The wind had begun to pick up in the last few weeks – clearly, winter was only just beginning. Shivering in the late December chill, Merope clutched her shawls about her emaciated figure. People stared at her as she passed, watching her with unmasked disgust. She knew what they must be whispering behind their hands as she turned her back:
"...such a whore..."
"...I just feel sorry for the child, a mother like that..."
"...must be a prostitute..."
As if you have any right to criticize me, Merope thought. Many of her tormenters looked on the verge of homelessness as well. She could see their histories in their eyes: lost all his riches in gambling, drank herself into a stupor...
She held her head high and ignored the muttered (or, in some cases, shouted) insults; after all, she was descended from the great Salazar Slytherin, and he would not allow Muggles to judge or criticize him...She fingered her wand. One flick and none of them would ever jeer at her again...
But as quickly as the thought had come, it was gone. She released her wand. She was not her father, nor her brother. And in any case, how could she use magic against a Muggle, when the last time she had, it had resulted in the love of her life leaving her forever?
A sharp gust of wind blew her bedraggled hair out of her face, the cold biting into her like needles of ice. She ducked into an alley, the walls of the surrounding buildings shielding her from the unforgiving, bitter wind. Checking to make sure no one was around, Merope pulled out her wand.
It was quite old; believing she was a Squib, her father had given her Morfin's old wand, and Morfin had been far from gentle with it. The wood was chipped in several places and bits of phoenix feather sprouted from the end.
This wand, thought Merope with a surge of fury, this wand had caused all of this. If she had not made the potion with this wand, not drawn him into the cottage with this wand, perhaps she would not be on the streets, with nothing of value but an old locket and the child she carried within her swollen belly.
She glanced at the wand and felt another hot wave of anger. Her fingers, numb from cold, tightened, and the wand snapped with a sound like a gunshot. She discarded the pieces behind an overflowing trash bin.
There was a slight movement in her belly and she automatically put a hand to it, rubbing it in slow, soothing circles. It was nearly time, she knew. Her child would enter the world soon. And when the baby did arrive, Merope would have no home to raise it in. Her money was gone as well, squandered away by her father and brother in their earlier years. The only thing she still owned from the Gaunt house was her Slytherin locket.
Borgin and Burke's was not far...
She hesitated. As much as her family had hated her, despised her very existence, could she really give away their last valuable heirloom?
The child kicked lightly against the taut skin of her belly and her resolve hardened. She strode out of the alleyway, yanking her shawls closer to her body as the icy wind set in again. Her feet were bare and freezing as she stepped around half-melted puddles of snow; she had been forced to sell her shoes not long ago.
Church bells chimed somewhere as she made her way into the Leaky Cauldron. She knew it was past Christmastime – she had heard caroling a few days ago as she lay sheltered beneath a porch overhang. She hid her face as she crossed through the pub, although she suspected few would recognize her; the Gaunts had not paraded the fact that she existed. She slipped through the crowd and exited the pub, locating the entrance to Diagon Alley.
Without a wand, she realized too late, getting into Diagon Alley was nearly impossible. She thought quickly, then ducked behind the trash bins, concealing her belly with difficulty. A moment later, as she had predicted, a group of rowdy wizards pushed open the back door of the pub. One tapped a certain brick with his wand, and the gateway to Diagon Alley opened before them. Merope, unnoticed by any of them, slipped past and into the crowded street.
She moved with purpose, walking as fast as she could with her numb, ice-cold bare feet. She turned a corner and found that the sounds of Diagon Alley were muffled here, and that here there was far less of the air of enjoying oneself, and far more unmasked despair.
Merope swallowed, steeling herself, and ventured into Knockturn Alley, moving carefully around half-drunken men and unconscious women. The store loomed in front of her; her father had never allowed her to come with him on his "errands", but she knew the place by name: Borgin and Burke's.
The bell tinkled as she entered, and the door slammed shut with a loud bang as she let it close behind her. At once, a wizard was in front of her, looking distinctly disgruntled.
"Whaddya want, whaddya – oh." He looked her up and down and Merope waited for the judgment, the "Where's your wedding ring?", the "Hope he at least paid you good," but it never came. "Come to sell something?" said the wizard finally.
"Yes," said Merope, reaching, with trembling hands, into the neck of her dress to pull out the necklace. "Yes," she said more firmly as the baby kicked her belly lightly. "I have this locket. It was Slytherin's."
"Everyone says that," said the wizard dismissively, scoffing. In response, Merope held out the locket and the wizard took it, examining it closely.
"Well?" said Merope after a long while.
"Hmm," said the wizard, clearly thinking quickly. "I'll give you ten galleons for it."
Ten galleons? Merope wanted to say incredulously. But ten galleons was more than she would get anywhere else, more than she could hope to find without the locket.
"Deal," she said, and they shook on it. Two minutes later, she was leaving the shop with a small bag of jingling coins, the wizard bowing her out with a very smug smile on his face.
She made her way back up Knockturn Alley, moving slowly; the wind was now so cold that she was beginning to feel stabs of pain every time it blew by her. It was only when she got to the crossroads between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley that she realized something was wrong. There was no wind here, and the pains were getting sharper and stronger.
She collapsed against the wall, clutching her belly as she doubled over in agony. Pain was now rippling through her in waves, and it seemed as though the breaks in between the surges were getting shorter and shorter.
She was trapped; there was no way out of Knockturn Alley without her wand. And with the next wave of pain came a wave of panic. She could not give birth to her child here, she had to find a safe place –
The next contraction elicited a strangled scream out of her. She glanced around at the unconscious drunkards, their wands rolling across the alley –
She bit her lip as another contraction peaked. No, she told herself. She had vowed to never use magic again, as penance for what she had done to her beloved Tom. But as another contraction came upon her, she knew it was not just for her that she needed to use magic – without it, her child would surely die here in this cold, snow-covered alley.
She snatched up one of the rolling wands and Disapparated.
The snow was coming down even more heavily when she reappeared in a Muggle town. There was a tall building in front of her – an orphanage, if she was reading the gate correctly. She would have to find a proper hospital –
Another contraction slammed into her, and as she dropped the borrowed wand, doubling over in pain, she felt the overwhelming urge to push – there was not much time now, not much time at all...
She hobbled up the steps of the orphanage and raised her fist to knock; her fingers were numb and bluish, and it was difficult to even make a sound on the heavy wood. But someone had heard – there were footsteps, the bolt was sliding back...
Merope found herself face to face with a woman not much younger than her. The Muggle stared, aghast, at Merope before Merope found her voice again.
"Please," she managed weakly, and the Muggle sprang into action, helping Merope inside.
"How far apart are they, dear? Will someone get a cot in here? Just hold on, now, don't you worry..."
Another Muggle had come racing out of an adjacent room, pulling with her a threadbare cot on wheels. "Up you get, that's it," said the first Muggle, half-lifting Merope onto the cot. "My name's Mrs Cole, I'm the matron. We'll get you both through this, don't you worry, now..."
There was, once again, the overpowering instinct to push, but Mrs Cole was saying, in soothing tones, "Not yet, dear, wait for the nurse..."
Merope let out a moan of pain as contraction after contraction surged over her.
"All right, now when you feel the next one, push hard for ten seconds. Ready?"
She pushed with all her might, willing her body to deliver her child into the world, but something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. For no matter how much she pushed the child would not come.
"Nearly there, come on!" said the matron encouragingly.
There was wetness, warm, gushing liquid, and then the baby slid out.
A moment of dreadful, heart-wrenching silence, and then wailing, glorious as the sunrise. Relief broke over Merope; her child was alive, and the pain was ebbing away.
"Miss! Miss, you've got to stay awake!"
"Is it a boy?" Merope breathed.
"It's a boy, but you're losing a lot of blood, miss, hold still now –"
"Can I hold him?"
"We've got to stop the bleeding first, miss –"
"Please?"
The matron's resolve seemed to soften. "You'll get through this," she said, if she were trying to assure herself as much as Merope.
"No," said Merope quietly. "I won't."
There was a moment's silence, broken only by the baby's wails, and then Mrs Cole cleared her throat. "All right, then."
Merope heard the sounds of a cloth being dragged across soft skin, the light snip of scissors, and a moment later Mrs Cole was bundling the baby up and placing him on Merope's chest.
"He's lovely," said the matron, smiling.
"I hope he looks like his papa," said Merope, her voice catching. "Name him after him, will you? Tom, for his father, and...and Marvolo for mine."
The matron's resolve seemed to soften. "Of course, miss," she said. "You can name him yourself."
"No," Merope whispered. "No, I don't think...I'll be around long enough for that."
The matron seemed about to protest, but Merope shook her head. "You'll raise him here? Bring him up well?"
"Yes, miss," said Mrs Cole softly. "I'll do my best."
"Good," Merope breathed, stroking her baby's small black tuft of hair.
"What's his surname?" asked the matron gently.
Merope took in a deep breath as more blood gushed from between her legs. "Riddle," she said quietly. "His name is Tom...Marvolo...Riddle."
It wasn't so cold anymore, suddenly; New Year's Day was approaching, and her child was squalling on her chest, and even the drafts wafting in from the thin windows weren't affecting her. She felt warm, as if someone had placed a muffler around her. She was not afraid of what was to come – if this was life, Death could not be much worse.
And then the warmth was gone, as suddenly as if someone had poured water over a fire, and as Merope took her last breath, she thought, Keep my baby warm. Keep him from the ice and the snow and the evil of the world.
And with a final shudder, her eyelids drooped and blackness fell like a curtain signaling the end of a play.