"TO LOVE HIM WAS TO
BECOME IN HIS IMAGE, NOT
A WORSHIPPER BUT A TWIN FLAME."
Merope Eloween Potter is the eldest daughter of Lily and James Potter, and the older sister of Harry. Also known as the girl who survived...
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ㅤㅤOne day after being thrown into the dark room. It was Monday. And that, in itself, was already a problem.
Merope hated Mondays with all her soul. A particular, old, visceral hatred. There was something deeply offensive in the sound of the word, in the air it carried, in the weight it put on people's shoulders. Monday was the repetition of the world. It was the weekly reminder that life had no pause. It was the first slap of routine in the face of anyone who still dreamed of some silence. And for Merope, that slap tasted like rust. But what she hated about Mondays wasn't the time, nor having to wake up early. It wasn't the morning cold, the bland food, or the wrinkled uniform-it was going to school.
Not because she hated studying. In fact, studying was one of the very few activities Merope could place under the word "love." A word she used sparingly, almost never, and only in extreme cases-like the meticulous way she solved advanced arithmetic problems while all the other children were still counting on their fingers. Or the way she organized her notebooks, clean lines, precise handwriting, effortlessly. As if organization were part of her blood. As if she knew that, at least, was something she could control.
She was always the top of the class. Always. Since she started attending that moldy public school at six years old, she had never gotten less than the highest grade. She was the kind of child who knew the content before it was taught. Who answered questions without raising her hand. Who learned languages on her own. Who read the entire coursebook in the first week of the school year.
She did all that not out of obligation, nor to impress anyone-because, frankly, she didn't care if they were impressed or not. She did it because it was good. It was pleasurable. It was the closest she came to being at peace. Solving equations was infinitely more tolerable than hearing human voices. The sound of chalk on the board was less aggressive than any laughter in the hallway.
The problem with school wasn't the school. It was the people. Always the people.
But, ironically, even that had become an interesting game for her.
The other students avoided Merope. Some just went quiet around her. Others crossed the hallway. Others pretended she didn't exist-but watched when they thought she wasn't looking. It was like living with a ghost. A tall, pale ghost, with hair black as pitch and eyes so grey they looked like wet glass. There was something in her presence that made people feel they were always being watched-even when she wasn't looking. Even when she wasn't even in the room.
The most curious thing was that, despite the almost unanimous fear, some boys wrote her letters. Ridiculous ones. Hidden in her notebooks or left in her locker, folded with a hesitation that spilled over the edges. "I admire you from afar," they said. "You're different from the others." As if she were a painting on a wall. Untouchable. Unreachable. Or a mythological figure. An angel of death who, for some reason, also knew algebra.
