Ab Incunabulis (From the cradle)
It was coming. Death itself stalked her, advanced on her with quick, even steps. The room was numbingly cold, but she knew it was no natural temperature. It was her fate beating down on her, preparing her for the inevitable. She had known it for some time, but it was different now, with it so close. No magic could save her now.
But she was not afraid. There was only a sense of resignation, a cool acceptance. She had so little to live for now, with her dearest love, her husband, gone. There was only the tiny, innocent life in her arms, looking to her for protection. Her son.
He looked so much like his father, with his pure handsome face, seemingly older and wiser than a child's, but youthful and vibrant. His jet-black hair spattered chaotically over the crown of his head. His smile, that same endearing, proud smile that had drawn her to his father. Which she had so often dreamt about and now knew she would never see again.
He was her one hope that she would leave to the world, her only legacy. They would remember his name when hers was ash in the hearth of time, forgotten ink on a parchment. That did not worry her – she had never held any dreams of glory or grandeur. No, she had only hoped for happiness, but even that – that perfect dream – had not lasted.
"Merope?" It was Mrs Cole, the kindly young woman who had helped the Matron deliver her child, offering her a glass of what looked like water. Weakly, Merope brushed it away with her free hand. She didn't have much time, and she wanted to concentrate on her son. Her heart constricted as he lay there in the crook of her arm, his dark eyes open and staring at her intently. He didn't look distressed, he hadn't even cried – her little boy seemed to take it all in his stride, content with his new surroundings.
"You did well." Mrs Cole was still speaking. "And he's such a beautiful baby." She cooed into little Tom's face, whose nose scrunched up distastefully at the attention. "I'm not long married, myself," she went on, heedless of Merope's limp, defeated expression. "I don't expect I'll ever have a child half as handsome." Her smile faded somewhat at her lack of progress. "Are you sure you won't take something to drink?"
"Come on, luv." The Matron had entered the room and she too, urged her with the water. "It'll help".
Merope shook her head; although her mouth was dry and parched, she didn't dare take her eyes off her son for a moment. Her heart constricted and she wished she had the strength to live for him, but she no longer had the will. Her father had been right, after all – she was worthless, weak, of no use to anyone, let alone a child. He would be better off in this orphanage; the nurse had promised to watch over him, help find him a family. Muggles who would be good to him.
Despite the lessons of a lifetime, she could not see the Muggles as lesser beings. Many she had known had been kind to her, much kinder than her family had ever been. The Londoners pitied her, their eyes turning sad as she had trudged through the snow covered streets. But in Diagon Alley the upstanding wizards and witches turned away, not wishing to see her pain, lest it infect them. That was how so many wizards thought – if they didn't see suffering, or danger, then it simply didn't exist.
No - she hadn't dare give birth to him in the wizarding world. She hated magic, now, hated everything it had brought her. The greatest elation, yes, but an even deeper and more palpable pain. In her mere nineteen years of life, magic had brought her nothing but heartache.
Merope supposed that after all she had done and all she had failed to do, she didn't deserve anything more.
She had lived that way – thought that way - for so long, never expecting anything better for herself, no hope permeating the drab, dank interior of her father's house. Her time with Tom had lifted her spirits, and fortified her soul, but he took his light with him when he left. Carrying his child had sustained her for a while, but now her little boy was as good as gone, too. He no longer needed her, could not live inside her any more. And so the old despair came back tenfold and she heard her father's voice, Morfin's voice, calling her a whore, a Squib. A filthy blood traitor, undeserving of even life itself. And she believed them.
"Do you have a name?" Mrs Cole, still at her bedside, spoke through the silence. Although the Matron had left, dismissing Merope as so many others had done, this young woman seemed to have some compassion left in her.
"Tom." Merope smiled weakly as the name rolled off her tongue with a practiced ease, a gentle caress. "For his father." Even after abandoning her, even after everything he had said and done to her, Merope still loved him. She couldn't help it. It was her fault he left anyway, her fault that little Tom was to grow up without a father. It had seemed so real – Tom's love for her, the way he looked at her the way no one ever had – as if she was beautiful, as if she was worth something. The way his handsome face lit up the moon when he smiled, when he laughed at her feeble jokes. The way they had lain together in the still of the night and he whispered his devotion on the crisp, warm summer air.
And even though winter had come bitterly, sapping the very life and will from her, she could not blame her darling Tom. The way he had called her a filthy witch with such venom in his tone, how he had forcefully pushed her away violently when she had tried to embrace him. The shocked, repulsed expression he had worn when he saw her swollen stomach. None of that had been his fault. It was hers, for bewitching him so, for betraying his trust.
"That's lovely, dear." Mrs Cole patted her free hand soothingly.
But Merope wasn't finished – a name was the only thing she could give her son, and she wanted it done right. Something that he could remember her for, for giving him a strong name, not as the weak, pale, ugly girl she was now. "Tom…Marvolo," she said. "For my father." The only aspect from the wizarding world she would allow him. Despite all of the abuse she had suffered at his hand, she did still love her father, and could not blame him or his treatment of her. How could she? She had been such a stupid, scared child.
She had never been strong, like Morfin, who could handle the most complex curses as if they were simple charms. She could not speak Parseltongue, could barely understand it. Even the housekeeping and cooking had suffered under her hand, for which she had received many beatings in hope that they would improve her. But fear made her hands shake; her tongue stumbled over the easiest of spells in a way that would have made her ancestor Salazar hiss in disgust.
What would her father say, knowing that she had sold her locket, the only trinket she had been allowed to possess, for a mere ten Galleons? She had regretted it immediately afterwards; she felt bereft without it, as if her last ties to the world of magic had been closed to her. She had not been able to do any magic at all, after she had parted with the locket. Desolate and alone, she had become the Squib her family had always loathed. Without hope, without prospects. The last in a dying, weakened bloodline she did not deserve to be a part of.
"And a surname?" Mrs Cole put in hesitantly, throwing Merope from her ruminations. She seemed reluctant to bring the subject up; Merope had not told her anything about Tom – she probably assumed she was a widow, or that the child was illegitimate. But her son was legitimate, despite Tom's assurances that he was not and never could be.
She didn't want him to carry the name of Gaunt; it bore too many trials, too many worries of fulfilment, of inadequacy. He would not bear the responsibility of being the heir of Slytherin.
Nor was there anything of herself in his name; she would not allow him to carry any of her weaknesses, to be brought down by the disappointment and loneliness that had always haunted her.
"Riddle," she said finally, firmly. The name that she had borne so briefly as a new bride, accepted, loved for the first time in her life. The name that was on her marriage certificate, crumpled and folded up in her pocket.
Tom's name was strong and proud, like he had been, like her father had been. Not like herself. Not Merope Gaunt, that broken shell of a child who played at being a woman, and had failed so miserably. Who had nothing to show from her wretched, worthless life.
Except for little Tom. He was her one achievement, her beautiful little son who bore no physical resemblance to her, who she hoped would grow into his father's temperament and not her own.
"My son." Her shaky hand softly traced his features as she drew a rasping breath. "Please forgive me…" Merope felt cold tears sting her eyes, but she didn't have the strength to brush them away. She asked forgiveness from her son, knowing that she could never give it to herself. Not for abandoning him, so small, so innocent, in the Muggle world. She didn't deserve him. Not a child so beautiful, who she knew would bring pride to the Riddle name, even if he didn't know it.
Her little Tom, born on New Year's Eve – a day of hope, of new beginnings. He would herald in a new world; that much she knew, no son of Tom Riddle could do any less. She would die and take her weakness with her while her baby would be born anew, a glimmering phoenix from the ashes of her mistakes, her cowardice.
She felt death close, now, her lungs closing in on themselves, her insides breaking down. She felt it acutely, but it was only physical pain. That she could stand.
"Take him…" she whispered hoarsely, holding her precious bundle out to Mrs Cole, who took him readily. Merope felt her extremities turn to ice and she couldn't risk losing her grip on him.
"Tom…" she cried out. Sobbing freely, now, feeling the tightness in her chest, she could do nothing but call his name. She saw a light – she saw her dear Tom's face, filled with love, but he was so far away and she could not reach him. "Tom…" Why wouldn't he come to her? She needed him, needed him to hold her through the pain, to warm her with his light, his warmth. To tell her that she was beautiful, even though she knew it was a lie.
"Tom…" She didn't hear the soothing words of Mrs Cole, trying to quiet her down, telling her to hush, that it would be alright. But Merope knew it would never be alright; she was the greatest evil to walk the earth, a mother abandoning her needy child. She was weak, she was useless, and her suffering was deserved. It was her penance, the cross she bore of humiliation and pain, and now death. Merope could only cry out her husband's name as the light dimmed within her, as her breath stalled and her body finally surrendered. Screaming, she left the world as she had begun it – alone.
And there was silence, finally, in the small room. In Mrs Cole's arms, Tom Marvolo Riddle watched his mother die, her desperate cries forever imprinting themselves on his soul.
fin