Hér kemur formáli að sögu em ég hef verið að dunda mér við að skrifa. Því miður passar hvorki formálinn né sagan í spuna samkeppnina. Vona að þið njótið lestursins. Best að taka það fram að Harry Potter er skráð vörumerki, ekki í minni eign.

Prelude- New Years eve

The streets were mostly empty now; she would only come across couple of festively dressed people on their way to celebrations with their families. For her there was no family to turn to, no feast or New Year’s resolutions. It was all too late, way too late.

The few people that she met paid her no attention; their spirits were too high to notice a pregnant girl in tattered clothes scurrying along the street. The light from the street lamps broke down in the grayish mist that lay over the city and the moist air sent chills down her spine. If only she hadn’t stopped giving him he potion.

From the houses she couldn’t avoid seeing the warm glow and through the window of a particularly big house she watched a family happily singing together at the dinner table. A little boy, around the age of three clapped his hand constantly and even though she could not hear anything she felt warmth as they all broke out in laughter.
She looked away, she had to continue, she had to get in somewhere, and she must save her child, their child.

She tripped over an uneven stone in the curve of the sidewalk; her first instinct was to cover her unborn child so she wrapped her arms around her stomach as she fell. She could hear her sleeve rip apart and the rough stone cut through her skin. It did not matter at all, all that matter was to get help, the child was coming, the contractions were closer between now, and the water had broken almost half hour ago.

She had heard about an orphanage in this neighborhood, they would be able to help her, help her child. As she pushed her self back up, she saw a couple, in their 50´s walking down the street, he supporting her arm as the walked happily towards her. They did not notice the girl in front of them until they almost walked her down. Her skin, gray as the air and the clothes all dirty and ripped. They looked at her sympathetically. She did not care, all her pride had been beaten down by her father long ago, the rest of it swallowed down in her own self pity after he left her.

”Orphanage, where?” She said trying hard to get the words out between her clutched jaws as yet another contraction shook through her. The faces of the couple changed simultaneously first with a look of shock which then was replaced by pity. They handed her a five pound bill and pointed back from where they had been walking.
“It is the big gate, three houses down from here.”
She took the money but her thoughts were raging. How dare they pity me, I am a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, how dare those muggles look down on me. But outwardly she said nothing as she scuffed past them and headed for the orphanage.

What was becoming of her, she thought as she saw the reddish brick walls of the orphanage. She had never before looked down on muggles, in fact she loved muggles, one muggle in particular. She had never been proud of her wicked ancestor, not like her oppressive father or crazy brother. No, she was not going to start acting like them in the last moment of her life, no matter how dark the situation looked, she would not step down to their level.

She had no idea what time it was but she believed it must be around 9 judged by the glimpses she had seen through the windows of all the fancy houses, where all the happy families had been eating earlier and now had started playing games or singing along to music. She laughed, cold short breathed laugh. Why was she wondering about the time, it was not like she had to worry about a proper visiting times, she had long ago crossed the proper standards of the muggle society, no matter when she would knock on the door, she would never be proper. Then why, she asked her self, was she standing in front of the door of the orphanage, unable to knock on the big, black metal door?

Then another contraction took over her body, she leaned against he door, trying to keep her body away from falling. This had been less than two minutes from the last one. She made up her mind, and knocked on the door. She waited what felt like forever but in reality was probably closer to a minute. She knocked again, more desperately, what would she do if they did not open the gate. How would she save her child? She started breaking apart from the inside. As the sobs starting breaking out on her dirty face, the transparent tears dragging soot and other dirt down her face, becoming brownish before they fell of her high chin bones, the door opened a tiny bit.

Through the crack of the door a young woman looked at her.
”Wha’ is it?” The woman asked throwing her head aside as she asked.
“Please help me, for the sake of my child.” She answered through her tears.
The crack on the door opened slightly more as the young woman turned her head over her shoulder and shouted.
”Joan, come here, we need to help this poor little bird.”
Her strong accent making her unmistakably Scottish. Another woman in her early 30’s appeared in the door pulling it open. She placed the arm of the pregnant girl around her shoulder, signaling the other girl to do the same with the other arm. Together they carried her to an empty room on the ground floor.

The room was neither big nor clean, but that was the best you could expect at an orphanage. The girl introduced as Joan started giving orders to the girl that had opened the door and another girl that had appeared as they were carrying her to the room.
”…and get some towels in her, but remember the water can not be too hot either, go, go. Shirley, what are you doing standing there, didn’t I tell you to let Ms. Martins know of our emergency.” She waved her hand dismissively at Shirley which quickly looked down and ran away.

Joan ran her hand across the sweaty forehead of the pregnant girl.
“There you are, there you are, you are save now; it is all going to be all right. My name is Joan Cole, you just call me Joan. What is your name?”
She felt so powerless, so finished, physically and psychologically she would had walked ten more miles if needed for her unborn child, but now that she was here, she did not care. She heard Joan talking but did not really get what she was saying. Everything became a bit blurry, the walls of the white room started closing in on her, the sounds of the children and the voice of Joan mixed together into a ringing tone and before she knew it she had passed out.

While see was out, all she could think about was her love, the beautiful muggle, why had she fallen in love with him. If only she had never seen him. The rage her father must have experienced when he saw the note. She did not care much for her father, but still, parental love is innate. She had felt bad disappointing him, all his life she had never lived up to his standards, and then she had destroyed the pure-blood line of the Gaunts. But Tom had been worth it all, if only she had not stopped giving him the potion. She saw them dancing, remembered his gentle touch, his kisses. They had been so happy.

She was brought back from her unconscious day dreaming by yet another contraction, much stronger than anyone before. Then she felt that something wet was touching her face. She pulled her eyes open in a shocked manner; she did not realize where she was at first. She clasped her fist and shouted;
Before realizing that first of all she had no wand and second of all that wet touch was a wet sponge that Joan was using cleaning her. Then it all came back to her, and as she looked around she saw that there were four woman standing with her, her ragged clothes had been removed from waist down and her legs had been put into labor position.
“Now push, push, it is almost there.” Joan said, bringing the wet sponge to her face again.
”I can’t, I can’t.” She said crying, mustering all her strength just to get those defeated words out of her lips.
“You must, for your child, push for your child.” Joan said encouragingly.
This seemed to touch a hidden string in her soul and with all her might she pushed, pushed harder than she ever believed possible as a searing pain paralyzed her whole body.
“The head is out, now you are almost there, one more push, one more push and you can hold your beautiful baby.” Joan said this almost automatically; obviously she had taken part in delivering babies before.
The girl felt that she could do no more, but something inside her told her to do this one thing and that would make up for all her mistakes through life. She gave one last push and felt when the pressure suddenly stopped. She opened her eyes, which she had kept shut as she was pushing. She saw Shirley cutting on the naval string and then quickly cleaned most of the slime from the body, before wrapping it in a white towel and passing it to her like a little baggage.
”Congratulation, it is a boy.”

She reached her powerless arms out and took the little boy in the towel. She held him close and watched him.
“He looks just like his father,” she said faintly, “so beautiful.”
She stared into the dark eyes of the boy that blinked at her; she noticed that he was not crying. Were newborn children not supposed to cry? She wondered for a second, but she did not care, she was holding the most beautiful boy in the world. She was in her own world and did not notice what was going on around her.
When she looked around her face was shining with a big sincere smile that was the only thing that possibly could make her rough face remotely beautiful. But the people around her were not smiling, they were looking very serious.
”Grace, we need more towels, now!” Joan was shouting at Grace who looked frightened but obeyed immediately.
“Shirley, go out and try to find out why Dr. Klapman is not here yet. If you find him tell him that we have an emergency.”
As Shirley ran out Joan turned to the last woman who had to be Ms. Martins. She had a certain air of authority about her and the girl presumed that she must be in charge of the orphanage.
“I don’t know how much longer she can keep in there, she has lost a lot of blood, and I am unable to stop the bleeding.” Joan told Ms. Martins.
Ms. Martins walked and sat beside the girl while Joan continued working between her legs.
“Poor child, poor child.” Ms. Martins said as she tried to take the boy out of her arms. But the girl held tight on to the boy, her beautiful boy, she would not let go of him. She turned to Ms. Martins and said:
”He is to be named Tom after his beautiful father, Marvolo after my father and he is Riddle, beautiful little Riddle.” She felt that she could not move her self any more and breathing was becoming harder and harder.

Ms. Martins smiled, “you will name him that yourself, as soon as Dr. Klapman gets here you are going to be all right.” There was no conviction in the voice and the girl tried to shake her head but felt all dizzy and unable to move. She fixed her eyes on her newborn boy.
”Beautiful little Tom Marvolo Riddle.”
She felt her hands loosing the grip on her boy, everything started to get in and out of focus. But there was no pain, only happiness, she had saved her son.
She never woke up again but Ms. Martins and Joan Cole thought they heard the girl whisper Tom Marvolo Riddle, one more time before she drew her last breath.
Voldemort is my past, present and future.