Apologies for the spasmodic updates. It's partly due to the fact that I've had a shedload of exams and coursework and things to do, partly because I've suddenly gone off and started writing this original thing, but mostly because I'm just quite lazy.
THE HOUR OF NEED
The first thing Merope did with her ten galleons was convert it into sickles. She then concealed the one hundred and seventy silver coins in various places all over her clothing. A few in her socks. A few in each pocket of the coat Tom had left her. The rest went in secret pockets and folds she'd sewn into her clothes, over time.
Food was worth more in the muggle economy than it was in the wizarding one, so Merope went shopping in Diagon Alley. The food on offer there tended to be better than what she'd been used to from the muggle marketplaces. It was fresher, as it was Flooed straight from the farms, instead of having to travel for days to reach London. However, those at the lowest prices tended to have been magically replicated a lot, and once a loaf of bread had been recreated as seven loaves, it lost its flavour and goodness.
She didn't like spending time in Diagon Alley. There were far fewer utter failures in the wizarding community. In the muggle streets of London she could sit quietly and people would pass her by without a second glance. There were so many of her kind, life's losers. If she tried to sit outside the Leaky Cauldron people passing would stare and whisper. Instead she spent her time alone, sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, watching the geese squabble. She'd sit completely still with Tom's coat wrapped around her, feeling the heat slowly drain out of her body, until she could almost feel that she'd been frozen into a statue, before shaking herself back into life and going for a walk to get her blood flowing again.
The house was empty the next morning. Tom's father was at work, his mother at a coffee morning, the maid on her day off. Inspecting his wardrobe, Tom found that all his clothes had been freshly washed, ironed and hung up according to colours. He picked out his best shirt, waistcoat and trousers and laid them out on his bed, before running himself a bath. He sat in the steaming water, scrubbing every inch of his body until his skin tingled.
Dressed and smelling like a gentleman, Tom called himself a taxi from the telephone downstairs and sat for a few minutes in the empty parlour before temptation got the better of him and he investigated the pantry. His mess from the previous day had been cleaned up. He was more discreet this time, cutting a slice of bread and spreading it thickly with butter and blackcurrant preserve. The taxi arrived while he was still eating it. The driver wrinkled his nose as Tom climbed into the car with it still in his hand, but said nothing.
He paid the driver in Great Hangleton and set off towards the barbers. His mother had dragged him there every month when he was a boy to have his hair trimmed to an appropriate length. He paid for a haircut and a shave and stepped out looking even smarter. He paused at the florists to buy the biggest bouquet of flowers they had on sale. It was a magnificent affair, a huge armful of red roses, wrapped in the most expensive paper.
Walking up Cecilia's lane was an apprehensive affair. Twice Tom slowed and almost turned around and walked away, roses in hand but both times strengthened his resolve and carried on walking. He rang the doorbell and waited on the doorstep, picking at his fingers as he heard the footsteps inside approach.
It was her mother. Mrs Ballingston looked at the nervous young man with his enormous bunch of roses on her doorstep with little amusement. "You'll be wanting Cecilia, I presume."
"Yes. I… yes. Thankyou, ma'am." Tom stuttered as she shut the door on him. He listened to her footsteps walking away. There seemed to be an endless silence, then finally lighter, softer footfalls that got louder as they approached. There was a click, and the door slowly opened.
Involuntarily, Tom inhaled sharply as he saw her. Her hair didn't fall down her back any more; she'd had it cut to just below her ears, where it stayed close to her head in little blonde curls. Gone was the elaborate clothing she'd always liked to dress in, replaced with a plain blue skirt and a shapeless, dark grey top. Her face was hard, her eyes piercing.
This wasn't the girlish, submissive doll he'd been engaged to.
"You." she said, unsmiling, shaking her head slightly. "I heard you were back. I wondered if you'd come and see me."
Tom smiled weakly and offered her the roses. She glanced down at them but didn't take them. "I never did like roses, Tom. I find the scent sickly. And I remember I told you this on a few occasions but you never learned, did you?"
Tom's smile faded, pulled the roses back and let them hang limply by his side. "I'm sorry."
"It's not really that you should be apologising for, though, is it?"
She was so beautiful. Tom took a deep breath. "I can explain everything. Please. Can… can I come in?"
For a second she seemed to start to move backwards to let him through, but then her eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "No, you can't, Tom. There is no way you can explain what you did, so there's no point." She ran a hand through her hair and seemed to grip at her skull. "Have you any idea how much you hurt me? A week before our wedding, you suddenly run off with some tramp? And what you wrote in that letter! If I had not met someone so much better… it nearly destroyed me. I kept thinking, how dreadful and repulsive must I be, for someone like her to be so much better? Her, who beat me into unconsciousness in my own house and left me tied up in my own wardrobe, suddenly you loved her."
"No, I love you. I love you so much. I never stopped loving you, never. Never. And I promise, if you give me another chance, I'll give you everything you ever want. I promise." Tom was aware of the note of desperation in his voice but couldn't help it.
Cecilia shrugged. "I don't care any more, Tom. I wasn't going to wait in hope of you coming back forever. I'm courting someone else now."
Tom choked slightly. His mouth opened and closed a few times and his face contorted in pain. Finally he managed to say, "Who?"
"Frank Pratt."
"As in the butcher's boy?" Tom stared at her, shocked. This was, after all, Cecilia Ballingston he was talking to. How could she be courting some bloody-handed butcher?
"Yes. The butcher's boy. You know, someone who's actually earning their own living instead of depending on daddy's estate? Someone who actually likes me for who I am, instead of the nice little baby spawning wife that I could be."
"I never –"
"Yes, you did. You never listened to me. When I said I wanted to learn about electronics you just laughed at me. Frank isn't like that. He's five times the man you could ever be. Of course, my father isn't happy about it." Her face twisted darkly. "When I started courting you he was thrilled. Sometimes I think… you and I, it was all just a big plot devised by him." Her hands curled by her side as she spoke. "Sorry, Tom, but there's nothing for you here." She looked at him one last time, smiled in a way that could almost be a grimace, and shut the door.
Tom clenched his fist around the stems of the roses he still held in one hand and felt the pulp yield under the force. He slowly turned and began to walk back down the lane.
Merope mostly had the park to herself. There was a couple who'd come a few hours ago, trussed up in winter coats, scarves and gloves. They occupied the rival bench, eating sandwiches together. When they'd finished they threw the crusts on the ground for the geese to eat. As soon as their backs were turned Merope moved, falling to the ground from her own bench to snatch the crusts from the ground and plunged them into the pockets of Tom's coat. She congratulated herself back at the bench, as she pressed them, one after the other, into her mouth. This was a free gift, so she could eat it quickly. Crumbs of potted meat still clung to the edges. She'd had had to get up to pee six times in the last hour, although each time she dragged her freezing body from the bench to go and squat in the bushes, she only passed a tiny amount.
She held a tiny sliver of meat in her mouth. Every few seconds she'd bite a corner, just a corner, and let the flavour released diffuse around her mouth. The small things in life. It was the small things she'd miss. Twilight was starting to fall on the park. It would soon be completely dark. Another day would soon be over. She finally swallowed the tasteless, overchewed piece of flesh in her mouth.
It was a slow feeling of pain, that crept up on her without her realising before suddenly she was immersed in it and it took her a few seconds, a few seconds of uncertainty that seemed to extend for hours until the rush of realisation and fear hit her in one huge wave.
She sat for a few minutes waiting, but nothing else happened. She felt her bump tentatively. Nothing seemed to have changed, but how could she tell? She hadn't planned it to happen like this. For one thing, it was supposed to be daylight. The night was creeping up fast. She imagined for a moment staying, trying to have her baby alone in the cold darkness. It wouldn't work. She would lose warmth too fast and die of cold, leaving her baby to die too.
There was the Leaky Cauldron. Merope thought about going there, throwing herself on the mercy of the people there. They would help her, but they would ask awful, prying questions. Being magic folk, they'd know of Amortentia. They'd understand exactly what she was trying to hide if she tried to talk about her husband unexpectedly leaving her. She couldn't face their judgement.
Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe she'd just imagined the pain. Maybe it wasn't happening. Merope sat hugging herself on the bench, waiting for some kind of confirmation. Tentatively she slid one hand under the waistband of her skirt and into her underwear. Her fingers touched something wet and slippery. Retrieving her hand, she squinted at it in the dim light. It was tinged with red and brown liquid.
She wiped her fingers on her skirt, the tears coming to her eyes. She clasped her hands together, offering a silent prayer to Slytherin, hoping that He would watch over her in her hour of need.