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in another universe
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Merope is screaming.
She knows this because of the expression on the midwife's face. She’s grimacing, and she’s telling Merope all sorts of things that Merope can not hear- supposed to be soothing; supposed to be calming, supposed to make her forget that she is burning from the inside.
No; she has the time to think; her voice growing hoarse; her screams loosing intensity. She’s not burning; she’s being torn apart; and Merope can’t breathe, can’t even manage to think- she feels like she is dying. Perhaps she is; perhaps it is the punishment she had feared to come; and Merlin would rob her of her life, of what she managed to make of it, of her child.
Of her child-
“Only a little more!” the midwife is begging, urging. “Push a little more! We’re near the end!”
Merope wants to gouge her eyes out. Let’s her see if it’s only a little more, if it’s not tearing her apart; wants to give her all her pain; all her sorrow, and that screaming coming from her throat- that burning- she is dying, she is sure of it; but she doesn’t want to die until she sees her child- until she sees her baby-
She can not die until then.
She had dreamed of it-! She had dreamed of pale silver eyes and darker hair; she had dreamed of feeling her baby’s heartbeat under her fingers; of pressing her child against her chest. She had dreamed of joyous cries and babbles, she had dreamed of that love that grew inside of her; that swallowed everything, everything…
She screams; and she cries out; and she sobs; and she- she falls back on the makeshift bed.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps. She has no energy to talk, to say anything- but she wants, she wants so fiercely that it gnaws at her very heart. Merope tries to push herself up, only to fall back, devoid of strength, devoid of magic.
Something is pressed against her chest. A little bundle; noiseless, so very silent-
Fear flows through her. Pure, unaltered, terror. Her heart beat faster, and faster; and she is so terrified- she could not bear it- she knows she couldn’t- her baby- she wants her child to be fine- to be so perfect- she knew he was perfect, how could he be nothing else- but now, now, she feared- why was he so silent, why was he not making any noise-!
And suddenly; against her; a cry.
A child-like wail.
Relief flows over terror so quickly that it makes Merope cry. Tears run along her cheeks, and she laughs- breathless- so very very very happy that she knows not what to do of it; she had never felt such happiness; and she wants to laugh and she wants to cry all the same.
She is set ablaze by her pain, her joy.
“Your baby, Miss. It is a boy,” the midwife whispers, and slowly takes off the fabric that covers him, her baby- her child-! Hers, hers, hers; and she gazes at him, he is all red; but- oh. He is so small; she had not expected it.
Tiny little hands, tiny fingers closed in a fist; reddened cheeks and closed eyes. So young; so little; and with a little button-like nose that resembles her in nothing. Nothing at all. She wants to laugh; louder; but is too breathless to do so. Instead she kisses him; she can not refrain so; kisses his little cheeks and feel the warmth of them; and she feels a ball growing in her chest.
It grows and grows, and swallows everything; and leaves her unable to breathe.
It is love; and she’s so full of it that she almost fears crumbling under its pressure.
“What do you want to call him?” the midwife quietly asks. “What is his name?”
Merope watches him. She watches; and she sees Tom in those little features; in this perfection. And her baby is so very perfect; so very beautiful; nothing like she is. She loves him so much already; that she fears she would die should he be taken from her.
“Tom,” she breathes. “Tom Riddle. After his Father. And- Marvolo, Marvolo, after mine.”
She hears only the midwife agree; Tom to be taken from her- she protests, she tries to get up- but she can’t, she’s too weak- black dots dance in her vision - and then she knows no more.
Only black.
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Tom is every inch the perfect boy she had dreamed him to be.
He is only six; and it is not an easy life that Merope gives him. She knows as such; and it flares guilt in her chest; the brightest of pain, to know that he deserves more than what she can offer him. They had been so kind at the orphanage, letting her live there until she could find some work; and the first year she tried to help them in any way she could.
She had gone with the Matrons, learned how to take care of children while Tom napped on her shoulder, and learned how to cook by scratch. She had helped clean the place; and came back to Tom sleeping; and her heart had swelled and swelled until she could have sworn that there was no place left within her ribcage.
He had been so calm; even then. Never screaming; never shouting- but watching her with his big eyes; so huge that they seemed to swallow his face. Dark eyes- and it had pinched her heart upon seeing it, that he had not inherited his Father’s, but they are hers. Once had he risen his fingers, touching her eyelids, and he said “Like Mama” and she had been unable to escape from the warmth that had risen in her heart.
He still is calm. Tom is so wonderful that she can not believe he comes from her. From Merope, Merope The Witch, Merope the Outcast, Merope the Wrench, Merope the Ugly. He looks like an angel; like those statues in Churches; and when he smiles, when he smiles, she wants to press kisses all over his little cheeks.
He is a curious boy. He likes to watch; and he likes to understand – and this, this, comes so much from his Father that guilt swallows her once more. How his Father too had liked to understand the world, how he had gazed at it, so full of questions and wonder for it; how he delighted himself in finding an answer… But Tom is also quick to anger. He does not scream, never screams, but he holds his breath, and turns all kinds of red and purple that make terror wash all over her.
Angers when he is refused something; angers when he doesn’t understand something. Merope tries to do her best with it; to quietly explain. She loves him, oh she loves him so very much, but she remembers Marvolo’s fits of anger and Morfin’s insanity, and she does not want that for her child.
She refuses then; when his desires are nothing but whims. She says no; and he turns red; and she tells him that she will not change her mind, even with coercion. Usually, the use of a new term surprises him enough that he halts in his anger; stops to ask what it does mean.
Merope uses that, after. She is aware of the manipulation; but it works, she tells herself, it works- so why shouldn’t she use it? She distracts him from his anger with knowledge; and he loves it enough to turn his attention to it.
With time, his whims come less and less frequently. Instead, he cajoles. He raises his eyes at her; and he pouts, and he says Mama please; and Merope falter from time to time.
She has not much money. She works, now, at a café a few streets away from the Orphanage. She used to let Tom go there; let him play with the other kids; before realizing that it did nothing but stir their jealousy. Tom has a Mother, and at the end of the day, he leaves for the comfort of a home. They do not. They can not.
Slowly, she manages to put some money aside. So very little of it- but there is something that weighs on her mind; something that makes her try her hardest to have money for Tom. Merope dares not to use it; not when it makes her remember something she does not want to, but it will come for Tom.
It had not come for her. She had been alone in their house in the woods but- she doesn’t want that for Tom. She wants him to embrace what he is- embrace his inheritance. Already small fits of magic follow his footsteps. He is too young to notice; but Merope is not.
His toys float, sometimes. He too- had been levitating, managing to steal cookies from a jar hidden from him. He speaks what she thinks; and Merope had learned all her life to avoid eye-contact, fearing what she might learn, what she might know, but Tom… Tom gazes at her proudly. He gazes, and Merope thinks, and he knows.
It is a dangerous power. But her son is powerful, that much she knows. She does not understand where it comes from. His Father had been a muggle, and Merope… Merope… She is as close to one as a witch can be.
He asks for his Father, sometimes. He wonders- where is his when others kids have both parents. Merope says nothing at first. She deviates from the subject- but then she gives him little things. She says that she made a terrible thing, and that his Father left. She says it wasn’t his fault. She says a little about her family, says that they aren’t kind people.
Tom learns to not ask. He hides his curiosity; accepts that she can not talk about it- not yet.
It is two months after his six birthday that she tries to do magic again. Tom is sleeping, his belly full of cake and his lips of laughter; and there is a new plush toy in his bed. It is a little owl, and Merope had had only to do a few hours more of work to afford it. It is brown, and it has a yellow beak; and Tom already loves it so very much.
He named it Aristotle; and Merope had smiled at the name; had kissed the top of his head, and said for it to be a very fitting name.
And now, now, she creeps out of her bed. She marches to the little closet in her bedroom, and throws behind her the socks and night clothing contained in the drawer. Merope’s hands are shaking. It is only a try, she thinks, she tells herself.
Nothing could come out of it.
Her heart is beating fast in her chest when her eyes fall on it. It is as she has left it- and slowly, oh so very slowly, she comes to take it.
Its wood buzzes under her hand; warm in a way she could never feel accustomed to. She points it at the closet, and sparkles come from its tip- making her drop it.
She darts an eye at the door. A second pass. Another.
Tom is still asleep.
Carefully, Merope takes the wand once more between her fingers. She bites her lips, and swallows- realizing only now that there is a huge lump in her throat, made of anxiety and wonder. She points her wand at the door, and murmurs:
“Alohomora.”
The door slams shut.
It startles her, and she scrambles on the floor- wand falling from her hand.
It worked- it worked- Merope thinks, and her eyes are wide and her breath harsh. She made- she made-
She’s magic.
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Merope tries with little things.
She knows very few spells. Only what the Aurors had screamed, and what Marvolo had told her- and he had known very few of them too. Perhaps four or five. But with the few spells she knows, she tries them again and again.
The first time she tries to duplicate something; she makes the teapot explode. Fortunately, Tom is at school – she has an agreement with the teacher, she comes to clean his house thrice per week and Tom can join the class – but she is startled enough to hide her wand inside her closet for two weeks straight.
But slowly, her powers grow. Perhaps it has something to do with Tom; Tom who sees his own powers grow as well, who can now voluntarily levitate his toys, who knew what the teacher was going to say before he had even said it.
Merope is forced to make him sit down, one day, when he is eight, and explain. He is sitting in front of her, and she stands behind him, a brush in her hand.
“We are special,” she murmurs to him.
Tom twists his head to watch her with huge eyes; beautiful dark lashes, and fascination. He loves it when she reads him tales, when she explains something he doesn’t yet know. He sees her word as law; and Merope loves him so very very much. It will not last, she knows, relishes in it as much as she can.
“Special, how?”
“We can do things that others can’t,” Merope says.
She brushes his hair, and he fidgets away; never one for touch. She laughs at the sight, but respects it, and offers him the brush from him to take.
Tom hesitates a second, but shakes his head. “Do it please,” he says. “You do it better.” Then, after a pause. “Like my toys?”
“Like your toys,” Merope agrees. She takes the brush again, and begins to tame his hair. “And when you look at your teacher’s eyes, and you know what he thinks. Ordinary people can not do that. We have a gift, Tom. We are not the only ones to have this gift- but it is rare enough to be something of honour. It means we come from great ancestry. It means your ancestor – and mine – was a great man. A great wizard.”
“A great wizard…” Tom quietly repeats.
“We are magic, Tom.”
“Magic. It is magic that I can make?”
“And what exactly can you make, my heart?”
“I can make my toys float. I can see what people think. I can move- very fast.” Tom takes on a sheepish air. She isn’t sure that it is entirely honest, but she cares not for it. “I used it to steal the cookies, Mama.”
She laughs, and kisses the top of his head. “Oh, I know, Tom. You hid it very poorly.” She taps on his forehead, then, very slightly. “I would have seen it here, had I not seen the crumbles on your bed.”
“You can too? Read my thoughts?”
A shadow passes on her face, but she is quick to hide it. “Yes,” she says. “But we should not do it too often. It is- it is an invasion of privacy, Tom. You would not like for people to know what you think all the time, would you? You must use it with precaution. Never for bad things.”
“But how can I know if it is a bad thing?” Tom asks.
She thinks of it, a second. “I suppose it depends. If it is to help someone; then you can. If it is to help only yourself, and it will prove itself bad for them, then you should not.”
Tom frowns. “But sometimes I need help too.”
“Then you should trust your judgement,” Merope says. She presses a hand over his heart. “Do you feel it? When you do something that is wrong, you feel it here. It can be small or very intense. But you feel something. You should look for this sensation, when you want to look into their eyes. If you feel it- then don’t.”
“Like when I’m sick, and I feel bad everywhere?”
Merope shakes her head. “Do you remember the time you got angry with Jimmy; and said something not very nice to him?”
Tom’s cheeks get a red hue; but he nods. Jimmy had been one of the kids at the Orphanage; one of Tom’s friends; but they had gotten in a fight about a goldfish, or something like this, and both had said very nasty things that had left Tom to be grounded for a few days.
“Didn’t you feel something in your chest, after? Something telling you that you had done a bad thing?”
Tom hesitates. His little features frown, and he seems to think very intensely about the moment.
“I don’t remember,” he admits.
“Then when I told you that we couldn’t get to the Zoo, and you broke the plate.” Merope's tone is a little harsher. She had been very angry that day, and she had forbidden him to have dessert for a week.
Tom is quick to nod. “Yes,” he says. Then, very quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Merope gives his cheeks another kiss. “It’s forgotten. But think of what you had felt, then. Think of it when you want to look inside their minds.”
Tom agrees; and she finishes brushing his hair. He is beautiful after that, hair all combed, and with the nice little clothing that she had bought for him. Her heart swells once more at his sight, and she thinks of how lucky she is.
After their talk, she tries to find out more about the wizarding world. She does not know how to do it; how to find more information on their world, but she tries. She goes to libraries, and she looks for witchcraft books- but all she attracts are curious glances. They think her a witch, and are almost right; for if she isn’t what they think of, she is magic.
But those books are all tales. She gives them to Tom still; because he wants books now; not toys.
Merope looks deeper. She tries to wander London, trying to look for people standing from the crowd- and twice she humiliates herself, asking about Merlin to women that understand nothing of what she was saying.
She is almost desperate- when, one day, sitting in a parc, she hears hissing.
“You are looking for the wizarding sssstreetsss,” a snake is hissing- and Merope turns her head to see an adder in the grass. She goes to it; immediately, bends to pick it up.
It tries to bite her, but she shushes it- and it stills. “You speak? You speak!”
“I speak,” she says. “Were you talking about wizarding streets…?”
“There isssss a ssstreet,” the snake hisses again. “Behind another sssstreet. Ssssearch for the Leaky Cauldron.”
“The Leaky Cauldron?” Merope repeats, unsure of what she has heard.
“Yessss.”
Tom is overjoyed, that night, to have another friend to look after. The snake is too, crawling for warmth under his shirt. He soon reveals himself to be a she; and is named after the stars.
And, Merope, Merope, she looks at her map of London for a Leaky Cauldron.
She finds it. She stares for a few seconds at her map; and she swallows. It is there; written plainly for her to read. She traces the letters with her fingers.
The entrance to the magical world.
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Diagon Alley is… everything she has ever dreamed of.
It is as she had imagined this world she knew nothing about; the one her Father and Brother had forsaken, the one that thought them strange, bizarre. And yet- as Tom and her enter it, as they wander, eyes wide and heart wider even, both feel this strange emotion.
The one of fitting. As if something had been taken from them, something that they had not known about; and only now remembered.
They feel magical.
They feel whole.
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Tom is weary of this world he knows so little about. Merope can see it in his eyes, even without piercing the veil that protects his mind. He clutches her hand a little fiercer, stands a little closer; and in each of his glances weigh protectiveness and fear.
She lets him, never one to refuse him affection; and her own grip tightens on his hand. Merope is not the girl – not the witch – she had been all those years ago. She works now; has her own money, her own flat. It is small; and sometimes the water doesn’t work very well, but it is hers.
She did it by herself, and she gives it freely to Tom. She will never have the confidence of her Father; nor the wicked presence of her Brother. But Merope is not a frail thing anymore; not one to shy away from every noise. She has made the most wonderful things of all; after all; a child that is so utterly perfect and beautiful that it should mean something about her too.
They do not enter the wand shop, not yet. Tom is only eight; and she fears of what could happen should he put his hands on a wand. It is not a dread-like fear, but an amused one, for she knows how he delights himself in his experiences and discoveries.
Instead, they enter the pet store.
“Mother,” Tom says, that formal name he uses when they are in public. The word is almost foreign on his lips, but in it, he manages to convey the genuine delight he feels. “Mother,” he repeats in an awed whisper. “Look !”
And Merope looks. She must be gaping, she knows; but she doesn’t care. She looks and looks, almost drunk on the sight, eyes going from owl to owl, from hissing cats to jumping toads. She wants to laugh, and she knows Tom wants it too- but he clutches her hand harder.
“They use the owls to send letters,” Merope says; remembering. They had received only two letters- the first one from Merope’s cousin, announcing his wedding to a Nott. Her Father had seethed and seethed, said for them to be impure, to come from creatures.
The second had come from the Aurors. They had warned-
“Letters?” Tom repeats, eyes widening even more. They stand out on his face, dark eyes with darker lashes; so very doll-like that Merope wonders at their beauty. “They don’t get lost?”
“You will have to ask the shop owner,” she tells him.
Tom gazes at him, hesitating. But there is hunger in his gaze, greed for knowledge – so very akin to his Father that it makes her heart miss a beat- and, very reluctantly, he drops her hand, going for the shop owner.
She hears him ask; “How do you make them obey?” to the wizard, which laughs, and begins to explain the relationship between wizarding folks and owls.
Merope listen with one ear only; distracted by the shop. She glances back to make sure that Tom is not watching her and fishes for her pouch, counting the coins. She doesn’t know the prices here- but perhaps she would have enough for an owl.
She hopes so, at least, and decides to ask the shop-owner as soon as Tom will go explore the shop.
And indeed it isn’t long before he does just that, tired of the shop-owner and his slight condescendence – the one given to children. Merope never does that. Tom is her child, but he deserves to be spoken as someone capable of understanding what she is saying; and she still does not understand why the Matrons spoke in such a childish voice; kneeling, babying the kids.
“How much for an owl?” Merope quickly asks, her voice a hushed whisper, when Tom is smiling in front of one of the cages.
“Depends. It goes from four galleons for the old ones to nine galleons for the hatchlings.”
Merope hesitates. “Galleons?”
Comprehension flashes on the shop-owner’s face. “Oh, muggle-borns are you? You haven’t changed your muggle money yet? Well you’re on your lucky day, Madam, I wanted to go on the muggle part of London anyway – go see some family. In muggle money it’ll go from nineteen to fourty-four pounds.”
Nineteen pounds? Merope blanches, a little. But she has only to glance back at Tom, softly petting the head of a cat, to make her decision.
“Where are the oldest owls?” she asks.
The shop-owner points a direction – and indeed, there are dozen of cages. She thanks him, and reaches for Tom in a few steps.
He is still petting the cat. There is a smile on his lips; a faint one, all genuine joy, and once more her heart swells with love. She wants to give him the world, she knows; and Hogwarts might be the first step toward that.
Merope knows he will be a fantastical wizard. He is already an incredible boy; curious, so clever, kind when he wants to, so very creative.
“What do you think about an owl?” she says; and his face lights up.
“Really? I can have one? Which one?”
“The one you want. But you must swear to take good care of it.”
“I swear! I swear.” There is much solemnity in his little voice; and his features are so serious that it makes Merope laugh.
His little face frowns, never liking to be the butt of a joke, but she presses his hand in hers.
“Go on then,” Merope says, smiling. She points in the direction the shop-owner had shown her. “Which one do you want, my heart?”
The last words are hissed- for like all children, he tends to get very red and ashamed when she says her love for him in public. And she knows how Tom relish in it, this language only shared by them; the heritage of a greater legacy.
They leave the shop with a brown Morepork, an owl coming from New-Zealand, the shop-owner had said, and twenty-two pounds less in Merope’s pouch. She doesn’t care- not when Tom has such a bright smile on his face.
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Tom’s letter comes, on the 31st. They both stare at it for a few seconds, and then they exchange a glance – so happy, so delighted, that Merope’s heart swells and swells.
It is time for a wand, she thinks.
Tom tells everyone on Diagon Alley about his letter. In the three years since they first entered it, he has managed to woo every shop owner. He smiles; missing two teeth; and he beams, and more than once does someone gives them discounts or free items.
Merope always watches him fondly when he does so. Sometimes does he turn to her, when they are alone, and does he say in parseltongue “They are so very easy to fool, Mama, are they not?”
They come back with a wand, and a promise from Ollivander. Tom is destined for great things- but Merope hasn’t waited for him to know as such. It pleases her all the less to know that she isn’t the only one to know it; that Tom will be someone.
He makes candles float at home; and after a few tries, Merope manages to do it so. Tom had been successful on his first try. He is gifted at it, already, and is so very pleased by magic that her own reluctance towards it fades a little bit.
If Tom likes it so much, then perhaps it is not as bad a thing as she had once thought.
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Watching Tom leave for Hogwarts is perhaps the hardest thing Merope has ever done. She stands on the platform, and she waves.
Tom is by the window – and she can already see two children with him. His owl is on his shoulder, his snake around his neck, and on his lips, he wears a smile she has begun to know best.
He will do alright; she persuades herself. He will do just fine.
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The letter comes three days later.
Mother,
I was placed in Slytherin!
I can't stop thinking about it. First we went into a big room, you would have found it beautiful. Then we took a boat across a lake - and there was a giant squid inside. I was in the same boat as Abraxas Malfoy and Druella Rosier- they asked me lots of questions about our ancestry when they saw my snake. They said we came from pure blood, like you told me, and that means we're better than the other wizards. They were impressed when they found out you were a Gaunt and I was too. They told me I should use that name at Hogwarts, not the other one.
I don't want to give up Father's name. But they say Gaunt commands respect. Maybe I could combine the two?
I met with the Headmaster afterwards and the teachers. One of them is really weird, he looked at me for a long time and I closed my mind, like you told me. He had an orange and purple robe, absolutely atrocious to look at. Then we got up on a stage and put on a hat that assigned us houses. And he said that I was destined for great things and that Slytherin was going to help me tremendously! He didn't even hesitate with another house.
We had a buffet afterwards - and there was more food than I've ever seen. I stole some and sent it to you in the package. Then we went to a dormitory, and we went down to the dungeons! You can see the lake from my window! I share them with Abraxas Malfoy and two other wizards: Theophilius Nott and Magnus Crabbe. They have such strange names there.
I have already many friends; they are so strange, it’s like they want someone to command them or I don’t know; and they’re all looking at me when we need to decide on something. I think I like it. They say it’s because I have the purest blood. I said nothing about Father.
Hogwarts is a dream. I wish you could come and see it. I don't know if the parents can but Abraxas' dad is on the school board, maybe I can ask.
Kisses - I miss you
Please answer me quickly
Tom
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Mother,
I made it onto the Quidditch team! I'm one of the youngest on the team, but Abraxas joined with me as a Beater. I'm a chaser. No team has as many second-years as we do; they say it's because we're really good.
I'm sending you some cakes I stole from the buffet, and some chocolate frogs. Thanks for the scarf, it's beautiful! Abraxas was jealous.
Druella told me that her mother wanted to meet you. Let me know if you'd be interested. I can tell her no easily if you don't want to. You don't have to, she's just nosy.
I took your advice, I try not to talk to Dumbledore too much. I don't know why he hates me so much. All the other teachers say I'm very talented. I'm sure I'll be at the top of the class this year, like last year.
We bet on it with Abraxas.
Answer me quickly
Tom
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Mother,
I won't be home for Christmas this year; I've been invited to Abraxas Manor. Can I go?
I found a spell for your eyes. I think it might work. We were studying for the final exams, the O.W.L., and I came across it.
I miss you.
Tom.
More than once does Merope thinks of Tom. Not her son; but the man she has wronged. The one she had made suffer; for she does not want to find excuses for herself, but she had been so unknowing of the world back then, and had thought it to be her only escape. She knew not of morality then, not when being raised by Marvolo Gaunt, and she had always been taught that should she want something she should go for it.
She had not known then- but it is not an excuse.
The more Tom (her Tom) grows; the more he resembles his Father – and the more he shines. He is but a fine young man, now, so far away from her little boy; but she loves him as the first day.
He never asks about his Father, now. She knows curiosity gnaws at him, and there are few things he truly respects, but her pain he does. He refrains from asking her about his Father, he knows how painful a subject it is. Merope is so very grateful for that.
Tom is only seventeen and yet he is already a powerful wizard. But he had been powerful at eleven too- had always been. He stands high, and is the very figure of beauty and strength. Merope couldn’t be more proud of him.
He has a small circle of friends around him – although she knows it isn’t quite what they are. Followers perhaps- and Tom already has his sights on the Ministry. Those are easy doors to reach, with his power, charisma, name, and friends.
Merope decides on it, one day. She has been spending the day with Marcelina Rosier, Druella’s mother, which has proved herself a friend, against all odds. She has even helped Merope to find work in Diagon Alley, in a potion shop, where she manages the stocks. Maybe she will even own the shop, one day.
Her hands are trembling when she seizes her quill. It is such an easy thing to do – merely writing – and yet she can not bring herself to do it. But she must- she must, for Tom’s sake. Tom who will finish Hogwarts very soon, who deserves to know his Father.
Merope breathes.
She begins to write.
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Tom stares at the letter.
He had said nothing about it to his Father and Mother, merely hid it in the pocket of his vest before going back inside. He had felt it, felt its burn as if a warming pad.
And now that it is laying there, in front of his very eyes, he can not bring himself to touch it.
It is a nightmare come alive- memories suddenly brought back to the surface. It has been seventeen years, seventeen years of trying to bury them, of being stared at, of being laughed at, seventeen years of trying to live again.
It is her handwriting on the letter. Her name too; and he is half a mind to throw it in the chimney.
But… seventeen years after, why would she write to him? He had hoped that she was dead, or perhaps lost somewhere. It’s been seventeen years and Tom can still remember the very moment he had woken from her curse.
He had been dizzy; trying to find an anchor on the ground; and she had looked- and she had looked with dark eyes and a smile- and he had felt, he had felt- she had been so ugly to look at- horror and terror had washed through him- and she had wanted a kiss-
Tom had felt as if thousands of bugs had crawled on his skin. He had scurried to his feet; and he had wanted to scream, cry; and laugh- laugh perhaps because she had done it, the wrench, she had done it! She had cursed him; and she had had what she wanted; his name, his money; his soul-
He is shaking.
Slowly, as if in a haze, his fingers come to open the letter.
He is afraid. No. He is terrified of what might be written in it. He fears that she says she will come back; he fears that she will curse him once more; he fears for his freedom, for his mind. She had broken his life, and his spirit, and he-
He opens the letter.
Tom,
She calls him by name- she has no right. None at all.
Tom,
It is a hard letter to write. Harder to read, I know. I am- I want to say, first and foremost, that I am sorry for what I did to you. I know that excuses won’t change what happened; nor do I ask for your forgiveness. What I did was beyond forgiveness, and I do not deserve it.
I wish to explain, perhaps. Please do not throw this letter to the fire.
You have a son.
Tom drops the letter. It falls from his hands- he finds that he can not breathe. He- what? He has- He has-
His lungs cry from the lack of oxygen; and unease, terror, incomprehension, incredulity all at once crawl within his chest.
He picks up the letter again, feverishly-
I say it so harshly so I know that you will read the rest of this letter.
You have a son, and he is everything that is perfect in this world. He resembles you so much. He is curious, and he is intelligent, and clever, and handsome, and charming, and successful at everything he choose to direct his attention to. He is in every way the perfect son- and while I have made the most horrendous thing in the world in enthralling you, I can not regret the existence of Tom. You can hate me for this but I love him more than the world
Yes. I named him Tom, after you, and after your Father.
I was young, and while youth does not excuse anything, I knew nothing of the world, of morality. Marvolo Gaunt had raised me with values very different from the ones I now know, and I did not know then that what I was doing to you was wrong. I was so stupid back then and I apologize
I ask for nothing. Please, trust me, I want nothing- no riches, no lands, no wedding- this letter is not a threat. I am so so sorry
But Tom, your son… He deserves to know of his Father. Please believe me when I say that you will not be disappointed. He is on his way to work at our the government; the Ministry of Magic, and you will like should you meet him. Everyone does.
Please, consider it.
Not for me. Never for me. But for you son; who longs to know you. For your legacy; for your blood runs in his veins.
Merope Gaunt.
Tom feels breathless. He has a son- he had abandoned the idea years ago- when the thought of touching a woman made him sick, when he could not bring himself to. He has a son- a witch-son, but a son all the same and he does not know what to do.
He hates, still, very much the wrench.
But this son he knows nothing of?
He doesn’t know what to do.
He doesn’t know what to do.
.
.
.
It is the summer after Tom’s graduation that Merope makes him sit in front of her.
She looks at him. She can do it properly since a few years; when he had come back with a spell and a smile; and had fixed her eyes.
Merope might never be pretty; but she is not as she once had been. She wears elegant clothing; Tom is very generous with his money while saying very little from where it comes; is clad in jewellery; wears her hair high and sophisticated.
Tom sits patiently; and she is well aware that she might be the only one in the world to have his full attention. Abraxas too- perhaps. But her- he looks at her with patience, and affection, and is willing to do everything that she would ask of him.
And oh- she loves him so so much. She would have expected the love to fade a little- at least morph into deep affection; or she doesn’t know, something like that; but no. Her love for him grows, endlessly; and the more she looks at him the more she wonders how could they could reward her so; with such a perfect child.
Tom arches an eyebrow. “You wanted to say something?”
Merope fidgets with her hands. There is a ring there- for Marcelina Rosier had told her that every Lady should have one of their house; and Merope plans to gift it to Tom once he will reach his muggle majority.
He is already the Lord of their House; having a seat at the Wizenmaggot. Merope understands none of their politics. She doesn’t want to. She likes her shop; likes her potions.
“I sent a letter to your Father,” she says.
Surprise cross Tom’s face. He has learned to not ask- not anymore, but she knows how truly curious he is.
“It is time, I think, for me to explain myself. To explain what happened between your Father and I.”
Tom straightens. A flash of red passes through his gaze; and he nods; drinking her every word.
“I would ask of you not to judge me too harshly,” Merope murmurs. “But I would understand your anger.”
Tom laughs. “Very few you could tell me would make me renounce you, Mother.”
“Do not be too prompt in giving promises,” Merope says. She takes a deep breath, before gathering enough strength to speak again. “I have young, then. Your age, you know. No, a little older- by a year or so. Eighteen- and life with my family was… difficult. You know how I struggled with magic. I still do. I am not gifted as you are.”
“You are talented in your own ways,” Tom says; fervently. He takes her hands between his; and his eyes are stern. “You did the best you could for us, always. I will be forever grateful for it.”
Merope gives him a sad smile.
“Even so,” she murmurs. “I tried to find ways to escape my reality. I read- a lot- and I went to the woods. And sometimes, when wandering in the woods… I saw a muggle.” She laughs, a small thing. “He was so very handsome, you know! He seemed kind; and he had this laugh that made the world warmer. He seemed clever, knowing everything, and I… I was in love.”
“My father?”
“Your father,” she admits. “I tried to speak to him, often, but- I was a wrench for him. One of those strange people living in the woods- insane, terrifying.”
Anger passes on Tom’s features, but he says nothing. She knows he does not like when she is depreciative of herself, and she tries not to be; but some truths need to be said.
“My brother found out all about it. He attacked your Father, Tom. Nothing serious- only a spell; but the Aurors came. They came for him; and my Father attacked them in return. They both went to Azkaban then- as you know- and I- I was alone in this house.”
Merope marks a pause.
“He went again near the House, one day,” she murmurs. “And I couldn’t help it. I saw freedom in him; and I didn’t think it was wrong- I thought I was doing what everyone else would do in my situation- and I brewed a love potion.”
Tom’s eyes widen. He stills- but his hands do not leave hers. Merope is terrified; and she presses his; guilt and fear swimming in the dark waters of her mind.
“I gave it to him, under the guise of water. He was quick to fall for me, after that. He went against his parents, and we- we eloped. We went to London- and everything was so perfect for a time. You see, he was so in love with me! He loved me! For the first time, I had someone loving me, and being kind to me! I thought that- I thought that it wasn’t wrong to want so.”
Tom is very still.
“And then you were conceived. I thought he was truly in love with me then- I thought… I thought we could be happy, all three of us.”
Merope feels tears dwelling in her eyes. She feels terrible, and she feels so guilty she fears that she will drown in it.
“He was not,” she murmurs. “He was only under a spell.”
She swallows, with difficulty.
“He left me,” Merope tells him. “He left; and it was the last time I ever saw him. He never knew about you. I had planned to tell him about lifting the potion’s effects.”
She raises her eyes to meet his. She can not read his thoughts; nor since his twelfth birthday. She does not plan to.
Her voice is very faint. “This is it. The whole story.”
Merope can not bear the silence. It weights on her as a judgement, and she knows that she deserves it, but she can not- she can not- if Tom hates her-
“I see,” he whispers.
“But do you?” Merope cries out. “I’m so sorry-! There wasn’t a day ever since I haven’t regretted it, but I can not regret you! I can not regret that you were to exist, because you are the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me, my heart!”
Tom moistens his lips. His gaze is sombre when he raises it to meet Merope’s; when he looks at her.
“It.. explains much,” he says. “But I can not fault you, Mother. Not when you sought your escape- and it might have been a heinous thing to do; but I can not regret it as well, for I would not have been born; and when it meant your freedom.”
Merope shakes her head.
“You can not- I do not deserve-”
“But you do.” Tom presses her hands with his. “I will not lie to you. It is a terrible thing that you have done. But it was not made out of malice; but of a desire for freedom, for happiness. I can- I can not forgive, and it isn’t my place to do so, but I can understand.”
“I tell you that- I tell you that because of this-” Merope says; and she takes a letter from her pocket. “I tell you because he answered me.”
She presses the letter against the palm of Tom’s hand.
“He wants to meet you.”
.
.
.
Tom is nervous.
He darts a glance towards his Mother. She is smiling tentatively; and it comforts him – even if only a bit. It has been a long time since he has been a boy, seeking comfort during a storm, but sometimes- sometimes, he needs it.
He will never admit it. She knows all the same.
His Mother knows many things.
He inhales. He plasters a smile on his face, and tells himself that he knows how to do this- that he can do it. He knows how to please, how to smile, and laugh; and make people laugh, it is no different.
Tom does not like contact. He asks for a hug all the same- and he asks once per year, perhaps less. His Mother gives him the hug- warm, close; comforting. He closes his eyes and breathes; this scent he knows so much, this perfume he has since long associated with her.
She takes a step backwards.
“He will love you,” she promises.
Merlin- Tom hopes. It is stupid. He does not need his Father’s approval. He can live without it. He wants it, still. He wants it so fiercely that its burns him.
He nods, once; and turns on the spot.
Tom has a few meters to cross to reach their rendez-vous point. He has chosen so as not to make his Father afraid, and wants to come as muggle-like as could be possible.
He sees his Father before he sees him.
He is sitting on a bench, and there is a car toy in his hands, wrapped in ribbons.
Tom reaches him.
His Father stands. He is nervous too- and Tom stills, a little. They have the same features- and he stares at them, devouring every detail, hungrily. Black hair; pale skin, high cheek-bones, and this fire within their eyes- but the passage of time is readable on his Father’s face.
“My son,” his Father breathes. He is wide-eyed. “I thought-” He raises the car toy, nervously. “I thought it was- because I never could offer you one of these- I know you are too old now- but it is a symbol-”
Tom takes the car. He smiles.
“Thank you,” he says.
It will be alright, he thinks.
They have started in the worst possible way. But life brings change; and possibilities- and in his Father’s eyes he reads a dozen of them.
Tom is less nervous.
His smile is genuine.
And his Father smiles too.