"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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ㅤㅤIt had been practically an entire month since Cole disappeared, and considering the circumstances, Merope's life hadn't changed in any way that really mattered. The air in the orphanage was lighter, perhaps, but the weight crushing her shoulders remained the same — that constant mixture of boredom, loneliness, and the feeling of carrying something larger than anyone around her could even imagine.
About Cole? Not even the staff bothered to look deeply. The old woman was like an old piece of furniture that one day just disappears from a crowded room; everyone notices, but no one cares to ask where she went. The easiest consensus was: "she resigned, was tired, that's it." Case closed. There was no mourning, no longing, not even prolonged comments. Just silence, as if she had never existed. The irony of that brought a half-smile to Merope's mind. So much power to inflict pain, so much effort to make herself feared — and in the end, not even a memory remained.
Julie took over the position of director. She was less severe, but not out of compassion. Her kindness came from carelessness, a weakness of character disguised as gentleness. She was not cruel like Cole but negligent. The kind of woman who pretended not to see so she wouldn't have to act. And it was this negligence that, for the first time, allowed something unprecedented to happen: on a hot July weekend, the staff decided to take the children outside the walls of Wool's. A trip to the city. A gesture that would never have been tolerated under Cole's tyranny.
— Stay with Clarisse and Louise, Merope — said one of the assistants, distractedly, while organizing them in small groups.
Simple words, but carrying a known venom. As if Merope needed babysitters. As if she was incapable of handling herself. As if she always needed to be watched.
Louise, of course, backed off immediately. Their past spoke louder, and the fear the girl carried in her eyes was so obvious it almost exposed her. Merope didn't need Legilimency to read it: the petrified terror of a memory that would never fade. Clarisse, for her part, wasn't afraid — she felt revulsion. The look she gave was loaded with something even sharper: disgust. As if sharing space with Merope was an unbearable burden, as if her mere presence contaminated the air.
The two didn't take long to act. As the mass of orphans began to gather around Julie, excited by the prospect of going out, Clarisse and Louise simply... walked away. A quick movement, almost rehearsed. And when Merope realized, she was alone in the middle of the street, with the crowd dissolving around her.
She stood still for a moment, watching the scene as someone watching a play they already knew by heart. There was no surprise, no outrage. Just the cold realization of a truth that repeated itself in all phases of her life: in the end, she always ended up alone.
The city opened before her like a gray labyrinth. London had that damp and metallic smell, a mixture of rain, smoke, and iron. She knew it well — or at least thought she did. She had walked its streets, observed shop windows, memorized routes. But that day, something different happened. The crowd disappeared, and Merope's mental map failed. She lost her way, lost her landmarks, and, without realizing it, was wandering through alleys and avenues, crossing bridges, descending stairs, as if the city were alive and wanted to swallow her.
