Mother

If one day Merope was told, that her fate would fall into the hands of a little boy who understands English poorly and speaks even worse, then she would have considered these words as another mockery of “lovely” relatives. One day. Not now. With what did it start? Of course, with love. Sudden and dizzying, like an April wind full of smells of awakening nature on a deceptively warm sunny day. And then, of course, a pile of snow on the head — contemptuous and fastidious eyes of her affection object. Handsome Tom Riddle, son of a rich Muggle, family was charming even when he said cruel taunts, without hesitation chasing a scary little witch away from him. In fact, quite fast turned out, that he was waiting for some overdressed and overly mannered Lady by the stream. What happened then? That’s right, family pride with shortsightedness leapt up and Merope wanted Tom Riddle with all her might. At least once in this mordred’s life to get something completely her own, at least once to live the way her ancestors lived: surrounded by money and beauty, not dirt and dead snakes at all! Muggle. So what. He is hardly worse than her father and brother. So Merope thought, throwing a pigeon’s eye into the cauldron and starting to knead the amortensia to a pink color. The question “how stupid it was to make a mistake in a potion brew more than hundred times before?”, Merope preferred not to raise even in her own head. She wouldn’t have stopped calling herself a fool for thinking about it anyway. Although she came to the same conclusion over and over again — those street urchins sold her the sparrow’s eye, not pigeon’s. If she once meets them again, she will certainly have to curse them, and so on. Back to Little Hangleton? Ha-ha. An extremely stupid joke. If her father had not killed her on the threshold of the house, he would certainly have gotten rid of her child. By any way. And Morphine would have helped him. And Tom… and what about Tom? Nothing would have changed. He was furious when he left their room. He hit Merope. More than once. He doesn’t care about their child. Everyone except Merope doesn’t care. She gave birth to little Tom in an orphanage, without documents and a penny in her pockets. It seemed to her, she was going to die there. No, mistaken again. Survived. After noon the next day they were thrown out. And so, Merope was already wandering through the streets, desperately wondering what to do. “Though go and drown ourselves into Thames” flashed through witches head before she felt someone grabbing her by an edge of the long green skirt. “You why cry?”, The boy asked with a rough accent. Two green eyes looked at the witch from under brows. “You pain?” “What?” Merope was confused, frozen under an unusually serious child’s gaze. “Who beat you that you pain? You have stick beat they?” “I… nobody beat me, boy. What a “stick” are you talking about?” “Wonder stick. You witch. Color dress say you witch. Why you cry? No home?” “No home…”, Merope echoed after the child. Bitter cold covered her instantly. Why did he grab her skirt? Why Merope? What does he even want from her? “You can do wonders?”. The child even more perked up. “I help you home. You help me live no beat. Deal?”. The child let go of Merope’s skirt and extend his hand, expecting the shake. His small hand was trembling, but not his gaze, unshakably resolute in his despair. This boy seemed more and more creepy with every second of silence. “Wait, wait, let’s do it again, alright? You’re helping me find a house to live in, right? The boy nodded, not taking his gaze off. “And I’m, in return, helping you with what?” “Dad cousin uncle beat me. I not have wonder stick, I small. Mama wonder stick die. You help I, I help you.” “Is your mom a witch too? She and you, you’re both wizards, right? " Two affirmative nods. “And where is your mom, why are wandering you here alone?” “Dad cousin uncle die mom. He mom wonder stick HRUCH, — at the last sound, boy broke an invisible wand in the air. — He hide mama box-bag, hide the box-bag river. Now he beat me. You help I, I help you. You no give me money, you, you little, I… Three live I home. Deal?” “Boy, did I understand you right,” Merope asked in a slightly trembling voice, not taking her eyes off the child, at the same time clutching Tom to her chest even tighter than before. “Uncle killed your mom and broke her wand… her wonder stick, and then hid your mom’s body in… hid in a box-bag and threw it into the river?” “Yes. He die Mom Christmas.” “Wait… Merlin the Great… and where’s your dad? Have you ever told anyone else about that?” “Say. They no listen, they go no watch me and very angry I say they, try stop they.” “And your dad, what’s with him? Grandparents? Other family?” “Dad die big day… ago. Start autumn. I and mom go dad cousin uncle house. Grandma grandma love dad, dad no like cousin uncle, but dad live Russia. Dad cousin uncle, grandma grandma live London. Dad, mom, I go train. Dad die. I, Mom go big boat. Grandma grandma write — she house give dad, but dad cousin uncle say mom: dad home — he home, mom want no want. You help I? “ The boy’s eyes glistened with tears that had not been shed yet. Chubby fingers clenched into fists. Merope felt green after this chain of almost incoherent words. Nevertheless, it was obvious that the boy in front of her was in danger because of his uncle. Strange circumstances surrounded this boy, as well as this meeting in the middle of the street. Although, if Merope had walked a mile in this boy’s shoes, probably, she would have done the same to survive. And “the same” means “everything”. A house. Merope and Tom can live in there if they rein in the boy’s uncle… but isn’t it too dangerous? That man still managed to kill the witch. “Is your uncle a wizard?” clarified Merope just in case, calculating her chances. If she hadn’t seen the boy’s face, she would certainly have said that he was laughing at her in the most brazen way. If everything is really as he says, then she and little Tom may never get a better chance. Beggars can’t be choosers — today’s morning has shown the truth of these words clearly enough. Believe this child… an soon have a roof to live under… “No, he -no. Dad no. Mom witch, I witch”. The question of how to cope with an adult man remained open — of course, Merope had heard about the unforgivable Imperius curse, but she hardly had the strength and skills to fulfill it. Still, it was worth admitting that amortensia was the pinnacle of her abilities, and not even all the simple household spells from the witch came out well. The boy once extend his hand again. Meanwhile, Tom was tossing and turning, wrapped up in Merope’s clothes, like a little snake. The witch’s eyes flashed excitedly, as if something clicked in her unwashed black-haired head, like the day she first time brewed a decent-looking amortensia. Abruptly taking the boy’s outstretched hand, she said: “I am Merope, and this is Tom. You?” “Antonin. Tony.” “Well, let’s go, Tony. I’ll help you.”

***

Tony led them to a long dark house, not far from the place where the boy face Merope and Tom. The narrow corridors in beige tones and light lime furniture like in a palace (as if the witch knew what palaces looked like from the inside) took her breath away. From a further conversation with Tony, Merope learned several important things: the boy’s uncle is a man who does not work right now and burns through his inheritance. At the same time loves to visit friends from whom he returns closer to midnight. He is under fifty, excessively proud and has a temper. Not a single maid stayed at his house for more than a month. If it was warm outside, Merope would not hesitate to go looking for a couple of vipers — they would bite this vile uncle in a sleep and that would be the end of this venture. It is unlikely that the young witch will be able to use any curse — the wand almost does not obey her, and she knew about most of the curses only from the victim position. Marvolo did not shy away from using painful curses on, in his opinion, the squib. There left only one effective method, old and already proven on Tom Riddle. Merope sent Tony for the ingredients. It took many nerves to explain him what and in what quantities she exactly needed, but, fortunately, the boy understood. So, Merope had everything for brewing amortensia. By the evening and the man’s return home, the love potion was already in all bottles of alcohol, in jam and, of course, in a pie, a quarter of which Merope, unable to cope with the smell, withdrew in favor of starving witches and wizards. They even smeared all the cups and cutlery with amortensia, just to be sure. The result was not long in coming. The uncle himself, in Merope’s opinion, was nothing interesting: a well-fed man of short stature with small piggy eyes and thin lips over which hung the same thin gray mustache. Carefully covered with a hat and three long greasy hair strands, the bald spot glistened even in the dim lamp lighting — so often the man corrected it with his sweaty hands. It could not be said that he was untidy, however, this subject could not be compared even with Thomas Riddle in any way. Although, there was one thing about this old man: an insinuating, low and authoritative voice. Even when the man, like a devoted dog, was kneeling by the chair in which Merope was sitting royally, even when he was assuring that he would do anything for his unearthly love to the young witch, even when his intonation was full of supplication, his voice subdued the ear, bewitching. While Tony was in the bedroom on the second floor looking after Tom, Merope was rapidly playing her farce in the dining room. “What should I write here, my angel?” The man asked obsequiously when the witch shoved a stack of papers and a fountain pen under his nose. “Describe for me in all the details exactly how you killed that woman, why and for what you did it. And also about how you hid her in a suitcase and threw it into the Thames” “But why do you need this, sweetheart?” The man frowned in slight perplexity. “Aren’t such vile details…” “Shhh…” the witch hissed, touching his sticky lips and moustache with her fingertips. It was urgently necessary to spun something more or less coherent. “Albert, dear, I’ll tell you one very, very terrible secret if you swear to protect it from any living soul except you and me. It’s so hard… whole my miserable life depends on this one secret” “No, no… your life is not miserable at all,” the old man intercepted the rough knobby fingers with his well-groomed hands, not allowing them to be taken away from his nasty mouth. “I swear by my soul, I will keep any secret of yours, Merope…” “No! I pray, my love, don’t call me by that cursed name!” Merope exclaimed. Realizing that the man under amortensia was trying to start thinking at least something, she trembled with her lips and allowed tears to roll from unblinking plaintive eyes. It worked flawlessly, just like with Tom Riddle — Albert fell to her knees again and began to comfort her, completely ceasing to question the witch’s further words. Now he was ready to believe in anything, if only the object of his adoration would stop crying. A few extra seconds to think about it now definitely won’t hurt. She needs him to describe in writing that woman murder, but how can she bring him to this decision? The name, terrible secret… fortunately has not managed to blurt out anything else. Well, what if it’s not him who needs confess, but Merope? Should not she not perform a sacrificial lamb instead, since this old man wants to play the noble knight? “Oh, my dear Albert,” she sighed heavily, wiping tears away. “This old story is so vicious and terrible that even without participating in it, I burn with shame every time I barely remember it. However, the Lord decided that it was my destiny, otherwise I would have been born a man, or would not have been born at all. My grandmother committed a deadly sin: she fell in love with a married man, even gave birth to a son from him, and after all, while he and his wife had six daughters and poor thing was waiting for the seventh, my grandfather died leaving a humiliating will for his legitimate wife. My father inherited all the property, but his half sisters did not receive even a penny and were expelled from their own home. From grief, grandfather’s wife lost her mind, and in her madness cursed my grandmother’s entire family, sacrificing herself and the child in her womb to the Devil. My father, cursed and wretched man, was married seven times, and seven times he became a widower. Six of my older brothers died as soon as they took their first breath, but I… I survived, Albert, and I was called this terrible, terrible name of my grandfather’s dead wife!” At these words Merope hid her face in her hands, trying to cry harder than ever. Albert, whose mouth was slightly open, held his breath and did not take his sympathetic gaze off Merope, putting his hands on the witch’s knees. After a dramatic pause, the she continued the performance. “You may laugh at my foolishness, Albert, but I know that I am doomed… and even more, now I have doomed both of us, because as soon as I saw you, I realized that there would be no life for me under this sky if you left me!” “Oh, my angel! The Lord will chastise me if I fall in love with someone else!” The man exclaimed ardently and Merope wished Tom Riddle to have SUCH voice, for a moment. “What are you saying, dear? You are an angel, an incarnate angel, whom the Lord has sent to my salvation! “Tis but thy name that is my enemy” “With these words, the links of the necessary actions closed into a good chain in Merope 's head. Here was her chance!” “That’s why, Albert, I… I want to become another person. If only I could become that woman, I would save you from so many problems! Police inquiries, searches, an endless string of suspicions, and this terrible boy, like a tombstone! Albert, darling, I have a plan, you won’t have to do anything, and if the suitcase is ever found, knowing exactly how that woman died, I could protect you from any trouble. But also… also, I want to finally get rid of the incessant feeling that someone is walking over my grave. I need Merope to die. I need someone to write her name over an empty grave. I am afraid, Albert, so afraid of the fate of the deceased that I am ready to defraud the Lord, if only I would never set foot on the path she had trodden!” The witch looked faithfully into the old man’s eyes, silently praying to everything she ever knew, if only the man would understand her properly and himself offered a saving option for Merope, without noticing, inspired by Amortensia, a small inconsistency in logic. “My angel, there is a safer way. If you are so afraid of the evil fate hanging over us, then I, as a man, should put an end to it. If Merope is destined to die by my hand, then so be it,” he said soothingly, stroking the girl’s hands. “Merope has already died, and her body is buried under a layer of silt. You’re not her, you’re the one I fell in love with instead. My angel, my Maya…” “The world is full of coincidences,” Merope almost exclaimed when, finally learned Antonin’s mother’s name. Maybe fate itself really pushed them together today? If so, then all the girl needs now is one more drop of luck, just one, to finish the gamble she started and fulfill her part of the deal with Tony. No matter how tempting the opportunity to deceive the boy was, Merope was not going to do that. Together with his uncle lead him to the grave, then wait until Albert passes away, and finally live happily with Tom in this big house… no. Easy come — easy go, the witch was not ready to rely her and her son’s fate on amortensia. Not again. In the end, didn’t Maya, even though Merope did not know her at all, didn’t she deserve revenge for such a cruel death? “How?” the witch asks with only lips. “Write for me how Merope died” “If your heart will finally calm down, my love.” “Yes, honey, this is the only way my heart will find peace.” Getting up from his knees, Albert sat down at the dining table, and, taking his glasses out of his jacket pocket. He described in detail how he had killed a certain Merope who had came to him not long before Christmas, described what he did with her lifeless body after, and also described the only reason for his act, taken from Merope’s story. The moment Merope saw the expression on the old man’s face, a cold sweat came off her. He wasn’t just passionate about writing. He reveled in the presentation, as if reliving everything that had happened again. He enjoyed killing. The last part of the plan remained — to get an already tipsy man drunk, take him outside and, finally, help him die not far from the porch. By any way, she is not squeamish.

***

If Thomas Riddle had been asked what was the best gift he received for Christmas, then in his incomplete forty-seven he would have answered without hesitation: “The prodigal son’s return home!”. At least parental joy was endless when the gloomy and guilty face of the son appeared before the eyes of the head of the family, lamenting that he would never return to “that damn witch”, that he was going to divorce, and in general, “mommy, mommy, how right you were!” That accursed Merope ruined whole Tom’s life! He was already engaged to a charming girl from a decent and respected family, and here — here, get and sign. And after all, breaking off an engagement is not the worst thing. Together with the bride, Tom lost opportunities. Emily’s father, the name of the Riddles' failed daughter-in-law, was an old friend of Thomas and quite an important man in the conservative party. He could help his son-in-law build a political career, but what a use in locking the stable door after the horse has already bolted? And wife told Thomas that their son was bewitched, but Riddle St. thought it was just a paranoia. But Mary, damn it, was absolutely right! After Christmas, Tom still was not himself, and this worried his parents. The father, however, explained the periodic stay of the offspring with thoughts “somewhere-not-here” by futile attempts to comprehend and finally survive the bedlam that had been going on over the past year, and therefore did not bother with questions. The mother did exactly the opposite, as if she sensed that the precious flash and blood hadn’t shared something dramatically important with her. " Lightning never strikes twice in the same place” Thomas reassured himself, but life decided to prove the opposite to him. Mary was absolutely right again! Perhaps it was the eleventh of January. Or maybe already the twelfth, who will remember. As usual, a huge stack of letters, a newspaper and several subscribed magazines arrived closer to night due to a blizzard. “Oh, gracious Lord…” Mary gasped strangled, reading the newspaper that came. “What’s up, Mary?” Thomas asked immediately. He knew this phrase and this tone perfectly well, and as a rule, they promised nothing good. The last time he clearly heard this words, when their son brought home that Gaunt beggar. “Tom, darling,” Mary spoke only to her son with such words. Her trembling voice and absolutely shocked look spoke for themselves. Silently, the woman got up from her armchair, handed the newspaper to her son, and unusually awkwardly plopped down in her seat, not turning her eyes from son, who began quickly read headlines. Thomas, realizing that his wife was not going to answer the question, turned his eyes on Tom, who was first frantically searching for the cause of his mother’s concern, then froze for a moment, and finally started rapidly paling. According to his eyes movements, with every passed second he was reading slower and slower. “Tom,” Thomas called sternly. Son was staring with wide eyes at a single point on the newspaper. Tom shuddered and looked up at him with absolutely confused eyes. “I… I didn’t…” the young man could only squeeze out of himself, starting to shake his head a little mechanically. “What are you not? Give me the newspaper,” Thomas actually ordered and took the newspaper from the trembling hand. “Tom, darling, are you sure you’ve told us everything important?” anyway asked Mary Riddle, already perfectly well knowing the answer. “No,” Tom replied dully before Thomas reached the article he was looking for. “Jack Ripper of the twentieth century. A brutal murder in the Islington area, solved only thanks to the accidental death of the killer” Thomas read the first line aloud and the foreboding returned. “… The second of January, in the early morning, retired surgeon Albert Francis Corwin was found dead on the steps of his house. According to the conclusion of the district bailiff, issued on the basis of an autopsy, as well as the testimony of friends of the deceased doctor, Albert Corwin’s death occurred due to a fall from the stairs slippery due to ice in a drunken state. However, the investigation did not end there. Papers with a shocking content were found in his desk: a description of the cruel treatment, murder and subsequent dismemberment of a young woman named in the text as Merope…” Thomas stumbled on the name of his hated daughter-in-law, took two quick glances at his petrified son and wife, then cleared his throat and returned to the article. “… On Christmas Night, a young woman knocked on the door of her future killer, hoping to get shelter at least until morning. The reason for the murder was “the vicious nature of a sinner, who is disgusting to God,” which he “recognized in the woman from the first look,”. In any case, that’s what Albert Corwin, who obviously had a mental disorder, claimed in his notes. Having stunned his victim, Corwin put her in a bath, where he dismembered her, than packed her head, hands, feet and some internal organs in a large bag with bricks, which he later threw into the Thames, from where they were taken by the police on January fourth. Nothing is known about the fate of the left remains, as well as about identity of a certain Merope. There is a high probability that the name given to her in Corwin’s records is fake. Among the well-known signs: straight black hair, a broken nose, long knobby fingers and a celtic foot. It is also assumed that the victim could have been pregnant…” After the last sentence, Thomas’s mouth suddenly went dry, and the man slowly raised his hawk-like gaze to his pale son. A complete picture of what had happened had already formed in his head, and therefore the newspaper was almost soundlessly placed on the table. “Well, judging by you, it’s true,” Thomas sighed heavily, as he suddenly felt short of air. His voice became fatally calm. “When… you were coming home, you assumed at least a half less terrifying end for them.” “No, I …” “You just didn’t think,” Thomas interrupted his son cheerlessly, still trying to figure out how to react to everything that had happened. “You just haven’t been thinking at all lately. About anybody.” A deathly silence reigned in the Riddle’s living room.

***

On January fifteenth, a boy with a cage in his hands and a young woman with a baby were briskly walking along Diagon Alley. In a few minutes they would be on their way to King’s Cross Station, and from there straight to Hogsmeade. Merope had to say goodbye to the luxurious house in Islington almost the next day — the expenses for it were obviously huge. Some suspiciously charming foreigner with multicolored eyes immediately and at full value bought put up for sale on the fifth, already on the thirteenth, the house. But why should a witch care about him? Mordred paid with him. The new house was already found by that day. Also, Merope met a saleswoman in a magic book store, Athena Lovegood, during the young witch’s first trip to a place hidden from Muggles. It was she who, after talking to Merope about children, suggested that a very good house had been idle on the outskirts of Hogsmeade since the middle of 1915. No one has bought it yet just because someone started a rumor that dark wizards used to live there, torturing Muggles and house elves in the basement, as well as conducting some bloody rituals to summon evil spirits of all kinds and stripes right in the Forbidden Forest. However, is all nonsense, and the new owner of the building simply does not care about it. If the house is bought, good. If it is not bought, it does not matter either. Athena also advised Merope to find another wand, explaining that perhaps all the problems and failures in depend on it. Elm and dragon scales, thirteen inches—Merope remembered by heart the characteristics of the inheritance that had passed to her. About the Slytherin medallion in this context, she prefer not to remember at all. So, today she went to Ollivander’s store, before going to her new home. He and an elderly master halped to find a new wand that immediately responded to the witch’s commands: eleven and a quarter inches, moderately flexible, made of rosehip, and in the core a kneazle mustache. To the great surprise of Merope, in addition to the wand, she was also given the kneazle, who had sacrificed his mustache for a good cause. And judging by the size, the animal will have to be fed more than an ordinary cat. “How should we call him?” Merope asked Tony when they were already sitting in an empty compartment. The boy understood English quite well and quickly memorized the meaning of new words, but they still had to practice in language a lot. “Mant” the boy replied calmly. “What is mant?” “Food. Like a dumpling, but big. When there are many — called manti. When there is one — called mant.” “What… no, why?” Merope was confused, having just recently learned from Antonin what dumplings, dolma and chak-chak means. “Because he’s white outside and with meat inside” There was nothing to argue with. Kneazle was really white and well-fed. It is also clear from the condescending cat’s muzzle that the name suits. Well, let him be Mant.