Heart of the Serpent

      Contrary to her fears, the next three days passed surprisingly harmlessly and quietly. On Monday morning, Miranda descended to the Great Hall for breakfast with a certain wariness, expecting fresh trouble from Riddle and his companions at any moment, but nothing of the sort happened. The Slytherins ate as though nothing had occurred; no one cast malicious or meaningful glances in her direction, and Miranda breathed a little easier as she helped herself to toast and scrambled eggs. Simona, sitting opposite, was making exaggerated wide eyes in an effort to attract Miranda’s attention and, apparently, discuss her unfortunate Saturday date with Ignotius, but Miranda hid behind the Daily Prophet and pretended not to notice anything. The newspaper was no comfort either – Grindelwald was wreaking havoc across France, and the names of the witches and wizards killed in recent weeks chillingly resembled the same lists she remembered from the papers of her own time. Only the name of the dark wizard behind these atrocities had changed; the essence remained exactly the same…       She glanced at Dumbledore, who was sitting at the High Table and studying his copy of that day’s Prophet with an extremely grim expression. And it would be he who defeated Grindelwald – iterally next year… She wondered what thoughts were now wandering through the professor’s mind as he read about the deeds of his former friend. And had they truly been friends? To be honest, she knew very little about it. In her own time, after Dumbledore’s death, newspapers had begun writing about his past, but it had been impossible to know what to believe – especially considering that most of the articles had been written by Rita Skeeter. While Miranda watched Dumbledore, her thoughts shifted. If Riddle had immediately realised that her story about memory loss was nothing but a fabrication, then the professor, with his perceptiveness, must certainly have guessed that she was lying to his face. Then why had he allowed her to remain at Hogwarts? Had he taken pity on her? Or were his thoughts so occupied with Grindelwald that he had no time for strange girls unwilling to reveal the truth about themselves?       Lessons went on as usual and passed quite peacefully. During shared classes with Slytherin, Riddle behaved surprisingly friendly and courteous – he even smiled at her when she raised her hand to add to his answer. Miranda would never admit it even to herself, but that smile made something inside her give a small jolt, and her thoughts tangled, forcing her to make a conscious effort to remember what she had been about to say. The other Slytherins, meanwhile, suddenly did not even turn their heads in her direction and generally tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, not even provoking the other Gryffindors. What could be the reason? Just her duel the day before yesterday, or had Riddle additionally “worked on” them?       “Good heavens, what happened?” Slughorn exclaimed in astonishment when the seventh-years arrived for Potions and he noticed Lestrange’s bandaged hands with splayed fingers and the sling on Dolohov. Because his right arm had lost mobility, Dolohov was forced to hold his wand in his left, and now his spells worked only every other time. “Young gentlemen, how did you manage this?”       “Had a mishap with a bubotuber in Herbology,” Lestrange replied calmly, looking at Slughorn with honest eyes. Miranda felt a faint stab of guilt. “Forgot to put on gloves, and its pus…”       “Injured during Quidditch practice,” Dolohov reported, which made several Gryffindors snicker.       Avery said nothing, but his injuries were not visible. His throat, marked with dark bruises from strangulation, was wrapped in a thick silver-green scarf, and his strained vocal cords had not yet recovered, so he spoke mostly in a whisper. To all inquiries, he claimed he had caught a chill in Hogsmeade on Saturday.       “You must be more careful, young men! Well then, since you can hardly work properly today, your Gryffindor partners will have to do the main work. Now we return to the Invisibility Potion…”       Miranda had awaited this lesson with particular anxiety, as she and Riddle would once again have to work together, but the Head Boy behaved as though nothing had happened and did not remind her, by word or gesture, of their conversation in the Room of Requirement the day before yesterday. In fact, he did not speak to her at all beyond general remarks related to their assignment. They worked calmly – she prepared the ingredients, he added them to the potion. By the end of the double lesson, Miranda even felt slightly offended – why was he behaving as though nothing had happened? Why was Riddle so calm and indifferent?       He was planning something. Why had she even thought she could relax in his presence now? Their conversation on Sunday had ended on a strange note, though quite peacefully. And yet that certainly did not mean it was over. A far more plausible option was that he would try to kill her again, and now was simply lying low, waiting for the right moment. One had to keep one’s eyes open with that serpent…       After the lesson, Slughorn asked her to stay behind, and Miranda began slowly packing her things into her bag while her classmates noisily pushed back chairs and left the classroom. Riddle, without saying a word to her, departed with the other Slytherins, leaving her alone with the professor.       “My dear Miss Sommers, in a week’s time I shall be hosting a small party in my office, and I would very much like to see you there. Alongside your classmates, there will be a few of my acquaintances – mostly former students – and I believe you would find it interesting to meet some of them… By the way, you may come in pairs, so be sure to bring someone with you!”       “You are very kind, Professor. I would be delighted to come!” Only a very observant eye could have noticed the falseness of Miranda’s smile, but Slughorn was busy preparing for the next lesson and noticed nothing. Gathering the seventh-years’ essays, he waved his wand, opening an almost invisible door into the adjoining room, and disappeared inside.       “You have very deep knowledge in Potions, Defence Against the Dark Arts, and Charms,” he continued loudly from within. “Have you ever considered becoming an Auror?”       “I have always been drawn to the path of a healer, Professor,” Miranda replied, slightly surprised, and followed him. She did not enter his private laboratory, stopping at the threshold and observing several cauldrons beneath which cheerful flames crackled. Something inside them was actively bubbling.       “Ah, those are for the sixth-years,” the professor noticed her interest and smiled kindly. “Miss Sommers, I daresay you can identify what’s here at a glance?”       The older Slughorn had asked her class exactly the same question at their first lesson in September 1996.       Hermione had easily identified each potion then, and Miranda smiled faintly as she stepped closer and examined the contents.       “Veritaserum and Polyjuice Potion,” she pointed at the first two cauldrons. These were potions she had already brewed herself and could not confuse with anything else. Next was a cauldron from which steam curled in spirals, and Miranda involuntarily admired the pearly sheen within it. “And this, of course, is Amortentia. And next to it – the Draught of Living Death.”       “Bravo, Miss Sommers! Five points to Gryffindor,” Slughorn even clapped his hands. “I suppose there is no need to ask you about the properties of these potions?”       “I would gladly tell you about them, Professor, if you wish,” Miranda replied cheerfully and turned, searching for another, smaller cauldron. “And where is…”       She stopped herself, realising there was nothing more in the laboratory. But Slughorn, unfortunately, noticed her slip.       “What do you mean, my dear Miranda?”       “I just thought there might be something else – something more interesting,” she improvised.       “Merlin’s beard, what could possibly be more fascinating than the most powerful Love Potion, Polyjuice, and a potion that forces everyone to tell the truth?”       “Perhaps… Felix Felicis?” she suggested, unable to keep silent.       “The Luck Potion?” Slughorn repeated with interest. “Well then, another five points to Gryffindor for excellent knowledge of advanced potions. Where did you read about it? Not in that very book you wanted to buy in Hogsmeade?”       “No, it was a library book.”       “Felix Felicis? Hmm… that could be interesting,” Slughorn muttered to himself, moving away to his desk.       “Perhaps I should include it in next year’s curriculum…”       Miranda did not interrupt his thoughts, but she wondered whether she had just influenced the very future from which she had come to 1944. Oh, how she could use a Luck Potion right now… Lost in thought, she found herself standing too close to the cauldrons, and the next moment she inhaled the delightful scent of coffee with cinnamon, which soon changed to the smell of jasmine…       She realised she was standing with her eyes closed, breathing slowly and deeply, allowing the scent of Amortentia to fill her entirely. Coffee, cinnamon, jasmine – the finest scents in the world. She had smelled exactly those during Slughorn’s lesson in her own time…       The jasmine vanished, replaced by a new scent – this time she could not immediately identify it. A delicate, pleasant aroma, not overpowering, merely teasing the senses. And this was something new – during that lesson in sixth year, it had definitely not been there, yet it was undoubtedly familiar. Those cool notes, lightly tickling the palate, were impossible to mistake…       Miranda’s eyes flew open in horror, and she recoiled with such speed as though, at the very least, a tarantula had just crawled out of the cauldron.       No, no, no! That was impossible! Any scent but that!       She had gone mad. Time travel had not done her any good, and her mind had finally given way. Perhaps one of the Slytherins’ curses the day before yesterday had struck her after all, and she had lost her sanity. Because there was simply no other explanation for why, standing beside Amortentia, she had begun to smell Tom Riddle’s cologne.       He was a murderer. He had set his followers on her, knowing perfectly well what Dolohov, Lestrange, and Avery would do. He himself had tried to kill her and would most likely try again. She could not feel anything for him! Not love, not even attraction – it was utterly senseless and impossible! They were enemies, opponents, rivals! She could not be drawn to that man!       Riddle would die laughing if he found out. And she would die that very second from humiliation.       “My dear girl, I have kept you far too long!” Slughorn exclaimed, not noticing her near panic. “Run along to your next lesson, or you’ll be late!”       Nodding hurriedly, Miranda followed his advice and rushed out at full speed. She was not running because she feared being late for Ancient Runes, but because she needed to get as far away from Amortentia as possible. That was it – nothing had happened! She had imagined it. Coffee, cinnamon, jasmine – she needed to focus on that. Everything else was merely a product of her inflamed imagination.       And yet she kept thinking about it. She thought about it during Ancient Runes, half-listening to the professor and not answering questions as she usually did, which earned her a surprised glance from Riddle, seated in the next row. Noticing him, she hastily buried her face in her parchment and, to her horror, felt herself blush. Apparently, that surprised Riddle even more.       She thought about it during dinner in the Great Hall, ignoring everything Minerva, Simona, Ignotius, and others were saying. That evening, she did not even go to the library. Instead, she slipped out of the castle, transformed into a raven, and, hoping to clear her mind at least a little, flew over the castle grounds. She should not have done that – flying over the lake, she spotted a familiar tall figure strolling along the shore. Riddle, it seemed, also had something to think about and had left the castle to be alone. No doubt he was devising a new way to kill her.       The evening flight brought her no relief, and soon she returned to the castle. Climbing up to Gryffindor Tower, Miranda collapsed onto her bed, staring at the canopy above her.       At seventeen, she had never experienced romantic feelings for anyone. During fifth and sixth year, her classmates had gone mad – Harry was in love with Cho, who still mourned Cedric; Ginny was in love with Harry, who only in sixth year returned her feelings; Hermione loved Ron, who understood nothing for too long and then started dating Lavender Brown; Parvati and Lavender endlessly discussed handsome boys; Neville cast tender glances at Luna; even her own sister had suddenly begun noticing Draco Malfoy… It had seemed to her that the fever of love had affected everyone except her. Miranda had always remained calm and indifferent.       In fourth year, a sweet boy from Beauxbatons had invited her to the Yule Ball, and afterwards they had awkwardly kissed in a cupboard where Filch kept cleaning supplies. The boy had given her his address and asked her to write, but she had promptly lost the scrap of parchment and never thought of him again. In fifth year, she had been an “ugly duckling,” attracting little attention. At sixteen, she had suddenly grown prettier and gained admirers, even two seventh-years – but she and Panthea had been far more occupied with improving their duelling skills, and there had been no time for dates. No one had ever interested her. While her classmates experienced their first romantic feelings, she remained completely indifferent. At times, Miranda had even worried – what was wrong with her? Had the Frost family’s cold composure played a cruel trick on her? What if she was simply incapable of romantic attachment at all?       And now – of all times – this.       No, she needed to get out of this time immediately and return to 1997. Better complete emotional coldness than Riddle.       By the end of the week, she was in a constant state of tension. It took all her effort to maintain control and not let anyone see her turmoil. She managed to focus enough to return to her image of a diligent student during lessons, but she barely spoke to her classmates and became even more withdrawn than usual. From then on, she ignored Tom Riddle – except in Potions, where they worked together, but even there she kept silent and tried not to notice the faint scent of that damned cologne. Riddle must have noticed the change in her behaviour – with his perceptiveness, he could not have missed it – but for now he asked no questions and merely watched her.       On Friday, the seventh-years were to submit their lists of subjects for their NEWT exams. During breakfast in the Great Hall, Miranda handed her parchment to Dumbledore and then idly watched from her seat as Slughorn collected the others.       “Lestrange, Malfoy, Miss Crabbe, very good… Dolohov, why have you not included Transfiguration? I am certain you could manage that exam. Mulciber, you should cross out Potions – I’m afraid your level is insufficient for NEWTs… Avery, thank you… Miss Carrow, you have decided on Arithmancy after all? Commendable… Alphard, my boy, why do you need Care of Magical Creatures as well? Miss Rosier, where is your form?..”       Merlin, it felt as though she were sitting at a Death Eater meeting! Why had she never thought before about how many of these seventh-year students would later join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? These surnames were so familiar – each one inspired fear in her own time, and those who bore them belonged in Azkaban! For complete effect, only Lord Voldemort himself was missing – the one whose orders these Slytherins would obey without question.       Miranda glanced at Tom Riddle, who was finishing his coffee and looked as flawless as ever, and quickly looked away, fixing her gaze on her plate. In the next moment, her breath caught. She choked on pumpkin juice and began coughing violently. The goblet tipped over, spreading stains across the white tablecloth. Minerva reached for her wand, but Miranda shook her head sharply. When she caught her breath, she stared at the Slytherin table with wide eyes, feeling everything inside her turn to ice.       No. That was impossible. She just has an overactive imagination, that’s why she keeps imagining all sorts of weird nonsense.       That can’t be him.       But then again… how else could it be explained? Tom Riddle – brilliant, ambitious, capable of anything… And yet, in her own time, she had never once heard the name “Riddle.” Unless he had died young… but she could not believe that someone like him would simply die. Unless a dragon devoured him – though Miranda had a feeling that even in a situation like that, the slippery serpent would somehow find a way to survive. And him… the Dark Lord himself? In her time, he had become someone whose name people feared to utter aloud. He had started a real war, amassed unprecedented power, eclipsing even Grindelwald himself… But if one thought about it, he had not always been like that, had he?.. Once, he must have been a child, a teenager, a student somewhere. Surely there had been people who had known Lord Voldemort when he was young… Miranda gripped her fork so tightly that her knuckles turned white.       She had seen Voldemort once. Back then, in the Department of Mysteries, when Harry had taken the Prophecy… At the end of the battle, the Dark wizard had appeared at the Ministry in person and had nearly killed Harry. Miranda had run into the Atrium then, fleeing from Rookwood, and saw him for the first time – only briefly, for a matter of seconds. But that had been enough for her to remember for the rest of her life the pale inhuman face with red eyes and slits instead of a nose. Afterwards, it haunted her nightmares. Could the handsome Tom Riddle and that horrifying creature truly be the same person?       Slughorn departed, leaving the Slytherins to finish their breakfast. Riddle lifted his head and said something quietly to Malfoy and Nott; both nodded silently and, leaving their meals unfinished, rose and exited the hall.       Tom Riddle held the entirety of Slytherin under his command. His classmates – the very future Death Eaters – obeyed him without question, and Miranda had already witnessed as much herself. He was Hogwarts’ finest student, one who knew more about magic than any other pupil and likely more than some professors. At only seventeen, he was already practising Dark Magic freely and committing murder. And he utterly despised Mudbloods. Cold-blooded, calculating, an exceptional manipulator – beneath the mask of a charming young man lurked a merciless and cunning mind.       It was him.       Her heart thundered somewhere in her ears, and through the noise she could barely hear what was happening around her. One last fried mushroom remained on her plate, and Miranda tried to spear it with her fork, but her hands were trembling so badly that the fork merely clattered against the porcelain.       Back in August, lying in hospital and contemplating her situation, she had decided not to draw unnecessary attention to herself. So how had it happened that the very first thing she had done upon arriving in this time was make Lord Voldemort her mortal enemy?       “Hey.” Someone gave her shoulder a slight shake, and Miranda blinked to find a concerned Simone beside her. “Are you all right? You look rather pale. Stayed in the library until late again?”       She forced out a strained smile.       “I’m perfectly fine. Just didn’t get enough sleep.”       Oh yes, absolutely fine! Throughout the entire two months I’ve been here, my confrontation with the man who, fifty years from now, will hold all of magical Britain in terror has only been escalating. A man for whom the word mercy will mean absolutely nothing, and for whom a human life is already worth less than a Knut. Ever since I arrived here, all I’ve done is challenge him, threaten him, and insult him.       But other than that – everything is perfectly fine, thank you for asking.       Oh, and one more detail – out of everyone in the world, Amortentia smells to me like Lord Voldemort.