7, she could simply locate and destroy all the Horcruxes (including Harry) before Voldemort's return, which would completely derail the narrative.
Incidentally, Mirabelle's appearance is inspired by a blonde-haired, golden-eyed character with front-parted bangs.
Kimiko is a fictional wood that doesn't exist in reality. Though it appears identical to ordinary trees, it grows in locations where many have died in battle. This exposure to death has made it thirsty for blood, transforming it into a predatory plant that captures passersby to drain their life force. By obtaining blood in this manner, it can maintain its fresh appearance indefinitely.