Fic: "Guttering," Merope, PG
Title: Guttering
Author: kethlenda
Character/Pairing: Merope
Genre/Warnings (as applicable): Gen. Childbirth, non-explicit. Character death, canonical.
Rating:PG
Written for the New Year's contest at 30_hath. Beta by sionnain. Word count is 600something.
December. The sweat of Merope’s exertion turns chill in a moment on her skin, and the lank strands of her wet hair are like icy fingers on the back of her neck. The wind batters the flame of the candle, but still it dances bravely on, staying alight despite the draft.
“Can’t you close that window?” Merope asks when the contraction subsides.
“’S hot in here,” says Mrs. Cole, a cold snap in her voice. Mrs. Cole’s gaunt cheeks are flushed apple-red. She has given up on pouring the gin into glasses and is swigging it straight from the bottle.
Martha’s face is kinder. She tightens the covers around Merope’s upper body and smiles. Even when she smiles, Martha looks rather like a basset hound, bags under her eyes weighing her face down with sadness.
The next contraction hits, viselike, racking Merope, and she tries to scream but manages only a moan through clenched teeth.
Martha is making concerned noises, but Merope is drifting, only half her mind in the orphanage infirmary now. Dimly she hears Mrs. Cole’s voice muttering, and does she think this is the Magdalen house, and Martha, she’s but a child herself, don’t you see? and then the room is miles and years behind her and she is remembering other things.
I always swore I would never dim, never surrender, never be like my mother. Merope thinks of the stories in her father’s mouldering books, tales of foolish mortals who dared to run from fate, dared to shake their fists at the gods’ iron will, and always, always, failed.
Martha’s voice penetrates the fog. “You have a healthy baby boy.”
She opens her eyes and looks at the child, wrinkled and squalling like all babies, and prays. “I hope he’ll be handsome. Like his father.”
Mrs. Cole mutters something under her breath, and Merope knows enough of beauty to feel the sting even without making out the words. She saw herself clearly mirrored in Tom’s eyes once, for that one moment when all was lost, did she not?
“Name him Tom Riddle, after his father,” she said, surprised at the growing weakness in her own voice. “Marvolo…Marvolo should be his middle name. After my father.”
My father…he would say I’ve dirtied Slytherin’s blood, tainted it. Adulterated.
I believe he is wrong. Only time and fate will tell.
The Gaunt blood was cursed. If not cursed literally, still it was poisoned, madness upon madness, no one left but two madmen and one ill-formed girl, a girl cursed with ambitions beyond breeding a dozen cross-eyed brats for her brother.
Little Tom-I’ve given you strength and beauty of body. I’ve given you that clear look of sanity your father had in his eyes.
Before I took it from him.
Words again, her name. Martha’s voice. “Hold on for me, now. There’s a good girl.” Merope opens her eyes and sees worry on Martha’s face and blood, blood everywhere. The candle flame still writhes, twisting in the wind.
I am dying. Dimming, dwindling to nothing, like the other Merope from the tale. Married a mortal. Married a Muggle. Cursed, doomed, and the myths should have taught me no one can escape her doom. And a name is a fate in itself.
But if fate is an ancient magic, then so is a wish, and Merope makes a wish for her son. May you be the greatest wizard of all time. May you prove my father wrong. May you be a worthy child of Slytherin.
May your star ever burn bright.
The wind gusts, lashing into the room as though to carry Merope away into the skies, and the candle flame twists one last time and dies. Merope’s last thought is that it is New Year’s Eve, the night of Janus. The door opens. Tom comes in and Merope goes out.
Author: kethlenda
Character/Pairing: Merope
Genre/Warnings (as applicable): Gen. Childbirth, non-explicit. Character death, canonical.
Rating:PG
Written for the New Year's contest at 30_hath. Beta by sionnain. Word count is 600something.
December. The sweat of Merope’s exertion turns chill in a moment on her skin, and the lank strands of her wet hair are like icy fingers on the back of her neck. The wind batters the flame of the candle, but still it dances bravely on, staying alight despite the draft.
“Can’t you close that window?” Merope asks when the contraction subsides.
“’S hot in here,” says Mrs. Cole, a cold snap in her voice. Mrs. Cole’s gaunt cheeks are flushed apple-red. She has given up on pouring the gin into glasses and is swigging it straight from the bottle.
Martha’s face is kinder. She tightens the covers around Merope’s upper body and smiles. Even when she smiles, Martha looks rather like a basset hound, bags under her eyes weighing her face down with sadness.
The next contraction hits, viselike, racking Merope, and she tries to scream but manages only a moan through clenched teeth.
Martha is making concerned noises, but Merope is drifting, only half her mind in the orphanage infirmary now. Dimly she hears Mrs. Cole’s voice muttering, and does she think this is the Magdalen house, and Martha, she’s but a child herself, don’t you see? and then the room is miles and years behind her and she is remembering other things.
I always swore I would never dim, never surrender, never be like my mother. Merope thinks of the stories in her father’s mouldering books, tales of foolish mortals who dared to run from fate, dared to shake their fists at the gods’ iron will, and always, always, failed.
Martha’s voice penetrates the fog. “You have a healthy baby boy.”
She opens her eyes and looks at the child, wrinkled and squalling like all babies, and prays. “I hope he’ll be handsome. Like his father.”
Mrs. Cole mutters something under her breath, and Merope knows enough of beauty to feel the sting even without making out the words. She saw herself clearly mirrored in Tom’s eyes once, for that one moment when all was lost, did she not?
“Name him Tom Riddle, after his father,” she said, surprised at the growing weakness in her own voice. “Marvolo…Marvolo should be his middle name. After my father.”
My father…he would say I’ve dirtied Slytherin’s blood, tainted it. Adulterated.
I believe he is wrong. Only time and fate will tell.
The Gaunt blood was cursed. If not cursed literally, still it was poisoned, madness upon madness, no one left but two madmen and one ill-formed girl, a girl cursed with ambitions beyond breeding a dozen cross-eyed brats for her brother.
Little Tom-I’ve given you strength and beauty of body. I’ve given you that clear look of sanity your father had in his eyes.
Before I took it from him.
Words again, her name. Martha’s voice. “Hold on for me, now. There’s a good girl.” Merope opens her eyes and sees worry on Martha’s face and blood, blood everywhere. The candle flame still writhes, twisting in the wind.
I am dying. Dimming, dwindling to nothing, like the other Merope from the tale. Married a mortal. Married a Muggle. Cursed, doomed, and the myths should have taught me no one can escape her doom. And a name is a fate in itself.
But if fate is an ancient magic, then so is a wish, and Merope makes a wish for her son. May you be the greatest wizard of all time. May you prove my father wrong. May you be a worthy child of Slytherin.
May your star ever burn bright.
The wind gusts, lashing into the room as though to carry Merope away into the skies, and the candle flame twists one last time and dies. Merope’s last thought is that it is New Year’s Eve, the night of Janus. The door opens. Tom comes in and Merope goes out.