Heart of the Serpent

      The rest of the weekend and Monday slipped by almost unnoticed, filled with lessons, homework, and yet more searches through the library for books on time travel. The first half of Tuesday passed just as quickly – a free morning, double Charms, and then it was already time to go to Slughorn’s lunch. It could hardly be called a proper Slug Club party, since it took place in the middle of the school day and was limited in time, and so Miranda went there with her school bag and in her usual black robe bearing the Gryffindor crest. As it turned out, she had done exactly right, and all the other guests had come in school uniform as well.       Slughorn’s office was on the third floor, and it offered a beautiful view of the lake and the Forbidden Forest. The table was laid for nine, and Miranda noted with interest the smoked pheasant and turkey soufflé – dishes that were certainly never served at lunch in the Great Hall. By some strange coincidence, she was the only girl among Slughorn’s guests. Besides her, there were five Slytherins, one Ravenclaw, and one Hufflepuff. One of them was Malcolm Davies, the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Simone seemed to have mentioned him once.       “My dear Miss Sommers, I am delighted that you accepted my invitation!” Slughorn greeted her warmly the moment she appeared in the doorway. “My girl, you look splendid!”       “Thank you, Professor.”       “I daresay you are already well acquainted with your classmates, but I would like to introduce you to two more of my guests. First, this is Arthur Frost, a sixth-year. You know, Arthur’s father heads the Department of International Magical Cooperation and intends to run for Minister for Magic next year!”       A tall, dark-haired young man with striking dark blue eyes, dressed in Slytherin robes, inclined his head slightly, with a faint air of condescension. He would have been quite handsome, were it not for the bored expression on his face, as though everything around him had long since ceased to interest him. Miranda gave a small nod, studying her future grandfather with quiet attention. His son – her father – had inherited those same black hair and blue eyes, and Panthea clearly resembled the Frosts as well. Miranda, however, had taken after Amelia, and no outsider would ever guess her connection to one of Britain’s most pure-blooded families. And Arthur’s father, whom Slughorn had just mentioned, must be her great-grandfather Magnus Frost.       Hm. Perhaps she ought to hint that his campaign might be more successful if he did not so loudly insist that Muggle-born witches and wizards should be barred from holding any positions of authority in Britain. As things stood, he would never become Minister – not next year, nor in seven years’ time…       For that matter, if she was looking at her grandfather, then her grandmother, Astarta Greengrass, must currently be in her third year. Though, truth be told, Miranda had never felt much familial affection for either of them – they had been the first to turn their backs on Richard when he married Amelia…       “And this, of course, is Graham Bones, a fifth-year Hufflepuff. His uncle owns a chain of cafés – you’ll find them both in Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade…”       As Miranda had expected, Slughorn’s favourites were once again either well-connected students or those with outstanding academic talent. Among those invited to the lunch, only Miranda and Riddle belonged to the latter category.       At the table, he sat on her right. It made her intensely uneasy, and although she was spared the need to look constantly at his face, that did not make things any easier. Miranda idly picked at her plate, sipped her pumpkin juice, and listened to Slughorn’s enthusiastic monologue about what a promising Quidditch player Malcolm Davies seemed to be, and about his plans to introduce him to the current captain of the Kenmare Kestrels.       On her left sat Regulus Lestrange, entirely absorbed in his meal and paying no attention to anyone else. Opposite her was Abraxas Malfoy, with whom she had spoken only once – he had been the one to ask her about the Dementor’s Kiss during Wilkost’s first lesson. Arthur Frost examined the contents of his glass with the same bored expression, while Graham Bones, apparently attending for the first time, listened to Slughorn’s every word with rapt attention. Evan Rosier ate neatly and said almost nothing, merely listening.       But Miranda registered all this only on the edge of her awareness. The details were fixed in her memory, yet she was scarcely conscious of them. All her attention was focused on the person to her right, and no matter how she tried, she could not relax in his presence. He sat so close that she could have placed her hand over his; turning her head just slightly, she caught the faint scent of his cologne – cool, subtle notes that suited him perfectly, and which sent a shiver down her spine again and again. For the first time in her life, she was grateful for the long sleeves of the school robes that concealed her condition from prying eyes. It felt as though an exposed electric wire lay at her side, and every second she half expected to be struck.       As long as she remained still and did not turn her head, she could not see his face, yet she kept watching his hand out of the corner of her eye. Most of her attention was drawn to the heavy antique ring with a black stone on his finger, which stood out strangely against his image as a schoolboy. What was it, she wondered? It looked like a family heirloom – but how had he come by it, if Riddle’s father was a Muggle?..       “Well then, my dear Miranda, will you tell us something about your family?” Slughorn asked encouragingly, passing around a plate of tartlets. Miranda started slightly, returning to reality. “What was your life like in Dublin?”       Damn. There was no avoiding the question now, and she was stepping onto very uncertain ground…       “Quiet and uneventful,” she replied with what was expected of her, offering a modest smile and controlling every movement of her face. “I’m afraid I cannot boast of distinguished relatives or a family tree like those of the others present.”       “My dear girl, nonsense! Family trees have nothing to do with it!” Slughorn exclaimed reproachfully, even wagging a finger at her. Yet Miranda noticed the looks exchanged between Frost, Malfoy, and Rosier – oh yes, lineage mattered very much, at least to the Slytherin half of the table. It was almost comforting to see that some things never changed. “Though I must admit, I have never come across the surname ‘Sommers’ before…”       “So you’re a Mu– Muggle-born?”       The question came from the very voice she had hoped not to hear at all during the lunch. But there was no escape, and she turned her gaze to Tom Riddle. Merlin, how could anyone be so handsome?.. He was looking at her with polite curiosity, yet there was something else in his tone – a hint of concealed hostility. Not quite hostility… but a trace of it.       And… had she imagined it, or had he almost called her a Mudblood at first?       Oh, wonderful – another champion of pure blood. And where did he get off, when he himself had Muggle blood?.. Hypocrite. Noticing that everyone at the table was now watching her intently – even Lestrange had looked up – Miranda turned back to Riddle and asked innocently, addressing him alone:       “Does it matter?”       His dark eyes narrowed slightly. She was challenging him, forcing him either to lie outright or to declare his views openly, putting him in an awkward position. Well then, as the question goes, so must the answer, Riddle.       What will you do now?       He lied – with the most charming smile:       “Not at all. Just curious.”       There was no doubt whatsoever that it was a lie.       For a few seconds she looked at him in silence, aware that everyone was still watching, pretending to consider her reply. The air around the table seemed to thicken, and Miranda found herself almost enjoying the moment, knowing that the course of the conversation depended entirely on her answer.       “I’m half-blood,” she said at last, slowly, still studying him deliberately. “Is that a crime?”       “Certainly not, Miss Sommers!” Slughorn cried, somewhat alarmed, not allowing his favourite to respond. Riddle did not seem displeased at being interrupted, however, he continued to regard her with an utterly unreadable expression. “Such a question is entirely inappropriate! And it seems obvious to me that one of your parents must be a very accomplished wizard. Your knowledge of Potions is excellent, yet you were educated entirely at home. You could hardly have learned everything from books alone, could you?”       “Of course not, sir.” The tension eased, the conversation returned to safer ground, and Miranda reached for her goblet of juice. “My father spent a lot of time teaching me, and also…”       A strange thing happened then. In the dim autumn light, she thought she saw a faint bluish glimmer in the pumpkin juice. She tilted the goblet carefully, and the glow vanished. Casually, she lifted it closer to the nearest candle, but the flame revealed nothing unusual. Probably just a trick of the light.       She had seen such a shimmer only once before – in a Soothing Draught, a well-known remedy for coughs, which contained the mushroom Mycena Silvaelucens, known to glow blue in the dark. The potion was remarkably effective: three drops were enough to cure a sore throat instantly, and even an entire vial would do no harm – aside from turning one’s skin faintly blue for half a day.       Since there was no reason for such a draught to be in her goblet, Miranda dismissed it as imagination and turned her attention back to Slughorn, who was now questioning Bones.       “Merlin, how time flies!” the professor exclaimed, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Your next lesson begins in five minutes! Mr Davies, I do hope to see you at my next gathering! Miss Sommers, Mr Bones, I am delighted you joined us today and very much hope it will not be the last time! Now off you go – classes await! Seventh-years, straight down to the dungeons and prepare yourselves – today we finally begin the Invisibility Potion!”       Chairs scraped as they were pushed back, dirty dishes vanished from the table of their own accord. The Slytherins made for the door, while Malcolm Davies hesitated for a moment, as though unsure whether to approach her. But Miranda was lost in thought and gave him no encouragement, and the Ravenclaw left with visible disappointment.       Strangely, none of the seventh-year Slytherins, who were heading to the dungeons just like her, tried to ambush her around a corner, throw insults, knock her bag from her hands, or cast a hex. Instead, Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, and Riddle walked ahead in silence, barely ten paces in front of her, paying her no attention at all. Riddle strode at the front – tall, composed, utterly self-assured – while the others followed close behind, uncannily like a loyal retinue.       She entered the classroom among the last and took her usual seat beside Minerva. She had barely set out her cauldron, scales, and textbook when a slightly out-of-breath Slughorn entered the dungeon and announced:       “As I told you last lesson, today we shall begin the Invisibility Potion. Your results with the Veritaserum were quite satisfactory, so I expect you will do me proud here as well. But before we begin, I must say that this potion requires extremely meticulous work, and therefore for the next three weeks, while you are brewing it, you will work in pairs. Please sit in twos; I shall now call out the names… Lefevre–Malfoy, Brown–Avery, McGonagall–Rosier, Weasley–Nott…”       The name “Sommers” did not come up until the very end, and by then Miranda had already guessed, with a sense of grim inevitability, whom she would be paired with.       “And finally, Riddle–Sommers,” Slughorn declared with satisfaction, while groans of discontent rose from all sides – the forced mixing of houses pleased no one. “Take your seats, please, and let us begin!”       After some noise, muttered curses, and several minor conflicts – which cost both houses a fair number of points – the class finally settled. Slughorn surveyed the room with satisfaction.       “Excellent! Now then, who can tell us about the Invisibility Potion? Yes, Mr Riddle, Miss Sommers… no one else? Very well, Miss Sommers, go ahead!”       She began to list the key facts about the potion, all the while trying not to glare too openly at the professor. What had he been thinking, pairing them like this? They would kill each other before the end of the first lesson! And even that aside – why Riddle? She needed a clear head in class; how was she supposed to concentrate while working with… with him?       Riddle, for his part, gave no indication of what he thought of Slughorn’s decision. His expression was perfectly neutral, capable of concealing either satisfaction or disgust. During the questioning, he answered calmly and correctly, never looking her way, seeming almost detached.       He addressed her directly only once Slughorn instructed them to open Advanced Potion-Making and begin.       “You weigh and cut, I’ll brew,” he said quietly, without even glancing at her. It sounded like an order. There was no anger in his voice, no threat, but something in the way he said it made it clear that refusal would cost her dearly. Miranda had no intention of arguing with a ruthless killer over something as trivial as potion-making.       “As you wish.”       The strategy Riddle chose proved both effective and conflict-free. Miranda silently worked on the ingredients, barely paying attention to what he was doing. Thick steam rose from the cauldron, but she did not even look inside, confident that the best student in Hogwarts would perform his part flawlessly. Soon she caught the faint, distinctive scent of ginger, the aroma the potion acquired after the addition of manchineel juice, indicating that the base had been brewed correctly. Without a word, she slid the mortar with powdered chameleon skin toward him.       Around them, arguments, hissing, and curses broke out – the Gryffindors and Slytherins struggled to cooperate, and their progress was far slower. Miranda had already chopped the lavender root and weighed the dried spider legs when the dungeon filled with the unmistakable scent of ginger – apparently, the rest of the class had finally managed the initial stage.       She lifted her head for a moment, stretching her neck, about to return to her scales – when she heard a faint hiss, barely audible over the crackling fire and bubbling cauldrons. The hiss turned into a low hum that had no business being there, and she looked around for its source. BOOM!       A cauldron on the third desk exploded, splattering its contents over everyone. Miranda, already sensing something was wrong, drew her wand and cried:       “Clipeum!”       A barely visible film of magic spread above her – a flexible shield that protected her from the searing yellow mass that burst across the room. The others were not so fortunate, and chaos erupted instantly. Burned students screamed in pain and panic, others shrieked as they wiped the potion from their robes. The two seventh-years whose cauldron had exploded had already resorted to a Muggle-style fistfight, arguing over who was to blame. Slughorn attempted to restore order – without success.       Looking around, Miranda realised that only two people had escaped unharmed – herself and Tom Riddle, who had been close enough to fall under her shield. The translucent dome above them was now clearly visible, coated in the yellow substance that had been meant for them both. With a flick of her wand, she pushed the shield aside and dismissed it; the potion slid down to the floor.       Riddle followed her movement and inclined his head slightly.       “Thank you.”       “Don’t mention it,” Miranda muttered through clenched teeth. She had hardly done it for his sake.       Their eyes met. Riddle controlled himself too well, and once again she could not read his thoughts. For a few seconds they simply stared at each other, locked in a silent contest of wills. Miranda felt the tension in every nerve, wondering what he was trying to discern in her. Then he broke eye contact without a word and turned to the still-chaotic classroom.       “Mulciber, enough,” he said quietly.       By all logic, his voice should have been lost in the noise – but one of the fighters heard him and immediately stepped back, breathing heavily. His opponent, a Gryffindor whose name Miranda could not recall, still tried to lunge forward, but his classmates restrained him.       “Outrageous!” Slughorn exclaimed, untouched by the explosion. Miranda had never seen the good-natured professor so furious. “What a disgraceful fight! Thirty points from each of you, and detention this Saturday at twelve!”       “Yes, sir,” Mulciber spat, blood trickling from his nose.       “I take it you placed the fire-seed pods too close to the flame, and they ignited? Two essays, a foot long, on their properties and uses in potion-making!”       “Yes, sir,” the Gryffindor rasped.       “The injured may go to the Hospital Wing for burn salve! Miss McGonagall, see that everyone receives proper care!”       The students began to file out of the devastated dungeon. With a wave of his wand, Slughorn cleared away the yellow base of the potion from the floor and walls. One of the Slytherins staggered toward the door – his burn must have been severe even through his robes.       “Avery, Malfoy, help Nott to the Hospital Wing,” Riddle ordered, his voice calm and cold.       They obeyed without hesitation, ignoring their own injuries. Soon only Miranda, Riddle, and Slughorn remained. The sharp smell of ginger was beginning to give her a headache.       “Tom, Miss Sommers,” the professor said with a sigh, peering into their still-bubbling cauldron. “Twenty points each – for a correctly brewed base.”