Silence hung in the room. Even Morfin stopped scratching and sat down, staring at me with a new, strange expression.

  "What did you say?" Marvolo's voice became quiet. Frighteningly quiet.

  "I…" I began to shake. "I'm not who you think I am. I'm not your daughter. I died and somehow ended up in her body. I don't even know where I am. I just want…"

  I didn't finish.

  Marvolo leaned forward, grabbed me by the hair, and yanked upward, forcing me onto my knees.

  I screamed in pain — my scalp felt like it was on fire.

  "Do you take me for a fool, girl?" he hissed into my face. His breath smelled so bad I would have gagged if there had been anything in my stomach. "You think I'll believe those fairy tales? You're Merope. My daughter. A useless, stupid, worthless piece of trash who can't even cook porridge!"

  "Let go…"

  "I'll teach you to cook!" he roared. "I'll teach you to respect your father! I'll teach you what happens when you ruin food!"

  He swung his free hand.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  The blow landed across my face. My head snapped sideways, sparks exploded behind my eyes. The pain was wild — I had never felt anything like it in my life.

  No one had ever hit me. Never.

  "That's for the potatoes with the peels!" he barked.

  The second blow — from the other side.

  "That's for the burnt porridge!"

  The third — to my ear. A ringing filled my head.

  "And that's for lying to me, you little bitch!"

  I hung from his grip, clutching his wrist and trying to loosen his hold.

  Tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision.

  I wanted to scream, but only sobs came out of my throat.

  "Father," Morfin's voice said. "She's about to wet herself from fear."

  Marvolo froze. He shoved me, and I fell back into the ashes, hitting my head on the corner of the hearth. My vision went dark.

  "Clean up this filth," he hissed, kicking the spilled porridge. "And there'd better be proper food by evening. Or I'll beat you so badly you'll regret ever opening your filthy mouth!"

  He spat in my direction and headed for the door.

  "Morfin! With me!"

  The boy lazily got up, threw me a brief indifferent glance — and followed his father out.

  The door slammed behind them.

  I remained lying on the dirty floor, in ashes and cooling porridge, trembling. My whole body hurt. My face burned. My lip was split — I could taste blood.

  God. God, why?

  I sat up, wrapped my arms around my knees, and burst into loud sobs.

  For the first time in my life — the way only small children or completely broken people cry. Uncontrollably, loudly, with choking gasps.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted my mom. I wanted to wake up in my bed, in my apartment, in my own time, and forget this nightmare like a bad dream.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  But I didn't wake up.

  And around me there was only dirt, stench, porridge smeared across the wall — and the silence in which the footsteps of two people faded, people who considered me their property.

  I didn't know how much time passed. Maybe a minute. Maybe an hour.

  Then I wiped my face with the hem of my dirty dress, struggled to my feet while holding onto the wall, and looked at what remained of my "cooking."

  I slowly walked to the hearth, took a rag, dropped to my knees, and began gathering the cooled, sticky mass into it.

  My hands were shaking. Tears were still running down my cheeks.

  Nevertheless, I scooped another portion of porridge into the rag and clenched my teeth.

  Despite everything that was happening… I was not going to give up. I couldn't allow myself to die a second time.

  I had to survive. No matter what.

  ***

  Three days.

  The three days I had spent in this hell had been agonizingly long.

  That was how long I had already lived in this body and in this world as Merope Gaunt.

  I didn't know how old I was in this body. Judging by the thinness and the overall beaten-down appearance — maybe seventeen? Eighteen? But in any case, I did not feel the youthful energy that should have belonged to me at that age.

  My hands could now be used to illustrate a torture manual.

  Scrapes, calluses, knife cuts, burns from the hearth.

  I learned to peel potatoes without cutting off half the flesh with the skin. I learned to start a fire on the third try instead of the tenth. And… I learned to stay silent.

  Staying silent was probably the most important thing.

  Because any word could become a reason for these barbarians.

  Yesterday I served the food five minutes later than Marvolo expected — he overturned the bowl onto my head.

  Hot stew ran down my face, mixing with my tears while I gathered the pieces from the floor to wash and cook again.

  The day before yesterday, he thought I looked at him too long — he struck me across the face so hard sparks flew before my eyes. Said I was "looking like a guilty dog, irritating."

  I didn't even want to remember the first day here.

  Porridge, beatings, a sleepless night in the corner on stinking straw because "the bed is only for real family members, and you're a squib — endure the floor."

  In the end, I slept by the hearth. Curled into a ball, tucking my legs under me so I wouldn't touch the cold dirt floor more than necessary. I covered myself with some torn blanket that smelled of mold.

  I also hadn't washed. There was little water; it had to be carried from the well, and the well was an ordeal in itself. I still hadn't learned to draw a full bucket on the first try. My arms hurt constantly.

  I didn't eat. Or rather — I ate scraps after Marvolo and Morfin when they turned away. Whatever remained at the bottom of the pot. Sometimes bread crusts, if there were any. Sometimes nothing.

  And today was the third day of this hell.

  I stood by the hearth and stirred another brew. Potatoes, water, sorrel that I had found near the house and decided to add for flavor. Morfin said it was "edible," and I exhaled. Maybe today would pass without incident.

  Behind me, a chair creaked.

  "Hey, you."

  I flinched but didn't turn around. It was Morfin. He rarely addressed me, preferring to simply ignore me like furniture.

  "What do you want?" I asked without turning my head.

  "Add salt. Father's in a bad mood today. If he eats bland slop again — it won't end well."

  I went cold. I didn't have any salt. I hadn't found any in the house since the first day. And I was afraid to ask.

  "There's no salt," I said quietly.

  "What?"

  "There isn't any. I looked. Didn't find any."

  Morfin snorted. I heard him stand up, his feet shuffling across the dirt floor. He went to the shelf, reached somewhere deep inside, and a second later a small pouch flew toward me.

  "Here. And don't tell Father I gave it. Say you found it yourself."

  I caught the pouch. Untied it. Inside was coarse gray salt that smelled damp, but it was salt. Real salt.

  "Thank you," I exhaled.

  Morfin didn't answer. He just went back and sat down in the chair.

  I salted the stew. Tasted it. I had nothing to burn my fingers with, so I just dipped a splinter in and licked it. It was edible. Even almost tasty. At least for me, who had practically been starving the last few days, it definitely was.

  After some time Morfin also left the hut, following his father. As far as I knew, they usually hunted in the nearby forest to get us food.

  So temporarily I was alone in the hut. But that didn't last long.

  After a short while, there was an unexpected knock on the door.

  I tensed inside, expecting Marvolo and Morfin to return. But it was unlikely to be them. Would they knock on their own house?

  So, hesitating, I still went to open the door.

  I carefully opened it. On the threshold really were not my brother and father. It was…

  I froze with the spoon in my hand.

  A stranger stood in the doorway.

  Short, round, balding, in an old-fashioned suit that looked completely out of place in this dump. Glasses on his nose. Some kind of bundle in his hand.

  "Hello," he said. His voice was high, slightly squeaky, but official. "I need Mister Gaunt."

  I opened my mouth. Closed it.

  "He… he isn't here," I managed.

  "And when will he be?"

  "I don't know."

  The stranger looked around the hut. His gaze lingered on me — on my dirty dress, on the bruises under my eyes, on my split lip that still hadn't healed. Something flickered in his eyes. Pity, perhaps, or disgust. I couldn't tell.

  "Are you… Miss Gaunt?" he asked cautiously.

  I nodded.

  "My name is Bob Ogden. I'm from the Ministry of Magic. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement."