Book 1: Lights and Lacunae

Prologue: The Eve of the Heir

Holding her stomach from underneath with one hand, a woman in heavy, moth-shredded blankets and threadbare clothing yanked herself up the steps to yet another house. She internally thanked the owners of this house for having the forethought to salt the pavement and steps, for she nearly fell face first onto the stone steps of the previous one. She muttered a mix of nonsense and mournful pleas for her baby to wait as she fumbled with the brass handle of the tall, mahogany door to the four-leveled victorian house before her. When it didn't give, she sighed, wrinkling her nose at her own, days old odor now seeped into the top layer of the blankets covering her. She rapped the door knocker mounted in the exact center of a pine wreath three times.

This is not the story of a boy raised under a staircase. This story begins on December 31st, 1926, and Merope Riddle is desperately searching the streets of London for a place to give birth. Her ragged appearance was enough for two halfway homes and one muggle hospital to turn her away and slam their doors in her face. She was used to rejection. Her own family scorned her the moment she fell in love with the rich boy from up the hill and her husband abandoned her the moment he saw her true nature. Yet, she endured for the sake of her child as she made her way through the Lambeth neighborhood.

Merope only had to wait for half a minute before a teenage girl with black hair and light blue eyes, accompanied closely by an auburn haired fox terrier, inched the door open. The child looked over her shoulder and yelled, "It's a lady in rags, Mum. She…" The terrier nudged its nose out of the gap and only sniffed at Merope's coverings before yelping and rubbing its nose against the inside carpet as it scurried away. The girl quickly shut the door and Merope cursed under her breath but perked up just as a woman in a heavy fur robe and the same hair and eye color as the girl opened the door a little wider.

"Can…oh dear…Can we help you, love? What's your name? Come closer into the light."

The woman outside held her stomach as she answered, her voice shaking from the cold, "W-we…Merope…Merope R-r-riddle is my name. I…We need a hospital. I l-l-lost my way, can you help me g-g-g-get to St. Mungo's?" Merope stepped into the light of the candle the woman inside held in front of her and looked up. The other woman's face recoiled and she nearly dropped the handle holding the candle when she saw Merope's face. Her mouth missed many teeth, her hair was a mangled mess of unintentionally coiled black hair. But worst of all in the mind of this woman, who pulled her fur robe tighter as a chill gusted through the gap in the door, were the cocked eyes of the woman standing on her porch. She tried to smile back at Merope but with every gust, the smell of the begging woman hit her full in the face and she nearly gagged.

"Just… oh, Lord in Heaven…One moment, please, my dear." The woman with closed the door in Merope's face only to open it again and say with a rag covering the bottom half of her face, "I don't know a St. Mungo's but there is an abbey that takes in women like you a kilometer down that road… Please, take this." The woman held out an assortment of coins Merope didn't recognize along with a single gold coin that dropped out of her hand and onto the stone as the woman shut the door once again.

When Merope heard the heavy latch of a lock sliding into place, she knelt to pick up the last coin, a gold Sovereign, she moaned to herself, "Filthy muggles. Don't think your arse's don't stink too. Maybe London isn't for us, Tom. No, I think the country is where our boy will grow, away from this filth. And this blasted fog. This…"

Another contraction racked her body, and she nearly hit the cobble as she slipped on black ice, only catching herself with a wild grasp at the metal gates. After a minute of silent weeping, she attempted to hide her face in the brick pillar to her right as a faint light appeared in the fog. Her body illuminated as the light's source, a small black walnut wand held by a woman not much older than Merope, taps her on the shoulder. Merope lurched away from the tapper, who lost grip of her wand, and the light snuffed out as the wand bounced off the cobbled sidewalk. Merope glanced with one eye to the wand, then up to the woman's cloaked, unknown face, and back down to the wand. With a quick move, she seized it off the ground before the woman could react. While still cowering against the brick wall, she tried once, twice, three times to cast a light spell before screeching, "LUMOS MAXIMA!" and despite the dense fog, a blinding flash of light burst from the wand. The young woman recoiled and tripped over the edge of the sidewalk and onto the road. She hastily scooted away from Merope, though still staying close enough to see Merope now pointing the wand at her face.

Yet another contraction hit Merope like a train and she fumbled with the wand, giving the woman the perfect moment to jump up and take the wand back. She pointed the wand down at Merope, hesitating against her instinct to stun the woman and walk away, and finally lowered it to say, "I thought you were a muggle. Are you alright? If you're in pain, I can take you to…"

Merope screamed in pain and frustration at the woman before yelling, "LEAVE ME BE, you bitch!" She whimpered and trembled in the pillar's corner again as the pain of the contraction subsided.

The woman, pulling her cloak closer to her body, frowned, tucked her wand back into a pocket in her cloak, grunted, "Fine. Suit yourself, mott," and disapparated with a loud crack.

Merope mumbles to herself, "We don't need her, do we Tom?" before slowly returning to her feet and stumbling forward.

The snow continued to come down in droves as Merope, despite having two more knee-buckling contractions on the way, made it two more blocks before finally collapsing in front of a large gate and into a small mound of snow. Groaning, she slid off it and leaned herself against one of the brick pillars beside the gate. When she looked up, pulling back one of the many blankets she had draped over herself, she saw Wool's Orphanage written into the bars of a gothic-iron gate. Looking inside, she saw a short runway for the gate and then a small set of stairs leading up to a gothic building with a large pediment in the front and a bell tower reaching up over the building, just visible through the fog. There is no light behind its considerable windows nor on the landing of the stairs. Glancing back down at her covered belly, Merope muttered, "I don't think I'm gonna make it to St. Mungo's, Tom. It hurts too much and I don't think our baby can make it much further either. I'm sorry."

Steeling herself and breathing heavily, she called out, "Somebody… please, help me! I'm pregnant… and I… I don't… I don't know how much further I can go. Please, just save my baby!" Through the fog and snow, a young family hurried past, led by a mustachioed man in a 3 piece grey suit. Before vanishing into the fog, the young daughter of the family pulled against her mother's grip, holding out a few coins which clatter to the ground a few meters away from Merope as the mother gave one last tug.

Merope crawled over on her hands and knees, scratching the coins into her palm. As she scooted back to the wall next to the gate, she looked down and amidst the unknown silver coins was a single gold coin that caught her eye. On one side was an effigy of a man with a thick handlebar mustache and short hair, surrounded by Latin words in the legend. Merope gave a weak chuckle as she turned it over to see a caped man on horseback trampling a dragon. She muttered, "Muggles. If only it were so easy."

Another contraction doubled her over, face-first into the snow beside the wall. Merope let out a small yelp before sitting back up to gaze at the limp chain holding the two parts of the gate together in a simple knot. Straining her body, she attempted to reach up to the dangling end of the chain but coiled back up as frigid winds and snow buffeted her against the even colder bricks. When the gust calmed, she tried again, her fingers lightly swaying the chain before she extended her arm and yanked the chain down. The knot unfurled and dropped with a light thud into the snow and she pulled it out from under the gate. After scooting to the gate's middle, she slowly stood and with great effort, lifted the iron cane bolt out of the ground.

As she yawned while opening the gate, yet another contraction knocked the wind out of Merope, sending her once more to her knees. For nearly a minute, her labored breaths sent waves of clouds into the cracked cobblestone sidewalk. When she attempted to stand and push against the gate again, the cane bolt screeched against the pavement and stopped short of a small set of stone stairs. Bordering the pavement on both sides were small patches of unkempt grass and a lone wagon with a missing wheel still visible under the snow.

Using one hand to hold her stomach and the other to brace against the stairs, she slowly climbed up as the main door to the building and the porch light flickered on. Two women in long, ragged sleeping gowns and white aprons peeked out the door and gasped when they saw Merope clawing her way up the stairs. The younger, with a wavy bob haircut, hurried forward to help Merope up. The other, far older and wearing a sleeping cap, grasped the rosary around her neck and muttered a prayer under her breath before hurrying back inside. As Merope slowly climbed the short steps, the younger woman continued to brace her and said, "Oh, my dear. My dear, what are you doing out so late in the freezing fog?"

Merope breathed heavily a couple of times before muttering, "My baby… please save my baby. I have some… I have money…" She reached underneath her blankets and into a loose pocket on her tattered gown to pull out the gold Sovereign the young girl dropped earlier. She reached into another deep pocket and brought forth a handful of bronze and silver coins that made the younger woman raise her eyebrow. Desperately trying to place it in the young woman's hand, she continued, "Please… Just take it. I… It's all I have left... My husband has more if you... Please, my baby..."

As soon as Merope said baby, the young woman knelt to close Merope's hand on the coin and replied, "No need, my dear," and then pulled them both further up the steps and through the agape door into Wool's Orphanage. The hallway inside was dimly lit with a mixture of candlelight and electric bulbs, one of which flickered until the older woman waiting by a room to the left tapped it with her left hand and it stabilized. As she walked forward, she took Merope's other arm and told the younger woman in a slight Irish accent, "Ms. Cole, please go fetch us some water and fresh linens while I take…" She paused for a moment to gently place a hand on Merope's face and looked into her slightly cocked, dark brown eyes as she asked, "What's your name, dearie? Mine is Ms. O'Shea, Delia O'Shea."

Merope focused on Ms. O'Shea's face for a moment before looking back down to her stomach and said with pain, "Riddle, Merope Riddle. Please, Ms. O'Shea, save my baby. Please."

After entering the small, well-lit room to the left, which had a small, elevated bed and a bedside table with medical supplies on top, Ms. O'Shea laid Merope down on the bed and walked over to a large sink to wash her hands. Over the sound of the water, she asked, "So, where's the father, Ms. Riddle? Or did he make a bag and abandon yuh'? You're narry the first bird to come here alone, this bein' an orphanage. Old Mr. Wool… died a ways back he did, left this place in his will to be set up as a place for young kids without parents to grow up nice and proper. O'course, didn't leave much to run the place so we're not the finest establishment. But we make do." After she finished washing her hands and turned around to dry them off with a towel hanging on a hook, Merope sat up to answer, "No, no, Mr. Riddle… My husband is waiting at his parents'. Good boy he is, went back to take care of his sick mother. I stayed in London to find a house for us and our baby but I started going into labor on my way home. No one else would take me in, damn muggles."

Ms. O'Shea cocked her head for a moment, but brushed off the unknown insult as she walked to the door, peered out, and said just loud enough for Merope to hear, "Now where's that lass got off to? Pump is just outside …"

Just as she said this, Ms. Cole hurried into the room with her arms overfilled with clean, white linens and her hands clutching a splashing bucket of water. Ms. O'Shea took the towels and hung them on the end of the wire bed frame as Ms. Cole set the bucket down next to the bed and said out of breath, "Apologies, Ms. O'Shea. Pump outside is freezing up so I had to get some from the showers down the hall. Figured warm water would do best here…"

Merope groaned in agony and both Ms. O'Shea and Ms. Cole rushed over to her and O'Shea asked, "How far apart are they, dear?" Merope grabbed both of their hands and squeezed hard. Ms. O'Shea met Merope's eyes and consoled, "Alright, let's get the lad or lass out of yuh. You'll be just fine."

Ms. Cole reacted by picking up a smaller cloth from the bed frame, dipped it in the water, and began to pat her head. Continuing to pat with the wet cloth, she asked, "We're gonna need to get you out of those layers, dear. Make it easier for us to get to the baby." She then helped Merope take off every layer of ragged blankets and makeshift scarves until all she wore was a ragged, sickly gray gown.

Ms. Cole recoiled for a moment at the wave of stench coming from Merope and Ms. O'Shea tapped her on the shoulder and muttered in her ear, "I thought this might be the case. Go get us some soap and a fresh candle." When Ms. Cole got up to fetch the soap, Ms. O'Shea said while preparing the medical tools on the bedside table, "Ms. Cole is gonna grab us some soap so I can get your lowers cleaned up a bit. Make it safer for the baby. How long have you been in London? Your accent sounds like you're from the country."

Merope, sweating a little now despite taking off her outer layers, mumbled her reply, "Not… not long. Mr. Riddle sent me here just a couple of days ago. It was hard to find a place to stay for me and the baby."

Ms. Cole returned with the soap and a few more cloths and Ms. O'Shea said, "Alright, lass, lift your legs a bit so I can see what we're working with. Ms. Cole, light please." Ms. O'Shea recoiled for a fraction of a second after looking under Merope's blouse but got right to cleaning the area for the birth. Ms. Cole returned to consoling and patting a wet cloth on Merope's forehead as Ms. O'Shea continued, "By George, you're near to popping, love. I think we're ready to get you pushing now. Ms. Cole, grab a hand. Ms. Riddle, don't be afraid to squeeze hard. Ms. Cole may look frail but she can take it. When we ask you to push, I want you to take 3 quick breaths and push with your abdomen as much as you can and then take a short break, alright dear?"

Merope, sweating profusely, grabbed Ms. Cole's hand with one and reached behind her to dig her grimy, long nails into the elevated head of the bed frame. Ms. O'Shea brought out the cloth she was using to clean Merope's undercarriage only to see a horrifying mix of blood, feces, and dirt covering the cloth. She tossed it into an empty bucket on the other side of the bed and grabbed a handful of the extras from the frame and shoved them underneath Merope's legs and butt. Grabbing Merope's other hand, Ms. O'Shea said, calmly, "Alright, Merope, give it a good shove. Clench your arse and let's get that babe out."

Merope screamed and gasped in pain as her legs shook and she gave her first painful push for a few seconds. When she finished, she collapsed back into her pillow and breathed heavy. Ms. O'Shea let her have a breather for a minute or so before getting her right back to pushing. This process, push and relax, push and relax, went on for half an hour before Ms. O'Shea finally said, "Alright, we've got the head and shoulders, just a few more pushes, love. Come on Ms. Riddle, you've got this."

After another few screamed-filled pushes, a blood-soaked baby finally emerged from Merope and onto the linens. Ms. O'Shea gently held the baby's head and neck as she beckoned Ms. Cole, "Alright, scissors, clamps, and forceps, Ms. Cole. Ms. Riddle, you've done…"

Ms. O'Shea stopped short as she looked down at the baby. Its dark eyes locked on hers and a sudden rush of cold flooded her, sending goose pimples up the back of her neck. The baby's chest rose and fell as it took quick breaths without breaking eye-contact. Ms. O'Shea looked down and back up to confirm with Merope, "You've done great, Ms. Riddle. You've a little lad, here. Don't mind the lack of crying, it happens. Breathing is fine but…"

Both Ms. Cole and Ms. O'Shea gasped as they saw Merope's head tilt and go limp and bang against the wire back of the bed frame. Ms. Cole let go of Merope's hand, placed the back of her hand on her head, and looked to Ms. O'Shea to say, "She's gone hot. Too hot."

Ms. O'Shea quickly worked to cut the umbilical cord, clamp it off, and clean up the rest of the blood under Merope's gown. She wiped off the now crying baby boy and handed him off to Ms. Cole, who stood up to move out of the elder's way. When O'Shea felt for a pulse in Merope's forearm, it was becoming fainter by the second. She gently shook Merope and said, "Come on, girl, stay with us. You haven't lost much blood. I've seen far worse and kept the girls from seein' Styx."

After a few moments of Ms. O'Shea gently shaking her, Merope groggily came back to consciousness and asked, "Where…. Where's my baby? Where's my boy?" She looked up to Ms. Cole, who had been rocking the crying baby in her arms to calm it down. When Ms. Cole saw Merope had come back, she carefully knelt to bring the baby boy closer to his mother. Merope weakly brought up a hand to stroke the boy's face, whose eyes now locked with hers, and smiled as she weakly said, "Oh, a beautiful boy. He has his father's eyes. Oh, my Tom…"

Merope looked up to Ms. Cole and said, "Tom, that will be his name. After his wonderful father. Yes, Tom. And Marvolo, after my father. He must keep our line. Tom Marvolo Riddle."