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The first time she sees him is right after Hallows' Eve. Merope had never been good at divination spells and that sort of magic vastly depleted her but she knew, as soon as she saw him, that she wanted Tom.In her fuzzy mind's eye, he was the one for her. The only one.Actually, it was more something she thought about in order to escape loneliness and the disgrace that her father and brother have put her through. It did not take her much to realize that both were brutes in their own ways. The father, still in his right mind, a worse brute than her mad brother. She remembers the night that Marvolo summoned them both from the bed they were sharing in that hovel of a house and got them to disrobe.They were both scared and trembling as his eyes roamed over their waxy bodies, bones protruding with malnourishment, skin a bit too unhealthy looking to be deemed attractive, hair dark and long like snakes.“My little vipers,” he would whisper with a toothless mouth and his black hole eyes would become suddenly clear of cataract and less bloodshot. He would bid them approach and touch them both, passionless and clinical, scratching their tender skin with blackened fingertips.And when things would not work properly, he would just shout in irritation.“You daft cow!” Marvolo would shout his displeasure and frustration only at Merope, and he would often slap her buttocks.This day is no different. Her cheeks get instantly red, fill with blood, more so than her face which continues to remain sallow and cold. She sees Morfin swallow hard, looking at her with discontent and fear that their father... He would, wouldn't he? At least he doesn't call her a Squib and doesn't bring up Morfin's impotence. She is mortified at herself and her brother. She always displeases her father and she doesn't even try. Merope looks down at her toes, not in shame but in frustration, because she wasn't even wet between her hairy folds, and Morfin could barely get an erection under the scrutiny. She wanted it to be over quickly so she could get back to the snakes in the garden, while Morfin was waiting for a reaction from his body, half cruel, half defeated. It was something they both knew that it will have to work one day to get an heir to the Gaunts... but that thought is for another day, Merope thinks. The thought that her own brother would touch her like that is abominable on its own. She thinks of the snakes.It's not just because they are blood-related but because there is something abhorrent about him that makes her want to cringe. She doesn't, though. He is a skinny, impotent thing, with yellowed teeth and a pigeon chest. The only beautiful thing about him is the dark green of his eyes. Their only flaw, that she also shares, is that they point to different directions. They remind her of the murky water of the lake. Sometimes they go clear, bright sparkling green of a stone, like a Chinese jade she saw once in the shop at Borgin's. Her father couldn't afford it, though, no matter how much she begged. Her father would not buy it for her no matter how much she begged, more likely.Some nights he goes into her bed and presses his flaccid self next to her almost naked buttocks. The thin sheet of her nightgown separates them under the frayed blanket she uses. Little possessions and too many warming spells make the bed creak and moan. She hears and then feels him spit in his hand and wet her cunt, two spindly fingers searching for the entrance. Wrong hole, again. She fumbles and places her hand in a warning on his chest. There are few hairs surrounding the indentation left by the abnormal magic that took for Morfin's conception.Merope is vaguely disgusted but she knew him all her life and if only he could claim her like he obviously wished, she would be now done for, free at last of her father's examining and his prodding. She would breed him a semblance of an heir and she could be free to walk the forest and see her precious snakes, talk to them in the sussurating language that no one taught her and caress their soft skin.
But Morfin could not. In the darkness, she fumbled for his small organ and tried caressing him with her cold hand. She was brusque and clammy and her nails, some short, some long, were jagged from too much digging for roots near the forest of the Riddle's property.If Morfin's cock was a snake, it would be a dead one. Limp.
He hit her hard on the flank with a fist and pulled her hair until she cried and turned to bite him. She wanted to strike him, fanged and callous but the coldness and emptiness of her stomach made her refrain from it. Useless and powerless, that's how she felt.She was now too hungry to go back to sleep, and her brother too upset to let go of her cold buttocks. The only fat thing she owned, she realized. He stroked it lazily, from time to time, pinching it viciously. And then she felt it between her ass cheeks, that smallish cock of his, a tubular organ that hardened and filled with blood and curiosity, now prying her asshole open. She moaned and swallowed her spittle, thickly. A small inconvenience she had to go through to have him exhausted enough to let her sleep. He pushed once, twice, thrice and hissed, snake-like.Morfin did not even enter her that he spilt himself in watery ropes of seed. He muttered a Scourgify, turned and fell asleep.Soon, Merope would do the same, her thoughts drifting to their muggle neighbour, Tom Riddle. Handsome and rich, he was everything she desired to be.In the morning she usually tends to the garden, mostly peppered with magical herbs and very few edible plants. Nothing would have grown here if her father, Marvolo, wouldn't have brought, or rather, stolen, soil from beyond the forest. From Riddle property, from old Slytherin land. Snakes slither around her as she digs for roots.The sun shines up in the sky but now is obscured by thick yew branches. Something new is in the air and Merope can haunt it like a snake, with her mouth open and tongue pointed. Something, she knew, was bound to happen that day. That day, men in long, heavy cloaks stepped onto their land. The wards were thrumming and buzzing with fierce energy, announcing the intruders.Ministry men they were, their faces clean-shaven and their hands with neatly trimmed fingernails, each holding a wand. Threateningly.Tbc...
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Merope has never seen men looking like that. Well... except the young master of the Riddle estate who lived just across the woods from their shack.They introduced themselves but kept a polite distance. She sensed their attitude towards her was infused with a certain coldness, maybe that's how Aurors were supposed to be. Carruthers and Selwyn. She was not used to interacting with such men. They made her want to coil and spring to attack, like a viper.They were lean and tall and both wore black leather robes over black wool suits cut to perfection, not the wrinkly, oversized trousers and coats she'd seen on her brother or the decrepit robes without trousers at all that she'd seen on her father. They were handsome and commanding, with their wands held firmly in their hands and an air of anticipation in their stance.One was young, with a pleasant face, probably her age but you never knew with their kind, and the other, Carruthers, was older, wiser. Circumspect.“Good day to you, Miss,” Selwyn spoke first, inclining his hat toward her.Merope looked lost, hissed at the snakes that were curling at her feet protectively.“Miss?” he inquired. There was uneasiness in his voice.Merope spoke her name and kept her face to the side. Her father taught her that, said she would scare anyone away if she looked them in the eye directly. But she couldn't look at anything straightforward. Everything was lopsided, no need for them to know that, though. Her birth defect was a minor annoyance. What mattered was how pure her blood was. That's what her father told her.“We are not here for you and surely do not want to inconvenience you any more than it is necessary. We just want to ask your brother and father some questions, Miss Merope” Selwyn said again.“I knoweth no such things,” she spoke with difficulty. It was easier to hiss like a snake but alas, these men knew not such sophisticated language. “Patience, Selwyn, let's wait for her.” Carruthers spoke in a hushed, grave voice. He assessed Merope with the stare of a clinician.She was afraid of him but she did not know the reason for it. Probably because he would deem a speck of dust worthy of more attention than it would her. With a loud crack, a tall, strong witch apparated in front of the Gaunt Shack.“You're late, Willoughby,” the older wizard said. There was no bite, no reprimand to it.“Those blasted potioneers,” she scoffed as she righted her coat about her, a sleeve still fumigating from a curse. She pulled the sleeve up as much as it allowed and Selwyn was next to her in an instant, casting healing charms on her.Merope smiled at the singed flesh of her arm. For some reason, she could not contain her giddiness. The mark on the woman's flesh made her happy for she had already so many good things about her while Merope had none.When the skin would not heal but continued to break as if the burn was extending, Merope could not control her laughter. She knew that curse. Father used it on Morphin when he was really angry.The woman looked at her fiercely, her bobbed red hair swinging with the brusque movement.“Something funny?” she fully turned to Merope, her grey eyes hard as stone.Merope watched transfixed as Willoughby’s face changed from annoyance, back to anger then disgust but she never insulted her. Not directly. Willoughby turned her back on her in revulsion and addressed Selwyn imperiously. She didn't spare Merope a second glance.“Postpone the mission, I think dittany's in order for me.” She waved her wand at her robe once more so that the marks and scratches faded into the black leather as if they haven't landed there in the first place.Merope understood then. How insignificant she must appear to these men, to this woman. They knew nothing about her. She and her brother were the heirs of Slytherin, the purest blood there was. And to them she was nothing. They only wanted her father and her brother. It made her very upset. Her face scrunched with the pain of rejection.Carruthers was muttering something and extracted a vial from an inner pocket which flung directly into the woman's hand and Willoughby tended to her wound. It began to close without a trace and the thought of the woman having her unmarred skin back twisted at Merope's very soul.Willoughby was not prepared when the snake flung itself at her face from the branches of a tree. Merope hissed and hissed and gurgled and Selwyn sliced the viper in two but the creature did not let go where it implanted its fangs into Willoughby’s soft, freckled cheek.At least now she would know a bit of pain just like Merope felt every second of her existence.Carruthers took care of it and disapparated straight away with his injured colleague. Selwyn remained, watching her with distrust. His face hardened. He held her at wand point. He exhaled in defeat and looked at her with disappointment, not fury.“I already cast a protective shield, should you try anything to surprise me.” He took a shuddery breath. “Now tell me, where are the other Gaunts? Are they hiding like snakes on the property?”Merope guffawed at that word. Property. They had the shack only and the little garden. The Riddle owned the rest. He did not know, this ignorant man.“May-be?” she answered as if she found it all very amusing and turned her face and her eyes on Selwyn. “May-be not?”Selwyn ignored her taunting and continued. Merope was jealous of his pretty face, of his distinguished voice. Of his eyes.“The Ministry wants to know where they are because of their involvement with a group of potioneers that push illegal potions on the market. Several people have been harmed, two are dead.” He seemed upset at the suffering of these people that Merope did not know. He seemed indifferent to her suffering, though.“You have to tell me, you surely do not want innocent people harmed like that.” Selwyn spoke with sentiment, on his face were all sorts of emotions that made Merope feel bad. Why is this man hanging on to her? She doesn't know those people and she couldn't care less if they died because they drank those potions. After all, no one would care about her. So why would she waste herself on others? She made that clear to Selwyn with butchered words but forced her mind into his just for a good picture. She always thought mind pictures spoke more than words could ever have.The man recoiled and fell to the floor clutching his head in his hands as if he was in pain. Merope approached for she had never seen such display as a direct consequence of her mindspeak before.Selwyn looked at her with disgust and a trace of fear as he raised himself from the dust.That's it... There it was! The expression she was waiting for from this Ministry man. Not so confident anymore, see?He pulled himself together, dusted off his robe with a swish of his wand, inclined his head as if saluting a snail and with a cold look in his eyes, he disapparated just like the others.He left Merope in a rage and just like a child she yelled and cried and stomped her feet on the ground. The snakes started emerging from the garden and hissing in soothing notes as if to console her but she would have none of that. She caught one in her hand and hit it hard on the ground until the creature started convulsing in visible pain. She then nailed it with magic spreading its blood on the door handle then spat on it.The handle morphed into the form of a metal snake and the door would not budge unless she hissed in Parselmouth, “Open.” She could do magic, she knew she was quite capable, despite what her father shouted at her day and night. She locked herself in and no one would bother her. She fell exhausted into a chair and played into her mind the images she took from Selwyn's head.Tbc....
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It was fear that she felt when their father made his way to the room that to this day she shared with Morfin.
He cursed as he stumbled into the furniture and shuffled in a disoriented manner. Marvolo was drunk again and when under the liquor's influence, his wrath knew no bounds. He was all seething violence.
“Where are you, you whore?” he shouted at the top of his lungs while kicking at the dilapidated furniture.
As he entered the dingy room, Merope was nowhere in sight. This only made him angrier. She escaped through the window and cowering, took refuge in the garden.
A noise broke Marvolo's single-minded focus of retribution on his daughter for even daring to entertain the aurors.
It was bad enough that she showed her cursed face to them, now he was wanted by the Law Enforcement for questioning.
The muggle automobile made terrible noise as it cut through the road to Riddle Manor. Marvolo replaced fear and awe with disgust and more violence. He threw hexes at the vanishing car but ony managed to singe the road. His anger took a new turn when he spotted on the road the young Riddle, tall, handsome and proud on his horse. His idiot daughter would mumble incessantly about this muggle and his impatience with her uselessness was wearing thin.
Riddle’s horse galloped leisurely and he headed without a care in the same direction as the black automobile. The contraption both amazed and repulsed Marvolo. If he could burn it to ashes he would have done so but the damn thing was quite fast.
But young Riddle wasn't. He put his foot forward and held the crooked wand like a weapon, pointing it at Tom Riddle's form.
“Furunculus!” he shouted and the young man started screaming and panicking and the horse began neighing and catching a dangerous speed.
Merope was out in the street, her hands wild about her. Upon seeing his useless daughter react to this spectacle he threw a stinging hex at her. “You daft cow!” he groused tearing his eyes away from the departing Riddle, “don't you know to show your face when I call you?”
But Merope was running towards the Riddle manor, wailing and screaming and in her desperation she tripped and hit her head on the gravel, splitting her lip and grazing her forehead.
Her love! He was in danger, she could see him dismount the horse and scream his lungs out, lunging into a grassy patch and then into the lake. His skin must be burning by now. She got on her feet and ignoring her father's slurs and curses she went after Tom Riddle.
He was in pain and his pretty face was covered in boils. He splashed his face with water but they continued to grow and pop everywhere on his skin, on his back and chest and neck. The horse freaked out when Merope approached, already fumbling through her bag of herbs for something to soothe the itching and the burning.
He let her near him, that's how desperate he was. She helped him out of the water and couldn't help but shudder at his proximity. She laid him down and made a paste out of clay, lake water and herbs and applied it to his face. The burning calmed down immediately.
His eyes were so beautiful with tears in them. Gratitude tears, she liked to think, and she touched him boldly on his face, neck and chest, memorizing the softness of his clothes merging with his taut muscles and supple skin.
She smiled, engrossed in her exploration but he shuddered, pure terror writ on his face, twisted from pain and the vulnerability of his body under her touch.
Her teeth were rotting and her eyes, her eyes just faced different directions, like a chameleon. When she kissed his cheek, Tom held his breath and prayed to the Virgin Mary to protect him from evil.
“Please...” He cried out. “Leave me in peace...”
But she would not and then everything turned black as if a curtain was pulled over his head.
"Obliviate!" tbc...
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He is passed out before her and despite feasting on the image of his beautiful face, Merope feels little satisfaction. She focuses harder until her mind is aimed like a javelin and pierces his inner defences. She wants to see inside him. Dread, inferiority, bleakness and a little bit of guilt chip at the perfect image settling into her brain. Her heart races with disgusting fear, her hands shake, her eyes twitch. She doesn't want to but she feels the disgust, the revulsion in his eyes. She can now taste it bitter and sticky in her mouth, clinging perversely to her throat, suffocating her with its heaviness. It's not only that she's unwelcome. She knows this. She could stay a while but it's taxing on her nerves. Merope doesn't like what she sees, doesn't like how he sees her. In a sudden burst of self-hatred, she hits herself in the head, once, twice, several times until it hurts and she feels blinded by the trickle of blood into her eyes. A roar of despair breaks her poor lungs and Merope cries. She trudges to the river to wash the muck and blood off her face but what she sees, makes her hiccup in pain. So far neutral to her hideousness, Merope went on about her life as invisible as she possibly could. She bowed so she wouldn't break and she hit and pushed until the childish need inside her chest wanted to be appeased. She was hurting now and she knew that somehow she was not responsible for the way she was - ugly, hideous, not plain. She would hope to be seen as plain and unremarkable but she was anything but. Her own eyes hurt for looking at her own reflection for too long. It did not matter that beautiful Tom was there, prone beside her. Nothing mattered because she knew that he could not love her. He could not even make himself like her. Not even a little bit.Even in his deep post-curse sleep, he would instinctively flinch away from her touch. His nose would scrunch u and his brow would furrow. Lines would appear on his pale forehead.It hurts. This ugliness of hers hurts. Merope looks at herself one more time and despair pushes her to a deep dark crevice in her soul. Something slithering away from one place to another, as dark as the night, darker even, is now gathering into her chest; just like a coiling snake. Merope looks at Tom who battles the post-curse drowsiness and energetic drainage. She has one more thing in her. One last wish. Rather than to pretend she is beautiful, she just wants him to love her for herself. So she sniffs him like a big cat would and sinks her teeth into his neck and kisses, bites, sucks, leaving a mark. He will be hers, forever, even after he wakes up. She needs him alive and well for this fantasy to become real. She wants him, the real him, not confused by prejudice and eyeless to her hideousness which is not only of the face but of the soul as well. Letting him go after is, after all, the most selfless thing she's ever done. An insidious thought settles deep inside her mind. She will bide her time and she will have him, one way or another.
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It’s a day like any other day, Merope thinks. Rain streaks the windows of their shack and Marvolo is drunk again in a corner of the kitchen. From time to time, he wills a hex towards her. Merope’s feet are cold and black with dirt. She tries in vain to warm her appendages in front of the fire, tries to be inconspicuous enough so Marvolo would leave her alone for once. In fact, she can’t wait for the booze and the potions to start working on him. He’ll soon be passed out in the same corner he favours.Morfin’s nowhere in sight and that’s good. A little respite is what she needed. Merope has been concerning herself with her appearance quite a bit these days, ever since the incident with young master Riddle. She looks in the mirror at herself. She really tries to see her whole face but looking straight ahead puts a strain on her eyes. If only these eyes of her would be like any other human’s. She can’t lie to herself, she is quite curious about the way the world would look. She covers one eye with the palm of her hand and keeps looking.She remembers the woman Auror. She was… beautiful. But then again, compared to her, anyone without her flaws would be so. Her hair falls lanky around her face. It’s dark, heavy, unkempt. She puts the shard down and tries combing through it with both hands. Her fingers get stuck, the hair is tangled. “What are you doing, you cow?” Her father growls from the darkness. The place starts reeking of wormwood and pungent alcohol. “Making yourself presentable?” Marvolo laughs sadistically and clambers for something on the table. He throws an empty liquor bottle at her head. She didn’t see it in time. “You’ll never be pretty! You can’t even clean yourself properly!”She tries her best to ignore him as she fumbles for the mirror shard and in her hurry, she grabs it too tight that it cuts in between her fingers. She takes to her spot in the garden, it’s no use to suffer any more injuries over her vanity and for the warmth of the fireplace. He will be out soon. The herbs always make him groggy and dizzy and he usually falls asleep right there for a couple of days straight.In the garden, she makes use of what little light she can catch with the mirror. Her temple hurts and begins swelling upon the impact with the bottle. She makes a paste and applies it to her injuries. She hates him so, so much.A plan forms in her mind. She covers the shard in some tattered cloth and hides it away in her bag. In a susurrating voice, Merope calls on the snakes that hide on the property. She asks them for herbs and for places where she could find those. The snakes are willing servants and Merope follows. She crawls after them and guided only by smell and touch, she picks the indicated herbs. At dusk, she returns to the shack. Morfin had been there by the sight of it. The place is a mess again but Merope is glad he is out of the house. Marvolo is passed out as she anticipated. With purposeful hatred, she looks for the bottle he threw at her and she throws it back right at his head. There is no blood but there will be a lot of pain when he wakes up. She covers his body with a frayed sheet so she doesn’t have to see him and goes about her business. She lights the fire and all the remaining candles. From the shed outside, she drags the crate that also functions as a cauldron in which Marvolo sometimes makes his brews to sell in Knocturn Alley. She cleans it to the best of her abilities, scrubbing the copper with a bristle brush and lye. Her fingers burn a bit but she can finally see the metal gleaming at her. What a pretty colour! She brings it in front of the fire and dumps several buckets of water into it. She puts the herbs and hisses an incantation in the language of the snakes. The water begins to softly boil and mist the windows. Merope hisses at the water again. The water is a steaming green colour that gives off a pleasant smell. Once more, she combs her hair with her fingers but it isn’t enough. Upstairs, in a drawer, she finds what she is looking for: a comb.Giddy, she hops downstairs and in the broken mirror, she tries her best to see the length of her hair. There are some parts so tangled and matted that the comb is of little use. Her scalp hurts. Her temple, although swollen bit, starts healing quite fast. Her herbs always work, at least for her.She deems the water just right and gets in the crate, soaking her skin. It is a pleasant escape and as she submerges her head in the water, her hair magically untangles, the blackness on her cracked heels dissolves, her nails look cleaner than ever.She tries the comb again and it works. Her dark hair coils like snakes around her nakedness. She prepares the pair of scissors and cuts what she can of her jagged nails. She remembers how black with soil they were just minutes ago but now they’re clean and pale and harmless. Just like a Lady’s. If Merope looks in the mirror with her steady eye, she can almost see it, she looks like a proper witch, not that she’s seen many of those. She opens her mouth and shows her teeth. They look as bad as before. It angers her and the mirror clatters down.Tom would see her, would want her if only he knew how much she worships him. She's only lying to herself, after all.
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A sickle moon is up in the sky. After dragging the crate and spilling its contents on the frigid earth, Merope looks up. She covers one of her eyes with the palm of her hand and searches the night sky for the three aligned stars forming Orion’s belt. Her mother told her about them when she was little. That, she remembers clearly. She told many stories. She had a beautiful voice and a beautiful face. A haze settles when she tries to remember the exact lines and contours of her face. It is like after she disappeared, her image got smudged in Merope's imagination. Pleione was her name, that, along with her stories, she remembers.One day she was, and then the next, she wasn’t. More clearly than her absence, she remembers her father, yelling curses and throwing things. At her, at Morfin, around the house. Yelling and bashing and cursing and drinking.She was six. Since then, the room upstairs at the end of the hall has been forbidden. She would break through Marvolo’s order and sneak inside from time to time when she knew he was too unconscious from the drinking. Morfin, less than a year older than her would snitch and she would always get Marvolo’s stinging hexes. Sometimes he would use a good slashing curse and sometimes he would singe her hair with a flash of fire.There was not a moment of peace unless Marvolo was somehow incapacitated or he would leave the property for an inordinate amount of time with some Knockturn folks. Pleione would look up at the night sky and walk the perimeter of the property. Merope would always watch, a palm on her bad eye, from the room upstairs. It was almost as if her mother was searching for a way to escape. The nights he was gone, she would go outside and recite until the very air before her condensed and wiry, gossamer-thin threads of light could be seen. Pleione would thread her fingers through them gently. Merope thought it beautiful.A chunk of white clay lay at her feet. The black snakes retreat from it. They brought their gift to Merope again. She gets some water and puts the whole rock in it, watching it dissolve. An adder’s fang given freely comes next. Dry white leaves of China bone plant and a whole leper’s burdock root. She will have to chop it and dry it next to the fire. It has to be dry unless it will stink when she adds it to the cauldron and she doesn’t want to put that in her mouth.She thanks the snakes and gets inside. Naked, cold, half angry, half sad, she kicks Marvolo’s leg several times. He is lost to the world, otherwise, he would have gotten her by the hair and probably crushed her skull on the large marble slab he uses as a chopping station for some of his potion work. She gets a rickety chair and places it in front of the fire. Carefully, she combs through her hair. The comb is imbued with magic and it belonged to Pleione. The hair uncoils and untangles with no resistance. She then proceeds to braid it. It is long, dark and heavy. She peeks into the mirror shard. If she turns her head to this side, she looks just like her.In a moment of indulgence, she goes upstairs and tries on one of Pleione’s dresses. She’s eighteen now, has grown a bit more over the summer after successful foraging sessions and she’s grown a bit. Now the dress doesn’t hang limply as it used to a couple of years ago. She takes the shoes as well and not surprisingly, they fit her. One more look at the mirror and she almost looks like a lady. She tries one of the smiles she’s seen women do. There is one, in particular, that is good on her.After all, she is grateful she’s the only girl of Pleione. She can only imagine that she wouldn’t get anything if the other six sisters would have lived more than a day or two.“Mother?”“Do not call me that.” Those were her last words to Merope.
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It was barely morning when the semblance of rural tranquillity got disrupted by several loud cracks. The owl’s constant was interrupted and replaced by a threatening silence. Merope was shaken awake by the slight disturbance in the air. She didn't move from where she fell asleep next to the still-burning fire. Footsteps - outside. A struggle - then the sulphurous smell of a curse and the red flash of a countercurse. Duelling. In a matter of seconds, she gathers her bearings. It's the Aurors and struggling for his freedom must be her brother.“You are under arrest!” Selwyn mutters and she hears someone struggling. Morphin. He screams like a mad man now, making Merope place her hands over her ears. She hates his voice, she abhors his screams. If they were to kill him, she would be grateful.“Quiet down! Silencio!”Merope scuttles like a bug under the table. She cannot deny it, she is scared. The door opens and they come in. The Aurors from before.“Oh, here he is… Revelio!”That’s the woman on whom she set her snakes. She's still as beautiful as she was before, still as fierce, still so frightening.“Get this one out as well,” she says impassively, motioning towards Merope. “It’s time to clean this mess.”Footsteps approach and Selwyn crouches next to her under the table.“Time to get up, Miss," he whispers. He looks straight at her devoid of harm. “Come out, now, we will not harm you.” Merope straightens and tugs the blanket around her body. “We’ve come to arrest one Marvolo Gaunt and one Morphin Gaunt for restricted potions dealing without a license, theft, assaulting a Muggle, contraband and the list goes on. You will come with us as a witness.”Merope walks as if through a dream. Her movements are very slow, imprecise. She tries to keep the blanket around her as she pulls on her mother’s old ankle boots while hiding her face from the Aurors’ prying eyes. When she’s ready, she tugs at a lock of hair to hide her ad eye. It makes her feel better.“I’ll take the girl,” offers Willoughby. The Auror takes Merope by the arm but not in a brutal way. She guesses it’s because she puts absolutely no resistance to any of it.“Ugh, this old fucker!” It’s the other Auror, Carruthers, who floats her father through the air and pushes him with motions of his wand.“Vitals?”“Unconscious, drunk. Not dead.”“That’s reassuring,” Willoughby speaks behind her and guides Merope out of the door of their shack. Outside, her brother writhes like a snake in the bounds the Aurors’ put on him. He is foaming at the mouth, eyes red, spewing curses at them. When his eyes land on Merope he begins anew, stronger this time.“You whore! You whore, I am going to kill you!” Morphin blaring into the morning air like a sheep to the slaughter.“Didn’t you silence him?” Carruthers groans in exasperation. “Silencio!”Selwyn casts an Immobulus on Morphin and he finally calms down, saliva dripping down his lips, eyes far away. “Get the other one here. Immobulus!” Though already unconsciously floating through the air, Marvolo’s form relaxes into that of a very satisfied drunk.“Incarcerus!” Ropes swish around her father. He’s bound and completely immobilized if he happens to awaken sooner than expected. Morphin, already restrained and shackled is sent through the air just like his father and both of them are secured with a leather cord that Selwyn takes hold off.“I’m going. See you in a jiffy!”When he disapparates, he does so with the Gaunts in tow. Merope has never seen anything like this. She looks at the thin air in awe. Willoughby and Carruthers grab each one of her arms and together, they disappear with a popping sound.“Here we are…” Willoughby’s voice clears nausea that threatens to spill out. The world spirals into a blank point and then into a grey room and Merope lands on the marble floor, her ankle boots making a clacking sound. The Auror directs her to a chair and Merope plops down. She’s pliable like a doll. “Maude, bring some lemon tea for our Miss here.”A fine china cup accompanied by a translucent plate flies through the room and land on the desk in front of her. The delicate silver teaspoon automatically stirs the tea and when Merope dares to lift the cup, it stops. She stares transfixed at what lies in front of her, trying in vain to take it all in.“We’re at the Ministry of magic, Department of Justice,” Willoughby clarifies. A piece of parchment smashes into the wall opposite them and the Auror swishes her wand to get it. “Flying parchment. This is how we communicate inter-departmentally.”Merope tries to speak but all that comes out is a faint screech. She decides it’s best she drinks the tea. She’s never had tea from such a nice cup before.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The tea is a pale amber colour, fragrant and rich smelling. Perhaps this is what Tom has every day, she muses. The woman Auror gives her a sandwich as well and Merope has never seen lettuce so crisp and bread so white and the ham so pink. It’s almost like a work of art. She bites into it fearfully.“Go on,” the woman urges, “it won’t snap at you.”
Why is she nice to her, when Merope tried to disfigure her like that? She must have a motive, they all do. She uses the time between a bite and a munch to steal glances at her. She is tall. But what does Merope know? Maybe that’s what ladies looked like – not that she’s seen many. She is tall and proud and it’s impossible to overlook her in her dark red robes that have the “A” from Auror stitched in golden thread on her right bosom. Willoughby sits like a lioness in this room. She reads a paper, she sends mail floating around, she waves that black wood wand of hers around with the confidence and the freedom Merope knew she would never possess.
“Is it good?” Willoughby asks.
Of course, it is, but Merope only shies her eyes away. She knows that if she looks downwards, her eyes seem normal.
“Don’t be shy and do not be afraid,” she whispers. “They are not going to hurt you anymore, we'll make sure of it.”
The man, Carruthers, comes by her desk and plops in a chair with the air of exhaustion. Willoughby accuses him of being tired. He denies with a hint of a smile, says he just started the day. Willoughby scoffs at his words. If Merope squints, he does look worse for wear. There are lines on his face and his short hair is peppered with grey but instead of looking like a dignified gentleman in his black suit and with his black hat, he looks defeated. His leather trenchcoat reminds her of the Squire Riddle’s jackets. Only this man does not wear it snobbishly and doesn’t insult her.
“We need Ogden’s approval and we can contact Azkaban. That’s all we need,” he whispers conspiratorially to Willoughby whose face sours, her mouth becomes a small, angry line, her eyebrows knit in worry. And is that disgust? Merope had finished her sandwich and she looks at them as if they are part of a play, a child’s amusement, like that one time when the wondering circus crossed their path and they graced her with a free show. It was just puppets. She was just small. She didn't understand back then. She still doesn’t today.
Punch and Judy.
Violence.
Her mother's face and her father's hand.
Pleione’s eyes, full of hatred. Directed at her. At them, at the three of them.
“Sir, we have our witness here,” it’s Willoughby's voice, bringing Merope back to reality.
“Simone, I told you I cannot sign for this.”
“But … Sir!”
The man is tall and stout and she thinks she’s seen him before. Once, maybe twice. He’s come to her father, yes, that one time, when he threw curses at the Riddles. The second time she tries to remember but it's all a blur.
Ogden looks at her as if he’s seen death, then his eyes fill with disgust.
“Why did you bring this… here?”
If Merope haunts the air, her nose up, her mouth open, she can smell it on his breath. The bitter alcohol, the acrid tinge of firewhiskey. His redolent cheeks and his grey hair, his bulbous nose with porous texture. The redness, the blood vessels, like spiderwebs, creeping on his rough skin. Gruff, drunk, corrupt, malleable, dirty like her father. Bob Ogden waved a hand dismissively towards Willoughby and then said.
“Take this thing away from here!”
The thing Auror Ogden was talking about with such disregard was her. Willoughby took her hand and hers was warm and trustworthy. She pushed her towards Carruthers and the other, Selwyn and stood her ground, tried reasoning with him.
“You promised me in flagrante delicto, girlie. This is nothing, you have nothing but a dead drunk wizard and a mad abomination. I can’t hold them for illegal potions.”
Last resort, Merope felt her in the air.
“But we can hold them for attacking the muggle and breaking the statute.”
Ogden looks at her spitefully.
“I guess, I guess we could.”
“And how about the witness, sir?”
Ogden looked at Merope, cursory as if he had to do with an animal they were talking about.
“She is nothing. Take her back.”
Carruthers makes a motion to take her by the upper arm yet Selwyn stops him, fed up with Ogden.
“No, sir. She is not an object. Will you look at this girl, here? Do you know what she’s been subjected to? By her father? By her brother?” Merope’s eyes flit towards the exit. There’s a long hallway where paper flies and spells swish and she just wants to be far away from here. HSe doesn’t like this one bit.
Selwyn continues, his eyes burn with anger.
“Sir.” He says it as if he would say “shite” or “dung”or "bollocks" or “cock”. It’s like the slurs that pour out of her father’s mouth. Like he says “bitch”, “whore”, “slut”, “cunt”, the words that pour out of her brother’s mouth. A river of shit, of bile and decayed blood. She thinks of the Riddles – how beautiful their house is and how clean their hands! How handsome their faces! Even their servants are beautiful! Why can’t she live like them instead? Why shouldn't she…?
“You say decency among us wizard folk is paramount,” Selwyn says the words as if he uses a cleaver to cut meat into mush. The words fall and crush. “I think we have a solid case here and you’re just trying to derail us, Sir.”
Whatever they got so riled over is lost on Merope. Willoughby walks her down that dark hallways and then into a large room and then through a black door, another hallway.
And then she whispers: “Don’t be afraid.” And Merope isn’t. She hasn’t been in a while now. She sees Morfin and their father in a small cell. Her father is seated, seemingly dead to the world around him. Her brother is walking around in circles and when he sees her, his lip curls upwards, his eyes rake over her body lewdly. “I see you brought me my bitch.”
He moves towards the metal bars and when he grabs them, they seem to burn his palms.
"You cunt!"
It makes her laugh, seeing him behind bars. Morfin has the same attitude, the same foul language, the same stupid look on his face.
"You are safe from them now." Willoughby supplies. Merope knows she is. They cannot break out of this cell. Her father doesn't even try and the message hasn't sunk into her brother's thick skull yet.She looks at them dispassionately as if she barely knows them. She stands straight in her mother's dress and her tan leather ankle-boots laced up the way they should. Her hair is combed and braided now, her fingers clean. She stands almost proud. The woman, Maude, gave her a thick shawl that's almost like a robe on her. Almost, but it makes her appear dignified, something she never thought she could be among these two men.
They look like the caged animals she’s seen in that shop in Knockturn when very young. She will never forget that world of magic and possibilities. Though it was dark, she kept trailing after their father as he deemed it useful to take her to see where her beloved snakes would end. Butchered for potions ingredients. They both envied her ability to talk to snakes. Pleione was a Parselmouth too but she was never allowed outside the perimeter of their house and garden.
For all she cares, they could rot in here. She can do without them.
“They will go to Azkaban under the Dementors' watch,” Willoughby tells her. Merope looks up at her and her good eye fixes on her cheek. That’s where the snake bit her. There’s nothing there but smooth, rosy skin. But if she focuses her attention, she can still see two shallow scars. As if burnt, Willoughby touches her cheek. No, there is nothing, just the memory of it still lingering but that too will go away.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It’s the beginning of spring and a lightness of being has engulfed Merope. She now wakes up from her bed in her room and her house. It is hers, the Auror woman said. Insisted, even. Little Hangleton's sore thumb that was the Gaunt's shack looked now cleaner, less ominous, almost welcoming. The bricks lost their dustiness and revealed instead a pale reddish color, the ivy that crept on the forest side was verdant and strong again and the chimney stack with its centennial pots looked clean for a start. Grass grew and plants crept around the ward stones erected in front of the house and the thorny black locust tree, alone in the distance, came alive. Ever since her mother left, the tree's black gnarly bark refused to greet Gaunt Shack with a leaf. The muggles called it a hanging tree. But it was not. Merope is sure of it. Everything is peaceful since her two tormentors have been shipped to Azkaban. Every week or so, she receives an owl with a paltry sum for living expenses that the Ministry owes her since she is deserving of compensation. Simone Willoughby pleaded for her in the Grand Wizarding Court and gave an account on behalf of Merope as a witness in the acts of cruelty against muggles and the breach of the statute of secrecy. But these were not the only crimes the Gaunt men were sent to prison for. Selwyn and Carruthers insisted she needed to be emancipated and integrated into the society, their society. For the first time in her life, Merope Gaunt has used the Floo Network on her own. Every evening she floos to audit classes at the Night School for Witches as per the Ministry order. Every morning she is to serve an old widow named Filomela Smith who likes watching her get down on her knees with a brush and soap water and scourge the marble floors until they’re white and shiny. She tyrannically claims it can’t be done by magic since it erodes the surface. Sometimes her sister Hepzibah and her elf come to visit and she intentionally drops tea and crumbs. Sometimes she spills a vicious headache potion just to have something to do.They both watch Merope brushing sweat off her brow as she scrubs, her hands red and raw from the magic-lye powder. Merope tends to think the old lady is as mad as a bat and only watches her because she enjoys seeing her suffering and her agonized panting as she tries to get up from the numbing position on the floor after several uninterrupted hours of scrubbing, rinsing and polishing. For this, she is given a meal and the lady’s unwanted things. Merope takes them. She's never had things before, even though these are all old and black and ugly and they don't fit her skinny frame. From time to time, when she gathers the courage, she goes windowshopping around Diagon Alley and more than she would have liked, she finds herself down in the dreary and foggy Knockturn. After all, the dark Alley was the place of her first visit into Wizarding London. Willoughby visited her once. She brought her bread and apples and milk and cheese. She offered Merope a pair of shoes and a blue dress in fashion. As she is about to leave, she looks at Merope with something akin to compassion. It would be her last visit. “We, women folk are so vulnerable but therein lies our strength.” Merope doesn’t make sense of the words. At the Night School, she is given lessons in reading from magical texts and writing. She hasn’t held a quill in her hand since she was seven. Out of the nine participants in the class, she is said to perform the poorest. Her writing takes time, her penmanship is poor, her words don't fall easy on the rough parchment. Her eyes do not help. She is to execute charms, but Merope doesn’t own a wand. The instructress, a woman with mummified skin and age spots on her almost bald scalp asks her to remain after class. She opens her drawer and shows Merope a small collection of knobby sticks. They are wands although they seem to be in pretty bad shape. Some are splintered, some are broken, some appeared to have been burnt at one of their ends, some are greasy some have what Merope could only guess to be dried blood on them. “Choose,” she is told. Merope doesn’t know where to start. "Not like that," she is corrected and a sharp sting hits her fingers. Mistress Cawl has good intentions but she is just as sadistic as her father, Marvolo. Merope curses inwardly. “Let the wand choose you as its owner, it’s not as if the girls before you need them while in Azkaban”– she croaks. A curved, shiny reddish one flies into Merope’s hand. Sparks fly. The wand feels like an extension of her bones, of her muscles, of her mind. What is she supposed to do now? She waves it violently as she’s seen her father and brother do but the instructress shouts to stop her. All the beakers on the top shelves explode making a green mouldy mess out of the floor. She is left to Scourgigy it to cleanliness. She has the Shack to practice it to perfection. Merope has to master at least five spells so she can pass. She can make things levitate, yet is quite poor in coordinating them properly, she can conjure light, she can clean a plate, she can mend a cloth and she can summon her quill. The raven feather straight right into her left hand. She is sent home for the night. At noon, one day, Merope is out, trying to make sense of the books she was given: Housekeeping Charms by Martha Cleanspell and The Common Wife’s compendium by Albertina Marigold and Nefarius Coolidge. The latter is an amalgamation of charms, potions and instructions on how a witch should always behave. There is nothing in there about Parselmouths or correcting birth defects. By the standards of this book, Merope is ugly, no, she is hideous. Her teeth look in better shape but that’s only thanks to the paste that Willoughby gave her as a present. Upon her enrolling in the Night School she was sent for the medical assessment and declared "a good breeder, this one," by the old, plump healer who even pinched her buttocks while the Ministry appointed worker blatantly ignored her as he assigned her number 73. They called her out by that name. Seventy – three, it was said to be the name of her file in the Ministry's records. Too unimportant to be called a Gaunt, not that she minded. Among her there were several other women, some well-beyond their youth, some very young, some freshly relieved from Azkaban that very spring and some left destitute or dropped at a stranger’s door, unwanted results of liaisons with unavailable men. Some even carried in their arms the results of such liaisons. “It is better if they make a wife of you first,” a very young, very beautiful, quite loquacious witch with a suckling babe at her chest told her while waiting in line at the healer's. She managed to elude a year in Azkaban because of her pregnancy. “Didn’t know back then that serving the master of the house meant taking his cock every night but it's better if the man's handsome.” She was beautiful and looked delicate and noble, in a way, yet when she opened her mouth, she sounded perverse, like Morfin. The babe wailed and she crushed its tiny face with the palm of her hand. “Quiet, little Brutus!” The baby’s face turned red and the poor thing coughed her breastmilk out as if poison. “Swallow or I’ll put it back up into yer maw, you mewlin' rat.” “Emmelia Borgin! Number 72!” the bored ministry employee called.“Aye. Coming!” Emmeline managed in a gruff voice. “Hold it for me, will you?” She dumped the baby in Merope’s arms and went to her monthly assessment. Merope holds onto the squealing mass of rags and flesh. The hair of little Brutus is white-blond and his eyes are like quicksilver in colour. Such a beautiful babe, with healthy, glowing skin, pouty lips and a tiny, delicate nose. His features are in contrast with his mother’s. Emmeline is dark of hair and dark of eyes and was graced since birth with tan skin and a distinctive and alluring facial structure that turns Merope quite envious. She thinks about a baby of her own, of hers and Tom’s. He is beautiful, their baby must be beautiful too.When Emmeline exits the consultation room, Merope knows she must cease fantasizing but Emmeline is only too happy to let her hold on the infant and walk around the shops and eat candy. “Why don’t we have lunch at my uncle’s house one day? To thank ye for keepin’ an eye on Brutus, of course!” It’s not as if Merope can refuse. She is always hungry and the way Emmeline voiced it, more like an order, leaves little space for refusal. She’s curious, she will go.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The proof is in the cauldron cake, the saying goes and Mistress Cawl never hesitates to yell it to her class of cowering young women as she extolls on the virtues of preparedness. Lucinda Nightshade their jailer for the night and the Potions Mistress, on the other hand, would say it is useless to waste pearls on errumpents, as she is ambling haughtily around the young women, each pair hunched above a small, dirty cauldron.
“Fermented newt intestines,” she hisses, “are good for a number of potions that act as diuretics…” her papery voice fades into the distance as she continues her monologue facing another pair of girls, Tansy Crabbe and Murietta Goyle. They’re both looking as if they could do with a good diuretic potion to Merope. Emmeline smirks at that.
While Emmeline reads the instructions over and over again, Merope occupies herself with finely chopping the oakmoss and giving the contents of the cauldron three stirs. Reading has always been hard when one of your eyes decides to not cooperate but she does well enough following instructions. She's quite anxious but she's always managed to make a pot of something, back when the gaunt men were ruling the house.
“These dummies cannot see it for what it is." Emmeline huffs."Free education. I’d rather be good with a wand than stir potions, you know?” Emmeline presses on as Merope works on cleaning some mouldy roots.
“My uncle has always encouraged me to be smart and learn,” she sighs. “He said that without a dowry, I have to make do and get the best in life and I intend to do just that.”
The girls behind them snigger upon that. Merope continues to stir into the paste of flobberworms that she’s crushed with the stone pestle.
“I’m sure you do since you’ve been compromised with a bastard now, Emmie.”It’s Theodora Fairfuss that breaks the concentrated frown that graces Emmeline's forehead. That girl's been aiming barbs at Emmeline ever since they started their night classes. She’s been either obnoxiously avoiding Emmeline or hurling insults at her. It’s said they were childhood friends but Merope never had a friend so she wouldn’t know how friends actually behave towards one another. Sometimes, she wonders how comes that Emmeline does not get upset. Merope would be in a much sombre mood if the words were directed at her but then, she always keeps to herself and keeps her head down no matter what.
But Emmeline does turn and her pretty face is cold and serene as if she’s unaffected by the dirty words thrown her way. Her words, instead, are anything but calm and docile. If Merope would have seen bile ensconced in gold foil, Emmeline was it:
“And how would you know that, Dora? Last time I checked, my cunt didn’t speak of who or what’s been there. It’s too bad yours is like a howler, I say that's compromised enough.”
Just as dignified and serene, she turns to he working station and assesses Merope's handiwork. Merope gives Emmeline a smirk. This girl was always good with words, not just a pretty face. She feels like she could learn a thing or two from her.Merope gets a small satisfaction when mincing rat tails and crushing larvae results in the desired consistency of the diuretic potion. Merope is very good at that. Crushing things, skinning animals, chopping squishy and gooey things- killing the occasional creature has always come easy to her. There is a detachment that falls over her. In fact, her detachment is perhaps her best quality' and when it’s her turn to test the potion, she gets a perfect result. The Mistress hisses appraisingly at her and Merope just knows that the other girls are just jealous when they boo her as they exit. Well, except Emmeline who is happy that she managed to pass.
“How about you join me tonight at my uncle’s house, Merope?”
A house-elf opens the door for them. It is a grey, wrinkly creature with a sad face and boggling eyes. Dirty and servile, it welcomes them in. Merope has never been welcomed like that. She has never set foot into such a grand hallway either. The carpet is thick and lush, not a thread out of place, not like the rugs at the Shack. She could get used to this, walk on thick wool carpets with intricate designs and touch malachite green wallpaper cut and polished to perfection. Everything in this mansion is grand, intricate, heavy and dark. There are at least a thousand candles lighting the dining room yet there are charms that keep it cool and pleasant. the air is fragrant with roast chicken and the whole savoriness of a three-course meal and dessert.
“How’s little Brutus, Mopey? No news from his Papa?”
The elf looks crushed at Emmeline and winces as if expecting her pointy boot to collide with its ribs. Merope has a feeling she’s done that many times before and for some reason, the image isn’t as upsetting as it should be. Better the elf than her, she thinks. She’d rather kick than be kicked. She knows that pain, she’s been through that and she never wants it again.
Reginald Borgin is a fat, crass old man who sits at the end of the table, three elves in tow, one massaging his feet as he devours a roasted chicken leg, another waiting with the wine caraffe and the third magicking away any crumbs that fall on the lord's multiple rolls of his fat chin.
“Malfoy has firecalled me," he intervenes. "The coward avoids letters but fear not, my jewel, you are going to have a vault under your name at Gringotts.”
Emmeline’s face lights up and she lets her shawl fall to the floor and throws her gloves as she runs to embrace her uncle who grunts at the pressure on his shoulders. He suddenly feels obliged to tell her more news about her future.
“He has a nephew in France, the son of a third Malfoy generation, pureblood, young and stupidly rich. You’ll just have to wait for him to ask for your hand until he finishes school, in July.”
“And what about little Brutus?”
"He’ll adopt him, of course! A Malfoy is a Malfoy and soon, my dear, you’ll be a Malfoy too!”
“And I want a honeymoon in Egypt!”
“Of course, you’ll get that and more.”
“And that blotchy Fairfuss girl obliviated!”
“What has she done now, my sweetling?”
"No, not obliviated! I want her fed to the werewolves!”Before Merope has any chance to feel out of place, the elf tugs on her shawl and when Merope tugs back in a gesture of possessiveness, the creature squeals and prostrates itself on the ground at her feet.
“Mopey is terribly sorry missus, Mopey only wants to serve Missus.”
For a second only, Merope feels as if she could walk all over Mopey and Mopey would let her. Emmeline would applaud that and her uncle give his seal of approval. But Merope doesn’t. She doesn’t know where she stands, she is a guest here and she’s never been a guest of anyone before.
“And who is this?” Reggie Borgin asks as he continues to chew loudly on his food.
Instinctively, Merope lowers her gaze and doesn’t look him in the eye. Her hair falls strategically covering her bad eye and she is grateful when Emmeline’s ceaseless chattering takes over.“She’s a pureblood, uncle, and pretty good at potions too!” Borgin looks her over for a while then says towards Emmeline. “She’s a plain girl, not like you.” Then as if he remembered something, he asks Merope and his grunting voice reminds her of that of a pig: “Who sired you, lassie? Whose bloodline do you share?”
Merope’s petrified but Emmeline urges her to take a seat at the table. Plates appear in front of her along with goblin-crafted, silver cutlery that Merope barely knows how to use. What bloodline is she? Of course, Emmeline knows her name, her full name. She is Merope Gaunt, a pureblood, she’s heard it all her life. The last line of Salazar, the last line of Parselmouths. Why does this man ask such stupid things about her?
“Gaunt.” She replies, uncertain and feeling attacked. The snake, coiled inside her is ready to lunge at this fat man with his wandering paws. Just like her father, in that aspect.
Of course, she sees how he touches Emmeline under the table, where his hand roams, where it rests. Her wandering eye never lies. Her traitorous eye!
He harrumphs. “No need to lie, lass, they’re all in prison now. Blasted Ogden didn’t keep his end of the bargain when asked to. At least you're a pureblood, otherwise, you wouldn't be able to stay under my roof and eat at my table.”
She wants to counteract and say she didn’t lie and that being a pureblood has nothing with being able to sit at his table. She really is a Gaunt. That’s all she’s ever been. But this man talks over her like she isn’t there. She can hear Emmeline gasp when he gets up from the table, wipes his mouth with a serviette and throws it over the plate. The mess disappears instantly.
“I’ll be expecting you,” he murmurs to Emmeline who gives a nervous nod instead.
Their dinner lands obsequiously in front of them and Emmeline digs in as if all she’s been waiting for was this exact moment. She forgets spoon and forgets manners. She eats hurriedly and gulps from the glass. Merope feels encouraged by that as she didn't want to make a fool of herself in front of Emmeline.
“Eat up, or it’ll get cold!” she urges Merope. “My uncle will request my presence at nine and we don't have enough time to talk, the two of us.” She rips the skin off a roasted chicken leg and shoves it into her mouth. Grease drips on her chin. “It’s a good thing I’m still nursing Brutus. I wouldn’t want Reggie’s spawn inside me no more than the other girls he's fucked.”
Merope eats without complaint.A shudder crosses her at the thought of having Reggie’s spawn but she squashes it with other thoughts.It would be ugly, no doubt, as ugly and distasteful as its sire. It would be even uglier than Merope alone and that's something to consider.Tom, on the other hand, Tom is beautiful, a high lord, cultured and mannered, Tom would never do something so uncivil as to touch a girl under the table.
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Emmeline drags her into a room that’s large and bright and lavish. For several moments, Merope is left to stare and touch to her heart’s content. Adjacent to it is another room where little Brutus sleeps overnight. Emmeline cradles the baby in her arms and struggles with her dress.“I’m going to feed him.” She tells Merope as an invitation to take a seat in one of the comfortable chairs in the baby’s room. Even this one is bright from so many candles floating near the ceiling and complemented by white furniture and ivory baby things. “Oh, help me, will you?” She has trouble with her buttons and Merope takes little Brutus in her arms to relieve Emmeline. As she looks into the baby’s guileless, happy face, Merope knows she wants to be a mother.“He quite likes you, did I tell you that?” Emmeline takes the baby and places it expertly at her breast. The baby opens its mouth and suckles. Emmeline watches it with hooded eyes for a while then she lets out a tired exhale. “He’s going to be a heartbreaker one day when he grows older.”To Merope what didn’t make sense was how Emmeline came to even have a baby. And so, she asked and to her surprise, Emmeline just wanted to talk to relieve the tension of having to face her uncle every night. It seemed to her that Emmeline just laid this out for her just like the invitation. Nothing the girl did was out of the range of manipulation.“You see, the Borgins stick together. We’re purebloods, just like you.” But before Merope gets to tell her just how bad some purebloods want to stick to each other by telling her about how her father commanded her to suffer Morfin's attentions, Emmeline was quick to deny such horror. Well, hers was a horror as well, not to a lesser degree but of a different miasma. “There wasn’t much money for all of us, and since I’m from a lower branch of the family, and I have no dowry or any assets to my name..." Her voice trailed as if unsure. "You see, I lost my father to the Vanishing sickness and my mother remarried… well… she could only do so and get us out of debt by pretending she was a widow with no children – easy now, Brutus – so she tried her best to get my brothers wedded and have me sent to London to live a better life.” Emmeline was talking fast as if her time was running out, of course, it was. “I arrived here at fourteen, homeschooled as I was, I found out I didn’t know much about the world. Uncle Borgin can be a very, very wicked man, I do not wish you to know him up close as I do. One day he decided he had enough of me eating his food and spending his money and told me I had to repay him. He said I would do with proper guidance and since the Malfoys in this area owed him, he wanted to collect on that. I was sent to live there, of course, and Mrs Malfoy did see to my education, put me to work and instructed me about my manners. She failed to introduce me to a wider social circle but she never liked me much to begin with..."“When I turned sixteen, my uncle started writing to me. I needed to do exactly as he said or else, I wouldn’t have a penny when I reached my majority. He sent me a vial with a potion and instructed me on how to use it. I had to use it on Mr Malfoy, you see… of course, I didn’t want to do it, the deed I had to do was vile but then as Mrs Malfoy’s health started declining and she miscarried again, Mr Malfoy started coming to my room at night. At first, it was just because he wanted to talk, sometimes he would drink and stare out of the window, sometimes he would just complain.”“I was scared of what it might do - the potion. Junius Brutus Malfoy is always so particular about his drinks, only the elves bring food and drinks to him, so I didn’t dare. But one night, he came to my room and he was distraught, he drank, he talked, he cried and then he kissed me and I kissed him back. I just forgot all about my uncle’s plan!”“As per my uncle’s instructions, I was supposed to place a drop from the vial into Mr Malfoy’s tea every day. He was supposed to drink it, fall madly in love with me and eventually fuck me." There is no twitch on merope's face upon hearing that word. She's heard plenty while under her father's fist and her brother's deformed body, but saying it out loud seems to have an effect on Emmeline. It's almost as if she's too scared to use it because her face just loses a bit of that tenacity and resolute cunning when she does and instead, her eyes fill with sadness. yet Emmeline bravely soldiers on with her story. "He would fuck me until I became pregnant and then my uncle could collect on that by blackmailing him – which he does now, by the way. Seeing as I was already carrying his heir, I could have just thrown the potion away but stupidly enough, I did not. I wrote to my uncle and I said it is done and then hell broke loose. What happened next, was just terrible!” Emmeline was crying and when she started doing so, the baby began crying as well. She pushed him away from her breast but the baby was inconsolable. Merope took him.“Brutus was mad with rage upon my uncle’s letters, he said he couldn’t leave his wife, that he had made a mistake. He kicked me out of the manor and called the aurors upon me, telling them that I tampered with his drink and I seduced him using a draft. My uncle was very upset, he most likely blackmailed Junius Brutus Malfoy for all that it was worth. I almost ended up in Azkaban but of course, they couldn’t lock me since I was carrying a baby. Imagine that!”“You see, Brutus found this in my room-“ Emmeline started rummaging through a drawer in her nightstand and came out with a strangely manufactured vial with a mother of pearl liquid that swirled as if it was steaming inside.“It is a love potion, the most powerful there is, Amortentia. It is said to cause a powerful infatuation or obsession. My uncle probably boasted about it in his blackmail letters and Brutus searched my room. I still remember that day, when he was shaking so badly because he refused to drink anything except the water he’d conjure. He asked me questions over and over again but he was too angered to listen. He just brought in the aurors and let them arrive at whatever conclusion… that I poisoned him to use him and extract favours from him. Oh, but I didn’t!” Emmeline’s tears streamed tragically down her face.“I didn’t, Merope, you must believe me, I didn’t. He came to my room to cry at first. He said he felt bad about his wife, about all their dead children. I- I didn’t know what to do or what to say in consolation so I let him cry and wail and he… he started kissing me and touching me and… it was just what my uncle ordered me to do. I let him do it, I even welcomed it, I felt so alone and as the months went by, I became more and more isolated. Mrs Malfoy portkeyed to Italy for her nerves and I was alone in the Manor with only him for company... Surely, you must understand, Merope, surely! I… I couldn’t say no to him, he was all I knew and besides… it was happening, just like my uncle told me to make it happen in his multiple letters.” Emmeline drew a heavy breath and wiped her teary face. She started mumbling incoherently at some point and Merope almost tuned her out. To her ears, the other girl was just a mess of self-pity and tears. It was something else that captured Merope's attention.“He told me I was beautiful, that I was the only thing he wanted and I gave myself to him but I can’t let him just throw me away like that! Not when I have his child to remind me of his face every single day!” She drew a shawl upon her shoulders and dropped that forsaken vial in the process. The vial slipped from the folds of her grey taffeta skirt and lodged itself among the many pillows of the fauteuil she sat in. Merope’s eyes were drawn to it as if it were sparkling gold. When she saw that vial at first, Merope knew she wanted it. What was it? Infatuation? Obsession? They are just like love, aren't they? “Surely, his heart isn’t made of stone like that… there must be some love in that heart of his...” Emmeline whispered with her thoughts full of the mysterious Mr Malfoy.It was quite a sad story, Merope could understand something from Emmeline’s desperation but all her mind was focused on was the strangely coloured vial and inside her brain, only one word echoed: Amortentia, Tom Riddle, love. “… This is why,” Emmeline hiccupped. “ This is why you must help me! My uncle… my uncle is not a good man, not a kind and understanding man. You must know what he plans to do to me, what he is doing to me. Of course, he says he wants to see me happy, to see me married to a rich man, to have some of my fortune for himself and his wicked plans, sure, but he doesn’t care for what I want, he never did. No one can understand what it’s like to wait for that man to… to... every single night since I returned.” But Merope could. She knew what it was to be subjected to such abominations night after night by her brother. It was vile!“I cannot go on like this, I cannot! I need you to take little Brutus tonight and wait for me in the Gringotts’ square. You need to be very careful when you exit the house so that Mopey doesn’t catch on. He is always the first to report to Reginald and if my uncle were to find out about this, he would… he would never let me leave!”“And then what, Emmeline? What will you do? What about your marriage to that Malfoy boy in France?”“Do you actually think that my uncle would let me go to France? Do you think that he will just let go of me and let me live my life, just like that? He will blackmail that Malfoy boy - if he even exists- for all that he's worth! He will drag me through his dirt willy-nilly, and Junius… Junius Brutus Malfoy will hate me forever!” She said this with such finality and conviction that Merope couldn’t help but believe every word she said.“I will floo to the manor and try to reason with him. He will understand when he sees I’m not lying. I’ve never used that bloody Amortentia on him. I’ve never… even had the chance to do it. He could... of course he could exact his revenge upon me... ” But as she said those words her eyes were quite blank as if she was just imagining what exactly would happen if her plan wouldn’t work. Disgraced, locked up, forever, kept as property under her uncle’s conservatorship.“Merope, promise me you’ll help me!”And Merope nodded and her eyes flitted to that vial now gleaming with mother of pearl sheen and a shade of pink. She could sneak out with a baby, she could go to the designated place. She would wait for Emmeline and all this time she would have the vial on her, hidden at her bosom like a precious thing, more precious even than the living, breathing Malfoy babe that now slept peacefully in her arms/After that night, she’s never heard of Emmeline again. She gave her her baby, Emmeline kissed her cheek and she disappeared in the green floo flames.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Merope returns to the shack late at night from her compulsory lessons. She’s to continue and keep up with the lessons and tests in her night classes and pass the first set of the WOMBATs by the end of the year. It’s already more than she could have imagined for herself. She has to show up every day and take every test, practical or written, or else she would lose the paltry sum the ministry sends her every couple of weeks. The correspondence from the ministry is brief, she’s constantly monitored, she’s having her monthly health assessments and as she guessed in the beginning, the ministry is willing to monitor them and educate them as long as they’re not pregnant or married, which means by default that if they fall into one of the two categories, there is someone taking care of them, somehow. Merope thinks it’s all poppycock since she could have fallen pregnant by Morfin and no one would have taken care of her. No one else apart from Morfin or Marvolo would have known or cared. She could have very well died and they wouldn’t have cared. If one thing is clear, her situation would have worsened. She remembers her mother and how she cursed the life taken away from her by Marvolo, always locked in these rooms, never crossing the perimeter beyond their garden, always looking out of the window longingly, wishing, hoping, dreaming she was anywhere else but in this place. Merope has seen her. She wouldn’t want to fade away; she would rather exist no more than lose this freedom. Now she is free, or so she likes to think, but her thoughts are always plagued by what she should be or do.She doesn’t know anything for sure. All she knows is that she needs to keep on living.She wants to be good, she wants to do better, she wants to be truly deserving and she knows that there is no chance, not for her, when she’s such a slow learner but not willful or snotty. Mistress Smith has written a letter recommending her to her supervisor and all she did was confirm that Merope wanted to please and was eager to be accepted despite not knowing exactly what to do.She is still unaccustomed to cast Lumos with a wand. Sometimes Lumos comes to her, pulses through her veins until it reaches the tips of her fingers and Merope feels a tender warmth enveloping her until light, pure, bright light springs forth from her hands. It happened before and it’s her only explanation for not dying of thirst, or shivering with cold.She pronounces the Latin word with more conviction: “Lumos!”Her wand lights up. It is a successful spell.And again:“Lumos!”She’s never spoken so loud while inside. It’s as if she’s been silent until this day. She sneezes loudly a couple of times and sees dust float, made visible now through her spell.Her magic, as poor and misunderstood as it’s been, recognizes the need, the human need that clings to her body. Magic knew when Merope was shivering with cold all the winter months, and magic provided her with warmth or insensitivity to cold while all she had was a ragged canvas dress and a pair of scruffy leather shoes that started out as too big and ended up as too small by the time she hit her growth spurt.However, magic wasn’t there all the time. Merope’s magic was fickle.This winter’s been particularly difficult. With Morfin all over her and Marvolo’s constant beatings and verbal lashings, her magic seemed to want to hide as well and what is worse, it seemed to hide from Merope herself, making itself scarce when she needed it the most. She would never forget those nights she spent huddled by the fire, enduring boot after boot to her ribs, just so she wouldn’t be out in the freezing rain.Perhaps she willed it to go away just to prove them right that she was a Squib.Sometimes, magic betrayed her even in doing that.This time she drew courage from others. She wasn’t that bad. She wasn’t a Squib. Her Lumos confirmed that her being able to finally own a wand confirmed that. She didn’t do that poorly. She had a knack for some forms of magic, though. Hexes came easily to Merope, so did the heating and the cooling charms. With enough practice, Merope scourgified the shack until the air was less dusty, more breathable. She knew how to ask for things and her magic would thrum quietly until they were brought into her hand.“Accio!” She verbalized louder than before and repeated the incantation until her voice resonated in the hollow shack. With each success, a sliver of confidence returned to her. She’s never felt like that before.Some days she felt happy, almost free, and that’s when the magic seemed to enjoy coursing through her veins. But some days she felt useless, ugly and stupid – less than a Squib, as her father would yell at her, just a hole to fuck, as Morfin would remind her when he forced himself on her or a tramp, a dirty, ugly, little tramp. Sometimes she pretends these were not his first words of acknowledgement of her existence, but who is she lying to?She tinkers around the house and puts on the kettle above the fire stove. She tried the Accio on the wild nettle and oyster shell mushrooms and topped her basket with garlic mustard leaves. Her hands are still red and achy but at least she had managed to forage something that is edible and she'll make a meal to appease her hunger. She can forget about the stinging pain from the nettles; at least there's no one here to steal her portion like Morfin would always do.When they were home with her, they would bully her into cleaning the shack and cooking them food from scratch and her foraging bounty. The beatings were frequent. Merope decided that it was slightly better to nurse her wounds with a full stomach rather than go on empty. The pain seemed to always lessen when she ate something. Her magic was coiling then as if fed by the very food she had eaten, a layer of protection she might need when a kick was too close to her ribs or a jinx was too close to her face.The money from the Ministry was scarce enough and after just a week of eating sweet buns and drinking chocolate milk, she realized that there was a literal hole in her budget, especially since she had discovered the Fortescue shop. Together with Emmeline they probably spent all their money there. She misses the filet mignon from last week’s dinner at the Borgins and sometimes she misses Emmeline.Merope hasn’t heard anything else from her and it’s like the earth swallowed her. Her name’s been promptly scratched out from the scroll they use every evening to roll call the students. There’s a pause when Borgin’s name should be called and instead, the Mistress proceeds to call directly for Cormac.It was strange but it filled Merope with dread, the thought of forgetting someone just like that. She works the nettle leaves into fine, even cuts and then she cleans the earthy wild mushrooms with a brush, she's talented with preparation, she's been told it's a good skill to have in Potions.Her stomach cramps, painfully. Her snakes are nowhere in sight. It’s April and it’s mating season for them; Merope knows they all migrate from the depths of the woods and into the clearings, trying to catch as much sun and mice and birds as they can. She’s seen them before, coiling and uncoiling, juddering their bodies in a strange rhythmical dance and thrashing over their mate. Not that different from what humans did, Merope supposes.There’s less brutality in it, at least less than she’s been subjected to. They are, after all… just reptiles, reptiles she can understand through Parseltongue.She uses the small cast-iron cauldron for cooking and encourages the flames with sweeps of her wand. There is this hollowness inside of her that needs mending. It's not just a need for food or shelter. She realizes it's a need for more. Sure there must be more to life than living like this... She’s lonely here and since she’s seen what the world has to offer, she too wants more. She’s seen women walking side by side with men, wizards and witches and muggles alike, dressed in beautiful dresses and coats, she’s seen food that looks delicious, accompanied by wafting smells that make her cry with their exquisiteness, served on fine china plates, she’s even had a taste of what life can offer. The world is like an apple now, the world is big and yet so small, so tangible and Merope wants a bite out of it.It doesn’t matter how, she feels that she can do more, have more. She knows she’s no beauty but Merope knows she’s not monstrous either. One day, Emmeline coiffed her hair so that one side of it covers one of her eyes and from the profile, she does look exactly like one of the models whose picture she’s once seen in a London shop. With a comb and a piece of mirror, she can recreate that.She thinks she knows Diagon Alley by heart by now. She’s been staring and watching and asking all around her. With a candied apple in her hand and a bag of chips or chestnuts, she has walked through every shop and every corner. She’s walked to Knockturn multiple times, fascinated by the displays in the Borgin & Burke’s shop, she’s even walked into bookstores and the shops that sell animals. There were no snakes, as she already assumed: owls, cats, rats, toads and sometimes ravens were on display, but never snakes. She’s ambled every apothecary in search of discounted potions ingredients so she could continue her night classes with the Potions Mistress, Merope even decided to buy a book. It came from a second-hand store and was perhaps the cheapest alternative to owning a proper Charms and Hexes manual. She’s lived apart from all this, like a prisoner of this shack but she realized she’s no different than the other girls that go to the night school. She wants to explore this world and find her place in it. She too wants to look beautiful, even though it’s for her own eyes, she too notices the world, the things of fashion and the men. She’s seen men, she’s observed them keenly. She knows that she has an eye for beauty. She has spotted and picked him, the handsome Muggle, Tom Riddle of Little Hangleton. Why should she even look upon Morfin’s twisted face and submit herself to his sickening touches? Upstairs is where she sleeps now, in her mother’s old room. The cleaning spells come in handy again; it’s not as if she has to bolt out at the first sign of violence from her brother or father anymore. She used to sleep near the fire, sometimes right under the table on the floor just to stay out of Marvolo’s sight and be left alone. Those days are over, for now, at least. Her mother’s things are sparse, locked in an ancient-looking trunk. A dress here, a coat there, a shawl for winter, a pair of shoes, several books that seem to have survived a scorching spell, a quill and some parchment and what’s most important, a solid gold locket, a family heirloom.She’s fascinated by the locket. It speaks directly to her as only a Parselmouth can open it. Her innate ability to speak to snakes garnered her more unwelcome attention from her father and jealousy from Morfin who was never good at sharing and was cruel even as a child.She strokes the cold metal of it with tremulous fingers. It is… their most prized possession. She’s heard Marvolo saying how this has been passed down the line by none other than Salazar himself. Ǒ̵̝̺͙̱̻̑p̧̜͇̎e̶̹̠̬͎̝̊͌ṇ̨̱͇̯͙̳͕̀ͣͩ, she commands, speaking directly to the serpentine S inlaid with glittering green stones. With her eyes unfocused, moving in a different direction, it is easier to imagine the letter turning into a slithering snake. The locket clicks open and inside Merope knows what she’ll find. A white ribbon is coiled there, perfectly preserved by the ancient magic. She takes it out, revelling in its satiny softness. She knows this belonged to her mother. She can still remember her scent trapped in the thread. Was this a present or a reminder? Was it not important to her? Why didn’t she take it when she left? Maybe she thought she could return? Merope shuts her eyes trying to break this fantasy. She’s hoped that one day she’ll return and take pity on Merope and let her come with her. However, Pleione never returned.When she clasps it back the locket lies silent, like a grave again. She takes the band for herself now. It’s useless keeping it hidden, not as if someone’s coming back for it anymore.It may be empty but Merope realizes she could fill it with photographs like she’s seen Emmeline do. The girl wore a photograph of her beloved parents in her tiny, heart-shaped silver locket. Emmeline’s had nothing of the silent grandeur and nobility of the one Merope owned. She can see the possibilities only that in the photograph there would be no dear parent of hers. If only she could, she would fill the space with photographs of Tom. Yes… Tom, the most precious thing she didn’t own. Not yet, she thought and wasn’t that clever? Merope didn’t have much but she could get things. She had that ability to magnetize people, objects, goodwill to her existence.From deep inside her pocket she extracted the vial. She often found herself at night staring at its mother of pearl liquid, mesmerized by the swirling potion trapped in the vial. It’s no larger than her index finger, ornate, beautiful looking. She takes the locket, wills it to open and watches as it swallows whole the vial of Amortentia.She’s satisfied with how clever she was with it. Now the two most valuable things rest where they belong, on her chest.Soon… Soon… she tells herself, another will be added to her possessions.She would get him, one day, and then, when she would make sure he would never, ever leave her side, she would feel at peace, complete for he was what she always wished she could be.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Merope practised Aguamenti several times until she managed to have a glass full of water. Her brow furrows and her forehead scrunches when she concentrates on her spellcasting. Her eyes, again, don’t help and staring fixedly at the tip of her wand or at the glass she intends to fill with water puts an enormous strain on her.By the time her glass is full of water, she’s panting as if she’s been scrubbing floors all day long. Her eyes hurt as if by sheer will alone she pulled the muscles and the nerves from the opposite direction they were facing into an intersecting one, her tongue is dry, her throat is sore as if all water and energy left her through that act alone. She drinks the water. It tastes pure, it’s satisfying.She feels like falling asleep.The wizard teaching Charms to them is not a gentle instructor, nor does he care if they manage to pass. He fills the hours that the ministry assigned him, probably as punishment, probably because he has nothing better to do or probably because he enjoys seeing them squirm and tremble when he raises his voice. Merope tends to think it’s the latter. She’s seen it before, in her father’s eyes, the same mad look that Mr Spellman has. She practices because she is afraid, not because she necessarily wants to succeed. She practices because Mr Spellman did not hesitate to throw a lashing hex at Marjorie Maybrick for passing a note to Lyudmila Karkaroff and leave the girl hiccup-crying there for the rest of the hour.Now that she doesn’t even have a pair during Potions class, Merope realizes she’s been left without a cover for her general ignorance. She cannot rely on anyone’s help. The other girls despise her. And why wouldn’t they? It’s not as if she tried being friendly with them or chat during the quarter-hour recess they are allowed until midnight strikes.When the sun is up in the sky, burning with the promise of a warm spring, she goes foraging again. She takes the route through the meadow and then she sees them, her familiars slithering through the tall grass of the bog peat. And all she can think of sometimes is that she doesn’t want to be used like she’s some lesser animal by the likes of her father and brother. She wants to be free and go where she pleases.Merope knows that she exists independently of them –both in Azkaban for the years to come, punished just as they deserved. She looks at the snakes and she realizes she has as much power as Marvolo right now, the only difference being that she actually believed his lies that she was worthless. No more, she tells herself! They’ve stayed in the earth for the months of winter, the adders. They’re the only venomous snake around here and she knows they frightened Morfin and Marvolo to no end, until they decided to use their magic on them and hurt them, hexed them, spliced them with guttural Diffindos and burned them. Sometimes, her brother went as far as to nail them to the entrance door to the shack. Merope cried afterwards, always running into the woods, hissing her apologies to her friends. She suffered their wrath alone. They constantly forgave her, no matter the damage.Her favourite of all the snakes are the adders, male and female alike but the latter always had to teach her something. i̶̧͙̬̙̙̙̖̤̹͐̆͑̉͗͋͜t̴̗͖͙̭̫͊͗̉̽͒͗̍'̴̧͉͈̬͍̻̖͜͝͝ş̶̡̧̻̪͈͓̣̼͕̓̒̄ ̷̧̻͕̝̲̱̮͙͎͗ą̵̬̪͖̪͇͈͒͌́͘ͅ ̷̦͔̭͇̦͔̗̠̬͌̄̿w̵̨̝̠͇̘̫̗̐̐͂͒̀͌̏̈̌́o̸̠̦͈̺͙̼̖͉̍̑n̷̢̛͖̙̖̥̰̟̗͚̓͒̀̊͛̕d̷̡̺̪̠̬̥̦͎̋̒̿̑ȩ̴̹̗͓̤̤̲̣̳͛r̵̪͔͕̞͇̃͗͗͒̍f̵͚͔͈̲͍͍̩̘̭̍̅̊̓͌͌ͅư̶͉͒̐͂̈́̾̚l̸̝̻̫̱̜͆͗͒͑͒̊̕͝ ̴̛͖̝̊̈̆͋͊̀̅f̷̢̨͎̼̖̙͇̦͍̋͋͜͝e̴̡͙̖̠̼̼̯̬͉̾e̸̜̣͆l̴̢̨̨͈̦̳͗͋i̴̢̦̹̯̫̞͍̾̉̽͋͊̅̀̑͜͠n̵̨̮̦̞͇̒͜͜ͅg̶͉̭̓̏̀́̎̎̏͗̃͘,̶̧̛̻̹̯̞̞̹̮̱͐̈́͑͋͘͠ͅ ̶̡͍͖̥̣̔̆̓̓̆͝ẇ̸͔͔͙̙̬̻̤̇̿̾͊͛͌͝i̵̲̎͋̽̒̈́̀͊͘͠ţ̴̰̬̲̄̇͐͗̏͋̊̀̎͠c̴̨͈͎͖̗͍̖̝͒̕h̵̨̤͔̹̖̽́͑͋̔͠͠, they assure her but Merope’s skin doesn’t work like that. She would love to take her skin off and maybe, maybe then, she would be beautiful like she knows she needs to be to gain his attention.When Morfin terrorized them with fyendfire and burned their territories, it was the worst. She had to make amends then, keeping an eye on the plump females giving birth to their snakelings, guarding their small territories against intruders, hissing in alarm when other deluded snakes would cross their paths. Unlike the other snakes that lay eggs and move along, the adders give birth. It’s fascinating and terrifying to watch them when w̢͎̺̍ͤa̶͈͕̠̗̩͕̩ͤ́̔t̤̮͓͖̮̎͋͂̊͘c̯̣̬̰̺̪̮̅͌͞h̶̞͙̥̍́ͫ̏, they said to her. w̶̙̩̱̿͂͒́a̸̖̠̭̜̖̭̝̎̌ͅt̴̘͈ͮc̡͚͍̮̱͆͆ḫ̸̭̯͔̦͗̈͒̆ ̣̘̳̞̫̼̙̠͛͢a̷̞̹͙͊ͬͣn̛̜̥̯̹̺̦̮̗ͩ̾ͩͥd̷͕̰̜̻̭̩̩͆ ̡̤̟̈́ͬḻ͙̳͓͇͕̘͎ͨ͂̾e̝͈͆̒͡a̡͇͓̪͈ͩȑ̺͙͈̗̫̈͟n̼̦͚̟͈̗̜̦̂͑̿͜ ̤͚̍͟f̷̘͈͇͎ͧͭ̅o̩̮̺̰͕̓r̬̹̗̈́́́̄̕ ̯̜͔̤͊̏͆͝t̥̩̰͚̬̙̦ͥ̈ͬ͂͟h̳̫̥̼̰̟͒ͤ͜i̶͇̲̠͖ͯ̎̌ś͇̖͇̝͈͉̝͙̽͟ ̸̺͓͌ͪ̚w̯͖͓͙̔̅͟ḯ͈̻̜̬ͧ̀͠ͅl̲̲̣̭̘̗̗̫ͮ̓͘l̖̗̟̺ͪ̔ͤ ̵̤̮̤͕͉̱̱ͫ̀ͪ̋b̖̰̓͟ȅ̘̹͉̻̙͍̒͠ ͔͎̹̹̹̲̰̻͑y͐̽͐ͤ҉̺̘ǫ̤̗͙͔̞̎ũ̞̮̎͟r̥̰̝̭̫͂ͫͤ̒͘ͅͅ ͭ̚͏̦̲̦̬f͕̺̝̪̜̘̟ͥ̋́ǎ͋͊̊҉̖͕͎ẗ̘̤͔̜̞͈̘͔̌͢eͯͨ̃ͨ҉̘̫̟̺͎ ̧̝̰̩͇͓͍ͬ́ͅȃ̷͎͖͎͈͕̤̱͉ͤ̚s̨͖̟̭̫̲̟̐̚ ̧̳̗̗͍̟͍̦̉ͣ̿̀w͚̘̯͒̓͡e̲̤̲͗͟ͅl̛̰̹̞̑ͯ̽͐ĺ̲̠̱̥̹̤̲ͣ. Merope couldn’t help but shudder as the words slithered around her.Some are zig-zag, the males black and white, the females a reddish and brown. Sometimes they defy the rule and they are fully black. It helped them get as much sun as possible after they spent the last months coiled up underground in suspended animation. Thawed out by the first spell of warmth, they emerged from the earth and gathered to sunbathe, flattening their long bodies to the earth, trying to absorb as much heat as their bodies would allow. Soon, they would slither into a mating dance to make up for the lost time. Finding a mate was their first priority, not helping Merope, the walker, with her nonsensical troubles. She watches avidly, her numb shoulders warming slowly to the direct sun. Females are larger, longer, darker, and the males collect around them to assess their competitors and display their dominance. Just like the March rabbits, they have their own dance of April. The dance of the adder males fighting each other off for females can take days. The male adders wrestle, trying to put the other’s head to the ground until one of the males tires and admits defeat and is chased off by the victor. The victor then slithers through the heath shrubbery and gorse and finds the female. She is courted by many, for the females are scarce and all males want a chance to mate. This time, Merope settles next to a black adder female that is thrice her suitor’s body size. He enthusiastically scents her and dances around her so he can latch across the length of her body and wind their tails together. What he lacks in size he makes up in stamina and eagerness. As soon as the female stops he begins his seduction, jerking his body and licking her all over, his tongue darting swiftly over her scales. But suddenly, he’s not the only suitor on her tail. A large male has caught her scent and he dives straight in, menacingly. Soon, things begin to get out of hand. The female doesn’t seem too fussy about whom she gets to mate with. The two males thrash it out, fighting, fangs out and bodies twitching convulsively. The female watches from the sidelines and when they're finished, the stronger male mates her, dragging their bodies through the depths of the shrubbery. Merope has watched them closely over the years. Marvolo and Morfin avoided messing with them since they were poisonous. Merope’s watched their whole life-cycle and she still doesn’t think she can get enough from her escapades through the moorland. She’s watched them mate in the woody vegetation, she’s watched them grow and listened to their stories, she’s watched them hunt, always entranced by the way their prey quivered after being injected with venom. She’s watched them die and she has been there while they were birthing, live young, each writhing in their amniotic sack, breaking it and trying to understand what they were supposed to do to survive. Grow, hunt, mate and bite the unwelcome walker! They now ignore her but the unmated males slither around her in discontent. She can hear their jabs and threats toward her person. She pays them no heed, only when her dress catches in the gorse and she is about to step on one of the males neatly coiled with his head hidden to protect his eyes from dryness, does she resent her situation. A clever one tells her encouragingly to shed her skin as they have, to birth herself anew. Then they mock her and do an imitation of a human laugh that both chills and fascinated her. c̸̖͍̰̗̅͌l̵̛͖͙̳͓̫̖̦̥̔͒̒̌u̶̧͔͇̯̝̾̈́͘m̵̡̺̙͎͕̼͔͍̂̋͊͐̓͗̔̓̓͜͠ŝ̴̨͍̙͋͊̍̓͝͠͝y̴̻͈͓̼͕͒̈͐ ̴͈̠̼̯̹̔̓̑͆̑̚w̵̠̰̥̄̃̃̑́͝a̶̛̱͔̣͇̤̟̠̐̚l̴̨̡͈̫̪̬͎̫̰̜̊̾̽̎̔͝k̴̤̞̙͔͔͖̾̌̍̾̔̿̕͠e̴̪̦̎̀͒̑́̒̈́̔͗r̶̢͙̯͖͈̤͚̤͍̝̈́͘, they call her. l̷̤͎̹͔̜͓͆ẽ̵̡̫̬͎̟͎̓̾̍͗͐̿̊̿͋͜t̷̡̥͓͒͋ ̴̧̹̭̼͔̳͚̮͕̔͗̿͗̎̿́u̸̺̿̊̽̈́̆̏͝s̴̢̨̩̹̲̎ ̶̢̨͇͈̩̝̞̥̊̆͝m̷̛̪͗̎̆̈́̈́̈́̆a̸͍̮͎̭̫̋͜t̸̛̠͎̾̉̅̽͐̌̆̚ę̶̛̬̘̖͓͛̇͆ ̸͓͎̒y̶̡̛̛̜̞̽̇̃͠o̵̗̻̰͖̗͖̗͖̐̍̿̕͜͜u̵̖̗͎̗͍͍̫̩͗̈͐͂̋ͅͅ ̵̧̛͆̏͋͒̏́ȁ̷̱͍̞͔̺̺̘̠̊̈́̕͜͝͠ñ̴̡̬̪̈́͂ḑ̶̼̞̄́͆͝͠ ̶͉̹̼̞̯̜͓͙̦̱̓͐̾m̸̭̦̞̗̟͆̐̈̈͌͂͛̆͝ǎ̴͙͎̃͂̐̏k̴̢̢̫̩̖̞̭̗̤̤̃e̷̡̢̛͓̤̖̙̅̐̌̄̐̕ ̶̢̱̖͓̣̪̝͒y̷̧̝̻͔̹͚͂̆͒͗̈̋̃ǫ̴̟̮̬̮̙͎̼̃͑ͅṳ̴̣̭͌̍̉͋̓̕͝ ̷̢͈̱̠͕͎͗o̷̠̱͈̱͔͂̆̎̎̉͠n̶̳̭̘̦̂̔́e̵̲͉͈̹͑̂̄̃͠͝͠ ̶̛̫̜͖̟̦͌̐͜͠͝͝ọ̷̣͓͖̰̮̙̙͈̈́̅͊̄͐͑̄f̶̡̧̛̩̟͉̼̽͊͒̊̑ ̵̺̬͛̎͌͜͠u̵̧͉̮̲̩͊͂̓̀̏̃͛̕s̴̡̫̦̳̺̹̘͓̐̅̂̈́̐̈́̃͝͝, the bold one insists. Merope says nothing, though. Snakes are her favourite and she loves how their skin feels as it rubs against hers. She lets them slither up her thighs but her anatomy seems to complicate things. She knows her body, deformed as it is by inbreeding is still capable of pleasure and she can’t help but let out a moan when the snake’s head inches closer to her apex, haunting with its tongue her musky cunt. She’s wet.A sliver of fear pierces through her at the thought of the snake entering her, parting her folds and making a temple in her womb. This madness crawls on her skin until she’s feverish enough and on the brink of letting it happen. She can imagine it’s Tom doing this to her and she parts her legs wider, mechanically, letting the soft skin of her nude lower half get bruised by the bramble.“Tom!” She grunts loudly, unaware that she scared off a flock of wrens. A millipede crawls over her chest, her hair is full of ants and in the rapturous madness, she almost tears the dress off her shoulders. She grabs and kneads her breasts violently, in time with the shuddery jerks between her legs. They crawl, they crawl inside her slowly. When she looks down, all she sees is a slithering black mass of serpentine bodies engulfing her. She convulses, once, twice, then everything fades to black.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It must have been the voice of her father. A voice. Some voice. Or probably there was Salazar or even Merlin himself, the source of magic and life that spoke directly to her. The voice said get up and so she did. The voice said sleep, and she obeyed.When she woke up, she found herself in her room, tucked under cool cotton sheets.She was not hungry, nor thirsty. Sleep fell down her eyelashes the moment she started looking around the room. Merope could barely remember.Yesterday was a blur.Vague memories of pain in her belly but nothing alarming. She tried to get up and then decided against it. Vaguely, she remembered having missed her classes. It was unprecedented but the rules were clear. One absence and they were out. No more classes, no more Ministry aid.She rubbed at her eyes mechanically. She could not remember what prompted this state of obliviation.Voices, outside, colored by the faint trot of horses. A masculine voice. Merope was out of the bed as if burned. His voice. She hasn't heard him or seen him in a while. She must see him. It’s been too long but it didn’t matter for he was always in her head, talking to her, getting to know her. Her Tom. He was back. He came back to her.In her haste, she leapt and missed several stairs and when she reached the door to her shack, she couldn’t help herself and creaked it open. She spied on him, sitting there, unmoving on the cold stone.There he was, on his dark horse. Last year, when she’s seen him up close for the very first time, she almost forgot herself, forgot how people usually reacted to her. She was soiled, unsocialized and could barely respect social etiquette.“You should see the brother, I heard he’s quite mad!”“Oh, Tom! That’s ghastly…”And later.“Is that a snake, nailed on the door?”“By God!” Tom replied and Merope was quite surprised, hearing his voice like that. For a moment, she couldn’t recognize that tone.“It really is.”“Please, don’t look for trouble, Tom!” The woman’s voice was high pitched, tinged with worry.Merope’s never heard her before. Neither did the snakes. They would have informed her but alas, today, their voices were awfully quiet.He descended from his horse and Merope let go of the door. She had forgotten about the snake. She left it there to honour its sacrifice. After all, the wards became useless ever since the Aurors took Morfin and Marvolo away.She gathered her courage and looked properly at him, opening the door wider. He stalled immediately, horror-stricken.“Tom, come back here!” The woman said and only then did Merope look her way.She was high on her horse and majestically dressed in trousers and a coat, just like a man. She had a beautiful face, even more so than the average woman and compared to the average woman, Merope knew where she stood. Any other woman was a beauty when pitted against Merope's looks.What was her business here? But she was grateful for she brought Tom on her doorstep. Fearful enough, she hid half of her face with her hair. Her dress was crumpled, it usually wouldn’t do to receive visitors like this, but she could barely contain her enthusiasm seeing him, her Tom for the very first time in what could have well been months.She wanted him to come to her, so, so, so much and surprisingly, he did. He took reluctant step after reluctant step and when he was decently close to her, he spoke, voice tremulous, as if afraid.In the story she dreamed of him for months, he wasn’t quite like this, so... cautious, and Merope could not look a gift horse in the mouth, now, could she? She dared a smile and surely, Tom must have understood that there was nothing to be afraid of.“Hello, there… Miss…” His voice trailed nervously and there was a forced tone of politeness to it but wasn’t that wonderful? And wouldn’t it be rude if she failed to respond?And so, she did, and swallowed hard so her voice would be clear and said hello in return. She almost couldn’t believe her luck, to be speaking and looking at him like that. And with her eyes and her mind and her magic, she tried, she compelled until at last, Tom took another step, probably feeling brave.His face was as handsome as ever, a dark wavy lock of hair falling neatly to the side, softening the line of his cheekbones. His dark eyes glinted far beyond Merope’s head as if Tom was looking for something, for someone.“And are you alone in here, Miss…?” He asked, and his brow quirked like she’s guessed it would. It fit him, the look of wonder, of curiosity and perhaps even of bewilderment.“What is your name, I haven’t seen you before.”He seen her, though. He has and Merope knows he did. Could it be possible he doesn’t remember her? She saved him from her father’s hex. She kissed his face and touched it. And of course, she let go of him for the Aurors came to set things to order. Perhaps they made sure he didn’t remember or scrubbed her memory away from his mind like you would a dirty thing.“Merope, “she managed shyly. “I am Merope.”“Oh.” That was all he could say. It didn’t matter, for Merope knew his name. How could she not?She spied with her sharp mind whenever they passed the road in front of the Gaunt shack, sometimes with their horses, sometimes with that four-wheeled muggle contraption they called a car, a vehicle. She brushed the mind of the lost scullery maid who rushed to the Riddles – she called it frantically “the estate” and didn’t dare stop when the road took her to the Gaunts instead. Her feet hurt, her burden was heavy, her arm locked on the handle of a basket overflowing with fruit and vegetables. She ran even harder when she noticed Merope looking at her from the corner.But this, here, with Tom, was lucky indeed. He wouldn’t run away. What for, anyway?“I am alone in here, everybody else has gone away.”He seemed relieved and impulsed by her words, he turned to the woman who didn’t dare take a step closer.“See, Cecilia, there’s really nothing to fear, now! They’ve gone! Come now!” But the woman – Cecilia – did not listen to Tom’s plight. She kept insisting that he come back to her and the horses.“But I am thirsty.” He said and only looked at Merope, who had to let him inside the shack, past the door and into the kitchen that served as a guest room as well.Now, now, she berated herself. It wouldn’t do to push him away for fear of looking too poor to give a stranger a glass of water.He looked at her and thirsted, for something, anything, to assuage the burn in his throat and the hotness on his forehead. He swiped a hand through his hair, ruffling it and patted at his neck with the arm of his sleeve.“I tired from horse riding,” he said uselessly, hoarsely, and without further invitation, he pulled a chair from under the table and seated himself. On second thought, he looked a bit feeble and feverish.She tried to calm her nerves. Why did his presence make her so nervous? She dreamed about it for so long. Why couldn’t she calm herself? She rummaged through the cabinets, searching in vain for a clean glass.“Just water would be fine, Merope.” He said and he didn’t sound quite like himself but strangled. When she looked back, his eyes were quite glassy, his mouth hanging open as if he was trying to ease some internal pain.Turning her back to him, she forced her magic to work an aguamenti to fill the only clean glass she managed to find. Without second thoughts, she handed it to him and as he drank, she berated herself.She could see him living here with her easily. Or they could even go far away. They could be together. It didn't matter that she was poor and ugly. He already was here, wasn't he? S̶̛͔̅̄̈̆̚͠t̵̡̹̥̫͔͋͝ṳ̵̢̻̻̼̦͋̑ͅp̷̠̳̝̈́͆͋͋̔̈́͘͝͠ỉ̸̖͍͉͉̥̘̬̱̻̪͌̈́͆̈́̒̊̃d̵̰̣͇͚̲͎̥̣̠͐͐͊̿̓͆͘͜ ̸̝̬̻̲̹̺̭̟̒̀̈́̓͐ģ̸̢̫̿͐̅͆̊i̵͇̪̭̣̣̺̺̯͒͊͘̕͘ͅr̶̲̼̯̆͒́̓͠l̷̮̠͒̈̎̽̅̋̕, the voice has returned from the depth of the recesses of her mind.She didn’t quite understand, what did she do wrong now?Tom drank the water and seemed to have calmed down. His breath wasn’t coming ragged and hot anymore. He looked immensely better and got up as if remembering where he was.It struck her then, that she missed an opportunity. The locket burned on her chest as if reprimanding her. Stupid, indeed.He will be back, she told herself. He will return, he will. And then, she will not fail. She’ll do it properly, next time.Her mind felt fuzzy too. And she was hot as if there was something in the air that was affecting her as it affected him.Distantly, as if through a dream, she heard the horses galloping. She heard that woman’s voice. Distant, like a memory. Merope felt nauseated, unstable on her feet. Her belly ached and fire crept under her skirt. She grabbed the bannister and dragged herself upstairs. S̶̝̹̩̠̫̔͑̇̉͂̋̕͝l̷̢̢̡̠̻͉̰̄̅̔̑̄̈́͐͌̈͘͜ę̴̧̥͉̙̟̓̈́̿̋͋̀̃̓͒͂͜e̵̹͇͉̭̠͎̋p̶͕͍͉̳͖͖̯͗́̽̄̉͊͠ ̶̢̰͕͙̪̟̞̞̣̫̈́̑̈́n̷̞͈̞͚̱̺̣͆̄̒̋̋̊̒o̵̞̰̞͇͍̍͆͆̅w̸̛͗͂́͐́ͅ,̷̭̗̮̬̪̗̘̖̎ ̷̛̭̳̓͒̕g̵̨̡̦̱̹̎̊i̸̞̬͙̝̞̤̙̠̒̅̎̂̂̋̄̕͠r̴̙͎̬̟̜̮̳̩͕͝ĺ̴̢̈́̿͌͂̎͛͘̚͠.̷̧͖͚͙͎͍͎̻̺͑̽̚ ̶̨̧̣̮͍͉̭͆̄̆̾̓̕Ř̵͙̮͙̼̑̈́̉́͒͝͠e̶͔̮̖͖̫̋̿̈́̍̈́̈́̆̓̚s̵̫̘͕̊̂̏͜ẗ̶̬́̽̍͊͑̊͆͘̕ ̴̯͓̗͔̠͚͐̑̋ͅy̸̧̰̗̠̲͑͗͗̔̈́͠͝ȍ̶͉̤̣̜̟̹͔̭̬̆͛͊̒̋͆̄͌ṳ̷͔̤̩̦̳͙̺̄̓̇͒̇̿͝ř̵̨͓̺͍̠s̷̨̛͉̞̣͓̭͍̰̾̅̈͒̊̿̏̿ͅe̴̢͈̱̞̘͇̎͋̅͠͠ḻ̴̗̥͔̘̇̐f̵̤͍͉̲̰͉̬̮̃̆͑̽̍̃̂̈́͠ͅ!̵̙͇̯̳̲̼͔͗͊͆́̄͘ Urged the voice so she obeyed.He will come back, he will return.
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Dreams in the shack are more than dreams, Merope realizes as she wakes up again, with a sweat. Sleep is never restful; she feels like it’s just another burden to carry through until the sun rises up. Lately, she doesn’t have the energy to do more than look for some sustenance on the forest floor and paced nervously around the steaming cauldron she set under the chimney. April has just begun and cold rain, sometimes accompanied by hail have been unleashed from the sky. The snakes are hiding in dry places. Her shack became once more, a shelter of sorts. She lets them in.Merope alone recognizes them by their inflexions. They sometimes call for her but when she asks them questions they slither away from her grasp.Three days she’s waited and denied herself sleep. She paced and she berated herself and then succumbed to the darkness her father’s words conjured around her: worthless, squib, whore, inept, disgusting flesh, temptress, weak, ugly, yet pure of blood.He did not return, her Tom.By the end of the second day, all the nervousness and anger at herself pooled at her fingers and just like blades, her nails dug into her palms.She failed.Stupid, worthless whore.It’s her father’s voice whispering and she closes her eyes trying very hard to make it go away.One mistake like this and her magic is gone, hiding fearfully from her. She’s all alone now, in a dusty, dirty shack whose magic is failing, letting the rain pour through the creaks and black mould consume its walls.Dirty, ugly girl.Good for one thing only. He would have killed her if not for the pure blood she carried.Pure of blood topped all of them. Pure of blood she was and they were too, no matter how poor, illiterate and soiled, and pure of blood she will die and along with her, the line of Slytherin, the most ancient and powerful blood the magical world has ever borne.Slithering and hissing. Long bodies stealing through dark places, seeking a shred of warmth. Lackadaisically uncoiling and heading towards the fire. Snakes never fare well when the sky is dark and rain pours uncontrollably. They’re sluggish and vulnerable.Merope knows she needs to make amends to the overpowering bearer of that voice, to that great snake and thus, she remained with her shame. Her desires could be obliterated and only a hiss of the mighty beast was enough for her to crumble to the ground.They were a great, old slithering creature that had the power to command her blood, sending orders to every artery and capillary that connected inside her body. They made her collapse and grovel, they made her lick the dusty floor, they made her tear her dress from off her body and bleed from scratches whose origins are a mystery to Merope.With great effort, she stirs into the cauldron. Mushrooms. A meal that’s poison and repentance.Lately, she hasn’t paid attention when she went in search of food. She was so hungry, so driven by madness and wanting to repent fervently for her misstep with Tom. She could have used that moment when it presented itself if only she had the brains for it but alas, she did not possess the intelligence of other witches. She was, as the voices kept whispering to her, a useless, stupid broad. She wanted them to be silent. She needed them to be silent. If it bruises blue, it’s no good, her mother’s voice resounded in her ears, then. If it looks like a hunched cloak on a skinny frail body, it’s no good either. And she knew then, she had to try.Spare thoughts of Pleione filled her head. That woman, more of a prisoner than she would ever be has cared for her, has nursed her at her chest, has taught her how to read and write, has taught her how to communicate with the snakes. She taught her what to bring to make a meal when all she was allowed to do was walk the perimeter of their garden, a place that only grew some herbs and some vegetables and never enough.“It is too much shade for anything worthy to grow” – she complained to Marvolo but he always cut her off, sometimes with his voice, sometimes with his heavy, hairy palm, most often right in front of them. And Morfin, Morfin’s eyes were always lighting up to the harbingers of violence. His mother’s pain and her wails as she fell to the floor made him excited. His eyes would playfully roll in his skull and his feet would dance around her body, tormenting her. He learned from his father how to be a man and being a man meant being apt at causing pain. Merope hated him then and she hated him still. For being so hurtful and not only to her but to the one that bore him in blood and pain and screams. She’s given birth to them and cared for them as best as she was allowed to only to be trampled like those orchids, in the hooves of wild boars.But her tears for her mother usually stopped, as if the well has long since gone dry. She left them. Left her here with them, she abandoned her and in a way, Merope took her place and it wasn’t a good, comfortable place at all.If it bleeds white milk, it’s no good but from experience, Merope knew it wasn’t wholly true because both the snakes and the forest could be deceiving. But it was good enough for what Merope intended to do now. The paltry riches of the forest could save a life but they could take one with equal force. She’d tried before when she found herself alone with them, her ribs black and blue from the bruising of her father’s foot, her neck bearing the sore reminder of a necklace made of strangling hands that her brother conscientiously applied every single night as he tried to make her body submit to his. She did look for the ones that looked like they might kill two grown men. She asked the serpents. They guided her. She cooked those in a stew and then she waited for them to kill her father and brother. The serpents lied or maybe Pleione lied. Nothing happened and she was cursed once more to live another day with them until Morphin had caught up to her game and beat her unconscious one day.This time, she knew. The large rat snake that accompanied her was of a misleading bunch. It told her that she should avoid those, that they tasted foul and she knew they were the exact ones she needed. When she picked them, their caps stained her fingers black. And she knew they had been lying to her. Her mother said trust the snakes for they will help you choose. And the snakes wanted them very much alive and well.She cut these to perfection, with a small paring knife her father kept for potions. The False Morel was a small, crumpled thing but capable of so much more and the Sulphur Tufts growing on the big felled tree were poisonous enough to kill.The morels were irregularly lobed and convoluted, deceptively sweet-smelling, they urged her to touch her lips to their flesh. The caps joining the stem at different points, forming several hollow chambers inside were separated by the knife with precision. Devoid of insects and of other forms of life, their looks alone signalled danger. They were difficult to find – a rarity, a cursed treasure that Merope has stolen from the woods that day.She operated the dark brown caps just like she would any potion’s ingredient. The tufts were small, delicate, with dangerously thin stems that bruised a garish yellow. Every creature knew to avoid them and just like that, Merope knew they were what she needed. She let the mushrooms simmer and the stew was a foul, thick greyish thing that stank of poison. She ate, she forced herself to. This ought to be punishment enough. Then, she woke up and her skin was hot and her mouth full of blisters and her stomach in pain. She could barely breathe. This, she thought, was her punishment.And after what seemed like aeons later, she felt the presence of the great unknown manifesting physically in her and around her. As on command, she opened her eyes and the sweat slid off her body, now frigid and pale like a slab of marble.She felt like she no longer touched the bed, that she was floating, light as a feather. She sensed something was holding her, cradling her, invisible yet strong. And then the snakes made themselves seen, singing at her feet, coiling around her limbs. She felt them slippery near her sex, bumping it and into it and she groaned in pain, unable to move. Her mouth was dry, her lips blistering from her fever, her eyes injected with poison. Only their ichor was pouring generously into her until she sensed her flesh seep with a different kind of balm, hot like tears and cold like sweat. It was as unexplained as magic, and it was spelling her into compliance and unfeelingness like the juice of hellebore and the ancient touch of belladonna.ʍʏ ƈɦɨʟɖ, they whispered, slithered, roared, the language far from that of man and closer to that of a beast.
ȶɦɛ ɦօʊʀ ɖʀǟաֆ ռɛǟʀ. ֆօօռ, ʏօʊ աɨʟʟ ʝօɨռ ȶɦɛ ɢʀɛǟȶ ɛʍɮʀǟƈɛ. ʏօʊ’ʋɛ ӄռօառ ʄօʀ ֆօʍɛ ȶɨʍɛ ȶɦǟȶ ȶɦɨֆ աօʀʟɖ աǟֆ ʝʊֆȶ ǟ ɢǟʍɛ.
She moans saying she will do anything and asking for their guidance. She pleads, she hisses. Shakes, falls to the ground, gasping deeply, chokes and convulsed. Her thighs are being pried open and her arms are tied to an invisible weight. Although her eyes are full of tears, she sees something, vortex-like in the stale night air, bearing the form of a human yet far removed from one.ʏօʊʀ ʟɨʄɛ, ƈɦɨʟɖɦօօɖ, ʏօʊʀ ʄǟȶɦɛʀ ǟռɖ ʍօȶɦɛʀ... ʏօʊ ƈօʊʟɖ ʄɛɛʟ ȶɦɛʀɛ աǟֆ ֆօʍɛȶɦɨռɢ ʍօʀɛ ǟռɖ ǟʟʟ ʏօʊ ʏɛǟʀռɛɖ ʄօʀ աǟֆ ȶօ ȶօʊƈɦ ɨȶ. ɨ ǟʍ քʀօʊɖ օʄ ɦօա ʄǟʀ ʏօʊ’ʋɛ ƈօʍɛ. ɨ ǟʍ քʀօʊɖ օʄ ʏօʊ.They laugh, sounding pleased.She’s naked and exposed to this greatness and this darkness. And she feels the sparks fly off her skin. The snakes coil around her ankles and her wrists like a rope would, they are keeping her in place.
ȶǟӄɛ ȶɦɨֆ ʟǟֆȶ ȶɛֆȶ ǟռɖ աɛ ƈօʊʟɖ ȶʀʊʟʏ ɮɛ ȶօɢɛȶɦɛʀ.
"How will I know what to do?" She forces herself to speak, her tongue bathed in what she assumes is blood from where she bit her tongue, the rest of her throat dry and burning, her lips cracked and seeping with their ichor.
ʏօʊ ɦǟʋɛ ǟʟաǟʏֆ ӄռօառ.
Her feet lift followed by her body. Fire courses through her veins. P̸̨͉͔͖̳̋̔̂ű̶̬̊̆͠r̴̨̛͍̖̳͈͙̜̟͉̆͋͑͗̌̑̆͜e̵̡̨̹̺̿́̈̂͝͝ ̷̥̳͋̈́̏̈́̓́̅͝o̷̯̹̰͉̿͂̀̈f̶̨̖̼̳̖͈̤̩͉̎͊̃̐̉ ̶̢̢̗̖̺͕̥̙͑̒̃͊͛̒́͋̇͝b̶̢̫̟̮̻͍̮̬͖̈́l̴̞̻͖̖̮̻̝̱̊̈͛͒̑̑͑̄̕͜ǫ̷̢̼̣̗̻̲̘̈̋̂͂͑͗͊̾̏͝ò̴͔̺̗̼̪͌͋ḑ̵͈̼̬̫̟̒͋͂̀̓, they whisper,s̶͖̠̻̫̉̀͗͂͠h̶̼̪̅̏̉̏̈́̅ę̶̨͔̖̳͎̮͔̞̭̏͒ ̴̢̮̦̱̄͛w̴̙͚͕̘͘i̵̬̻͗͑͒̽̚l̵̢̙̜̜̺̟͍̀̉͑̇͋͒͆̾̑̕l̵̙͈̖͂͐ ̸͉̈́̀̋̔̑͐m̶̛̺͎͕͓̂̔͌̍̂̒͌͠a̴̡̤̹̮͐͐͛k̷̛̬͉͂̒̈́͑͋̃̚͝ë̷̳̙͔̫́́̅͗̈́̋͜ ̵̤̮̤̯̓̈ț̵͇͂̏h̷͖͛e̵͈̒͐̈́͆̃̀͗͘̚ ̸̢̲͈̆̎͑̉͆̔l̷̢̮̤̱͇̺̉̑ȯ̵̧̨̢̡͉̲̤̺̪̗͛͌̌͘̕ŕ̴̨̖͖̿͋͐ḍ̸̯̹͈͇̯̻̄ ̸̺̹̍͛p̵̧̧̘̬̳̫̏̚͘r̵̯͈͓̆͊͆̓̾̇͆ǫ̶̱̳͔̜͖̯͎̘̈́ͅu̸̺̟̘͔̱̩̭̒́̓͌̏͜ͅd̷̜͙̝̓̏͗͛͑̐̃̓͆̎. The snakes were hissing, chanting a song of their own.Merope seizures and acid pours out of her mouth until she’s relieved. Her cunt burns and she feels it, him, them, whoever they are, coiling inside her womb like it’s a chalice or a home.A revelation, she closes her eyes and sees he’s coming, finally returning to her.She would not disappoint them. She wants the man that is Tom and they want, whatever they want. A small price to pay, she thinks, and then her moan breaks the stillness and the silence and she gives herself over.Her magic’s crackling around her like a halo.
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The cuckoo’s lone calling woke her up. It was late in the morning and Merope goes out of bed anticipating a good day for once. She dressed, she made her bed, she aired the room, she went downstairs and began sweeping the mucky floors, washing the grimy cutting table, scrubbing the threadbare carpets. She scourgified last night’s evidence of something gone afoul with her daily routine. She chucked the remaining mushrooms into the fire, she cleaned her hands until they were raw and red. Something dark lifted from her shoulders and her magic-powered every cleaning charm she threw around.The cuckoo was calling still. A horrible bird, the snakes hissed around her. There were no pests in the shack, they took care of those. Rats, frogs, mice and other squirming vermin were gone within the second.She didn’t like the bird and what it stood for. She had to admit that seeing the poor thrushes sabotaged like that made her heart clench with emotion. Her mother couldn’t stand it either. Sometimes she set the snakes on them. Sometimes the snake wouldn’t listen and they ate all the remaining eggs and waited for the thrushes to come to their nest and pounced on them too. They lay entwined like cables in front of the fire, warming themselves up. Some left the kitchen by the window. They sure were an unusual sight. She washed and dried ceramics, cutlery and kitchen pieces she didn’t even know they had. It’s been a long time since they sat at the table since they were a family. It must have been because of her. And since she left, they stopped pretending to be civil to one another.He was a monster to her too. Merope thinks she had forgiven and that she understands. Of course, she wanted out of it. Of course, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She would have done the same if they continued and they went quite far.Can she forgive them as she did her mother?ŋơ, the voice says. ɨȶ ֆɦօʊʟɖռ'ȶ ʍǟȶȶɛʀ.Of course, she repeats her exact thoughts. It shouldn't.Her dried herbs hang neatly from the beam in the ceiling. She’s collected many things last summer. The sight alone gave her pleasure. She could be orderly, even unprompted. She could be disciplined as well. She could do many things she thought she couldn’t before.Take the books for example. She finished reading what she owned. It didn’t matter that she had to go through them a second time, it gave her pleasure to find out she did better when she repeated an action. Merope was never the kind to get something right the first time so why beat herself up now? There were chances, the voice reassured her.It was when she was neatly piling the splintered wood for the fire that it happened. She already finished warming up the upstairs room and scourgifying the dust and the usual grime that seemed to settle on the old Gaunt things. She was satisfyingly tired and could have gone on for the rest of the day if she hadn’t heard it.The blood-curdling high pitched sounds of distress shook her up from her reverie. Also, the rapid trot, as if the animal was undecided about reaching the destination. A horse’s neigh, a man’s voice sounding defeated.Outside, in the middle of the dusty road, two birds were fighting each other. A sparrowhawk plucked impassively at the cuckoo’s feathers and the disturbance invited the crows to occupy the crooked hanging tree in front of the shack. They were cawing menacingly and a man tried to pry them apart. It was no other than Tom Riddle, watching the whole fight, looking distressed, barely containing his horse who kept neighing and twisting and turning and biting the bridle until it frothed at the mouth and blood started pooling at its corners. The sparrowhawk was plucking the cuckoo’s feathers and the bird was screaming for its life. Tom tried to make them move from the middle of the road so his horse would lose its fear of the noise.The horse’s ears were tipped forward and stiff and its nostrils flared, breathing hotly against Tom’s cheek.“Calm down, girl!” he pleaded with the great, dark bay horse. He tried to pat it gently in his attempt at cajoling it to stop being scared. He didn’t seem to notice her, Merope realized. So preoccupied was he with his beast, smoothing its muzzle and trying to undo the bridle and stop it from cutting further into the animal’s mouth. Big brown, intelligent eyes grew overly large with dread.Merope’s never seen a horse this close. She’s never paid attention to warm-blooded animals as she did to snakes. She paid attention when it mattered, usually when trapping pheasants and rabbits and breaking their necks. Their cries and small beating hearts always drew at an abrupt halt when she lay her hands on them. She remembers the dog. They grew cold so fast.All she can think of while watching the scene is how fast will the horse grow cold after it’s killed. The cuckoo’s call becomes impossible to stand and then the hawk tears open its chest, drawing its beating heart and swallows it. Tom’s horse releases a desperate neigh but he doesn’t back off until he releases the leather of its headpiece. The animal swerves on its hind legs and throws its master down on the ground.That’s her cue. Her long, torturous wait is over.“Tom!” she shouts and reaches him just as the horse gallops away leaving behind a cloud of dust. There are droplets of blood seeping into the ground. Tom’s lost his balance and is trying to get up on his feet. She gets to him and grabs his arm. He lets her and props his weight on her shoulder, weakly.His cap is somewhere in the grass and his hair’s disturbed. There’s dust on his cheek and he doesn’t hold well on his legs.“Ow.” He lets out as she drags him from the road. He raises his eyes towards her and tries to regain his balance. He makes a foolish attempt to push her away but Merope latches on him. It’s her who doesn’t let go.“Ow, it hurts.” He presses on but her singlemindedness wins.You will be fine she hisses in Parseltongue, having forgotten herself and feels him freezing at her side. He pushes her body away with his free hand and tries to uncoil his other arm from her grip.“My hat!” He tarries and tries to turn around. He twitches and flails just like those rabbits caught in the metal wire. Her brother loved hiding those traps all over the forest. It gave her meat aplenty after the arrest.She lets him, he’s heavy and she lets go of him only to watch him fall, Tom's wobbly still. He’s clutching his hat to his chest as if that thing’s going to help him. She watches, entranced. He’s helpless like that. Merope extends her hand and she’ll never forget the look on his face. It’s sweet, honeyed fear and need and pain and… disgust. She drags him inside and he clutches to her, cringing and turning his head to the other side at the same time. She seats him on a chair and then spells the door locked behind them.“I wouldn’t want to bother you, miss.” He manages weakly but Merope’s already working at it. “I wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality.” He says and hisses in pain as he examines his foot. "I just need to draw my breath and I'll be on my way." She puts the kettle above the fire and the water starts boiling faster than usual.He’s absorbed with the state of his leg, perhaps his ankle’s twisted, there’s discomfort etched on his face. He looks unhappy, drained, beleaguered.She realizes then that he wouldn’t be here of his own choice. If he were good to walk he’d be out of the door as soon as her herbs infuse. She cannot have that. She distances from him and watches, propped on the potions counter, the marble cold against her back. She palms the locket and gives it a twirl around her finger. It’s heavy and cold no matter how much she keeps it pressed close to her skin. The small vial of Amortentia clinks against its metal coffin.Calculatingly, she reaches for a glass, fills it with water from a pitcher, turns around and opens her locket to extract the vial. One drop is already in.The smell hits her. It’s Tom’s scent while writhing in fear at her feet crying that he will never leave. Tom, adoring her, Tom’s body weak, unable to move, to run from here and that disgust crushed away from his curling lip. The water takes for an instant the mother of pearl hue of the Amortentia She brings the vial to her nostrils and inhales deeply.Yesssss… She hisses to the lone snake that coiled at her ankle. That’s how her love smells, that’s how it fills her lungs, raw and untethered.
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So she watches him, unguardedly, boldly, at last. Her eyes manage to focus on him and him only like she’s never done before and she surprises herself with the impressions. She knew Tom was handsome, no…the word didn’t do him justice. He was beautiful, not merely pleasant to look at. She felt all her worries disappear when she laid eyes on him, she felt that it was possible to rise from the grime and the dirt, she could feel righteous about serving Morphin poppy milk and moonflaked mandrake root to put him to sleep so he wouldn’t violate her with his deformed body every night. It was enough to see him once from a distance, as she was hiding with the snakes between the gorse. It was worth having bruised her knees and elbows. It was worth suffering the cold ground under her always hungry belly. Her days were better because of him. She always knew there were other people living in the area – their area. It didn’t pass a day for her father to curse them the Riddles, he called them and Merope understood they were the rich family that ambled in that strange four-wheeled contraptions or rode their thoroughbred horses through the valley that faces the shack. She looked at the women riding in the open carriage to and fro to the Riddle mansion and how well they were treated. Even the servants of the Riddle house had a better life than Merope Gaunt. Jealousy, envy and a strange kind of hope pierced her heart for the very first time. At first, she wanted to bury it deep, to forget about it because it hurt as a constant reminder of what she didn’t have, of what there could be… what a cursed dream! She didn't want Tom Riddle as much as she wanted to be like him. If only she could absorb his qualities, if only she weren’t a plain, deformed girl, Merope can only imagine that life would have been very different for her. When she looks back at her excursion in the wizarding world, she realizes that there, in the magical realm, every door would have been open for her if only…If only her eyes would be staring straight ahead and not in different directions if only her right shoulder wouldn’t be higher than her left if only she wouldn’t walk hunched and folded onto herself and her face had the necessary symmetry… if only her hair would have been lustrous and rich and malleable and not a dirty nest where small animals would have no problem making their home there. If she hid half her face and strained her shoulders, she could pass for plain, obscure and acceptably ugly. But that was not the reality. Merope could only pass as acceptably ugly and never acceptably beautiful or even pretty. He wants to get up from the table. She watches him dispassionately. The is no way out for Tom. He will be hers. She deserves it after all this time! If only, if only he could see how she desires him, how she worships him! So what if she’s not beautiful? So what if she can barely speak as the educated muggles do? So what if even her magic is irregular and erratic? So what? Hasn’t she suffered enough? Doesn’t she deserve something good, for once? “I just need to…” he props his hands on the wood to sustain himself. Tom breathes hard for a while places a hand at his forehead. Is the room spinning with him? “I need to get my bearings, that’s all, then I will leave.”He exhales shaky breath after shaky breath. Merope almost wants to ask him whether he is unwell. He sure looks it. “I think I’m coming down with something. Oh God. ”“I-I… It isn’t proper, me being here, with you, unchaperoned.” He manages a tight smile but his eyes are not smiling. “There were two men here, I just know. Where are they now?” “Prison.” Merope replies and her answer shocks Tom very much, enough to make him drop back in the chair. “P-Prison, you s-say?” he presses on, quite taken aback, it seems. “W-what for?” She doesn’t answer that, though. It would probably take all day to fill in Tom on her father and her brother’s misgivings. “It may surprise you but I wanted to talk business with them. I am to be marrying soon and I desire to make our land whole, the Riddle land, you see... You could sell it to me, you know? I have a very good friend who happens to be a solicitor. We could arrange for you to live in the village, or even…” He cuts himself off. “I’m not saying that you’ll be selling. I-I’m just saying that maybe you should give it a thought but I cannot broker this business without your erm… family.” “What do you mean, without my family?” “Ugh… nothing. You don’t need to concern yourself with such matters but if you have the papers to the house you could, you know? I am willing to buy it for any price, you know.”Price? She looks at him as if he's a child, just talking his mouth off in an attempt to distract her. She doesn't care about money. Sure, it will be good to have money but all she ever wanted was Tom.
Yes, my child, and you shall have it.
She rises up with more confidence, emboldened by the words that are not her father’s but who drip around her like unhallow rain. So what if her hand shakes a bit?Tom barely disguises a scowl when she approaches and places the glass in front of him. She pushed the glass towards him, waiting for Tom to make a move.He looked at it suspiciously then at her. She could feel the Amortentia fumes in her lungs still. Power, an escape from this life, Tom's adoration wiping away all her awkwardness. Tom’s perfumed hair when she saved him from the Furunculus spell. cedar and pine and new leather. Tom’s faintly freckled skin, his softly parted lips, his perfectly pearly white teeth. His sweet breath. The images and the smells are enough to make her go insane. “I do not know what came over me…” he said exhaling, still clutching his head in the palm of his hand. “You’re too kind, miss, I wouldn’t want to abuse your hospitality.” He pushed the glass away yet stared at it fixedly as if he could see there in its contents something that escaped Merope's eyes. Another attempt. He pushed his weight upwards and clattered a bit but his resolve was strongly written on his face. “I shall be grateful to you for allowing me to rest, now, you see, I must leave.” He gestured futilely while clutching the crumpled grey wool cap in his hand. Tom reached the door but alas, it wouldn't open.He turned towards Merope and said as innocently as possible. “I think the door is stuck… Miss.” He adds and the tinge of disdain hurts Merope but she lets it slide. He pulls harder. There is no give. Merope’s magic swirled around her. She will not let him go, not after she went through all of this. He is here because… because she has a purpose. It speaks deep from within her. She is more than stupid, sad, ugly Merope. She is more and she is deserving . Yes child, the voice purrs, encourages. Frantically, Tom continued testing the latch but a weakness in the body hit him full force. “I – I need to get going! They’re expecting me, you see… my friends and family. I have to meet them by noon.” He pleads and sobs. “We have guests, you see… Cee-Cee…” he cuts himself off because the door doesn’t budge, it’s practically sealed. His eyes are large with fear and unsaid emotions. He is still trying to get the door open. “I need to… I need to go… They will miss me.” They? Who are they? Why was Tom allowed to have people expecting him and looking for him and love him when she was all alone here? Until that Auror woman pried her thoughts open and found out snatches of her father and her brother’s abuse, no one seemed to care less about how Merope fared. She was number 73 on a list of inadequate girls that the Ministry recycled annually, she'd been pawed at and weighed in, assessed like an animal for breeding and there was a vile teacher telling her she will cut her fingers off if she dared steal anything from the storage. Would anyone really miss her? Did they miss Emmeline? No, Merope is afraid to answer that question because she is even less than Emmeline, she doesn’t have a … a bastard with a pureblood Malfoy, nor does she have Emmeline’s surreal beauty.She takes the glass and presents it to him again. "Drink." She utters as sweetly as possible, cajoling. "N-no, no, no." He mumbles. "I am not thirsty." His voice trails and he finds his strength renewed as if he’s been talking to himself so far and Merope was just a mindless spectator to his monologue. “I-I must be going, though. Business calls.” His resolve is stronger, his desperation gives him focus and he opens the door at last and when he’s about to step out, the door slams back against him with incredible force, sprawling Tom on the floor of the shack, hitting him in the head with a thunk. Even when faced with her obsequious display of magic he doesn't let confusion stall him, instead, tries to pull himself up. Merope's been told by her teachers that Muggles do not take kindly to any display of witchcraft and that they are somewhat feebleminded, their poor Muggle-brains coming up with all sorts of excuses to justify seeing magic. “You will stay here.” She hisses, untractable for once in her life. She grabs the potion and almost pushes it to his lips. “Drink!” She urges him. “Drink and this will become easier for you.” But Tom doesn’t want to. He pushes her back, both upset with how close she is and upset that he needs to touch her to push her away from him. It hurts Merope that she can still sense this about him. “I do not want to!” He yells, spittle flying from his mouth, and the gentleman in him is buried down for a second. He sounds very much like a child, not a man. "I don't want to, you tramp!" "Let me go, you... you..." He doesn't say it again. "Just let me goooo!" The vowels drag forth from his mouth in a deplorable ululation. She thinks Tom's about to cry. He now looks positively angry and he’s so beautiful, Merope thinks. She can understand how rage suits him so well, after all. How could she miss the flickering look of disgust and discomfort touching his brow as his palms touched her shoulders only to push her away like something repulsive? And now this rage at him being defeated so, by a tramp like her. He didn’t even push her that hard, no… Morfin would hit her in her softer parts, Marvolo would even revert to a Crucio or two but Tom here, even trapped like one of those rabbits, was too polite to even push her too hard to make his escape. He spilt the glass on the floor in his impotent rage and got up on his feet again trying his hardest not to collide with Merope. "I need to get going." He tries once more the handle and yells as if burned. He cradles his hand to his chest, his face contorted in pain.Her magic burned him and kept him here for Merope's sake."Oh God, help me!" A giggle broke from her gullet at his reckless, worthless invocation. Magic thrums, tugging at the door's handle, pulling the fastenings on the windows, drawing the curtains shut. The table and the chairs tremble with the force of her desire to get what she deserves. "Please," Tom says at last. "Please, let me go!"
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It’s Petrificus Totalus that does him in. She’s seen Professor Spellman demonstrate it so they could recognize the wand movements and cast their Protego in time. Her eyes seemed to focus better on the curse than on the Protego... it’s not as if it has been of any use to her before. The body bind curse’s movements are not complicated. The flicks, the swishes, the incantation. It doesn’t have to be shouted, it doesn’t have to be clear when spoken. Merope knows that it’s the intention that counts. It doesn’t matter that she has a lisp. These are all insignificant details when you have magic. And Merope’s magic now thrums through the walls of the shack.Tom’s body is subdued within seconds. He’s lying rigid on the floor. Only his eyes move frantically. Confident that he cannot run away or push her, Merope approaches him. She takes a moment to sweep her hair out of her face so he can see her properly. She’s been looking at him all this time, she watched him, memorized the planes of his face, the straight, strong lines of his body, the intonation of his speech. He talked so politely to her but he never looked at her. And she guesses it’s not because he’s afraid of her. How could he have been afraid? He was disgusted. Now, though, lying there on the cold floor of the shack that no matter how often she sweeps or scrubs still looks dirty, as immobile as he is within the curse’s limitations, Tom Riddle, the squire’s son of Little Hangleton manages both. He looks both disgusted and afraid. Merope cannot explain it. He is so… beautiful to her. And she wants him so. And the things that you want should at least know they are wanted, right? When she feeds off their memory, it would only make sense for them to feed off her attention. When she wanted herbs for her infusions and potions, the Accio would bring them to her. It was a matter of how much she desired. Even before having a wand, wishing hard enough, brought her whatever she needed. Her favourite fruit, the blackberries, would fly across the garden and into her waiting palm. Of course, she wished for Tom and most of the days she assuaged her pain by daydreaming about him. But besides daydreaming, she did a lot of desiring and focusing and imagining.Watching him from a distance she felt like a thief. A thief that had to steal for her happiness to be replenished when there was none. And Tom had so much for himself. So many people wanted him. He seemed surrounded by them, unattainable by her, high on his horse, proud, righteous about his existence while… she struggled even to breathe. So why not make her love her? She wanted to see this, wanted to experience it even for once.She opened the small pink, pearly flask and with enormous care, she tipped until a drop fell down Tom’s unyielding lips. She opened his mouth and the drop travelled down, down into the darkness of his mouth. The result was in his eyes.One moment he was fearing and then the next he was adoring. Merope could not, would not mistake the look in his eyes. Acceptance, unconditional love, fascination, even.“I have waited for so long.” She told him and at last, she knew he understood. That he could see that she was, after all, a loveable creature. Seeing herself reflected in his loving gaze gave her hope. She felt more beautiful, more human. She felt redeemed.“For you to love me.”He needn’t say a thing. She knew all of it. There was nothing about her that he wouldn’t love. Complete, utter acceptance, veneration, even.She touched her face with her palms and guided by his adoring gaze, she could understand that she was… no… she must be beautiful! Otherwise, how was it possible to exist within the same space as Tom? His glory and beauty transferred to her in waves, his love bathed her in redemption, his love burned the filth and the grime and she could feel herself as a new creature, emerging from her previous corpse.She didn’t really need to look at him now to see herself. All she had to do was see herself in his adoring gaze and she loved it. Of course, she was beautiful, she was!And so, she kissed him on his lips and the body bind curse broke. He embraced her as if he were drowning. He was really in need of her and he didn’t even have to open his mouth for her to believe him.But he did it anyway.“My love, how beautiful you are!” And if she forgot about the vial, now stowed away in her locket, she believed him.She let him bring her down to his chest with his loving arms. She has never been held like this before. Never. She tried remembering if there were a time but her memory was cloudy. He kissed her deeper and Merope didn’t even know that it was possible. It felt too wet and deep. She didn’t quite understand why people did it anyway.But then again, she never had anyone say they loved her before.
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What is happening to her? It’s been a whole week and the sickness hasn’t subsided, in fact, it’s gotten worse. Merope holds onto the bucket with desperation. It’s mostly water at this point. For some reason, she hasn’t been able to keep even the three spoonfuls of gruel down. Is she ill? She thinks she might. Maybe it’s him, maybe he’s given her something. She scrunches her nose at the mess and focuses her mind. He did say once that he was feeling unwell, coming down with something. She looks behind her just to check if the body bind is still active. It is, she can only see his eyes darting away from hers. Why is he so terrified? He should have gotten used to this already, she tells herself.Another wave of nausea, another mouthful of yellow bile and she unclenches her teeth to let it out. Her hair’s gotten in the way this time and as she wipes her mouth with the hem of her nightdress, a slimy coil of it glues to her cheek. She feels his eyes on her as he’s sitting petrified on the bed, head propped on the sweaty pillow. The bed creaks. Her body bind curse is slowly losing its grip on Tom. She hears him breathe. Her lower belly hurts. It’s a constant, stabbing pain. What’s happening to her? He must have passed her something when he… yes. That’s it. Another stab, then a dry heave.“Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” She keeps bawling and the pain cleaves her in two just like he did that day after she put the vial to his lips. The pain slashes through her and her head hurts so, so much until yellow lights spots dance before her eyes and afterwards, a white, hot lightning flash seizes her and she convulses for what seems like forever. The metal bucket clatters on the floor and its contents seep into the rug.“Ow!” The last convulsion travels the entire length of her spine and her chest and abdomen contract rhythmically until the waves subside and she’s left exhausted, head lolling to the side. An animal growl fills her ears and just as she wonders about its origin, she realizes it comes from her. She sniffles weakly, unable to feel her limbs and takes control of her muscles as her saliva’s dripping from the corner of her mouth. Merope hears Tom move his arms as if she’s trapped in a dream, paralyzed on the bed when it should be him. She almost expects him to leave but he combs her hair out of her eyes. Her hair’s dirty, she notices. There’s a yellow film interspersed with badly digested oats that obstinately clings to her jaw. Her eyes don’t focus. Everything’s blurry as her left eye drags even further to the left and the right lies buried under a matted knot of hair.When she’s better she gets up and works the water pump to clean the mess. He lies still, watching, waiting. Whenever he’s drunk on the potion it’s impossible to do anything. His eyes are on her, his mouth on her, his hands all over her, her body usually lies under his. Sometimes she’s so tired she has to blast a curse at him and leave him unable to move. He’ll talk then, it’s easier like that. At least the things he says are to her liking but these days Merope doesn’t find herself falling for his words that easily. Three days in a row he told her she’s as beautiful as the moon and Merope cannot make sense of what that means.She’s been sick, not feeling beautiful. She wishes she knew the spell to take his voice away, though.When he’s sober, as she’s come to refer to when he’s not on the potion, he’s distant, sad-looking and full of stupid requests that tire Merope out. He’s hungry, thirsty, insistent to be left alone to bathe. Up until now, she used to deal with it pretty comfortably. Her scourgify spell has become a staple of her life along with the Petrificus Totalus but these days she’s barely able to clean herself because soap and water does the work better. It’s hard, taking care of him as well so she leaves him be, for the time being, knowing very well that his muscles are quite numb from her casting the spell overnight. For a long time, she could sense his lids open and close on his star-kissed cheek. He lay down, stiff and unmoving next to her for a long while until she lost her patience and turned away from the sound of his lashes getting clogged in the tears.Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to leave. The wards were up again and she was glad for it.
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“I love you.” He says. It usually is followed by… “You are very pretty.” She wants to believe it. She forces herself to smile. It takes the pain away, even though it’s only momentarily.In the beginning, he couldn’t stand not having her hands in his or her weight on his lap. His smile broadened and his brown eyes softened like the late meadows in autumn, after the green all faded into a murky tawn, the hue of earth raked by the hooves of wild animals. His skin is pale and his freckles seem to melt in like hoarfrost after a particularly vicious puff of hot air. He’s flushed when he pulls her into his embrace. He could have taken her there on the floor if she let him. He grabbed her dress then and ran after her, taking two steps at a time until she reached her room.Merope’s heart was beating hurriedly like a bird in a cage too small. This was it, she thought to herself. In the corner of her eyes, she saw a lone snake coiling around one of the balusters, no doubt awoke by the ruckus they made. He pursued her o the bedroom, still smiling, still flushed, but as he noticed the bed, his eyes darkened with desire. This is what she wanted, she told herself.“So here's where you were hiding!” He looks amused and bites his lip as he encroaches on her, arms splayed so he can catch her if she darts in the opposite direction. Like a hunter, he decided to make her his prey. He takes off his coat and lets it fall beside him as she gets further on the bed.“Oh bunny, do not run away! You gave me quite a scare there.” He confesses, exhaling loudly. He comes even closer and grabs on her leg. He’s smiling but his grip is quite forceful. He is strong. Why is she surprised at his strength?Tom pushes himself into the bed and makes room for his body between her legs. Her face is in his hands now and she feels a bit uneasy.“I love you, darling. Let me show you how much.” So he kisses her and it takes a while for her to realize he’s patiently waiting for her to properly open her mouth to his advances. In a matter of seconds, he’s pulling at her skirts and parts the fabric as if he’s in a rush. The muslin folds are too frail with age and they tear as he impatiently tries to gain access to her nakedness. She feels his fingers digging deep inside her and tries to break away from him. She doesn’t quite like being prodded like that, it reminds her of Morfin. Merope shuts her eyes and tries to pry Morfin away from her thoughts. She feels wet, lazy kisses dragging the length of the column of her neck. His tongue flat and then a nip to her exposed bosom and it’s sufficient to shock her awake.“Oomph.” An equally undignified sound escapes her mouth. He’s like a fox with the prey in its mouth and his hands hold little regard for her frail, frumpy garments. He settles his weight on her and she feels his cock, hard and hot and leaking on her thigh, pushing closer and closer, poking upward and upward until he made it uncomfortably clear that he was going to enter her.By the time he tired out, the day was done for. He kept muttering sweet nothings in her ear and exulting his desire but Merope was tired, tired and uncomfortable. His arms wound around her until his body became a prison to her, holding her there, pressed to his chest, wet with perspiration as his body cooled off. Closer and closer still, she could hear his beating heart and look into his eyes now glassy and content.“I love you and I want you so very much.” He kept saying that but Merope has never felt less sure of it than when caged tightly in his arms. He wanted her, she noticed and he did not miss a chance to make that known to her, as he pressed his hardness over and over inside her and moaned and keened his excitement and filled her with his spent.When she woke up that day, it was to the sound of Tom’s soft snores. She extricated herself from his long, warm limbs and crawled back to temper her pangs of hunger. As if sensing her impending absence, quick in his reflexes, he grabbed her by the arm.“My love, where do you think you're going?”“I was but hungry.” She said as if defending her actions. “Why? Aren’t you?” He smirked darkly and the cloudy sheen that took over his eyes was unmistakable for the things coming next. His flesh was awake long before his mind. He dragged her back into his arms and began kissing her fervently, anew. His body locked on hers until she gave in and the room filled with the rocking sound of Tom’s hips and their moans.The metal bed’s springs creaked obscenely.His lost eyes bore into hers and his breath stole hers and at that moment, she could almost believe it. That he loved her. He was overwhelming. Compressed into the mattress and panting with each push of his hips, she felt conquered and strangely ecstatic. His hips stuttered against hers and she could feel him tense and release his seed inside of her until he became limp with satiation. They lay there together in a mess of warmth and rough breaths until Merope pushed him away and off her.“Bring me something too, my love. If it wasn’t for the body demanding rest, I would have you all day and all night.” Strangely enough, that sounded more like a threat to Merope than a declaration of love.She rummaged the kitchen for something nutritious but all she could find were a bunch of shrivelled apples from last year and some wilted nettles that lay in a heap for cleaning. She would have given now anything for the life of a lady and servants at her every beck and call. She settled for the apples and spelt a glass clean, filled it with a whispered Aguamenti and put a drop from the vial in it. The smell made her swoon. It now wafted of rich cloth and food and all her silly dreams of what the Riddles might be doing in their majestic mansion up on the hill.She returned to her bedroom, now their bedroom and paused at the door. He was sleeping peacefully, mouth twisted in a droll moue as if he smelled something, not to his liking. She left the apples and the spiked glass of water on the nightstand and couldn’t make herself lie next to him out of fear he would take her again.A slow, deep burn ran through her cunt. He must be tired too, for all through the night he’d been insatiable. She would be tired if she were in his stead, though. She tried getting into yesterday’s dress but it was torn and smelled funny. She used it instead to wipe the dampness between her legs. It trickled slowly out of her and down her inner thighs, the whiteness of his seed clumped, drying out on her wiry pubic hair. This thing, she noticed, was the least pleasing part of him she expected. It was a sticky, smelly remnant of his desire. Morfin always scourgified himself afterwards, leaving no trace of his spent on her or on the bedding. After all, his acrid, pungent seed never landed deep inside her.That was the difference, she rationalized, between a real man and the crooked creature that was her brother.She finished her modest preening and when she noticed his stare she froze on the spot. The love-doused look was gone and his face was a cold slab of marble. He stared like one of those large birds of prey that made the focus of the Eeylops’ shop. The softness of the velvet brown was gone, leaving instead a glint of accusatory suspicion.“Why did you leave the bed?”She became very afraid for a moment, afraid that she was so unprepared for this. Naked, weak and without her wand at hand, Merope could only stand and stare at the man on the bed, his muscles hardening behind soft skin, his legs, long and taut, prepared to jerk out of bed, his arms, pale and lightly freckled tensed instantly. Merope knew he could break her neck if he wanted to, as easy as he tore her dress to reach the depths of her cunt. Too much fabric, he said and she had to agree. It was too much fabric, all of a sudden, the weather grew hotter and the room seemed stuffier even if it was only the beginning of April. She dreaded the light showers that were bound to come and the budding trees, the swarm of life underneath dead leaves from last year’s autumn and winter, the small, growing life on the forest floor. She dreaded knowing all that was happening and she failed to witness it like every year, now locked in this room, moaning deeply underneath him as he fucked her relentlessly. Now she understood the snakes a little better. She now had a life and was part of this cycle, just like them. Her nipples hardened at the thought of him pounding into her, the folds of her cunt warmed up and slickened anew. Was he aware? Was he still under the Amortentia? She couldn’t tell. He watched her closely and she felt not naked, but utterly exposed. What could she tell him?“I brought you food.” The words ripped out of her mouth and she gestured feebly towards the nightstand.Tom Riddle, the squire’s son who lived in the large, elegant mansion that protruded like a polished white boulder from the most fertile soil of Hangleton’s hill, looked at the paltry meal she managed to bring him and smiled a tight smile.“Of course.” He bit into the apple with a loud crunch but didn’t touch the glass of water. The Amortentia fumes were spreading thinly, like a gossamer thread, swirling into the air, bumping off the low ceiling and whisking into his lungs. If the dispersing clarity of his gaze was a sign of losing awareness, she couldn’t tell. He made himself comfortable as he lay spread there on the too-small bed and stretched, fingers curling over the headrest’s rail. He seemed so comfortable inhabiting this longing of the flesh that no shame rushed to his face nor did he make an attempt to cover himself. He made a move for the glass and gulped. He groaned as it quenched something deep inside him.“Come here, wench.” He urged. “Sit.” He sounded gutted as if his voice came from some dark depths he’d just unearthed.She sat at the edge of the bed and he chuckled enigmatically at her sudden shyness.“Closer, maiden.” He didn’t make a move yet but she knew that if she darted away now, he would still catch her.“You.” He said sultrily.“Brought me breakfast.” He chuckled. “But I am, still hungry.” Merope’s brow furrowed. She knew she had little to share or to give. She wasn’t like them, the rich muggles. She deserved better than this life, she knew she did. She should be now walking around in fine garments and have servants attending on their feet and he would be lavishing her with gifts but instead, he pulled her into his lap and she felt his hard cock press into her skin. It was a ruddy, angry colour unlike the paleness of his flesh but instead of piercing her and thrusting into the gash between her legs with abandonment, he prolonged her anticipation until Merope could feel herself going lax as he kneaded her buttocks and thighs and pinched her nipples until they were sore.His chest rumbled and Tom broke into a song. He must have felt unusually happy.
Pale was the skin
Of the Hangleton maiden
Green were her eyes
As green as the forest
And on her dark head
Lay a garland of flowers
Black like the roses
From Hangleton’s squire
He planted a kiss on her cheek then, catching his breath.
Young men don't stray
This maiden will lead you away
Ta da-da-da
And loudly smacked her buttocks only to grab her tighter into himself.“Only you are not a maiden anymore, are you, darling?” she had her face against the mattress and he slowly fucked her from behind. A sizzling, dizzying mixture of overwhelming pleasure and pain coursed through her.
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“Let’s go to London,” he says one day and Merope has to agree she’s excited about it. The shack’s walls feel more oppressive than ever and they’ve been cooped up in here together for several days now.She didn’t dare go outside for a fear of being seen and she couldn’t really leave Tom alone when Tom did not want to be left alone. The barking dogs and search parties in the distance are incentive enough. He wants to present her to his parents but Merope is scared that they will find out about her tricks and she’ll never get to hear him again.The snakes are the ones who give the alarm.
Run, go away. They are coming for you. They are searching for him!
Their hiss is constant and it scares Merope to the bone.“It’s not that I don’t like the countryside, but we can rent a very chic apartment, right in the centre of the city and we could never have to suffer for food, there are a few good restaurants I know,” he adds.“B-but you don’t have any money!” She wails. She’s searched his pockets. There was nothing that she could recognize to be of any great value in there.“But… my love, you can’t expect us to go on living eating mushroom gruel and these shrivelled apples. And… I do have my chequebook on me. There’s no need to worry, I have accounts in my name. ”Merope lets out a relieved breath. That is a good idea because Merope has felt a lack of pleasure in cooking for sustenance lately. And it’s not as if they could stroll arm in arm around Little Hangleton either. “Plus, you do need a good dozen of new dresses, since I seem to have torn them off you…” he chuckles as if he made a very good joke.Merope is a bit self-conscious. She tried mending her dresses and they look now worse for wear. Casting too many times a Reparo on a dress can take a toll on the fabric.“And… because I need to make an honest woman of you and give you the life you deserve.”So, the next morning, Merope waits for him to wake up, doses him with the potion that renews his love for her and urges him to trust her. Cars? She will never get into those foul muggle contraptions! Horses? Merope hates large animals. She would rather see them dead and butchered than have to suffer their bodies under her.He looks disenchanted for a split second but soon he warms up to her idea.“All right, my love, I trust you!”He has to put over his clothes a large, dusty and outdated cloak and his nose wrinkles a bit but Merope has to admit he looks even more handsome with a tinge of green. It was her father’s but he’s rarely worn it. Perhaps once on his wedding day, she remembers him telling them children once before one of his turns and his quick search of the remedy: drinking. He always turned foul afterwards.She has a satchel full of floo powder and fishes it out of her cloak’s pocket. With her wand in one hand and Tom’s hand in the other, she asks him to step with her on the basalt plate in front of the fire. Tom looks at this whole ensemble with a patiently amused face. He might think her silly but she only wants them to get safely to London and this is the only way she knows how.She throws the powder into the fire, the fire roars and sparks fly and then it turns green. In the corner of her eye, she sees Tom’s expression change to one of awe and surprise.“What sort of trick is this, my love?” he challenges her but she clenches his hand harder and drags him with her.‘Do you want us to catch fire, love?”“Please, trust me, Tom.” She manages. And some sort of magic pulls at him until his will succumbs to her and he starts accepting this process.“Always, my love.”Together, they step forward, Tom mouth agape, probably shocked he did not burn to a crisp, Merope focused on saying the words loud and clear.“To the Leaky Cauldron!” She shouts.When they step out of a very large fireplace, she can feel Tom’s hands going cold, his hold feeble. The place is swarming with wizarding folk, some with cloaks, some with brightly coloured robes, some from the London area, some from very far away.She should have probably told him she was a witch but apparently, Tom takes it better than she expected. She hopes he’s not like the other muggles Merope heard about.“W-what i-is d-d-this… witchcraft, m-my l-love?” He sounds frightened yet doesn’t make a move to run away. He clings to her arm as if she were a lifeline.“I am a witch, Tom, and this is my world. You said you’ll trust me, so trust me,” she urges him, pleading almost.“A w-witch? You mean you conjure the devil and his demons?” he frowns a little and Merope denies such nonsense.“There is no devil, Tom!” She says it with enough conviction and she hopes Tom will believe her. “There is only magic.” “This,” she points at the things happening around them. “Is magic.”Tom looks around him in fascination. Suddenly he wants to touch everything, to know everything. The patrons of the pub seem to be getting along, there is no impending fight going on, no drunk wizard and no had threatening to blow the place to smithereens, there are no magical beasts kept in too small cages by the witches and wizards in transit, no children running amok and terrorizing their parents with tantrums for more sweets. Today is a peaceful day in the wizarding world and in the Leaky Cauldron pub and Merope lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.A couple of plates with deliciously smelling fish and chips fly over their heads to reach a far table and no less than a dozen butterbeers wooshed around them, avoiding a direct collision, not spilling a drop in the process.“Merope…” he looked at her and his eyes were humid. “This is… wonderful! We should have our luncheon here!” Tom beams at the sight of proper food and the various delicious aromas attacking their sense of smell.Self-conscious, Merope searches her small pouch and counts the knuts and sickles she hasn’t spent yet. They are enough for two shepherd’s pies and two butterbeers.Tom looks at her appalled as if she extracted not coins but a very angry scorpion.“My dear, what are you doing? You have to let me pay. ”“We need to pay the barman, Tom. He only takes wizarding money.” He looks at the coins glinting in between her frail fingers. “These bronze ones are knuts, and the silver ones are sickles. The galleons are gold but I don’t have any on me.” It hurts to admit that she is poor.“We need to go to the bank, then. How else am I to be a husband if I cannot pay for our meals?”She looks at him with wide eyes. He is taking this better than expected.They eat at a small table and Tom is delighted with the butterbeer. He wolfed down his shepherd's pie in mere minutes and now is praising the drink he’s having.“We need to eat here every day, my dear. Every single day. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” After he chugs it down with relish, he looks pointedly at her and Merope feels herself blush at his direct stare.“What is it, Tom?”“Marry me.” He says with joy and conviction.And she says yes without much thinking.“Let’s do it properly! Let’s find a priest!” he is so enthusiastic all of a sudden it takes her by surprise. “Just us… We’ll be like Romeo and Juliet without the deaths, of course,” he jokes and Merope doesn’t really understand who Romeo or Juliet are or why there were deaths involved but the idea of them being together, alone against the whole world seems very much in tune with her wishes.She has to agree… It would be really wonderful if this could last forever.
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His enthusiasm convinces her. They need to step into muggle London first. Absolutely must go into Central London!“You have to do me the honour, my love.” He charms her.He has to see their family’s solicitor… and then there’s uncle Barney, but not really an uncle, since he’s not related to Tom but Merope can only hold onto so much information in such a short time. She feels unsure stepping on the cobblestones in her frumpy dress and her mother’s faded cloak but she gets some confidence by hanging on Tom’s left hand and watching him strutting forth as if he rules these streets. She wishes she had that confidence. She will never be like that, though, she knows too well.They garner several stares and Tom says nothing. He either doesn’t see them or pretends he doesn’t care and Merope has to guess which one is it. She doesn’t know the insides of Tom’s mind herself. She tried prying it open one night but there was nothing that she recognized, nothing about her… or the Gaunts, except that incident that alerted the Aurors and scared half of the Riddles’ staff. It was one thing capturing a muggle and performing magic on him and a different thing altogether performing magic in front of several muggles, in public and letting them run away in fear with such knowledge. IF she would have a say in it, she would never let them go. Yes, wipe their minds, or worse, make them disappear.Sometimes she doesn’t recognize these thoughts as her own anymore. But there’s a certainty and a deep voice from the deepest parts of her mind that tells her that yes, she is thinking the right things when it comes to muggles! You can never trust them. But Tom is a muggle. She tries to counteract it. Yes, but does she trust him? She wants to laugh. The use of Amortentia is proof enough! She instantly nips that one in the bud. Tom will come to love her, she tells herself as she forces her steps forward and tries her best to ignore the stares they get as Tom enters one of the muggle buildings, a large, marble encased mammoth that strangely enough reminds her of Gringotts. It is a bank, after all. Only instead of the beady-eyed goblins, the muggle bank is full of busy looking muggles that have their noses in calculations and stashes of documents.Tom approaches one of the tellers and her eyes leave him as she’s now studying the other muggles. She sees women dressed in what she considers short dresses and very expensive looking furs, with rounded colourful hats and men dressed in dark, crisp suits and fitted tailored coats and very modern hats. There are no floor-sweeping robes or cloaks on them, no pointy black hats, and none of the magical creatures that usually accompany wizards on their errands. No crups, nu kneazles, and definitely no nifflers.Muggles are very peculiar. Even the geometry of the building is clean and makes sense. There are no bendy walls and no flying staircases. There is less mess on the floor since they don’t have dozens of owls and ravens leaving droppings when flying with the correspondence. In fact, muggles have what is called a mailman. A very peculiar occupation, if you ask her. She remembers that time when a very lost man bearing a bag of letters knocked on her father’s door asking for direction to reach the Riddle mansion. Her father cursed him and spat on him and the man had to flee in order to be left alone. Peculiar creatures, these muggles. They don’t have magic, yet their floors were so clean. She shudders when she remembers the time she had to scrub with no magic Mrs Smith’s antique marble floors. She despised every second of it. She looks curiously upon the boy sweeping a side of the floor while another mops it until it shines.Tom turns to her and he’s smiling happily. He told her that they now had the pounds and pennies necessary to move around London and that of course, he wanted her to have the most beautiful white wedding dress and the most gorgeous bouquet there was.Merope did not like Alfred Hampton, an old friend of Tom’s.“We’ve known each other since we were children, dear!” Tom assured her.She did not like how he looked at her or the things he told Tom. At least what he said managed to upset Tom enough to want to stop being friends with him.“What do you mean, you advise me not to marry?” Tom’s outrage grew by the minute.“How long have you known this… this… woman, Tommy?” Hampton continued to prod.“We’ve been together for exactly two weeks but I feel like I have known her my whole life! Do you know the feeling of being destined for something, Alfred? This is it! Merope Gaunt is my destiny!” Tom clamoured and Merope watched Alfred’s face turn pensive and calculating.“But what about Cee, Tom? I’ve gotten a letter from her saying you let her down and didn’t show up at her parents, you … simply disappeared. What about her? Doesn’t she deserve to know?” he asked.“And what about how you met this Merope? Something is not right here, Tom and I am sorry that you cannot see it now but I hope you will, and soon. All our friends are worried. Marge, Cee, William and all his brothers… even that bore, Farley has asked where the hell you’ve been! I can’t imagine your parents being too pleased with you running away with… her.” He spared her a glance but quickly averted his eyes as if he’s seen something foul. It angered Merope. She wanted to be done with this. She didn’t like muggle London anymore. She didn’t like its people – the muggles – looking at her as if she were a creature on display.“But I have to get married, Alfie, old boy! Your brother can lead the ceremony. It will be small, I promise, we’ll be like Romeo and Juliet, married in secret in the basement of a cathedral.” Tom’s tone was jocular but Merope didn’t want to be in no church’s basement in front of no priest. She was a witch, and marriage was a binding act for life, a blood ritual, as the purebloods did for centuries. A binding ritual, an unbreakable vow. What power did the priest have here? She would rather be married in the wizarding world and have Tom be bound to her for life – she could stop the Amortentia then, but she was afraid… wouldn’t they be able to tell he was not willing? They might, she reasoned. And besides… she didn’t know anyone in the wizarding world that performed these rituals. People got married in their homes and the binding was performed by a family member, an elder, oftentimes.“Do you hear yourself, Tommy? Please tell me there is something wrong with you because I don’t recognize you anymore! You were to marry Cee in that cathedral. Do you actually think my brother will betray her like that? I am sorry, but I cannot be part of this madness!”The man – Alfred – seemed very upset by the end of it and her Tom was only very distressed. His mood only worsened, enough that Merope feared she had to administer him a drop of the potion anew. So she did and Tom’s desire for them to get married was only renewed. They spent the day at a hotel and Tom made the preparations for them to get married. When he was not ordering people around and making calls, he was asking her about the Wizarding World and how he wished they could go there and visit.But Merope was afraid… afraid they will know what she did.“Why not, my dear?” he asked and she could tell his wish was genuine.“Well… I am not your wife, yet, Tom.” She added defensively but she knew very well that with every passing second, Tom was remedying that.They did get married after all… It was a rushed civil marriage held in a cramped register’s office. She wore an expensive ivory muggle dress and a long cream-coloured coat and Tom looked very dapper in his new tuxedo. The shoes were difficult to wear, tall and very muggle, she reckoned. No cushioning charms, either. She wanted mandrakes in her bouquet, but the florist that worked with the hotel looked at her as if she sprouted another head. The florist made her choose between white roses and lilies and Merope hated both with equal fervour. The white flowers in her bouquet made her sneeze.They were hurriedly asked several questions and Merope answered with a shaky yes to all of them. In the end, they were asked to sign in the marriage registry. Tom did as was asked and his signature was fast and concise. She struggled a bit to hold the pen, almost blotted the paper but managed to scratch a Merope Gaunt on the smooth, lined page.A muggle boy she's never seen before came behind them with a large red velvet box that displayed two gold wedding bands.“You are officially a Riddle now, my love.” He said braggingly and kissed her loudly on the mouth. Then, he took her left hand and pushed the smaller golden band on her ring finger. His fit better, she noticed. The thing felt foreign on her finger, cold and loose.“I promise to always love you.”The workers in the register’s office looked at them as if they were that noon’s entertainment. The girl with the registry had tears in her eyes from holding in what Merope suspected was a cackle. She didn’t like the muggles. Not one bit.They spent the whole week locked in the hotel’s luxurious rooms. Food was brought to them and a drink called champagne. She did eat very well and she was glad that Tom liked to drink because she never had to think of ways to douse him with the potion. Tom ordered more dresses for her but it was useless since he couldn’t get past his bad habit of ripping them off her body still. She had to perform a Reparo once in front of him and he was fascinated. At the most inopportune moments, he wanted to see her displays of magic and it was all fun and games until her magic became quite erratic – Merope blamed it on the muggle building – and a spell rebounded only to burn the curtains to a crisp and half of the wallpapered wall. It was all well, until one day when all the muggle-things around her seemed to get to her and nausea started.“Tom,” She pleaded. “Let’s go back home. I am not feeling very well.”She didn’t feel too well. Everything about London made her sick. She just needed to get away from these filthy muggles and their filthy habits and she’ll be all right.
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The whole week she hasn’t been feeling well. There’s something wrong with her body, she knows. Her magic bursts out and she’s afraid they’ll burn to a crisp one night. Tom tries to touch her and is very loving and compassionate – she thinks – when he’s got a few drops of Amortentia. He doesn’t want to touch her when he’s sober, though.She has the hope that it will change. She looks at her wedding band and says.“It is beautiful, Tom!”He says nothing, doesn’t even look her way, seems frozen in place and there’s a tortured look on his face when he does so.He wears a twin wedding band on his left ring finger as well. His fingers are long and straight and the colour of a rosy pink she’s seen on a petal of dogwood rose. He’s a bit pale, but the hue suits him. His cheek is no longer soft, though, there’s stubble growing and Merope thinks that maybe she should let him trim it but she’s afraid. She has to give him more because yesterday she tried giving him the usual drop in a glass of water and his love lasted only half of the day.“Please no! Please, no more! I beg you, Merope, I do not want to drink it!”When he refuses and begs for her not to give him the potion is the only time he speaks directly to her when he says her name. The rest, he pretended he was somewhere else and not in bed with her. His stomach grumbled and she could hear its growls angrily. She couldn’t keep any food down lately so what was the point of making any food? She’s tired herself by running down the stairs and into the garden to spill her stomach, too exhausted to do it again and give him the Amortentia.He might be hungry, though. But she doesn’t know what he likes to eat. She doesn’t dare ask him. Desperately, she palmed her necklace. Even with Tom unresponsive next to her, looking out of the window and far into the distance, she felt that her only comfort was her cold, cold necklace whispering reassuring words to her. She could hear his voice reverberating in her bones. The voice of Salazar himself, encouraging her that she’s doing well, that he is pleased with her, that she is fulfilling her destiny. He is making sure of that.By evening, feeling generous, she asks him if he is hungry. He nods that yes, he is. She doesn’t bother shying away from him this time, takes the locket in her palms and whispers in Parseltongue for it to open. She extracts the small pearly pink vial and checks the level of its contents. She knows he is watching, she sees his eyes go wide but he doesn’t do anything yet.It’s getting lower and lower with each passing day. She doesn’t know how long it will last them, but she knows it’s not for long. She has now less than half of it. She hesitates to pour him the necessary drops in a glass of water. Better keep it for when she really needs him to behave.He avoids her gaze.“Just stay here, Tom.” She orders and takes her wand in hand to spell the fire alive and warm the room. His reaction is disproportionate to the magic he’s witnessing, she thinks. Only days ago he seemed pleased to see her magic. He starts shaking and hugging himself but she turns around and whispers in Parseltongue so the snakes come and help her with the foraging.She beats herself that she’s at fault for leaving the door open. He’d seen his chance and he ran past her and into the open air. He made it as far as the garden and then he couldn’t move past the Gaunt acre’s perimeter. He screams and shouts and cries and pushes with his hands. It must burn him, she realizes and watches in horror. The wards are strong again. Gaunt blood, the purest of them all, the purest, unadulterated blood of Salazar Slytherin himself runs through her veins and does her bidding. She sees him struggling to escape but he is trapped.Merope lets out a strange noise of happiness.The voice tells her she is in the right.You are protected here, my child, you and the blood that’s mine is coursing through your veins.He cannot do much, her Tom. He gives her a spiteful look but when she points her wand at him he ceases immediately. He’s shaking and shivering from the impact with the wards. They usually burn any intruders, they don’t let the world see what’s really going on Gaunt property. They kept Pleione here to love them when all she wanted was to abandon them all. She hates her, hates her, hates her so much! She hopes she died curled up in pain somewhere in a ditch in the woods. She hopes Marvolo found her and twisted her neck as he would to a rabbit. Yet her rage feels small now.
Why would he try and run away?
Why?
Why?
Why?
Didn’t she tell him to stay put?! He needs to learn if they are to be together. They are married, they are together. Forever, he said!Forever!He will always be hers and nothing can take him away from her, nothing!“You said it!” She yells and doesn’t stop until he’s cowering there on the ground surrounded by beet leaves and sorrel and cabbages. Stupid! He’s trampling her work under his feet. And now he’s burned the palms of his hand. She makes an angry motion with her wand. She knows it hit him. She can tell it on a physical level, even. It’s like she’s wading through water, that’s how it feels.She hisses at him and he looks at her now, really looks at her and he’s crying. Why is he making this harder for himself? Why doesn’t he just listen to her?She tells him again and he grows even more horrified and doesn’t make a move. Instead, he covers his head. And again. Nothing. He really is disobedient. She lashes again. It’s the same brutal motion that comes with holding your wand like a hacking knife and she hits at him and hits and hits and hits.Only afterwards it dawns on her that she’s spoken in Parseltongue. It’s really difficult sometimes to tell.“Get inside, now!” Her voice is ragged. The human speech itself is painful to reproduce but it’s the only thing Tom understands. She wishes he understood Parseltongue. It would definitely make things easier.
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Time passes but Merope remembers the days when all Tom needed was one drop of the potion. Now it escalated to five, almost six drops per day if she didn’t want any incidents. By incidents, she means Tom trying to run away from her, hitting the wards with his body and falling unconscious for the rest of the day there on the cold ground. She searches his pockets, seizes the banknotes and the coins. She counts them and arranges them neatly on the table but she cannot make sense of any of it. What is muggle currency compared to the wizarding one? He watches her despondently from the head of the table, as far as she allowed him to go. He swirls the spoon in the bowl of nettle stew but every once in a while he grabs the salt and pours some more, practically ruining the dish she prepared. She doesn’t pay him much attention now.“Is this a lot of muggle money?” She asks and as nervous as he is, he drops the spoon on the floor. It clatters loudly on the stone.“W-what?” he asks and the expression of confusion on his face is genuine enough.“Is this a lot of muggle money?” Merope repeats as one would to a child with learning difficulties.“Y-yes, I-I g-ga-ther, not enough for a month’s rent in London, though. I have more in cheque notes. What do you mean by m-mug-gle?” he truly looks confused.“Yes, muggle, like yourself. Without magic in your blood.” She says exasperatedly. “You are not a wizard; therefore, you are a muggle.” Easy enough to be understood – she thinks.She needs to exchange this money at Gringotts and then she needs to find someone in Knockturn that will provide more Amortentia to her. She only has enough for a couple more days and she’s worried Tom will become even more difficult to control.She gathers the money in a pouch and dresses to leave the shack. She throws in Tom’s direction her father’s musty cloak. It will do. This time it’s eight drops of Amortentia for good measure in a glass of water and she places it in front of Tom. Slowly, he becomes compliant – it’s the swirly pink fumes that enter his nostrils and fill his lungs. He complies, he drinks and his eyes are covered again by that otherworldly glaze as if he sees worlds beyond the here and now. When she poured them, she could smell the bog in spring, and the mushrooms she used to collect in autumn, and the pastries she used to eat with Emmeline after classes and Tom’s hair when she first touched him. She wonders what he smells – she could have asked him but there never seemed to be enough time for it.“Let’s go.” She urges. Silently, he’s at her side, perfectly in tune with her steps, unafraid of the green flames in the fireplace. When they enter the Leaky Cauldron’s reception, his eyes don’t display awe any longer but a well-practised acceptance. She needs to step into Diagon Alley. His hand is warm and soft in hers as she leads him through the back of the pub, away from the tables and the flying plates filled with most delicious food, until they face a brick wall. There will be enough time to grab a bite later, she tells herself. Her stomach is always hungry lately.When Diagon opens in front of them, she can see a brief sway of anticipation in his countenance but otherwise, he keeps himself in check. It seems that eight drops do the work, then. He turns his head around and probably admires the myriad of shops around them but Merope’s not here for fun, she has no time to spend dawdling. She whispers to him to shut up and puts the cowl of the cloak over his head when they reach a darker alley. She’s half tempted to cast a petrificus on him and leave him waiting for her but she’s scared. She noticed the red robes patrolling near the main bookshops. She doesn’t want to end up in Azkaban now, does she? So she grabs Tom by the elbow and steers him until they reach a tall, ancient-looking building that defies all architectural expectations. It’s Gringotts, the wizarding bank.She avoids the goblins and ends up waiting in a queue where automatic exchanges are performed. All she has to do is sign her name in the registry and place the money in a pouch then wait, then sign again, then take the galleons and sickles and the couple of knuts and leave. Tom watches this whole process avidly. She can tell he has a lot of questions on his lips.“How wonderful, my dear!” he exclaims and she gestures to him to keep it quiet. He thinks this is a game and giggles at her.“Let me guess, we’re incognito here? Is someone following us to take away all our money?”She thinks it’s best that he doesn’t know the extent of her fear and just nods. Her leather pouch feels very heavy with galleons now.Tom smiles showing his white, sparkly teeth at her as if he’s proud of something and weighs the pouch in his hand.“We should eat at that restaurant, my love! We can have dessert as well!”But all Merope thinks of is how many vials of Amortentia she can buy with the contents of this pouch, nothing else. She could eat dirt for all she cares if it means he’ll never leave.“Y-yes my love.” She tells him in reply, and it dawns on her that it’s the first time she’s called him that.“And we should really get rid of these…- he swipes a hand over the cloak he’s wearing with undisguised disgust – old, mouldy cloaks, my dear. We look like fugitives!”Fugitives… that cannot be good, Merope thinks. Maybe she could spare some coins to assuage Tom’sVanity. It’s not a priority, like the Amortentia, though.“We need to go somewhere first, Tom!” She murmurs and Tom mistakes her tone as conspiratorial. He plays along until they reach the entrance to Knockturn and his clasp on her hand hardens.“My, love, I do not like this place.”“Shh…” She hushes him. And she loves how easy he follows her command.Wand at the ready, she looks for the old potions seller she’s heard about from Emmeline. Or was it a street seller? She somehow doubts it. She walks and drags Tom with her across the narrow cobbled street, his long legs trying their best not to step into something foul. The length of the alley is dark and musty and smells of days old piss. Merope never complained.“Ugh…” But Tom is so sensitive.Bats! Scrags! Newt intestines! Dragon dung! A hag yells into the distance, advertising their goods.Slugs! Eyeballs! Tongues! Marinated liver! Screwts! It’s a never-ending cacophony amplified by the acoustics of Knockturn. Several scowling figures look down at them from dirty, piss-streaked windows but when Merope returns their gaze, they leave them alone.Here alone, Merope fits unlike anywhere else. She might be wearing an expensive black muggle dress with golden tassels and beads and shoes that fit her across the bunions of her knobby feet and she might have long, fine tights that cover her skinny legs like spider’s weave. He might have an expensive gold band on her finger and a gleaming topaz diadem holding her bushy hair away from her forehead to display the asymmetry of her face in all its glory but her body feels at ease among the ugliness of Knockturn. She feels a kinship to the hunchback that makes room for her to pass and solidarity with the hag that wipes red spittle out of her mouth. She is a sister to these folks and where she asks a witch bloated by some mysterious curse and darkened by age spots if she knows someone who sells a certain kind of potion, she knows that she’s protected from the ones patrolling in red cloaks around the place. She knows that her secret is safe with them. Tom might shudder and gag as the old witch paws at him through his cloak “Nice piece you got there, lassie.” But Merope is not afraid here, among her sort.It is costly, but she gets it, at last. Her pouch is relieved by many galleons and then Tom drags her towards the light, towards the civilization of Diagon and away from the putrid stench of faeces and curses.She indulges him with a cloak. It’s one of the best there are. She is modest in her own purchases, though and when the witch asks her if she’s willing to pay extra for an extension charm given her condition, the reality dawns on Merope. As the witch casts a charm that fits the fabric over her belly, she realizes that she might be with child. A coldness seeps through her and she wants to run away from the place without even bothering to pay. Tom shouts after her. The witch screeches that she has to pay. She returns, she pays for the dress and the cloak and as upset as she is, she doesn’t care if she makes a scene in front of the Aurors as she drags Tom after her and back into the leaky. She’s hungry. She needs to eat for two, now.
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She likes to think he is happy, her Tom. He asks her to dance to melancholy violin music that night in the pub.The vial burns the inside of her palm as she’s holding hard to it. In a way she’s happy too. Thinking about it, though, it’s simply not something that should be done. What that witch said earlier. No, it shouldn’t be that! She can’t! She doesn’t want to! Isn’t that what magical thinking is all about? Wishing hard enough and things coming true?She wished for her father and her brother to just go away. She got that.She wished for magic and the ministry lady was kind enough to get her some money and enrol her in a school for witches. She got that as well.But above all, she wished for Tom. And now she has him. So of course, she will fight tooth and nail to keep him. She has him and she will never let him go.Days pass and Tom’s his old, happy self again. No more trying to test the wards, no more spells to keep him in check. No more worries. They live happily enough in the poverty Merope’s so used to. Things stop happening for a long time, the only exception being her ever-growing belly.Even Tom’s noticed and in between him kissing her and taking her on the bed, he has these bouts of un-brilliant ideas. All of a sudden he has to introduce her to his family, to his friends. “You’re my wife, for God’s sake!”Again, Merope doesn’t know what this God has to do with it but she nods nervously and just postpones the inevitable. One day, she promises herself. One day, she’ll gather the courage. And when she births Tom’s son, for she already knows it’s going to be a son, she’ll probably come and live in the white house on the hill and have servants of her own. And maybe, maybe… then Tom, the real Tom, will look at her and say instead of abominable things that she’s the mother of his son. And wouldn’t that be wonderful?Her snakes are quiet – have been for a while. She finds herself hissing, talking to the strange seed that’s growing in her womb. Tom looks at her with his glazed eyes and he says nothing. In the beginning, he used to ask her: “What are you hissing about, darling?”. And she did her best to explain it to him and demonstrate that she had the ability to speak with snakes and in the same language, she was speaking to their unborn son who would inherit her powers…Tom’s face was shocked for a moment. He really did not like snakes. “I don’t think so, Merope.” He said to her little demonstration. He frowned and even with Amortentia dulling his reason, he gave her the same suspicious look her father and her brother gave her. He gave her the same suspicious look the Aurors gave her. “Our child will be a boy or a girl, not one of those slippery creatures you keep around. They frighten me, my love. I wish they would go away!”This made Merope upset – the snakes were her family, they helped her keep Tom in check when they were low on Amortentia. And she already told him that they will have a son and not a damned girl! A son to be the heir that Slytherin deserved, an heir to reward her blood purity. How little did this man understand!“My child will not be a snake,” he continued. “So stop hissing at him.”.No, he will not be a snake but the king of all snakes – that reassured her and she protectively hugs her belly - her son is, after all, a tribute to the great Salazar. Basilískos – her ancestor’s voice echoed in her mind chambers.Tom extended his hand to touch her bump as if to reassure her and for the first time since all this happened, she felt her skin crawl at the contact.Filthy muggle scum! – her undead father’s voice rasped from within her. She pushed him away and for an instant, Tom looked surprised but he didn’t insist.Amortentia never seemed to last. The contents of the vials were gone in a matter of weeks. Summer ended abruptly and with it came the chilly September rains that made her bones hurt. Food was scarce. Money was running away faster than before. She wouldn’t be able to afford it, she realized. The Amortentia was absolutely necessary. To win Tom’s trust, to keep his muggle heart in her palms, to have his love, to have him only look at her, to share his life with her only. And his questions only annoyed her – they were once more proof of his limited and narrow mindedness, of his muggleness. What would Marvolo say about that? Would he consider her a traitor?She was scared of having tainted herself with a muggle… but unlike Morfin, he was able to give her a son – so this should have counted for something, she reassured herself.It didn’t matter, for her son will be the only left heir of Salazar Slytherin for he only made himself heard only to her and not once to her father or brother, as if with the purity of blood came a very dire price they had to pay – their inability to truly be aware of their heritage. She palmed the locket. Her mother’s only valuable possession besides the blood and flesh which she imparted with Marvolo to give him offspring. The locket was the proof. Her ability to command serpents, another. And then her purity of blood, written in a beastly manner on her skeletal body and her contorted face.He came up with strange notions. He kept insisting on them going to the Riddle house for the winter. He didn’t do that well either. His skin looked ashen and he couldn’t contain that annoying cough of his. By the end of summer, he seemed to forget to ask her to trim his beard or hair or clothes. He looked despondently out of the window, instead and did not bring up going to London or to his parents’ house anymore. He sometimes helped around the shack but she did not allow him to try and walk past the garden. At times, it seemed he wanted to work just to be rid of her and she didn’t like that either. On those days that he considered so necessary for their survival, Merope felt exceedingly jealous. Ten drops of Amortentia were slipped in his glass and his hand would be shaking as he brought it to his lips. Many times she thought he would drop it but he did not. She was worried that soon he would need more but Tom remained calm and pleasant with ten drops. He was sometimes shaking and screaming in the night, waking her with a start but he always reassured her and asked her to go back to sleep. He called her “his love” very often. She found herself becoming pleasantly used to this.In the middle of autumn, her belly seemed impossibly larger than before. To Merope’s wiry hands and bony fingers, it seemed a foreign thing that didn’t quite look natural on her emaciated frame. From time to time, she could feel in her bones that danger was coming. She wasn’t sure it was the constant looming fear of the Aurors that raided Knockturn one day when Merope had to literally crawl her way out or the constant barks and muggle carriages that carried muggles shouting Tom’s name and searching for him. She burned his clothes that day and all his scanty possessions and pushed him through the floo so they could escape for the day.She knew from experience that muggles would only see a deserted shack and not the place where she kept Tom the prisoner of her love. How could they? After all, they were just… muggles and she didn’t want to mix with them. They would go into the leaky as two transient strangers, eat and sit huddled at a table until Merope dared move back to her place.Since her bulge grew larger Tom seemed to be avoiding touching her. His touches were sparse and short and when she pushed for answers at his lack of physicality he said he did not wish to disturb the baby. He even told her that but as October was taking over them, she felt a hunger for his body like never before and he seemed unable to understand it. The wetness between her thighs trickled down slowly, her cunt burned with an unknown heat and her breasts were sore and hard like stone. In the middle of the night, she would touch him, and he always woke up with a startle and seemed to freeze when he sensed her hand on his member. He was shaking a bit and she took it as a sign of his interest in her gaunt body. Why wouldn’t he? Morfin never passed a chance. But he did not seem to understand her plea to feel him all over her and inside her as he so often did in their earlier days. She didn’t ask why but she felt unsatisfied by his lack of response. no matter how much she tried, he seemed to have lost his hardness. not even taking him in her mouth would wake that piece of flesh and make it pierce her to assuage her hunger. One night she tried and tried until the thing stirred in her palm. Merope mounted him then and forced his member in her hot, humid depths and moved above him until she felt a glimpse of satisfaction. It made her wonder, then, how quiet Tom was, how he didn't even move to touch her, how he didn't even say her name, how he didn't even pant. He must have been tired, she thought as she too went to sleep.“So… I am a muggle.” He said one night, tasting the word anew and slurping the same grey gruel she called sustenance. Merope had her hands bloodied, pulling the intestines of a hare she found in one of Morfin’s traps.His questions came too often and even his tone wasn’t very reassuring, to begin with. Her father always told Morfin and her that muggles were scum, they were dirt and were to be treated as such. Parasites with impure blood, incapable of magic. Yet here he was, sitting at her table, eating her food, wheezing and shaking, probably spreading his muggle contagion onto her, a parasite that she wanted in her house. He’s been coughing terribly all through the autumn and Merope thought that this is how they were, the muggles. Weak in flesh and poor in mind, hence his ceaseless questions about the wizarding world.She took pity on him, then.“Yes, you are a muggle.” She conceded. “You cannot use a wand, like me. You don’t have magic like me.”If Merope could ever brag about something, was this: her newfound ability to do magic and her ability to speak to snakes.“I am a witch pure of blood, the purest that there is. Descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest wizards since Merlin!”It felt good seeing his eyes drop to the ground as if he too could see her greatness and was shaking in awe at her magnificence. Maybe he didn’t realize it the first time – what was she then? – just a poor, ugly girl in a rickety shack… But she could see the information sinking in his muggle brain.“And I am doubly blessed, you see?” She pushed on. It felt good to confess these things. All of a sudden, she was aware of her own magnificence, of her rarity and her special place in this world. “I and no one else can speak to snakes! It is the sacred language of Salazar himself! And my son will be the same!”Basiliskos… She hissed in Parseltongue and cradled her belly.The sense of finality in her voice must have driven the nail on the head. But Tom… Her poor, deluded Tom did not leave it be.“What does magic feel like?” He asked. There was genuine curiosity in his eyes but he was driving her to exasperation with his pointless questions. Why would a muggle like him care about magic when he couldn’t perform it?“Magic is this!” She extracted the vial from its confines in the locket and presented it to him as if he wouldn’t understand, as if he was too stupid to make the connection. His face remained impassive, he didn’t blink – just as she expected of a muggle.“If I want to, I can make you go to sleep, like last night.” He shuddered then at her words, cringing away. He had woken her up with his shaking and his screams. She felt depleted and tired and casting the spell was like casting a heating charm over herself since the nights became chillier. It was… natural, it was magic. But what she had given him last night wasn’t really sleep. Petrificus Totalus wasn’t a form of sleep, even though Tom did look quite peaceful after she cast it. He looked rather resigned and chose to shut his eyes instead. She wished on such nights that she knew the charm for inducing sleep. There was a potion for it or something but a body bind did the necessary work and gained her several hours of uninterrupted sleep.“You cannot do this…” she pointed her wand behind him and says Incendio – it made him jump from his seat on the rocky chair. He looks behind in relief when he notices that she’s only lit the fireplace. The fire’s warmth consumed the logs she placed inside and spread a pleasant sensation into the air. Warmth. Merope then swished her wand over the table and said Scourgify and the table became a bit cleaner off blood and other remains of things she butchered.“Scourgify?” He asked then with perfect pronunciation and arm going through the motions of casting the spell. Perhaps to him, it sounded like a made-up word.Merope decides he looks funny like that, trying to copy her.She wishes to humour him, gets up from her place at the table (the opposite side of it, actually) and hands him her wand. He looks at it as if it’s one of the snakes that is now guarding their bed. The vipers, her venomous slithery friends made sure to keep him in check when Merope needed her rest at night. To him, it might look like a crooked, bendy twig but Merope has spent some time around it to know it is ivy and that the dark reddish hue that seeped into its body is blood, not necessarily the previous owner’s.“You try.” She encourages and feels hungry for a demonstration and so, he does try, mimicking her movements and her words and to her great relief, nothing happens but he doesn’t let go of it as she’s expected him to. She waits. But still… there’s nothing.“Give it back!” She growls. “Give it back, now!” Merope yells at him.There’s a resistance in his eyes when she lashes like that. No, it says. Merope doesn’t like it one bit!Her eyes stop threatening for a while and there’s desperation. There are no snakes now, she realizes. It’s a wintry November day and they all went into the ground, to sleep and prepare for a new cycle. She doesn’t like it when things don’t go as planned. She tries to focus her mind on Tom, visualizing how it pierces his defences and it’s easy, almost too easy, she thinks he’s almost conceded when there’s a lost look in his eyes but then he does something and it’s too shocking to have been expected. He throws the wand into the roaring fireplace - it is immediately engulfed and consumed by the growing fire -then looks at her as if he wasn’t conscious of doing it, as if he instantly regrets it.“What have you done?”
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A litany of wails and bawls permeates the walls of the rickety shack. Merope’s pain must be heard, her betrayal must be made known and the one that betrayed her must know that a world of pain and hurt is what comes next for him. She lashes at Tom who avoids even touching her. He runs, runs, runs on the stairs. Why isn’t he listening to her? Why isn’t he doing what she’s telling him to?Why?Why?Why?She runs after him and he’s in the bedroom, quite calmly trying to open the windows. She fears that for a moment he might try to jump. He manages to open them – they are stuck for a moment and there’s hoarfrost on the glass melting as Tom’s palms slip over, hot and wet over cold, dry ice.He turns to her, to Merope’s relief. Did he really think that jumping would save him? Save him from here? Save him from… her?She’s watched Tom for many months. He doesn’t have it in him to do it. He looks behind at her impassively and slumps near the window, breathing in cold air. Outside it drizzles. Yesterday it snowed in the morning then by noon, it started raining. The garden below is a pool of mud and brown tall grass. The forest is a mélange of green and grey browns. Merope can hear the wind howling already. She’s started shivering with cold, waiting there for Tom to make a move, any move.He looks at her again and then he shuts the window. He takes a blanket, gives it to her and proceeds to shroud himself with another. There they are… she notices. Goosebumps on his pale arms. The hair on his arms is sparse and pale and raised in what could be either fear or cold. His skin has the unhealthy colour of someone who’s rarely been outdoors.“I’ll see to the fire.” He says and avoids her as he exits the room.For many minutes Merope stayed behind, alone in the frigid bedroom. It was times like these when the absence of a wand was acutely felt. She lived most of her life without one so why would it be a problem now?Downstairs, where the fire’s burning in violently, fed by Tom loading wood into its maw, it’s a better place for them.She walks slowly, carefully, her throat is still sore and voice raspy from her previous yelling. He’s done what he’s done. The wand fed the fire like anything else. For a second there, Merope almost expected it to resist burning but it didn’t. The fire engulfed it like it would anything else. Perhaps she imagined the spark growing brighter but nothing of import happened. Except that she didn’t have a wand anymore and it was entirely his doing and her mistake.She takes a seat at the filthy table. He’s clearing it of the remains of the dead rabbit. In a bucket, he collected rainwater and he fills with it the teapot and hangs it over the fire. He takes over eviscerating the animal and if before she wouldn’t bat an eyelid seeing Tom holding a knife, now Merope has to admit that she’s not entirely sure she feels safe from him. He cleans his hands with water and scrubs hard until there’s no more redness under his nails.He finishes gathering the portioned rabbit in a pan and takes a seat. He looks exhausted right after that and a nervous coughing session wrecks his frame once more. Merope’s now holding her belly. She’s at the opposite end of the table, he hadn’t motioned her closer.“This,” Tom motions with the knife in his hand. “Has to end.” More coughing. He’s desperately trying to compose himself. The teapot whistles. It’s his cue to get up again and take care of it. He pours water generously into two mugs.Upon seeing the mugs, an impossible thought crawls into Merope’s head. It’s almost unstoppable. She fidgets with the chain of her locket. It’s impossible to stop. The Amortentia is there, she thinks. If only she could dump it all into his glass. He’ll drink it all, she knows, she’s convinced, she’s sure!But as she hisses at the clasp to open, he turns back to her, his palm guarding his mug. He pushes hers away and takes his to the opposite side.“No.” He says, voice firm, leaving no space for negotiations on her part. “No more.”Her chance is gone now.“But you love me.” She counters, she is grabbing at straws, hanging on a thread here. Is it worth it?He looks at her as if he’s seen her for the first time. There is a gauntness to his face that wasn’t there before when she first met him when she first gave him the Amortentia. This is Tom, she thinks. He’s still tall and imposing in stature but he looks wrecked as if an illness grasped him in its claws and even now it didn’t let him go. His hair is longer, reaching past his cheeks, an unruly wave drawing into a curl on his jowls, then another, downwards reaching his chin. His face is covered in an unkempt beard. He’s handsome still but she has to admit, that he looks less lord and more tramp now. These are his old clothes, the ones with which he came here the first time. They hold well. He’s wearing the cloak she bought – no, the cloak he insisted on buying with his money. That’s the only garment in good condition on him. His boots are fine as well, still holding on. Only his cotton shirt is frayed at the seams and he’s wearing an old moth-eaten jumper that perhaps belonged to her brother. Merope cannot recall. He hates getting his clothes dirty so he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. He turns the chipped mug in his hands. It makes a scratching sound on the table. “To be honest, I do not.” He says at last and lets out a slow exhale as if it’s a sack of stone that’s sitting on his chest. “I do not love you.” He looks into her eyes as he says these words. His eyes are brown, they are not cold and are not warm. There is still that sheen that the Amortentia brought into his pupil many months ago but otherwise, they seem those of a clear-headed man.“We are married,” she attempts. That ring burdened her hand ever since the end of April.“I know.” He says and shows her his left hand. He’s wearing an identical wedding band to hers. He’s chosen them himself. “I know we are. I asked you to. You said yes. We have a certificate, and even if we lose it or it burns” – he motions to the fire- “There is its copy in a London’s registry being filed and indexed as we speak.” There must be hope, Merope thinks, otherwise… otherwise he wouldn’t be here, talking to her like this.“But I do not think it’s what you wanted, Merope. It’s not what I wanted either but I asked you anyway. I couldn’t help it; you see?”She clasps at her locket furiously. Why are her eyes prickling with tears?“B-but we’re married. You said you loved me.” She tries, again.He looks at her with pity, as if she doesn’t understand. “But we have a child.” She answers instead. This seems to destabilize him a little. He smiles and looks down at her belly.“I know that too, I’ve watched your belly grow every single day. I know you are pregnant with our child.” He sighs and takes a gulp of the warm water. “you speak to him at night for many hours. You hiss these words I do not understand.” Another gulp stops a coughing session from happening again. He’s shivering as if a cold blade’s been piercing him. “Sometimes I wish to know what do you say to him. I do not understand… Parseltongue.”“I tell him he will be great one day and rule over wizards and muggles. I tell him that he’s the heir of the great Salazar Slytherin-““The greatest wizard after Merlin – he interrupts her – so you told me.”“But I don’t think it’s what you wanted with me and I must confess… It’s never been what I intended with you.” His forehead appears lined as his eyebrows knit in worry. “I never wanted… that… with you. I never had a choice to say no, Merope, I am sorry.” Is he? Merope’s shaking now with an unspoken fury. She would get up and strike him if this wouldn’t be a waste of her energy.“I do not know you.” He says then. “I do not know you enough and I can only imagine what you want with me, why I am here still.” Not harsh, not hollow. Worse - they ring with truth and Merope would have had harshness and spite, she would take these above anything else, not this… from him.“He’s your son, Tom.” She can see the shiver intensifying and splaying on his hollow face.“A son I never asked for. A marriage I never intended. A life I never chose, Merope…”“As you well know, I want to get away from here but alas… I can’t.” he gestures futilely with a hand. Of course, she knew that. The wards. And that’s what makes her confident. He will never go away; he will never leave.“Yes, you want to but you can’t.” There’s a small satisfaction. The spurned girl is no longer here. Instead, it’s the evil witch. She fishes the vial from under her shawl and makes it visible on the table and to him.“All the choices were made for me by you with that vial. What is it, Merope, this Amortentia?”“It’s… a love potion.” He doesn’t flinch nor does he do that thing that muggles do, that thing that her school instructors told them about. He’s not looking the other way, he’s not praying to his God, well… not anymore. She unstoppers the vial and the smell fills her lungs. She allows ten drops to fall into the water. It shimmers slightly but the fumes, the fumes are what makes it irresistible. She lets another one drop.He looks at her as if he expected this to happen. There’s no motion on his part to flee. He sits and waits quietly for her to finish.She pushes the glass towards him until her hand cannot go further. She cannot extend herself as she used to, her belly’s in the way.“You want me to drink it?” Tom asks incredulously. "After all this?"Merope’s quiet for a moment, gathering her courage.“I… Just want to know what it smells like to you.” This makes him raise an eyebrow. He is curious.Tom inhales as one would inhale a familiar brew. A smile breaks on his face.“I smell hay and my horses, my books, leather-“ he inhales even deeper as if the smell fascinates him. “I smell- ah… I smell the metal of my father’s medals, shortbread that my mother makes.” He looks intensely happy as if the smell alone induces that in him. “I smell car oil – oh, it is foul but I love it! And… And… Cee-Cee’s… her hair… like mimosa and ash from when she rolled her leaf cigarettes. A good duck roast with mash and sauce… by God! I smell frankincense!” he bursts into tears and takes the glass into his hands, his lips touching the rim reverently as if he was dying of thirst and this, this dirty glass holds the key to his undoing. But then he stops, abruptly before his lips can touch the water imbued with Amortentia.“Have you ever tried it?” he asks, looking into her eyes… or rather her eye. Merope cannot look straight at anything with her face’s twisted architecture. She shakes her head that no, she did not try the Amortentia.“You should,” he says. “It’s the promise of all those good things at a first gulp and then the certainty of all of them being taken away from you after the last.” He lets out an airless, sad snort, as if he disclosed too much, too soon by saying those things to her.He approaches her and puts the glass in front of her.“Don’t you want to?” He asks again. “Know how it feels?”She furiously shakes her head that no, she does not want to, and her hands crawl protectively over her belly. Tom’s eyes follow her movements and they stop at the sight of her huge belly with deep sadness. She watches him, faces him quite bravely and she feels proud of it. The smell is hard to miss. It’s Tom, all over, only cleaner, it’s magic, crackling at her fingertips, it’s water from an Aguamenti, it’s sweets with a girl that doesn’t exist anymore, it’s… the bedsheets after Tom would… but he doesn’t anymore. It’s the forest and all the wild things there, crawling and swarming and hiding around. Living and dying.He takes the glass and holds it to his eye level.“You already love me, you said.”“Yes.” She speaks and the words come out more like a hiss.“You know what? I don’t believe you. And I don’t believe you think so either. You’re just saying this, lying to yourself.” Tom’s eyes are dark with something undecipherable but he downs the contents of the glass in one breath. His eyes go glassy again, his lips become slack, his frown is gone.“My love?”Merope’s shoulders relax but her heart does not.
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December is a merciless month. The water pump’s frozen again and the provisions they have left in the shack are dangerously low. When he’s not appeased with Amortentia, Tom tends to the fire most of the time or checks the rabbit traps in the garden. There’s nothing there besides frozen turnips and a blanket of hardened snow. He’s looking for something, nonetheless. Yesterday, he tried negotiating with her, once again. Merope blames the low dose she had to give him to preserve what was left of the vial. “If you could let me go and look into the forest. I’ll catch something for us to eat.”But Merope shakes her head. She’s not that afraid that Tom will make it through the forest and successfully run away and leave her, she’s more worried about being left in the company of the howling wind and the creaky floorboards of the shack. She’ll give him enough Amortentia so he would return to her. But how long? How long until he finds something they can eat, if he can find it?And besides… She doesn’t even know how to lift the wards or how they even work. She doesn’t even have a wand anymore, thanks to Tom. She tries being spiteful but it doesn’t last. When the last drop of Amortentia is gone, Tom stops even trying to move from his spot and doesn’t talk to her for two days straight. She can barely make the first move, so she lets him stew in his unpleasantness for a long while as she tunes her senses to the sounds of the shack. Some voices beckon to her and Merope pricks her ears and stills her breathing to make up what they’re saying. It’s Parseltongue.
Soon, my child.
And she smiles then, fed by the beatific visions that the memory of her great ancestor pours into her mind. She’s catatonic for hours on end. There’s no need to eat or drink, except when Tom pushes into her hands a mug of hot tea and a portion of grey, tasteless porridge.For a second, there’s something creasing his brow. Is it worry? He must have thought she passed out there and was hallucinating. Was she? “Eat.” He says, looking at her as if she’s this wild, dangerous animal. “Please.” She hates it when he says that, the word comes harsh through gritted teeth as if he’s stepping over something very important to him when he says it. Why say it if you don’t mean it? To preserve what little energy she was left with, Merope doesn't abandon her spot near the fire on most days. Tom’s not difficult, just always looking out of the window and protesting with silence. Without the Amortentia to dull him and make him mellow, he’s rummaging through the house in search of something, silent and always making sure he’s staying out of her vision range. The latter’s quite impossible in such a small place, though. He’s found a shard of mirror and her father’s old straight razor and he’s taken the pair of rusty scissors and cleaning them. Out of anything better to do, Merope watches how he soaps his face up and slides the blade across his cheek. It’s enchanted so no matter how reckless he is with the blade; it doesn’t cut him. He looks tremendously pleased after removing his scraggly beard.She doesn’t understand what’s got into him that he has to do this. It’s not as if anyone else besides her sees him. But vanity, that she can understand. Being the ugly girl, she’s always spent hour in the same shard of mirror, studying her face and turning her head just so, that through a miracle of light she’s made to look less undesirable.He catches her staring at him. He looks a bit nervous but the man in him gathers his courage. “I want to feel human again.” He tells her in a strangled voice. She would lie if she were to say she doesn’t like watching the transformation take place. Tom’s cutting his hair with precise movements, carefully holding the old pair of scissors in his long fingers. He doesn’t cut too much, too fast. Slowly but surely, he adjusts himself to the new him. Now that the unkempt savage beard is gone and the hair is cropped, Tom Riddle’s face looks… pale and gaunt as if he’s battling an illness. His cheeks are sunken in, sharper than ever, his mouth is a rigid line but not unpleasant to look at, it’s only his eyes, perpetually sad and the dark coloured bags under them that betray this unease. “We need to go away if we want to survive winter.” He tells her once more. “You can’t keep doing this…” She knows what he’s going to say but doesn’t.You can’t keep doing this to me.You can’t do this to… him. Or yourself.Why? Tom called her selfish. As if… As if he wasn’t a selfish person himself always looking out of the window and lost in his little rich boy thoughts, most probably thinking of… her. Mending his clothes and washing his threadbare shirts.“We have no more provisions.” He doesn’t eat, just gathers ice and boils it to a melt and lets dried basil leaves or dried marigold petals infuse. Since the weather worsened, Merope discovered that they could make tea out of anything.“I beg you, do not doom us. We could go to my parents. It’s not far… Let’s go.” He doesn’t say let me go, she notices. But she can feel it ambling inside his skull – that sneaky thought. Let me go, you witch! There is power in resistance. Now that the vial’s empty, he’s bound to protest again, to keep her awake with his monologues on what is and isn’t fair. It is unfair, but if unfairness is a race, then Merope thinks she's won this one ten times over. She reckons his logic must hold but she cannot let go, not yet. He wants her to eat but he refuses to do the same, surviving only on the bitter, dark tea he makes himself. “You should eat something.” He checks the doors and the windows. He goes out and walks in circles inside the wards then he would chop whatever frozen edible he's foraged, and present the result of his cooking to her.And his voice would always get loud inside his head, allowing the echoes to escape and be heard by her Please let me go, he would say without actually speaking. But there is power in her resistance, the voices confirmed that. He should see it. Their child will be borne by the end of the year and Tom will come around then.It’s just a matter of time. But it’s a lie. His thoughts betray him and his care feels… imbued with falsity. His hands shake and his head hurts. He looks at the empty vial in the morning light, unstoppers it and inhales the remnants of its content. Merope knows. Tom loves the Amortentia more than he will ever love her. Whatever thoughts he’s getting now, whatever smells trigger his memory, she’s not among them. Then, he falls into frustration, tells her that he doesn’t love her and that it’s against nature what she did to him. When he takes her into his arms to warm her up she thinks that he will give up. If he doesn’t love her, then surely he could have turned a blind eye to her weakness or her hunger or her pain. He’s not entirely indifferent, so there must be a chance. If he doesn't love her today, he might live her tomorrow.He’s always by the fire, warming water, scrubbing this or drying that. And when he doesn’t shut up, he’s making sure she’s not freezing to death. “Fine! If you don’t want us to go to London to get help from my friends, then we can at least go to my parents! I am sure they will not reject you. Surely, they would not let us starve like dogs in the cold!” Us. As if Tom's parents would ever leave their son to suffer.Merope shakes her head. She doesn’t want those people staring at her or prodding her belly. She'll wait until the right time comes, after the heir's birth. “We cannot make it like this. Please let me go. Please, I beg you. We will need a doctor. How else am I supposed to help you when the time comes?”We. The words stick to her if thoughts like tendrils of a vine. There is still hope, even when anything else points to the opposite. How else does she explain the fact that she's alive? If he still speaks to her then he must care.If he can still touch her to help her on the makeshift bed near the fire, he must care.And where is care, there’s love to follow, isn't it so? It must matter that there is an odd sense of duty to his actions. It's more than she was given as a child.“I could go. I could get us money. Please let me help you, let me help us.”She smiles then. Her resistance is her strength. As long as she’s unmoving, he’ll cling to her and he will worry and where is worry there is the care and where is care, some form of twisted, crooked love must sprout. Duty is fine, duty is all she needs from him. If her mother had any sense of duty, she would have stayed, no matter the torment. She will never forgive her for leaving, for forsaking Marvolo's everyday abuse.And so, she is calm and she smiles at the thought of her ancestor blessing her. She did well.“We’ll die here!” Tom’s exasperated and for a moment Merope is afraid he might do the unthinkable. No, he won’t jump, but he will injure himself to death if he tries breaking through the wards again.The thought of him pretending to behave while not confined by the old Gaunt magic is terrifying. He will go, there will be no stopping him, and she cannot have that, not when she paid the price for it thrice over. He is upset. He cries but mostly he oscillates between pleading and deafening silence. Her Tom is even more gummies than she imagined. She halfway expects him to turn into a brute like her father would and make her do things she doesn’t want to. She's familiar with that, at least.There is some magic left in her to fight such violence, although she feels her son absorbing all of it like a black hole. Her hands and feet are always cold. She’s always hungry and thirsty, she’s always uncomfortable and she always has to relieve herself several times at night for fear of wetting the bed and him seeing her in all her misery. Washing is a luxury at the moment.Tom’s chosen this night, in particular, to poke questions at her. “What do you want from me? You cannot keep me here forever!”Oh, but she can, and she just might. She doesn't answer. Isn't it obvious. She wants and wanted him like a child would want a toy. Is there a better reason?His words made far cry that one time and the thoughts just don’t let her fall asleep anymore. He never said, “I hate you”.“I do not love you”. He says. “I will never love you or forgive you!” And Merope knows it’s the truth. He might not love her but it doesn't mean her could leave her. That's her hope.“You’re keeping me here against my will. I am not your prisoner!” And his words hurt more than anything she’s ever heard. They are civil enough yet cold and painfully scratching at old wounds. She hates them because she knows they’re the truth. She hates them because she knows it's what her mother said to her father.But if he doesn't push her away, he must love her, right?She tells herself that because it is easier to bear. She slips away one night when he’s fallen unconscious at the table, half from exhaustion, half from hunger. She pours the last dregs of the floo into the fire and she disappears with a flash of emerald green. She’s tried making some money before. She sold some things her mother’s owned. What good would they do her now? She needs bread and some butter and eggs. She needs a meal. Tom would surely appreciate one. She could always sell her gold wedding band but that’s her proof of their marriage, besides her enormous pregnant belly. And when the belly deflates and their child is born, she will look at the ring and say she did well. Her ancestors would be proud, even if their voices stayed silent these past couple of days.She looks at her wedding ring, clinging delicately to her knobby fingers. She didn’t dare ask Tom to give her his ring to sell. Did it even cross his mind?She never got the courage, even though she knew he would not complain. He made it clear that this marriage didn’t mean much to him, that he’s been tricked into it. The idea that he would just take the ring off without a second thought is enough to enrage her. He already said he didn’t love her. She doesn’t want it demonstrated as well.
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The locket hangs heavy at her neck. She’ll get it back; she tries calming herself. She’ll get it back with Tom’s money after their son is born. She’ll get it back and more. They’ll go and live at Riddle house and she will have her comforts then. Or he will get that house in London for both of them. What does it matter, anyway? He did not hurt her. Did not push her away. Did not make her give him the floo to run away through the dingy wizarding pub and into muggle London, he didn’t even protest when she clung to him to stop her shivers. If this isn’t a sign that she should keep her hope alive, what is?She has two sickles that she kept in her shoes, hidden for days like these. When she arrives at the Leaky Cauldron, she gets a hot plate and eats hurriedly. She mustn’t tarry too much in the dark. Knockturn is dangerous enough, she knows. But walking around Knockturn without a wand is even more so.She knows the shop from Emmeline. Borgin and Burke's shop is just about to get closed when Merope opens the door. She’s shaking already with both desperation and trepidation. She knows that if she does this one right, then there are chances, chances for them to sort this out. After all, it is just one big misunderstanding. He’ll see, he’ll come around.The clerk is about to protest but she insists. He’s a greedy sort of man, unctuous and barely able to hide his obsequiousness, always hunched over an artefact, his eyes darting hungrily over the glittering trinkets on display and easily identifying the new source of his profit. His frog-like eyes fix on Merope’s hands.“I need to sell something. A valuable.” Her voice is tremulous and frail and rings hollow in the vastness of the shop. When he's had enough of staring at the gleaming wedding band on her finger and the pouch that she's holding, his eyes move to assess her face. He doesn't even pretend to hide his repugnance.“This better not be a waste of my time.” He tells her and so, Merope hurries, moving past his poor treatment of her.“It was my mother’s,” Merope says, extracting the locket from a frayed velvet pouch.He takes it from her and inspects it into the light of his wand. He places it on the scales and counts something on paper. Merope cannot see. His writing is too small. He mumbles an incantation and the chain tenses as if a force pulls at its links.“Hmmm…” The man mutters. He casts several charms over the necklace and pokes the locket to see if it’s real gold, nonetheless.“This gold locket belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself it is worth a fortune.”The man frowns at her. “Sure it is, honey, sure it is…”Something doesn’t sit right with her, his voice is mocking, disparaging. Her bladder is protesting again and every step she’s taken so far has been painful when her feet have swollen in the confines of her lacy boots. “I will get it back and pay the interest, of course. I will come back with my husband.”The man returns with the locket in his hands after muttering something behind the heavy velvety curtain that hangs behind the front desk. He already has coins prepared for her and puts them on the counter. They gleam gold in the murky lamplight.Merope’s brows knit in disbelief. Only ten galleons? How is this possible!?“Do you have a certificate?”She shakes her head that no, she doesn’t. “Then the locket is a fake, my dear.” He says in consternation. “But I am generous enough. Ten is the most we can pay for the gold. Otherwise, it has no magical significance.”“You cannot do this! The locket’s been, my mother's! It belonged to Salazar himself!” her eyes snap to the ten gold coins and she feels like crying. “you cannot give me ten galleons! This is worth a thousand, by far!” at this, the man’s index traces the contours of one of the coins and pockets it.“Correct. I cannot give you ten galleons for this, I’ll give you nine.” His mouth contorts into an ugly grin and he’s leering at her. “Give it back!” she yells and makes a move to grab the locket but the man is faster. “The transaction’s over, lassie.” He laughs triumphantly at her distress. “Give it back! That is Salazar's locket!”“Yes, yes, yes… and I am Merlin’s bastard son.” He continued mocking her. “Take the nine galleons or leave empty-handed, girlie. It doesn’t matter to me.”She wants to protest. It isn’t fair! This was her mother’s and it belonged to Salazar himself.“And we’re closed so you better get out the door now!”And the pain and the distress are enough for Merope to take the money, promising herself she will return to retrieve the locket once they’re well enough and throwing curses at the odious Mr. Burke.She exits the shop and the door thuds against her back as it locks and the lights extinguish. She’s walking the coiled and abrupt turns of Knockturn, palming at the stone walls through the darkness. Did she lose her way? She doesn’t think so. She remembers the lights being stronger and makes her way towards a lamppost. The wind is howling and the cold is infiltrating into her bones, making them ache. She clutches the small pouch with the coins as if it’s her lifeline. She must go back but she can barely move. She feels dizzy all of a sudden and tries to slide to the floor as gently as possible with a big belly in the way. Her son is kicking. The pressure is unbearable and she can barely hold her bladder in control. She chances a couple more steps away from the howling wind. Her belly aches. She needs her unborn son to calm down so she rests her head on the cold wall. She tries speaking to him, hissing something reassuring but it’s in vain. What is happening to her? The swish of a cloak wakes her from her state. But Merope cannot see very well. It’s so dark and so cold and wet!She jerks and tries pushing away with her swaddled hands at what she thinks is her assailant. All she hits is empty air.Cold – it’s cold that makes her quake and fall again to the ground. Then she’s jerked into the metal lamppost by brute force. What is happening?“Help!” She manages to croak when she senses someone trying to divest her of her possessions. She clutches with all her might. “Somebody, help!” But the same blunt force hits her right in the face and Merope gives up falling over weakly, surrounded by darkness and pain and something warm that trickles from her forehead. Blood.Merope jerks awake and looks at her surroundings, it’s already breaking down. She wakes up to the faces of a couple of patrolling Aurors. They blink and frown at her but make no move to help her up. “Ma’am, you alright?” One of them asks poking at her with the tip of his wand as if Merope’s a kind of animal and not human like they are.“Wha’?” She’s disoriented enough to reply and only when she notices who they are does she make a move to get away from them. To her, it’s almost instinctual, this reaction. Whenever she sees Aurors, she knows that something’s bound to go not so well. She pushes away as the other tries to help her up.“For Merlin’s sake, woman!” he mutters. “You were passed out at the entrance of Knockturn! Are you all right?”She looks wildly at them and tries her best to muffle her scream. She doesn’t like Aurors. She must get away from them. Blood rushes to her head and from fear, she can barely hold herself and goes right there. Warm piss trickles down her leg, leaving an ever-growing wet patch to appear on the front of her skirt.The Auror recoils in disgust.“Uggh! Did she…?”“Bertie, let her go. Must be another passed out after nursing a bottle! Just look at her!” The other intervenes. “Knockturn scum.”Merope’s up on her feet and wading through the snow with difficulty. She’s not a drunk. She knows this. She would never touch the stuff, not like her father or her brother. She is ashamed for having pissed herself in front of those men, though. She couldn’t help it. Her unborn is pushing onto her bladder with all his tiny force. Merope’s skeletal body can barely steer to escape the wind.People are starting to break into Diagon, opening their shops and preparing for another day of work. She clutches her belly trying to hold herself upright and when her other hand fumbles through her pockets, she realizes that her money pouch is missing. No! This can’t be happening. Who? Why? she looks around herself and tries to shovel the snow with her foot. “No! No! No!” she bawls, running again towards the spot she left minutes ago. Witches and wizards start swarming the alley. A woman whose business is selling hats and gloves at the junction of Knockturn and Diagon sees her and approaches her with a concerned look on her face. Merope is wary of strangers. They never bring any good with them but she’s distressed enough that she lets herself be swayed to the front of her porch.“What’s got ye cryin’ lassie?” Then she notices her belly. “Something's up with the lil’un?” Merope shakes her head. She finds it difficult to speak. It’s all the hiccups and the snot liberally coating half of her face.“M-my coins are gone! Someone stole my money!” She wails. It only got her a pat on the back from the woman and a mug of hot tea with several cubes of sugar in it but Merope could barely taste it. The woman shouted at someone in the back of her shop and fearfully, Merope almost dropped the cup.“Peter!” She yelled. “Help this lassie to the pub there. Get her something to eat. She’s ready to burst, this one!”Merope expected a burly man but instead, Peter was a child no taller than her hip. “Here, boy!” The woman handed Peter a couple of sickles, probably not trusting Merope’s trembling fingers to hold onto anything. “Take the lassie to the Leaky and return soon!” The boy looks at his mother with intelligent eyes and just nods a couple of times in understanding. He then turns to her and makes a beckoning gesture.Merope followed the boy back into the pub and took her usual place in a dark corner by the fire. Plates were flying over her head for the few early customers. “Get something to eat, Ma’am!” the boy told her in a shaky voice and Merope nodded, trying her best to get herself under control. Peter placed the coins on the table for her and with a shy wave ran back through the opening in the pub’s wall. Instead of a flying plate, one of the serving girls came by and brought Merope a full breakfast.“You don’t look all right at all…” She said softly to Merope. “I’ve been watching you coming here for a while with that man of yours. Why aren’t you with him this time?” But Merope shook her head and tried to make her tears stop pouring from her reddened, dry eyes. She was hungry, yes but the cold was tormenting her and the embarrassing state of her clothes only added insult to injury.“Look at you, poor thing!” The girl’s face contorts with pity and she casts a scourgify on her dress and a warming spell on Merope. “Here, drink this, it will warm you up! Oh, poor thing!”The pressure in her abdomen is back with a vengeance after she downed the last dregs of the warm tea. She clings to the girl and uses her body to get up from the table. The urge is strong and if she doesn’t make it in time to a bathroom, she is afraid she might go right here in front of the Leaky Cauldron’s customers.“S-sorry” Merope mutters. “I need to go and…” She could barely finish that the girl helped her up. “Oh, it’s quite alright. Here, let me help you. You must be due soon by the looks of it.” Alone in the cold bathroom, Merope weighed the girl’s words. She must be due soon – she never thought of it – well, she did but she didn’t like thinking of it too much, she avoided it and judging by the pine and holly wreaths that adorn the doors, it’s past Yule anyways. Of course, she looked down at her belly after she washed her hands. She has to give birth, somehow. What was she thinking, that her life would continue like that indefinitely?The girl is waiting for her at the exit.“I put a stasis spell on yer food so it won’t get cold.” She walked her to her seat and cast another warming spell, this time on the chair and table. “Go on, eat! It’s good for the baby!”“It’s not much, but it can’t be comfortable being cold, especially in your condition.”Her condition… Merope frowned. No, comfortable it was not. She half expected the girl to leave her be but the girl insisted she was on a break and instead of wandering off to stare at someone else, she directed all her nosiness towards Merope's “condition”. “Why aren’t you with your man? He must be worried a great deal about you!”“He’s not my man,” Merope snaps. What does this girl know anyways? “Of course, he is, look” – she takes her left hand and uncurls her frozen fingers – “he married you so he must care for you, and he is so handsome!”Yes, handsome. The girl’s remark has the opposite effect but Merope tries to ignore her by shovelling food into her mouth.“Did somethin’ bad happen?” Merope doesn’t want to speak anymore, not about these things, anyway. Living them is painful enough. Why should she talk about them as well?He doesn’t love me – why should she say it out loud? She already knows it, she had to listen to Tom repeat it over and over again. Merope eats and just tries to think of what she should do next but her brain's a fog thicker than the London smog.“Oh, come on woman! He must have cared for you, otherwise, why would he marry someone – she stops herself in time –”She knows what the girl wanted to say but doesn’t. Why else would someone like Tom marry someone like her? Why indeed? Without the Amortentia, there is no possible explanation, especially in the eyes of the likes of her, and in the eyes of the muggles that Tom interacted with. There is… nothing. And that is enough for Merope because if there is nothing, then she doesn’t want it anymore. If there is nothing, she will take nothing. She was lost in thought when the girl’s been chatting her mouth off so far. It’s new year’s eve. She can’t believe it.“…but you can stay here and I’ll see about giving you a meal once in a while.”“Give me a meal?” She asked, dumbstruck. “Why? Because you pity me?” As soiled as she is, Merope cleans her hands and mouth with a paper tissue and pushes the girl away. She doesn’t need anyone’s pity, they’ll see.“Then don’t show yer face ‘ere again, hag! ‘tis the last time I’ll give yer somethin’ for free!” The girl hurls after Merope. Several customers throw her dirty looks. Someone drops cutlery on the floor. A crup begins barking only to be silenced by its owner.She doesn’t need them to stare and point fingers at her. She doesn’t need them to remind her. She knows it better than anyone else. Soiled, ugly, dirty, uneducated, slow… pregnant, married to a muggle. Pregnant… alone, she steps into muggle London to be greeted by snow and mud and hurrying carriages and the metal monstrosities on wheels that Tom is so fond of. Cars, he calls them.
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She remembers bits and pieces from her quests with Tom on the streets of London. She cannot hail a cab or a carriage as she doesn’t have enough money, just what the boy, Peter, left on the Leaky’s table for her. Even so, she would need muggle money and that, she doesn’t have at all. The streets are swarming with people – muggles, she tells herself. It’s early morning and they seem just as busy as the witches and wizards in Diagon. Opening shops, cleaning the fronts of their businesses, bargaining and shouting and cheering and fighting. Not so different, after all.
A group of children singing in the streets. Someone threatening from a window that they will spill their chamber pot over them if they don’t stop. Someone else threatened the other person with punches.
It was a conglomerate of cars and trams and busses but here and there Merope could spot a horse with a buggy. She was careful to walk on the sideline so that a tram coming at great velocity from the other direction would not intersect with her. Someone pulled briskly on her arm and dragged her from the carriageway and into the pavement.
“If you want to off yourself, don’t do it in the streets!” The woman’s pace was brisk as she was carrying what Merope surmised to be provisions in a basket. For several moments she followed the direction of the woman who seemed to know very well where to go.
The more she walks, the warmer she feels since the weather betrays more snow and wind to come. The streets are specked with a mixture of snow and mud, the smells not so different from those of the wizarding streets and there are people here whose job is shovelling the snow and clearing the mud. Tall and elegant buildings and then assortments of the complete opposite, testaments of squalor and poverty rise from the same murky paving. Muggles dressed elegantly, very much as Tom used to walk next to others who extend hands to receive alms. An old muggle woman with an over-powdered face that makes her look deathly pale and an enormous hat spares several small coins to a pair of dirty, ragged children but she sidesteps Merope as she makes her way to a carriage. She wonders, then, if she would receive some if only she would extend her arm and open her palm and probably smile or keep her head bowed.
If she were a muggle, there are high chances this would have been her fate. He called her tramp, she still remembers. Maybe she should act like one but Merope’s pride doesn’t allow it.
She finds a park and it’s not so bad the weather. It stopped snowing hours ago and it settled more like a blanket over everything else. The muggles who shovel it make their appearance at the park as well but ignore Merope and continue their work. She has to move and fast. Staying for too long in one place means she will start feeling the weather. And so, she walks and walks and walks until she cannot anymore.
She’s tired out of her mind, her feet are swollen in her ankle boots, the hem of her long dress is dragging like a wet shaggy tail through the snow, her coat and cloak are insufficient to ward the low temperatures from being felt on her skin. Soon, she starts shivering and her jaw shakes uncontrollably. She covers her head with the shawl that rested on her shoulders and wishes she had mittens. She’s glad that at least her boots are in order, otherwise, her feet would be wet and frozen as well.
She’s hungry again. And thirsty and needs the bathroom. She wonders aimlessly in search of a spot only to realize she’s lost. From time to time, her unborn kicks. The force of his movements make Merope halt and double down. Something is happening to her. Some sort of fever followed by an intense freezing sensation. A man with a strange hat and uniform rounds on her and direct her to King’s Road.
“Destitute?” He asks. Merope simply nods her head. She’s destitute by choice, f he cares to ask her but she doesn’t let that slip. She could get back to the Leaky and then floo back to the shack but his words ring hollow in her ears I do not love you, how could I? How could anyone? And she realizes she prefers the streets of muggle London to his tone and accusatory glances. Perhaps she’s punishing him, perhaps, she thinks. Perhaps he deserves to be punished.
The policeman walked with her until they reached a queue of people dressed very much like her: neglected, tattered clothes and rags. Men, women and children, all clamouring for a bowl of warm soup.
“Pea soup’s done. Lentil soup’s next and mash and sausages!” Yells a woman from behind a glass stand, her white bonnet plopped ungracefully on her head from all the steam. This seems to invite everyone to push further into each other.
“Not enough for seconds!” Yells the cook.
“Order! Order!” And then the sound of a whistle breaks through Merope’s eardrums. Her head hurts and her sides hurt, the dirty desperate muggles forgetting for a moment that she’s pregnant. They excuse themselves after looking strangely at her belly. Some take it upon themselves to protect her from being pushed and elbowed so Merope reaches the stand safely and she’s presented with a metal tray containing two metal plates, one with a slop that she surmises it’s the soup, another with two linked sausages and a blob of mash.
“On the house,” The pimply young man who serves them food places a bun on her tray. “Next!” He shouts, and Merope is terrified for a second, not knowing where to turn. There are so many of them.
“That way!” Someone directs her to a set of tables.She barely gets through the soup that her belly starts hurting. The pain is terrible and she can barely sit without feeling her insides being clawed at. Her whole body starts shaking and the pain and nausea come in waves. She walks away from the table only to realize that the second she turns, someone else has taken her place and her portion. She could do with that. There’s a terrible sensation that she needs to relieve herself. She walks and walks, one hand on her lower back, another on her bulging belly. She thinks she knows what’s happening.
It is happening. There is no speed to her shuffling about, she’s tired and upset, she would give anything to be able to sit in a warm bed now and not feel any pain. She wishes her mother or someone, anyone, would have taught her about it. How did Emmeline do it? She’s heard it was painful but she never imagined that birthing a child would be on par with an extended Cruciatus session at the tip of her angry father’s wand.
No, this is worse than Cruciatus. There’s no Finite Incantatem here. She needs help and briefly thinks of Tom. He was right, perhaps a doctor would have been useful, perhaps a warm room… but no, she cannot think of that. She’ll have her son and then he would have no choice but to love her as is her right. If he doesn’t love her as a wife, she’s fine with him being around her out of duty. Sometimes, she remembers, duty is stronger than love. It’s what made their mother stay for seven more years when she could have run away right after she gave birth to Merope and then run away.
Or maybe she couldn’t? Maybe… Merope doesn’t want to think of that. She’s not here, is she?
She gasps and breathes in short bursts. It’s always better when she breathes in and the faster she does it, the less aware her body becomes of the pain. She can barely stand so she leans on the iron wrought fence hoping that they will pass soon. But will they?
What does she know, anyway? Once it’s started, this might not end until she births. In an hour or so, it darkens and Merope just curls into herself, supported by the fence, moaning unintelligibly. Her cloak is wet. She doesn’t know how that happens. Did she? She blindly checks between her legs and there’s wetness she doesn’t recognize. She all but hopes it isn’t blood. Passersby are rare at this point and Merope wishes she chose a more populated area than this back alley spot. She tries in vain to get on her feet, she bawls and cries for help. This is it, she realizes. There’s no going back. Her bawls and screams must have alerted someone. A large black dog is scurrying about next to some trashcans and she’s afraid it’s coming towards her. She tries to muffle her moans of pain. The dog’s being called and faithfully follows his master, a derelict looking man who’s now looking at Merope but doesn’t move to her side of the road.
He wouldn’t dare, Merope thinks. The man, however, takes some time to decide what should be done and rapidly crosses the empty foggy street.“You in a spot of bother, then?" He asks her, voice gruff and tone betraying concern. “Wha’ happened, lassie?” Merope’s on the floor now, body contorting slightly. She’s cold and then this pain comes straight through her bowels, plunging through her insides, the wetness spreading further down her legs. The old man looks scared and his dog starts barking at Merope’s distress.
It doesn’t take another pair of eyes to notice she’s pregnant and probably ready to give birth here on the pavement.
“Bob, don't bother the lassie.” The man turns and speaks to the dog and the animal seems to understand him enough that it ceases his alarmed barking. “Lassie, stay right ‘ere,” he urges as if Merope’s in any capacity to move right now. She moans now, louder because the pain became unbearable.
She hears the old man shuffling through the snow and shaking the large iron gate open. The gate creaks lugubriously and Merope's left alone in the foggy darkness with a large black dog for company. The dog whines at her feet, sensing her distress but unable to do anything to alleviate it.She used to hate such animals. Their smell, their sounds, their wet and curious noses. She never understood them. Whatever was warm-blooded in the forest except for wolves and foxes could be considered a meal. As long as warm blood flowed through their veins, Merope could never see them as good for anything else. Now she understands. The dog keeps her company, his ears alert to the noises of the creatures of the night, his haunches ready to pounce if any danger comes any closer to them.
She moans and Bob the dog whines. It’s a sort of sympathy that never managed to touch her except now, when she’s down on a wet and dirty floor, ready to burst open.
“Mister Peggotty, you better not have lied about her needin’ help! Not another drunk on my watch, you better!”
“When have I lied about such things, Millie? Poor lassie’s gonna give birth on the pavement if we don’t help her.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The girl approaches with sure steps and immediately checks on Merope.
“Oh Lord!” she shouts. “Mister Peggotty! She’s pregnant!” Her hands are warm on Merope’s cheek.
“Lassie, Lassie…” she shakes her a bit. Merope lets out a moan of pain. Her thin, warm hand searches for something and rests on her bump. To Merope, it’s hot like fire her touch. There's a stray thought reminding her that a filthy muggle woman touches her but she’s too weak to bat her hand away. “It’s begun.”
“Do-rie!” She shouts as loud as her tiny frame allows it. “Hurry, Mister Peggottty, bring Dorrit to me. We need to get this one inside and you’re too old and not that strong anyway.” The old man doesn’t challenge her, he takes his dog through the snow and enters through the iron gate. Merope’s eyes land on a spot. There is a garden, a garden and trees, all under a blanket of snow.
“When did your water break?” She’s being asked. She doesn’t really understand. What water? She vaguely shakes her head but the woman doesn’t let go. Her warm arms try to hoist Merope up.
“Oh, you’re heavy but not that heavy.” She mutters, straining to sustain Merope apparently. There are more voices and a lantern, blinding her. Bob the dog barks as if he found something and runs towards them, tail wagging.
“Get her, come get her!” Millie says. Merope feels multiple hands on her. She’s hoisted away and directed through the gates. The lantern’s light pierces through the smog like a knife.
“You’re alright, you’re safe here, girl.” The other woman, Dorrit whispers to Merope but Merope has little faith in such words. She’s dragged into a lit hallway. It’s so bright her eyes hurt. Her head lolls to a side and all she sees is the white and black tiles of the floor. So clean, she thinks. These muggles have clean floors. What strange thoughts percolate her foggy mind!
“What’s this ruckus, girls?” A sharp voice breaks through. It catches Merope's eyes. There’s a clacking sound accompanying the woman’s footsteps.
“Mrs Cole!” Millie begins.
“You should have been with the children!” The other woman shouts at her. “It’s New Year’s Eve, and you left them alone in the dining hall! How could you?”
“But she’s pregnant, Mrs Cole” Dorrit interferes.
Mrs Cole’s upset permeates the warm air of the hallway and Merope can do nothing except moan and shake. She’s extremely uncomfortable.
“We better hurry then.” Mrs Cole decides. Follow me into the infirmary. They seat Merope in one of the beds and at last, she can rest her feet. She curls to one side to moan pitifully.
“Dorrit, go get me a bucket of hot water. Millie, we need clean sheets and a set of metal basins. Mr Peggotty…” Mrs Cole stops. “Oh, Mr Peggotty… “ She frowns at the state of the man. “Go tell Cook to watch over the children and put them to bed let old Mrs Wool tell them a story, close the doors behind you so they don’t get scared by the ruckus.” Dorrit and Millie were off to their tasks already. “And then, I need you to go two streets from here at number 17 and get me the midwife. Tell her I called her and that it’s urgent.”
“Urgent.” The man mutters and leaves them alone.
Mrs Cole tends to her as best as she can, disrobes Merope of her wet and dirty cloak, takes her shoes off. Millie cleans her genitals diligently with warm water and a bit of soap. The girl tries to hide her disgust at the smell Merope emanates and Dorrit puts over her body an overly large nightgown and blanket and whispers sweet, meaningless words like “All will be right. Just you wait and you’ll get it out.” Mrs Cole supervises them and instead of worrying over Merope, walks up and down the infirmary’s hall, her footsteps echoing on the stone. She absentmindedly checks on the radiators and has a pleased look on her face when she doesn’t shudder with cold.
Any minute now, she tells them.
Soon enough, Merope has to uncurl from her position because she cannot stay reclined on the bed anymore. Her back is killing her, her legs are shaky but Millie and Dorrit help her up on her feet so she can at least prop her arms on the bed table for support and breathe. She’s dripping with sweat and stickiness by now.
Millie’s chanting her usual encouragements and when another contraction wrecks through Merope, the midwife appears. She cleans her hands with hot water and a strong, alcoholic smell erupts into the air.
“Hot water?”
“Here!” says Dorrit.
“You cleaned her down there?”
“Yes, madam!”
“I see you have clean towels and sheets, very well!”
She cleans her hands up to her elbows in one of the basins, changes her robe into an all-white ensemble, dons a modest white bonnet and a mask then dabs her hands with a strange solution that fills the room with its pungent smell.
"Who will be helping me?" She inquires. Millie raises a hand and Dorrit nods her head. "Put on these aprons, wash your hands, take these masks and cover your mouths and noses. We're bringing babies in the world, we need to be clean!"
She then hands them a brown bottle with a cap.
“Iodine. We don’t want an infection, now, do we?” Merope realizes she’s talking to her and nods her head because she doesn’t know what an infection is.
“Good girl!” The woman praises Merope and she feels strangely compelled to gain her approval. “Lamp!’ She demands. Merope sees Mrs Cole hurrying along with a lamp. Behind her sits Dorrit who is surprisingly gentle and gathers Merope’s long hair and quickly braiding and tying it away from her face.
Elizabeth then directs the girls to help position her at the end of the bed. Merope feels awkward and strangely shy when she asks them to lift her shift and part her thighs.
"Lower." Instructs the midwife.
The whole thing terrifies her.
The midwife's eyes fleet from between Merope's legs to her face. “Oh good Lord!” She whispers. “Not easy on the eyes, are we?!” It’s not meant as an insult but it increases Merope’s anxiety.
“Don’t tease the poor girl, Elizabeth. This might not be her doing, for all we know. She's not the first, she might not be the last. Some men are animals and you and I know better than to blame this girl.”
“I gathered as much.” Says Elizabeth, the midwife, as she grabs Merope's thighs to keep them apart.
“You do as I say, girl. Trust me, that I've done this so many times and every baby and mother were hale and happy about it. How old are you anyway?”
“N-nineteen.” Merope gasps.
“Name?”
“Merope.”
“Merope?” Mrs Cole asks behind her. “Meh-ro-pee?”
“Yes.”
“Family name?”
Only then she notices the woman behind her writing something in a ledger.
“What is your family name, Merope?”
“Gaunt.” She whispers and hears Mrs Cole scratching something and then thinks better of it when Mrs Cole asks if it's Gaunt as in
thin
.
“No, not Gaunt anymore, I’m Merope Riddle.” She pants out. “Riddle.” She says again. “I’m married to Tom Riddle.”
“You’re married!?” The midwife asks in disbelief. "Then what are you doin' in here, at this orphanage, by yourself?"
Mrs Cole cuts off the midwife.
"Lizzie, enough!"
The midwife pulls Merope's pelvis downwards and stabilizes her legs, each on a chair. "Don't you hush me now, Clara... She should hear it from my mouth. When a man's pleasure comes at the expense of a woman's pain... It makes you wonder where he is now, this Riddle man that you claims is your husband."
"I am married. We married in a muggle building here in London. I-I signed my name!" They have to believe her.
This whole argument makes Merope ill. She wants her to shut up but it's a good thing Millie intervenes.
“Look, Ma’am, her ring. Don't say she's lying, please.”
The midwife grows silent, then. Merope hears a grandfather clock striking in the created silence. Ten strikes.
"We'll check with the civil registry, don't worry," Mrs Cole assures Merope.
Millie sweeps a towel over her perspiring forehead.
"I'll make the rounds," Dorrit offers.
“Merope Riddle.” Mrs Cole scratches again on the paper and whispers the name as if she’s trying to recall something. “Where’s your husband, then? This… Riddle man?”
But Merope doesn’t have time to answer as another contraction begins.
“No more dawdling!” says the midwife. “Time to push, Merope!” And she does that. It’s uncomfortable, painful and degrading, having some stranger’s face between your thighs.
The rest of the hour is spent moaning and following orders to push and breathe. By the time the clock strikes eleven times, Merope's body decided to give up any control over its functions.
She feels exhausted, unable to continue. They come and go with more hot water, more towels, more sheets. Millie pleads with her to drink some water, then dabs at her forehead.
"It's going to be alright, you'll see."
The midwife mellows a bit and her upset with Merope's strange marital situation seems to vanish.
Lizzie, the midwife is relentless. "It's going well, the fetus is in position, she's dilated enough."
"Push, don't think about it, Merope!" The midwife encourages her when Merope feels something else some out of her after all the pushing.
"Nevermind, we have enough water and soap here!" She scrunches her nose at the smell and demands for Dorrit to clean Merope up.
It embarrasses her, how she could do this in front of Lizzie but she's put at ease when Lizzie pats her thighs and praises her more.
"Good girl! Don't worry!" She feels so exposed, her nerve endings fried from the pain. She howls freely now when she's not biting into the towel that Millie hold for her. Everyone encourages her to push and they tell her when to breathe. She then feels it, ripping through her. It's enough to make her faint.
"There you go! There! Good girl!" Elizabeth, the midwife palms her belly, directing things downwards. "I need one last push from you. You can do it!"
So she does and it takes everything from her. She wants it all to end.
"You're doing so well!"
She's doing well, isn't she? She can barely keep her eyes closed. The pain was overwhelming and now she can barely feel her body.
"Hurry, Dorie! Towel" Mrs Cole urges. Between Merope's legs, something's happening. She's cleaved apart and torn inside and there's the sound of something slippery being pulled from inside her. She hears a faint cry.
"Perfect!" Elizabeth, the midwife declares. Merope can feel a spark of happiness. Her son - perfect. "My scissors and the antiseptic. Now!"
"Millie, take him and clean this little one up!" Elizabeth advises. "Be gentle." Then: "Hour?"
"A quarter to midnight." Says Dorrit.
Mrs Cole's face appears closer than usual.
"You have a healthy baby boy, Merope. Congratulations! You did so well!"
"That she did," mutters Elizabeth from between her legs. "Hurry, Millie, we got ourselves a situation here." Her voice is gruff but Merope's not worried. She's beyond any care now. All she wants is to shut her eyes and sleep. Not feel, not think, not be. He's perfect. She can imagine all their faces, all their ugly faces contorted even more with jealousy that something perfect and healthy has sprung out of her, a Gaunt. Merope, whom they called a squib and blamed for their failing, have beaten and spat upon.
"Give me another towel. God is she bleeding!" She does feel cold now, so very cold. She might be bleeding, she can feel it trickling rapidly down her thighs. She feels Elizabeth dabbing at her gash and she feels raw and more exposed than before.
"No, no, no... Don't close your legs, I need to clean you up a bit and stop this bleeding at once." That sharp smell Merope learned was antiseptic is being dabbed in between her legs. It clashes horribly with the metallic smell of blood.
"She's ruptured here, poor thing." Elizabeth relays to Mrs Cole in a hushed tone but no matter how silent they try to be, Merope hears them. "Millie!" Elizabeth shouts then whispers something.
"I'll get the doctor, then." Millie's voice.
"And hurry!"
"More towels?"
"The cupboard in the other room. Be careful with the ladder!" Mrs Cole advises.
She hears hurried footsteps. Then silence. Someone shakes her awake. It's Mrs Cole looing at her with gentle eyes, full of sympathy.
She has her son in her arms, a small restless bundle that coos and cries and babbles. The clock begins to chime. One, two, three... eleven, twelve strikes.
"Happy New Year." Says Dorrit who wipes her forehead still and Merope has to agree that yes, he is the most beautiful thing. His eyes are alright, he seems to have five fingers on each of his hands, her baby even smiles.
"How do we name him, Merope?" Mrs Cole smiles.
"Tom, like his father." Merope rasps. She feels hot and heavy all of a sudden. She can barely coordinate her limbs to hold him to her chest.
"A good name for a good boy," Mrs Cole concludes.
Dorrit smiles encouragingly. She looks proud of Merope as she places more towels under her and covers her with a warm blanket.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle is his name," Merope reveals and Mrs Cole's eyebrow rises imperceptibly but she writes it in her heavy ledger.
"Marvolo... Riddle..." She recites as if to get a confirmation but Merope doesn't reply. Mrs Cole gets closer.
"Merope?" She shakes her shoulder. "Merope?" Then. "Lizzie, she's getting colder!" A clatter, steps, noise, hands, her baby wailing. But all she wants is the warm embrace and calmness of darkness so she closes her eyes.