A character study on a minor but important character, one who could've shaped Harry Potter's world all by herself.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I'm merely borrowing her characters and messing with the plot.
The snow was particularly beautiful that year.
Merope shivered, pulling the tattered cloak tighter around her swollen stomach. Each snowflake was so perfectly formed, so clean; a huge contrast from the grimy little cottage she grew up in. Tom would liked it here, she thought absentmindedly, wandering around the dark streets with her eyes to the night sky. For a fleeting moment, she reminded herself to tell her husband about London when she went back home, to ask if he wanted to move here—
And then she remembered all that she had lost.
A pale, shivering hand reached inside her cloak, fingering the wand that was still stashed away. It was little more than just a plain stick of wood to her now. She took it out, making sure no one was watching, and waved it around just a little, hoping to feel that familiar warmth once again—and sighed when, once again, nothing happened. Her magic deserted her long ago, about the same time as Tom—
But no, she won't allow herself to think about that again.
The locket was also gone, Slytherin's locket, and she laughed because she knew her father wouldn't hesitate for a second to strangle her for selling the family treasure. But the ten Galleons she got for it was enough for another month's worth of food, enough to keep herself alive, and the baby too—
The baby—
Merope slipped on the icy concrete and fell, a flood of tears suddenly running down her cheeks. Why? she screamed inside her mind, but the only sounds that passed her lips were convulsed sobs. Why, Tom? Why? Why did you have to leave me, I was a good wife, I loved you, why—?
"He don't want you no more," whispered a voice in her mind, one that sounded remarkably like Morfin. "That's what you get for running off with a dirty Muggle." The soft chuckle of dark laughter filled her head, mingling with grief until she thought she would go mad with despair.
She sobbed harder. It was over, all over. She had come to the end of her rope. Traveling to London was a last resort; she had hoped for another chance in the city—and what did she have to show for it? Nothing. She had nothing. She was nothing. Lying on the snow-covered ground, unmoving, she willed it to be over—wanting only to fall asleep and never have to wake up, to never feel pain again, or loss—when she felt a tiny movement inside her, a nudge against her stomach.
The sobs stopped abruptly, replaced with the sound of shallow breathing. She curled up the best she could, wiping her eyes, and hugged her stomach. Another nudge. "D-don't worry," she crooned through chattering teeth. "Don't worry. I've got you, M-mummy's got you." She knew she was lying, but there was nothing else she could say. The sickening truth was plain: that they were alone in this vast world.
The baby seemed to understand her distress. Merope felt a third nudge, this one stronger yet somehow gentler than the last two. Her eyes stung with fresh tears, but now an alien feeling of joy and determination rushed through her instead of grief. She couldn't give up yet, not when Tom's baby still needed her. She at least owed her husband that much.
With a burst of willpower that she didn't know she still had, she pulled herself up, rubbing and patting her stomach gently all the while. "Mommy's going to make it all better, don't you worry. Everything will be all right, Tom."
Tears blurred her vision. Images of a handsome little black-haired boy suddenly flashed before her eyes. He looked precisely like his father, with the same set of delicate features that she loved so much. She rubbed her eyes of tears and the images faded into the snowy night. But Merope smiled and caught a tiny snowflake in her bare hand.
"Someday," she told the unborn Tom, tucking her thin coat more snugly around her middle, "I'll take you back to your father. Oh, how he'll laugh when he sees how much the two of you look alike! And we'll all be together again."
And maybe, just maybe, he'll love me again.
Oh, Tom…
She started down the street again. Her life was filled with uncertainties; there was no way for Merope to see what was coming. She didn't know whether or not she'd live past the next month, or that her son had the potential to become either the greatest or most evil wizard in history. All she knew was that the future had to be better than the past.
The snow had never looked more beautiful than it did that night.
I was inspired to write this after reading a certain conversation in HP6.
Dumbledore once asked Harry if he felt sorry for Voldemort, and Harry answered no. I slightly disagree. No, I don't feel sorry for Voldemort for what he did, but I do feel sorry for the fact that his life was completely devoid of love. And I mostly feel sorry his mother, Merope. That woman did not deserve anything that happened to her, and to think the crisis with Voldemort would've been averted if she was alive...it's not a happy thought.
I hope the story made sense. If anyone thinks that Merope's mood and thoughts shouldn't be shifting so fast, it's because I believe that Merope was slightly unhinged when she arrived in London in the late stages of her pregnancy. When Tom Riddle left her, he took a piece of her sanity too. Yet she was devoted to that jerk to the very end.
I purposely left the ending a bit vague, to show the drastic opposite realities that might have been, depending on whether Meerope lived or died. J.K. Rowling said it herself; if Merope raised Voldemort, then he probably would've been a much better person. I'm just leaving the possibility out there.
Feedback and concrit are much welcomed and appreciated!