I got the idea for this one-shot while writing my other fic An Exquisite Pain...that doesn't need to have been read first, though certain topics are alluded to here that are central to that story. Anyway, I tried to keep this as canon as possible.

DISCLAIMER: My first name doesn't start with a J, and my last name isn't Rowling.

It was New Year's Eve.

Snow fell silently onto the sleepy city of London, coating the streets and the rooftops with a light, almost magical substance.

Children played happily in the streets, throwing snowballs at each other and laughing with joy. The love between children and snow has lasted for centuries, and will continue to last until the end of time.

It was the last day of 1926. People were celebrating with their families and loved ones, reminiscing about the past year and looking forward to the one to come.

Not everyone was happy, though.

On a deserted street near a large Muggle orphanage, a young woman walked slowly on the sidewalk, stopping every few moments to catch her breath.

She was around nineteen, with plain features and stringy brown hair that reached her shoulders. Her eyes were a dull blue and stared in opposite directions. Anyone would have dismissed her as a common prostitute, except for the fact that she was obviously heavily pregnant. Her round belly appeared almost the size of her head. It looked as if she had swallowed a balloon.

Merope Gaunt stopped in the dim light of a streetlamp and gripped the pole tightly as a wave of pain washed through her. She would have the baby soon, she was sure of it. There had to be somewhere she could go, people who would take a dying pregnant woman in.

For Merope was dying; she was sure of it. She had never been healthy, and what little strength she possessed had drastically weakened since her husband had left. Giving birth would surely kill her.

She continued to stumble forward, growing more and more desperate. The pain in her abdomen was increasing. She wasn't sure how much longer she would last. What if both she and her baby were to die here, alone and freezing on the street? What would the pretentious Muggles say about that?

Merope fumbled in her pocket for the three remaining Galleons she had left. Just over a week ago, she had sold her last item—Salazar Slytherin's locket, for ten Galleons. She had spent almost all of the profit on food. Hopefully three Galleons would be enough to persuade whomever she saw next to help her.

As she rounded the corner, she caught sight of an iron gate looming in the distance. Behind it was a large building with what looked like candlelight shining from the windows. Vauxhall Orphanage, the sign read. Merope felt a tiny pinprick of hope. She didn't know how Muggle orphanages worked, but perhaps they would be able to help her? And perhaps they would have enough room to take her child. It would be better for it to grow up as an ordinary Muggle, rather than a damned witch or wizard. Merope wished with all her heart that her child would have no magical powers whatsoever.

Being magical—and most certainly being pureblooded—wasn't worth it. Merope knew this with every fiber of her being, knew it since she had been a child. Her baby did not deserve to suffer the same fate as she had.

Another wave of pain washed over her. Merope looked down at herself to see several dark bloodstains rapidly spreading over her filthy dress. She gasped and tried to walk faster towards the orphanage. There wasn't much time left.

When she had reached the gate, Merope found herself unable to open it. She leaned heavily against the bars, attempting to use every ounce of strength she had left. Finally, with one last tug, the gate creaked open. She had to stop in order to avoid exhausting herself before she continued on her way.

Meanwhile, the bloodstains on the front of her dress were getting larger. Merope silently willed her baby to slow down for just a moment longer. As if the child was responding to her, she felt the strongest pain yet and couldn't stop herself from falling to the ground.

Luckily, the door to the orphanage opened at that very second. "Good Lord!" a girl Merope's age cried. "Someone help! There's a lady dying out here!"

"Having a baby," Merope managed to gasp as the girl rushed over and helped her up. "Please help me."

"Of course—that's what we're here for," the girl said, holding on tightly to Merope's arm as they slowly made their way to the door. "And even if we weren't, it is New Year's Eve after all."

Merope could do nothing but nod. Warm air swirled around her and she was greeted by bright light as she stepped inside. Almost instantly, several other women gathered around them, supporting Merope as they led her to a small room with a single bed just off the entryway.

"She doesn't have much time left," one of the women muttered as they helped her onto the bed. "Ellen, get her a cloth and something to bite on."

The girl who had rescued her nodded and left the room. Merope didn't protest as the women peeled her soiled dress off of her and replaced it with a robe.

"What's your name, dear?" a kind-looking woman asked.

"Merope…Gaunt," Merope said. She clutched the bedsheets as a sickening stab of pain tore at her stomach.

"I have the cloth, Gladys," the girl named Ellen announced, emerging back into the room. Merope squinted through hazy vision to see the women crowded around her. They were trying to save her life.

"It's…no use," Merope croaked, crying out loud at the pain. "You can't help me."

"If you'll take the medicine, deary, you'll stand a better chance of surviving," Gladys told her, holding out a spoon.

"No," Merope tried to say. It was impossible that they would be able to save her. Even magic couldn't save her now. Every descendant of Salazar Slytherin was doomed to the same fate. Merope knew she wouldn't be any different.

Something hard and metallic was thrust between her teeth. "Bite it," Ellen instructed her. "It will provide an outlet for the pain."

When the next wave of agony pulsed through her, Merope bit as hard as she could on the object in her mouth and very nearly broke her teeth.

The pain sharpened her vision, and she caught a glimpse of blood—was it her blood or the baby's?—in a crimson puddle on the sheets. She was exhausted and ready to give up now, but she couldn't let go, or her baby would die.

Her baby…hers and Tom's baby…if he were here now, would she fight, would she try to survive?

Yes. She would. But it would be no use; she would die anyway. It didn't matter. She had been marked down for early death since the day she was born.

"Push, Miss Gaunt!" a faraway voice instructed her. "You must!"

"I can't," Merope said weakly. She felt herself hovering over a dark abyss. There was no pain there, she knew that. It would be so relieving to just close her eyes and give up now…

Something hard slapped her face, bringing her back to reality. "Push!" the voice yelled again. "Do you want your baby to die?"

No…that was the last thing she wanted. Merope spat out whatever was in her mouth and pushed; promising her half-dead body that there would be release from the torture soon.

She was screaming, but she was feeling it rather than hearing it. Sounds were oddly warped and twisted. The world was spinning around her.

But most of all, there was painpainpainagonyagonyagony and she was dead, she had to be dead—nothing in life could hurt this much. Was this it, then? Was this the hell that she had to suffer for the rest of eternity?

No—not hell. She was still in the orphanage, still lying on the bed and her vision was clouded in red and there was blood everywhere and the pain was too much. She couldn't take it anymore.

The abyss was still there, dark and inviting. Just as Merope scrunched her eyes shut and let go, a very different scream reached her ears. It was raw and high-pitched and so unlike anything she had ever heard before that she mustered the energy to open her eyes again.

Amidst all the blood and gore surrounding her, Merope's eyes focused on a tiny figure Ellen was holding up triumphantly, purple and shrieking. Her baby…her child.

"It's a boy, Miss Gaunt!" Gladys said, taking the baby from Ellen and wrapping it in a towel. "Congratulations!"

Merope's fatigued eyes drank in her child. He had stopped screaming and his dark blue eyes were already wide open and alert. Even at birth, he was pale white, like Tom had been. He had hair too—it was pitch black and sticking up in different directions.

He was beautiful.

Merope had never considered names for the baby before, and she didn't have to. There was only one name for this boy.

"His name," she croaked, "His name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle. After his father and…grandfather."

"Very well, Miss Gaunt," Gladys said, smoothing his matted hair down. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Yes," Merope whispered. She was fading fast now. The black pit was getting clearer and the orphanage was fading from sight.

Gladys held him out to her. Merope could barely move her arms; she'd forgotten how to move at all.

"Tom…" she whispered, and just as she felt her son's warm skin touch hers, her head lolled back and the blackness rushed up eagerly to claim her.

Merope Gaunt let go.