Another HP fic!
After writing World of Misery, my one and only Merope Gaunt one-shot quite a while ago, I had thought I was completely done with her mostly because I'm not a huge fan of her character and I thought I had told all I wanted to tell about her with that one-shot. But then a few questions came into my mind - why didn't Merope become a ghost? And also, we know now that magic can be uncontrollable - so what if that was how Merope's was? Since she was never properly trained, could it have just come out in spurts and never appear when she most needed it?
Hence, this fic.
She was dying, and she knew it. She was dying after finally having a reason to live.
Merope Gaunt cast her eyes over the small baby in front of her, the baby that was held out to her. “Tom,” she murmured, because he looked so like his father. She hated that and loved it, she couldn’t decide which feeling was more prominent.
Tears gathered in her eyes to blur her already faulty vision. “You have a fever,” one of the women said to her.
Merope stopped herself from pointing out that she knew that, that whatever her father might have said, she really wasn’t a fool. Instead she fixed her gaze on her son, Tom’s son. “Tom Marvolo,” she added.
“For whom?” Mrs. Cole asked her curiously; Merope assessed that the woman liked gossip. Merope decided she wouldn’t give the details, she didn’t have much time left, and she would spend it with her son.
“Tom for his father, Marvolo for mine,” she said quietly, fixing her gaze on her son, the perfect little boy that was all hers. She had never wanted a baby when she lived with her father and brother, she didn’t want a baby to be raised there like she had been raised, but now it seemed like this baby was a gift, he could change the world if he wanted to. Merope had perfect faith in him. She had never experienced that sort of unconditional faith before, but it coursed through her body like fire as she looked at her son. She touched the baby’s head weakly, her movements sluggish with the knowledge that she was not long for this life.
Mrs. Cole clearly wanted to know more. “And the baby’s surname?”
“Riddle.”
She didn’t say anything else. She knew dimly in her mind that she had magic, if she could only use it, but her magic had never been controllable, it had always come unbidden to her, something her father and brother had been quick to jeer about. When it came she made use of it, like when she made a love potion, but she couldn’t summon it. But now as she held her son’s strong body in her fragile arms, she wished with all of her being that she could.
She could tell him that she loved him, she had a feeling that, growing up in an orphanage, he might need to know that, but no words could pass on the bond between mother and child. So instead she breathed words into him through her grip, her refusal to let go even as she drifted into her last sleep.
As she died, she passed advice to him, she hoped that he could hear it, she hoped it would be the doctrine that he lived by, so that he would never make her mistakes. Do not fall in love, it only brings pain, Tom. Never take abuse, always fight back. These two lessons I never learned, and they were what ruined me, they were what deprived me of my strength. Oh Tom, please make more use of your life than I did.
She thought that he could hear her, but then she was growing ever more distant. She felt his awareness anyway. She hoped that he would remember this, even though it was unlikely, she hoped that he would know that he had a mother that had loved him. She doubted it, she knew what could happen in a place where you were ignored at best. He would grow up in an orphanage, and he would wonder why she left.
She was gone now, she wished she could turn back, just for him, but she would not become a ghost. She knew that much, she did not want to remain on the earth where her life had had such disappointments. Whatever was next, it had to be better than this. Before she had had a child, she might have become a ghost, but now that there was happiness, even just for a moment, she wanted to move on.
But her son…she fancied that she could see his eyes open, and what she saw there disconcerted her: a flash of sadness, replaced by something more troublesome.
Anger at being left alone.
Reviews are always nice! Concrit is loved.
On a completely unrelated note (well, not completely unrelated, but not directly having to do with fanfiction) I'm going to start making use of the memories feature so that it'll be easier to navigate my entries.
Hence, this fic.
She was dying, and she knew it. She was dying after finally having a reason to live.
Merope Gaunt cast her eyes over the small baby in front of her, the baby that was held out to her. “Tom,” she murmured, because he looked so like his father. She hated that and loved it, she couldn’t decide which feeling was more prominent.
Tears gathered in her eyes to blur her already faulty vision. “You have a fever,” one of the women said to her.
Merope stopped herself from pointing out that she knew that, that whatever her father might have said, she really wasn’t a fool. Instead she fixed her gaze on her son, Tom’s son. “Tom Marvolo,” she added.
“For whom?” Mrs. Cole asked her curiously; Merope assessed that the woman liked gossip. Merope decided she wouldn’t give the details, she didn’t have much time left, and she would spend it with her son.
“Tom for his father, Marvolo for mine,” she said quietly, fixing her gaze on her son, the perfect little boy that was all hers. She had never wanted a baby when she lived with her father and brother, she didn’t want a baby to be raised there like she had been raised, but now it seemed like this baby was a gift, he could change the world if he wanted to. Merope had perfect faith in him. She had never experienced that sort of unconditional faith before, but it coursed through her body like fire as she looked at her son. She touched the baby’s head weakly, her movements sluggish with the knowledge that she was not long for this life.
Mrs. Cole clearly wanted to know more. “And the baby’s surname?”
“Riddle.”
She didn’t say anything else. She knew dimly in her mind that she had magic, if she could only use it, but her magic had never been controllable, it had always come unbidden to her, something her father and brother had been quick to jeer about. When it came she made use of it, like when she made a love potion, but she couldn’t summon it. But now as she held her son’s strong body in her fragile arms, she wished with all of her being that she could.
She could tell him that she loved him, she had a feeling that, growing up in an orphanage, he might need to know that, but no words could pass on the bond between mother and child. So instead she breathed words into him through her grip, her refusal to let go even as she drifted into her last sleep.
As she died, she passed advice to him, she hoped that he could hear it, she hoped it would be the doctrine that he lived by, so that he would never make her mistakes. Do not fall in love, it only brings pain, Tom. Never take abuse, always fight back. These two lessons I never learned, and they were what ruined me, they were what deprived me of my strength. Oh Tom, please make more use of your life than I did.
She thought that he could hear her, but then she was growing ever more distant. She felt his awareness anyway. She hoped that he would remember this, even though it was unlikely, she hoped that he would know that he had a mother that had loved him. She doubted it, she knew what could happen in a place where you were ignored at best. He would grow up in an orphanage, and he would wonder why she left.
She was gone now, she wished she could turn back, just for him, but she would not become a ghost. She knew that much, she did not want to remain on the earth where her life had had such disappointments. Whatever was next, it had to be better than this. Before she had had a child, she might have become a ghost, but now that there was happiness, even just for a moment, she wanted to move on.
But her son…she fancied that she could see his eyes open, and what she saw there disconcerted her: a flash of sadness, replaced by something more troublesome.
Anger at being left alone.
Reviews are always nice! Concrit is loved.
On a completely unrelated note (well, not completely unrelated, but not directly having to do with fanfiction) I'm going to start making use of the memories feature so that it'll be easier to navigate my entries.