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I am Merope Riddle.

Lover, lover, in the night, what puts out my feeble light?

That light… he lit a warm candle inside of me. A candle that had long ago been doused by my brutal father and brother. He stirred life back into me as chicken and noodles are stirred to the top of a warn broth by the fireside. I would watch him pass every day. Tom Riddle. The girl sitting beside him didn’t register as a threat, and in fact, did not register in my brain at all. To me, there was Tom, and no other Muggle mattered.

I wanted to enchant him. I wanted to sweep him away to my world, not the world of Muggles or wizards, but that safe place inside my head. That place where I went when my father beat me. That place that smelled of running streams and freshly-baked bread. I’d wave my wand, and magic would pour from the tip like rich wine. I’d wave my wad and everything would be perfect. I wanted him to experience that perfection with me.

My father and brother were imprisoned, and for the first time in my life, I was free. Free to do whatever I wanted. I could have run away, far away from the town and all it stood for. I could have run alone forever and never be found. But I had to take him with me. Because I had fallen for him.

But looking back, I come to realize that it was not love.

I shall my own downfall bring, and others mournful songs shall sing.

Every day, I had to be careful to give him his potion. Slipping it into his breakfast tea, always terrified that maybe I hadn’t gotten the dosage right or maybe I had misbrewed the potion. I was, after all, a mere Squib. The little magic that I could do had been forced out of me by my father like the last dredges of toothpaste squeezed from the tube. Every night I obsessed over my cauldron, double- and triple-checking measurements, careful not to spill a drop of anything. I lived on a tightrope wire for that year. If he knew I was a witch… if he could see me in this room, brewing his affections in an iron cauldron, what would he say?

Would he become like my father? Would he be angry? Would he hit me, kick me, punch me in the stomach and destroy the child that I cradled within me?

But those long hours of fear were worth it. Because when he brought me to bed with that fire in his eyes, when he held me close on the couch and whispered vows of undying love for me… he recreated that place. That smell of running streams and freshly-baked bread. Minutes hung in eternity. His touch was sun-warmth. Magic flowed from his lips, covering me in the shining light that I thought was the one true magic of Muggles and wizards.

But it was not love.

I spin myself in webs of lies, how many others pay the price.

One day, I was sick of the strain, sick of walking on this tightrope. I wanted Tom all to myself, I realized, but only if he would take me as I was. Wand, unborn child and all. I took the potions brewed the previous night and threw it out the window where it shattered on the flagstones below. I took the cauldron and threw it onto the kitchen floor, rose-colored liquid flowing, the smell of bread so pungent that it brought tears to my eyes.

Tom raced out of bed at the commotion, still clad in his nightwear. A dazed look was fixed upon his face. I’ll never forget that look on his face as he stared at the cauldron, then at me, then at the cauldron again. And that creaking whisper, that urgent fear in his voice. “Who are you?”

I paused. It was a loaded question. I wasn’t even sure of the answer myself.

“Who am I?”

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

“I am Merope Riddle. Your wife and the bearer of your child.”

Such a howl of fury I had never heard before! He raised his arm to me, and I stumbled backward. Was this the charming Tom I loved only last night? How I despised and feared him now! I took a few more steps back, turned, and fled.

“Witch-woman! Seductress! Evil snake!”

I never loved him.

He cursed after my fleeing feet as I cried silent pleadings into the night.

I had never been someone, never been anyone. To my father, I was merely the girl who picked up his messes, the worthless Squib and contaminator of the family tree. To my brother, I had been a shadow worth no heed. But to Tom, for a single glowing year in my life, I had been the world to Tom.

But it was all a lie, and I never loved him.

I spent the next months in grimy street corners, dark alleys, park benches. The baby kicked and thrashed within me as my brother had kicked and thrashed at a snake that had displeased him. I was the snake, the seductress, the snake. I was a witch, and ashamed. I had let my own child down.

I kept my wand in the pocket of my threadbare coat for those months, never using it, not once. It banged against my thigh, a constant reminder that I was evil, selfish, shameful. A witch.

And no one could ever love me.

From my mistakes come darkness vastly, infinite and everlasting.

Finally, the time had come. I could feel it in my bones. The child of the feared Tom Riddle, the grandchild of the feared Marvolo, the child whose arrival I feared more than anyone else in the world…

I dragged myself, hungry and weakened, into the local orphanage. Strange that I should chose such a place, when houses were so readily available. I think I made the choice I made before I knew I made it.

In the bed of an orphan I struggled for hours, pain wiping my mind to a blank sheet of white. In that whiteness, I heard sounds. Screaming that was not my own. Children whimpering in fear. The howling of werewolves and the crashing of giants. And burning bread.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had entered the world.

The child I could never love.

Who am I who brought this terror in the night? Who am I who brought this bitter fight?

There was nothing left for a witch-woman in this world. Nothing left for a snake. Except Tom. Little Tom. The innocent baby who slept beside me.

“I hope that you will spend your entire life showered in love, Tom. I’m sorry that I cannot be there for you. I want you to be... something other than just a name. I want you to aways know who you are.”

I recount these memories to you, nursemaid, so that you might tell Tom as he grows older. Leave now with the child. Now, I shall take out my wand. I know I’m almost a Squib, but if one spell goes right in my life, I wish it would be this one. I know I can’t manage a powerful spell, but look at me now. It won’t take a lot to finish me off. My own despair is my weapon. My own wand-point brushes my chest…

Who am I? I am Merope Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra.”