Heart of the Serpent

September 1944       “So then, Miss Sommers?” Wilkost prompted her, a faint note of mockery in her voice. “Have you drifted off in thought?”       Merlin, did no one in the classroom see that a murderer stood among them – a man who had taken the lives of three Muggles? Why was everyone so calm, as though nothing unusual were happening?!       Pull yourself together. Get a grip.       Clenching her fingers into a fist, Miranda met the professor’s gaze steadily.       “I believe they belong among the talented students, ma’am.”       Laughter rippled through the room again – this time more approving, coming from the Gryffindors. The professor, however, did not seem displeased; instead, she tilted her head slightly to one side.       “Very well. Let us see. What is an Inferius?”       “It is a corpse reanimated by Dark magic, which obeys the will of its creator and possesses no mind of its own. They have no instinct for self-preservation, feel no pain, and are incapable of making independent decisions.”       “Correct. The main signs of an Inferius attack?”       “There are essentially none, ma’am. Nothing at all remains of the victim that could be identified as human.”       “And how might one kill such a creature?”       “One cannot, as it is already dead, Professor,” Miranda interjected before she could stop herself. Noticing Wilkost’s narrowed eyes, she hastily returned to safer ground. “The most effective method is fire.”       “If several Inferi were to attack you at once, which spells would you use?”       “I should think Incendio, Professor.”       “I said several Inferi, Miss Sommers! You would need something more substantial. Why not use Fiendfyre?”       “Because that spell is extremely difficult to control, Professor,” Miranda replied briskly, already beginning to enjoy this examination. “It requires far more than a simple incantation , only a wizard of very strong will can wield Fiendfyre without it turning upon them along with the Inferi. Not to mention that it is Dark magic, the use of which is restricted by the Ministry.”       For a few seconds, silence hung in the classroom. Then Wilkost suddenly smiled in approval.       “Very good, Miss Sommers. Fifteen points to Gryffindor! Now, let us proceed to today’s topic…”       Miranda sank back into her seat and exhaled deeply. Beside her, Minerva whispered:       “Congratulations! I think you impressed her.”       Miranda gave a faint smile. Wilkost’s questions – now accompanied by the movement of her wand, as the lesson topic wrote itself upon the board – did not seem difficult to her; Snape had covered all of this the previous year, even making them write an essay on Inferi. But that unexpected encounter…       She did not dare turn her head in his direction, yet she felt his presence in every cell of her body. He was not looking at her now – she could not sense his gaze – but his very presence pressed down on her, suffocating. He had recognised her; she was dangerous to him, an unwanted witness. But surely he would not try to get rid of her here, at school, under the very eyes of Dippet and Dumbledore? Or… would he? He was only seventeen, had not even finished school, and yet had already murdered three Muggles, his own relatives, at that! Miranda was now certain of that fact; the surname “Riddle” had dispelled her last doubts. But what kind of person simply kills their own family?       At that moment, Miranda felt as though someone’s fingers brushed against her mind – not an attempt to penetrate it, but rather a test of her mental defences. Narrowing her eyes in anger, she decisively shut her mind against any external intrusion. So the murderer was a Legilimens as well. Splendid – just what she needed.       At least now it was clear how he had made Morfin Gaunt take the blame for the Muggles’ deaths… Fear and confusion gave way to a slowly rising anger. No – he had chosen the wrong target if he thought she would simply allow herself to be eliminated like an inconvenient obstacle. He had managed to kill three defenceless Muggles – very well. Now let him try dealing with the witch Miranda Frost, who had already fought Death Eaters both in the Department of Mysteries and at Hogwarts the previous year – and survived.       “…which brings us to the Patronus Charm. This is advanced Light magic, very complex, and not usually taught in school, but I believe you should at least be familiar with it before your NEWTs,” Professor Wilkost was saying. Miranda leaned back in her chair, feeling the tension ease slightly. With a soft pang of nostalgia, she remembered Harry and the D.A. meetings in the Room of Requirement – how she longed to return to those days, even with Umbridge’s tyranny hanging over the school. “We may attempt to conjure a Patronus, though I do not expect much success in practice. Let us begin with something simple – what is a Patronus, and what is it used for?”       Three hands shot up. Miranda glanced around and noticed that, besides herself, only Minerva and – who else but Riddle – were ready to answer.       “Mr Riddle?”       “A Patronus is a magical entity that serves as protection against Dementors and Lethifolds. It most often takes the form of an animal that reflects the wizard’s inner nature. To conjure it, one must focus on their most positive emotions, recall their happiest memory, and cast the incantationExpecto Patronum. If done correctly, the Patronus will assume an animal form rather than appearing as a mere cloud of silvery light.”       By the end of his answer, Minerva’s hand had lowered. Galatea rewarded Riddle with a warm smile, it seemed she held him in particular favour.       “Very good, Mr Riddle. Yes, quite right – the Patronus is capable of… Yes, Miss Sommers? Did you wish to add something?”       “I would like to supplement Mr Riddle’s answer,” Miranda said with a charming smile, noticing the Slytherin prefect’s eyes narrow. It seemed that in 1944, Riddle was very much the Hermione Granger of his time – accustomed to having all the answers – and someone daring to interrupt him was a novelty. “May I?”       “Please, Miss Sommers,” Galatea nodded encouragingly.       “Simple happy memories are not enough,” Miranda said, recalling Harry’s account of how he had first produced a corporeal Patronus during a Quidditch match. “A wizard must force themselves to relive those emotions, to truly feel the happiness, the joy, the euphoria. In battle conditions, that is extremely difficult, especially when a Dementor is only a few steps away.”       “But it will not immediately attempt the Kiss,” a new voice interjected. Miranda turned to see an attractive blond boy at the third desk, his long platinum hair unmistakable, his grey eyes and self-satisfied expression marking him as Draco Malfoy’s ancestor. “If one does not hesitate or waste time–”       “I am afraid you do not fully understand what a Dementor is, Mr…” she paused.       “Malfoy.”       “Mr Malfoy,” her voice hardened. Images flashed before her eyes – the beginning of third year, the Dementors searching the Hogwarts Express for Sirius Black. She had been in a compartment with Fred and George Weasley when the door slid open and that dark, hooded figure had appeared. Those slimy, scab-covered hands, the icy breath, the crushing terror – she would never forget it. “These creatures begin to drain your positive emotions the moment they come near you. You lose control, you can barely breathe, and you feel every good feeling being pulled out of you. The sensation intensifies with every second, and focusing on happy memories – when your mind is flooded with the worst ones – is incredibly difficult. So no, a Dementor does not need to use the Kiss to destroy you.”       By the end, her voice had dropped to a hiss. Malfoy stared at her in silence, his arrogance somewhat diminished. Realising she had gone too far, Miranda took a breath and only then noticed that every eye in the classroom was on her.       “You speak as though you have encountered them personally,” Wilkost said quietly.       Miranda inhaled deeply, already regretting her outburst, but there was no point denying it.       “I have, Professor. Fortunately, without lasting consequences.”       Minerva was staring at her in alarm, and it seemed the rest of the class was equally impressed. Miranda carefully avoided looking at Riddle.       “Returning to Patronuses,” Wilkost continued, moving to the board. “Who can tell me in which rare cases a Patronus may change its form?”       She surveyed the class, noted the only two raised hands, and smiled faintly.       “Yes, Mr Riddle?”       “A wizard must undergo a powerful psychological shock,” he recited smoothly. “It must be strong enough to alter the entirety of their personality, perhaps they realise something, repent, or set themselves a defining goal in life…”       “Or fall in love,” Miranda blurted before she could stop herself. Riddle turned sharply to her, and for the first time Miranda met his eyes directly. He looked not angry, but startled – not by her answer, but by the audacity of being interrupted.       “I beg your pardon?”       “Falling in love can affect the corporeal form of a Patronus,” she explained calmly, holding his gaze. “It can also be considered a powerful emotional upheaval.”       “Unlikely,” Riddle shrugged, his lips curling into a faintly contemptuous smile. “I think, Miss Sommers, you greatly overestimate the power of that feeling.”       Miranda allowed herself a small smile. She remembered Tonks – her changed Patronus, her altered appearance - and the shock of discovering the cause.       “Perhaps I do,” she conceded lightly. “Of course, not everyone experiences love in the same way. But there are documented cases where a wizard’s Patronus changes to match that of their beloved. That must mean something, must it not?”       They stood locked in each other’s gaze, and the tension in the room thickened. Riddle narrowed his eyes, studying her intently. His face remained perfectly composed, almost relaxed, yet Miranda would have sworn that his desire to kill her had just grown stronger.       “Well,” Professor Wilkost cleared her throat loudly, drawing their attention back. “I am very pleased with your knowledge, but I shall have to interrupt this fascinating discussion. Let us return to our lesson. Ten points to Gryffindor and Slytherin.”       Miranda was the first to look away, lowering her eyes to the parchment before her. The atmosphere eased slightly. Quills scratched across paper, Riddle finally turned away, and she felt a physical sense of relief as he bent over his notes.       A dangerous man. Not at all like someone troubled by having become a murderer only a month ago. Perfectly self-controlled, always seeking to dominate the situation and his very presence weighed upon her, not allowing her to relax. Perhaps she should not have provoked him further… Who knew what consequences might follow?       The rest of the lesson passed in a haze. At lunch, she walked in a near-dazed state, following McGonagall mechanically. Minerva chatted animatedly about the lesson, while Miranda merely nodded, replaying every detail of her encounter with Riddle, analysing his gestures, his looks, his behaviour. What were the chances he would act against her?       “Hi!” a cheerful female voice greeted her as she and Minerva sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Miranda looked up to see a delicate blonde girl she vaguely recognised, her lilting voice marked by a French accent. “I’m Simone Lefevre. You’re Miranda, right? We were just in Defence together. That was brilliant, the way you put Riddle in his place! No one’s ever seen that before!”       Miranda forced a polite smile, unwilling to engage, but Minerva chimed in eagerly:       “She’s right! It’s wonderful you know so much about Defence Against the Dark Arts. Riddle is always so all-knowing – it’s good that someone can challenge him!”       “I wasn’t trying to challenge him!” Miranda nearly choked on her pumpkin juice. “I was just repeating what I’d read in textbooks! It’s hardly my fault he didn’t read the chapter on Patronuses carefully enough.”       “Riddle – not read carefully?” Simone giggled. “As if! He’s the best student in the school – got all Outstanding on his OWLs! No one’s ever even tried to contradict him before, and then you come along with your Patronus knowledge! By the way, can you actually conjure one? Imagine his face if you did it faster than him in class!”       Miranda, who had been about to answer yes, quickly reconsidered.       “No… I can’t.”       Better not to draw more attention to herself. Staying unnoticed that was her priority this year, not becoming a local celebrity…       Though she would not have minded seeing Riddle’s reaction.       “And where are you from?” she asked quickly, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I can hear a French accent…”       “I have French roots, but I’m from America,” Simone smiled. “My grandmother lives in Louisiana, I spent a lot of time with her as a child. We moved to England eight years ago, so I’ve been at Hogwarts since the first year.”       “Which do you prefer?”       “Hard to say. It’s more interesting here, but Louisiana was warmer. I go back every summer. My grandmother is always so happy…” Miranda noted Simone’s complexion – not a tan, but the result of mixed heritage, which, combined with her pale hair, gave her an unusual, exotic appearance. “What about you?”       Lunch passed pleasantly, with friendly chatter. Other Gryffindors joined in, and upon hearing familiar surnames – Potter, Longbottom, Brown – Miranda studied the ancestors of her classmates with interest, searching for family resemblance. Afterwards, Simone’s Ravenclaw boyfriend, a handsome seventh-year named Owen Bagshot, joined them, and the two soon left for the library. Miranda and Minerva went to Transfiguration.       Here, Miranda’s success was far more modest. She listened quietly to Professor Dumbledore and took notes, leaving Minerva to earn points for Gryffindor. As expected, Minerva excelled – she completed the task of turning a pointed hat into a live flamingo faster than anyone. By the end of the lesson, the classroom was filled with noise, feathers, and bird calls. Miranda examined her own flamingo – it was nearly perfect, except for a bright blue ostrich feather still sticking out from its head. Dumbledore merely smiled at the detail and awarded her an Exceeds Expectations.       That evening, Miranda completed her homework, politely declined Simone’s invitation to sit in the common room, and retired to the dormitory. She had much to think about.