The fall of the British Ministry of Magic to Voldemort.
It plunged the British wizarding world into the depths of darkness and terror.
The Ministry, once a protector of its citizens, was now nothing more than a puppet, while towns were overrun by Death Eaters, Dementors, and kidnappers, all moving unchecked.
For those who weren't purebloods, entire families being slaughtered was no longer a rarity.
Being taken to the Ministry on fabricated charges, subjected to sham trials, and offered as prey to Dementors had become a daily occurrence.
There was no peace. No place to rest or seek solace.
And so, the people of the wizarding world desperately longed.
For a savior to deliver them from this crisis.
For a deus ex machina, an opportunistic hero.
For someone who could "kill Voldemort."
And this desire was exactly what played into the hands of the Golden Evil—a signal for her to act, heralding the worst to come.
"There is no revolution without sacrifice."
Within the dimly lit halls of her castle, the girl spoke.
Her appearance had not changed since she was fourteen, still bearing an air of childlike innocence. Yet, she radiated a seductive allure that even adults could not replicate.
Each word she uttered captivated her audience. Each gesture ensnared their hearts.
Flanking her were two loyal subordinates who had earned the privilege to stand by her side: Quirrell and a silent, strikingly handsome boy. Together, they enhanced Mirabel's presence like a living masterpiece.
"Whenever a new era dawns in the history of humanity, it is built upon the ruins of the old.
There are always mountains of corpses and rivers of blood."
The audience consisted of thousands of her followers gathered in the grand hall—vampires, ghouls, the undead, golems, Muggles, wizards, and even dragons.
Every one of them listened to their king's words, their eyes filled with frenzied devotion.
"I do not see this as evil. No matter the sacrifices incurred, if they are made for greater progress, then they are necessary. A price to be paid.
True evil is stagnation. Those who fear moving forward and remain bound by outdated ideas, rotting away—these are the real villains."
Evolution is the future of all living beings.
Progress is humanity's permitted form of evolution.
This truth applies to wizards and Muggles alike.
There is no future in standing still.
Certainly, this path will leave victims in its wake.
Those victims might be kind-hearted individuals or beloved figures. Their losses may bring about tears, sorrow, and grief.
But only by stepping over these losses, by paving the ground with the dead, can new horizons be opened.
Only then can humanity achieve glory far surpassing those sacrifices.
Humanity has always moved forward this way.
In the past... and in the future.
And Mirabel Beresford doubted this truth not for a second.
"For the Greater Good."
"This was a profound statement made by Albus Dumbledore in his youth," she continued.
"I believe it struck at the core of humanity's truth.
Great progress always comes with sacrifice. But all of it is necessary 'for the greater good.'
Those who fear sacrifice and cannot move forward are hypocrites, incapable of achieving true goodness. Progress does not belong to those who fear blood."
Mirabel Beresford did not fear sacrifice.
Long ago, she had discarded the heart that would mourn such losses.
Her gaze was fixed solely on the radiant glory that lay beyond the sacrifices.
She had resolved to crush the sorrows of the weak beneath her feet.
And because of this, she was the most wicked of all—and the one who believed in her version of justice the most.
**"Therefore, I expect and command you.
Stain your hands with blood. Create countless tragedies. Build an endless trail of death and forge my path."**
Seated on her throne, Mirabel radiated unparalleled malice and horror. And yet, she shone more brilliantly than anything else.
She resembled the mythical angels of corruption who lead humanity to ruin.
For all her unfathomable evil, this girl was more beautiful than anyone present.
And once drawn to her, there was no escape.
One would act for her, kill for her, and die for her.
That resolve would inevitably be planted within their hearts.
"Now, my followers—can you die for me?"
It was an invitation to hell.
It was a call to madness.
Without hesitation, the girl demanded they sacrifice everything for her, without any pretense, consolation, or apology. She commanded them to die miserably, to become the path of corpses upon which she would walk.
And in response, every single one of them—soulless undead, ghouls, near-immortal vampires, and living humans alike—answered in unison.
"For the Greater Good!"
Was it brainwashing? Or perhaps hypnosis? Maybe threats?
No, it was none of these.
True, Mirabelle had once used magical coercion as a means to gain control of a nation's Ministry of Magic. She had employed Imperius curses more than once or twice.
But those gathered here were long since freed from such spells.
Were they in their right minds?
—Absolutely not.
How could people with eyes steeped in such madness be of sound mind?
Then why did they follow her?
Why had they descended into insanity?
The answer was singular—Mirabelle Beresford.
She herself was akin to an overwhelmingly potent spell of brainwashing.
The very existence of Mirabelle, the girl, was an irresistible Imperius.
Their capacity to discern right from wrong had already eroded.
Why?
Because in their hearts, they had created an absolute moral compass—Mirabelle.
Anyone who opposed her, no matter how noble their ideals or principles, was deemed evil in their eyes.
No matter how righteous their beliefs, if they contradicted Mirabelle's, they were enemies to be destroyed.
It was like a fanatical cult blindly devoted to their deity. Their unwavering faith was both unshakable and grotesquely warped.
"Excellent."
Mirabelle nodded in satisfaction at their response, her wicked smile unfurling. Rising from her throne, she declared with a resounding voice that reverberated throughout the hall, rousing every soldier.
"Very well! From this moment, we declare total war against the British wizarding world!
Slaughter the fools bound by outdated ideologies, and reduce the history they have built to ashes!"
Her homeland. The country where she was born and raised. The school that nurtured her.
The people who lived there, the faces she once knew—
All of them lay outside her mercy. She harbored not even a shred of hesitation about their destruction.
Thus, Mirabelle roared:
"With our declaration of war, we shall launch simultaneous blitzkrieg operations!
Vampire battalion! You will raid the werewolf settlements!
Every werewolf remaining in Britain has chosen to side with Voldemort, the pack of craven dogs. Show no restraint! Reclaim the pride of the long-lost nocturnal kings by slaughtering those mutts who grovel before Voldemort!"
In Britain, any werewolves who refused to align with Voldemort had already been protected by Mirabelle's forces and relocated to France.
Thus, those who remained were without exception Voldemort's lapdogs. There was no need for hesitation.
The vampire commander, leading the nocturnal clan, saluted in reply to Mirabelle's command.
Once feared and then forgotten, the pride of the nightwalker clan returned.
In ancient times, the terror of the night had not been a dark lord, but vampires themselves.
It was time for humanity to remember that truth.
"Sidney! I entrust the Muggles to you! Use modern weaponry and ambush the giants' settlements! Wipe out those filthy giants completely!"
Anyone allied with Voldemort, regardless of their nature, had no place in tomorrow's world.
Sidney, receiving these orders, showed no sign of hesitation.
If his sister willed it, he would make it so. If his sister commanded him to die, he would.
His life and existence served that singular purpose.
"Quirrell! I place all golems, trolls, and ghouls under your command!
Use their overwhelming numbers to subjugate Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, which continues its feeble resistance!"
Quirrell, entrusted with such forces, saluted his beloved master without a hint of doubt.
This task was perhaps the most challenging.
Here, unlike elsewhere, the objective was not "total annihilation" but "subjugation."
In other words, the death toll was to be kept to a minimum. Mirabelle did not approve of pointlessly extinguishing the young, who would shape the future. She wished for as many to survive as possible.
Thus, Quirrell resolved to succeed.
Granted such forces, failing would mean he was utterly incompetent.
Therefore, he would undoubtedly accomplish this.
No matter the resistance, he would crush it, bringing victory to his master.
His resolve would never waver.
"Holger! Lead the wizards and aerial units to launch surprise attacks on the Death Eater and kidnapper hideouts scattered across the land! Send all who side with Voldemort straight to hell!"
The Death Eaters' hideouts were sealed with protective magic.
But their secret keepers had long since been rendered powerless.
In preparation for this day, Mirabelle's forces had struck from the shadows, ambushing Death Eaters.
Under the Imperius Curse, they had extracted their secrets.
The remaining wards and protections? Easily dismantled with knowledge from the Ministry of Magic.
Thus, these protections were no longer safeguards.
A high-powered strike could obliterate their strongholds entirely.
And with that, all would end.
"All remaining forces will join me in attacking the Ministry of Magic!
Spill the blood of every fool who has allowed corruption to fester until now! Leave no trace, not even a scrap of flesh!"
The remaining Aurors, dragons, magical creatures, basilisks, and Muggles—every resource—would be directed toward obliterating the Ministry of Magic from existence.
Of course, the staff working there would not be spared either.
After all, with Voldemort having seized control, most of those remaining were nothing but his sycophantic vermin. There was no hesitation in eliminating them.
"Forward, comrades!"
Mirabel gazed upon her devoted soldiers, narrowing her golden eyes.
What she saw was not the present but the future: the glory that awaited once all her enemies were annihilated.
That vision was already clear to her.
"—Let us bring an end to the British magical world."
The storied history of the British wizarding world, which had endured for so long, was about to reach its conclusion.
Everyone present was certain of it.
France, Germany, and Ireland all declared war simultaneously.
The declarations shook the British magical world to its core.
There were no naval or aerial battles to defend the homeland.
Warfare in the magical world still relied primarily on dueling between individuals—it had not advanced beyond that.
As such, Mirabel's allied forces easily breached British defenses, launching coordinated assaults across the land.
Wizards under Mirabel's command apparated en masse, while steel birds crafted by Muggles soared through the skies.
Rugged, heavy tanks crushed paths through the terrain, and terrifying hordes of vampires moved with impeccable precision under the cover of night.
Hordes of fearless ghouls ravaged the earth, and endlessly created golems advanced, shielding their allies.
It was a scene straight from hell—the largest invasion the magical world had ever seen.
Deep in the mountains where giants dwelled, steel wings circled overhead.
The giants looked up, bewildered by the 'something' dropped from the planes above.
Before they could understand what it was, the object struck the ground—and exploded.
The machines designed by Muggles for the sole purpose of killing were incomprehensible to the giants.
The overwhelming firepower, devoid of mercy, shattered magical norms and demonstrated the terrifying might of science.
No matter how durable or magically resistant a giant was, they stood no chance.
Limbs were blown off, flesh was charred, and bodies were obliterated without leaving recognizable remains.
From a distance, atop a tank, Sidney Beresford issued orders.
Warnings had already been given: emissaries had been sent to inform Voldemort's allies that no mercy would be shown.
The giants chose to remain, siding with Voldemort.
Thus, there would be no leniency. Everything here would be eradicated under the might of steel.
"Advance!"
At Sidney's command, the tanks surged forward in unison.
They crushed trees, devastated the natural landscape, and surged toward the giants.
Steel cannons roared, their deafening blasts echoing as each shot shredded and obliterated the giants' bodies as if they were paper.
The giants attempted desperate counterattacks, but what could mere physical strength achieve against tanks impervious even to direct cannon fire?
Even the mighty blows of giants could not rival the power of tank artillery.
Instead, those who dared approach were run over, crushed miserably under the tanks' massive weight.
Faced with such a disparity in power, the giants' fighting spirit crumbled.
They fled in panic like hunted refugees, only to be shot down from behind.
A few survivors retreated into caves deep within the mountains, barricading themselves with rocks.
But how effective could that possibly be?
Small bombs were thrown into the gaps in the rocks.
These bombs released gas that filled the caves.
Only minutes later, the giants were overcome by an inexplicable agony.
One by one, they fell, frothing blood from their mouths before succumbing.
Their incredible resilience allowed them to endure even after inhaling the poisonous gas, but it was futile.
As living beings, they could not survive when their internal systems were destroyed.
Thus, on that day, the giants disappeared from Britain, save for one survivor.
Ironically, it was Grawp, the giant once ridiculed and taken in by Hagrid, who became the sole remnant of his kind in Britain.
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