Heart of the Serpent

      The rest of the weekend passed quickly and under strain. When Slughorn finally let her go, Miranda made her way to the Gryffindor Tower, fired the password “Valour” at the Fat Lady, and collapsed into an armchair by the fireplace, utterly spent. The events since she had left the Three Broomsticks had not been easy on her. An excellent result: barely an hour and a half – and half of Slytherin was now openly hostile toward her. Considering that this concerned only the upper years, led by bloody Riddle, her problems had just become very serious.       Though, in truth, they had hardly been any different before. That bastard had tried to kill her less than a week ago, and it was foolish to hope he would stop at a single attempt. Now there would be revenge – and she would do well to be ready for anything.       She dearly hoped that was the end of it for today and that no more surprises were in store, but soon the common room began to fill with students returning from Hogsmeade, including those she had left in the pub. Simone gave her a reproachful look and went upstairs, while Miranda herself still had an unpleasant explanation ahead of her with Ignatius, whom she had quite successfully managed to forget about. Of course, she spun him some nonsense about having turned down a dark alley by accident, where a pair of tipsy wizards had frightened her, and how the encounter had shaken her so badly that she had bolted straight back to the castle. It was utter rubbish, but Prewett seemed to buy it. When he finally left her alone and went to his dormitory, she sank back into the armchair in exhaustion. Why had she even agreed to that outing in the first place? It was obvious nothing would come of it – so why waste time?       Apparently, the evening had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She urgently needed some sort of release, some way to relax and distract herself. Well past midnight, Miranda went up to the dormitory and made sure all her roommates were fast asleep. To be safe, she cast a Sleeping Charm as well, then removed her robes and carefully draped them over the back of a chair. She went to the window, pushed the casement open – it yielded with a soft creak – and climbed onto the sill. Outside, night reigned; the sky had cleared, and the moon shone bright, while the October chill brushed against her face. Wasting no more time, she stepped forward – into the void.       Two seconds of free fall – and her body changed, shrank, was covered in black feathers. The raven spread its wings and seized control of the air. A few more moments as she readjusted to the shape of a bird, and Miranda flew toward the lake. In her own time she had always had to keep well clear of the Whomping Willow, but in the mid-twentieth century it had not yet been planted.       The exhilarating flight drove away the dark thoughts; the cold autumn air swept aside confusion and anxiety, bringing calm to her mind. Everything would be all right. She would handle whatever came – including Riddle. Who was he, after all? Yes, a murderer, but also just a seventeen-year-old boy, her equal in age. She could outplay him.       She returned to the dormitory only an hour later. The raven settled on the windowsill first, made sure everyone was still asleep, and only then did Miranda resume her human form. Her cheeks were flushed from the night air, and she fell asleep at once.       Despite her confidence in herself and her abilities, Miranda was not prone to underestimating danger or mistaking cowardice for prudence. That was why she went down to breakfast in the Great Hall among the last – after a month of observation she had learned that Riddle was an early riser, and today was certainly not the day for their paths to cross. Of yesterday’s company at the Slytherin table, she spotted only Avery, who was busy with a bacon omelette. He noticed her, but instead of a flare of rage, Miranda saw something else on his aristocratic features – malicious anticipation. It was unpleasant to witness, though entirely predictable. It seemed Slytherin’s revenge would not be long in coming.       So she spent the entire day in the Gryffindor common room, doing her homework. Ideally, she ought to have gone to the library and continued her research into time travel, but the chance of running into Riddle there was almost one hundred percent. Like her, the Head Boy spent a great deal of time among books. By evening, the Gryffindor common room was lively, and Miranda was bored out of her mind. Her homework was done, and she had no desire to chatter with her classmates. With each passing day, she felt more keenly how much she missed her friends from her own time. How she longed to laugh at Fred and George’s jokes, to discuss some tricky Ancient Runes translation with Hermione, to listen to Harry’s thoughts on saving the world, to admire whatever new exotic prickly plant Neville had managed to grow! Merlin, she would even have listened to Luna’s stories about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Wrackspurts – anything, anything at all, if only she could go home!       And her family? How she missed her parents and Pantea! If only she could see them, write to them, talk through her problems and ask for advice.       What was she even doing here, in this time period? Sitting over textbooks, wasting her time, waging a private war against damned Riddle, who seemed determined to destroy her – while in her own time a war against Voldemort was raging! She had been here for two months – what might have happened in 1997 during that time? What if Voldemort had already won? What was happening to her family now? Had Pantea gone to Hogwarts? How many more familiar faces had the Death Eaters killed in those two months?       The thoughts drove her close to despair. She had to return – she must! Miranda glanced at the clock. She had decided against the library tonight, but she refused to sit idle any longer. Curfew would be in half an hour, which meant now was the perfect time to go to the Room of Requirement.       The dormitory was empty. She slung her school bag over her shoulder –Magic Moste Evileand her notes inside – and went back down to the common room. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a grim Ignatius rising to meet her, clearly intending to speak. But Miranda hurriedly pretended not to notice and slipped out into the corridor.       She reached the eighth floor without incident, but did not make it to the Room of Requirement. In the deserted corridor, familiar faces caught up with her, and from their satisfied smirks she knew at once that this meeting would not end peacefully. Then again, she had expected something of the sort. The only thing that surprised her was that Riddle was not among them. Was he really so arrogant that he would not dirty his own hands?       “Going somewhere, Sommers?” Dolokhov asked lazily. He and Lestrange stepped into her path, and when she turned, she found Avery behind her.       Taking in the situation, Miranda slipped the bag off her shoulder and carefully set it on the floor by the wall. This might take a while, and Magic Moste Evile was far too valuable to risk.       “Clever girl,” Avery snorted, twirling his wand. “But not clever enough to keep out of places where she’s not wanted. Tell me, Sommers, what do you think we’re going to do to you now?”       “Apologise and go back to your dormitories?” she suggested calmly. There was no fear – only cold focus and calculation. Three of them. Too many for a harmless duel. A simple Stupefy would not suffice, and she had no wish to play dirty. But it seemed they were leaving her no choice…       “You pathetic, useless little bitch!” Lestrange snarled. “Didn’t your filthy blood-traitor father teach you any manners? Then we’ll do it for him!”       Two in front, one behind. She needed to shift position to keep all three in view. Avery was breathing heavily, his eyes burning – too worked up to think clearly. Lestrange was the largest and the slowest – his size could be used against him. Dolokhov… yes, he was the most dangerous of them all. Not surprising, considering that in fifty years’ time he would be known as one of the most dangerous Death Eaters.       “Reducto!”       “Expelliarmus!”       “Protego!”       “Incarcero!”       “Clipeum!”       Three flashes shot at her from all sides, but she deflected them, raising two shields. Just a warm-up – they were testing her defences…       “Impedimenta!”       “Confundus!”       “Crucio!”       The last came from Avery, who evidently saw no reason to waste time. She reacted on pure instinct:       “Cogitatio!”       The Unforgivable rebounded like a mirror’s reflection and struck Avery in the chest. He collapsed, writhing and screaming in agony. Lestrange and Dolokhov stared at him, stunned by the turn of events. Taking advantage of their hesitation, Miranda stepped sideways to bring all three opponents into her line of sight. Avery finally stopped screaming, and three pairs of eyes fixed on her, their surprise swiftly turning to rage. Miranda gave a cold smile, knowing the fight would now turn serious. She raised her wand and said clearly:       “Muffliato.”       At once, a soundproof dome enclosed the three Slytherins and the Gryffindor girl, cutting them off from the rest of the world. Miranda felt their astonishment – they had not expected their prey to stand her ground, let alone trap herself in a situation where no help could reach her. Amused, she read the silent question in their eyes and smiled sweetly at Avery.       “You’re far too loud, Felix.”       He spat a crude curse – and in the next moment, spells and hexes flew at her without pause. The Slytherins had slipped their leash entirely, unleashing Dark magic in its purest form. Among the curses hurled at her, she even heard several unfamiliar ones. Had she not known how to defend herself, she would have been delivered to the Hospital Wing sliced to pieces and turned inside out, her organs failing one by one. Miranda parried with confidence, her wand dancing, tracing patterns in the air. It was not effortless, but over ten minutes of relentless assault, not one of those fools managed to land a proper hit. Only her hair had come loose, her breath had grown uneven, and sweat trickled down her brow. Fatigue was setting in, while the Slytherins grew increasingly frustrated and pressed harder.       Time to end the show.       But how? She would have to turn to the same Dark Arts – they would understand nothing else…       So absorbed were they in the fight, so accustomed to her merely defending, that none of them even bothered to raise shields. Deflecting Dolokhov’s curse – meant to cover her skin in bleeding sores – she twisted, aimed her wand at Lestrange, and said clearly:       “Aqua Suffocatum!”       He was drenched from head to toe, and Dolokhov burst out laughing.       “Sommers, are you serious? Crucio!”       She deflected the next red beam. Her opponents laughed on.       “What next, a Tickling Charm? That would be quite effe–”       Avery broke off, staring at Lestrange. The latter stood there, soaked, gasping desperately, unable to draw breath. His face flushed, then he convulsed in a choking cough. Still he could not breathe – and then he collapsed. Before their horrified eyes, water began to pour from his mouth in spasms.       A fine spell – the Drowning Curse. Cast once, and the victim’s lungs fill with water, making it nearly impossible to fight until they cough it all out. But if you keep your wand trained on them… Well. A man can drown without ever being thrown into water.       “You bitch!”       “Fractus!”       Dolokhov’s leg gave way, and he crashed to the floor. His next spell shot harmlessly into the ceiling, sending plaster raining down. Seizing the moment, Miranda flicked her wand:       “Vulnere Cultro!”       An invisible blade slashed Dolokhov’s right arm, carving a long wound from shoulder to fingers. His robes darkened with blood at once; his limp hand dropped the wand. Avery stared in shock at his friends sprawled on the ground, unable to continue. Lestrange was gulping air, still choking on water, while Dolokhov clutched his bleeding arm. The white shirt beneath his robes was quickly turning red.       “Strangulare.”       An invisible cord tightened around Avery’s neck. His vision darkened; there was no air. His chest burned. Only hoarse rasping sounds escaped his throat.       “Riddle sent you, didn’t he?” he heard through the fog in his head.       Miranda surveyed her fallen enemies. Time to end this farce before they recovered. Someone like Avery might well attempt a rematch – and she had already overindulged in Dark magic. She was not worried about the professors finding out – Riddle would surely see to it that no unnecessary ears heard of this fight. But she disliked that she had sunk to the level of these idiots. One thing if it were war, a battle against Death Eaters, but this? A pack of schoolchildren trying to kill one another. Though Dolokhov would one day become a Death Eater. Just not yet.       “I want you to pass a message on to Riddle,” she said coldly, still feeling adrenaline racing through her veins. The sense of power was intoxicating, threatening to sever her grip on reality, and she fought to steady herself, to stop taking pleasure in it. Before her, the Slytherins stirred weakly, trying to rise. “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. Do you understand?”       “Go to hell… bitch…”       “No, you don’t,” she concluded, raising her wand again. She did not want to, but retreat was not an option. Let it be dirty, let it be cruel; her Gryffindor friends would condemn her for it, but she had to convince Riddle and his pack of her strength, or today would repeat itself. With a steady hand, she aimed at the recovering Lestrange.       “Frizere!”       He screamed – the spell had just frozen both his hands to the bone. Miranda winced slightly; for such a large body, Lestrange had a remarkably high voice.       “Shall I repeat myself? Who’s next?”       “‘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,’” Avery spat, glaring in horror at Regulus’s ruined hands.“Satisfied, you bitch?”       “Quite,” Miranda smiled. “Now get out of here.”       She raised her wand again – the Slytherins flinched – but merely dropped the soundproof barrier.       “Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen.”       She picked up her bag. Dolokhov, Avery, and Lestrange staggered to their feet and hurried away. Miranda drew a deep breath, steadying herself, swept away all traces of the clash with a flick of her wand, and set off for the Room of Requirement.       Now she would have to face Riddle and that was… unsettling.       “All right, I admit it – the bit about the master and his mongrels was probably unnecessary. I lost control. Now I’ll deal with the consequences.”       Still, so be it. If she could handle three wizards alone – wizards clearly well-versed in Dark magic – perhaps Riddle would not be beyond her either. The thought carried a distinct flavour of self-deception, but Miranda did not wish to dwell on it. In any case, there would be no second attack tonight – lightning never strikes the same place twice. She would think about tomorrow… tomorrow.       But she could not distract herself.       Today, for the first time, she had used Dark magic on living people.       Before, she never had. Despite her considerable arsenal of vicious curses, Miranda had only ever practised them on dummies in the training hall. And though she tried to convince herself that she had done what was necessary, her soul still felt foul. Not just the duel itself, but the fact that she had enjoyed her victory so much. How could anyone take pleasure in hurting others? Even enemies! How would she be any better than the Death Eaters?       Magic Moste Evile eventually absorbed her attention, and she remained with the dark book until midnight. She only looked up when the desk clock struck twelve. Time had flown. Time to return to the dormitory. She would go quietly, unhurried, avoiding anyone and tomorrow, classes as usual…       She stepped out of the Room of Requirement, checked that the corridor was empty, that Pringle the caretaker was nowhere nearby, and that Peeves was busy wreaking havoc elsewhere in the castle. The torches along the walls were half-extinguished; the corridor lay in dim shadow. The door to the Room of Requirement vanished. Miranda moved quickly down the corridor, turned the corner toward the stairs – and then–       “Expelliarmus!”       Her wand was torn from her hand and vanished into the darkness, striking the floor with a wooden clatter.       “Ten points from Gryffindor for wandering the halls after curfew,” a voice behind her said lazily. “Tut-tut, Miss Sommers, how very disappointing.”       At the sound of that voice, her heart seemed to flip and drop straight to her feet. Slowly, clutching the strap of her bag, feeling utterly defenceless, she turned to face her nightmare. What had she thought about lightning not striking twice?..       Tom Riddle flicked his wand, and her own rose into the air and drifted toward him. Miranda followed it with a burning gaze, then lifted her eyes to his face, defiant, waiting for the first curse. Well? What would it be? The Cruciatus? Straight to Avada Kedavra?       He seemed perfectly calm – astonishingly calm for someone whose followers she had thoroughly thrashed and whom she had publicly humiliated. In the dim corridor, his dark hair and eyes looked almost black. Yet he did not raise his wand against her. Instead, he said:       “I think it’s high time you and I had an honest conversation.”