Heart of the Serpent

      Over the following weeks, life gradually settled into a steady rhythm. Miranda grew accustomed to the seventh-years’ routine, attended classes, earned points, and socialised with her classmates. She remained evenly friendly with everyone, yet formed no close attachments and confided in no one. In confidence, Simone told her that some boys from Gryffindor – and from other houses as well – found her interesting, and a few would like to get to know her better. As she spoke, Simone lowered her voice excitedly, her eyes alight with the desire to play matchmaker, but Miranda carefully pretended not to understand the hints, and the conversations about boys soon faded away on their own. She and Minerva now walked together less often, as Miranda had “learned” to find her way around the castle, and she spent most of her free time alone.       This line of behaviour she had chosen not only out of fear of revealing some important truth about herself. Even in her own time she had never been particularly sociable, preferring solitude to noisy gatherings. Her only close friend had been her own sister; however, Pantea studied in Slytherin, and so at school the sisters were able to spend far less time together than they would have liked. With her fellow students, her relationships had been just as neutral and cordial as they were now in 1944. Not because she was driven by any Frost-like arrogance or indifference, but simply because she had very few points of contact with her peers. She was entirely indifferent to Quidditch, and did not play Gobstones or chess. Instead, she was interested in the Dark Arts and combat magic, and spent a great deal of time in the library – but she could hardly discuss such things with other students. At times she had felt a kindred spirit in Hermione Granger, whom she sincerely admired for her ability to excel in absolutely every subject, even those she did not particularly enjoy, but Hermione spent nearly all her time with Harry and Ron, and it seemed wrong to intrude upon their circle. Perhaps she had felt best in her fifth year, when Harry had created Dumbledore’s Army, and she had felt herself part of a shared secret. She had been with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, and Ginny in the Department of Mysteries, but even that event had not truly bound them all together, and in sixth year everything had returned to how it had been before.       That same sixth year, when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Death Eaters had begun to act almost openly, her father had introduced a new rule: he arranged matters with the Headmaster, and under the pretext of family circumstances, every weekend Miranda and Pantea returned home, where Richard began intensively training their combat skills. Thus, they appeared at school only for lessons, which hardly encouraged any closer relations with their classmates.       Miranda regarded such isolation with a certain philosophical calm. At times, of course, she wished to feel part of some larger group, but she was perfectly self-sufficient on her own. And so, in 1944, she behaved in much the same reserved way. In the eyes of others, especially the boys, this lent her an added air of mystery and charm, but Miranda paid it no mind. Her goal was to find a way back, and spending time and effort on establishing diplomatic relations with a group of teenagers seemed to her entirely impractical.       She completed the first stage of her plan on the second day of term by reaching the library. From then on, every evening Miranda occupied herself with methodically combing through all available literature that might have even the slightest connection to spontaneous magical surges and time travel, but so far she had found nothing of real value. Access to the Restricted Section was still closed to her, and she was already considering how she might obtain permission from one of the professors.       There was, however, one major “but” that considerably complicated her life and prevented her from focusing on her search. This “but” was named Tom Riddle (he was even called the same as the Muggle he had killed!) and it poisoned her existence by appearing in the library almost every evening, just as she did, and remaining there for hours. Miranda would have been happy never to encounter this person at all, but the gods of fate were evidently not particularly kind to her, and the tall figure of the Slytherin regularly entered her field of vision.       Was it not enough that they shared classes? Fortunately, their paths crossed in lessons only in Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Ancient Runes, but even that was more than enough. The other seventh-years from Gryffindor and Slytherin now attended these classes as though they were a performance, each time expecting a new heated debate of “Sommers vs Riddle.” The first Potions lesson with Slughorn had gone no better than Defence. The professor began with a lecture on Veritaserum, asked the class what knowledge they could share about it, two hands shot up – and off it went… Once again forgetting her decision to keep a low profile, Miranda launched into a heated argument about what might counteract the potion’s effects, and it spiralled from there. She insisted on her position, recalling everything she had read in the Hogwarts and Frost libraries; Riddle calmly parried her points, citing obscure texts by ancient potion-makers. The other students merely shifted their gazes from one to the other, like spectators at a Muggle tennis match. Slughorn was nearly wiping tears of joy at such enthusiasm in his class and, at the end, generously awarded each of them thirty points, after which everyone finally breathed a sigh of relief and set to brewing the potion. The Veritaserum itself was to take about a month, so for now they began with the base. Miranda carefully sliced currant root and cast occasional glances toward Riddle, who, as though nothing had happened, was weighing out jobberknoll feathers. After their first lesson with Professor Wilkest, Riddle had remained entirely composed, and Miranda could not tell what he truly felt.       And now he regularly graced her with his presence in the library. There was nothing surprising in that: by the end of the first week, Miranda had already concluded that Tom Riddle’s level of knowledge rivalled Hermione’s, and that at school he played the role of a kind of golden boy. The best student, the top of the class, Head Boy, awarded a plaque “For Special Services to the School” a year and a half ago… For what services, she wonders... All the professors adored him, his classmates looked at him with admiration, and even toward other houses Tom Riddle behaved far better than his peers - he did not bully anyone, did not fling spells at Gryffindors, did not call anyone Mudblood, unlike idiots such as Selwyn and Travers… In short, the portrait of the ideal student was complete, and it made Miranda uneasy to think what lay beneath that mask. She had no doubt that here, at school, it was indeed a mask and that she had already seen his true face in Little Hangleton.       Trying to form a clearer picture of him and understand what kind of person he was, she even turned to Simone for help – a decision she regretted within three minutes.       “Riddle? Tom Riddle?” Simone whispered excitedly, immediately inspired by the topic. “You want to know more about him?”       “Yes. Can you tell me anything?”       “I don’t know that much,” she admitted reluctantly, then her eyes widened with delight. “Wait… do you like him? Is that why you don’t want to meet anyone from our house?”       “No, Simone, that’s not–”       “You’re wasting your time,” she said with unexpected seriousness, squeezing Miranda’s hand sympathetically. Miranda glanced at the darker hand in surprise. “I understand you perfectly. I nearly swoon every time he looks at me! He’s so handsome, and so clever, so brave, but… He only dates girls from Slytherin. You know what they’re like – pure-bloods,” Simone pursed her lips slightly. “Right now it’s Druella Rosier; before her it was Walburga Black… And before that–”       “Simone, that’s not what I–”       “You’d be better off paying attention to someone else,” she advised insistently, tossing her fair hair. “Want me to introduce you to someone? Edward Abbott from Hufflepuff and Malcolm Davies from Ravenclaw asked me about you, actually. You know, Malcolm plays Quidditch, and Edward–”       Barely managing to extricate herself, Miranda slipped out of the Gryffindor common room and headed down the corridor toward the library. It seemed she would have to rely solely on her own conclusions.       Apart from their verbal sparring in lessons, they did not speak at all. Not least because Miranda did everything in her power to avoid the composed Slytherin, feeling, quite literally in her skin, the danger that emanated from him. It was something instinctive, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to confuse with anything else. Perhaps she sensed it so clearly because that danger was directed specifically at her? Of one thing Miranda was certain: Riddle might pretend to be indifferent and detached as much as he liked, but he had forgotten nothing. She remained an obstacle to him – one that had to be removed. For now he lay in wait, like a snake in ambush, but when the moment came, the strike would be swift and deadly. And she had to be ready.       The first Saturday of October was set for a Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. With a clear conscience, Miranda skipped it and used the free time to shut herself in the Room of Requirement and, in peace and quiet, finally read Magick Moste Evile, which she had not managed to touch all month. At her request, the Room transformed into a cosy chamber – an exact replica of her bedroom in the Frost manor. The new chapter, devoted to blood rituals, was as dark and absorbing as ever, and time passed unnoticed. Around two o’clock, Miranda closed the book, put it away in her bag, and set off for her tower.       The castle was empty, and her footsteps echoed loudly. The match must have run long, and all the inhabitants of Hogwarts were still at the pitch. Only a couple of corridors and one gallery remained before the staircase she needed – but she never reached them. Turning a corner, she ran straight into the last people she had expected to see: Professor Slughorn in the company of Tom Riddle, strolling leisurely along the corridor, deep in conversation. There was no time to retreat.       “Miranda, my dear girl!” the professor exclaimed delightedly upon seeing her. A fleeting shadow passed across Riddle’s face. “And why are you not at the match?”       “I needed to finish an essay for Professor Dumbledore, sir,” Miranda lied with a charming smile. The book on dark magic burned through her bag, and she had already twice regretted bringing it out of her room. “And, to be honest, I’m not much of a Quidditch fan.”       “You and Tom have a great deal in common, my dear!” Slughorn beamed, not noticing the change in his protégé’s expression. The comparison clearly did not please him. “He, too, is not overly fond of Quidditch and prefers to devote his time to scholarly pursuits. Not surprising, you are both exceptionally gifted wizards, and I daresay your interests coincide in many respects!”       Hardly, flashed through Miranda’s mind as she watched Riddle master his irritation and restore his usual mask of perfect composure. One might almost fear he would hex the professor on the spot…       “And why are you not at the match, Professor?” she asked quickly, anxious for Slughorn’s safety.       “I felt rather unwell this morning. Went to the Hospital Wing for a restorative draught and met Tom on the way,” Slughorn smiled, his walrus moustache bristling. “By the way, my dear Miranda, I do hope you will not refuse to join me for lunch on Tuesday? It will be a very small gathering – I am certain you will fit in splendidly! You can tell us all about your successes in Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Wilkest speaks so highly of you!”       Remembering Slughorn’s gatherings and his Slug Club, Miranda could find no reason to refuse and therefore smiled.       “Thank you very much for the invitation, Professor.”       “Oh, think nothing of it! Tom, my boy, I trust I shall see you as well? You will not refuse?”       Oh, for heaven’s sake–       “Of course I shall come, Professor,” he said, fixing Miranda with a piercing look. She had not quite managed to compose herself in time, and he caught the shadow of her unease. A flicker of triumph appeared in his dark eyes.       Damn it twice over.       “Splendid!” Slughorn exclaimed happily, oblivious to everything. “Then I shall expect you both on Tuesday. You have a double lesson afterwards, do you not? Straight from lunch, then!”       And with surprising briskness for a man of his build, he bustled off down the corridor. Miranda had not expected such speed from the stout professor; she hesitated, and suddenly found herself alone with the murderer of three Muggles. Only a few steps separated them. She could not afford to show weakness, and after a brief pause she raised her head to meet his gaze.       She felt the new attempt to enter her mind at once – this time stronger, more aggressive, aided by direct eye contact. But Miranda merely smiled and squared her shoulders; she had no trouble with Occlumency and could withstand the intrusion without effort. Riddle, no longer bothering to conceal his actions, probed her consciousness for some time, searching for a weak point, but without success. She sensed the moment he withdrew. For several seconds they studied one another in silence, for the first time setting aside the masks behind which they had grown accustomed to hiding. Miranda felt the air between them grow charged, felt the surge of adrenaline in her blood, her heart beating faster.       But not from fear.       The fear vanished suddenly, replaced by something entirely different – something for which Miranda was utterly unprepared.       Interest. Anticipation.       It was impossible to explain rationally, yet she had the distinct sense that she was beginning to enjoy their confrontation. She wondered what he would do next, how he would behave, how she would need to respond…       And it seemed the shift in her mood did not go unnoticed.       Riddle narrowed his eyes slightly.       “You’re not as simple as you seem, are you?” he asked quietly, leaning a little closer.       Instead of answering, she only smiled. From afar came voices, footsteps, shouts of joy – the match had ended, and the corridors would soon fill with people…       He broke eye contact first and stepped back. Casting her one last strange look, he turned and left without a word.       And she remained standing there, feeling an odd disappointment at his departure.       She returned to the tower slowly, trying to make sense of what had just happened. What had come over her? What foolish delusion was this? He was a murderer – someone to keep well away from! Where had that reckless courage come from, that confidence? Where was her usual composure, her clear-headedness? By the time she reached the common room, nearly the entire house had gathered there. The moment she crossed the threshold, she was overwhelmed by jubilant cries; someone grabbed her by the hand and pulled her inside, others clapped her on the shoulder, eagerly recounting the match in vivid detail – and from all of it one conclusion emerged: Gryffindor had won.       Someone had already gone to the kitchens for food, and within ten minutes the celebration was in full swing. Minerva, seated by the fire, cast disapproving glances around but made no attempt to restrain the exuberant Gryffindors. The noise made Miranda’s temples throb, yet she forced herself to sit calmly, smile politely, and listen for the tenth time to how Septimus Weasley had scored the final three goals.       At some point Weasley disappeared, replaced by another student – Miranda’s classmate, Ignatius Prewett, captain of the Gryffindor team. A handsome young man; they attended Ancient Runes together. Until now he had been accepting congratulations, but at last he had been given a moment’s respite. He looked at Miranda with a certain hopeful expression.       “Congratulations,” she said, because something had to be said. “You did brilliantly.”       “Thank you,” he smiled, and faint red patches began to appear on his cheeks. “Listen, I wanted to ask… Would you like… Next week there’s a trip to Hogsmeade… Perhaps we could… Would you go with me?” Seated behind him, Simone widened her eyes and began making frantic signals. After a moment’s hesitation, Miranda understood – he was clearly shy and had chosen to ask her now, when his team had won and he himself made the strongest impression as the victorious captain. It was very sweet, and Miranda could not bring herself to refuse.       “Thank you. I’d be delighted.”       He beamed, while a few sixth-year girls nearby, who had been eagerly following every word, sighed heavily.