Disclaimer: I do not own a thing. I don't own Hogwarts and I don't own anything that has to do with magic. If I had a mind as creative as that then I wouldn't be wasting my time writing fanfictions.

Author's Note: So, this is a really short fanfiction that I thought up while doing my dreaded Physics homework. I hope you like it. Merope has always fascinated me in an unexplainable way. Please review. I'd love to know your opinion on this piece. : ) Oh, and another thing. I'm clearly not a Merope expert, so there are probably some facts in here that are wrong. So, I'm sorry ahead of time.

I was alone. Tom had finally realized how horrible I was and left me. All those insults pertaining to my worthlessness slurred by Morfin and my father were true. Secretly, I had always believed them. Like a fool, I fed off of a small ounce of optimism. I should have rather starved myself. I knew that I would never find happiness, for I wasn't significant enough for such a delicacy.

I had one thing left to live for. My unborn child meant the world to me. He was a link to my past and a ray of hope for my future. Despite my misery, the fetus kept my will strong and gave me the strength I desperately needed. He was a blessing that was all mine. It was the first, and only, present I had ever received.

I had no family. My father and brother were thrown into prison long before I manipulated Thomas Riddle. All I had in remembrance of them was a family heirloom. I wore the golden locket proudly on my neck. The contrast between my worn gray skin and the flamboyant shine of the medal was blatant. I grew peculiarly fond of the heavy piece of jewelry.

Destitute as I was, my affection towards the necklace was short-lived. Cold, hungry and penniless, I knew that I had to sell the heirloom if I wanted to survive. The bustling streets of London did not take kindly to poor homeless women.

A man by the name of Burke bought the treasured object from me for ten galleons. It wasn't much but it paid for a cheap room in one of the local pubs. The room was scarcely decorated and the fireplace barely gave off enough heat, but it was much more bearable than the harsh December wind.

December drearily dragged on. Each day the challenge to stay alive re-ignited itself. Almost all the money from the locket went to lodging expenses. Only a very small sum was kept aside for food. I was lucky if I ate a piece of bread in the course of a day. Mostly, I went without, regrettably noting that the lack of nutrition wasn't good for the baby.

The pudgy old man who owned the pub occasionally sent scraps up to me with a maid. He was trying to be kind, I suppose, but I felt like an animal. Swine ate scraps of leftover food. My stomach looked unhealthy for a women who was nearing her ninth month of pregnancy. There was a mere bump in it, where most women who carried their babies to full term had a large swell. I knew my baby was a fighter. He wouldn't give up on me.

As December came to an end, I had no more money to pay for rent. The owner of the pub had given me such a fine deal that I didn't want to burden him again. Throughout the duration of my stay, I had barely paid anything. Most tenants were paying double the price I was. The owner knew I couldn't afford it.

On December twenty-fifth, I left the pub. I had no belongings and no money. Selling myself wasn't much of an option, as I was sure it would have harmed the baby. I spent the whole day wandering around, looking for a sheltered ally I could spend the night in. Happy Christmas to me.

Stealing food, begging for money, and sleeping on the streets became routine during the next five days. The growing anticipation of the pregnancy was making me delirious with fear. I didn't know where I was. I couldn't locate the nearest hospital. I had no one to turn to for help. It was just the two of us; baby and me. That was my only reassurance. I knew that I wasn't completely alone. As sadistic as it sounds, I knew that whatever ordeal I went through, baby went through too.

The day finally came. On December thirty-first my water broke. A range of emotions overcame me. Unlike most pregnant women, I had no husband to come rushing to my side. I was dependent on myself alone. The only person I could count on to get me through this was myself.

Panic set in as my stomach started to cramp. I was traipsing through the streets of London feverishly, anxious to find a place where I could find the smallest iota of aid. I passed many people, all giving me that look of clear disapproval. I knew they were condemning me. I could feel their stares boring holes right through me. I had to keep going. I would not give up on my baby.

As I saw no kind face in the crowded streets, I continued on with my journey. About half a block further, a small orphanage came into view. I didn't know what I was doing, nor what I was thinking. I walked up to the Stockwell Orphanage, and hurriedly knocked on the dilapidated wooden door.

It didn't take long before a women opened the door. She looked at me thoroughly, examining all of my physical features, before allowing me entry. Her wiry hair was a burnt brown color, her cheeks pale and wrinkled. She was old; much older than me. Her face was twisted in a way that made me uncomfortable. She looked anything but kind with her accented facial features.

She asked me no questions. The lady, who I later learned was Mrs. Cole, seemed apathetic to my shocking situation. Mrs. Cole hollered something down the hall, and before I knew it, there were three women standing in front of me. I laid down on the bed, and began the strenuous effort of labor.

Eight hours later, I was fully dilated, and in poor condition. I heard the three women talk in hushed voices, knowing that they thought my chances of surviving were slim to none. One of the girls helping was in her late twenties. She spoke to me soothingly, wiping my forehead and neck with a cool washcloth. It was the last act of kindness I'd ever remember.

After much pushing, grunting, and crying, the baby was finally out of my stomach. I held onto him tightly, pressing his tiny face against my chest. It took all the strength I had to draw in breath. I felt as if I was suffocating. I knew that my time with baby would be short.

Mrs. Cole came over to me, after handing me the baby, and briskly asked me what I would name him. Without a second thought, I told her Tom Marvolo Riddle. He was beautiful, just like his father. He deserved to carry on the Riddle name, not the blackened surname of the Gaunts.

I kissed Tom's head repetitively, aware that it would be the only maternal achievement I would ever make. I whispered in his ear, over and over, that I loved him. I stroked one of my long fingers against his delicate baby cheek. I cooed after him, singing to him a small lullaby.

As I drew my last breath, I told him to be strong. I knew that he would be well looked after at the orphanage. I also knew that I wasn't fit to be a mother. I had grown up in an environment that was full of abhorrence. Little Tom deserved better than that. I adored him and that was all that mattered. For the first time in my whole life, I had experienced what compassion felt like. I understood that I was no longer useful in the world anymore. I delivered my baby, the one person who I truly loved.

On December thirty-first, 1926, I died, with a smile on my face and a baby sleeping soundly in my arms. It was the best moment of my life.

Feedback from wonderful readers like you would be very much appreciated.

- Muriel.