New Year's Eve, 1926
The night was cold, and snowing mercilessly on the streets of London. Its residents were avoiding the harsh weather by celebrating the year's end indoors; their bodies warmed by fire and their minds by alcohol. In their excitement, no one noticed the small woman stagger weakly down the streets outside, battling against the bitter wind. Her hair, dark and lank, was damp from the snow, and hung about her pale face, whose cheeks refused to turn pink from the cold. In fact, her being displayed no colour at all and it was too dark to see that her eyes faced different directions. Her skinny frame struggled to support her pregnancy; the seams of her dirty, grey dress threatening to rip under the pressure of the bulge. It was to this she clung as another contraction took hold of her momentarily, before she continued, panting and sweating despite the cold. Suddenly, a building emerged through the wall of falling snow. To anyone else, the orphanage would have appeared menacing in its height, with its windows dark save one downstairs. Despite its purpose, it looked anything but welcoming, almost daring anyone to push against the large iron gates and enter the plain courtyard within. But to this woman it was a haven, and she stumbled through the gates and up the stairs, one at a time, to knock feebly on the door. No one heard of course, so the woman pressed the doorbell, before she had to sit down as another contraction made itself present. The big wooden door slowly and noisily opened, and a young woman peered timidly out. She would not have noticed the woman on the floor had it not been for the latter's gasp of pain.
"Oh my –" the young matron said, before she stepped back inside and shouted, "Mrs. Williams?!"
There were hurried footsteps approaching from inside and the door opened wider, flooding the front porch with light, making the pregnant woman appear even more plain and lifeless. The older matron named Mrs. Williams pulled the woman to her feet, with a "Come on, dear" and supported her inside. The younger matron assisted Mrs. Williams in helping the woman climb the stairs, stopping twice due to contractions. Before long, the matrons had the woman in a bed, covering her shoulders in blankets and pressing a cool towel to her forehead. As the younger matron bustled around, preparing for the birth, Mrs. Williams attempted to learn the details of the woman in between her contractions, which were growing closer together. But the woman either could not or would not answer, for she didn't say a thing. An hour later, the woman's baby had been born; a perfectly healthy, crying boy, with ten fingers, ten toes and a dark mop of hair. Mrs. Williams wrapped the boy in a blanket and, beaming, went to hand him to the new mother. But she almost dropped the baby when she looked at the woman, for her face was deathly white, no longer flushed from the labour and she was not moving, leaving Mrs. Williams fearing she was dead. But the woman's eyelids fluttered open and her odd eyes rested weakly on the baby, which was no longer crying, in the matron's arms. Something of a smile flickered over her unfortunate looking face, and Mrs. Williams placed the baby in her arms. She ordered the younger matron the stay near, fearing the mother was too weak to hold the boy for long, as she left to make a cup of tea. The younger matron sat beside the woman and her baby and said, "Isn't he precious?"
The mother tore her eyes from her son to look unevenly at the matron. "I hope he looks like his papa." She whispered, for lack of strength, before taking a deep breath and turning back to her son, whose face she began to softly stroke. "Tom," she said quietly. "For his father ... and Marvolo ... for... for my father." Her voice became hoarse as she struggled to breathe. The matron rose, alarmed, but the woman raised her hand feebly, making the matron sit back down but remain tense.
"His surname ..." the woman continued through exhausted breaths. "Is Riddle..." she turned to look at the matron once more. "Please." she said. "Please..." and then her eyes closed. The young matron took the sleeping boy from her arms, fearing the woman dead. But her chest continued to rise and fall, if only just noticeably. The woman was in fact concentrating on her breathing very carefully, hardly noticing when the matron took her baby away. She was imagining each breath as each struggle she had faced in her life. That one for her unsupportive, abusive family ... that one for her misfortunes in love ... and that one for her decision to stop using the magic she had been born with. How odd it was that in this moment, minutes from her death, she began remembering the details of the past year. The first time she saw Tom Riddle, her father's rage when he found out about her fondness and the constant abuse that had begun long before, the moment she rediscovered her powers as a witch, the blissful months with her new husband, and when he left her. Yes, Merope Gaunt thought, as each breath became harder to draw. How odd that she should remember the past now.
September, 1925
"Merope!" called a gruff voice from the dining room. "Where's my goddamn lunch? You're as slow as a filthy Muggle!"
Merope had started at the sudden shout of her name, dropping the sandwich on a plate she was holding. Sighing, she picked it up and began wiping the grime off it before deciding it was a lost cause; she wasn't hungry anyway. She picked up her father's and brother's lunches and carried them into the next room.
"Well it's about bloody time," her father, Marvolo Gaunt, said as her brother, Morfin, snickered.
Merope didn't say anything, but kept her head down as she placed the sandwiches in front of them.
"Next time, be quick about it, do you hear me? I said, do you hear me?!" and Marvolo hit his daughter across the face.
Eyes watering from pain and shock, Merope nodded before hurriedly leaving the room. For fear of being called a 'snivelling Squib' if her father was to hear her cry, she ran outside and sat by the front hedge before releasing the sob she had been holding. Through her tears, she noticed a wilting flower, looking as helpless as Merope felt. Not pleased with this scenery, Merope raised her wand to cast effloresco, but all she could manage was, "Eff- eff- eff-", still shaken as she was from her father's outburst. Her lack of ability to perform the magic, or any magic for that matter, brought on a fresh wave of tears. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps she was a Squib. She had always been limited in her magic; even at Hogwarts School, where she had been the victim of frequent bullying, constantly causing her to be distracted while trying to concentrate, and she was terribly afraid of failure, though she did not know why: she had failed everyone around her all her life. Her mother had even died following the birth of Merope. She took a deep breath in an effort to calm herself, and made to rise, when she heard the soft beats of a horse's hooves coming down the lane. Merope automatically ducked behind the hedge, not wanting anyone to see her in the state she was in. Yet she couldn't help but peek over the hedge to see the oncoming passerby, and she was surprised by what she saw. There was a young man behind the reins, sitting tall on the horse as if they were one, and he was so handsome it took Merope's breath away. His skin was smooth and spotless, supporting a strong jaw and high cheekbones. His eyes, oh his eyes; they were deep brown under long lashes, from what she could see when he shook the dark hair away from his face. It looked clean and soft, more so than Merope could ever achieve. She must have subconsciously risen during her observations, because he suddenly turned to look at her, piercing her soul with his gaze. Merope had to look away.
"You should get that looked at," a deep, almost seductive voice said. Merope looked up. Was he really talking to her? "And any domestic violence taking place." he added, raising one eyebrow, making him look intimidating but only the more handsome. Merope could only stare at him, but numbly raised a hand to feel where her father had struck her. The young man nodded politely before he turned his head back toward the road and continued on his way. Merope continued to stare. She leaned over the hedge to stare at his retreating back, feeling as though in a trance. The man sat with his back straight; his posture confident, as though he were the king on a pegusus. It was after his head disappeared down the hill that Merope broke out of her reverie. How silly she must've look to him; in her dirty grey dress, eyes red rimmed and damp, her cheek slowly bruising. She walked slowly back in to the house, passing her brother Morfin in the hall. He looked at her suspiciously through the long and dirty hair falling over his face, but Merope only stared at the ground as she walked into the dining room to collect his and her father's empty plates. She avoided her father's eyes as she walked in, but he said nothing. Merope wouldn't have cared about anything he said anyway. She wouldn't have cared about what anyone said.
She was in love.