Hope you enjoy what I've written. I'm hoping to bring more insight to a fascinating character, and to perhaps better explain that vital question: "Why?" I'm trying to be as accurate and canonical as I possibly can. Any feedback/reviews/advice much appreciated.

At this stage, I've just done a rather short, but hopefully sufficient prologue to the story proper (I may lengthen it at a later date).

Of course, I don't own Harry Potter and the associated world and mythology.

Enjoy.

Prologue: "Merope"

The emaciated, dirty woman stumbled down the alleyway. Her dress was filthy and patched, and she wore no shoes, despite the thick snow that covered the ground. She carried a long, thin wooden stick in her hand, and clutched her other hand to her bulging stomach. She let out a loud, painful moan.

The woman emerged onto the street and walked out onto the cobbled road. There were lights on in all the buildings around her.

Inside one of these buildings - an orphanage - a pair of women were sitting, drinking from large glasses of neat gin, celebrating, as best they could, the New Year. The pair sat in front of an open fire in a warm, but shabbily decorated lounge on the second floor of the building. The wireless was playing. The younger woman - Mrs Cole - looked to be about twenty years old, with scruffy hair and wearing practical, warm clothes. Mrs Brown was older, perhaps fifty, with a harsh, world-weary face, and she wore a pretty, but old and faded, floral dress.

It was ten minutes later when their quiet revelry was interrupted by a muffled knock on the door to the sitting room. Mrs Cole got up and opened it.

Mary Snell's big blue eyes looked up at her.

'I can't sleep, Mrs Cole,' she said.

'Ah come here, Mary. Let's have a talk to matron.' Mrs Cole picked up the small girl and sat back down in her seat with Mary on her lap.

'Aye Mary, what's wrong?' said Mrs Brown in her thick Scots accent. Mary looked a little frightened.

'I can't get to sleep, matron.'

'Aye well you come with me Mary and I'll show you a little trick and you'll be asleep in no time.'

'I... I... Thank you matron.'

The little girl followed Mrs Brown out the door, and Mrs Cole was left alone. She began to sing along to the radio - Vera Lynn. Immediately after the song ended, however, Mrs Cole heard a loud, jarring noise from outside. She pulled aside the pale green curtains and peered out.

The bedraggled woman was pulling frantically on the cast iron gates of the orphanage.

Mrs Cole went to the sitting room door and called out to Mrs Brown. There was no response, so she scuttled down the staircase into the main hallway, and along to the large oak front door. She turned the handle.

Mrs Cole moved towards the gates. The pregnant woman looked even worse close-up. She had a pale, heavy face, framed with lank, dull hair. Her eyes darted around in their sockets, and they never both pointed in the same direction. She was very young – perhaps even in her late teens – but she looked like she had worries far beyond her years. She was distraught, and confused.

Anthea simply stared at the woman, unable to speak.

'Help me,' the woman said in a strained voice.

Anthea recovered. 'W- who are you?' she said.

'Help.'

'W- what's wrong?'

'He's- he's coming.'

The woman inclined her head slightly. Her eyes betrayed that she was ashamed.

Mrs Cole turned around and moved back towards the front door.

'Mrs Brown! Come here!'

At seven in the morning, on the first of January 1927, Mrs Cole held the newborn. It was a boy, dark hair and dark eyes. Of course, you can't usually tell when they're just born, she thought. But it was striking, and she felt sure the hair, and the eyes would remain dark as they were. The boy's eyes were distant, and would not make contact with Mrs Cole's. He hadn't yet cried once.

The mother had died less than an hour after giving birth. A man would be coming around later that day to organise what would be done with the body.

'Tom Marvolo Riddle.' Mrs Brown said. 'Funny middle name, that. Wonder where it's from?'

'It is very odd. Italian? It's his grandfather's name, that's what she said. Her name, too, what was it?' Mrs Cole passed Tom to Mrs Brown.

'Merope? Sounds like a circus name. Maybe that's it, they're circus people. He's a beautiful boy though, don't you think?'

'That's one of the last things she said to me, before she passed, that was: "I hope he looks like his papa."'

'Sure was right to hope that, she was no looker herself.'

'She was in a sad state, she was. Felt so sorry for her.'

They were both silent for a few seconds.

'I wonder how she got to be that way?

'I hope little Tom here grows up better.'