Heart of the Serpent

      Tom Marvolo Riddle was in a state of barely controlled fury.       This was new to him. Since childhood, he had been exceptionally skilled at mastering himself, concealing his true emotions, and effortlessly changing masks – but now those skills seemed on the verge of failing him. Merlin, if only anyone knew the effort it had taken not to cast an Unforgivable at Slughorn! How had that old man dared to lecture him like a five-year-old? He had not faced anything like this in a very long time; even at the hated orphanage, both Mrs. Cole and the other caretakers had long since given up on him and simply tried to keep their distance, knowing what became of those who irritated or angered him. And here – him, the Head Boy of Hogwarts, the best student, an exceptionally gifted wizard – someone had dared to say he was failing in his duties, that he ought to keep a better eye on discipline! And who? Some decrepit old fool, a friend of Dumbledore’s?!       Dark eyes flushed crimson with hatred and rage, and his handsome features twisted, taking on something of a predatory, beast-like cast. It was fortunate that he met no one on his way to the Head Boy’s tower – especially that fool McGonagall – for he was hardly in a state to display his acting talents. Having given the password and entered his room, Tom tore at his silver-and-green tie, trying to loosen the noose at his throat. His fingers instinctively reached for his yew wand, and only by an immense effort of will did he restrain himself from smashing everything in sight and unleashing curses.       Slughorn had stretched his lecture to nearly twenty minutes, and for all those twenty minutes Tom had been forced to stand humiliatingly before the Head of House’s desk, listening to his drivel and assuring him that he would take control of the situation and that nothing of the sort would happen again. Behind him, Dolohov, Malfoy, Lestrange, Avery, and Rosier had shifted uneasily, and he had felt the panic radiating from them. Their fear spread through the room in suffocating waves and had nothing to do with Slughorn’s punishment – two weeks’ detention with the caretaker and fifty points from Slytherin – oh no, those pure-blood fools were half-dead with fear, awaiting retribution from their leader. Tom bared his teeth coldly at the thought of what punishment he would devise for them all. Of course, he had nothing against his followers amusing themselves by casting curses at school mudbloods. He did not object in the slightest when the diversions of his Death Eaters went beyond harmless school duels. This was especially true of Avery, who took particular pleasure in watching a victim’s pain and fear – and Tom even found it amusing. There had always been only one unbreakable rule: no witnesses. No one must ever connect these unfortunate “incidents” with him. For the past year and a half, Tom had already been under especially close scrutiny from Dumbledore, who clearly suspected him after the opening of the Chamber of Secrets and the death of that mudblood girl, and the last thing Tom needed was to expose himself so foolishly at the worst possible moment. Why was he surrounded by idiots incapable of doing even the simplest task properly, even after repeated warnings?       Still, if they had forgotten, he would remind them. A faint smile curved his sharply defined lips. At the moment, those blockheads remained behind with Slughorn for a “disciplinary talk,” but Tom knew perfectly well that as soon as the Head of House dismissed them, the whole group would come to him for judgment. They would not dare do otherwise. And then he would remind them what happened to those who failed to obey his orders… They all – those scions of wealthy pure-blood families – feared him more than anyone else, and the sense of power, the ability to pass judgment, filled Riddle for a moment with a boundless euphoria. Power over human lives was the most exquisite sensation in the world, incomparable to anything else, and for that power he was prepared to do anything.       And once he had dealt with his classmates, it would be time to dispose of another life – and at the anticipation of the moment when he would hold that particular life in his hands, something stirred sweetly in his chest. Oh yes, that life he would end with special pleasure, savoring every moment of his victim’s weakness. At the thought that it was precisely because of this person that he had been forced to humiliate himself before Slughorn, a familiar hatred seized his entire being, a hatred that had been his constant companion for the past two months. It throbbed at the back of his head, and a red haze clouded his vision, making rational thought impossible.       To be honest, such a state was unusual for Tom. He rarely felt strong emotions toward people – more often, it was simple contempt. Nearly everyone around him was a pitiful, grey mediocrity, unworthy of his attention, undeserving of him. He despised them all – his classmates, his teachers, the other children in the orphanage, his so-called friends… The only exception was Dumbledore – to say Tom could not stand him would be a gross understatement – but for the time being, there was no way to be rid of the Transfiguration professor. And so Tom was forced to live with that sharp aversion, unable to overcome it, until a new figure appeared in his world – someone toward whom Tom felt something truly strong: a consuming hatred so intense that at times he seriously feared his perfect control over his emotions might crack. Miranda Sommers. Who was she, and where had she come from? How had this girl managed to throw his meticulously ordered life into such disarray?       Riddle had enough honesty to admit to himself that his hatred of her stemmed from the fact that she posed a threat. This, too, was unusual: those around him were generally too slow, too foolish, and too predictable to present any danger – and suddenly there was an exception. That was unacceptable. In everyone’s eyes, he was simply Tom Riddle: a talented, modest, well-mannered orphan worthy only of admiration. How had it happened that his true face had been seen by a complete stranger who should never have seen it?       It was his own fault, of course. He might try to excuse himself by the agitation he had felt that day, but the fact remained: he had been careless and allowed a dangerous witness to escape. Yes, it had not been an easy day. His meeting with his relatives had given him far more impressions than he had expected. First, the crushing disappointment of encountering the last representative of the ancient House of Gaunt – his uncle Morfin had proved to be a wretched drunk, and to acknowledge such a creature as family was humiliating. The only pleasant outcome had been acquiring the ancient heirloom – the Gaunt ring. Then there had been his father, his grandfather, and his grandmother – pathetic, arrogant Muggles who had refused to acknowledge him. They were not worth his time. He remembered well how his revulsion had given way to a deep satisfaction when he killed them all. Thomas Riddle, his Muggle father, he had killed last, wishing to savor the terror in his eyes…       And then that girl – right there in the room, surrounded by three corpses! He had noticed her earlier in the village, when she had nearly knocked him over. Pale, thin, disheveled, with a vacant gaze, dressed in some shabby, ragged dress hanging off her like a sack – who else was he to take her for but a Muggle tramp? Who could have imagined that she was a witch? And not just a witch, but one who had instantly deflected his attack and dared to escape from under his very nose?       Her disappearance had been a disaster. Throughout August, which he had spent, as usual, in the hated orphanage, Riddle had been on edge. Even in a good mood he could not be called pleasant, and that month he had been in such a foul temper that everyone at the orphanage shunned him like the plague, afraid of incurring his wrath. Yes, no one could accuse him of anything directly, but on some instinctive level those fools sensed that it was best to keep away from him… For an entire month, Riddle had waited with concealed dread for the moment he would wake to find a squad of Aurors on the doorstep. There was no evidence against him – he had committed the murders with Morfin’s wand – but that wretched girl had seen his face… and might well have guessed his connection to the Riddles… But where can he find her now? How on Earth had a witch ended up in the Riddles’ house at Little Hangleton? She was very young, barely older than him – yet he had never seen her at Hogwarts before. What did she want?       But August passed, and it was time to return to Hogwarts – the place that had become his true home. Riddle did not believe the danger had passed and remained prepared for trouble. Yet on the very day he returned, fortune finally smiled on him again.       A new student, from somewhere in Ireland. He recognized her at once, though on the first of September she looked far less like the ragged creature from the street. She did not notice him, but Tom watched her almost throughout the entire feast, coldly and methodically considering ways to eliminate her. There was no question of letting her live. He had no need of a witness who had nearly seen him killed and who might know of his Muggle heritage. No, she had to be disposed of, and quickly. But unfortunately, he would have to act with great caution. In his fifth year, the school had nearly been closed over the death of some mudblood girl from Ravenclaw, and the murder of another student would certainly throw the entire magical community into an uproar. But how to kill her? Arrange an accident? Kill her and dispose of the body so she would be presumed missing?       The next day, they came face to face for the first time since that encounter – and she recognized him. Tom had felt a flicker of concern; she might well run to the Headmaster or, worse, to Dumbledore. But he could not help the satisfaction he felt when he realized she was afraid of him. Oh yes, he had seen the fear in her eyes in Defence Against the Dark Arts; he had felt the tension radiating from her.       From her look alone, he understood that she had told no one what she had seen in Little Hangleton. For some reason, she had chosen to keep his secret. Whether she thought no one would believe her, or hoped he might spare her, he did not know. Her silence was convenient, but it changed nothing. He would kill her regardless. As long as she held his secret, he was dependent on her – and Tom Marvolo Riddle hated, hated being dependent on anyone. Least of all on some foolish, thin, awkward, mediocre girl who trembled like an aspen leaf in his presence. It was astonishing she had been sorted into Gryffindor, with its vaunted bravery. Then again, he despised Gryffindors more than any other House, convinced that they were utterly devoid of brains. No wonder she belonged among them – another pitiful creature like the rest. Tom had been certain he could assess her at a glance. Sitting in Defence, he had enjoyed the fear emanating from her and had even begun to relax – until, in a single instant, something changed. It happened so quickly he had not even noticed the exact moment. One second she was as expected; the next, she was someone entirely different. S      he had not let him into her mind. That had been the first warning sign – one that surprised him, but did not alarm him. A mistake. Even at his age, Tom had achieved remarkable skill in Legilimency and could enter the minds of any student and many professors. He had even implanted false memories in Morfin Gaunt, making him take the blame for the Riddle murders. But now he had failed – the girl had sensed his attempt and erected powerful shields he could not penetrate. Where had that Irish country witch learned Occlumency? The next surprise came when she proved unexpectedly knowledgeable in subjects shared by Slytherin and Gryffindor. She excelled in Potions and Defence – and worse, that Gryffindor witch had the audacity to argue with him in class, to question his answers! Wilkerson and Slughorn were practically moved to tears by such enthusiasm, while Tom could only grind his teeth and pretend it did not irritate him in the slightest.       He had always been the best. Tom Riddle could have no rivals. And certainly not some obscure witch from the countryside whose very existence had been poisoning his life for a month.       From that day on, he began to watch her more closely. And what he saw astonished him.       Behind the facade of the confused, ragged girl he had seen in Little Hangleton was indeed a completely different person. Miranda Sommers - after a week of observation, he conceded she deserved a name – was far from simple. He watched her whenever he could: in the Great Hall, in shared classes, in the library, where she spent hours every evening devouring knowledge. Once, out of curiosity, he charmed the librarian, Miss Andersen, into showing him her record – and was surprised to find a long list of books not included in the curriculum. She was intelligent. It had taken effort to discover her academic standing, but it was worth it. She was not a perfect student, yet she performed very well, and in Charms, Potions, and Defence she had achieved remarkable results, far surpassing her peers. Despite her unmistakably Muggle surname, he could not believe she was a mudblood: she had graceful posture, precise speech, refined table manners more typical of Slytherins from old aristocratic families. She regarded others with polite interest, capable of concealing anything. She dressed modestly – Slughorn had once mentioned she received financial aid – but wore simple clothes with the dignity of a true aristocrat. Surely someone in her family was of pure-blood and noble lineage. And worst of all – she had very quickly stopped fearing him. He could sense her caution, but it was no longer fear. On the rare occasions she addressed him, she spoke calmly and politely, without hostility. Her mind remained closed to him, and it drove him nearly mad trying to guess what thoughts she concealed.       So he began observing how she interacted with others. Even with those friendly to her – mostly her fellow Gryffindors – she remained courteous and peaceable, yet never showed strong emotion, always polite and distant. She wasted no time on idle chatter, had no interest in Quidditch or gossip.       Her behavior intrigued him and seemed strangely familiar. After about three weeks, he suddenly realized who she reminded him of. The realization brought him no pleasure. Miranda Sommers was like him.       She was intelligent. Cold. Skilled at hiding her true feelings behind politeness and detachment. Capable of charm when it served her purposes. Hungry for knowledge. Respectful and modest with teachers, who favored her. Aware that he intended to kill her – and waiting for his move.       Toward the end of September, he noticed his hatred had lessened, replaced by interest. Each morning, he found himself waiting for her to enter the Great Hall. During their debates, he studied her face with quiet appreciation. She was beautiful – tall, slender, just slightly shorter than him, grey-eyed, with long ash-blonde hair that contrasted sharply with her black robes, giving her an almost otherworldly air. At times, he found himself unwilling to look away.       He could admire her beauty purely aesthetically. And it did not interfere in the slightest with his plan to kill her.       Their similarity only reinforced it. Had she been merely a timid Gryffindor girl, it would have been trivial. But if she was even a third as calculating and determined as he was, then she was a threat.       He had already made one attempt on her life. The plan had been sound – no one had suspected anything – but by sheer chance she had survived. Very well. He would try again.       And today, on the first Hogsmeade weekend, his hatred had flared anew.       Where are you meddling, girl? Why interfere where you were not wanted? He had seen her at the Three       Broomsticks – and over the past month he had learned to spot her anywhere – and had no doubt who had led Slughorn straight to Lestrange and the others.       Very well. She had interfered – and she would be punished. And only then would he kill her. She had spoiled his followers’ amusement with a mudblood? He would teach her a lesson she would never forget. Even if that “never” lasted only a short while.       A hesitant knock sounded at the door, and Tom smiled in anticipation. At last – he had begun to suspect Slughorn meant to keep them all night.       Five Slytherins entered one after another and formed a semicircle before him. Their heads were bowed; none dared meet his gaze as they awaited his verdict. Tom smirked. His first Death Eaters, his first servants – and such cowards…       “Gentlemen, I must say I am really dissatisfied with what occurred,” he began softly, idly twirling his wand.       Someone gave a strangled breath – Rosier, perhaps. “We did discuss the importance of not drawing attention to ourselves, did we not?”       An indistinct murmur followed.       “Did someone speak?” he asked, raising his brows. “I didn’t catch that.”       Abraxas stepped forward.       “Forgive us, my Lord,” he forced out. “We made a mistake.”       “A mistake?” Tom’s voice grew colder. “Very well. But you do remember that I do not forgive mistakes?”       “Yes, my Lord,” all five muttered it at once, barely audible.       “Good.” He smiled – and pointed his wand at Avery. “Crucio.”       Half an hour later, when Lestrange, Avery, Malfoy, Rosier, and Dolohov stood trembling and pale, barely able to remain upright, he decided that would suffice – for now.       “And so, gentlemen, I trust you understand I do not appreciate disappointment?”       They nodded fervently.       “Excellent. Slughorn has had his say, and you have your detentions – but I do not consider the matter closed. There remains one more person who must answer for today’s events.”       Avery and Lestrange looked at him devotedly; Malfoy, Dolohov, and Rosier exchanged glances.       “I speak of Miranda Sommers,” Tom said softly, smiling faintly at the thought that her fate rested entirely in his hands, and only he determined how much pain she would feel in the near future. He didn’t notice it, but his eyes flared crimson again, and his classmates instinctively recoiled.       “My Lord… what would you have us do?” Dolohov asked carefully.       Tom paused, savoring the moment.       “Antonin, Regulus, Felix, I want you to have a conversation with Miss Sommers. Explain to her how improper it is to interfere in our affairs.”       He looked them over, once again reassuring himself that he had made the right choice. Dolohov excelled in Dark Magic; Avery relished cruelty; Lestrange had mastered the Unforgivables faster than the rest. A perfect trio.       “The form yourconversationtakes is entirely up to you. I have only two conditions: she must remember everything – no Obliviate – and she must keep silent. Do as you wish, but she must not speak of it. Is that clear?”       “Yes, my Lord,” Lestrange inclined his head in agreement. Avery smirked, already anticipating a new amusement. “And the Unforgivables?..”       Tom waved his hand, as though finally consigning Sommers to be torn apart by his retinue.       “Everything is at your discretion. And this time, there must be no witnesses – do you understand me? As soon as you have dealt with Sommers, report back to me. That is all. You can go.”       They bowed and at last withdrew. Riddle approached the window and drew a deep breath, gazing out at the castle towers, the lake, and the dark silhouette of the Forbidden Forest beyond the glass. Life was splendid.       Sunday passed quickly in duties and homework. Sommers did not cross his path all day, and he could only imagine what awaited her. The thoughts were pleasant. His servants would teach her a lesson – and then he would kill her.       In the evening, he sat in his drawing room with a book on certain forbidden dark rituals, which he had acquired that summer in Knockturn Alley. It was close to ten o’clock; the reading was utterly engrossing, and when a very cautious knock sounded at the door, Tom felt a flash of irritation. It vanished at once when he recalled who it might be.       The door opened, and Avery, Dolokhov, and Lestrange entered the room. They did not look pleased; they were not exchanging jokes as they always did when they had managed to teach some Mudblood a lesson. And, on closer inspection, Tom discovered unexpected details with astonishment. Dolokhov was clutching his right shoulder with his left hand. His robe there was soaked with blood, and drops continued to fall to the floor. Lestrange was swaying from side to side; he was drenched, as though he had been plunged headfirst into a barrel of water, and he kept coughing as if someone had tried to drown him. His hands were swollen, reddened, and covered with scars. Avery was holding his throat. Under Tom’s icy gaze, he removed his hand, and Riddle saw livid stripes encircling his neck like rings. All three bore scorch marks on their robes, and Avery’s face was smeared with soot. Dolokhov, on top of everything, was noticeably limping.       To complete the picture, all three, just as yesterday, were staring at the floor and did not dare raise their faces. But Tom did not hurry to cast Cruciatus curses. His astonishment was too great, and he simply could not believe his eyes. A deathly silence hung in the room, broken only by the crackling of the logs in the fireplace.       “What happened?” he finally asked quietly.       He did not have to repeat himself – Dolokhov immediately understood that their Lord would not ask this question again.       “M-my L-Lord… th-the girl…”       “And what of her?!”       “S-she… sh-she…”       “Well?” Tom felt his patience, never limitless, beginning to tear at the seams.       “W-we c-couldn’t d-deal w-with her.”       “What?!”       “She… it felt as though she were, at the very least, an Auror,” Lestrange managed, then groaned as he accidentally jarred his wounded shoulder. “She fights as if she’s done nothing else all her life. We could hardly even touch her, and she…”       “You mean to say that the three of you were utterly defeated by some girl from Gryffindor?” Tom only just managed to keep his jaw from dropping.       “Yes, M-my Lord.”       “But how could she, if Defence Against the Dark Arts…” He faltered, casting another look over his followers’ wounds. “Are you trying to tell me she used Dark magic on you? On all three of you?”       “That’s all she used,” Avery muttered hoarsely. He spoke with difficulty, as though something were constricting his vocal cords. “That is, at first she tried to fight us off with Reducto and Stupefy, but when she realised it was you who had sent us…”       Avery broke off and fell silent, staring in horror somewhere at the wall behind Tom. Lestrange and Dolokhov exchanged frightened glances.       “Did you tell her I sent you?” Tom asked menacingly.       “No, my Lord, no, I swear! She guessed it herself.”       “Then why do you look as though Dumbledore is standing behind me at this very moment?”       “She… she sent a message for you,” Lestrange whispered, turning a delicate shade of pale green.       “Indeed!” Tom did not yet fully understand what had reduced them all to such terror, nor had he entirely grasped what had happened that evening. He would question them now and then consider it all at his leisure.       “And what did she say?”       Again, silence – they were exchanging glances with such fear that Tom refused to understand what could have frightened them so. He had to raise his voice.       “Well?! Either you answer now, or I shall find out myself!”       “Somers said… said…”       “She said,” Dolokhov finally forced out, “if quoted word for word: ‘Tell your master that if he is such a coward as to meet me in person, then next time he should send someone greater than his mongrels.’ She made us repeat it three times to be sure w-we remembered it exactly.”       Blood rushed to Riddle’s cheeks in pale crimson patches – a sure sign of approaching madness. Avery seemed to whimper in terror.       “Legilimens!”       Before Tom’s eyes flashed memories that were not his own. Avery doubled over from the unpleasant sensation of someone’s presence in his mind – angered, Tom did not stand on ceremony and rummaged through his head without the slightest care. He saw a tall, white-haired girl who, without losing her composure for a single moment, dodged and deflected the curses flying at her with incredible speed, all the while managing to speak to her attackers with scorn. And then she herself went on the offensive – swift, merciless, she quickly and methodically incapacitated all three, giving none of them time to recover and without abusing her power.       Avery gave a sob, expecting something dreadful. But the thunder never came.       “Out,” an icy, inhuman voice sliced through the silence like the crack of a whip. “Those who need it may show themselves in the Hospital Wing – just think up convincing excuses. And do not disturb me again. By the way, where did you find Somers? Somewhere near Gryffindor Tower?”       “N-no, M-my Lord,” Lestrange squeaked, which, given his build, was no easy feat. “She was on the eighth floor, not far from the tapestry of Barnabas and the trolls.”       “Begone.”       He did not have to repeat himself, and the wounded Death Eaters were gone as if blown away by the wind, despite all their injuries. Tom, meanwhile, pressed his forehead against the windowpane, feeling the autumn chill turn the chaos in his mind into something resembling coherent thought.       Coward. That wretch had dared to call him a coward. He would make her pay for it; he would make her scream in pain and beg for mercy; he would crush her and force her to kiss his boots, he would…       And yet the anger he felt was far less than he might have expected. He did not like it, but he could not help admitting that he was intrigued by how this girl had managed to defeat three Death Eaters – those he had personally trained in combat magic! She had forced them to crawl away to lick their wounds; she had coldly used Dark magic against them, unafraid of the consequences; she had quite literally tortured them so that they would memorise her message word for word! She had challenged him personally, knowing full well what he was!       Did he hate her? Undoubtedly.       Did she intrigue him? Oh, yes.       But to these feelings there was now added another, one that Tom disliked entirely, yet could not deny. It seemed that, for the first time, he felt it towards another person.       Admiration.