Author's Notes: Big thanks to my reviewers, AchillesMonkey, SailorHecate, Torry-Riddle, Maelys, Barranca, and Mina. I greatly appreciate the input :-)

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in the Harry Potter universe; JK Rowling does. No profit is being made from this fanfiction and no copyright infringement is intended.

Chapter Two

Tears streamed down Merope's cheeks. She shivered in cold and humiliation; for the fifth time, she had been turned down for a job. In her arms, Tom wailed in hunger and in cold, but Merope had not eaten for two days; her milk was drying up. Not for the first time, her resolution to keep the baby wavered. It would be so easy to just hand him back to the Muggle orphanage where he would be fed by the wet-nurse, and kept warm and dry, at least for a little while…

Diagon Alley was not crowded on the day that Merope staggered along the cobblestones. The weather was too inclement. 1927 was coming in like a lion.

She had first tried Mr. Burke at that shop on Knockturn Alley. She had made vague hints about the existence of other treasures, like the locket she had sold to him, but Burke's face closed up the minute she walked in the door. The shopkeeper had a shifty look about him. It made Merope wonder if she had been gypped on that locket.

'Someday I'll find it again for you,' she had whispered to Tom, always in her arms.

Next she had tried Magical Menagerie, because she was a Parselmouth. A single hissed word to one of their snakes and the shop-witch had shrieked in terror and ordered her off the premises.

Then came Flourish and Blotts; Merope could read, unlike her brother Morfin, and had always thought it rather set her apart. But the proprietor of the bookshop had looked down his nose at Merope in her dirty dress, with a newborn babe in her arms, and snubbed her without a word.

'Someday, you will be a clever boy,' Merope had whispered to Tom. 'I'll make sure you go to school.'

The Leaky Cauldron had been an option. Merope knew how to cook and clean. When she walked into the pub on an empty evening, she went to the barkeep, old Tom. She had explained her situation, her desperation, and emphasized that she could talk to Muggles if she had to. After all, the Leaky Cauldron was the bridge between worlds.

'I have a child, and I have no money,' Merope had said, holding up baby Tom. 'He's a good boy, see, and he shares your name, sir.'

Old Tom the barkeep had leered at her. 'Not mine, is he?' he asked, gesturing at the infant.

No, the Leaky Cauldron was not an option any longer.

The fingers of panic brushed at Merope's mind then. The world was closing in on her, cold and hard and unforgiving, and she was hungry. Starving. Not a single witch or wizard in London recognized her or would help her. Merope knew she was peculiar-looking, and she knew she lacked social graces that would allow her to finagle her way into a better situation. Her only life experience had been living in the hovel of her family home, then living as a Muggle with Tom. In neither instance had her ability as a witch developed properly.

It occurred to her as she paced up and down Diagon Alley that she knew as little about the workings of the wizarding world as any old Muggle that might have stumbled upon it.

Finally, Merope had gone back down Knockturn Alley and tried Mr. Burke again. She pleaded with him, cajoled, made empty promises, even hinted at the unthinkable: that he might have a chance at her body if only he hired her. And he told her, 'Get out of my shop, and don't ever come back!'

It had been Merope's bad luck that several other people had been in the store, including a tall blonde wizard in luxurious robes with an arrogant sneer on his face. Mr. Burke probably did not want his customers thinking that he would hire the likes of her; to employ a desperate mother would smack too much of kindness. Knockturn Alley did not sell kindness in any quantity.

Merope's tears dried on her cheeks, not because they stopped but because the air was too cold to sustain them. She slumped up against a column of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Tom cried louder.

'Shhh,' she urged him. 'Hush, now, don't cry. Everything will be all right.' Her own words made her break into cleaving sobs again. She could lie to other people but not to her own son. Everything would not be all right.

In the range of her vision Merope was dimly aware of feet shuffling past her, into and out of the bank, people who had money and reasons. Her shaking hands grabbed her scarf and tore it from her hair; she folded it hastily and held it out in a sort of bowl shape. It had come to this, to begging on the street in front of the intimidating marble façade of Gringotts. Several wizards scoffed at her; one threw a single Knut on the ground, making Merope scramble to pick it up. Tom had stopped crying.

'Please,' she whispered, lifting her face to the tall figures hurrying past her. 'Please help me. Do have money, sir?' It was as though she were invisible. Witches and wizards got uncomfortable looks on their faces at about ten paces from her. They looked anywhere but at her. 'Money for my baby? Please?'

Merope wanted to cry again at her undignified display. It was utter degradation. She knew that she herself would never stop for a beggar. Had never stopped. Yet here she was, destitute, holding a too-quiet infant in one arm and holding the other arm out for a helping hand that no one would offer.

An hour passed. Merope knew this from the great public clock that sounded above the street. It felt an eternity of cold. Whoever said hell was hot? They were wrong. It was frozen, still, repetitious. She used both hands to rock Tom back and forth, reassuring him that she was there, and she left the scarf in a dark square in front of her. A measly few coins gleamed in the pale snowy light.

'It looks as though you could use a nice hot bowl of soup,' said a cheery voice above her.

Merope blinked up into the snow. An apparition leaned over her of a man in blue velvet dress robes and a star-spangled hat. He had a long auburn beard and very bright blue eyes surrounded by tiny, merry, crow's feet wrinkles.

'Can you stand up?' he asked her.

For a moment Merope was not sure she could. But then she nodded and snatched up her little scarf with coins. Holding Tom close to her body, her knees knocked together in weakness as she stood, and the auburn-haired man held out a hand to support her elbow.

'The goblins were complaining about you,' the man said, setting off at a jaunty pace through the snow as if it were a beautiful spring day. Merope hurried to keep up with his tall stride. 'They were going to send one of their trolls out to remove you.'

Merope gasped in horror, but then she saw the twinkle in the man's blue eyes that told her it was a joke. She tried to laugh. 'A troll for me?'

'But see, everything's going to be all right now, for you and your little one,' he said. 'We'll go to the Leaky Cauldron.'

Not wanting to be rude, Merope did not protest, although she didn't want to see old Tom the barkeep again. Her wooden cogs scuffed through the snow and inexplicably, the motion of her feet forward rekindled a spark of hope. This man would help her. She trusted him, though she did not know why.

The door of the Leaky Cauldron jangled in the frame as they stepped inside.

'Albus!' said old Tom from behind the bar. 'Hiya.'

'Greetings,' said the man called Albus. He gestured at a small wooden table. 'Please, sit,' he told Merope. 'Is the baby – er – hungry?'

Merope simply nodded, too embarrassed to tell a stranger that her breast milk had stopped.

An elderly witch shuffled over to them with a notepad in her hands.

The blue-eyed man smiled up at her. 'Gladys, good to see you. Can you fetch us a cup of warm goat's milk, please, and a clean rag?'

Gladys grunted and shuffled back off.

'The baby can drink goat's milk,' he said. 'I read of the technique in a story about a human child raised by giants.'

'Who are you?' Merope blurted.

'Oh!' he said, as though surprised. 'I am sorry. My name is Albus Dumbledore.' He held a hand out across the table.

Merope shook it with what she knew was an ice-cold hand.

'And you are…' he prompted.

'Merope,' she said. 'Merope…Riddle.' Her married name came out without her intention of it. A name, so simple, so hard to give up. A small practical voice also told her that the name of Gaunt was not what it used to be in the wizarding world.

'Riddle,' said Dumbledore. 'I'm not familiar with that name.' It was a polite way of asking if she was a pure-blood witch.

'It was my husband's name,' Merope explained hastily. Her jaw wanted to chatter as she warmed up in the cozy pub. 'He's dead.'

'Ohh,' said Dumbledore. 'My sympathies.' He glanced down at the infant Tom, asleep in Merope's arms.

'My son Tom,' Merope said. A twinge of pride accompanied her words. 'He's… all I have left… of my husband.'

'He can't be older than a month,' said Dumbledore.

'A week,' said Merope.

Gladys the waitress reappeared at their table with the goat's milk. Dumbledore asked her for two hot bowls of stew, a loaf of bread, and two pints of spiced pumpkin juice. Merope's mouth watered at the thought of it, but she glanced down at the rough boards of the table as Dumbledore ordered their meal.

'Nothing like a stew on a day like today,' said Dumbledore expansively. 'Warms the soul.'

Merope was silent. Her situation was reinforced of utter helplessness, a feeling she disliked intensely. She did not even know this man Dumbledore. He could be trying to take advantage of her. She held Tom a little closer to her thin body, jiggling him to wake him up. She could feel Dumbledore's eyes on her as she folded the clean rag into a triangle and dipped it into the milk, then brought it to Tom's lips. His eyes got a little brighter and soon he was sucking happily at the sodden cloth.

'Mrs. Riddle, I want to offer you my help,' Dumbledore said. 'You're quite obviously in need of it, and no matter what your experience might be of wizard-kind, most people are inherently good. You will find help if you ask for it.'

'I don't need your charity,' Merope mumbled.

'Not charity,' said Dumbledore. 'Help.'

Merope's mouth twisted. 'I don't know anything,' she said. 'No education. I'm almost a Squib.'

'Not all places in the wizarding world require deft skills at wand-waving, Mrs. Riddle. I'm sure you can find your way, if you allow me to aid you.'

'What can you do for me?' Merope asked quietly. A horrible thought occurred to her that this man wanted to sell her into indentured servitude, or even…

'I am a professor at Hogwarts School,' Dumbledore said. 'The professor of Transfiguration, in fact.'

Her eyes widened. A professor? No wonder he had such fine robes and hat. Looking more closely at Dumbledore, she could see he had an air of competence, of self-assurance about him. She also thought he was older than he appeared; his hair was vibrant in colour, but the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth must have made him at least eighty years old. For a wizard, late middle age.

'Hogwarts,' she whispered. It was a name full of mystery and promise. Merope was so closely associated with the school, yet she had never seen it, never had the chance to go there herself. What a fitting end for the last heirs of Slytherin, Salazar who was himself outcast.

'You do not have a magical education?' Dumbledore asked.

'N-no,' said Merope. 'I couldn't – my father, he didn't want – I never went to school.'

'I see,' said Dumbledore. 'I take it you've had difficulty getting a job, if you have looked.'

'Of course I looked,' Merope stammered quickly. She was not lazy or useless. 'I asked here.'

As she said it, Gladys brought their stew and bread, and Dumbledore inclined his head and waved his hand at the meal, allowing the pause in conversation so Merope could eat.

Eat she did. Nothing had ever tasted so good as that hearty beef stew, rich with potatoes and vegetables, and the warm brown bread with a pat of butter melting on it. With each bite Merope felt strength return to her. She did her best not to eat messily or hastily. Ill manners would remind her of her brother and father.

When her spoon hit the bottom of the large bowl, Merope felt full for the first time in weeks. She looked back up at Dumbledore. 'Can I go to Hogwarts?' she asked.

He shook his head slightly. 'I'm afraid that's not possible,' he said. 'The age restrictions… you are of age?'

'Eighteen.'

'Mmm,' he said. 'No, Hogwarts cannot admit you… but I can help you get a job. What are your skills?'

'My skills?' Merope echoed. Did he not hear her say she was practically a Squib? 'I told you, I have no schooling.'

'That, Mrs. Riddle, does not mean you lack skills,' Dumbledore said. His piercing blue eyes looked straight into her. 'What did you do at home? Cook or clean? Did you have a job when you were married?'

A squirm of shame went through her. She barely knew domestic spells for cooking and cleaning; her father had beaten it out of her. And with her husband, the only magic she'd done had been to brew the Amortentia potion, and that only for the minimum dose... 'I guess I can make potions,' she mumbled under her breath.

'I didn't quite catch that,' said Dumbledore. 'What did you say?'

'Potions,' she squeaked a little louder. 'I can make potions.'

A smile lit Dumbledore's face. 'Excellent! You know ingredients, then?'

Merope gave a small, tentative nod.

'That settles it,' said Dumbledore. 'I'll take you to Slug and Jiggers. The Apothecary. Old Mr. Jiggers owes me a favour, and I'm sure he can use a clerk. Would you be willing to work there?'

Unable to tear her gaze away from her saviour, Merope stared at Dumbledore, half-amazed that she hadn't thought of the apothecary herself. For a shining moment, she allowed a full measure of hope to flood her being. Dumbledore looked so confident that she could not help but be confident, too.

'I'm not sure I could find anything else,' Dumbledore cautioned. 'The economy's taking a downturn, you know, and old friends only go so far…'

Merope realised that she had not answered Dumbledore. He must think she did not want the opportunity. 'Oh, no,' she breathed, 'I want to work at the apothecary. Please. I want to work.'

He leaned back with a satisfied air. 'Good,' he said. 'Good.'

Albus Dumbledore was true to his word. After their meal at the Leaky Cauldron, they made the short walk to Slug and Jiggers Apothecary. Merope wished for a moment that she could put Tom somewhere, because a brand-new mother hardly looked like a competent shopkeeper, but Dumbledore waved her off when she suggested it.

'Old Jigger has a soft spot for kids,' he said. 'Has a couple of grandchildren, if I remember correctly…' He pushed open the door to the apothecary and allowed Merope to walk in first. She wanted to put her hand over her mouth and nose; the place smelled utterly foul, a thick medley of cabbage and rotten eggs.

Dumbledore seemed not to notice. He raised a hand in greeting. 'Ah, Murdock! Fine day!'

'Albus,' said an old man with an enormous quivering silver mustache and owlish eyeglasses. Murdock Jigger's eyes blinked. He must have been smiling, but it was hard to tell beneath the mustache. 'Freezing outside, my fresh flobberworms have ice on them.'

'Sorry to hear that,' said Dumbledore. 'Reminds me of my Aunt Beryl, who used to eat flobberworms straight from the ice box… she did love them. A delicacy, she always said.'

'I would not know,' said Jigger with a quaver of laughter, or disgust, in his voice. 'But what brings you so far from your school on a day like today, Albus?'

'Business,' said Dumbledore airily. 'But I ran into this young woman and thought of you, Murdock – she's some talent with potions ingredients, as I understand. I recall you said you needed a new clerk? I hope the position has not been filled.'

As though noticing Merope for the first time, Jigger adjusted his glasses and peered at her. 'Hmm,' he said. His eyes fell on the sleeping bundle that was Tom and he tilted his head. Merope was reminded of a large owl looking at an insect and felt uneasy under the scrutiny.

'Ingredients, huh?' Jigger said. 'Well, girl? Can you tell an asphodel root from ginger?'

'Y-yes,' Merope said quietly.

'Speak up, then!' said Jigger. 'Glumbumble fluid from bubotuber pus?'

Merope nodded.

'What's this?' He seized a large glass jar from a shelf and shook it at her.

'E-erumpent horns, sir.'

'Huh,' said Jigger. 'All right. My clerk quit two weeks ago to seek his fortune in Jamaica. Personally, I think he just wants to loll about on the beach all day…' He sounded jealous of a warm beach. 'Anyway, what will you do with your boy when you're working?'

'How did you know he's a boy?' Merope asked, suspicious.

'Fifty-fifty guess, innit?' Jigger shrugged.

'Perhaps she can keep the child with her,' Dumbledore suggested. 'He's really too young to be apart from his mother. It won't interfere with chopping ingredients and ringing up customers, now, Murdock.'

'I 'spose not,' said Jigger. 'What's his name?'

'Tom,' said Merope.

'Huh.' Jigger scratched his nose and blinked down at Tom's sleeping face. 'What's your name?'

'Mrs. Merope Riddle,' said Merope, committed now to using her married name in the wizarding world.

'She's a recent widow,' Dumbledore volunteered.

'I see, I see,' said Jigger. 'Well, fine. Mrs. Riddle, you have a job.'

Merope barely got a chance to thank them, for Jigger and Dumbledore launched into conversation about people she did not know, and then Dumbledore bought a bag of ground moonstone, leaving her quite abruptly with a tip of his hat and a good wish.

There was a moment of awkward silence in the shop. Jigger cleared his throat; Merope shifted on both feet. Then Tom let out a great, noisy yawn and opened his eyes, gazing about the place. Jigger chuckled.

'A bright one, that is,' he said.

'Yes,' she murmured.

'Right, then. You'll start today, no time to waste. Have any personal effects?'

Merope almost laughed. Personal effects? Only if you counted her baby, worn like an accessory on her arm. 'No, sir,' she said.

'Fine. There's a room upstairs that my last clerk used as a flat. You can stay there. Come on, then, keep up.' Jigger wound his way past shelves and cauldrons and vats of unidentifiable substances. He talked over his shoulder to her. 'This here's the back storeroom, and there's a door that leads to the courtyard, where we keep live lobsters and the frozen ashwinder eggs and such. The freezer's out there, as well, not that we need it in this weather… come on, up the stairs…'

She followed him up an ancient, narrow stairwell. Each floorboard had a creak all to its own, creating a musical series of notes as their feet took them up. There was a landing at the top and a low door. Jigger brought out a rusty skeleton key and turned the lock. 'Here,' he said, handing her the key. 'Just keep the place clean. My second-to-last clerk spilled an entire cauldron of Dreamless Draught and it leaked through the floor, onto the heads of my customers…' He coughed as though in severe disapproval. Merope thought that Mr. Jigger had a great deal of trouble with his clerks. She hoped not to disappoint him.

'Bed, table, stove,' Jigger gestured around the room. It was more spacious than Merope would have imagined, although full of strange angles and oddly-shaped windows. The vague sulfur smell from downstairs permeated the room and there was a layer of dust on everything. 'Water closet is over there,' he said, waving at a half-wide wooden door to their left. 'I'll leave you here for a minute to get settled. Be down in the shop in an hour.'

'Y-yes, sir,' Merope said.

The door closed after Jigger, leaving Merope standing in the middle of the old room, holding the key in her hand. She sighed. It was nothing to write home about, that was certain. The double bed was crafted of wrought iron and covered by a frayed quilt; it sagged in the middle. There were dingy lace curtains on the windows. A grouping of random wooden chairs surrounded a black woodstove in one corner; in the other corner was the kitchen area, with a cooking stove and oven, a butcher's block, and a single shelf tacked to the wall. There was a jar of oil there and several pots and pans hanging from hooks.

Wandering over to the water closet, Merope opened the door and peered inside. Rustic. Antiquated. In need of a good clean. But it would do.

'Let's set you down,' she told Tom. She placed him on the bed where he waved his little arms and legs, never taking his eyes off his mother.

The windows had a view of the rooftops and, if she tilted her head at the right angle, the street itself. Merope fingered the lace curtain, imagining it when it was new and frothy and pure white. Against the snow outside, the curtain looked positively brown. She would replace the curtains first, once she had some money. Staring around the rest of the room, Merope brought out her wand. She lit three candles of a candelabra on the wooden table. Afraid her strength would give out if she allowed herself to rest, Merope stayed in motion, refusing to sit, even though the wooden rocking chair beckoned her. Instead she lit a fire in the stove to warm the chilly room.

With a deep breath, she pointed her wand at the top of the table. 'Evanesco,' she muttered. Nothing happened. A memory flashed back to her of her father, screaming at her, calling her useless, unable to do even basic magic. She winced. 'Evanesco!' she said, more forcefully. A whooshing noise and the dust and grime vanished from the table.

'Ha!' Merope blurted.

After that, it was easy. She Vanished the layers of dust, the built-up grease and grime on the cooking stove, and even tackled the cobwebs in the water closet before Tom started to cry again.

Merope glanced down at her breasts. Could she try? She did not think that one meal at the Leaky Cauldron would re-start her ability to nurse. It was a terrible feeling to listen to those helpless infant cries. Guilt intruded; she was a bad mother. Unable to feed her own child. She put her hand on Tom's forehead. 'I'm sorry,' she whispered to him. 'I have nothing for you. I know you're hungry. I know…'

Tom's cries got louder. Merope stared down at his red, squalling face. 'Oh,' she said, picking him up, and felt… a rather damp spot. 'Oh!'

She unwrapped his swaddling clothes and, seeing the surprise, laughed aloud. 'Evanesco!' she said triumphantly. The diaper was spotlessly clean once more. Tom stopped crying at once and Merope used the corner of his blanket to wipe his tiny button of a nose. 'There's my son,' she cooed, rocking him back and forth. He let out a contented baby noise and Merope's heart flooded once more with feeling for him. He had to be the most precious baby that ever lived.

'No, the boomslang skin, you silly girl!'

Merope's hands scurried along the shelf, seeking the correct jar, although she was not sure what boomslang skin even looked like. She had exaggerated her potions-making abilities a tad; her expertise lay in the art of love potions. It did not help that Slug and Jiggers Apothecary was a disorganised mess of ingredients and supplies, with no labels or prices on the shelves. Every time Merope made a sale she had to look up the price in the massive book on the counter, then record it with painstaking, tiny letters in the ledger. She had memorised the price of basic items such as black beetle eyes (3 Knuts per scoop) and dragon's liver (14 Sickles per ounce).

But boomslang skin? It was rarely used in potions and Merope had never seen evidence of it in the shop.

'I might just go to Knockturn Alley,' she heard the customer say to Mr. Jigger.

'No!' Jigger said, 'no, we have it, I assure you – Merope, hurry!'

Heart pounding, she snatched up a large jar of what looked like the shed skins of a snake. She prayed it was boomslang skin. 'Sir!' she said, thrusting the jar into Jigger's hands.

'See, now,' he mollified the customer, an older wizard with a hooked nose. 'Boomslang skin. Two Galleons per ounce.'

Merope slunk back behind the shelves, reminding herself to breathe. She hated being shouted at. It reminded her too much of home. However, it was rare that Jigger shouted at her; it was only when he got flustered. Merope knew it was not personal, although it felt like it. In fact, Merope enjoyed her job most days. She was learning a great deal about potions. Her experience and education had been so limited in Little Hangleton that every time she helped a customer, or listened to Mr. Jigger, she learned something new.

In the corner of the shop, near the cash register, a small wooden bassinet contained baby Tom, who occupied his time by chewing on his toes. There was a tiny mobile fixed above his head, put there by Mr. Jigger, who did love children. The mobile was charmed to whir around and dance for Tom; there was a turtle, a dog, a cat, and an owl that chased each other in continuum. The dog chased the cat chased the owl chased the turtle, which always looked to move a bit slower to Merope. She wondered if one of these days the owl would catch up and throw the whole thing out of balance.

When Jigger was out of the shop, Merope would chatter things to Tom; tell him what kind of root she was chopping, for instance, or what sort of vegetables she'd bought for dinner. She would sing him lullabies, dark tales of Salazar, and her thin warbly voice would sound almost pretty as she crooned. When Jigger was in the shop, Merope was silent as the grave, for she was shy and unconfident in her right to be working there.

The salary of an apothecary's assistant was not very much, a mere 30 Galleons per month, but with the flat provided, Merope stretched her salary as far as she could. She'd bought herself a set of robes, simple black broadcloth for working in the shop, and some shoes. Tom got a proper baby's dress and diapers. The rest was extended to pay for groceries. In the winter, everything cost more.

With a jingle, the door shut as the boomslang customer left. Jigger's head peeked around the shelf, blinking at Merope, and his mustache twitched. 'There, now, Merope, that wasn't so hard.'

'I'm sorry, sir,' she said quietly. 'I couldn't remember where it was.'

'Well now you know,' he said. 'I'm going home for lunch. Can you mind things for me?'

'I- I suppose so, sir.'

'All right. If there's a leftover roast beef sandwich, I'll bring one for you. Mrs. Jigger makes a mean sandwich, she does… Don't burn the shop down, now.' He reached for his overcoat and hat, and caught the expression on Merope's face. 'I was joking!' Clang. He was out the door.

Finally Merope's hands could relax. She twisted them together and let out a deep sigh. Everything was eggshells in an apothecary. Merope could not help but feel clumsy and inadequate. She walked over to Tom's bassinet, gazing down at her son, reminding herself why she was doing this in the first place.

Tom stared back at her. His eyes were frighteningly intense. Sometimes Merope wondered if it was normal for so young a child to be so aware of everything. It made her feel like talking to him as an equal. 'It's all for you,' she told him. 'All of this. I want to make your world perfect. Clean. Beautiful. We'll get there, Tom, you just wait and see.'