Heart of the Serpent

      Miranda did not utter a word; she only shifted her gaze from the Slytherin’s face to the wands in his hand. Oh, how bitterly she regretted never having trained in wandless magic! A simple nonverbal Accio – and the wand would be in her hand, and then she might try to negotiate. But now… she was utterly defenseless before him, and he could do with her whatever he wished. He could cast Silencing Charms, as she herself had done that evening, and spend the night flaying her skin strip by strip. Who knew what twisted fancy might occur to that cruel mind? And something told her that, after all she had done over the past two days, Riddle would derive a thoroughly indecent amount of pleasure from torturing her.       “If you’re wondering whether to throw yourself at me and take the wand by force, don’t waste your time,” he said coolly, and Miranda hastily checked whether her mental shields were still in place. Riddle seemed thoroughly amused by what was happening. Not surprising.       “What do you want?”       “I told you – just to talk, for now,” he replied softly, smiling. That smile would have made his face extraordinarily handsome, had it been sincere, but now it was something entirely different. A smile full of superiority and awareness of his power over the victim. In truth, Miranda could understand the feeling – she had experienced something similar after her duel with the Slytherins – but realizing oneself as the victim… that was unpleasant.       “It seems you’ve already made the acquaintance of this Room, haven’t you? Though I’m curious how you managed to find it so quickly,” Riddle inclined his head slightly toward the bare wall where the Room of Requirement would appear. “Why don’t we talk there?”       He took a few steps toward the wall, and after a brief temptation to flee headlong, Miranda trudged after him. She could not leave her wand in his hands – it could reveal every spell she had cast that evening – and the risk of receiving a Cruciatus between the shoulder blades was far too high.       “Ladies first,” Riddle said simply, nodding for her to open the Room.       She did not understand why he wanted that, but she did not argue and obediently walked past the wall three times. Then she boldly grasped the handle that appeared.       This time, the Room of Requirement took on the appearance of the very chamber where Dumbledore’s Army had held its meetings, and warmth filled Miranda’s chest as memories rose before her eyes. There were no chairs inside, only large silk cushions. Along the walls stretched shelves filled with numerous textbooks and manuals on Defence Against the Dark Arts. On the rack opposite the door stood various instruments - Sneakoscopes, a Foe-Glass, Secrecy Sensors. The room was dimly lit by torches, just like the corridor outside. In Riddle’s gaze, Miranda caught a flicker of mild surprise. So be it. Perhaps he would kill her, but here it would be easier to keep her composure and strength of spirit. Smiling once more at the memories, she turned to the Slytherin – and found him staring at her leg with a strange expression. Following his gaze, Miranda cursed inwardly: at the level of her thigh hung her school bag, from which a black spine now protruded.       Damn it. But surely he hadn’t realized what it was–       “Expelliarmus!”       Miranda’s hand jerked, but she had never possessed a Seeker’s reflexes, and Godelot’s ominous treatise flew into Riddle’s grasp. Damn it thrice over.       “So, sneaking into the Restricted Section without permission and stealing books?” Riddle nearly purred, examining the cover and flipping through a few pages. “Sommers, your sense of discipline is beginning to alarm me…”       “No, it’s… it’s mine,” she said, instantly regretting it. Riddle’s expression changed at once – he shot her a sharp glance, then studied the worn cover far more attentively. For some reason, Miranda immediately understood that he was well acquainted with Magick Moste Evile, and had read it often and closely enough to distinguish her copy from the library’s.       “Interested in such dark magic, Sommers?” he asked, this time in a completely normal tone, without mockery or feigned gentleness. “Why so? We are not in Durmstrang, where the Dark Arts are part of the curriculum. At Hogwarts, such magic is rather… disliked.”       “Funny to hear that from you.”       At last Riddle tore his eyes from the book and, without looking, set it on a shelf. Now he watched Miranda intently, and his expression became exactly what it ought to be. The mask of the modest, pleasant prefect and model student vanished, revealing a cold, calculating man capable of murder for his goals. His handsome face now resembled something carved from stone, and she could hardly believe he was her age.       “Who are you? What were you doing in Little Hangleton?”       Miranda regarded him thoughtfully and crossed her arms. Tom smirked and raised his wand.       “You’re not in a position to remain silent, Sommers!”       “And why should I tell you anything?” she asked calmly, hiding her fear behind a mask of complete indifference. It was foolish to pretend she did not fear death. “You intend to kill me. Then do it.”       “Why are you so certain that I intend to kill you?”       Miranda let out a quiet laugh.       “I’ll tell you if you answer my question first. Tell me – why did Mulciber blow up his cauldron in Potions? Did you use the Imperius Curse on him, or did you simply order him to do it?”       “What?” He clearly had not expected that. But it was not the question itself that surprised him – it was that she had guessed correctly.       “Honestly, Riddle, you must have noticed by now that I’m good at Potions! Did you really think I wouldn’t realize that it was such a neat attempt to kill me?”       “And what exactly did you deduce?” he asked with genuine interest, making no attempt to deny it. Miranda smirked.       “At Slughorn’s dinner, you slipped a Soothing Draught into my goblet, brewed with a very particular mushroom. It’s harmless on its own, but there’s an interesting detail – when combined with mancinella, it becomes highly toxic. A person who has consumed that mushroom must avoid contact with a decoction of mancinella at all costs, or they’ll suffer a severe allergic reaction – anaphylactic shock, followed by death… And – what a coincidence – mancinella is an ingredient in the Invisibility Potion we were brewing that day. The one that just happened to explode and splash the entire classroom. So I wondered – what if those two events were connected? I must say, the plan was excellent. It would pass perfectly as an unfortunate accident.”       As she spoke, Riddle studied her face with intense scrutiny, and at the end he suddenly inclined his head in a mocking bow.       “Well… you really are clever,” he said, his lips curving into a cold smile that sent a shiver down her spine. “No Imperius was necessary. I simply asked Mulciber to do me a favour.”       She nodded, as though accepting both his answer and his unspoken admission.       “I interfered yesterday with your… associates,” she nearly said “servants,” but stopped herself at the last moment, “in Hogsmeade and drew a professor’s attention to you. I know you killed those people in Little Hangleton. I saw what no one was meant to see, and that makes me an obstacle. That is why I know you intend to kill me,” she answered his earlier question.       “Clever girl,” Riddle said very softly, almost in a whisper, and stepped closer. Miranda felt her hands tremble as he began to circle her slowly. He was so close that she caught the faint scent of his cologne again, the edge of his robe brushing against hers. She could feel the magic emanating from him and, for the first time, truly realized how powerful he was – her skin prickled with the tension of it, something she had never experienced before, not even in Richard Frost’s presence. Whenever Riddle moved behind her, out of sight, her heart stopped. Had he touched her, she would have collapsed; her knees were trembling like jelly.       A predator. A snake poised to strike.       But was it only fear of death that made her shake?       “Tell me about yourself,” his quiet voice sounded right by her ear, and Miranda flinched. Of course, Riddle noticed. The next moment she felt his hand at her waist, and with a slight effort he drew her against him. His lips hovered near her ear. “Tell me what I want to hear, and I will spare you.”       “Why did you ask who I am?” she whispered, struggling to regain her composure. “I thought Headmaster Dippet spoke about me at the feast.”       “Yes. And now I would like to hear the truthful version,” his voice, soft as silk over steel, lost its gentleness.       “You see, your appearance caught me off guard, and I tried to find out where this new student had come from. Using my… connections, I inquired what the Ministry knew of you or your family. And do you know what I discovered?”       “I can guess,” flashed through Miranda’s mind. “Nothing.”       “There are indeed no records of your family, which is understandable if you are–” she felt rather than saw him grimace, “–a half-blood. But what was far more interesting was that at the beginning of August, right after our first meeting, you spent a week in St Mungo’s with Splinching, and you told the Healers a somewhat different story about yourself. And then, after your discharge, you lived in Hogsmeade for the rest of the summer. How curious, Miss Sommers. Where was your Dublin family, and why did they not help their daughter in such a difficult time?”       Miranda was far more interested in what channels Riddle had used in the Ministry to trace her, but then she remembered the folder Rosier had handed him at the Three Broomsticks. After Slughorn’s dinner, she knew Rosier’s father headed the Department of Magical Transportation. They could indeed track her movements. Gathering her will, she slipped from his grasp and turned to face him. There was no point pretending to be foolish – he was too clever. She had to give him something, but not let him near the truth.       “In your relatives’ house,” she began – Riddle visibly flinched, a flash of crimson fury in his eyes, but she could not take the words back now, “I arrived by accident. I had a failed Apparition and landed in their garden. Mrs Riddle and their maid were very kind – they let me wash and change. I went down to the village to buy food for the road, then returned for my things. I went into the sitting room to thank them.”       “So you didn’t know them before?” he asked, a little more sharply than he intended.       “I had never seen them before. By the way – what happened to the maid?” Miranda asked suddenly, recalling kind Abby. “Did you kill her too?”       “No. She wasn’t in the house. I believe she was the one who found the bodies,” Miranda let out a sigh of relief, and Riddle frowned. “Very well. Why did you go to Hogwarts?”       “So you don’t believe the memory loss story either?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.       “I don’t.”       “My Apparition… was unusual. I need information on how that could have happened, and what consequences it might have. Hogwarts library is one of the richest in Britain – I hoped to find something there.” Something like interest flickered in his dark eyes.       “Where did you Apparate from?”       “I… can’t say.”       Riddle narrowed his eyes and raised his wand again.       “Sommers, don’t tempt fate!”       “I told you - I can’t say! It concerns only me. Torture me if you wish – I will remain silent.”       Riddle studied her face for a few seconds, then lowered his wand.       “Why are you acting alone? Why the absurd story about memory loss? Don’t your parents–”       “I have no parents. I’m alone,” she cut him off coldly, though she knew he did not care. Speaking of it hurt, stirred too many memories.       “And what about the stories of a wizard father and a Muggle mother in Dublin?” he asked mockingly. “Were those lies as well?”       “Partly. I am a half-blood, and my parents once lived in Dublin. Is that really what interests you most right now?”       “No,” a shadow crossed his face. “Then let us come to the main question. Why didn’t you tell anyone what you saw? About me?”       Those last words were spoken in the same cold, high voice she had heard in Little Hangleton.       “Would you believe me if I said I simply didn’t care?”       He froze for a moment.       “Explain.”       Miranda shrugged. She had asked herself that very question more than once – why, while lying in St Mungo’s Hospital, she hadn’t breathed a single word about what she had witnessed. And she had an answer to that question – far more cynical than she would have liked, but, alas, utterly sincere.       “I was thrown into a completely unfamiliar place, alone, with no idea how to survive. I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. I didn’t tell anyone about you because I was far more concerned with what I was going to do with my life. And perhaps you won’t believe me, but even now I care far more about finding a way home. Terrible things were happening there… I can’t imagine what may have occurred in my absence. I need to be there, not here. Killing your family is repulsive, but I have neither time nor desire to bring you to justice.”       Having blurted all that out, she took a deep breath, trying to steady her breathing. Merlin, why had she opened up to him like that? Of course, Riddle was hardly likely to suspect that she was from another time – that was far too strange a truth, and he'd try to come up with far more realistic explanations. On the other hand, as is well known, the best way to mislead someone isn't to lie, but to tell a half-truth. The other person will fill in the rest themselves.       Miranda stole a glance in his direction. Riddle seemed thoughtful and… stung. Running through her last words in her head, she could find only one explanation. Was it really because someone had dared to say that his own well-being was far more important than Riddle's precious self? Ha-ha – that man's self-esteem was higher than all the pure-blood families put together…”       “And don’t you think it’s somewhat hypocritical of you to condemn me for killing those Muggles?” Riddle suddenly inquired mockingly, somehow not at all angered by her statement about an ‘appalling’ act.       “Hypocritical?” Miranda raised her eyebrows in astonishment. “I’ve never killed anyone in my life!”       “But you don’t hesitate to use dark magic – and even on defenseless people!”       She froze, and Riddle suddenly took a swift step forward and leaned towards her. Now there were mere millimetres between them, and Miranda could feel his breath on her face. She stood as still as a rabbit hypnotised by a snake's gaze. Dark eyes framed by thick black lashes were suddenly right in front of her – and she forgot how to breathe, staring at the beautiful face. The cool scent of his cologne filled her lungs, and she licked her suddenly dry lips. The overwhelming sense of Riddle's magical power pressed down on her, stripping away her will.       What the hell was happening to her? What was this stupid weakness that came over her every time Riddle was near?..       “I can't get into your head, but I've seen Avery's memories,” he whispered in the meantime, and she shuddered, hanging on his every word. “I saw how you fought them off, and I can name every curse you used. You used Dark Magic with calculation and deliberation – not in a desperate attempt to defend yourself, but to get rid of the schoolchildren attacking you as quickly as possible and return to studying a hideous book devoted to one of the most appalling dark rituals. When you made them memorise a message for me, you used the Freezing Curse on a defenceless person – I believe that exactly what is commonly called torture.” Now Riddle leaned so close that he whispered the last words directly against her slightly parted lips. “And don't lie to me that you didn't derive any pleasure from it at all!”       Miranda trembled. He shouldn't have said that – he couldn't know what she had felt at that moment! Merlin, how ashamed she was now that she had lost control of herself and used theFrizerecurse against Lestrange! Riddle was right – that was no longer self-defence, that was torture… What had come over her? How could she have stooped to such a dirty, low act?       Riddle's gaze travelled over her face and stopped at her lips. He was so close that she felt his presence on some animal, instinctual level, with every fibre of her being. Miranda shuddered, overcome by a strange, frightening excitement – he wasn't going to do what she thought he might, was he? They hated each other, and the great Riddle surely couldn't lower himself to want to kiss some half-blood! And she herself certainly shouldn't want a kiss from that murderer, who, on top of everything else, was a master manipulator! Wait a minute… Since when had she started wanting him to kiss her?!       “See you tomorrow in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Sommers.” Riddle smirked crookedly and stepped back. “Don't be late!”       He walked over to the shelf, took downMagick Moste Evileand handed the book, along with her wand, to Miranda, who was bewildered and still not herself.       “Oh, and fifteen points from Gryffindor for keeping books on black magic.”       With those words, he left, leaving her alone in the Room of Requirement.       Now she sensed something false in his behaviour – as if, at the end, Riddle had slightly lost his rhythm and stepped out of the role he himself had chosen. An absurd suspicion crept into Miranda's mind: that the few seconds they had stood so close to each other that their lips almost touched had thrown not only her off balance.