Merope Gaunt’s regrets were like shadows, lingering over her even in death. As her spirit lingered, tethered to the place of her demise and the child she had left behind, she couldn’t help but reflect on the choices that had defined her brief and tragic existence.

She had been so desperate, so starved for the love she had never known, that she had turned to forbidden magic. The love potion had been her first grave mistake, but not the worst. No, the worst mistake had been letting her fleeting hope and longing for validation blind her. She had foolishly believed that perhaps Tom Riddle Sr., even after the potion’s influence was lifted, might stay—if not out of love, then at least out of duty. But he hadn’t. He had looked at her swollen belly, her tear-streaked face, and thrown her out into the unforgiving October cold without a second thought.

For two months, she had endured a living hell. Hunger gnawed at her, and shame kept her from returning to her father and brother. They would never forgive her for sullying the Gaunt name, nor would they care about her suffering. Desperation had led her to pawn the only thing of value she had left—a priceless family heirloom, Salazar Slytherin’s locket. The shame of that act stung even now, in the afterlife. She had sold a piece of her family’s legacy for scraps to keep herself alive and to give her unborn child a fighting chance.

On New Year’s Eve, with labor pains tearing through her frail body, she had stumbled to the steps of Wool’s Orphanage. The biting cold of winter seemed determined to claim her, but she refused to let it win—not until her child was born. Blood loss and exhaustion had nearly consumed her, but she had channeled every last shred of her dwindling magic into the fragile life inside her. If the child didn’t survive, neither would she. So she gave everything she had, pouring the last remnants of her strength into her baby.

When the child was finally born, his cries filling the small, dingy room, she felt her life slip away. Her vision dimmed, her breathing faltered, and she realized she was dying. Panic gripped her, not for herself, but for the tiny, helpless life she was leaving behind. She named him after the two men who had loomed largest in her life—her father and his father: Tom Marvolo Riddle. Another foolish decision, she thought bitterly, as her consciousness faded. Why had she burdened the boy with names so steeped in her own pain and failure?

And then, suddenly, she found herself floating. She looked down and saw her lifeless body on the grimy bed, her face pale and still, her hair matted with sweat. She wanted to scream, to claw her way back to life, but it was too late. She was dead.

At first, Merope didn’t understand what had happened. The realization came slowly, painfully, as she watched the midwife wrap her son in a thin, threadbare blanket and place him in a crib. She was no longer a part of the world of the living, yet she couldn’t move on. She was bound to this place, to this child she had sacrificed everything for.

Her soul, fragile and tethered, hovered over the orphanage. She couldn’t leave, not when her baby needed her. She watched as the orphanage staff cared for him in their own cold, detached way. She saw him grow, saw the pain and loneliness etched into his young face. He reminded her so much of herself—abandoned, unloved, desperate for something more.

Merope tried to comfort him in her own spectral way, though she wasn’t sure if he could feel her presence. She whispered to him on lonely nights, hoping her voice would reach him in his dreams. She hovered near him when he sat by the window, staring out at a world that didn’t seem to want him. She could only watch, helpless and full of regret, as the bitterness and anger in him grew.

Her son, her Tom, was the only anchor she had left. And so, even in death, she stayed. She couldn’t leave him, not now, not ever. She had failed him in life, but maybe, just maybe, she could protect him in death.

As Tom grew, his magic grew with him, and to be honest, Merope was delighted. His magic was so powerful—powerful in a way she had never seen before. How she wished she had been capable of magic like that. But those accidental bursts of magic caught the attention of the other children. He was bullied.

For the first time in her existence, Merope felt a fierce maternal protectiveness she hadn't known she possessed. She realized that without guidance, Tom's magic would become volatile, even dangerous. Accidental magic, when left unchecked, could spiral out of control. She began to guide him as best as she could, despite her limitations as a ghost. She couldn't be there physically, but she found ways to help him: whispering calming words when his anger bubbled, subtly redirecting his magic to avoid catastrophic accidents.

At night, when the orphanage grew quiet, Merope found herself hovering over Tom’s small bed. During the witching hour, when her ghostly energy was strongest, she would lie beside him, draping her ethereal presence over him in a feeble attempt to provide the warmth and reassurance of a mother’s embrace. Though she lacked physical form, she hoped that her presence might give him some measure of comfort.

But as Tom grew older and crueler, Merope began to feel the strain. By the time he was eleven and received his Hogwarts letter, the boy who once clung to her spectral presence with unspoken trust had become distant, cold. The transformation only deepened each year he returned from Hogwarts. His innocent curiosity had been replaced by an insatiable hunger for power, his laughter by a calculating silence.

When he returned during his final summer at the orphanage, Merope could barely recognize her son. The boy who used to cling to her presence was now an imposing young man, tall and confident, exuding an aura of danger. She could feel the weight of his dark magic—a suffocating, unnatural force that she could not penetrate.

And then, the moment she had dreaded came. The last time she saw him alive was the night he left the orphanage for good. His eyes, once her own vibrant blue, had begun to flash red in moments of anger. His aura repelled her, making it impossible for her to approach him. When he finally left, he didn’t look back.

Merope was devastated. She spent decades trapped in the orphanage, bound to the place of her death and to the child she could no longer reach. She watched the world change, but her own existence remained static—a ghost stuck in a cycle of regret and longing.

She tried countless times to summon him back, using whatever fragments of magic she could muster as a ghost. She begged, pleaded with the universe to give her one more chance to speak to him, to make him see reason. But her efforts were in vain. He never returned.

Until tonight.

Merope had almost given up hope when she heard the sound of footsteps echoing through the orphanage’s desolate halls. She thought it was just another hallucination brought on by her loneliness. But then she saw him—a small boy, no older than four, darting through the hallway with a mischievous laugh. Her breath, if she still had one, hitched in her throat.

The boy looked exactly like Tom had at that age, down to the sharp cheekbones and raven-black hair. But there were differences, too—his nose was less pointed, his hair wilder, and his eyes… oh, his eyes. They weren’t the piercing Sapphire she had given her son. They were emerald green.

The boy dashed into the very room where she had given birth, the room where her life had ended. Merope floated after him, unable to tear her gaze away. Who was this child? Could it be? Could her son, her cruel, distant Tom, have a child?

She reached the room just as the boy’s soft voice broke the silence.

"Mama?” he called, his tiny voice full of Maturity, so surprising for his age.

Merope froze. The word Mama echoed in her mind, stirring something deep within her ghostly form. She hadn’t been called that in decades—not since her son was a baby. The sound of it now, spoken by this child, was almost too much to bear.

Merope froze. The word Mama echoed in her mind, stirring something deep within her ghostly form. She hadn’t been called that ever— her son only hated and cursed her. The sound of it now, spoken by this child, was almost too much to bear.

Had her son truly found love? Had he fathered a child?

But the answer to those questions would have to wait, for tonight, her focus was on this little boy—this child who carried a piece of her Tom and something else, something new, something she had never thought her family could have: hope.

Merope's translucent form hovered in the dimly lit hallway, her gaze locked onto the young boy’s retreating figure. But then, her eyes shifted—drawn, as if by some magnetic pull, to the doorway where the child had run from. And there he stood, her son, fully grown and formidable.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

All sharp edges and regal poise, he looked every bit the pureblood lord he aspired to be, despite the inconvenient truth of his mixed lineage. His midnight-black robes billowed slightly as he turned, his aristocratic features lit by the soft golden light of the hallway. Merope's heart—or whatever remained of it—ached with a mix of pride and sorrow. This was her son, undeniably hers, but also a stranger, shaped by the choices she had made and the world she had left him to face.

But tonight, for the first time, her focus wasn’t entirely on him.

It was on the woman in his arms.

The young lady was bickering with Tom, her emerald eyes flashing with irritation as she gestured animatedly. Tom’s arm draped possessively around her waist, his thumb brushing against the curve of her hip in a gesture so natural it spoke volumes.

Merope’s spectral lips curved into a smile. Oh, her boy was whipped.

Something had changed. In the year since she had last sensed him, he felt… different. His aura, usually a storm of dark power, was calmer, less volatile. His eyes, once marred by the crimson of dangerous soul magic, were a piercing sapphire again—the eyes she had given him.

Her gaze flicked back to the young woman, and for the first time, Merope felt something other than curiosity. She felt power.

Pure, unadulterated death magic radiated from the girl, subtle but unmistakable. Merope froze, her ghostly form trembling. A necromancer.

Hope bloomed in her spectral chest like a fragile flower.

As if sensing her presence, the woman turned sharply, her emerald eyes locking onto the faint outline of Merope’s form. She froze, her features softening with understanding.

“You go ahead,” the woman said to Tom, her voice calm yet firm.

Tom turned, his expression incredulous.   
What happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with the same uncertainty he felt within. “Go ahead?” he asked again, his voice sharp with irritation, though his hand lingered at her waist as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

Merope suppressed a laugh as she watched her son’s jaw tighten. Oh, yes, this woman had him completely wrapped around her finger.

With great reluctance, Tom relented, scooping up the boy—Tommy, as the woman called him—and walking away, though not without a backward glance that spoke of his displeasure.

With great reluctance, Tom relented, scooping up the boy—Tommy, as the woman called him—and walking away, though not without a backward glance that spoke of his displeasure.

As the woman turned back to Merope, she extended a hand. “Who are you?” she asked, her tone neither fearful nor dismissive but curious.

Merope hesitated only for a moment before placing her ghostly hand in the woman’s. “Merope,” she said softly. “Merope Gaunt.”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly, but her expression quickly smoothed into calm acceptance. “Just as I thought,” she murmured.

Merope’s voice was bolder than it had been in life. “And what is your name, daughter-in-law?”

The woman choked on air, her composure slipping for just a moment. “Forgive me,” she said, her voice tinged with amusement. “I’m not your daughter-in-law.”

Merope arched a translucent brow, gesturing toward the hallway. “Then why were you on my son’s arm?”

The woman gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “It’s… a long story. But we don’t have time for that.” Her expression sobered as she looked at Merope. “Is there a reason you’re still lingering here?”

Merope’s voice trembled. “I want to talk to my son. I need to talk to him.”

The woman nodded without hesitation, her aura steady and reassuring. “Then let me help you.”

Together, they moved through the orphanage, the young woman leading Merope to the room where Tom had spent his childhood. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse, but the memories were etched deeply into Merope’s ghostly form.

The woman called out softly, “Tommy boy,” and the little boy was sitting on her Tom's childhood bed and he was sitting beside the little one.

The boy just looked up and nonchalantly asked,"who is it this time?" As if it was a daily occurrence.

Merope watched in wonder as the child toddled into the room, his bright eyes lighting up the gloom. She moved away from the woman’s side, her gaze shifting to the doorway as another figure appeared.

Tom stood there, his expression unreadable, his aura tense.

For the first time in her afterlife, Merope stood face to face with her son.

The young woman gave Merope a reassuring smile before scooping up Tommy and leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her.

And then there were two.

Mother and son.

Merope felt an unfamiliar warmth coursing through her. The young woman's magic was weaving around her, tethering her to the physical realm, giving her form for the first time since her death. Her feet brushed the ground, and for a fleeting moment, she felt human again.

She walked slowly toward her son, her ghostly presence almost tangible now. Tentatively, she raised a hand to touch his cheek, a gesture she had longed for since the day he was born.

"Tom," she whispered, her voice shaky. "How are you, my sweet devil boy?"

His eyes narrowed, the sapphire depths flashing with a dangerous edge. "My name is not Tom," he hissed, his words laced with venom, the S's drawing out in an unsettling way. "And don't call me that."

Merope tilted her head, her eyes soft yet sad. "What shouldn't I call you, Tom? But it is your name."

He straightened, his posture rigid with disdain. "My name is Marvolo," he snapped. "Not something as silly and common as Tom."

Merope raised her hands in mock surrender, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. "Very well, Marvolo," she said, her tone light but tinged with sorrow.

Tom coughed, his irritation evident. "What do you want?"

She hesitated, her hand hovering over his hair. "I just wanted to know how my boy was doing," she said softly.

This time, he didn’t pull away, though his jaw tightened. “Why? Wasn’t ruining my life enough for you? Sleeping with a Muggle, forcing love on him, and leaving me as an orphan—was that not enough? Now you haunt me as well?”

His words were sharp, cutting through her like shards of ice. Merope’s shoulders sagged, but her voice remained steady. “Tom,” she said gently, her tone holding a hint of reproach.

“What?” he snapped. “You left me in Muggle London. You have no idea what I faced!”

Her eyes filled with ghostly tears. “Of course I know,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was with you, Tom. I stayed with you in this very orphanage until the day you left for Hogwarts. I never left your side.”

Tom’s expression faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked it with anger. “What is it you want now?” he demanded, his voice defensive.

Merope stepped closer, her voice soft and aching. “I wanted to see how my boy was doing. To know if he was stable again, like he was before…” She hesitated. “Before you started delving into soul magic.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?”

“I’m a soul myself,” she said simply. “I can sense soul magic. Where do you think you got your affinity from?”

He scoffed, turning away. “If you’re so happy that I’m apparently ‘stable’ now, then leave.”

Merope shook her head sadly. “Child, I can only leave when you truly want me to go.”

“Well, I want you to leave,” he said sharply, though his tone lacked conviction.

Merope gave him a knowing look. “No, you don’t. If you truly wanted me gone, I wouldn’t be here.”

Tom said nothing, his silence heavy. He walked to the small bed and sat down, his face turned away from her, his posture tense and defensive. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folded beneath him. He looked every bit the petulant child he had once been, though his adult features betrayed him.

Outside the room, Alexandrina—who had been watching the exchange quietly—bit her lip to stifle a laugh. Little Tommy, her Tommy, had the same habit. Whenever he was upset, he would cross his legs on the bed, arms folded, refusing to speak.

The resemblance was uncanny.

She stepped back, letting mother and son have their moment. But as she did, she couldn’t help but smile. For all his darkness, for all his cruelty, Tom was still human. And perhaps, just perhaps, there was hope for him yet.

Merope lingered silently, her spectral form leaning closer to Tom as he sat rigidly on the bed. Her gaze softened as she asked, her voice tinged with teasing curiosity, "Okay, you're angry with me, but I'm still your mother, and I have the right to know—who is that beautiful young lady on your arm? Is she my daughter-in-law?"

Tom blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I want her to be," he admitted, his irritation seeping through. "But that young lady isn’t agreeing."

Merope couldn't help but laugh, the sound light and airy like a distant chime. "If you maintain that attitude," she said, shaking her head, "she’s never going to agree."

Tom’s eyes narrowed, his tone turning mocking. "Oh, yes. You must be the absolute expert, with the whole love-potioning my father. Surely you of all people know a lot about courtship, don’t you?""

Merope winced but recovered quickly, a dry smile on her lips. "Look, I may not have been the best at the game, but I’ve had plenty of time to observe since then. This orphanage has practically become a solace for young lovers. I’ve seen it all."

Her joke earned a reluctant chuckle from Tom, who rolled his eyes.

"Have a bit of sincerity," she said firmly, leaning closer. "Girls don’t just like lavish gifts and flattery. They prefer sincerity. Though, admittedly, sincerity with a lavish touch doesn’t hurt."

Tom raised an eyebrow, a rare flicker of amusement crossing his face. "So lavish gifts are a compulsion?"

"Not necessarily," Merope replied, her tone playful. "The gift should be lavish in terms of emotion, not wealth."

She tilted her head, her expression softening. "But do tell me, who is that young lady? I don’t even know her name yet, and she’s the one helping me."

Tom hesitated briefly, then said, "Alexandrina. Alexandrina Victorina Peverell."

Merope’s eyes widened slightly. "Ah, a Peverell," she murmured, nodding knowingly. "No wonder she’s such an adept necromancer." Her gaze softened further as she asked, "And what about the little boy?"

"Her son," Tom answered without missing a beat, his tone exasperated. "Her son, who’s been more of a problem than a companion on our journey."

Merope chuckled, the