QLFC, Finals Round 1
Team: Montrose Magpies
SEEKER: Dynamic Timeline (every action in the past affects the future)
Many thanks to Emiliya Wolfe and Emmeebee for beta'ing
Word Count: 2052
The whole town is buzzing with the rumor. They've never talked about it with Merope, of course, but she's learned of it nevertheless; something to do with being such a skinny creature that merges with the shadows and is overlooked all around. Not even her baby bump can get anyone to spare her a fleeting glance. It's like she doesn't even exist — maybe she shouldn't, she thinks, her eyes widening as something tugs at her heart.
She doesn't know what it is. She'll likely never know. Yet it's familiar, her heart recognizes it, and she's spent her whole existence going after it. That much has been clear since the first time she saw him riding by her shack, accompanied by sounds of laughter and soaring birds — a union of life and freedom. Between her father's threats and her brother's cruel tricks, those few minutes spent peering outside the window were her only anchor, while her guts twisted like fighting snakes.
Now it's all lost, swallowed up, without any chance of returning.
She looks at her swollen womb. She can barely afford a crust of bread, yet the skin around her navel is so strained. She caresses it. The fruit of their union is hidden down there, and she wishes she could keep it inside her forever, have this bittersweet reminder of Tom fused with her body. But there's no place, no time, no imagination that could give her back what she never had. She's broken in a million charred pieces, and she simply can't be anymore. Her whole self is destroyed.
Intimidated by life, she can only bend on herself and remind herself, out of sheer self-hatred, of his voice and lies, of how he chose another, a woman that was not her.
Lost, lost, lost.
She shouldn't even exist; for there is no happiness for those who are born hating life and begging for imaginary love.
When anyone passes by, she fades, invisible once more, though not by choice. But having been ignored for so long, she's having trouble believing she may be worth something more than a discarded shell of what she could and should have been. For the briefest moment, she misses even her father and brother — they saw a twisted version of her, but it was still her. They saw her; they heard her. If she were to scream now, it'd be to no avail; she wouldn't recognize her own voice.
All she does is sit and make herself as small a target as possible, so as not to be hunted down by ghosts that she doesn't have the strength to fight.
She does listen, though, curiosity and caution compelling her to it. People tend to talk around her worthless self.
"— who could this so-called Midnight Black be?" a man was saying to his companion.
"A man in his middle to late teens that has been spotted here and there. Police are investigating —"
Muggles, Merope thinks with disdain as she hungrily takes in their warm coats and expensive shoes.
"— but all they know is that he's a tall, black-haired man who's always spotted around midnight, never for more than a few minutes each time, and wanders around as if looking for something. Each time, he is seen with different objects in his hands."
"A murderer?" Now there's a hint of fear in the first man's voice.
"They don't think so. He never wields weapons. It's always a stick —" At this, something akin to derision enters the man's tone. "— or maybe a journal, a locket or other harmless things."
Merope's first thought is Portkeys as it's clear they're talking about a wizard, but that doesn't feel right.
"Is there a pattern to his apparitions?" The first man's left hand twitches nervously.
Lowering her head again, Merope lets the conversation fade and die as the two men walk away. But that's not the end of it. Merope knows. It's not the first time and it won't be the last that someone talks about this mystery man around her, fear and fascination filling their voices.
A shiver runs down her spine. She can't shake the feeling that she's the one to draw him here. The stranger always appears in all the places she's been, after all. And they say he seems to be looking for something — she can relate to that. She is on a desperate search, too.
The air crackles around her as the baby kicks in her womb, unsettled.
"I know, little one," she says. "I know." She raises her head and sniffs; a storm is coming. They're going to need some shelter soon.
Sighing, she massages her numb legs and feet to get them to work, then she crawls up to the road.
...
Despite her exhaustion, Merope still thinks of Midnight Black and, having started to realize something deep is at work here, lingers under the same bridge more nights than she usually would in the hope he will catch up with her.
Each time the bell tower strikes midnight, her body tenses, and her eyes narrow to see in the darkness.
He's been spotted a few more times in other parts of the town, so she waits. She's been waiting for one thing or another her whole life — she knows how. She even goes as far as to allure him with her magic and blood, the baby moving in anticipation and pressing on her left side, near her heart.
...
When the mystery man finally appears, he casts his sunken, gleaming eyes on her. She's secretly relieved that he can see her as she does him, that he distinguishes her from the gray cement of the pillar she's leaning against.
He stares at her, and something about her must be right because his lips start moving. He's speaking, and Merope is sure he usually doesn't. It feels like a win, but she's too lightheaded to understand what he's saying. Before she can do anything, he vanishes into thin air with a grimace.
It's only now that she realizes what was wrong with his eyes — they were red with slit pupils. Oddly enough, it doesn't upset her.
...
Merope has little strength left and knows she'll need it to deliver her baby, so there's no point in moving. Therefore, she is still under the same bridge when the stranger visits her again.
"You found me," she whispers. "You saw me." If he's here to take her away, she's more than eager to depart from this world and its cruelty.
He scans her form, his eyes lingering on her belly, and looks displeased. His long, white fingers curl into a tight fist.
Merope's sure she's too exhausted to be afraid, so if she trembles, it must be from the cold. It's so cold. The rain seems to be soaking her grinding bones.
Her wand finds its way into her hand, and he draws his too, something shining on his ring finger. But she doesn't want to duel. No, she merely needs light; she needs to understand why her heart is beating so furiously and her baby is kicking so urgently.
After Tom, she promised herself not to use magic ever again, but… "L-lumos. Lu-lumos." Nothing happens.
Midnight Black looks amused, then pensive. Still, he stares at her belly.
She looks down too and imagines the shapeless being in her body. When she lifts her eyes, she's hit by a vision of dying infant-like creature. Bringing a hand to her forehead, she struggles to say, "You… You are him?" She coughs. "You are him." She's dizzy.
He frowns. "M —" He doubles over as if pulled by an invisible object around his waist and disappears, a curse on his lips.
M, Merope thinks.
It's but a letter, and maybe that man wasn't her little Tom coming from the future to save her — he clearly was as puzzled as she felt to be there with her — yet Merope lets herself dream he was about to say Mother. Her child's first word — Mother. Mummy. Warmth spreads inside her.
Oh, she wants to see him again.
She's aware he may not come back. He must have more important things to do than meddling with time just to see her dying self. Dust and ashes. But perhaps, just perhaps… She could try to hold on just a little bit longer and go ahead, following the timeline the way it's meant to be — linear.
Maybe…
Maybe…
Her skin feels hot and dry; it's the color of ash.
The wand twitches in her hand. The lightness of its weight hits her suddenly, to the point that she startles and blinks.
She isn't dead yet. Merope can start with that.
Just a few days.
...
Those days quickly turn into months, the winter darkness giving way to spring rebirth. And the months turn into years.
She doesn't get to see the other Tom, the one with serpent-like eyes, anymore, but she has her own, and his dark eyes shine with intelligence and determination, so she can't bring herself to feel guilty for having unintentionally 'killed' Midnight by making a different choice. She still wonders whether he was happy in that previous life. She never had the chance to ask.
Her old life didn't give her enough time to grasp the deeper meaning of love, but she's starting to learn now. Learn and teach, she thinks, smiling as her son runs down Diagon Alley towards her, a large ice-cream in his hand and his brand-new wand in the other. Everything else is hand-me-down, but selling the few old heirlooms she possessed to buy her son a wand didn't even require a second thought.
"Mum, Mum," Marvolo — after learning about his father, he abhors the man's name — calls. And isn't that the sweetest sound?
She regards him; her child looks happy, and that's enough. If present-Tom is happy, future-Tom — Midnight — will be too. It's the least she can do for him.
By traveling through time, that man brought her soul back to the past too, when everything had yet to happen. When hope was still bright.
She owes him.
"Oh," she says, looking down at Tom Marvolo's face, pulling out a tissue. "There's chocolate on your cheek, honey." She's still cautious of magic, and even if a simple cleaning spell never hurt anyone, she prefers to do it the Muggle way, vigorously rubbing Marvolo's face.
He wriggles. "Mum!"
She kisses the reddened spot on his cheek, making him squirm even more, embarrassed, and takes his hand with a proud smile. "What's next?"
As they walk, she glances at him.
Thin and poorly dressed, he may seem neglected, but he isn't. Merlin, he isn't. The mere thought makes Merope's heart hurt.
She loves him beyond anything else. He represents her whole existence. And while his resemblance to his father is painful, Merope could never dislike him in any way. Especially since her little Marvolo worships her, and woe to those who dare to as much as glare towards her — he already grows dark and menacing, terrible things happening with his accidental magic. He's taken after his grandfather in that.
Taken aback by his power, Merope can only remind him that it is wrong to hang people by their legs or have canes chase them and beat them down.
Whenever she does, Marvolo stubbornly shakes his head or stomps his foot. "They have no right to treat you so."
Where they live, a Muggle neighborhood, they're looked down on and frowned upon, but here in Diagon Alley, the atmosphere is different, lighter, and Marvolo looks younger, his dark eyes widened and his lips slightly parted in awe.
He yanks his mother forward, like he's always done. It's only thanks to him that she's gotten this far, after all.
"It's so beautiful to look at you," she whispers. "How excruciating my life would have been without you in it!" She's barely aware she's said it aloud until Marvolo's warm hand squeezes hers.
It feels like a promise of something good to come.
Of peace, she'll think on her deathbed many years later, Marvolo, his wife and her grandchildren by her side.
As she closes her eyes, the clock strikes twelve times.
Thank you, Midnight.