Heart of the Serpent

      She had to get out. Immediately. Whoever had cast the Killing Curse here – and three times, no less – this was no place for her. But that thought had barely formed when she heard rapid footsteps. Miranda had just enough time to whip out her wand and hide it behind her back when, to her utter shock, the very same young man she had almost knocked over in the village walked into the living room... He looked just as immaculate as before, and the sight of three corpses by the fireplace seemed to leave him entirely unfazed. But the sight of Miranda clearly caught him off guard – his angelically handsome face lost its calm expression, and within a second, his wand was aimed squarely at her chest.       It was at that moment Miranda realised why his face had seemed vaguely familiar – he was the spitting image of the dead Thomas, the man who had been sitting to her left. Imagine that dead Muggle without greying hair, wrinkles, and a slightly sagging figure, and you’d get the young man standing before her...       “Who are you, Muggle?” The tall, cold voice didn’t suit the youthful, attractive face at all, and the commanding tone made Miranda flinch. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. Avada–”       “Protego!”       Her reflexes, honed through years of training with her father, saved her: Miranda dived to the floor so fast that her knees and elbows screamed with pain on impact. The beam of merciless green light tore straight through her Shield Charm like it wasn’t there – but Miranda was already gone from that spot. The Killing Curse blasted through the room and struck an antique grandfather clock, which collapsed with a pitiful groan. Using her opponent’s surprise to her advantage, Miranda rolled toward the sofa, right beneath the dead old men’s feet. There was no point in duelling – she knew, with crystal clarity, as if someone had whispered it in her ear: she wouldn’t survive this. The only thing between her and the killer was the sofa, which meant she had about two seconds before–       Icy fingers gripped her wand. Diagon Alley... I need to get to Diagon Alley...       “Impedimenta!”       A blue flash shot from the attacker’s wand, but it only hit the rug, because Miranda had already Disapparated. The world spun around her, her stomach tied itself in knots, and a moment later, she was flung onto a dirty wooden floor. The unpleasant effects of Apparition wouldn’t go away – on the contrary, a sharp pain twisted in her gut and throat. Her mouth filled with blood, spilling freely onto the floor.       Damn it! Did I splinch?       “Miss, are you all right? What happened?”       A man’s voice reached her as though her ears were stuffed with cotton. With great effort, Miranda lifted her head and saw that she was in the Leaky Cauldron, and someone was leaning over her – someone who looked suspiciously like a much younger version of Tom the innkeeper. That was the last thing she remembered before darkness claimed her.       When Miranda next opened her eyes, she was lying in a narrow bed in a dimly lit room. It was night outside, and the only light came from a faintly glowing lamp that gave off a dull yellow hue. Around her stood several more beds, all with the same white linen; three out of five were occupied. The other patients seemed to be asleep. Aside from the beds, there were only chairs and bedside tables – one of each per bed. Turning her head, Miranda saw her bag tucked under a chair a few steps away, and on the seat lay her wand.       Only now, remembering that she’d apparently been injured, did Miranda quickly glance down at herself, trying to sense any pain. Nothing hurt, and the nausea was gone. Pushing back the blanket, she found herself dressed in a long-sleeved nightgown, with bandages clearly wrapped around her midsection. The whole setting – identical beds, identical sleepwear, modest belongings arranged on the chairs – screamed “hospital.” And judging by the wand beside each patient, this had to be St. Mungo’s. The bottle on her bedside table confirmed it: one sniff told her it contained the same Blood-Replenishing Potion she had brewed not long ago.       Well, it could be worse.       Miranda leaned back on the pillow, sliding a hand beneath her head. She wasn’t the slightest bit sleepy anymore. The sharp pain had gone, and there was no need to run for now. She finally had time to think things through. Now, in a rare moment of calm, the famous Frost composure and rationality finally kicked in.       So, what’s the bottom line? She’d been thrown fifty years into the past. Fortunately, she had her wand and some money – not that it would last long. She had no idea how to return home, no one to turn to, no family or friends - those were the negatives. On the plus side, she was a decent witch, could defend herself, and there was no war with Voldemort in 1944, so at least she wouldn’t get hit with a Killing Curse while shopping for a new cloak. But what was going on in the magical world in 1944? Grindelwald was terrorising Europe, and he wouldn’t be defeated for another year. Beyond that, her mind offered up no useful facts... For the first time, Miranda regretted all those History of Magic lessons she’d spent finishing homework for Transfiguration or Ancient Runes instead of listening to Professor Binns.       Ideally, she needed to get to a wealthy, old library, dig through some ancient tomes, and try to figure out what magic had flung her here and how to reverse it. The Frost family library would be the perfect start – but that was out of the question. She couldn’t very well explain to her ancestors that she was their great-granddaughter from the future. Hogwarts' library was another option, though there was no guarantee they’d let her in. Perhaps Dumbledore would grant her access, but in 1944 he probably wasn’t Headmaster yet...       Her thoughts returned to the encounter in Little Hangleton. She’d barely landed in a new time and already she’d witnessed a murder – and made a deadly enemy. That this young man was now her mortal enemy was beyond doubt. She had interfered too much with his plans, escaping at the critical moment. Of course he’d intended to carry out the triple murder unnoticed - then she, some random girl with a wand, had blundered in...       Miranda shivered. What kind of person could kill three Muggles with such cold-blooded ease and remain so composed? She hadn’t seen the murders themselves, but she had no doubt who had committed them. He had tried to kill her within two seconds of seeing her! Why, except to eliminate a witness? And he’d only held off when he realised she was a witch – not a Muggle. Why? What would he have done then? The thought made her stomach churn. In her ears, as real as if she were there again, echoed Bellatrix Lestrange’s crazed laughter as she tortured Neville with the Cruciatus Curse in the Department of Mysteries.       Who was he? And how could someone so young – he looked eighteen or nineteen at most – be such a heartless killer? He had slaughtered three Muggles without so much as blinking. Could he be a maniac? No, probably not. Miranda tried to push the thought away, but the resemblance between the young man and the murdered Muggle haunted her. Anyone with eyes could see they were related – though one was a wizard and the other was not. Which only made it worse. What kind of person could kill his own family?       She tossed and turned on the narrow bed until morning, drifting in and out of troubled sleep. In her dreams, she kept seeing that handsome pale face framed by dark hair and the flash of green light. Over and over, the tall, cold voice shouted: “Avada Kedavra!”       In the morning, the other patients began to stir, followed by the arrival of wizards in lemon-yellow robes, confirming once and for all that she was in St. Mungo’s Hospital. Miranda had always felt drawn to this place – after Hogwarts, she’d hoped to become a Healer, specialising in curse removal. Now, given her current uncertain situation, she had no idea if that dream would ever come true...       “Oh, you’re awake! How are you feeling?” asked a plump Healer gently as she approached. Miranda gave her a grateful smile.       “Much better, thank you. What happened to me…”       “Splinching,” the Healer replied at once, understanding what Miranda was about to ask. “A mild one, but it did affect your internal organs. Fortunately, you were brought to us in time and we patched you up quickly. I’m Healer Morrow. And you are?”       Fully aware that the conversation was entering dangerous territory, Miranda replied, “Miranda Sommers.” There was no way she could use her real name, and since no one in the magical world knew her mother’s surname, it was the obvious choice.       “How can we contact your family, Miss Sommers?”       “I don’t think you can,” she said, adding a sad, wistful look to her face.       “What do you mean?”       “I don’t remember anything,” Miranda admitted softly and convincingly, watching the Healer’s face closely. “I remember Apparating, and before that… nothing.”       Both Healer Morrow and her colleague – who had been speaking with one of the other patients – pricked up their ears and turned toward her with great interest.       “And since when do you remember nothing, Miss Sommers?”       She shrugged, adjusting her expression to one of confusion and fear. Just don’t overdo it…       “Since the beginning.”       “What are your parents’ names?”       “I don’t remember.”       “Did you go to Hogwarts?”       “I don’t remember…” Miranda only just caught herself in time, answering yes would’ve been a mistake.       “How old are you?”       “Seventeen… I think.”       “Very unusual,” muttered the bearded Healer nearby. “What do you think, Nancy? What might have caused the memory loss?”       “Severe emotional trauma? The shock of failed Apparition?” Healer Morrow guessed uncertainly. “It’s extremely rare, but not impossible. But we’ll need to investigate further…”       Promising to look into her case, the Healers left. The other patients in the ward cast curious glances her way, but Miranda pretended not to notice, and no one pressed her with questions. Before long, another Healer rolled in a trolley with trays, and breakfast began. Miranda tucked into her porridge, toast, and cocoa while pondering what she should say during the next round of questioning. She had rejected the idea of telling the truth long ago – deciding that in her situation, playing dumb was the safest bet. The amnesia story might not be especially original – Amelia Frost used to watch enough Muggle soap operas to know that someone always lost their memory in those – but hopefully, in 1944, that plot twist hadn’t worn thin yet.       The day dragged on slowly. The Healers returned to her twice more with more questions - one of them from the hospital administration. Miranda stuck firmly to her story, answering every question with a calm, unwavering “I don’t remember.” She was given another dose of potions, washed up, combed her hair, and spent the rest of the time lying in bed, pondering her situation. She didn’t talk to the other patients.       The next morning began just the same – breakfast, medicine, and more questions. Miranda remained calm, even slipping into a strange, sleepy apathy brought on by the ward’s drowsy atmosphere. But that vanished in an instant when she caught sight of that morning’s Daily Prophet. Her neighbour had received the paper earlier and had since dozed off, leaving the pages on the nightstand next to her wand.       “Killer of Three Muggles Captured,” read the bold headline across the front page. Miranda, her palms already damp with sweat, carefully summoned the newspaper to herself using Wingardium Leviosa. A few wet spots quickly faded from her wand.       The article painted a grisly picture of the triple murder in Little Hangleton, where an entire Muggle family had been killed by the Killing Curse. The worried Minister for Magic had ordered an immediate investigation, and the culprit had been caught almost instantly: in that very village lived only one wizard, Morfin Gaunt, who had previously been arrested for attacking one of the murdered Muggles. When the Aurors came for him, Morfin hadn’t even tried to resist. He proudly confessed to the crime. It had already been confirmed that the murders were carried out using his wand. The Wizengamot would decide his fate.       From the photograph, a man with a repulsive appearance sneered at Miranda and hissed something silently. His dirty face, matted, greasy hair, wall-eyed gaze, and crooked teeth made him look guilty even without reading the caption. He was already under arrest and dressed in indescribable rags.       He had nothing whatsoever in common with the dark-haired, handsome young man in the neat Muggle suit who had killed three people and tried to kill her.       Oh, how the Ministry loved to pin horrific crimes on the innocent, while the real killer roamed free…              That afternoon, voices in the corridor drew Miranda’s attention, and she strained to listen.       “We’re very grateful you made the time to come, sir. It’s truly a strange case, and we hope you might be able to help us…”       “No need to worry, Healer Morrow. I’m happy to assist,” came a voice that nearly made Miranda fall out of bed. Yes, fifty years was a long time, but that voice hadn’t changed a bit. And hearing it now was especially painful, knowing that in her time, it had only been a month since this man had died...       “We can’t identify her. No reports of a missing person. The Ministry’s heard nothing about a missing girl. Her belongings offered no clues – only made things more confusing. And the surname ‘Sommers’ means nothing to us. But she looks so young – perhaps, sir, you’ll recognise her? Maybe she’s one of your students…”       “Of course, Mrs Morrow, don’t worry. I’ll speak with her now.”       The ward door opened, and in walked the kind Healer and… Albus Dumbledore himself. Miranda only just managed to compose herself in time and silently ordered herself not to stare at the unexpected visitor, though it took all her willpower to show neither joy nor grief at seeing a familiar face. It was foolish to rejoice – he wouldn’t recognise her. And he wasn’t even the Headmaster yet…       “Hello again, Miranda!” Healer Morrow said in an overly cheerful tone. “This is Professor Albus Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster of Hogwarts. We thought he might be able to help you remember something about your past.”       “Good afternoon, Miranda,” said Dumbledore.       Clad in bright blue robes, he was both recognisable and unfamiliar – his hair and beard were just as long, but now a reddish-brown, not white. His face had far fewer wrinkles, but his bright blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles were exactly the same. Miranda’s chest tightened as she remembered the mournful song of the phoenix and the white tomb.       “How are you feeling?”       “Much better, Professor. Thank you.”       At the word Professor the two of them exchanged a glance. Then Dumbledore gave a small shake of his head.       “Well, Miranda, I won’t lie, you’re not familiar to me. I’m afraid you were not a student at Hogwarts. Do you remember where you studied? Or how old you are?”       “I’m seventeen. As for my schooling…” Though she wanted to answer yes she forced herself to shake her head. “I don’t remember.”       “Our tests confirm that Miranda is seventeen,” added Healer Morrow.       “We should show her wand to Ollivander,” Dumbledore said suddenly. “If it was bought from him, he’ll be able to identify it.”       “And if it wasn’t?” exclaimed Mrs Morrow in frustration. “Mr Dumbledore, we can’t keep her here forever! She’s healthy now. She must be discharged!”       Not fully understanding what kind of help the Healer was asking of Dumbledore, Miranda decided to speak up just in case:       “Please, sir! Is there any way to restore my memories?”       Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, then said thoughtfully:       “If Miranda is seventeen, she should be starting her seventh year of education… Miss Sommers, are you absolutely sure you remember nothing?”       His bright blue gaze grew piercing, and Miranda suddenly had a nasty suspicion that he knew she was hiding something. For a moment, she seriously considered telling him the truth – how she’d come to be here. If anyone would believe such madness, it would be Dumbledore. But then… she remembered her father. He never trusted anyone, always relied on himself. Even in the war, Richard avoided asking others for help, so as not to owe anyone anything. That was the Frost way.       A second later, her decision was made. Making sure her mind was shielded with Occlumency so her thoughts couldn’t be read, she nodded firmly.       “I’m sure, unfortunately.”       “Well then,” said the professor, standing up. “I’ll speak with Professor Dippet to arrange for you to attend Hogwarts this autumn as a seventh-year student. I think that would be best. During your studies, you’ll discover which subjects come most naturally to you – and that may help you recall something about your past.”       “I… That’s incredibly generous of you,” Miranda managed, stunned, barely daring to belie ve her luck. Dumbledore suddenly gave her a mischievous smile.       “Help is always given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it, Miss Sommers. Don’t forget that.”