Prologue

New Year's Eve of 1926 was a hard night in London.

Rain and sleet poured down from the sky in torrential sheets, cold and stinging, and bringing all the bitterness of a January blizzard. Lightning flashed, and thunder rumbled at an almost constant rate. The ferocity of the storm had driven all; Muggles and wizards alike, away from their usual New Year's celebrations in the streets, and into the comfort of their warm homes and blazing fires.

The streets of London being more or less deserted, no one took notice of a lone figure, wandering the about in the late hours of the evening, shortly before midnight. She was small, and deathly skinny so much so that if you were to look at her quickly in passing, your eyes would take her for a walking skeleton. She was pale white, and shivering; her thin arms wrapped around a thin blanket that covered her thin shoulders. Dark, limp black hair framed a homely, hollow face with high, hollow cheekbones. Her lips were blue from the cold, and her teeth chattered nonstop. Her green eyes were dull and downcast; in every way, she looked as though life was no longer worth living. Still, she walked through the streets as though her wanderings had a purpose. One white hand clutched the blanket around her shoulders, the other was placed protectively over her swelled stomach.

She came to a well-lit pub; there was a sign hanging over the door that read 'The Leaky Cauldron'. She pulled open the door and ducked in, relieved to finally be out of the bitter cold. No one noticed her come in, or perhaps they did, but were unwilling to confront such a destitute and pitiful creature. Just then, a young voice called out "'Ere misses, have a nice cup o' tea!"

The woman looked up, wide eyed and fearful, shaking her head.

"Oy, Tom!" Another voice called out to the bartender, "give us another round of firewhisky!"

"Right-o, gents," Tom said, turning away from the shivering woman, unaware that she had stopped dead at the mention of his name.

Tom…

A pang of shame and regret stabbed through her heart, followed quickly by the burn of guilt. Perhaps if she would have just stayed at home… if she had never seen Tom Riddle… maybe she wouldn't be in this desperate predicament. But she was, and she knew that no matter how badly she willed it, no incantation, magic spell or potion would be strong enough to turn back time.

With this in mind, she exited the pub inconspicuously through the back exit, which led her back out into the rain and sleet. Now, however, she was facing a brick wall, against which leaned a waste bin. Slowly, almost like a ghost, she reached beneath the blanked and pulled from her dress pocket a wand. Poising the wand over a certain brick, she tapped it twice and stood back. The bricks leapt aside, creating an archway through which she could see another empty street. 'Diagon Alley,' she thought. She was nearly there. Shivering more fiercely than ever, she began to walk down the cobblestone street, still alone and very, very cold. All the shops were closed for the holiday, and the street was dark, save for the gas lamps that stood upright like noble guardians every 10 feet along the lane. Before long, the woman turned off of Diagon Alley, onto a much darker street, where no light was cast, save for the eerie glow of a cat's eyes in the dark, as it crouched beneath an empty cart.

She stopped in front of a severe-looking shop, called Borgin and Burke's. She gazed in the window, hands pressed to the cold glass. On the shelves were several sinister-looking objects, like skulls and other talismans. She saw the dim light of a single candle coming from the back room… and then a sinister face appeared in the window.

The girl opened her mouth in a silent scream, and backed away.

The door opened, and the sinister man, Burke, stepped out into the night.

"What do you want?" he asked scathingly, wand raised.

"I-I-I…" she stumbled.

He raised his wand higher and moved closer. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Please… I- I just-"

"I don't take kindly to trespassers, girl!" he threatened.

"P-please… I-I have something to sell!" she said desperately.

She reached around her neck; the blanket fell away, but she didn't care. A bolt of lightning illuminated the sky, and the man saw exactly what she was fumbling with.

His heart stopped.

"It can't be…" he said, reaching toward the locket on the girl's throat.

She froze.

"Do you know what this is?" He continued in awe, "And you would sell this?"

"I-I just need money," she said breathlessly, "Please."

Burke remained silent, still transfixed by the locket. Jerking out of the trance, he cleared his throat, knowing that he was about to make the best deal of his career, and said gruffly, "Very well. Inside with you."

Ten minutes later, the woman left the shop, a small purse clutched in her hand. She had just turned back onto Diagon Alley, heading toward the Leaky Cauldron, when suddenly a pain that she knew was not from hunger caused her to clutch her stomach. She gasped for breath, leaning against the lamppost for support.

"Not yet…" she pleaded silently to no one. After a moment or two, the pain died away, and she continued down the street and into the Leaky Cauldron once more. She sat down at the bar, and the young barman, Tom, once again said, "'Ow bout that cup o' tea, then, miss?"

She nodded sullenly.

A moment later, he set a steaming cup before her, and a plate of crumpets.

"There ye are," he said with a comforting smile.

With a trembling hand, she lifted the cup to her mouth, relishing in the heat that the tea produced. She devoured the crumpets also; not remembering when he last meal had been. No sooner had she finished than the pain began again. Knowing she had to leave, she set a gold Galleon on the bar, and left the pub without a word.

Once again in the Muggle part of town, she began to walk until she came to a large, brick building. By this time, the pain of her impending labor was so great that she had to bite her lower lip to keep herself from crying out. Dragging her too-thin body up the brick steps, she rang the bell, praying for someone to answer.

Peals of laughter rang out from inside, and a moment later, a plump, matronly woman in her mid-thirties answered the door. When she saw the girl standing on the steps, her jovial expression was immediately replaced with horror and pity.

"Dear me…" she said, looking down at the sopping girl.

"Please… my-my baby…" the woman on the doorstep groaned.

Noticing her swollen belly, the matron knew that she was about to give birth.

"Inside with you, dearie," she said, opening the door to let the girl in. The faces of several children peered intently through the banister.

"To bed with all of you!" the matron barked.

"But Mrs. Cole! It's New Year's!"

"Come on, Mrs. Cole!"

"I said to bed!"

The children scurried off.

"Agnes!" Mrs. Cole called. A very tall, think woman with wire-rimmed spectacles appeared in the doorway. "Prepare a fire in the parlor and bring blankets and hot water. Then fetch the doctor. This poor girl's about to be a mum!"

The thin woman dashed off immediately, as Mrs. Cole helped the girl into the parlor. "Come on dearie, that's it… just a bit further to walk," she coaxed. "What's your name, child?" she asked.

"M-Merope," the girl responded weakly.

Strange name, the matron thought. And for a strange girl, too, she thought. Merope was no beauty, but there seemed to be an air of mystery surrounding her nonetheless, as though, somehow, she was different… But no matter, thought Mrs. Cole.

She laid Merope down on a wide sofa in the parlor, where Agnes had managed to build up a substantial fire, and was now preparing to fetch the doctor. By the time he arrived, the baby was ready to be born.

The delivery was painful; Merope cried out several times in pain. After a half an hour, however, she gave birth to a baby boy. The doctor picked up the newborn and struck him, to ensure he could breathe, but to his surprise, the baby did not cry. Instead, he opened his baby eyes a tiny bit, and seemed to stare at the doctor through the slits. The doctor had never seen anything like it in his whole career.

"Is he all right?" Merope whispered hoarsely from where she lie, covered in sweat and shivering.

"Yes," the doctor replied, his eyes not leaving the baby's stare.

Mrs. Cole took the infant from him, and placed him in Merope's arms. "Here you are, dearie. Have you thought of a name for him?"

"Tom," Merope breathed. "Tom… for his father. And… Marvolo… after his grandfather."

"Tom Marvolo…" the matron repeated, wondering once more at the strange name.

"His papa was such a handsome man," Merope said softly, stroking the baby's head with a trembling hand. "I-I can only hope that he'll grow to look like him."

Merope began to shake even more violently, knowing that her strength was leaving her.

"And his surname, mum?" the doctor asked.

Drawing her final breath, and gazing down at her son for the first and last time, she said,

"Riddle…"

A/N: Review and let me know if i should continue...

Also, just a note... as far as the timeline goes, I've been surfing on Harry Potter Lexicon for dates of events like Riddle's birth...and I'm planning to make this as canon as possible, so if you notice any inconsistencies with JKR's, dont hesitate to point them out to me

Disclaimer: I dont own Harry Potter... it belongs to the extraordinary J.K. Rowling.