Heart of the Serpent

September 1944       The Great Hall welcomed Miranda with the soft glow of a thousand floating candles and the familiar enchanted ceiling, now shrouded in clouds. Professor Dumbledore hadn’t accompanied them all the way to the doors, having gone to collect the first-years. A stream of older students was already filing in, many of them nodding respectfully to the elderly Headmaster.       Almost at once, Miranda began to feel curious eyes on her, though no questions followed – yet. Entering the hall with the rest of the students, she made her way to the Gryffindor table and took a seat at the very end. The Hall was abuzz with voices as returning students from second to seventh year greeted their friends, exchanged the latest news, and shared stories from the summer holidays. It all felt so familiar – so like the feasts of previous years – that something twisted painfully inside her. Merlin, would she ever return to her own time and finish her seventh year where she belonged? What a foolish thought. Of course not. Dumbledore was dead, the new Headmaster still unknown, and the future of the magical world nothing short of a riddle.       “Excuse me, do I know you?” a polite voice asked from her right, and Miranda turned to face the speaker. A slim girl with neatly tied dark hair and a Prefect’s badge pinned to her robes was watching her intently. “What year are you in?”       “Seventh.”       The girl raised her eyebrows, frowning slightly. Her face took on a stern expression, and her pressed lips looked so familiar that Miranda nearly dropped her fork. Merlin’s beard – it was Minerva McGonagall herself! Only, astonishingly, she was Miranda’s own age. And a school prefect, no less…       The silence between them stretched awkwardly until Miranda stirred herself to speak.       “Sorry, I was lost in thought. My name’s Miranda Sommers. I’m new here. I only started at Hogwarts this year for the final year.”       “And where were you studying before?” the girl asked with interest. “Beauxbatons? Ilvermorny?”       “No,” Miranda smiled faintly. “I was homeschooled. But my parents thought I should finish my education formally and sit my NEWTs.”       “And where are you from?” McGonagall continued, her curiosity lively. “We’ve never had anyone transfer in before.”       “Dublin,” Miranda offered, naming her mother’s hometown.       “Oh, so you're Irish? How interesting! Did you know Isolt Sayre, one of the founders of Ilvermorny, was Irish too?”       “Every Irish witch and wizard knows that,” Miranda replied with a smile.       The story about homeschooling had been Dumbledore’s suggestion, and she’d gladly agreed. Now she had to play the part – offering as little truth about herself as possible, while carefully avoiding outright lies. The less she risked tripping over some small detail, the better.       “Septimus, do lower your voice, I daresay they can hear you in the Astronomy Tower!” the prefect snapped at a lanky red-haired boy before turning back to Miranda. “By the way, I’m Minerva. I’m the Head Girl this year. I can help you find your way around. Hogwarts can be a bit overwhelming at first – you might take the wrong staircase or get lost entirely...”       Telling her that she could navigate Hogwarts blindfolded after six years here would hardly be wise, so Miranda simply smiled in gratitude.       “That would be a huge help.”       “Think nothing of it,” Minerva waved the idea away. “By the way, do you play Quidditch? Our team needs a new Chaser this year, perhaps you’d be interested?”       But Miranda didn’t get the chance to decline politely, because just then the doors to the Hall swung open again, and the line of first-years filed in behind Professor Dumbledore. The Sorting Hat sat waiting on its familiar three-legged stool in front of the staff table. The teachers had ceased chatting amongst themselves and now watched the new arrivals – some with interest, others with encouraging smiles.       A fresh wave of nostalgia washed over Miranda as her gaze landed on Professor Slughorn. In this time period, his head was still covered with a shock of straw-coloured hair, and his belly had yet to test the strength of his waistcoat buttons – but his kindly walrus-moustached face was just as she remembered it. The other professors, Dumbledore aside, were unfamiliar to her.       Headmaster Dippet rose from his seat, and the hall fell into expectant silence. The ceremony unfolded exactly as Miranda remembered it: a few welcoming words from the Headmaster, a new song from the Sorting Hat, and then Dumbledore began calling the first-years one by one to be Sorted.       “Adamson, Katie!”       “Ravenclaw!”       The Ravenclaw table burst into applause as a nervous girl with black plaits scurried over to join them.       “Andrews, Carver!”       “Gryffindor!”       On it went until the final child – a boy named Geoffrey Webster – was sent to Hufflepuff. The Hat was removed, and Headmaster Dippet rose again from his seat. Unlike Dumbledore, who in Miranda’s time would allow the students to enjoy their meal before moving on to announcements, Dippet seemed determined to get all formalities out of the way first.       “Welcome once again to Hogwarts, my friends,” he began, his voice surprisingly strong for a man of his years. “I have a few announcements to make. First, I remind all students that the Forbidden Forest is strictly off limits. Secondly, I am pleased to inform you that the Winter Ball will take place on the fourteenth of January, after the holidays. This way, you need not choose between dancing and spending Christmas with your families.”       That particular announcement received the warmest of reactions – especially from the girls. Miranda couldn’t help but smirk inwardly; it was just like during the Triwizard Tournament, three years ago… in her time, of course.       “Thirdly, Quidditch matches will begin in October. Those wishing to join their House teams may sign up for try-outs with their respective Captains or Heads of House. And finally, this year we welcome a new addition to our seventh-year cohort, who has been sorted into Gryffindor. Miss Miranda Sommers, we hope Hogwarts feels like home for you this year.”       He gave her a gentle nod. In an instant, every eye in the Hall was on her.       Miranda resisted the urge to shrink in her seat. Rising or bowing would only draw more attention. Instead, she forced a polite smile and returned the nod with all the grace she could muster.       Thank you so much, Headmaster. Just the thing I wanted – every student in Hogwarts staring at me.       Beside her, Minerva gave her a sympathetic smile, clearly understanding her plight. Miranda’s face remained composed, her smile frozen in place. She could wear a mask with the best of them – Frosts were trained to do so from the cradle.       “That is all,” came Dippet’s voice from afar. “Enjoy your meal.”       With a sudden rustle of magic, the dishes filled with food, goblets brimmed with drink, and the clatter of cutlery soon drowned out the buzz of speculation about the mysterious new seventh-year. Miranda relaxed a little. Some of the students at her table now leaned in to introduce themselves, and she did her best to respond, ask questions, and seem friendly. Names and faces swirled into a blur – she doubted she would remember more than a few, but in time, it would come.       She poked at a salad absently, appetite absent. Something was wrong. That tell-tale, prickling sensation was back – like a pin pressed into her cheek. She knew the feeling well. Someone was watching her. Closely. Not with curiosity, but with cold intensity. Almost hostility. The feeling didn’t fade, even when desserts appeared. At last, unable to bear it, Miranda glanced discreetly around the Hall. Her fellow Gryffindors seemed friendly enough – interested, yes, but not malevolent. Beyond them sat the Ravenclaws, and further down the Slytherin table. She narrowed her eyes. Slytherins could certainly be unfriendly, especially toward Gryffindors, but even among them she saw no one staring her down. Surely it wasn’t someone from Hufflepuff?       After the feast, Headmaster Dippet announced lights-out. Benches scraped as students rose, and Miranda felt a hand on her arm. Her nerves, already on edge, twitched instinctively toward her wand.       “I’ll walk you up to our tower,” Minerva offered cheerfully, oblivious to Miranda’s tension. “Wait here a moment, will you? I need to check the password and make sure the other prefects are seeing the first-years off.”       Miranda exhaled and smiled.       “Of course.”       The students began to drift out of the Hall. First-years stood around in confusion, unsure of where to go. Minerva hurried off to speak with Dumbledore. Miranda watched their conversation from a distance, all the while keenly aware that the strange, cold gaze had shifted – it now bored into the back of her neck. But by the time Minerva returned and they headed for the doors, the sensation had finally vanished.       The next morning began with a cheerful flurry of chatter as Miranda’s roommates dressed for breakfast. Their banter reminded her of Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown’s endless discussions about hairstyles and cosmetics. She suddenly found herself aching for Hermione – someone she could exchange knowing glances with when faced with such nonsense. She dressed quickly, braided her long ash-blonde hair, listened politely to fashion advice from the other girls, and headed downstairs to the Gryffindor common room.       Minerva was waiting just outside, by the portrait of the Fat Lady. As Head Girl, McGonagall had her own quarters elsewhere in the castle, but she had volunteered to guide Miranda around until she got her bearings. Miranda appreciated it more than she could say.       “After breakfast, we’ll get our timetables,” Minerva explained. “By the way, which NEWTs are you sitting? And any idea what you plan to do after Hogwarts?”       Miranda listed her subjects.       “You’re hoping to become a Healer?” Minerva asked with clear respect. “That’s incredibly challenging! Though I must say… Ancient Runes seems an odd choice for a St Mungo’s candidate.”       “I simply enjoy the subject,” Miranda replied.       “I understand,” Minerva nodded. “I take them too, though if I’m honest, Arithmancy interests me far more.”       “I’ve always been a bit sceptical about disciplines that claim to predict the future,” Miranda said with a shrug, stepping aside to let a group of Hufflepuff third-years pass. “Whether it’s Arithmancy or Divination...”       “Divination?” Minerva laughed. “Hardly a proper subject! They’ve never taught it here, it’s too imprecise.”       Miranda smiled, remembering that Professor Trelawney had only begun teaching some fifteen years in the future. She could still picture McGonagall’s exasperated expression back in third year, when they’d reported Trelawney’s ominous prediction of Harry’s death-by-Grim.       “I mean it,” Minerva added. “If you ever have a question or get lost, just ask professors –they’ll help. Or a prefect. Gryffindor’s prefects are Augusta Crouch and Fleamont Potter, both fifth-years. And of course, you can come to me anytime. Just… maybe avoid the other Head Boy.”       “Why?”       “He’s in Slytherin,” Minerva said simply, and Miranda smiled knowingly. Some things never changed.       The Great Hall was bathed in grey light. The ceiling showed high clouds, but no sign of rain. Miranda tucked into her eggs and toast, feeling far more at ease now that the strange gaze was gone. Professor Dumbledore arrived with the timetables, stopping here and there to confer with sixth-years over their OWL subject selections. Minerva handed Miranda her schedule, and she skimmed it quickly. Herbology with Ravenclaw. Double Defence Against the Dark Arts with Slytherin. Double Transfiguration after lunch. And Arithmancy, for those enrolled. Lovely – an evening free. Though Defence with Slytherins did not fill her with joy.       The night had brought rain, and the path to the greenhouses was muddy, though the day itself was warm. Professor Herbert Beery, the Herbology teacher in 1944, turned out to be a friendly middle-aged wizard. He welcomed Miranda and directed her to sit with the others before launching into the day’s lesson. They were reviewing prior material – specifically the Venomous Tentacula, a plant with which Miranda had a turbulent history in sixth year. Still, she managed to answer one of Professor Beery’s questions correctly and earned Gryffindor five points. The practical half of the class involved collecting black seedpods from the Tentacula that had ripened over the summer. The lesson became a chaotic affair, students dodging thrashing tendrils and shrieking as they struggled to harvest the pods safely.       Afterwards, Miranda barely had time to dash up to Gryffindor Tower for a shower before it was time for Defence Against the Dark Arts. She hurried to class with damp hair, straightening her robes as she entered. The classroom was filling up with students – Gryffindors in red and gold ties, Slytherins in silver and green. Minerva waved to her from the first row, and Miranda slipped into the seat beside her. The room had divided itself naturally: Gryffindors by the windows, Slytherins by the door.       “Good afternoon, class!” chirped a brisk voice. An elderly witch swept in. Miranda already knew from Minerva that her name was Professor Galatea Vilkost, and that she had taught at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.       She stood at her desk, surveying the seventh-years with sharp eyes. Her gaze settled on Miranda. Despite her age and grandmotherly appearance, she looked at Miranda in a way that made her shoot to her feet instinctively.       “Miss Sommers, I am Professor Vilkost. Headmaster Dippet tells me you’ve joined us this year, but that you lack documentation of your magical education. Is that correct?”       “Yes, ma’am.”       “You are aware, I trust, that seventh year is demanding. Only the most capable students are permitted to continue, slackers and the untalented will not last long in my class. To which category would you say you belong?”       Snickers rose from the Slytherin side. Miranda smiled inwardly. Defence Against the Dark Arts was her best subject. Even Harry had admitted she’d been among the best in Dumbledore’s Army – and training with Richard Frost could make a warrior out of anyone.       She opened her mouth to reply, but a voice interrupted from behind her.       “Apologies, Professor,” said a calm male voice. “Professor Hilliard kept me back after Charms, I couldn’t arrive sooner.”       “No matter, Mr Riddle,” Professor Vilkost beamed, transforming instantly into a sweet old lady. “Please, take your seat.”       Footsteps approached. Miranda turned to acknowledge him – and froze. The name “Riddle” had struck her like lightning. Three corpses, cold glassy eyes, hands twisted into claws... She knew that name. And now he was walking straight towards her.       Wearing Slytherin robes. A Head Boy’s badge. A pale, handsome face with hollow cheeks. His dark eyes held not a flicker of surprise. So. He was the one who had been watching her last night.       He smiled.