Hello guys, welcome to my new fic! Before we start, I'd just like to thank Mori99 and MJ Bradley for their support and actually getting me to write a fic. Make sure to check out their stories on their respective profiles on this site. Without further ado, let's get into it!
A crooked, decrepit shack slumped toward the surrounding forest and its bare, gnarled branches; its leaning roof sprouted a thicket of small trees and little mushrooms through a swathe of moss. The air swam with the thick, foetid reek of still and stagnant water. Inside, Morfin Gaunt sat hunched over a rickety chair, his face twisted with malice; his father, Marvolo, paced back and forth across the room, clutching a well-polished golden ring with a pitch black stone set at its centre.
A sudden crack echoed through the air and the shack's front door burst open. Aurors swarmed inside, wands drawn, their expressions grim and determined.
"What is the meaning of this?" bellowed Marvolo, leaping up from his seat. "You dare enter my home uninvited?"
"You and your son are under arrest," one of the Aurors declared. "For the use of Dark magic, the murder of a Muggle and the assault on Bob Ogden."
Morfin let out a low, guttural laugh, leaning back as if savoring the chaos. "Filthy Muggle scum," he spat. "They deserved worse."
"Enough!" The Auror stepped forward, his wand pointed directly at Morfin. "Stand down."
Morfin's hand twitched toward his wand, but Marvolo grabbed his son's arm. "Fools," Marvolo hissed. "Do you know who we are? We are the Gaunts, the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin himself, and you - you mudblood filth - are not fit to wipe the slime from our shoes!"
The Auror's eyes narrowed. "Do not make us bring you in by force, Mr Gaunt."
In response, a crackling beam of crimson red burst from Marvolo's wand, bathing the Auror in a sea of pain as wands snapped up in tandem all around him, casting bright vortexes of colour in his direction.
Morfin's twirled his wand, conjuring a shimmering green bubble that covered him head to foot, as Marvolo ripped the door off its hinges, slamming it towards the Auror squad. Quickly banishing it away, they retaliated with a storm of low level hexes and jinxes, casting fast, hard and accurate. Suddenly, a jet of violet slipped through and hit one of the two, who fell petrified to the floor.
Spitting out a string of hisses and curses, the second followed in quick succession, toppling immobile to the creaking floor boards; as he fell, a glint of ebony flashed from his hand.
"Morfin and Marvolo Gaunt," the Auror paused, sneering for a brief moment. "The heirs of Slytherin, you are under arrest for the assault of Ministry officer Bob Ogden. You will be taken to Azkaban to await trial for your crimes, where you will have the opportunity to prepare your defense."
As the two men were hauled out of the wards, a pair of beady black eyes followed their path, then snapped to the ground in surprise.
The sky above London was a sheet of cold gray, rain pouring mercilessly down below. Clutching her swollen belly, Merope Gaunt staggered on, her gaunt face set with determination; her breaths coming in shallow gasps as her tattered cloak hung loosely from her frail frame.
At last, she reached the heavy wooden door of Wool's Orphanage and knocked, the sound echoing in the still air. A moment later, the door creaked open, revealing a tall, severe woman who frowned as her sharp eyes scanned Merope's disheveled appearance.
"Yes? What do you want?" she asked briskly, though there was a trace of concern in her voice.
"I…" Merope's voice was hoarse, barely audible. "I need… to leave my child here." Her hand cradled her belly protectively even as she spoke. "Please… help me."
The woman hesitated. Her expression softened as she noticed the trembling in Merope's body and the exhaustion etched into each line of her face.
"Come inside," she said, stepping aside. "We'll take care of you."
Merope entered the orphanage, her thin form dwarfed by the high ceilings of the entry hall. The matron guided her to a small, dimly lit room, where a cot had been hastily prepared. As Merope sank onto it, another contraction tore through her. She cried out, clutching her belly, and the staff rushed to prepare for the birth.
The hours that followed were filled with pain and struggle. Merope's strength ebbed with each passing moment, but she held on, her heart clinging to fragile hope. At last, as the first light of dawn crept through the window, a sharp wail pierced the room.
"It's a girl," one of the attendants said softly, placing the newborn into Merope's trembling arms.
Merope gazed down at the child, tear tracks streaked down her face. The baby's tiny features were delicate, but her dark blue eyes gleamed with a quiet intensity which pierced her to her very soul.
"Emily," Merope whispered, her voice barely audible. "Emily Merope Riddle."
The matron watched silently, her expression unreadable, as Merope leaned down to press a kiss to her daughter's forehead. Then, with trembling hands, Merope reached into the folds of her tattered cloak and withdrew a small, black stone. It glinted in the dim light, and faint etchings were visible on its surface, thin white lines scratching jaggedly through the smooth ebony surface.
"This…" Merope murmured, placing the stone into the baby's tiny hand. "This is for her. She… she may need it one day."
Her voice faltered, and her body slumped against the bed. The matron moved quickly, but there was nothing to be done; Merope's breathing had slowed, her chest rising and falling in laboured breaths until it stopped altogether. She passed with a serene look on her face, still cradling her daughter to her chest.
The matron took the child from her mother's lifeless arms, and yet the baby made no sound, only gripping the black stone as tightly as if it were a lifeline. As the room fell silent, the clock in the hall struck six, marking the beginning of a new day, and the birth of a girl whose name would one day be whispered in both awe and fear: Emily Merope Riddle.
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