London, 1926

It was starting to snow again. For the first time in, oh, three weeks, coins clinked together in her pocket. Before, the pocket of her tattered, rank-scented cloak had been weighed down by the locket. Up until an hour ago her most prized possession, but right now her most prized possession was Tom's baby inside of her.

If she was honest, Merope was glad to have gotten rid of the locket. Although she knew it was worth much more than what that slime Burke gave her, she was relieved with just ten galleons. The locket had been her last link to a world she no longer belonged to, if she ever had.

In addition, she wasn't exactly in a position to bargain. If she lost any more weight, she wouldn't be able to stand or walk; her swollen abdomen would topple her over.

After a hasty meal of a biscuit and tea, Merope continued to wander the streets, letting snowflakes catch in her hair. She was recharged, but it wouldn't last long. Baby Tom took all of her energy for himself.

It was not as if there was anything else to do but walk. Tucking her long hair into the cloak, Merope meandered down Vauxhall Road, keeping her eyes on the shop windows. The muggles out and about gave her a wide berth, as if the very sight of her repelled them. She knew she looked and smelled terrible. It had been sixty-three days since Tom left her. She was starting to wonder which would be her last.

Up ahead, there was a fancy beauty parlor, the kind perhaps that awful Cecilia would have gone to. Merope often daydreamed about going inside one and having a lady cut her snarly, light brown hair to her chin and carefully sculpt it with her fingers. Then she would look in the mirror and marvel at how pretty she looked.

But who was she kidding? Merope had never been close to pretty, and she never would be.

Snow had started to dampen her cloak, emitting a smell similar to a barn in the summer. It was time to seek shelter. Lately, the cold seemed to penetrate quickly straight to her bones and nestled there, refusing to budge. Dreading the thought of sleeping in a seated position under an awning, Merope hurried her pace, searching for an abandoned building. There were a couple in Diagon Alley, but she had vowed to never step foot there again. She had officially resigned from the magical community.

A few minutes later, she found herself standing in front of one of the most beautiful buildings she'd ever seen. It was large and white, with a pointing tower like a castle, except only one section, smack in the middle of London. Over black wooden doors, a stone carving spelled out a phrase in Latin, which Merope didn't bother to try to decipher—she could barely read in English. The most odd and eye-catching of the structure was that one of the doors was open, releasing a warm yellow glow into the night.

Slowly, clutching her heavy midsection, Merope made her way up the stairs and took a step through the door. A gold and stone plaque was displayed in the tiny foyer:

St. Mary-le-Bow

1666

Diocese of London

Morning and evening prayers: 8:15 and 17:45

But the Helper, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, he will teach you all things and bring to your remembrance all that I have said to you.

John 14:26

The Holy Spirit, hmm? Merope thought skeptically. She'd never heard of such a person, but at this point she'd take any help she could get. She peered her head inside and let out a quiet gasp.

The room was large, warm, and beautiful. The floors were marble, the walls crisp white with gold details, and the ceiling was curved with blue panels. There were rows of wooden chairs facing the front, where a mint-green clothed table sat with two long, lit candles. Behind that, the lower part of the wall was wood-paneled. Above that, large, curved windows made of bits of different-colored glass depicted figures of three people that were robed like wizards. Perhaps this was a magical building after all?

Without realizing, Merope had taken several steps inside the vast room. The chairs were empty save for one elderly lady with a grey knot of hair seated in the front. She was leaning forward, eyes closed and smiling slightly.

Merope knew she should get out of there—this was no place for an ugly wretch like her. But it was so very warm and calm and inviting. She could at least stay until she was tossed out. Having been tossed out many a place in the past few months, harsh words and snarls were nothing new, no longer affecting her.

Even the chair was warm. She hadn't realized how badly her swollen legs and feet had been hurting; the bones in her ankles cracked as the weight was lifted off. She was slightly feverish, her stomach churning with unfamiliar substances. Baby Tom was now pressed painfully against her ribs and hips, but the relief on her feet outweighed that discomfort.

Just below the chair in front of her, there was a padded square suspended about an inch from the ground. What in the name of Merlin is that for? Merope wondered, but her question was answered a moment later by the other lady, who knelt on the square and touched her fingertips to her forehead, chest, and two points under each of her collar bones in succession. She was staring reverently at something Merope hadn't noticed upon her arrival. Suspended from the curved ceiling, there was a statue of a man on a cross with other figures surrounding him, looking up at him. How awful it must have been to be in that position!

Perhaps Merope should have knelt on the padded square as well? But she was so exhausted, so comfortable…

Footsteps were approaching; the elderly lady had risen and was now advancing toward the other. Ah, swell, here's the part where I'm told to scram, Merope thought grimly, though she wasn't too fussed. At least her cloak and hair had started to dry. The lady stopped next to Merope's chair.

"Trust in God and He shall not lead you astray," she said calmly, genially.

The statement, coupled with the lady's kind tone, was so jarring that Merope raised her head to look at the lady in confusion. She had to have been at least eighty years old, but she wasn't hunched and bitter with age. Her blue eyes passed over Merope, taking the girl in. Unexpectedly, the lady neither wrinkled her nose nor scoffed in disgust. She didn't even glance at her ring finger. Instead she smiled right at her, absent of guile or contempt.

Merope went still and her lip trembled as she tore her eyes away. She couldn't recall anyone ever smiling at her in such a manner except for Tom, but Tom's smile had been artificial, manufactured by the potion. It was all too much—an ache was blooming inside her chest, but it wasn't from the usual sorrow.

"Fear not, young girl," the lady continued. "He will embrace you soon."

Although Merope had no idea to whom she was referring—this God person, she supposed—the lady's words reached out and touched her, like a caress on the cheek. For this moment, she was not a squib, not a useless wretch, a wicked wretch. She was just a girl, a lonely, beaten, abandoned girl.

The lady walked out into the cold and Merope remained seated with her eyes closed, a single tear running down her burning, dirt-caked cheek. Inside of her, Baby Tom woke up and started kicking. She placed her hands on her midsection fondly, waiting for him to bump against her palms.

She didn't actually know if the baby was male or female, of course, but if it turned out to be a boy, his name was going to be Tom Marvolo Riddle. Tom after his father, Marvolo after her father. She had yet to think of a girl's name, but she knew she didn't want to encumber the baby with hers.

If you make it out of me alive, you'll be great, she told him in her head. No, not if. When you make it.

She stood, rare determination flooding her mind. She must hold on long enough to give birth. Pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, she left the building as a series of bells started to ring. So that's where the sound of bells had been coming from. She'd heard a similar sound every so often when she'd gotten close to Little Hangleton. Perhaps there was a building like this there.

Merope would never find out. She was not likely to step foot in one of these buildings in the short time she had left. Her naivety and hope had left along with Tom, aging her years in a day. She knew she had not long to live, and she was equal parts impatient for and dreading the end. Maybe death would bring her more peace than life. At the very least, it would take her off the cold, damp streets of London.

No, Merope was not built to last in this world—neither the magic nor the muggle part. Somewhere along the line, there had been a defect in her creation. However, the baby would be different: handsome like Tom and smarter than any Gaunt. Unfortunately, Merope was unlikely to live long enough to confirm that, but one day Tom would feel remorse for leaving her in the cold and come fetch his son. That is why the baby's surname had to be Riddle, so he could be found. This was above all in importance.

But she needn't worry about dying for the moment. She had a few coins in her pocket, warmth under her cloak, and a rare sort of optimism. She didn't know who had decided to bless her with a child, since she'd heard of so many who couldn't have one, but they had to have done so for a reason. This child was destined to mark the world in some way. It was that idea, more than anything tangible, that would keep Merope alive, at least until tomorrow.