Heart of the Serpent

      The week passed as if in a fog. Miranda attended classes, answered questions, even spoke about something with her classmates, but she did everything mechanically, like an indifferent doll with a blank celluloid face. Another weekend was approaching, when she would have to go to Slughorn’s party, and she thought with dread of the coming Sunday evening. There, for several hours, she would have to keep up polite conversation, smile, betraying nothing of her inner state – and for such a feat, she seemed not yet capable. How would she even manage to attend a dinner where she would be under his eyes the entire evening?       Yes, her paths with Riddle still crossed in some classes, and in Potions they continued to work as a pair, but there she could simply pretend to be fully absorbed in the lesson and not react to those around her. Though it seemed her acting abilities had begun to fail her this week – several times Miranda had already caught Riddle’s long, studying gaze upon herself, and he could hardly fail to notice how her manner of behavior had changed. Each time she felt that gaze, she could feel her back break out in an icy sweat. Please, don’t look… Leave me alone…       The first three days after she realized that Tom Riddle was Voldemort passed unnoticed. Miranda withdrew completely into herself and simply tried to comprehend what was happening. Her mind was in utter chaos; at times she was seized with fear, and at others she was overtaken by hysterical laughter when she thought of her “good fortune.” For the first time in her life, even her nightly flights in animagus form did not help, bringing neither the long-awaited calm nor relief, and so she returned again and again to her heavy thoughts.                   Unfortunately, the more she reflected, the more convinced she became that her guesses had been correct. And though she still had a sea of questions – at the very least, how could the great and terrible Lord Voldemort, a champion of pure blood who did not consider Muggles human and sought to eradicate all Muggle-borns, himself have Muggle relatives? If that Muggle, Thomas, truly was his father, then Voldemort was, at the very least, a half-blood. I wonder if his followers know about that?.. But these were merely technical questions, while her doubts were growing fewer and fewer.       On the fourth day, when Miranda could finally describe her state as “sane,” her thoughts took on a slightly different tone. Having spent several days in a kind of half-conscious state, early in the morning, just as dawn was breaking, she sat by the lakeshore with eyes reddened from lack of sleep and looked more thoughtfully at the water, where the grey October sky was reflected. The wind was blowing; the surface of the lake seemed ribbed, wrinkled.       Well then, if she set aside all her turmoil, which boiled down to “How can this even be possible?!”, it was time to move on to a question that sounded more like “And what is she supposed to do with all this now?” Pretend it had nothing to do with her? Stay as far away from the young Voldemort as possible and flee the school as soon as the Christmas holidays began? Or even earlier – this very weekend? Stick to her original plan, find a way to return to her own time and run away from here without looking back?       On the other hand… what if none of this was accidental? Her journey into the past? She had already spent a month and a half in the library, and still she had not found a single mention of anything like what had happened to her. There were not many stories about the Time-Turner either, but at least they existed, while her case felt unique! So perhaps she was not meant to seek help in dry facts? Perhaps all of this had been ordained… from above? By the Moirai, for instance, or whatever higher powers governed the intricate weaving of human fates? Perhaps she was meant to do something – and only then would she be allowed to return?       But… what? Suppose she had not been thrown into the years when Voldemort was still the One-Who-Could-Still-Be-Named by chance. Tom Riddle had not yet lost his humanity; he was very young and did not yet possess the necessary experience, knowledge, power, authority – though he had already firmly set foot upon the path of evil. Though, truth be told, Miranda strongly doubted he had ever had another path. Most of his future victims were still alive, and some had not even been born yet. So what was she supposed to do? Try to save all those people? And how exactly?       Try to persuade him otherwise? That was foolish – it was already too late. Perhaps if she had been transported a few years earlier, when Riddle had only just arrived at Hogwarts… An eleven-year-old Voldemort might still have been persuaded of something. But a seventeen-year-old, who had come of age and gained the freedom to use magic, who had already tasted that power – hardly. He would only laugh, and then certainly kill her so she would not get in his way.       Follow him and try to sabotage his plans? That was, perhaps, the worst idea. The most she could manage was to save some unfortunate Muggle-born from Riddle’s friends. Needless to say what he would do to her if she began interfering with his plans for world domination.       Tell Dumbledore everything? Miranda absently tugged at her long ash-blonde hair, seriously considering this option. Suppose she lowered her mental shields and allowed the professor to rummage through her thoughts to understand that she was not lying. But how would that help? What could she ask Dumbledore to do? Kill a seventeen-year-old boy? Keep him constantly under surveillance? It was unlikely to work—within a year Dumbledore would have his duel with Grindelwald; he would certainly have no time for Riddle. Dumbledore must not be distracted from his mission – Grindelwald had already bathed all of Europe in blood, and he had to be stopped… Besides, she did not want to reveal the truth to an outsider. She already had no control over the situation, and if someone else became aware of her secret… No, the outcome would be far too unpredictable.       But what if… if… what other way was there to stop the future great dark wizard so that he would never harm anyone – not in ten years, not in fifty? Miranda dug the fingers of her right hand painfully into her left, leaving red crescent marks on her skin from her nails. Perhaps that was the whole point? Her mission, which she had to fulfill? Murder?       How much would the future change if the name of Lord Voldemort did not exist in it? And yet, if in that future there would be no war, no countless victims – perhaps she had to do it? The future would take a different path; her family and friends would live in an entirely different, happier world – the one that would become their home.       A world to which she herself would have no way back.       So that was the essence of her mission? To kill Riddle, to sacrifice her own future for the sake of the future of hundreds of innocent witches and wizards and Muggles?       Miranda closed her eyes, summoning in her memory the names of his victims and the victims of his followers, the headlines of newspapers from the past two years, the vision of the sinister Dark Mark in the sky – the dreadful sign that the worst had already happened here. All those deaths, disappearances, werewolf and Dementor attacks, shattered families, the endless fear in which she and those she knew had lived since Voldemort’s return… Her father, living in constant anxiety while Voldemort and the Death Eaters hunted him. Her mother, locked in her own house like a prison, beyond whose walls her life would be in mortal danger. Her sister, whose life Voldemort – Riddle – could use as leverage against Richard Frost.       Her fingers closed of their own accord around the shaft of her wand.       She would do it. She had to. ***       Coming up with a plan and preparing turned out to be easier than she had expected. Miranda had already noticed that there were no people in Riddle’s circle whom he could call friends in the usual sense of the word. He was a loner, and it was not so difficult to catch him when no one was nearby. Miranda also already knew of Riddle’s fondness for evening walks around the lake and decided that she would not have a better opportunity. All that remained was to wait for the right moment and secure herself an alibi.       Cold-bloodedly planning someone’s murder felt… strange. As if the decisions were not being made by her, but by an entirely different person. One part of Miranda was shouting at the top of its voice that this was wrong, that it was madness, that she had lost her mind to even consider such a thing. Another part insisted that it was necessary. The main argument remained the awareness that she was planning to kill not just anyone, but Voldemort himself. After all, in the future, that was what Harry Potter would have to do – so she would simply do his job, that was all!       Riddle set out for his evening walk around the lake on Saturday after dinner, when the early autumn twilight had already deepened outside. It was hard to imagine a better opportunity. Making sure that Riddle had left the castle, Miranda ran to Gryffindor Tower, where she paused, caught her breath slightly, and arranged a pained expression on her face.       “Miranda, will you sit with us?” Simona called cheerfully across the common room.       Minerva, seated in an armchair by the fire, bent intently over a thick book and pursed her lips disapprovingly as she glanced at the source of the disturbance.       “I’m not feeling very well,” Miranda said weakly, placing a hand to her forehead for effect. “My head is splitting. I’ll go to bed early.”       “Shall I escort you to the hospital wing?” offered Fleamont Potter, who wore a prefect’s badge on his robes. Miranda had identified this fifth-year as Harry’s grandfather.       She smiled gratefully.       “Oh, that won’t be necessary, thank you! Sleep always helps.”       “Are you sure?”       Merlin, just leave me alone! There’s hardly any time as it is, and here you are with your Gryffindor helpfulness!       “Gryffindor’s honour!”       Several people laughed, and she finally hurried up the stairs.       Fortunately, the dormitory was empty. Miranda somehow transfigured several sheets of parchment into bed linens – they turned out poorly, retaining a strange yellowish tint and feeling rough to the touch, but she hoped that in the darkness it would not be noticeable. From the sheets she fashioned a rag doll, which she laid in her bed, then drew the curtains. The alibi was ready – half the house had seen her go up to the dormitory, and if anyone came up here, the doll should suffice to distract them. After that, Miranda took the form of a raven and flew out of the window.       Riddle had already gone quite far from the castle, and Miranda did not immediately manage to spot his silhouette in the darkness. She landed on a branch of a nearby tree and froze, but if Riddle heard the flutter of wings, he paid it no mind. Miranda had chosen animagus transformation from the start, knowing that otherwise she would never be able to approach Riddle unnoticed. And she would have to strike in a dishonourable way, from behind – but there was no other way. She had no chance in a fair duel.       The young man descended the slope and now stood at the very edge of the lake, silently gazing at the water. A black school robe, a silver-and-green Slytherin scarf for warmth, the wind carelessly ruffling his dark hair – though in the castle Riddle always wore it impeccably styled – before her stood an ordinary student. Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest a bird cried out sharply, and for a second Riddle glanced back. Miranda was struck by how he looked in that moment – completely calm, relaxed, immersed in his thoughts. Serene.       And it was not a mask or another game; no, these were his real feelings. His features seemed to have smoothed, and now, more than ever, he resembled an angel. Miranda felt an absurd urge to call out to him, just to see how the expression on that face would change – becoming mocking, cold, indifferent, cruel, anything! Anything, just to be certain that this was indeed the person she had to kill!       He turned back to the lake, and Miranda took a deep breath.       Now.       The raven silently spread its wings and slipped from the branch. Miranda resumed her human form midair – so that her human feet would touch the ground without a sound. Her cloak remained in the dormitory and did not restrict her movements. Wasting no time, Miranda raised her wand and spoke in her mind: “Petrificus Totalus!”       Nonverbal magic had always been difficult for her, but apparently today her emotions were so strong that she directed the necessary impulse into the wand without any effort. No more than five seconds had passed since the raven had left the branch. If the Slytherin sensed something amiss at the last moment, he had no time to react. The spell struck Riddle in the back, and he fell flat to the ground, completely paralyzed. His arms were pinned to his sides, his gaze fixed somewhere toward the sky. He could not turn his head to see her. Here it was – the moment. The one that could change the entire future of magical Britain. Lord Voldemort was defeated; all that remained was to finish it. You may proceed.       Miranda resolutely raised her hand and pointed her wand at the motionless Riddle.       It was very simple. All she had to do was concentrate, sincerely wish him dead, and say, “Avada Kedavra,” and the Unforgivable Curse would work. She had seen it happen – before her very eyes the fake Moody had killed a spider in class, and Bellatrix Lestrange had killed Sirius Black in the Department of Mysteries.       Come on, don’t hesitate!       She continued to hold Riddle at wandpoint, but the Killing Curse did not leave her lips.       Something was stopping her. As if something inside her mind would not allow her to speak those two fateful words. Her mouth suddenly went dry, her tongue stuck to the roof, the tip of her wand began to tremble.       Remember everything that is happening in your world! Think of how much you can change! Your family will no longer live in constant fear. Harry will not grow up an orphan, and Neville’s parents will raise their son themselves. Hermione will not live in constant danger because her parents are Muggles. Dumbledore will be alive, your classmates will not lose their loved ones. Cedric Diggory will live. All those Muggle families the newspapers wrote about will live. Bill Weasley will not be disfigured by Fenrir Greyback.       You can save them all!       The wand shook in her trembling fingers. Tears streamed down her cheeks – so many, in an unbroken flow – and she had to hastily wipe her eyes with her free hand as the world around her suddenly blurred. A faint whisper escaped her parted lips, but it would not form coherent words. Her throat seemed gripped by an invisible hand, and Miranda let out a convulsive sob. She was shaking all over.       Remember who stands before you! He is a murderer, a monster, a beast!       With that same free hand she had to clutch at the trunk of a willow - she was shaking so badly her legs refused to hold her. She bit her lips until they bled; coloured spots danced before her eyes.       I can’t. Forgive me, everyone, I can’t!       After Dumbledore’s death, Harry had spoken about Draco Malfoy’s role in that tragedy. About how he had been tasked with killing Dumbledore, and how at the crucial moment, even under threat of death to himself and his family, Malfoy had been unable to utter the fatal spell. He had not been able to become a killer, even knowing what consequences he might face. Now Miranda understood him as never before.       I can’t kill!       Her hand dropped helplessly. Sobs rose in her throat, and now all her strength went into not making a sound, not revealing herself. Her breathing came in uneven bursts.       She had to leave. The Petrificus would soon wear off.       The black raven rose above the trees and flew toward the castle. Not knowing how quickly Riddle would recover or what exactly he would do, she did not fly straight to the familiar window, but first circled Hogwarts, and only then returned to the dormitory. One of the girls had already gone to bed, and Miranda, mechanically parting the curtains and turning the sheets back into parchment scrolls, collapsed onto the bed, choking on her sobs.       I didn’t have the strength. I am weak and cowardly. I had a chance to stop him, to prevent the war, to save countless lives.       I couldn’t!       I couldn’t. ***       She fell asleep still in her clothes, and in the morning a frightful creature stared back at her from the mirror, with dark circles under her eyes, a raven’s nest on her head, and a face pale as an Inferius. Her eyes were swollen, and she looked as though she had just recovered from a serious illness. She did not go to breakfast – the mere thought of food made her nauseous. She wanted to go for a walk, but remembering the path along the lake, she abandoned the idea. At last she went down to the common room and simply climbed onto a wide windowsill, tucking her legs beneath her.       What now? Well, she could congratulate herself on not becoming a murderer, on preserving her lofty moral principles and all that nonsense – but now the responsibility for many lives that would be lost in the future lay on her as well. How was she supposed to live with that?       The thought made her so sick that she threw her head back and banged it several times against the stone wall. It did not help – only her head began to ache.       “Good morning, Miranda! Have you had breakfast yet? By the way, I wanted to ask – who are you going to Slughorn’s party with today? With Ignotus?” chirped Mary Abercrombie, appearing from the dormitory.       The nausea intensified.       Oh no – she definitely would not go to Slughorn’s party. She was not made of iron, after all! It was all very well for Riddle – he could kill someone without batting an eye, then stroll away whistling some carefree tune – but she did not have nerves of steel like that!       Muttering something indistinct in reply, she went back upstairs for writing supplies, then quickly dashed off a note to the professor, informing him that she was ill and therefore would not be able to attend. She still looked far from well, and it would be difficult to accuse her of lying.       The day dragged on; everything slipped from her hands, and Miranda could not properly concentrate on her homework. For some reason, the only question that truly occupied her that day was how Riddle had reacted to yesterday’s incident. What did he think of the sudden attack? Whom did he suspect? How angry was he?       In the evening she forced herself to go down to the Great Hall for dinner, but she did not reach her destination. Miranda stepped through the portrait into the corridor, descended to the first floor, but there someone suddenly seized her arm tightly and dragged her into a nearby deserted corridor before she could understand what was happening. Pulling her wand from her sleeve, she found herself face to face with Riddle, furious as a starving Acromantula, lightning flashing in his eyes, and not particularly concerned now with maintaining his good-boy image. His emotional state was also evident from the fact that he shoved her hard against the wall before glancing around to make sure they were alone. Instead of his Slytherin school robes, he wore a more elegant dark blue cloak, and he looked stunning. Everything would have been fine, but the magic crackled in the air from his fury, and Miranda felt as though sparks might start flying at any moment.       “So, you’re not planning to attend the party?” he drawled threateningly, studying her pale, hollow-eyed face. “Slughorn said you were ill.”       “A little,” she agreed. “Why? Did you end up without a partner and want to invite me?”       He inhaled sharply and stepped closer.       “What was that yesterday, Sommers? Did you really think I would let it go?”       “What exactly?” her subdued state suddenly served her well – her voice sounded so lifeless that it would be difficult to catch her in a lie.       “I know it was you,” he hissed angrily; his voice dropped to a whisper that might have sent a more impressionable person running in terror. “Yesterday, by the lake! How dare you?! Do you know what I’m going to do to you now?”       “It would be easier for me to understand if you explained what you want.”       It seemed she had pushed the future Lord Voldemort to the boiling point, because he suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her hard – so hard that her head struck the wall behind her and she cried out in pain. It was unexpected – how furious must he be to use brute physical force instead of some refined curse?       “Don’t you dare lie to me, Miranda!” her name sounded from his lips for the first time, yet it was spoken with such pure, unclouded rage, bordering on hatred, that it brought her no pleasure. “It was you, I know it! No one but you would have dared…”       “I have no interest in you.”       Her last words seemed to cool his anger slightly, but the look in his eyes turned far more dangerous.       “Oh?” he asked acidly. “Then why, for the entire past week, have I felt your fear? You are afraid of me, Sommers – for some reason, you suddenly began to feel a panic terror of me. Why?”       She remained silent, quickly assessing her situation. Damn it – so he was not only a Legilimens, but an empath as well! She could hide her thoughts from him, but her emotions… Curse it! Riddle, watching her closely, suddenly narrowed his eyes.       “What did you find out about me?” he asked almost gently. He stood so close that Miranda could clearly see every lash around his eyes. “It’s obvious – after all, I haven’t touched you all week. What unpleasant truth about me have you uncovered this time?”       Oh, Riddle - you will never guess just how unpleasant…       Gathering all her will, she met his gaze firmly. It was probably time to begin preparing herself for the Cruciatus.       “I don’t understand what you want from me.”       Riddle raised his hand, and Miranda instinctively jerked her head aside, expecting a blow, but he only gently touched her cheek with his fingers and tucked a loose strand of ash-blonde hair behind her ear. That unexpected tenderness frightened her far more than any promise of a slow and painful death.       “You will submit to me all the same, Miranda,” he whispered without the slightest hint of threat, yet with such unshakable certainty that she felt her heart try to leap from her chest. “I will make you bow before me, and I will learn all your secrets.”       With those words, he abruptly stepped back and, giving her a mocking salute, walked away.