Diagon Alley, a bustling corridor where witches and wizards could find every magical item they might ever need.
To reach that alleyway, hidden from Muggle eyes, one must pass through the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron, a pub kept concealed by a vision-blocking charm, unless one travelled by magical means.
Any witch or wizard could simply travel there by Floo Powder from home.
This was equally true for Mirabelle Beresford, daughter of the pure-blooded Beresford family, who had come directly from her home by that very means.
Mirabelle had come to this alley alone to gather the school supplies she would need for Hogwarts, and without hesitation, she headed straight for Ollivander's Wand Shop.
For a shop selling wands, the most important possession of any witch or wizard, the building itself was surprisingly small and shabby.
As she entered, a bell rang out from somewhere at the back of the shop, and an elderly man emerged from the shadows.
"Welcome. Are you here to purchase a wand?"
"I hear the wands here are of the finest quality."
"Absolutely. Many wands have been entrusted from this shop to their owners and have accompanied them throughout their lives. Now, let us begin with the measurements. Which is your wand arm?"
"The right."
When Mirabelle held out her right arm, the silver-eyed shopkeeper produced a measuring tape from his pocket and set to work, noting the length from every angle: shoulder to fingertips, elbow to shoulder, knee to armpit, and around the head, nodding to himself as he went.
At one point, the measuring tape began moving on its own and lurched rudely towards her face. She crushed it in her fist, though the shopkeeper appeared not to notice.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a core made of a powerful magical substance. No two are alike: dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, phoenix tail feather... The important thing is which one suits you. Even if you were to use another wizard's wand, you could never draw the same power from it as from your own."
Still speaking, the shopkeeper produced a wand and laid it on the counter before Mirabelle. The gesture was implicit enough; she picked it up.
"Red pine with phoenix feather core, twenty-three centimetres. Excellent durability."
She gave the wand a light wave. A faint light leaked from its tip, but it did not feel quite right in her hand.
The shopkeeper took it back at once and handed her another.
"Western red cedar with bicorn hair core, twenty-one centimetres. Light and supple."
After holding it for only a moment, Mirabelle returned the wand to the old man. She did not even need to wave it to know. This was pointless.
The old man seemed to agree and immediately produced another.
"Holly with hellhound fur core, eighteen centimetres. Ideal for fire magic."
When she waved it, a considerable wave of heat poured from the tip, making the room feel as stifling as midsummer. The old shopkeeper nodded with approval and murmured his admiration, but Mirabelle still felt something was missing.
Something was not right. Something was lacking.
"Shopkeeper, the next one."
"Hm? But that wand just now—"
"It was probably a good match. But I have no use for an ordinary wand."
As she spoke, Mirabelle produced a tongue of flame from her fingertips, startling the old man considerably. The reaction was understandable: a girl who had not yet enrolled at Hogwarts was performing wandless magic.
She assured him she would put it out at once.
"Do you understand? An ordinary wand makes no difference to me, whether I carry one or not. If I am going to use one regardless, it ought to mean something."
"Well, yes, but... if that is the case, then..."
"Surely you have something."
"N-no, there is one, but..."
The shopkeeper reached reluctantly to the far end of a shelf and withdrew something that stood out sharply from everything around it. It was a remarkably large staff, clearly capable of doubling as a blunt weapon.
He brushed the dust from its surface with his hand and held it out to Mirabelle.
"Tree Child wood with vampire hair core, seventy-two centimetres. Hard, heavy, inflexible, and above all, ferocious. This piece has never found an owner since the shop was founded, a troublesome item, that."
"I see."
Taking up the staff, which was enormous even measured against Mirabelle's height, she channelled magic into it.
A surge of resistance met her at once, followed by a tremendous, almost violent urge to destroy. Incredibly, the staff was ignoring her will entirely and attempting to unleash its power on its own.
Watching the wand writhe in her hands, Mirabelle grinned, clearly delighted.
"...I like it. If it is going to be my wand, it has to have this much spirit."
This was truly fitting for Mirabelle Beresford. A wand that defied its own owner, that was far more entertaining. What joy there was in a rebellious nature on full display.
Still smiling, she gathered magical power into her palm and forcibly set about subduing the staff's rampage.
Lightning flashed and sparks flew across the shop. It was the first time in Ollivander's Wand Shop's history that a witch and her wand had come to open battle within its walls.
The fight was brief. The purple lightning faded, and the tremors of wild magic fell still. A winner had been decided.
"...Shopkeeper, I will take this one. I will pay whatever you are asking."
The winner was the young girl standing before him. She had forcibly tamed a staff whose rightful owner had not appeared in years.
The shopkeeper felt a quiet awe wash over him and reached up to straighten his glasses, which had slid down his nose. Still, a customer was a customer, and this was a business transaction.
"That will be ten Galleons."
"Hmm. I think I made a fine purchase."
After paying, Mirabelle slung the staff over her shoulder, where it looked thoroughly disproportionate to her frame, and walked out of the shop.
The old shopkeeper watched her go with a creeping sense of unease he could not quite name. He had not felt such a strong premonition even when he had chosen the wand of that person.
He sincerely hoped the staff would not be turned to evil purposes. Somewhere deep within him, though, he felt strongly that this hope would go unanswered, and he prayed in spite of it.
After buying her wand, Mirabelle's next stop was Flourish and Blotts, where she needed to purchase the remainder of her school supplies. After that came the cauldron shop, to buy what she would need for Potions and other practical classes.
There were so many things to buy, a tiresome business all told, but that was simply the nature of starting school.
She spotted a broomshop along the way but walked straight past it without stopping. First-years were not permitted to own brooms.
She also stopped in at Gambol and Japes, a joke shop specialising in magical prank items, which she found rather intriguing.
With those errands finished and her supplies gathered, she made her way to a magical creature pet shop to select a companion animal.
Owls were undoubtedly the most popular choice, but Mirabelle had no particular interest in them. They were useful enough for wizarding correspondence, but she rarely wrote home, and she knew her family would send an owl to her should anything arise.
As Mirabelle entered the shop, the witch behind the counter called out to her.
"Welcome, young lady. Are you looking for a pet?"
"I am. Have you anything worth considering?"
"We have a rather charming rabbit that transforms into a top hat. It's a new arrival, and I highly recommend it."
Mirabelle glanced at the cage she had been directed to. Sure enough, the rabbit was cycling between its two forms, one moment a rabbit and the next a perfectly ordinary top hat, then back again.
Amusing, certainly, but not an option. She took her Hogwarts acceptance letter from her pocket and checked the relevant section.
"...No. It seems only cats, toads, owls, and rats are permitted at Hogwarts."
A top-hat-shifting rabbit was entertaining enough, but bringing a prohibited animal would serve no practical purpose. A rat, on the other hand, small and easy to manage, was an ideal choice. A clever rat could slip through passages that ordinary animals could not, making it remarkably useful for scouting.
"I would like a rat, please. The liveliest one you have."
"Then what about this one?"
The witch pointed to a cage containing a yellow mouse, one whose size was almost impossible to believe for a rodent, larger even than a human head. Round eyes, bright yellow fur, and small red circular markings on each cheek gave it an undeniable charm.
"Pikachu—"
"These electric mice arrived only recently. They can emit up to one hundred thousand volts from the pouches in their cheeks—"
"No, thank you. Next."
Mirabelle had no use for a rat the size of a cat. She needed something small and agile.
The witch gestured to another cage. Inside, a black rat barely large enough to fit in the palm of a hand was running energetic laps around its enclosure.
"Black rat. A bit aggressive and difficult to handle, but very lively."
"I will take that one."
She handed over three Galleons. The witch reached into the cage, at which point the rat went on an immediate rampage, scratching and biting at her hands before she finally managed to carry it outside.
It thrashed equally in Mirabelle's grasp, but stilled the moment she fixed it with a cold look from her golden eyes. The rat stared right back up at her from its small, indignant eyes.
A silence stretched between them for roughly ten seconds. Then the rat, with something like reluctance, averted its gaze.
Seeing it go still, Mirabelle smiled with satisfaction. It had a perfectly good understanding of who was superior. What a clever creature.
"That's surprising. You actually calmed Pyotr down."
Mirabelle tucked the rat, now officially named Pyotr, into her pocket and stepped outside.
All that remained now were her robes and uniform. When she arrived at Madam Malkin's to purchase them, she found an enormous man standing outside, well over two metres tall. His dishevelled hair, wire-like beard, and eyes the colour of a golden beetle gave him a thoroughly — indeed, decidedly, unkempt appearance.
Hagrid, the gamekeeper, in all likelihood.
Mirabelle gave him no particular notice and walked into the shop. Inside, two boys were already deep in conversation.
====
Harry Potter was in a bad mood.
He had been genuinely pleased to meet another wizard his own age at Madam Malkin's, but the longer he listened, the more he found himself taking a dislike to the boy.
The boy, apparently oblivious to Harry's growing irritation, addressed him in a tone of easy condescension.
"Look at that man out there. That's Hagrid, the gamekeeper. I've heard he's a savage, to put it mildly. Apparently he built some makeshift hut on the school grounds and lives there."
The pale-faced, pointed-chinned boy carried on without pause, each word more unpleasant than the last. Every remark was aimed at Hagrid, and Harry's urge to hit him grew steadily. Hagrid had been the one to take Harry away from the Dursleys and bring him into this extraordinary world. Hearing such contempt directed at him felt, to Harry, deeply personal.
"I think he's brilliant."
"Oh? Where are your parents? Why are you here alone?"
"They're dead."
"I'm sorry to hear that. But they were one of us, weren't they? Magical?"
"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."
As he answered, Harry wanted nothing more than to end the conversation. Setting Hagrid entirely aside, something about this boy simply rubbed him the wrong way. He wanted to be gone before things turned any more unpleasant.
His hopes were not to be satisfied. Rather than resolving, the situation drew in a far more troublesome presence.
"Oh, are you from Hogwarts too?"
"Hm? That's right, yes."
The boy had turned to address a girl who had just walked in. Harry couldn't quite suppress a small sound of admiration.
Her golden hair caught the light like moonlight, and her golden eyes stood out even in the dim interior of the shop. Her features were perfectly balanced, her bearing composed, her frame slender and graceful.
She was, in all probability, the most beautiful person Harry had encountered in his eleven years of life. The only woman he ever regularly saw was Aunt Petunia with her unnecessarily long neck, and he had never come across anyone quite like this.
"Are your parents the same as ours?"
"If you mean pure-blooded, then yes."
The girl was, it appeared, a pure-blood witch like Harry and the boy. Pleased with the answer, the boy drew himself up proudly.
"Good. Wizards ought to be pure-blooded, after all. The others shouldn't be admitted. They aren't like us, some of them didn't even know Hogwarts existed until they received their letter. Prestigious wizarding families have always taken precedence in these matters. Don't you agree?"
A dreadful sort of chosenness, Harry thought. He looked to the girl to see what she made of it.
She gave a derisive snort. Then, a faint smirk on her lips, she laid out her own view.
"You're wrong. We should accept talented people regardless of whether they are Muggle-born. That is what leads to genuine progress. What is truly unnecessary is the incompetent, harmful sort that rises to power solely through lineage despite having no real ability. It makes no difference whether they are pure-blooded or from a prestigious family. Those incompetent pigs ought to be removed."
She was a supremacist too?
Harry clutched his forehead as the words poured from the girl's perfectly composed face. Her approach was the complete opposite of the boy's, and yet she was unquestionably just as dangerous in her thinking. In fact, the word "removed" might have made her position even more extreme.
"What?! You're saying pure-blooded noble families should be cast out?!"
"No. What I am saying is this: if you are capable, you should have every opportunity, whether Muggle-born or pure-blood. And if you are incompetent, you should step aside, regardless of whether you come from a prestigious family or a Muggle background. Bloodline is irrelevant. Only the truly excellent will rise to glory, and the inferior will be set aside. Is that not the correct and beautiful order of things?"
Neither position was one Harry could understand or accept. Two different flavours of supremacy. He found himself wondering whether all wizards thought this way.
Ignoring Harry entirely, the boy's voice rose with agitation.
"Th-that's completely wrong! Entirely incorrect!"
"No, you are the one who is wrong. Your thinking is simply outdated."
"...This is pointless! I'm leaving!"
From Harry's perspective they were equally unreasonable, but something about the golden-haired girl had clearly rattled the boy far more deeply. Already pale, his face went paler still, and he spun on his heel and walked briskly out of the shop.
She watched him go with a bored expression, then moved towards the counter. Halfway there, she glanced back over her shoulder at Harry with a knowing smile.
"What is the matter, Harry Potter? Are you really that concerned about my height?"
She had noticed him staring, it seemed.
Harry flushed and looked away, then suddenly realised she had called him by name despite his never having introduced himself. That sort of thing, he had come to understand, was not unusual since he had started coming to Diagon Alley. Everyone he met seemed to know who he was and would approach him accordingly.
But the glint in this girl's eyes was something else entirely, quite different from anything he had seen before.
"Oh — no — I wasn't—"
"Hmph. The legendary hero seems rather shy. That is going to make things difficult for him in the future."
Her robes and uniform were already packed and waiting; she had evidently placed her order in advance. She folded the last of her things into her bag, crossed past Harry, and spoke once more as she reached the door.
"Goodbye, Potter. I will see you at Hogwarts."
That was Harry Potter's first contact with the golden girl — Mirabelle Beresford.
+++++++
Mirabelle's knowledge of the original story is limited to the fifth book, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Think of this as a limiter on her actions. After all, if she had knowledge up to the seventh book, she could destroy every Horcrux except Nagini (including Harry) before Voldemort even appears, and the story would fall apart entirely.
What is a Tree Child?
A fictional tree that does not exist in reality. Although it closely resembles an ordinary tree, it grows in places such as battlefields where many soldiers have died and, over time, becomes a bloodthirsty monster, seizing passersby and draining their blood. By obtaining blood in this way, it preserves its fresh appearance indefinitely.