Heart of the Serpent

      For the entire following week she hardly saw Riddle at all, and she did not object to that in the slightest. It would have been best if he had vanished off the face of the earth altogether, but one could hardly count on such miraculous luck. On top of everything, his last words – that he would force her to submit – would not leave her mind. Miranda had no doubt that Riddle would try to carry out his threat. It was astonishing enough that he had lain low for a whole week – perhaps in their last conversation she had played her part convincingly enough, and Voldemort did not have absolute certainty that it had been she who had stunned him by the lake. Otherwise, he would not have treated her with such restraint…       The situation changed on Friday evening, when Miranda was having dinner in the Great Hall. The table was lively and noisy; her classmates were delighted at the approaching weekend. Fifth-years nearby were discussing some horrendously difficult Defence Against the Dark Arts essay assigned by Wilkost; Ignotius, Septimus Weasley, and Geoffrey Longbottom were arguing heatedly about the upcoming match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Minerva was discussing certain aspects of prefect duties with Augusta. Meanwhile, Miranda was explaining Protean Charms to Michael Lupin, a sixth-year student sitting opposite her, one of the best students in Charms, with whom she had unexpectedly discovered shared interests.       “Tom Riddle is coming to our table,” Simona suddenly whispered tragically in her ear. She and Mary sat to Miranda’s right and had been gossiping about yet another admirer of Mary’s from Hufflepuff. “Miranda, he’s looking at you!”       She continued smiling at Lupin as if nothing were happening, but inside she felt a flicker of unease. Silly, perhaps – what could he do to her in full view of the entire Great Hall, with Dippet and Dumbledore at its head, even if he were Lord Voldemort ten times over? But all their encounters were always far too unpredictable…       “Is there something between you?!” Simona hissed excitedly. She was staring somewhere over Miranda’s shoulder, her face alight with such admiration that Miranda had no doubt whom she could not take her eyes off. “Is that why you broke up with Ignotius? Why didn’t you tell us?!”       A shadow fell across the table, and there was no longer any point in pretending she was not there. She turned around.       Riddle stood opposite her, apparently oblivious to the astonished and unfriendly looks of the Gryffindors.       Conversations at the table grew much quieter, and Miranda mentally groaned, feeling with her back that many eyes were now upon them. Just what she needed – everyone’s attention!       “Miranda, may we speak?” he asked in such a gentle voice that her jaw nearly dropped in surprise.       “I beg your pardon?”       “I wanted to apologise,” he said quietly, so earnestly that Simona, Mary, and several other girls nearby, watching the spectacle from the front row, forgot how to breathe for a moment. “What I said to you then… I was wrong. Could you stay a little after dinner? I would like you to give me a chance to explain.”       Riddle’s gaze was sad and serious, his entire appearance radiating deep remorse. His beauty completed the image; at that moment he resembled nothing so much as a romantic hero, the dream of every impressionable young girl. Privately, Miranda could only admire his acting. He truly was good. Those intonations, those eyes expressing all the sorrow of the world – enough to melt even a heart of stone. There was no denying it – had he staged this performance a couple of weeks ago, when she did not yet know that he was Voldemort, Miranda herself would not have been able to resist him. But now…       “I don’t even know, Tom,” she said in a slightly trembling voice, instantly joining the game and adding tearful notes to her tone. Riddle had enough composure not to break character even for a moment when she called him by name. “You hurt me very badly then, and it was so painful…”       Behind her she sensed some movement – apparently her last words had suddenly caused Ignotius and his friends to forget about Quidditch and focus entirely on Miranda’s exchange with Riddle. It seemed that now all the Gryffindors were convinced she was having an affair with the Slytherin prefect. Not exactly what she wanted… But to hell with it. It was more important to deal with Riddle.       “Let me make amends!” he exclaimed fervently, yet managed to keep his tone from slipping into melodrama. “Please, give me a few minutes after dinner. I must speak with you!”       And for that he needed an entire performance?.. In any case, this nonsense had to end. Simona, for one, could not bear the tension any longer and dropped her wand, which fell under the table and emitted a fountain of bright green sparks. The tablecloth beside Miranda began to smoulder. A small commotion broke out, but Minerva reacted first.       “Aguamenti!”       The flame vanished, but now the smell of burning lingered, the white tablecloth was marked with black scorch stains, and puddles spread across the floor. Flustered and red as a beetroot, Simona retrieved her wand and now sat motionless, staring at the table. Still, she did not miss a thing, and Miranda even had the impression her ears had grown longer, like a hare’s.       “Fine,” Miranda said reluctantly, her irritation this time entirely genuine. “In five minutes, in the hall.”       She did not even bother to take more time – she would not be able to eat properly anyway.       “Thank you, Miranda,” Riddle smiled, and somewhere a girl let out a thin sigh. Even Minerva seemed charmed by him. “I’ll be waiting.”       He returned to the Slytherin table. Miranda watched him go with the darkest foreboding and turned back to her classmates. Snatching up a goblet, she drained it in one gulp and only then noticed the looks of the others. The boys’ expressions were gloomy and disapproving; Prewett looked at her with outright indignation. The girls, however, wore such dreamy expressions as though they had just been told that balls at Hogwarts would now be held every week.       “Miranda, why didn’t you tell us you were seeing each other?” Mary asked breathlessly, glancing back once more at the object of universal female admiration.       “Because we’re not,” Miranda said coldly, nervously clenching and unclenching her fingers. “We had an unpleasant conversation last week. We disagreed. There’s nothing else between us.”       “But the way he looked at you… I’ve never seen Riddle look like that! Miranda, he’s in love!” Simona exclaimed, and Miranda winced miserably. Merlin, couldn’t she speak more quietly?       “With whom?”       “With you, of course, you idiot!”       “He’s only in love with himself,” Miranda snapped irritably. Merlin, what nonsense! If any of them had the faintest idea what kind of person he really was, and what truly stood between her and Riddle! “Simona, stop it! There’s nothing between us. You said yourself he only dates pure-bloods.”       “But that means you’re the first to truly conquer him…”       She could not endure this nonsense any longer, so she rose decisively and stepped away from the table. Ignotius watched her especially intently, but she was too angry to say a word as she headed for the exit.       “You see?” Mary’s whisper reached her. “She’s lying. Of course she likes him too! She couldn’t even sit through dinner and ran off to meet Riddle!”       I never thought this thought would cross my mind, but honestly, I’m beginning to understand the Lord Voldemort of my time, who tortured and killed people simply because they annoyed him!       What could one do when these idiots heard only themselves and believed whatever they wanted to believe? Now these ridiculous rumours would spread through the school at lightning speed…       The final nail in the coffin was Riddle himself, who noticed her departure, rose from his seat, and hurried after her. Under the gaze of the entire school, feeling the students’ emotions – surprise, curiosity, disapproval, envy – against her skin, she rushed out of the Great Hall firmly convinced that she should have stepped over her principles a week ago and killed that wretch. Life would have been much simpler.       Riddle beckoned her into the same side corridor where they had spoken before, and Miranda followed. She felt no fear – the Great Hall was just a short distance away, and Riddle would not dare harm her in a crowded place. Her head swam slightly – nerves, perhaps?..       “Why did you stage that? Now the whole school thinks you’re in love with me. I’m flattered by the attention, but what was the point?” she demanded irritably, no longer trying to conceal her annoyance.       He turned, and she flinched at the change in his expression. Riddle looked at her with such deep satisfaction, as though something he had counted on had just come to pass – and she did not like it at all. A smile played on his lips – cold, triumphant. The smile of a man who had just gained power over her life and intended to use it. A smile that belonged not to Tom Riddle, but to Lord Voldemort himself.       For the first time, she was afraid. He had not even drawn his wand – why, then, did his entire presence exude such confidence?..       “I will scream,” she warned, striving to keep her voice steady. A ringing filled her ears; waves of weakness washed over her, her legs trembling. To steady herself, she had to grasp the wall.       He smiled wider.       “Do you know, Miranda, what your greatest mistake is – the one you keep making again and again?” Riddle asked almost tenderly.       Everything spun before her eyes; his voice seemed distant. With the last of her strength she lifted her head, already guessing what was happening. Her fingers twitched toward her wand, but her arm suddenly weighed a ton, impossible to lift.       “You should be more careful about what you drink in the presence of those you cannot trust,” he confirmed her suspicion.       That was the last thing she remembered. ***       When Miranda came to, she found herself lying on a stone floor. Her back was cold, her head ached, and she was terribly thirsty, but otherwise she seemed to be all right. Not poison, then – just a sleeping draught, she thought, and opened her eyes.       She lay in a dimly lit chamber, more like a hall. The ceiling was so high it vanished into darkness. There was little light, and it had a strange greenish hue. Two rows of snake-entwined columns stretched along the hall, and at its far end stood a massive statue of an ancient old man. There was no furniture, and the air was stale and damp. Nearby, leaning against one of the columns, Riddle sat watching her.       Miranda’s hand moved toward her sleeve, but a second later she realised that Riddle had taken her wand. Wonderful. Exactly the sort of end to the week she had been missing.       What had even happened? What were his last words? Not to drink in the presence of an enemy? She strained her memory. So that was why he had needed that circus of public repentance – to get close enough to slip something into her drink. After he stepped away, she had drunk from the goblet, certainly. But when had he managed it?..       “I suppose this time it was the Imperius,” she said thoughtfully, coughing as she slowly sat up. Her body obeyed; she seemed uninjured. “To make Simona drop her wand and cause a commotion, right?”       “She was very easy to control. Extremely weak will,” Riddle confirmed lightly, rising to his feet. Miranda hastily followed suit – she had no intention of looking up at her captor from below.       “Where have you brought me?” she asked, if only to delay what was to come. She did not even ask “Why?” – the answer was obvious.       He grinned broadly, looking remarkably pleased and relaxed. So certain that no one would interfere here, that no one would hear her screams?       “Come now, Sommers, show that famed intellect of yours once more! If you managed to find the Room of Requirement, then you must have heard of this place!”       Already sensing something amiss, Miranda looked around again. She had certainly never been here before, but… Her gaze slid over the serpents coiling around the columns, then to the statue of the bearded old man with a sour, unpleasant face. The face seemed vaguely familiar; she thought she had seen similar images in A History of Hogwarts. She looked at the snakes again and felt herself grow pale.       “Clever girl,” Riddle said quietly – exactly as he had in the Room of Requirement. He seemed calm, almost serene, yet on some instinctive level Miranda felt more and more strongly the threat he radiated.       “We’re in the Chamber of Secrets,” she managed to say firmly, though fear rose again, threatening to overwhelm her. No wonder Riddle was so composed – they were now miles beneath the school, in a place most people considered a myth! No one would find her here even if they tried…       So that was his plan? To ensure her body would never be found? She remembered her second year, when Ginny Weasley had been taken to the Chamber in the same way. Oh, how Miranda wished some Harry Potter would appear now and save her from the horror hidden within…       Speaking of horror… the basilisk must be somewhere nearby, mustn’t it?       And Riddle could not be denied a talent for instilling almost animal terror.       To keep her head clear and avoid slipping into panic, she forced herself to rely on logic and known facts. She had to keep talking, distract him…       “According to legend, only the Heir of Slytherin can open the Chamber,” she said, her voice fairly steady, though slightly higher than usual. “So that’s you?”       Riddle inclined his head in agreement, a sinister reddish gleam flashing in his eyes. Miranda could almost feel how proud he was to be the descendant of one of the most famous wizards, how much his heritage meant to him. Hm. So Lord Voldemort was a distant descendant of Salazar Slytherin… not particularly surprising.       “So your mother’s line goes back to Slytherin?” she concluded, recalling Tom Riddle Sr. “Impressive.” Privately she wondered how it had happened that a witch from an ancient pure-blood family had become involved with a Muggle, but something told her it was better not to ask Riddle that.       “Now, to business,” came his cold, high voice, and she shivered slightly. Riddle now stood before her, wand aimed at her chest, and Miranda felt a sense of déjà vu. “You have thoroughly angered me, Sommers, and you have only one chance to leave the Chamber of Secrets alive – to answer all my questions. Note that I am not even saying ‘unharmed.’ If you remain silent or lie, you will regret it. No one is coming to save you. Everyone believes we are having a romantic reunion, admiring the stars on the Astronomy Tower or something of the sort. If I do not like your answers, I will leave your corpse to rot here and return upstairs. Twenty people there will confirm that I was in the Slytherin common room until late evening. Understood?”       “Perfectly.”       His voice was merciless, filled with such unshakable certainty that Miranda knew – he would carry out his threats. He had indeed prepared, and her chances of survival were indeed slim.       “Let’s begin with something simple. How did you manage to approach me so closely without my noticing you?”       For a second Miranda stared at him – and then suddenly laughed. It was a nervous, almost hysterical laugh, but she could not stop. Riddle’s face took on a strange expression – a volatile mixture of surprise and anger.       “Merlin, if only you understood the irony of all this…”       In the whole situation she saw a cruel mockery of fate. In her own time, her father had relentlessly trained her and Panthea precisely so that they could stand against Voldemort and his followers. And it had taken only a leap fifty years into the past for her to end up unarmed before Voldemort, awaiting torture, when all her combat skills were utterly useless!       To stifle her laughter, she bit her lip, then sat down on the floor. Riddle watched her as though a patient from St Mungo’s ward for incurable mental afflictions had suddenly appeared before him.       “Go on,” she said, barely regaining control.       “What are you doing?” he hissed.       She shrugged.       “Waiting for the Cruciatus. That’s what you want to use, isn’t it? I won’t be able to stay on my feet, and I’d rather not collapse flat onto the stone. I don’t want a concussion as well.”       “How do you–”       “–know how the Cruciatus works?” Miranda spread her hands. “I’ve seen it used on my friends. Once, it was used on me. I doubt you’ll surprise me much.”       That was, perhaps, pure bluff. The Cruciatus she had endured had been brief, yet it had been enough to make her beg for relief or for death. Those torments were beyond description; the memory remained one of the most horrific of her life. Even now she could not suppress a shudder at the thought. And if Riddle intended to vent all the anger he had accumulated over the past three months on her…       “Who did that to you?” Riddle asked in an odd tone.       “Will you be very offended if I say it’s none of your business?”       For a moment she thought she had finally driven him to fury. Even in the dim light of the chamber, it was clear his face had gone deathly pale, his eyes burning red – he looked more like himself from 1997 than ever before, and Miranda instinctively tried to move back. There was something demonic in his expression. But the Unforgivable Curse did not come.       “Well, I think we shall amuse ourselves in another way,” Riddle said softly. Turning sharply, he strode toward the statue, leaving Miranda staring after him in confusion. What, besides Crucio, did he mean by “amuse”?       Riddle stopped before the statue, and in the next moment something happened that made Miranda’s hair stand on end, and she did not even notice how she was back on her feet. The Chamber filled with the inhuman, sinister hissing that poured from Riddle’s mouth – the language of serpents, which Miranda had heard only once before, from Harry in her second year. As soon as the hissing ceased, there came a grinding noise, as though some mechanism had been set in motion, and then…       The mouth of the colossal statue of Slytherin opened, forming a black void in which she dimly perceived movement…       Miranda stepped back and hastily turned away, unable to believe this was truly happening. Let it be a dream, a nightmare, anything! He could not have set the basilisk upon her!       Do not look. Do not turn.       The stone floor trembled as something enormous entered the Chamber. Miranda’s imagination painted dreadful images of the basilisk’s size, but she could not, of course, confirm them with her own eyes. She heard the rustle as the gigantic serpent slid across the floor, then Riddle’s loud hiss. What exactly he commanded it, she had no idea – but it was not hard to guess. Forgetting all intention of composure, she ran. To hell with dignity when a basilisk is on your heels!       She did not make it out of the Chamber. From a distance she saw the doors, but they were firmly sealed, and she was not even sure a spell could open them. There was nowhere to run; she could not fight without a wand. And even with one, her chances would have been minimal.       The thunder of stone slabs approached rapidly. Terror paralysed her mind; Miranda bit her lip until it bled, trying not to scream aloud. What had Riddle ordered the basilisk to do? Devour her? Crush every bone with a sweep of its tail?       The basilisk was right behind her – she could feel it. For some reason she squeezed her eyes shut – though, if one thought about it, instant death from its gaze would be far more merciful than being torn apart by venomous fangs. The next moment she felt its inhuman breath upon her, and that was the final straw. Her legs gave way, and she slowly slid down the wall to the floor – she was seized by an uncontrollable, animal terror. It was a foolish way to die – knowing that something horrific stood before you, yet being unable to face your fear.       “Well, Sommers, how do you like it?” a hateful voice asked mockingly nearby. Riddle must have derived immense pleasure from her helplessness.       “What are you waiting for?” she whispered. The serpent was staring directly at her; she could feel its cold, unfeeling gaze even with her eyes closed. It was hard to force the words out – she was shaking so violently she had bitten her tongue more than once. The taste of blood filled her mouth. “Go on! Tell it to kill me!”       “What, just like that?” Riddle sounded surprised. “Death must be earned, you know. Besides, my friend does not feed on human flesh.”       In her astonishment she nearly opened her eyes, remembering at the last moment the consequences of such a mistake.       “Then why did you–”       “To see you weak and helpless, my dear,” she could hear the smile in his voice. There was a rustle of fabric before her, then she felt his fingers in her hair. So he was crouching before her now. At his touch she recoiled just as she had from the basilisk, lost her balance, and fell onto the damp stone. “To see you lying at my feet, afraid to rise. To hear you beg for mercy. To see your fear, at last.”       Yes – this behaviour of Lord Voldemort was all too familiar. Still keeping her eyes shut, Miranda forced her lips into a contemptuous smile, ignoring the pain of her bitten lip.       “Go to hell…”       She half expected a slap, but instead she heard a quiet chuckle.       “Well, your fear will suffice for now. We may proceed to the main course.”       From the movement of air and the whisper of cloth, she knew he had risen.       “Crucio!”       Her first piercing scream echoed through the hall and was swallowed by its vaults.