Heart of the Serpent

August 1944       The room she’d rented above the Hog’s Head was nothing to write home about – a cramped attic space beneath the rafters, draughty from every direction, so much so that even at the tail end of summer Miranda had to rely constantly on Warming Charms. There was hardly any furniture, and most of the available space was taken up by the school supplies she’d had to buy all over again. She really ought to learn the Undetectable Extension Charm, honestly…       She had moved to Hogsmeade immediately after being discharged from the hospital. Her farewell with kind Mrs Morrow had been a warm one, and the older witch had made her promise – quite firmly – to write the moment her memory returned. After that, Miranda had transfigured her jacket and trainers into a robe and shoes. The result left much to be desired: the shoes were uncomfortably tight, and the robe ended up with a strange row of buttons sewn down the sleeves. Still, Transfiguration had never been her strong suit. With a resigned sigh, she began to change.       Staying in London until the autumn was out of the question – not least because of the city prices – whereas the attic at the Hog’s Head fit neatly within her modest budget. A few days after the move, a scruffy grey owl had delivered a letter and a small pouch of coins: the usual Hogwarts correspondence, along with the financial assistance granted to students in need. Tucked inside the letter was a brief note from Professor Dumbledore, informing her that he had spoken with Headmaster Dippet on her behalf. She was expected at the school on 1st September at five o’clock sharp for a meeting with the Headmaster in person. Feeling she owed Dumbledore at least a bottle of Madam Rosmerta’s finest mead, Miranda Apparated straight to Diagon Alley to shop.       It was still fairly quiet – the back-to-school rush hadn’t begun yet – so she wandered the alley at her leisure, peering into shop windows and comparing what she saw to the Diagon Alley she remembered. Truth be told, not much had changed over the past few decades. The prices, however, were a pleasant surprise. Inflation seemed to work just the same in the magical world as in the Muggle one, which meant the Galleons she’d brought from 1997 now amounted to a small fortune.       She bought her textbooks, scales, and cauldron from second-hand shops, but for her robes she went to Madam Malkin’s – there was no way she could make something respectable out of a used robe, and no Frost would ever be caught dead looking like a pauper. Family pride had not gone out of fashion. Besides, in this timeline she didn’t know anyone, and first impressions mattered. Thankfully, she no longer needed a telescope, but the apothecary trip took ages – she fully intended to continue Potions in her seventh year. Her final stop was Flourish and Blotts, which she entered on a whim – only to get completely sidetracked by a shelf dedicated solely to the Dark Arts. Well now… that certainly said something about how Ministry policy had shifted in the past fifty years. In her own time, books like these could only be found in Knockturn Alley or the private libraries of pure-blood families – never openly on display in the most famous wizarding bookshop in Britain. This definitely wasn’t the Complete Works of Gilderoy Lockhart.       She spent nearly an hour at that shelf, running her fingers over the sinister black, blood-red, and purple covers, feeling the magic pulse faintly through the bindings. A few of the titles she recognised – the Frost family library had copies – and others she remembered from the Restricted Section at Hogwarts. But some were completely new. Her father, Richard Frost, a master of the Dark Arts, had introduced both daughters to the subject, though Miranda and Pantea were strictly forbidden from discussing it with anyone. Of course, they’d barely used any Dark magic in practice – only in training, and even then with caution – but Miranda had always found the subject deeply fascinating. It was dangerous, powerful, and therefore irresistible. Still, she knew it was crucial to maintain a sense of inner restraint – a moral brake that kept curiosity from turning into practice.       The books here were of middling danger. They described common hexes, albeit nastier than what you’d see in a friendly duel. Nothing too threatening or forbidden – until her eye was drawn to a slim volume wedged at the back of the top shelf, barely visible behind two thicker tomes. With some effort, she prised it free. The blackened cover was battered and the lettering had worn off completely. The title was repeated on the first page “Sorcery Most Vile”. It meant nothing to her, but after leafing through a few pages and reading the preface, she knew at once she was going to buy it. At the same time, a question began to gnaw at her: how on earth had this made it onto the shop floor?       That question was answered at the till. The shopkeeper gave her a cheerful smile – which vanished the moment he saw what she was handing over. He turned pale and visibly flinched.       “Where did you find this, miss?”       “On the shelf in the main room,” she replied lightly. “It is for sale, isn’t it?”       “Why in Merlin’s name did Rem put it out? I told him this one should’ve gone straight to the Ministry…” he muttered, clearly more to himself than to her.       Sensing the book was about to be snatched away, Miranda pressed her advantage. A queue had begun forming behind her, which worked in her favour.       “Apologies, sir, but may I pay? My Portkey activates in seven minutes, and I still need to stop by the sweetshop.”       “Are you of age?” the clerk asked in a defeated tone, glancing around for help – but no one else was nearby.       “For several months now.”       Left with no other choice, he rang up the purchase. Miranda handed over a few Galleons and stepped back out into the noise of the street.       The rest of the summer passed quietly. She wandered through Hogsmeade, devoured her new books, learned a few new Charms, made annotations in her copy of Advanced Potion-Making, and pored over Sorcery Most Vile with rapt fascination. Its author, Godelot, had lived in the distant Middle Ages, and his dense, labyrinthine prose made for slow reading – but she could hardly tear herself away. Soon she made it a rule to read the book only during the day – some of the curses and rituals described were so grotesque, she’d once given herself nightmares after reading it at bedtime.       As for her family – she forbade herself from thinking about them. The thoughts brought too much pain, and every night as she curled up under the thin attic blanket, Miranda felt unbearably alone. Mum, Dad, her sister… How was she supposed to live without them now? Who would protect her if something went wrong? Who would comfort her, soothe her? And them — what were they doing now, while she was missing? What if she never found a way back?       Again and again, these thoughts circled endlessly in her mind, impossible to escape after dark.       The one time of day she truly loved was twilight. Nearly every evening, Miranda would leave the Hog’s Head and walk along the main road out of Hogsmeade, heading towards Hogwarts. She never got too close to the castle – instead, she would slip down the slope to the Black Lake. After making sure no one was around, she would turn to one of her favourite branches of magic: Animagus transformation. If anyone happened to pass by, they’d see a tall white-haired girl vanish by the water’s edge – and moments later, a black raven would rise into the air.       Miranda had first taken an interest in Animagus magic in third year, when Professor McGonagall had introduced the concept in class. At first it was purely theoretical. But after her fourth year, when Richard Frost learned of the Dark Lord’s return, Miranda began training seriously. She poured nearly all her free time into the subject, and her marks in the less essential subjects – Astronomy, Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, even Ancient Runes – dropped sharply. And this in fifth year, with O.W.L.s approaching. Unsurprisingly, her results left her parents rather disappointed: she failed Astronomy, Divination, and History of Magic outright, and scraped a Pass in Creatures and Runes. On the bright side, she did well in the subjects she needed for a Healer’s career: she earned Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration and Herbology, and Outstanding in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, and Potions.       Nearly a year of study and intense practice finally paid off. One day during training, she suddenly experienced her body differently: her vision widened to full panoramic range, sounds grew sharper, her throat could produce only a harsh croak – and her hands were now coal-black wings. Realising she had become a bird filled her with euphoric joy. Flying had always seemed like an unreachable dream – she had a near-phobic fear of broomsticks and avoided all things Quidditch-related. It took several more months to truly master the transformation and learn to control her new form – but now, she wouldn’t give it up for anything.       Her father had been pleased with her progress and advised her not to tell anyone. Unregistered Animagi were technically illegal, yes – but in a coming war, it could be a useful card to play.       Curiously, of all the birds in the world, pale grey-eyed Miranda with her ash-blonde hair had transformed into a raven black as night. She hadn’t minded at all. In fact, she’d smiled when, much later, during one of the Dumbledore’s Army meetings, Harry had taught them the Patronus Charm – and after several tries, her wand had produced a silver raven.       Every evening now, she transformed and soared over the castle, the Forbidden Forest, the lake, and Hogsmeade. From the first time she took flight, it wasn’t just joy – it was pure euphoria, the dizzying rush of freedom, more intoxicating than anything she’d ever known. Those were the feelings she summoned when she whispered “Expecto Patronum.”       It had been a remarkably peaceful two weeks in 1944, despite the uncertainty of her situation. After the chaos of the last two years, when Voldemort’s return had shattered all peace, Miranda finally felt calm. No need to run. No need to hide. No constant fear for her family.       Before she knew it, September arrived.       She packed her things, dressed in her school robes, and left the inn. With her trunk gliding along behind her, she made her way towards the castle at a leisurely pace. She’d taken this path many times before, returning from Hogsmeade trips in her own time. The Hogwarts Express wouldn’t arrive for a few more hours – she would reach the school and meet Headmaster Dippet well before the castle filled with curious students.       Entering the familiar Entrance Hall, she paused, breathing in deeply — the nostalgia was overwhelming. Nothing had changed inside. She wondered: was the rest of the castle just the same?       “Excuse me, miss, who are you?”       She opened her eyes to see a gaunt man of uncertain age, with a twitchy, nervous face, staring at her as though she’d tried to smuggle a Blast-Ended Skrewt into the school. The resemblance to Filch was uncanny.       “My name is Miranda Sommers. I have an appointment with Headmaster Dippet. Could you direct me to his office?”       He eyed her and then her trunk suspiciously.       “Are you a student?”       “Yes, new this year, sir. And you are?”       “Apollyon Pringle. Caretaker,” he said curtly. Miranda congratulated herself silently for guessing correctly, but kept her face carefully neutral. After a moment’s hesitation, he grunted, “I’ll take you.”       “I’m very grateful, sir.”       She left her things in the hall – confident the house-elves would handle them – and followed him through familiar corridors and staircases to the stone gargoyle. She knew the Headmaster’s office lay beyond, though she’d never seen inside. Pringle muttered the password and gestured for her to go up alone.       Miranda stepped forward. The spiral staircase carried her up, and she knocked politely at the door.       Headmaster Dippet looked so ancient that for a moment Miranda wondered how he was still alive. His face was a map of deep wrinkles, and only a few wisps of white hair clung to his head. His eyes were pale, almost colourless, but his gaze was sharp, clear, and unsurprised.       “Good evening, Miss Sommers. You’re punctual.”       “Good evening, Headmaster.”       “Please, take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. Miranda sat. “Albus has told me about you. Memory loss following a failed Apparition?”       “Yes, sir.”       “We’ve reviewed your case with the Board of Governors and agreed to allow you to remain at Hogwarts this year. You’ll join the seventh year, and at the end of the year, if you choose, you may sit your N.E.W.T.s. During your first week, you’ll need to determine which subjects you’re strongest in, and coordinate your schedule with your Head of House. Any questions?”       “None, sir.”       “Your arrival is likely to attract attention – it’s been years since we’ve had a new student in the upper years. If you prefer to avoid the spectacle, I can offer to sort you now, instead of during the Welcoming Feast.”       She followed his gaze to the familiar Sorting Hat, perched on a shelf. Six years ago it had placed her in Gryffindor. It looked a bit less filthy this time, but still thoroughly battered.       “Yes, please, sir – if it’s possible, I’d much prefer that.”       “Very well.”       Miranda carefully placed the Hat on her head. Almost at once, a quiet voice spoke in her mind – the same voice she remembered from her first year.       “Hm. Interesting. Not an easy choice. You have a sharp mind, a hunger for knowledge – Ravenclaw would suit you well. But I also see ambition, self-possession, resolve – traits worthy of Slytherin…”       Oh, lovely. In her first year, it had debated between Ravenclaw and Gryffindor – now it was adding Slytherin too. No doubt her fascination with the Dark Arts had added a few shadows to her personality.       “…and yet, I also see strength of character and fierce loyalty to your ideals. Courage – the kind that throws itself in front of danger to protect another…”       Merlin’s beard – had the Hat just seen the memory of her pushing her mother out of the spell’s path during the time-jump? Hastily, she turned to Occlumency, but the voice continued.       “…and those traits shine brightest. So – Gryffindor!”       The word echoed aloud. Miranda felt an odd weight lift from her chest — though she wasn’t sure why she’d been so anxious about it.       “Congratulations, Miss Sommers,” said Dippet, smiling faintly. “The house-elves will take your things to Gryffindor Tower. You may head to the Great Hall for the feast. Ah, and here comes your Head of House now…”       She removed the Hat and saw Professor Dumbledore entering the office, smiling and dressed in festive violet robes covered in golden stars.       “Good evening, Professor.”       “Miss Sommers, welcome,” he said warmly. “Gryffindor, I see? Splendid. Armando, the Hogwarts Express has just arrived. I’ll go greet the first-years.”       “I’ll escort Miss Sommers to the Hall,” said Dippet. “Would you mind carrying the Hat, Miss Sommers? The Sorting must begin before the feast.”       “Of course, sir,” she replied at once – and with that, the two professors and one new student left the office together.