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1
Merope is aching and cold, with a babe on her lap. Some nights, she contemplates leaving the child behind and walking away. She feels as if she's battling an inevitable fate, a conviction that she doesn't belong here. Everything around her seems bleak, and exhaustion weighs heavily on her from the constant care required by her baby.
She feels her heart strained to the point there isn't much affection, her arms and hands all move rigidly to try and fulfill her babe, but how do you feed another when you have nothing to give?
Merope, get a grip. You’re a mother.
Merope looks at the child in her arms. The baby doesn’t cry, just gives small whimpers of distress; its piercing eyes seem more aware than Merope thinks.
She tries for a watery smile, patting the baby clumsily.
This isn’t his penance; it’s mine.
Still, it was difficult.
*-*-*
Tom was always different. Other children got to play outside and have new dolls, but Tom would sit beside his mum and read a book.
“It’s a good day outside,” she’d encourage.
“But this book is too good for me to stop,” Tom argued, his eyes glued to the page, his brows furrowed in concentration.
Merope shook her head gently, her heart aching as she watched her son choose to stay with her rather than venture outdoors and make friends his age.
He was more intelligent than he should be for a four-year-old. Sometimes, Merope wished he’d stop growing up so fast and remain a child, free from worries.
Merope cleaned the kitchen after meals, scrubbing the dirty muck with her bare hands until her skin was raw and red. She wore a different garment from the other adult females, who donned respectable dark grey attire with a white covering for their nursing work. Merope wore an old brown woollen dress, her tangled hair hidden under a dirty, yellowish cloth. It wasn’t really different from what she had grown up wearing in the shack under the harsh rule of her father, assisted by her brother. Merope had never known a different life.
At least here, despite the scorn, she was not alone.
Merope took the pail of dirty water, ready to lift the stairs.
“I want to do that, Mum!” Tom, always her little helper, unlike in the shack, here, she had someone who actually cared.
A normal mother would chide their son and tell them to sit still, but her bones were aching, and Tom was so resourceful. Before lifting the pail of water, Tom stared at it in fierce concentration before easily picking it up.
Her son was different, special. He had magic.
*-*-*
Perhaps living in the orphanage and being damned to clean after Muggles was the penance for her crime. Merope saw it every day, the evidence of her mistake in her son, who tried so hard to survive the harsh livelihood of living in Muggle London.
If Merope were a stronger woman, she would find a more respectable job or move back to her village and raise her son in a better environment. As it was, Merope was not strong-willed, and she was too much of a coward to return to Little Hangleton and face him—the man of her heart. Deep down, Merope understood that Tom didn’t deserve the harsh treatment, the differentiation, the scorn from these Muggles… the only sin he bore was being her son.
Watching him grow with such struggle should have inspired Merope to be better, but she was a shell of her former self, lost without guidance. She wandered the streets for months, searching for a way to survive her heavily pregnant state. She became weak on the brink of death.
She could have died; it would have been so easy.
But the soft cries ensnared her heart, and Merope thought that if she were never allowed the treasures of the world, it would be fine because she was allowed him.
The matrons gave her food and allowed her to heal. Months went by, and her baby grew. The orphanage requested that she either find different lodging or make her stay useful. Merope had no other skills but caring for a house, so all she could do was clean the large orphanage in exchange for sanctuary and a warm belly.
She should have been proactive, helped Tom mingle with other children, but things happened without her being able to stop them. Tom did not cry as a baby, but whenever Merope put him down, the glasses would crack.
When he could walk, she encouraged him to explore, but the other matrons already sensed something deeply disturbing about Tom and never let him mingle with the other children.
“I don’t want to play with the others anyway,” Tom had stubbornly said. But her heart knew the truth: her boy was hurt, yet she still did nothing.
Life was harsh for people like her; she was too timid to do anything but observe in silence.
She tried to encourage Tom to follow her lead, become more invisible, and work in silence. She understood her role. Tom had difficulty accepting it.
This was her penance to pay, not Tom’s. Her sweet boy, her salvation.
She still recalled Tom Senior, the man who forever held her heart, how his expression turned horrified, and how he ran from her as soon as he was clean from her potion.
“You witch! How dare you lure me, use me!”
She had foolishly thought he would see things differently. That with her pregnancy, he would finally see they were meant to be together.
“I would have never fallen in love with someone as ugly as you!” It was true. Merope had bald spots on her head, her eyes were misaligned, and her complexion was sickly and unattractive, coupled with years of poverty and poor hygiene, her teeth were rotten, her nails black stumps.
She had thought, for a moment when she was free from her uncle and father, that she could escape her predicament. Tom Senior had been such a gentleman, accepting her glass of water. When he loved her, it was the best feeling in the world, and she became greedy, wanting him to marry her to have his child.
But it still turned to nought.
Wishful thinking brought one nowhere. They shunned her on the streets; if she thought about it sincerely and honestly, she knew this was her penance, her price to pay. In a Muggle orphanage, cleaning and picking up after them.
At least her son should be given hope, should be given some reprieve. He was the best of her. The handsome face of his father and more potent magic, more than Merope could ever hope for.
The best of both of them combined.
*-*-*
"Where's my dad? Do I have a dad?"
"No." Merope is on her knees, scrubbing the floor with more vigor, the grime sticks on her forearms. "You don't, Tom."
"Is that why I'm here? I don't have a father."
"Somewhat." She wasn't good with arguments, but her son loved to ask.
Tom sits, cross legged on a dry floor, using the slanted lights to help him read. "At least I have you," he says casually, resuming his book.
Tears join the soapy floor.
*-*-*
"I don't understand, Mum," Tom voiced in frustration, breaking the silence of their cramped basement room. "Why must we hide our magic? Why do we live like this?"
"We just have to, for our safety!"
She wasn't good at words She tried to soothe him, to help him with his random bursts of anger. But she doesn't know how to do something she's never experienced.
He was four and already so attuned to his magic, so eloquent with his thoughts. But he was still a child who didn't understand why adults were wary of his presence or why children ran away from him. Merope petted his head and pushed a book in his hand.
"Come read a book while I wipe the windows."
Tom stared at his mother, not picking the book up, unmoved.
"Tom boy, I am working here see-- we don't want no trouble. If you don't want to read, you can play."
"No one will play with me."
through the troughs of Merope's personal depression, she could sense, her son felt shunned, was upset, unhappy.
What could she do about it?
She closed the thought, batted it away as easily as she swiped the damp cloth on the glassed window.
*-*-*
Tom's first burst of magic was when he was a toddler, and other children had been stealing his bread. Tom had done something to their fingers. Merope had lied to the matrons, saying they fell.
When he was three, he was levitating a plate onto his lap. Merope had to hastily apologise, promising profusely that it wouldn't happen again.
"We take you into our home, under God's graces; there will be no devil worshipping!"
When Tom was four, he used magic to keep them warm throughout winter.
"Mum, I can do whatever I want with my will."
"Not really." Merope had to stop Tom from taking the food, from hurting the other children, form using magic.
She hadn't been among wizarding society as much, but she knew, if things got out of hand, they could be sent to Azkaban.
She internally shudders, no one wants to be sent to Azkaban.
"Performing magic among Muggles was wrong," She tries to explain.
"But we live among muggles."
That was harder to respond to.
Tom was upset; he thought the world was unfair for treating them so poorly.
"Mum, you're a witch; you can take over this whole building."
Merope swallows thickly. Tom is brilliant, but he is wrong. "I can't, Tom. My magic isn't as special as yours."
"What do you mean? I got my magic from you, didn't I?"
Yes, but she was battered and ruined. The little sparks of magic, too weak to show anything.
Her father spoke of magic a lot. Morfin, her brother, had a wand and used magic properly. But neither of them have been formally trained, and in Merope's case, when she tried, her father had said her attempt was pathetic.
"What use are you if you can't even lift a spoon?" He pulled her hair and tried to force the magic out of her. She cried and cried, but the only sensation was a flutter under her skin.
"Worthless!" her father shouted.
Her magic was worthless.
They called her stupid, ugly, a waste of pure blood, and Merope believed them; she couldn't do anything right. She didn't know how to work in the real world, her life consists of the dreary and ruined shack. It was only because she fell in love with a Muggle that she worked hard to learn how to speak proper English. Because of him, she braved the outside world, if only for a glimpse.
She was a whimpering figure, eager to cower among the shadows.
But for him, she finally acted for the first time.
And what did she gain from it?
"I hate this Orphanage!" Tom screamed, suddenly hitting and kicking the newly scrubbed wall. Merope tried to pull him back, he turned on her and scratched her arms, her face. "Use magic to burn it! Burn it!"
"No! Tom!"
"Burn!"
Merope knows of one magic, a hand clamped over her son's forehead, whispering in the ancient parsel language, a song to sooth.
"Feel the wind dance and play, calming storms in its sway, hush now, serpent, find your peace, hush now serpent, let troubles cease."
Tom rested his head against her blossom, eyes closed and asleep.
*-*-*
Merope cried and begged, "Please, please, you can't. He wouldn't do this! He won't!"
"We saw two children unable to speak, Merope! Your child has to go, and you with him!" Mrs Cole said, her voice shaking. "We should have done this long ago... but we were too lenient, hoping the Lord Christ could save you."
"Please! Out there, we have nothing to survive on! He's just a child; if you must, I will leave, and you will have one less mouth to feed, but please let him stay!"
Tom refused to leave anywhere without his mother.
"Let's go somewhere where I can freely use my magic!"
Merope shook her head; she didn’t know how to survive in the Muggle world. In the wizarding world, without her magic, she felt worthless; her father and brother could find Tom, and she shuddered at the thought of what they might do to him once they discovered what she had done.
Ultimately, the Pastor showed some mercy and allowed them to stay.
"I don’t want to stay!" Tom shouted. "I will create our own house and our own food with magic!"
Her eyes filled with secrets and sorrow, Merope whispered, "All good things come in time, my love."
But it was another lie.
2.
Merope couldn't teach Tom about Muggle reading or math, but she was proud to teach him one crucial lesson: Parseltongue and Parsel magic.
Tom struggled to behave around the other children, and Merope feared that one day, he might act out in a way that would test the matrons' patience, risking their expulsion from the orphanage. She would have him sit close to her while she worked to keep him occupied, using this time to practice Parsel magic.
She had already explained the existence of different backgrounds. Although Tom was initially frustrated about living among those who couldn't perform magic, the promise of a new lesson quickly appeased him.
Merope fondly recalls the first time she brought out a snake, hidden in her apron pocket, and spoke to it. The sight of her son's face lighting up with eager joy is a memory they both cherished deeply.
They were starved for these moments.
*-*-*
Tom received his letter to Hogwarts; a wizard named Dumbledore visited them. Merope felt anxious upon meeting the wizard; his stern demeanour and disapproving frown reminded her too much of her father and brother.
They discussed a scholarship program; Tom would be able to purchase his books and robes. Merope had never ventured into Diagon Alley or bought anything for Hogwarts herself. It had been a long-lost dream, as she wasn’t deemed magical enough to receive a letter.
Her son, her precious jewel, was destined for the very best.
Entering Diagon Alley, many looked down on her, mistaking her for a Muggle, mainly because of her attire. But Merope held her head high, letting Tom lead their discussions and purchases, exploring the magical world for the first time together.
She should have moved beyond the dream of wielding magic herself, acknowledging something inherently flawed within her that made magic more elusive despite her pure lineage. She regaled Tom with tales of their ancestors, the esteemed Gaunts and Slytherins, instilling a sense of pride.
For the first time in years, Tom behaved like a child his age, holding her hand, marvelling at the shop displays, avidly reading everything, and tightly gripping his new acquisitions.
They enjoyed ice cream and had a pleasant lunch at the Leaky Cauldron. A part of Merope wished to extend the day further, each trying to convince the other to indulge in their interests. Tom wished to linger over books, while Merope was drawn to the clothing and magical potions.
One potion promised to alleviate her joint pain.
Yet, the scholarship funds were limited and wouldn’t stretch to cover all their wishes. Reluctantly and with a pang of jealousy, Merope conceded that Tom’s needs must come first.
But I am of better blood. Why must I relent?
The treacherous thought made her skin go cold.
Merope slipped into the bathroom for a quick wash and caught her reflection - a visage marred by age, dirt, and neglect. Guilt washed over her; she should have offered this day to Tom. He deserved it.
Her eyes misted with remorse. How could she harbour such resentful thoughts on the happiest day of her son’s life?
Did she even deserve to be a mother?
“Mum, look, I had a few loose knuts and bought you this.” It was a small vial, the size of her thumb, a Pain Potion.
She embraced him then, as she should have, freely and openly every night he deserved. She had been distracted. Too consumed on her own life, on the pitfall on her chest.
Perhaps this was his reward.
*-*-*
The first year was the last Merope was allowed to send Tom off at the platform.
Merope had awkwardly embraced her only son, her eyes staring at all the wizard and witches, in their gallant and expensive robes, peppering kisses over their children's forehead.
Merope self consciously dusted her apron, she was in her wollen grey dress and yellow apron, her hair, she made sure to tuck them all under her cap. she wiped her oily face a bit, her cheeks were naturally red because of the chill.
"I- goodbye, Tom." She started, clutching his arm. Her son, in her school robes, his hair properly combed to the side and with old shoes (the best she could find lying around in the Orphanage), newly cleaned, her heart stuttered. He looked so proper.
Tom held her hand once, released it briefly before gripping it again.
They didn't hug or share kisses, but being surrounded by other parents and children, Merope tried, knocking her chin on top of his forehead.
"I- you are my son." What were the words people said to those they cherished?
Her husband had once said he loved her. But he was under a potion, a spell.
What were the real words that people said? Something her father has never once said to her. "You are priceless. Special."
"I know." Tom's lips lift a little, and he waves her goodbye.
Merope returns to the orphanage, cleaning a hundred dishes until her hands are badly pruned.
Afterwards, no matter the holiday, Tom insisted on going and returning alone.
*-*-*
It was difficult to adapt to life without her son.
She would eagerly await his letters. Taking a glance at the sky every chance she could get. The matrons added more work for her, they would loudly complain and mock her poor handiwork, as if the absence of her son gave them courage. Merope quietly absorbed it all, knowing there was nothing she could do.
During those days, she wondered what magic could help end it all as painless as possible. Since her son's absence, it was easier to fall into the comforting dark thoughts of her mind. Life was so difficult. What did she need to survive for?
The sight of an owl flying across the sky helped her forget her gloom. Pulling her out of her misery and helping her forget for two minutes.
She had difficulty writing, but she tried her hardest to read what her son wrote. She didn't know how to write back, so she would try to find a tiny morsel from the kitchen to send to her son.
She didn't know the words to tell him anyway.
The letters became less frequent.
Tom decided to stay for every holiday.
And every summer, he returned taller, his voice deeper, his spine straighter, features more handsome, echoing the man she had fallen in love with.
Cold and distant.
*-*-*
"They called me a liar."
It’s the summer before his fourth year; her son has dark circles under his eyes, scribbling manically in a black book she can't read.
"Who, son?"
"The others. They say I can't possibly be a Gaunt," His eyes narrow in a challenge. "They say Riddle is a Muggle name, and that means my blood is not pure."
Her heart pounds in her chest; Tom has asked about his father before, but she carefully dodged any question about him, not wanting to revisit her mistake.
But she should have known she couldn't keep it from Tom forever.
"Is it true, Mum? My father was a Muggle?"
She swallows the lump, the darkness it keeps her paralysed. If she could rewind time, she would give up her son and stay in that past, that world forever.
Kissing her husband was like tasting warm caramel on an apple, smooth and sweet. The way his eyes used to look at her, so dreamy and happy, life then had been perfect, and Merope hadn’t cared about blood or magic or the pure lines. Tom Snr showered Merope with gifts, fulfilling the void in her heart.
"The apple of my eye." Her husband declared their wedding was lavish in a muggle church. Tom Snr's parents couldn't stop them. Their 'love' was too strong.
The villagers had whispered and mocked in their disbelief, "He doesn't really love her."
She had been foolish then, falling to her own romantic whims, wanting to believe her husband's words were sincere.
She’d been denied happiness for so long that when given the opportunity to create her own, she took it with two feral hands, desperate.
She thought, with a child, it was irrevocable proof. Evidence of their love.
His handsome face changed in an instant, anger, fear, hatred all shown in his eyes.
"I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU!"
She was irrevocably changed, heartbroken in ways no magic could heal.
"Yes," she answers. "Your father is a Muggle."
Tom stood, his magic cackling in the air, and she saw the rage, the anger, "How could you?" he whispered, and it was louder than a shout. "How could you do this to me? Sullied yourself. My pure blood! You’ve ruined my future! You’ve tainted our blood! No wonder he left us to rot here. He's a savage and weak Muggle—"
Smack!
Merope was breathing heavily, shocked by her own actions. Tom tentatively touched his smarting red cheek.
He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
The look on his face-bewildered, disappointed- they pained her too much to linger. She only knew how to cower, how to stay away.
"I don't ever want to talk about it."
*-*-*
Tom didn't speak to her for three days.
She had nothing to say to him to justify her past choices. But it was the past, and the thought of it made her want to drown, so she was desperate for something, a lifeline.
She knocked on his door. The small room they shared on the ground floor of the Orphanage. The window overlooked the gardens. The light helped Tom read. Tom was on his bed, sitting cross-legged, an open book on his lap, a snake slithering around his neck.
Her son was growing into his features, taller than her now, his posture improved, and his hair shiny and well-curled. Some days she wondered if his magic came from her too, because he existed as a separate entity.
No matter how heartbroken she was, she had loved and been happy. And her son was proof it existed, that there was once a time in her life that someone said I love you to Merope Gaunt.
Her son didn't understand. He wasn't at fault.
She gently sat beside his bed. Tom ignored her. He was angry, she didn't fault him.
Merope’s back was hunched, and her face oily. She tried to tidy her hair and fiddled with her fingers in her lap. her brain so sluggish, struggling to form coherent speech...
"There is a story… about a secret passed through generations of Slytherins…" A small offering of peace.
Tom was quiet, but his body straightened; he was listening.
"A secret chamber, deep in the castle. It harbours a creature…"
*-*-*
Tom helped Merope lift the pail of water without being told; she didn’t know if he could perform magic outside of school. But there was never any trouble. No other witch or wizard came to the orphanage to warn them. Tom too seemed to know more about the rules of the Wizarding World than she did.
He could do things she couldn’t imagine could be performed, some magic. Without a wand, the muggles were right to stay away from him. She watched on with mixed envy and pride.
Once, she saw her son muttering incantations by himself, hand outstretched, able to summon something to his hand without a wand.
He was a strong wizard, a strong boy, and she knew then, whatever he wanted, nothing would stop him.
He didn't have to be like her.
He could be happy.
3
London was at war, the muggles explained to her that there were news of bombings and it shook Merope. She knew Muggles were dangerous, but she couldn't grasp this type of danger. She didn't understand what magic was at play.
All she knew was the pictures, the whisperings she overhead.
Tom returned home that summer, asking her what they should do. She shrugged, not knowing where to run, how to fight muggle bombs.
Tom gave up asking and went on the streets, finding the answers himself.
He secured her a position so she could leave the city and work in the countryside, away from London.
"Please, my grandmother, she has no one else to care for her." He would plead in a foreign, sweet voice.
Merope's cheeks flushed pink, embarrassed to be identified as an elder, pulling her cap where the coarse hair tried to escape. The dirt on her neck and arms was almost permanent. But she remained quiet, following her son's lead.
"You're a good boy," said one of the strangers, readily accepting Merope into a group home for the elderly. "Will you be taking care of your grandmother?"
"I can't. I must go to school."
Perhaps as a mother, she should insist he stay with her, to protect him.
But at twelve, her son was already stronger than she could ever be.
She embraced her son goodbye; her son didn't return the embrace. He was already as tall as her shoulders. No one would ever guess he was her son by how he looked, so cut and clean. She wondered where he learned to dress, to act in that way.
A proper pureblood.
He never sent her a letter; she was worried but didn't know how to contact Hogwarts.
She tried not to be alone and kept her hands occupied with work and instructions at the Home. They told her to rest, but she needed to move to stop the thoughts wrapping her brain.
At night, too exhausted, she was relieved to succumb to sleep.
What if her son died?
What if he died?
What if she died?
She closed her eyes and slept.
On his birthday, six months in the countryside, she reminisced about the pain of giving birth, the tearing ache in her pregnant belly, and the splitting pain between her legs. The fear of dying alone and what would happen to the babe she carried overwhelmed her. She wanted it all to end, all her life's suffering, her father and brother's harsh words, her lover's rejection, her failed plan. It all seemed to focus on and amplify the painful experience of her birth.
The matrons helped her, muggles without magic, cutting her and letting her bleed as they raised the babe and laid it on her chest, exclaiming how beautiful the babe was. She wanted to leave.
Then she saw his eyes.
Dark black and void of anything.
A flicker of light, of hope, a gentle thought, why not hold on?
Merope didn't understand what the emotion was, but she felt it. It felt like there was something to live for again.
But what was life now? Here, a stranger among Muggles, with no lover to return home to, a son who had forgotten her. How long can the flickering light hold? The darkness felt heavy, ready to consume her.
By magic, she received a small package filled with Christmas sweets from a wizarding shop late at night. The soft ember exploded into a bright sun; the darkness was held at bay. She smiled rather childishly, cradling the sweets to her chest.
Her son had not forgotten her!
*-*-*
After almost another year of nothing from her son, the sweets were kept in a wrapped cloth, only admired periodically. The last thing she expected was to see her son standing at the entrance, asking for her.
Tom returned, but they weren't returning to the Orphanage.
“We’re staying somewhere else.”
Tom led her to an empty townhouse with a circular purple roof; she never questioned how he had gotten it. It was obviously muggle, but it was close to the Leaky Cauldron.
“You can cook and clean or rest. No one will bother us anymore.”
"How about money."
"My school funds are enough."
Merope accepts his lies, not wanting to disturb her new life. Her home.
She's never had one.
And now Tom has given it to her.
Tom spent many days painstakingly drawing runes with charcoal and salt on the inside walls of their home. She traces over them with her dirty finger, hissing parsel magic, hoping to strengthen whatever magic he used.
Merope still woke up early, cleaned, and cooked. But this time, it was for herself and her son. She felt like a new person, rejuvenated. Tom taught her how to use the witch cleaning products and showed her what would help with her hair.
"This way, you no longer have to wear a cap." He threw away all her old clothes, giving her new ones.
She had giggled like a little girl; he had smiled, and she missed the dark circles under his eyes.
She never asked how he could afford it, but it was all there: vials of potions—food in cupboards.
She was clean, and the air smelled different. Her sickly body found strength.
The dishes in a sink filled to the brim with soapy water. The rhythm of her scrubbing synced with the bustling noises of their small, cosy kitchen. For once, the mundane task didn't feel like a chore but more like a celebration.
Music played in the background was classical, just as Tom liked.
Tom had taken on the provider role in his own silent, brooding way. He bought groceries, left the house after breakfast, and returned late at night, donning proper robes and shiny shoes.
He was fourteen, already an adult.
"I'm leaving," Was his goodbye.
"Is there dinner?" Was his hello.
She would move around, stirring pots and tasting the broth; a thought struck her—was this her slice of happiness? Had she paid her penance?
She still couldn't look at her face; some damage was difficult to undo after years of neglect. Her eyes couldn't be corrected, her face was too square, her cheeks sunken, and her complexion too pale. When she smiled, she hated the sight of the brownish-black stain on her teeth. But the hair potions were working, and she ran a comb through her short locks, seeing the brown sieved through.
It felt like hope.
*-*-*
4
That summer, right after his OWLs, Tom explained it would help him get a proper job. Merope had never inquired about his results, she couldn't read as much, her sight was blurring and her movements were slow. But she trusted him. He would succeed.
Throughout his absence, she tries to comfort herself by telling herself that her son has plans, essential parties to attend, and meetings to do. Her son was a doer, and she did what she did best: wait.
Then, one day, her little bubble exploded. She didn't expect Tom to have met...him.
"He lives in a mansion! With his parents and Mum, he has...everything!" Tom returned one day, eyes red, veins on his forehead and neck strained, hair dishevelled, and a tear in his robe.
"I was expecting him to be worthless, but he has money! And when I visited, he knew me. Knew I existed!"
Merope flinched. It felt like an accusation to her as well.
"He could have taken us," Tom whispered to himself. The candles extinguished, and they were enveloped in darkness. "We didn't have to suffer."
No, Merope deserved to suffer. She knew it but couldn't say anything; Tom didn’t deserve... any of it.
“I met him.”
Merope gasped, immediately afraid, “What did you do?”
Her son’s eyes gleamed red, and he had a cruel smirk. He looked different, his skin greyer, as if darkness had tinged his presence.
“What I had to do.”
*-*-*
The atmosphere in their modest home had subtly shifted; Tom was now an adult, donned formal robes daily, leaving the house looking fresh and determined, but returned each evening shrouded in a gloom that seemed to cling to the walls, thickening the air with tension.
Merope said nothing, going on with her day of cleaning and cooking. There was no change to her routine. Some days, she stayed in bed all day, and Tom said nothing.
She noticed unopened letters strewn across the table, bearing the crests and seals of prominent families. They were invitations, money, bigger things than her small existence.
She observed her son in passing, and neither said anything to the other in weeks.
When her son left for Hogwarts, Merope felt the energy of her days seep from her. She had food, and no one bothered her, but her house was devoid of music, of purpose. Empty. She had no will to move. Everything in her body felt heavy.
Merope had finally managed to read - albeit slowly. Tom hadn't sent a single letter.
She thought it was over, the part of her life where gloom still clung to the walls of her life. She thought she could finally be free.
But she was still paying a penance.
*-*-*
That summer, Merope was hopeful of seeing her son again. He didn't return home as usual, and Merope's heart felt heavy and let down. Putting away the food she cooked for dinner. It was getting dark; perhaps her son was visiting a friend. He'd return tomorrow, surely.
She slept that night with her heart uneasy.
When she awoke the next morning, it was chaos and screams. There was a loud bang, and the earth shuddered. Merope's mind brought her back to the threat of bombs, and her heart quickened. She gathered her clothes, put on her boots, and followed the running crowd, eyes darting everywhere, searching for the source of the disturbance.
"What is it? What is it?" They were all asking, searching the skies. Buildings were falling and destroyed on the ground—more terrified screams.
The ground cracked underneath them, Merope had no one to hold her, and she was trapped among the sea of Muggles. The earth gave way to a large black creature. A humongous snake, the height of the tallest taller.
Its eyes were bright yellow, and muggles were fainting- no dying where they stood.
Wearing a silver mask and black robes, a wizard weaved with his wand, hissing orders at the creature.
Tom, Merope's brain thought in horror.
His anger engulfed the ordinary streets of Muggle London. Under his command, the deadly Basilisk turned innocent Muggles into stone with just one look, claiming lives in mere moments.
Why was he doing this?
Merope navigated the panic-stricken streets, her desperate and persistent calls for Tom cutting through the air. "TOM! TOM!"
The creature-- a Basilisk-- grazed buildings, snarled at the muggles and began chewing the dead ones with disturbing ferocity. Tom was standing god-like on its head, looking below at the sea of destruction behind the eerily white mask.
She has no strength in her legs, but she keeps running after them, her hands waving, her heart hurting, pleading, "Tom! Please stop!"
The Aurors materialized and surrounded the Basilisk, wands drawn to confront the nightmare Tom had unleashed. Their eyes were obscured; it protected them and made defeating the creature difficult.
"Tom!"
He finally sees her, and his arms are wide, shouting at her, "Are you proud of me, Mother?! Do you see the revenge I would do for you?"
A punishment her son did not deserve to feel.
A punishment she allowed.
At that moment, Merope's heart fractured. Standing before her was not the child she once held nor the boy she raised, but a stranger cloaked in malice, wielding power and spite.
Merope knew she was the only one who could fix this. She stood directly in front of the creature and hissed. "Come to me!"
The Basilisk's eyes glazed, unable to deny a Speaker's request.
Tom hissed another order.
But Merope kept repeating that she knew the ancient language better than he did.
As soon as the Basilisk was in front of her. She confronted its lethal gaze, fabled to kill with a mere look, except for those of pureblood, the heirs of Salazar Slytherin.
Advancing, her resolve growing with every step, Merope extended her hand to the Basilisk, her touch filled with gentleness and strength she should have wielded long ago. Murmuring a spell passed down through generations, she calmed the mighty creature.
"Feel the wind dance and play, calming storms in its sway, hush now, serpent, find your peace, hush now serpent, let troubles cease."
Seizing the opportunity, the Aurors acted swiftly, their blades gleaming in the low light as they beheaded the serpent.
Tom was screaming, fending off the attacks, whipping his wand left and right.
The ensuing battle was a maelstrom of spells, ending in an eerie stillness.
The large creature fell with a loud bang.
Tom lay on the ground of Muggle London. Collapsing beside him, Merope's anguish filled the silence.
"I'm sorry," She reached for her son, too late. Tom's face was still under the silver mask. "My son, I- I'm sorry."