Preface: A series of short one-shots all centred on the theme of 'lullaby'. Some are tender and sweet, and some are tragic. All come from the Harry Potter series, which is owned by the wonderful J.K. Rowling, who was 13th on the BBC Radio 4 Women's Hour Power List, and really should have been 1st, damn the Queen.
London, New Year's Eve, 1926
It was bitterly cold. The snow was unrelentless, and had no pity for the woman, barely more than a child herself, who struggled down the icy street, the cobbles slipping under her worn, thin shoes. She paused for a moment, outsite a warm window, but the light offered no comfort, accentuating her features, gaunt in both name and nature, her hair dark with greasy and dirt. The darkness of the night had drawn in quickly, but she had no shelter. The last of the galleons she received for the locket were long gone, so she wrapped her arms around her swollen belly, as if believing that the little heat that she could ill afford to spare, but gave so freely, might calm her child, delay its arrival.
She knew, instinctively, that it was time; the birth pains increasing in strength and frequency. Her skirt was damp and sticky, and it clung to her thighs as the initial rush of warmth mutated to a raw and icy grasp that made movement even more difficult. She slid down in the nearest doorway, to weak to lift the knocker and beg for shelter.
Her bones felt like leaden ice, and her tears froze on her cheeks. Rasing a thin and shrunked hand, she brushed them angrily away. Merope was frightened, and alone. No, not completely alone. The child inside her wriggled again, as a fresh burst of pain overran her senes.
Hush, my sweet, sleep softly in bed..
The words, the soft sounds almost hissed to herself, came from some deep recess of her mind, or her heart.
Mama will hold you, wipe the tears you shed..
Her voice was weak, and the wind carried it away. The snow, slowly blanketing with street, deadened all sound, and Merope let the numbness was over her finally, embracing her with the promise of an eternal sleep.
The dawn will soon come, so I'll quiet you with charms..
She could not remember her mother singing to her, but she sang to her child with all the love in her body. She could not tell if she made a sound anymore, but she hoped that the wriggling life inside her could hear her love.
Lest goblins come take you, away from my arms.
The door opened, and a young girl in a cloth cap and apron looked out. Her gaze surveyed the lank hair, the pale and dirtied face, the swollen belly. The distant and defeated eyes.
'I heard your singin'. Come in, love. Away from th' night'
Merope took the proffered hand, and staggered up the remaining steps towards the light and warmth.
Death would soon greet her like an old friend, merely an hour later, but first she had to bring a child into the world. Her child.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
She hoped that he would know her love for him.
Authors Note:
I find this one of the saddest stories. No woman should be alone and afraid when she is pregnant, and no women should die in childbirth. Yet we still allow this to happen.