"Congratulations on entering Hogwarts. The welcoming ceremony for new students will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you must be sorted into your houses."
In a small antechamber off Hogwarts' entrance hall, a stern-faced witch in emerald robes addressed the cluster of nervous first-years. Professor Minerva McGonagall stood tall and imposing, her weathered features etched with years of authority as she surveyed the assembled students with sharp eyes.
"The Sorting is a sacred ceremony," she continued, her voice carrying clearly through the stone chamber. "Your housemates will become your family during your time at Hogwarts. There are four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—each with a glorious history and each having produced exceptional witches and wizards."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in. "While at Hogwarts, exemplary behavior will earn points for your house, while rule-breaking will result in deductions. At year's end, the house with the highest score receives the coveted House Cup. I trust that regardless of your placement, each of you will strive to be a credit to your house."
With that solemn declaration, McGonagall swept from the room to make final preparations.
The wait stretched on, punctuated only by the appearance of a translucent ghost who startled several students with theatrical flair. Mirabel paid the specter little mind—such supernatural encounters were apparently commonplace within these ancient walls.
When McGonagall returned, she led the first-years through towering oak doors into the Great Hall. Even Mirabel, raised in one of wizarding Britain's most distinguished families, found herself momentarily awed by the magnificent space. Thousands of floating candles cast dancing shadows across four long tables where hundreds of upperclassmen sat watching expectantly. Golden plates and goblets gleamed in the warm light, while the enchanted ceiling overhead displayed a perfect recreation of the star-filled night sky.
McGonagall placed a worn four-legged stool at the front of the hall, upon which sat what appeared to be an ordinary wizard's hat—albeit one that had seen better days. This was the legendary Sorting Hat, and as if on cue, a rip near its brim opened like a mouth and began to sing:
"Brave hearts and noble souls find home in Gryffindor's halls, While those who prize loyalty and toil belong where Hufflepuff calls. Sharp minds and clever wit make Ravenclaw their nest, But cunning ambition serves Slytherin best."
The song's message was clear—personality would determine destiny.
"When I call your name, approach the stool and place the hat upon your head," McGonagall announced, unfurling a long parchment. "Hannah Abbott!"
A blonde girl with neat pigtails hurried forward, her hands trembling slightly as she settled the hat over her ears. After a moment's consideration, the hat proclaimed, "HUFFLEPUFF!" The rightmost table erupted in cheers as Hannah joined her new housemates, her face flushed with relief and excitement.
"Susan Bones!" "HUFFLEPUFF!"
"Terry Boot!" "RAVENCLAW!"
"Lavender Brown!" "GRYFFINDOR!"
One by one, students found their places amid thunderous applause from their new families. Mirabel observed the proceedings with analytical interest, noting how certain years seemed to favor particular houses—a pattern that spoke to generational trends in magical Britain.
"Mirabel Beresford!"
The hall fell silent with supernatural abruptness. Every conversation died, every shifting movement ceased, as if the very air had thickened with anticipation. Mirabel rose gracefully, her footsteps echoing with unusual clarity in the hushed space. Each measured step commanded attention, drawing every eye to follow her progress toward the stool.
An inexplicable tension gripped the assembled crowd. McGonagall found herself holding her breath, unconsciously straightening under the weight of an aura that seemed far too mature for a mere first-year. At the high table, Dumbledore leaned forward intently, his normally twinkling eyes growing grave as memories of another ambitious student—one Tom Riddle—flickered unbidden through his mind.
Impossible, he thought, forcing himself to remain calm. She bears no relation to him, shares no blood... and yet...
Mirabel settled onto the stool with regal composure, transforming the simple wooden seat into something resembling a throne through sheer presence alone. The Sorting Hat descended over her dark hair, and for a moment that stretched like eternity, nothing happened.
Inside Mirabel's mind, the hat encountered something unprecedented in its centuries of existence.
What... what is this? it wondered in distress. I cannot read her thoughts!
An impenetrable wall of absolute self-confidence blocked every attempt at mental intrusion. This wasn't Occlumency—the hat could pierce such defenses with ease. This was something far more fundamental: a narcissistic barrier built from unwavering belief in her own supremacy.
Worse still, the hat found itself unable to measure the girl's magical potential. Her talent stretched beyond its ability to comprehend, like trying to gauge the height of a mountain while standing at its base. The sheer magnitude of her abilities defied classification.
This child... she isn't human, the hat realized with growing alarm. She's a monster—a monster of talent the likes of which history has never seen.
Finally, with no other recourse, the hat made its decision based on the only thing it could perceive clearly.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word rang out like a death knell in the silent hall. Mirabel removed the hat with casual indifference, having expected nothing less, and made her way to the Slytherin table. Her new housemates stared in stunned silence until she broke the spell with a wicked smile.
"What's wrong, upperclassmen? Aren't you going to welcome me properly?"
"I... yes, of course," stammered a nearby third-year, hastily reaching for a pitcher to fill Mirabel's goblet. The action felt natural, almost compulsory, despite the obvious impropriety of a senior serving a first-year.
As Mirabel sipped her pumpkin juice with queenly grace, every Slytherin at the table shared the same chilling thought: An extraordinary—and dangerous—new student has joined our ranks.
The sorting continued without further incident, and soon the welcome feast began in earnest. The tables groaned under the weight of countless dishes, from traditional British fare to more exotic offerings that reflected Hogwarts' diverse population.
Mirabel surveyed the spread with a discerning eye. Despite her heritage, she had little love for most British cuisine, though she had to admit the roast beef met acceptable standards. She began with Yorkshire pudding drizzled in rich gravy, savoring the familiar comfort of properly prepared food.
The beef itself proved exceptional—tender yet substantial, with robust flavors that spoke to centuries of culinary tradition. At least they understand meat, she mused, cutting another precise bite.
Her attention was drawn to a more unusual dish: perfectly formed omurice that seemed oddly out of place among the British staples. The sight triggered memories from her previous life, of a cuisine that elevated simple ingredients through masterful technique. She took an experimental bite, and the harmony of flavors—creamy egg, savory rice, delicate sauce—transported her momentarily to another world entirely.
Remarkable, she thought, genuinely impressed. The Japanese understand that true cuisine is about balance, about flavors that complement rather than compete. When I eventually reshape this country's magical government, I'll be sure to introduce proper culinary diversity.
"Excuse me," ventured a tentative voice beside her.
Mirabel turned to find a girl with short auburn hair and bright blue eyes watching her with nervous curiosity. Her features were pleasant if unremarkable—the sort that could be striking with proper cultivation or utterly forgettable without it.
"During the sorting, you had this incredible presence," the girl continued, gathering courage. "Like nobility or something. Are you from a special family? Like Harry Potter? Oh, I'm Edith Reinagle, by the way. My family's been pure-blood for three generations."
"Special?" Mirabel's lips curved in an amused smile. "I suppose that's one way to put it. The Beresford line has maintained its purity for over fifteen generations. We're among the most ancient noble houses in magical Britain—on par with the Blacks, though our methods differ considerably."
She paused to sip her wine, studying Edith's awed expression. "Our family believes in... intensive cultivation of talent. Every generation produces multiple heirs, all subjected to rigorous trials that would break lesser bloodlines. Only the strongest survives to continue the legacy."
The truth was darker than Mirabel's casual explanation suggested. The Beresford family practiced a form of controlled evolution, deliberately engineering competition between siblings until only the most ruthless and capable remained. Her father, Heathcote Beresford, embodied this philosophy perfectly—a dark wizard hunter who cared nothing for actual justice, only results. Evidence could be manufactured, witnesses bought, innocents sacrificed, all in service of maintaining the family's reputation for success.
It was a legacy built on tears and sacrifice, producing heirs of exceptional ability and utterly flexible morality.
"Wow," Edith breathed. "So compared to someone like Draco Malfoy..."
"The Malfoys have longer lineage," Mirabel conceded with a dismissive wave. "But in terms of individual capability? I surpass that pampered child in every conceivable way."
"That's... quite confident of you."
"Confidence implies uncertainty," Mirabel replied with serene conviction. "I simply state facts."
Edith swallowed hard, recognizing the absolute certainty in her new housemate's voice. This girl wasn't boasting—she genuinely believed every word.
Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of a ghastly specter above the Slytherin table. The Bloody Baron materialized with his characteristic air of menace, his translucent form bearing the eternal wounds that marked his undead existence.
"Listen well, new Slytherins," he intoned with pompous authority. "Our house has claimed the House Cup for six consecutive years through the dedication of your predecessors. Whether we achieve our seventh victory or watch our dominance crumble depends entirely on your contributions. I trust you'll prove worthy of Slytherin's legacy."
Mirabel paid the ghost little attention, instead focusing on the vanilla ice cream she'd selected for dessert. The first spoonful delivered a perfect burst of cold sweetness that cleansed her palate beautifully. The temperature contrast was particularly pleasant, sending a refreshing chill through her thoughts.
"Are you looking forward to any particular classes?" Edith asked, apparently determined to befriend her intimidating housemate. "I can't wait for flying lessons—soaring through the sky sounds absolutely magical!"
"Potions holds some interest," Mirabel replied after finishing her ice cream. "It's not my family's specialty, so I've had limited exposure. The opportunity to expand my knowledge base is... appealing."
The feast gradually wound down as Dumbledore rose to address the school. His announcements covered the usual warnings—the Forbidden Forest lived up to its name, magic in corridors was prohibited, Quidditch tryouts would be held for second-years and above. The final warning about the fourth-floor corridor earned particular emphasis, delivered with uncharacteristic gravity that made even the most rebellious students take notice.
After the traditional school song, prefects began shepherding their charges toward the dormitories. As Mirabel descended the stone steps leading to the Slytherin common room, her mind had already moved beyond academic concerns.
The Philosopher's Stone waited somewhere in this castle, protected by whatever defenses Dumbledore deemed sufficient. The challenge would be circumventing those protections while avoiding the headmaster's suspicion—a game of chess played with the highest possible stakes.
Mirabel smiled to herself in the torchlit corridor. Let the other first-years worry about homework and house points. She had far grander ambitions to pursue.