In His Image ── Tom Riddle.

XIV. Fate.

She didn't ask for help. She never would. The hurried glances of passing adults caused her nothing but contempt. The whole world seemed to conspire to remind her how disposable she was: a lost orphan, one more nameless child among thousands. No one would stop. No one would care.

Time trickled slowly. A whole day of wandering. The sun rose, fell, and London became a mosaic of shadows and artificial lights. At every corner, Merope was confronted with her own loneliness. The families laughing in the squares, couples walking hand in hand, groups of young people gathering on corners — all were distorted reflections of something she would never have.

The sensation was like an open cut, a wound that didn't heal: there was always a distance between her and the rest of the world, an invisible barrier that never broke.

And deep down, maybe that was better. Maybe it was fate. Maybe she was never born to walk side by side with anyone.

When she finally found her way back to Wool's, night had already swallowed London completely. The illuminated windows of the orphanage appeared before her like the mouth of an ancient beast that always waited for her in the same place, indifferent to what happened outside. She entered silently, unnoticed. No one asked where she had been. No one even noticed her absence.

It was almost comical. She had spent an entire day lost in the heart of the city, and for the orphanage, for Julie, for Clarisse and Louise, none of that mattered. There were no records, no consequences. Once again, it was as if she had never existed outside those walls.

Merope climbed to her room with firm steps, a heavy and at the same time empty heart. She lay down without changing clothes, staring at the ceiling as the rain fell outside. And she understood, with that cruel clarity that always accompanied her, that her life would always be this: a deep silence, an endless loneliness, a repetition of absences. But it didn't hurt, because it had already become part of her being.

The present, however, was not about Cole, nor Julie, nor the staff. It was about her brother's birthday. July 31. Harry Potter's birthday.

And for Harry, what should have been a day of joy was nothing more than another weight dragged across the calendar, indistinguishable from the others. There was no cake, no presents, no one who remembered the date fondly. He was, as always, stuffed inside his cupboard under the stairs, the same stuffy, dark space that had served as his room for as long as he could remember.

Harry rested his head against the wall and murmured, to no one but himself:

— Happy birthday, Harry. Eleven years... and nothing's changed.

The voice sounded strange in the silence. A mix of irony and resignation. He remembered every previous birthday: all forgotten, all erased. The difference was that this year, he was even more aware of his situation. He had the impression that something huge was happening in his life, something bigger than anything the Dursleys could control, but at the same time, it was like standing on the edge of an abyss without knowing whether to jump or if the ground would disappear from under his feet.

It was almost funny how time seemed to pass more slowly inside that cubicle. The narrow walls were stained with dust and moisture, and the little spider living in the upper left corner was his only constant company. Harry sat curled up, knees to his chest, hands resting on his chin, letting the slow breath muffle the distant snoring of Uncle Vernon and the creak of the kettle in the kitchen.

Those letters had stopped arriving. For two weeks, it was as if the universe had decided to remind him that he wasn't just the "useless boy" of the Dursleys. He wondered if it had something to do with that Hogwarts thing he found in a letter from some Dumbledore to the Dursleys. A strange, pompous name, almost like something from a storybook — but Harry never had a library, never had a real school. He knew little of the world beyond Privet Drive, little of what lay beyond the walled backyard of the Dursleys' house. But Hogwarts... that word sounded strange, full of promise and mystery, and deep down, a twinge of fear. Fear because he didn't know what to expect, fear because his heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to break his ribs, and at the same time... a spark of excitement, or maybe curiosity, that he couldn't quite name.