The morning air in the Great Hall carried the familiar scents of fresh bread and sizzling bacon as Thursday's breakfast began. Mirabelle had been looking forward to today's flying lesson, though she wondered if she even needed the training at all.
"I'm really exceptional at Quidditch, you know," Malfoy's voice cut through the pleasant breakfast atmosphere like a dull knife. "If first-years could join the house team, I'd definitely help Slytherin claim victory. What a waste of talent."
He held court at the Slytherin table, regaling anyone within earshot about his supposed aerial prowess. Mirabelle paid him no mind—her attention belonged entirely to the feast before her.
Despite Britain's culinary reputation, breakfast remained one meal that earned universal praise. The novelist William Somerset Maugham once observed, "If you want to eat well in England, have three breakfasts." Mirabelle considered this profound wisdom.
"I've been riding brooms since I could barely walk," Malfoy continued, his voice growing more pompous with each word. "The neighborhood children and I used to play Quidditch every weekend. Naturally, I was always the ace player and Seeker. I caught the Snitch every single time, never once got struck by a Bludger."
Mirabelle sliced into her perfectly cooked egg with deliberate precision. The golden yolk oozed across her plate as she took her first bite, savoring the rich, creamy texture. She missed the sharp bite of soy sauce, but the egg's natural flavor still satisfied her palate.
She moved on to the sausage, its casing crackling under her teeth to release a burst of savory juices. After swallowing, she lifted her teacup, inhaling the aromatic steam before taking a measured sip of the perfectly brewed tea with milk.
This was breakfast as it should be—a moment of pure, undisturbed pleasure.
"Last summer, I was soaring high above the countryside when a Muggle helicopter came straight toward me," Malfoy's voice grew louder, more theatrical. "Those pathetic creatures need massive metal contraptions just to leave the ground! I dodged it effortlessly—came within inches of a collision, but I never doubted my ability to avoid it. The pilot probably thought we'd stopped mid-air!"
Mirabelle reached for her toast, thick strawberry jam glistening on its golden surface. The sweet preserve perfectly complemented the bread's wheaty flavor, creating a symphony of taste that deserved her full attention.
But Malfoy's incessant bragging poisoned the air around her.
A vein pulsed at Mirabelle's temple as she set down her toast. She rose from her seat with predatory grace, moving two places down the table to position herself directly behind Malfoy.
Without warning, she seized a fistful of his platinum hair and yanked backward.
"Ow! Beresford, what are you—?!"
"Malfoy," her voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "take your boasting elsewhere. You're ruining my breakfast."
Meals were sacred—moments of freedom and salvation that demanded respect. Loud talking, crude behavior, and showing off during dining were blasphemous acts against humanity's greatest achievement: the art of cooking. Even if God might forgive such transgressions, Mirabelle would not.
She forced Malfoy to face her, her golden eyes narrowing to burning slits as she leaned close enough for him to feel her breath on his face.
"Shut up and eat," she hissed. "If you can't manage that simple task, I'll crush you. Understood?"
"I... I understand," Malfoy stammered.
Later, he would tell others about the genuine killing intent in those eyes—how she meant every word with frightening sincerity. Had he been foolish enough to refuse, he was certain she would have transformed him into a broken rag doll sailing through the stained glass windows.
With Malfoy properly silenced, Mirabelle returned to her seat and resumed her peaceful morning ritual.
At 3:30 PM, the long-awaited flying lesson finally arrived. Gryffindor and Slytherin students gathered on the school grounds, their excited chatter filling the afternoon air with discussions of favorite Quidditch teams and broomstick models.
Mirabelle and Edith joined the conversation while waiting for their instructor.
"Do you have your own broom, Mirabelle? I've got a Cleansweep Seven," Edith asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"I have a custom Silver Arrow, specially tuned for my specifications."
Edith's brow furrowed. "Silver Arrow? I've never heard of that model."
"It's a discontinued line, handcrafted by a master artisan named Leonard Jewkes. My father knew him personally and commissioned a modern remake using current technology, built specifically for me."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sharp voice of Madam Hooch, who strode onto the field with military precision. Her white hair was cropped short, and her yellow eyes held the intensity of a hunting hawk.
"Stop dawdling!" she barked at the assembled students. "Everyone stand beside a broomstick. Move!"
The students scrambled to comply, though Mirabelle and Edith were already in position. At their feet lay the school's standard brooms—cheap "Shooting Stars" with names far more impressive than their quality.
These particular models, released by Universal Broom Company in 1955, were notorious for their rapid deterioration and high accident rates. True to their name, many riders had fallen like shooting stars, generating so many complaints that Universal had gone bankrupt. Why Hogwarts continued using such poorly made equipment remained a mystery—though Mirabelle suspected the answer was simply cost.
"Place your right hand over your broom and command 'Up!'" Madam Hooch instructed.
The students chorused "Up!" with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mirabelle participated halfheartedly—she'd been forced to practice this basic exercise countless times before age three, often earning lashes for failures.
Her broom obediently leaped into her palm, though few others achieved immediate success. Only Malfoy, Harry, herself, Edith, and a handful of others managed the feat on their first attempt. Even Hermione struggled with the supposedly simple task.
Once everyone had successfully summoned their brooms, Madam Hooch delivered a lecture on proper riding technique, then moved down the line to check each student's grip and posture.
"When I blow this whistle," she announced, "kick off hard from the ground. Keep your broom steady, rise about two meters, then lean forward slightly and descend quickly. Ready? One, two—"
"AAAAHHHHH!"
Neville's terrified scream cut through the air as he launched skyward before the whistle sounded. Panic and fear of being left behind had triggered his premature takeoff, and Madam Hooch's frantic shouts for him to return fell on deaf ears.
Twenty feet up, Neville lost his grip entirely. He plummeted earthward like a stone, crashing onto the grass with a sickening crack before collapsing face-first into the turf.
Despite his tears and obvious pain, he remained conscious—a testament to his unexpected resilience.
"Broken wrist!" he sobbed.
"Humans have 206 bones," Madam Hooch said briskly, scooping him up, "one broken bone is hardly catastrophic!"
She sprinted toward the hospital wing with Neville in her arms, but paused midway to address the remaining students with stern authority.
"I'm taking Longbottom to the medical bay. No one moves while I'm gone. Leave your brooms on the ground!"
"My wrist...!" came Neville's fading wail.
"Yes, yes, we'll fix you right up!"
What happened next unfolded exactly as Mirabelle expected.
Malfoy spotted Neville's Remembrall glowing red in the grass and took to the air with the spherical device, taunting Harry about his "stupid friend." Harry followed in pursuit, demonstrating remarkable natural flying ability as he dove and retrieved the Remembrall in a spectacular display of aerial skill.
Professor McGonagall, who had witnessed the entire exchange from a castle window, appeared moments later and escorted Harry away—though notably, she left Malfoy behind.
"Did you see Potter's pathetic expression?" Malfoy crowed once they'd disappeared. "He'll definitely be expelled!"
His cronies erupted in mocking laughter while Hermione and Ron looked on helplessly, certain of Harry's doom.
But it was Mirabelle, a fellow Slytherin, who burst Malfoy's triumphant bubble.
"I hate to ruin your celebration, Malfoy, but Potter won't be expelled."
The laughter died abruptly. "What?"
"If expulsion were the punishment, you'd be equally guilty for flying alongside him. Yet McGonagall only took Potter. Didn't you find that strange?" Mirabelle crossed her arms, her golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "Besides, there was no anger in McGonagall's expression—only excitement."
Every eye turned to her as the logic of her words sank in. If Harry were truly in trouble for rule-breaking, Malfoy should have been dragged away too.
"Then why take only Potter?" someone asked.
"The answer lies in recognizing true talent," Mirabelle replied smoothly.
"T-talent?" Malfoy stammered.
"Exactly. It was Potter's first time on a broom—a defective Shooting Star, no less—yet he executed a sixteen-meter dive to catch a falling object without sustaining a scratch. His flying instincts were flawless." Her gaze fixed on Malfoy with predatory intensity. "Could you have managed the same feat?"
Malfoy's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. He wanted to boast, to claim he could easily match such a display, but something in Mirabelle's penetrating stare strangled the lie in his throat. Those golden eyes seemed to see through everything, making any falsehood feel like an unforgivable sin.
"Potter is a natural Seeker," she continued, her voice carrying grudging admiration. "The kind of raw talent that appears once in a decade. McGonagall recognized this immediately—that's why she took him away."
"That's impossible!" Malfoy protested. "You're saying Potter was recruited as a Seeker? He's only a first-year, just like us!"
"But he's a prodigy. I doubt Gryffindor has seen a better Seeker candidate in the past seven years, possibly longer."
Despite Harry being a Gryffindor—and therefore Slytherin's enemy—Mirabelle spoke of him with genuine respect and barely concealed delight. This was her nature: talent and ability commanded her admiration regardless of house allegiances. Her meritocratic worldview demanded she acknowledge excellence wherever it appeared.
"Do you remember what I told you at Madam Malkin's?" she asked softly.
"Ah... about truly superior people..."
"Precisely. 'Only the truly superior will achieve glory; the inferior will be eliminated.' Potter's exceptional talent caught McGonagall's attention, and she seized the opportunity to secure him for Gryffindor. Using you as an unwitting catalyst."
Malfoy's face drained of all color as the full implications hit him like a physical blow.
Mirabelle leaned close to his ear, her whisper carrying the weight of absolute truth.
"This is reality, Malfoy. The world operates on ability and talent alone. Do you finally understand how meaningless bloodline privilege truly is?"
"No... it's a lie! It's all lies, I won't accept it!" Malfoy's voice cracked as he stumbled backward. "He's going to be expelled! That's what has to happen!"
He fled across the grounds, his anguished cries echoing behind him.
Mirabelle watched his retreat with complete indifference before turning back to find Edith staring at her with a mixture of awe and horror, cold sweat beading on her friend's forehead.
"That was absolutely merciless," Edith whispered. "You essentially called him incompetent to his face."
"He's not incompetent," Mirabelle corrected matter-of-factly. "Actually, he's quite skilled. With proper training, he could potentially become a house team member in his second or third year."
Edith blinked in surprise. Perhaps Mirabelle did think well of Malfoy after all?
That hope was instantly crushed by her next words.
"Of course, he's merely ordinary at best. He'll never approach genuine excellence."
"Oh, Mirabelle..." Edith's shoulders sagged in defeat.
Just when she thought her friend might show a trace of mercy, this happened. Their brief acquaintance had already revealed Mirabelle's extreme meritocratic beliefs, but this level of brutal honesty bordered on pathological.
Why am I friends with someone like this? Edith wondered, though she suspected no amount of reflection would yield a satisfactory answer.
When Madam Hooch returned and training resumed, Mirabelle proved her earlier words weren't merely empty boasting. She demonstrated flying acrobatics so advanced and graceful that they seemed to defy the laws of physics, leaving her classmates gaping in wonder.
Her performance spoke louder than any words ever could—this was what true talent looked like in action.