Heart of the Serpent

1 August       Her ears were ringing, and there was a metallic taste in her mouth. Blades of grass tickled her face. Miranda was lying face down on the ground, her fingers still clutching her wand. Father would have been proud – she had been right at the epicentre of the explosion, but hadn’t let go of her wand, just like he’d taught her...       “Oh my God, who’s that? Where did she come from?”       “Poor child, what happened to her?”       Voices rang out just above her, and then Miranda felt someone’s fingers brush her hair aside to reveal her face. Her vision was blurred, and her senses dulled.       “Is she injured?”       “Hard to say, ma’am. We ought to call for a doctor…”       “A doctor? For some stray? Just look at what she’s wearing! Off with you!”       “Thomas!”       Having finally registered the fact that, for some reason, the explosion hadn’t torn her to pieces, Miranda wiggled her arms and legs, then carefully rolled onto her back and immediately squeezed her eyes shut as bright sunlight struck her face. The voices fell abruptly silent.       “See? She’s not hurt at all! Just some beggar girl who decided to lie down under our hedge!”       “I’m not a beggar,” Miranda managed to object, coughing. Her voice came out hoarse, as though she’d swallowed half the earth when she fell. Something gritty like sand scraped against her teeth.       “Oh? And how did you end up here then?” came a sarcastic male voice, evidently belonging to this ‘Thomas’.       She couldn’t offer any coherent answer to that and instead tried to stand. The world instantly spun before her eyes; her legs nearly gave way, but Miranda managed to stay upright, grabbing hold of the person nearest to her at the last moment. The man’s face twisted in disgust and he tried to pull away.       “She doesn’t look like a stray,” said a woman thoughtfully. “Too clean and well-kept. How did you get here, girl? And why are you clinging to that stick as if it were your last lifeline?”       Her mind finally began to clear, and Miranda could now take in the people standing before her. Opposite her stood an elderly lady dressed in an old-fashioned silk gown – the sort worn some fifty years ago. A brooch was pinned beneath the collar. Another woman, younger and thinner, stood beside her, dressed more modestly in a simple brown dress with an apron, a cap perched on her head. Last to catch her attention was the dark-haired man with touches of grey who had called her a stray. He was middle-aged and rather handsome – were he twenty years younger, it might have been hard to take one’s eyes off him. He wore a well-made frock coat and trousers, though the cut was oddly unfamiliar. It felt strangely as though the entire group had stepped out of a costume party. And perhaps Miranda might even have found it amusing – if only she hadn’t looked around and realised she had no idea where she was.       She was now standing by an ivy-covered fence, surrounded by riotously blooming roses that delighted the eye with their vivid colours. The summer sun shone blindingly, and it was getting hot in her jacket. Not far off stood a handsome three-storey manor house with its front door flung wide open – it seemed that when Miranda had been flung here, her arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, and these people had run outside at once. Beyond the fence stretched a view of the countryside: the house stood on a hill, and the surroundings could be seen for miles. Around her lay the typical English countryside, with sheep peacefully grazing in the distance– nothing unusual.       And none of it had anything to do with the Frost family estate, where the sky was always blanketed with heavy clouds and the damp wind slipped easily beneath your clothes. Merlin – where had she ended up? Had she somehow Apparated without even realising it?       “Where am I?” she asked with difficulty. “What is this place?”       A telling silence followed, prompting her to turn around. The man and the women exchanged expressive glances, and the look of disgust on Thomas’s face deepened. The women seemed more peaceably inclined, and Miranda deemed it necessary to add:       “I’m not drunk or insane. But I… I don’t remember.”       “You’re in Little Hangleton, dear,” said the lady with the brooch, examining her more and more intently. Hearing a familiar name, Miranda sighed in relief. She hadn’t ended up too far from home; Great Hangleton was only a few miles from here. So it was just a failed Apparition… “Are you a refugee?”       “I beg your pardon?”       “A refugee?” the lady repeated impatiently. “Though it’s plain to see you are. I’ve never seen such strange clothing. You need a wash and some proper clothes. Where have you come from? London?” The man, catching the sympathetic note in the lady’s voice, sneered disdainfully. Still confused, Miranda nodded just in case, then quickly looked over herself. Just ordinary Muggle jeans and a jacket – nothing special! And in front of her stood definite Muggles – who else could they be, if they didn’t recognise a wand when they saw one?       “Abby, let the girl wash and have something to eat,” the lady ordered in an authoritative tone, then addressed Miranda. “But afterwards, you must leave. Is that clear? We have nothing more to offer you.”       “Yes, Mrs Riddle,” the woman in the cap inclined her head.       Not intending to argue, Miranda merely nodded. The handsome man waved his hand irritably, muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Dragging all sorts of trash into the house,” and walked back to the manor in silence. The lady followed him with regal grace, no longer sparing Miranda a glance, while the maid – it was now clear she held that position in the house – suddenly smiled at her in a surprisingly warm, human way.       “Come on, I’ll get you some water and something to eat. Have you been on the road long?”       “Not really.”       “Still, you’re dressed very strangely,” she said, frowning slightly as she eyed Miranda’s trainers. “I’ve never seen fabric like that… Where is it from?”       “London,” Miranda replied as briefly as possible, feeling increasingly unsettled. What on earth was going on? Her instincts whispered persistently that this wasn’t just a failed Apparition – something far more serious had happened. But what exactly, damn it?       She started to follow the house’s owners, but Abby quickly grabbed her arm and nodded in a different direction. Miranda obediently followed her, and together they walked around the house and stepped onto a small porch that led to a short, dark hallway with no windows. After passing through, they found themselves straight in the kitchen. Taking in the interior, Miranda smirked inwardly. She had never before been brought into a house through the back door, mistaken for a tramp from the street! What would her father say?       “Right, there’s water in this jug – wash up over the basin,” Abby said as she bustled about the kitchen, opening various cupboards. “Here’s a piece of bread and cheese – have a bite. I’ll just…” She paused and gave Miranda a critical once-over. “Look for something for you to change into. It’s not right for a young lady to wander the streets dressed like that.”       “You don’t have to–”       But efficient Abby merely waved her off and disappeared from view. Deciding it was useless to argue, Miranda quickly stuffed her wand up her sleeve and washed her face, then began eating the makeshift sandwich, already thinking about how she would return home and tell the story of her encounter with these odd Muggles. Maybe her mum would be able to explain why they were acting so strangely?       Her gaze slid across the kitchen walls and landed on a small tear-off calendar hanging crookedly to the right of the window. The date made her smirk. First of August, 1944. That old thing’s been hanging there a while… Some kind of family heirloom, maybe? Hasn’t been taken down in over fifty years?..       The smirk nearly escaped her lips – but at the last moment, it turned into a convulsive cough. Miranda looked around in confusion, now noticing the kitchen’s setup in a new light. None of the familiar Muggle appliances were present – everything was completely antiquated, as if straight from a museum. No phone, no television, and the electric lightbulb overhead barely glowed... And the way those people reacted to her clothes…       But… how could this be possible? She didn’t have a Time-Turner, and even if she had, a jump like this simply wasn’t possible…       Miranda clutched the edge of the table with all her strength, feeling the floor slip away beneath her feet, and squeezed her eyes shut. Footsteps sounded in the distance – someone was approaching, and she desperately hoped it would be a familiar voice. But it was Abby, returning       “Here, try this on. I brought my sewing basket – if it’s too big, I’ll take it in.”       She opened her eyes. The old-fashioned dark kitchen hadn’t vanished, and in front of her stood the familiar maid, holding out a shapeless old dress of dull brown. Reason reminded her that until she understood the situation, there was no point in complaining or resisting, so Miranda obediently accepted the outfit like a doll, hoping Abby wouldn’t read the storm of emotions on her face.       So… The real question wasn’t "where" she had ended up – but "when"? But that was absolute madness! And how was she supposed to get back? Step back into the epicentre of the explosion again?       Without really looking at the garment, Miranda distractedly, almost in a daze, pulled off her jacket and tugged the dress on over her T-shirt and jeans. Abby shot her a sceptical look, and Miranda reluctantly removed her jeans as well. The dress was a little loose at the waist, but it was long enough to hide her trainer-clad feet, and the sleeve could conceal her wand.       “Lovely!” Abby declared, pleased. “My niece is a bit taller than you – it’s one of her old dresses. Keep it, she hasn’t worn it in years.”       Miranda looked herself over and thought she resembled a sack of potatoes. Still, she smiled with all the gratitude she could muster.       “Thank you!”       “Don’t mention it!” Abby waved a hand. “Wear it in good health.”       “Abby, may I go into the village? I’d like to buy myself a bag – something to carry my things in. And some bread for the road.”       She cast a sceptical glance at Miranda, then at the jeans and jacket folded on the chair. But it seemed she reasoned that a poor refugee wouldn’t be throwing her things away lightly and merely sighed.       “Do you have any money?”       Miranda nodded, belatedly realising she had no idea what kind of money Muggles used in this time. Before heading into town with her mother, she had stuffed her pockets with wizarding coins and British pounds. Wizard gold might still be valid in the magical world – but what about the pounds? They had Queen Elizabeth on them; they probably wouldn’t be accepted here at all... But Abby wasn’t supposed to know any of that, and Miranda needed to get out and walk the streets, just to confirm that she had truly landed in another time.       On unsteady legs, she stepped back outside, taking deep breaths. The warm summer air, filled with the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass, brought a little relief, though her thoughts were still in chaos. What if this wasn’t a hallucination, and she really had travelled back fifty years? What was she supposed to do? Who could she turn to?       Squinting into the sunlight – what a warm August 1944 had turned out to be! – Miranda walked around the house and down the drive to the gate. A dirt road ran down the hill, and below lay the village of Little Hangleton. In her own time, she rarely visited it, and had no idea whether it had always been this small. The Muggles she passed on the way looked at her with mild surprise, and Miranda soon understood why – the floor-length dress she wore was old-fashioned even for the 1940s, and the local women wore dresses and pinafores just below the knee. Muted colours predominated – grey, blue, dark green.       A few pennies clinked in her pocket – Abby had slipped them to her, clearly not believing the strange girl found in the garden had any money. Miranda now debated whether to spend them now or save them for later. It wasn’t much, but who knew what lay ahead?..       Lost in thought, she completely stopped watching where she was going and only came back to herself when she crashed into someone – hard enough that it knocked her slightly off balance.       “I’m terribly sorry,” Miranda blurted, trying to recover her poise. “I didn’t mean to–”       She trailed off mid-sentence when she caught sight of the person she had nearly bowled over – and felt her cheeks flush. The dark-haired young man before her was perhaps her age or a little older – and he was indecently, ridiculously handsome. His pale face, dark eyes, and hollow cheeks were hard to look away from, and for a second Miranda had the strange feeling that she’d seen him before. Absurd, of course. It wasn’t as though anyone in 1944 could possibly look familiar.       Despite the force of the collision, the young man hadn’t budged. He now looked down at Miranda from his considerable height. A flicker of disdain crossed his handsome face – and it stung her more than all the contemptuous words Thomas had thrown at her. Without saying a word, the young man turned and walked away without so much as a backward glance.       Rude. Though it was her own fault – one really ought to watch where one was going… But what a beautiful face that Muggle had. Miranda had no doubt the young man wasn’t a wizard – his Muggle clothes fit far too well, whereas most wizards she knew barely understood how to dress in the Muggle world.       On the village street, Miranda stepped into a bakery and a grocer’s shop. She didn’t buy anything, just studied the prices to get a sense of how much things had changed over fifty years. She’d have browsed more, but the suspicious looks from the shopkeepers and locals made her realise they didn’t trust her odd, shabby clothes. Deciding it was time to collect her things from Abby and return to the magical world – she’d start by Apparating to Diagon Alley and figure it out from there – Miranda turned back towards the house on the hill.       The walk back passed quickly, and soon she slipped into the kitchen through the familiar back door. Abby wasn’t there, but Miranda’s jeans and jacket had been neatly folded into a hideous canvas bag. There was no point being picky – she slung the bag over her shoulder. She should really thank these people before leaving. It would be rude not to say goodbye…       Hesitating, she left the kitchen and wandered deeper into the house. After a couple of dim corridors, she found herself in what was clearly the drawing room. The householders were there, and Miranda sighed in relief. It would have been awkward if they’d caught her wandering.       “Mrs Riddle,” the elderly lady’s name came to her just in time, “thank you very much for–”       The words caught in her throat as she realised all three people in the room were utterly motionless. Not like they hadn’t noticed her – but like they weren’t people at all. Like they were life-sized dolls, frozen in place. That sense of danger, which had lain dormant since her arrival in the past, suddenly screamed to life. Miranda took two cautious steps forward, bracing herself for an unknown threat.       She didn’t want to look at them. But she forced herself.       A chill raced down her spine, and her forehead broke into a sweat. There were three of them – disagreeable Thomas, the elderly Mrs Riddle, and another distinguished-looking grey-haired gentleman Miranda assumed must be Mr Riddle. The elderly couple sat on a sofa before an unlit fireplace. Thomas was in an armchair. And all would have been well – except for the expressions of pure horror frozen on their faces. Thomas gripped the armrests so tightly his knuckles stood out. Mrs Riddle’s fingers were curled like bird claws. Their glassy eyes looked even more grotesque because there was no doubt at all: they were dead.       The worst part wasn’t even the sight of their lifeless bodies – people who had been alive and well just forty minutes ago – but the utter absence of wounds or any visible cause of death. Miranda began to tremble. In her time, the newspapers wrote far too often about what could kill a person without leaving a mark, and she knew all too well what she had just encountered.