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The bruising on her neck had not faded, unbearably tender every time she grazed it, the marks from the chain of her locket creating a constant discomfort. Leaning over the dolly tub, the washboard submerged in the water that never seemed sudsy enough, she roughly rubbed the threadbare trousers with harsh chemicals, causing her raw fingers to sting even more.
She had spent the day before boiling the linens as best she could, her spellwork erratic as she tried to heat the water, her brother’s voice taunting her from behind. She couldn’t understand why, instead of mocking her, instead of chasing snakes around, instead of tormenting the Muggles from the village, he couldn’t just help her. He did nothing around the dilapidated shack except complain.
However, the few times she had approached the topic, her father had told her that her place was to be useful, seeing as she had not inherited any of their family’s ‘gift.’ And to ensure she understood, he would backhand her, causing her lip to bleed, her teeth to rattle, and give her more tasks around the house.
She had tried. She had worked so hard to control her magic. But the slaps, the knocks upside the head, the pushing, and dragging, and the unending taunting when she made errors seemed to force her magic away further. Somedays, her wand would barely emit a spark. Others, it would make the windows pulsate, and the walls shiver.
Leaning back, she ran her hand across her forehead, catching the glint of her locket in the sun.
“Ms Gaunt?”
She started. No one ever spoke to her. Not this politely. Her hand immediately went to her wand.
“Now, please. I am here on behalf of the Ministry.”
Glancing over, she saw Mr Ogden, the Ministry official who had visited only a couple of days prior. Today, however, he was not dressed in his approximation of Muggle clothing, which, even despite her own sheltered upbringing, she could see was very off on that fated call to her home when he wore a coat and bathing costume. Instead, he was in dark blue robes with the word “Auror” stitched on them.
A Ministry man. The lowest of the low without being a Mudblood or a Muggle.
She stood and began walking towards the shack, the trees casting eerie shadows over the tiny place.
“Ms Gaunt. Please.” She could hear the footsteps behind her. “I am here because people keep getting hurt. The Muggles in the village are constantly being hexed and harmed by your brother. And your father may not play such childish games, but he has far worse crimes pinned against his name. I need your help.”
Help.
The word was one filled with expectation. Her father always framed what she did around the house as help. Cooking was helping. Laundry was helping. Cleaning was helping. Hiding evidence of her father’s crimes was helping. Burying bodies and planting evidence and stitching up her family members was helping.
When men asked for help, they took without giving back.
“And maybe I can help you too.”
As she approached the shack– she knew that both of her family members were off in the village tormenting more Muggles– she wasn’t going to stop until she was inside, but her steps ceased at his words.
Ogden’s voice was steady, sure, unlike the way it was when he had accosted them not many days before and been chased out of their home.
“If you help me, I can give you freedom from your family. They would be gone, at least for a little while. Please, Ms Gaunt. I know you’ve done nothing wrong. But your family is dangerous.”
Gone. For a little while. A part of her- the part of her that had been trained through hands held close to flames, that was held to the insistent conditioning that the Ministry was wrong, that had it impressed upon her that only the heirs of Slytherin were correct in their actions- hesitated.
Who was she without her father and brother? Only an unattractive girl with erratic magic and no one who cared for her.
She shook her head, the lank strands falling into her face. Ever since she had been bashed over the head by an old music box, she hadn’t been able to see as well, her eyes facing in two different directions, making the door a blur. The number of times she had been reminded that she was not only an inferior witch– ‘basically a squib’- and that her looks were repellent was too numerous to count.
And they insisted no one but her family would want her.
She strode forward more surely, and then Ogden said something that made her stop again.
“Ms Gaunt, you could do what you want if you weren’t beholden to your family. I saw how they treated you...I could help. Let me help.”
She turned, surveying the Auror behind her. He seemed sincere. But she knew it was an exchange. Nothing in her life existed without conditions.
But thoughts of her brother. Of her father. It filled her with fury. She knew she was to be loyal to her family. She knew she was in Salazar Slytherin's noble line. That Ministry workers were nothing more than upjumped Mudbloods, tainting their pureblood magic.
But thoughts of Morfin’s taunts, of calling her hideous, of reading her journal and attacking the Muggles down the road stopped her from stomping inside.
And her father’s fists. His harsh commands. His threats to exile her to where she had no money, no home, and put her with the unwanted squibs thwarted her from leaving.
But, mostly, in the deepest recesses of her mind, there lie fantasies where she could one day, maybe, find something to be happier for than herself.
“What do you want t’know?”
****
She was planting roses. The Gaunt house was finally beginning to look like a home. The trees and hedges were trimmed back. The permanent layer of grime that seemed to set upon it was less prominent. And there were no snakes pinned to the door.
She liked snakes. She had no idea why her brother wanted to hurt them.
Her grey skirt was in the mud, but she didn’t mind. For once, the itchy fabric of the coarse garment didn’t bother her. She loosened the button of her white shirt, the heat making her drip with sweat. Pushing a strand of clean hair back from her forehead, she couldn’t help but smile.
In the days after her family’s incarceration, she had been distraught. She didn’t know how to function without their demands, without their chores, without their insistence that she be at their beck and call. But then…she began to come out of it, to leave the fog that had been cast over her mind by Morfin and Marvolo.
And her magic began to flourish. The first thing she did was fix her eyes. Where they had once pointed in opposite directions due to an injury, she used her magic to align them forward once again, a simple spell she had read about in a book about magical mishaps and ways to fix them. Being able to see properly was a blessing she hadn’t been afforded in years. Then she began to use her magic for chores. The house was spotless. The floors were clean. The area surrounding her was, for once, cosy and not a den of filth.
However, even amongst the positivity, her family’s legacy tainted her existence– she had begun to assess their vaults. And the Gaunts were more destitute than she had once believed. Her father had spent most of the family fortune, one that had spanned millennia, on gambling and bad investments. Her brother had spent more on whoring and booze.
And she was left with a pittance.
But today, she would focus on the flowers.
Patting down the rich earth, she waved her wand surreptitiously, “Aguamenti.”
She grinned as the spell came out easily, the water soaking the earth, and then stowed away her wand. The heat was still sweltering, so she undid another button. The top of her rayon chemise showed, as did a hint of her ample cleavage. But the day was too miserable for anyone to come near their shack, and it was mostly out of the way unless one was going to the Riddle house, so her impropriety mattered very little.
Thirty minutes later, she felt gooseflesh erupt.
Someone was watching her. Years of avoiding her family's gaze had taught her to sense when someone was staring or noticing her presence.
She stood slowly, turning to see who was near her when she had spent so many months alone.
Her breath hitched as she made eye contact with the person looming over her.
There he stood. The man whom she normally waited by the window for and watched go by. Either atop his horse or walking. Normally, he had his beautiful paramour beside him, the girl talking in high-pitched squeals to the man who stood before her.
But he was completely alone today.
She couldn’t help the way she stared at this masterpiece of a man. Dark, wavy hair, almost as black as the adornments on her locket. He had a light tan, obviously from these daily sojourns between Great Hangleton and his home. He was tall and lean, a pair of expensive light-blue trousers fitted over his long legs, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up, revealing stronger-than-expected forearms, and his jacket draped over one casually. He was obviously trying to beat the summer heat with the light linens, but the sweat on his skin made him glisten slightly.
Giving her a polite smile, full pink lips quirking and revealing a dimple in his cheek, the heir to the Riddle family offered courteously, “Ms Gaunt, I presume.”
Immediately, heat rushed to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun beating down upon her. His voice was a rich baritone, and he sounded nothing like the accents of either her father or brother. It wasn’t even close to the ones of the men they would sometimes occasionally come upon in town. It was posh, almost otherworldly, and she could imagine him dining with royals in London when she heard it.
And the flush only increased, spreading to her neck and her chest, as his eyes raked over her, quickly scanning her face before slowly working their way down her body. He seemed to linger longest where she had undone the buttons to stave off the heat. Her fingers quickly travelled up to regain some of her modesty.
“Do you not speak? I have no quarrel with you, Ms Gaunt. And I have not seen your…family members in quite some time.”
Her head unwittingly lowered. No one ever spoke to her or asked for answers. What was she supposed to say?
“They aren’t here. Went t’prison.”
She dared to look up at him through the strands that had fallen into her face, pushing the dark brown curtains away.
And for a moment, she saw a smirk cross the man’s face- a man she had hoped would notice her for years. He quickly schooled it back into a look of polite interest.
“Well, then, Ms Gaunt. Would you mind inviting me in for a cup of water? It is dreadfully hot out here, and since I am less likely to be attacked by your family’s…tricks…I would hope you would be so gracious as to allow me this reprieve from the heat?”
Her mouth opened unbidden before she clamped it shut, her shock palpable.
She nodded hastily, not caring what her father said about Muggles. About their filth. She had seen filth. She had been treated poorly. The man before her couldn’t hurt her any more than the men who had claimed to love and raise her had.
As they walked to the door, he offered his arm to her, and she stared up at him, his shadow encompassing her. He grinned playfully and inquired, “Do you have a name, or would you prefer me to call you Ms Gaunt?”
Clearing her throat as gracefully as possible and taking his proffered arm, she replied softly, “Name’s Merope Gaunt.”
“Merope. How unique.” He leaned down to her so closely that she knew it couldn’t be proper. She could see every one of his long, dark eyelashes, and she was tempted to touch his pronounced cheekbones. And when he purred out his response, the warmth from his breath caused her cheeks to deepen to a shade that she knew must be the same colour as the snake’s blood she had spent so many years scrubbing off the door they were now entering together.
“I’m Tom Riddle.”
***
Entering her family’s home, a home where no Muggle had ever gone in before, Merope thanked Salazar himself that she had time to clean the space where he stood. Going to the bucket where she had gotten well water earlier in the day, she took a cup and dipped it into the cool liquid she had kept in a corner out of the light. The entire Gaunt house was a respite from the heat, the windows open, the occasional breeze blowing in, the trees permanently shading it.
She brought the glass of water to the man before her, and as their fingers brushed, she felt a prickle of something she hadn’t felt before in her lower abdomen. A warmth.
She watched his lips press to the glass as he took a sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and couldn’t help but wonder how she had gotten this lucky. In her home stood Tom Riddle, a man from a wealthy family, a handsome man who, even if all she did was provide him with water, had given her more scraps of positive attention in this moment than the entirety of her life begging at the table for her family’s affections.
Tom carefully set the glass aside and moved towards her, and instinct had her back against the wall.
He said softly, “Are you frightened of me, Merope?”
She shook her head vehemently. She wasn’t. He was all that she had ever dreamed about. But his eyes kept trailing down to where she had missed a button.
“Good. I’ve noticed you before. You look different now. Lighter. Happier. More like,” His voice lowered as he took another step forward. “A woman. As you probably know, I am involved with Cecilia. She acts like a girl. But you…you invite a stranger in. Take care of him. Even if your family would object if they knew.”
He was now so close she could smell a whiff of tobacco on his breath.
“You stare at me as I pass, do you not?”
Her heart was rabbiting as she nodded mutely.
That sweet smile crossed his face, and he flattered, “I find that to be quite…intriguing. Your family has always had awful rumours surrounding them.” He was so close that if she reached out only centimetres, she could touch his lips. “But I don’t see anything awful about you. You are kind, Merope. You listen to me talk. And…you don’t try to hide that you are a woman like most of the other girls nowadays.” His eyes immediately went to her cleavage.
She was confused. What was he saying? The other girls had their fancy dresses, their tiny figures highlighted. She had seen them go by with the Riddle family numerous times. She had always felt…large…in comparison. Her lusher breasts. Her wide hips. Her broader shoulders.
But the way Tom’s gaze crawled over her body let her know that he did not object to her shape.
“Mr Riddle, sir…”
“Merope,” He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Please call me Tom.” His hand left the mahogany strand of hair he had been playing with and went to her neck, his thumb running across the hollow of her throat.
“Have you ever been kissed before, Merope?”
Her eyes widened. Of course, she had read about kissing and lovemaking in books she had found in a bag of Muggle goods that her brother had stolen from a home. It had made her turn red and nervous that she’d be caught reading the salacious materials. But she never would have dreamed a man like him, a man whose midnight blue eyes looked her up and down like he was starving for a meal and she was the entree, would ask her about a kiss.
“N-n-no…” Her stammer was embarrassing, and her knees knocked together as the heat from his body made the room even warmer.
“I think we should remedy that.”
And without warning, he leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss.
She wasn’t really sure what to do. His lips were warm, and the tobacco scent was highlighted further as she could taste it on his lips. Then, he slid his tongue into her mouth, exploring her and devouring her in equal measure. For a moment, she was terrified. But his hand left her neck to journey down to her waist, his fingers gripping, and the warmth that had bloomed earlier in her stomach had increased. Her hands went up between them, pinned between his chest and her rising and falling breasts.
And most strangely, she felt the rayon of her undergarments cling to her with dampness.
She realised when she gasped into his mouth, that this was enjoyable. Not at all scary.
He pulled back, and she gazed into his eyes, but he was looking at her blouse. His fingers trailed up from her waist to the buttons on her shirt and undid one. “Merope. As I see it, you are a free woman. No family to answer to. No one here but you.”
She blushed, but her hands moved to dig into the old wood of the wall behind her.
Tom’s face was kind as he undid another button, coaxing, “Wouldn’t you like to experience what the world has to offer before they get back?”
In honesty, she wasn’t sure. But this beautiful, wealthy man was looking at her with such softness, such desire, she couldn’t resist.
“I…I…guess…”
His lips were on her before she could finish her statement. He was kissing her deeply, long fingers going to her blouse, nimbly undoing the remaining buttons. His other hand gripped her waist, running down to the scratchy skirt as he pulled her closer, grasping her bottom firmly.
As his lips left her mouth and trailed down her throat, she let out a tiny moan.
Did he find her lovely? As beautiful as the girl who rode beside him on the horse daily? He must because otherwise…
“Merope.” He had pulled back, his blue eyes focused on her own, pupils blown with desire, as he rasped, “Where is your bedchamber?”
***
The kissing had continued, and when they entered her chamber, he had begun to unbutton his own shirt, his paler chest highlighted by the midday sun, her own garment discarded on the floor of the entryway to her bedroom, where he had disrobed her. But suddenly, she was feeling shy. Like she wasn’t sure if she should do this. She had just officially met him. And didn’t her father say that women like this were considered…whores?
“Mr Rid– I mean, Tom. I’m not…we shouldn’t.”
He stepped forward, his fingers pulling down her skirt before going underneath the cheap rayon of her undergarment, sliding between her folds, which were embarrassingly slick for some reason. When he touched a particular spot, she keened, her breath coming in shorter, he smirked at her, his eyes meeting hers instead of staring at her breasts.
“It feels to me like we should.”
***
She was on her back. No clothing. No propriety. A Muggle above her. He had taken off his trousers, but she was too terrified to look down. She had read about these moments. But it was normally between husband and wife or fated lovers. Not on a cheap bedspread in a shack of a house, with a near stranger– but in castles and in tents after battles with the one you loved.
But he kept kissing her. He kept telling her that she was special. And when he had praised her breasts before lavishing them with his tongue, the pleasure in her nerves only increased to make her thoughts almost incoherent.
However, now she felt something hard press against her most private spot, and instead of excitement, she felt fear.
“This will only hurt for a second…”
And without waiting, he pushed inside her.
She gasped at the sting just a moment; the pain was something she hadn’t been expecting.
But he had.
Had he done this with others before? Was she not special?
And then he began to move. It wasn’t like the kissing. It wasn’t like the touching. Those actions had created in her an inferno of need and desire.
Instead…this act just stung.
To distract herself from the pressure and the jostling, she stared up at his face.
He was so beautiful.
Looking down at her, Tom informed between pants, “You’ll….you’ll enjoy it…soon enough…Merope…jus’ a bit more…” His vigorous thrusting broke up his normally affected posh speech.
But then, it was over. He grunted as she felt warmth fill her, and he collapsed upon her. And he breathed against her ear, “Did you enjoy it?”
Not wanting to anger this man or think that she had done poorly at this particular job, she simply nodded.
But he wasn’t as beautiful to her after that moment, even if he still enthralled her.
Eventually, it did become enjoyable. He taught her other things. Jobs she could perform for him for his pleasure. Occasionally, he would do things to her that made her knees weak and her folds slick with desire, and several times she had experienced an earth-shattering moment when she would transcend and see stars behind her eyes.
But mostly, she performed for him. On her knees. On her back. On all fours.
He would praise her body, use her body, but rarely look into her eyes.
***
One day, when the heat had left the countryside and winter set in, he had come to her; he was frantic.
“They actually expect me to marry Cecelia! They are taking away my freedom! Merope….what do I do??”
There was an unspoken rule that they never mentioned his betrothed, and she gaped at him as he rambled.
“I can’t do it, Merope.” He pulled her towards him, putting his face into her hair. The moment was tender, and she could feel his fear course through him.
“We could run. T’London. I got a vault there. I could get us a flat…I’ve got a little money…”
He pulled back, and his beautiful eyes were sparkling with wetness. “You would…Oh, Merope. You are…extraordinary.”
One day, he would think she was extraordinary enough to love.
***
But London was cold. It was grey. The streets had begun to be littered with automobiles, and the constant smell of gasoline and exhaust was choking the air. The fog was heavy. And their flat was dingy.
And Tom was at a loss without his family's direction.
Tom spent his days trying to find work at first, but then he discovered gambling and booze dens.
So, with her vaults emptied, Merope had to work.
Once again, she was having to care for a man who destroyed her home. But instead of slapping her or choking her with her locket, this man would rut into her at night and then cry as he told her how important she was. But he never said love.
He drank; she cooked.
He gambled; she worked at the textile factory.
He complained; she stood in silence.
She told him that maybe he should get a job; he told her that no job was good enough for him.
And her magic began to wane again. Not that she could use it in front of Tom. He had repeatedly said that her family was strange. Disturbing. Rumours of witchcraft and paganism, and things that “Good Christian Brits” did not acknowledge.
But when she was alone, and she tried to cast spells, her magic felt dim.
Until one day, she was at the mill. A particularly strong chemical stench wafted through the air. She had to turn away and lost her meagre lunch into the rubbish bin behind her. Mercifully, one of her co-workers quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her away, avoiding the foreman who would have docked their pay for stopping their monotonous work on clothing made for those with more money than the factory workers who slaved over it.
“Ya pregnant, girl?”
Merope felt her eyes widen at the older woman’s query. Was she? She had a vague sense that what she was doing with Tom could lead to that outcome, but it had never occurred to her that it would actually happen.
“When did ya last bleed?”
She blushed. It had been…the middle of March. It was now mid-July. Approximately a year after Tom Riddle had come in for a glass of water.
“March.”
The woman in front of her sighed. “Gonna lose a good’un over a man who won’t marry ya. You're definitely with child. Ya look fuller, more tired, an’ if ya ain’t bleedin’...”
Pregnant. With a child. Merope’s mind couldn’t wrap around it.
Her fingers trailed to the locket around her neck. For the longest time, her father had said that the noble line of Salazar Slytherin would probably end with her and her brother. But now…
A baby.
She touched her stomach gingerly, a stomach she now realised was barely pronounced but more than before, wondering about the life she had unwittingly created.
***
That evening, Tom was in his cups. Again.
“Tom. I got news.”
He glanced up from where he had been reading the latest paper, his blue eyes bloodshot from the spirits he imbibed.
“I…I am with child.”
Silence. The room felt heavy with it.
His eyes widened. Those beautiful eyes filled with shock, confusion, and then…disgust. His jaw clenched. And he ran his hands through his hair. “There’s…Merope. Are you certain?”
She nodded, her heart pounding against her ribs. “It’s…it’s been over three months since I bled. I’ve been ill. I s’pose…it’s all…t’well…all the…But a child, Tom. We can…get married. Be t’gether.”
Tom suddenly stood, his voice decisive. “We can’t have a child. We have no money. No real home.”
“We have t’flat…”
Looking around, Tom Riddle scoffed incredulously, “This hideous place? You can’t raise a child here. Besides, Merope…I am betrothed…I can’t marry you. I don’t love you.”
If he had slapped her the way her father used to, it would have hurt less.
“But…”
“This was just a bit of fun. Before…I well…I married another. I have been thinking a lot lately that I should go back. To Little Hangleton. You’ll be fine, Merope.”
Hot tears flooded her eyes. “But what bout t’baby? And what bout me?”
He sighed, already grabbing his coat. “Merope. You and I…I mean…look at us. We aren’t a pair. Neither of our families would allow it. And people would stare if we were to be together.”
The tears dripped onto her cheeks, but inside, she wasn’t feeling remorse. Instead, she was feeling hot anger, and blinding rage was building. A fury she had never felt before, not even during her darkest days at the Gaunt shack, made her blood boil and her body shake.
“So you’re jus’ going to…put a child in me an’ leave.” Her voice cracked, but it was darker than usual. More forceful. Something primal that lived in her blood for millennia, causing the magic in her to flare beneath her tainted flesh.
But Tom did not notice, just as he hadn’t noticed when she would tear up when she was on her knees for him, gagging. Just as when he hadn’t noticed how tired she was from working all day before, he lay atop her on their bed and had his way with her. Just as he hadn’t noticed that she was filled with magic that no one had ever tapped into fully.
“Merope, it was not my intention to put you in this position. Besides, I’ve heard of men who perform acts in alleys to get rid of these kinds of problems….we can find one of them…it is mostly safe….”
Her eyes snapped to his face. That beautiful, perfect face. A face that hid his immeasurable cowardice.
Unbidden, the modest number of dishes she had purchased, the cutlery she had to trade for, began to clatter around her. She stepped forward. “You impregnated me. And now want me t’risk m’life for a back alley…”
“They are fairly safe.” He looked around the room at the clattering dishware, his face beginning to drain of colour. “I know of a girl…”
She stepped forward, hands balled at her sides, “You’ve done this before.” It wasn’t a question.
The clatter increased as every object not bolted down began to move, a sickening green glow shrouding the room.
His lack of denial was an affirmation.
Tom Riddle’s eyes widened at the colour flooding the room, at the objects shaking untouched, and he grabbed a knife from the table. He pointed it at her and shakily stammered, “You…you…your family….it’s true.”
Merope smiled viciously and replied with a cock of her head, “I am a witch, Tom Riddle.”
Then every object began moving toward him at immense speed. Dishes smashed against the wall behind him as he ducked, chairs flew in his direction, and Merope’s hair fluttered in the wind.
For once, she didn’t feel like meek Merope Gaunt. She felt like a beautiful sorceress from Salazar Slytherin’s line.
And this Muggle did not deserve to breathe the same air as her.
But as quickly as the feeling came to her, it left as he screamed, “You’re crazy! You know that! You’re crazy! You and your whole bleedin’ family. People won’t believe I chose the homey and insane Merope Gaunt. They’ll think you trapped me! Or bewitched me! A freak!”
A final knife, the knife he had grasped but dropped to the floor, flew by his face, cutting his perfect cheekbone, a gush of crimson liquid dripping out. That’s when her fury turned to grief, and dropping to the floor, Merope collapsed onto the dingy surface as well.
Her magic had drained her. Tom Riddle had drained her.
Sobs wracked her body as she lay there.
The door slammed closed.
She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
She had worked so hard to keep him. She had done everything.
And he was gone.
***
The bed was covered in blood as the nuns stood over her. She cried weakly as she pushed a final time. In this push, she concentrated not only on her physical body but also on the magic attached to her soul. She had read that mothers could bestow upon their infants parts of their magic, some sort of bonding to ensure no squibs were born.
Her mother didn’t care enough to give her any of her magic.
But she would give her child all of hers–even if it killed her.
And with her final push, the pressure that made her feel as though her insides were coming out finally eased, and she focused on transferring her magic to the infant joining the world.
She sobbed as she heard the first tiny cries of the baby, not loud and obnoxious like others born that night, but quieter, more melodic.
And then, she noticed she kept bleeding. Her breathing was shallow. As they placed the tiny bundle in her arms, she breathed out a sigh of relief. He was beautiful. Perfect. And she could already feel the magic emanating from him.
“It’s a boy. A name?”
She traced the infant’s face, wishing she had the locket to give him, the proof of how special he was, but she had traded the heirloom for money to eat. She hoped one day the boy would forgive her for her weakness.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle. For ‘is father and m’father.”
Leaning forward, she pressed a gentle kiss to the babe’s soft forehead, a wisp of wavy raven hair lying across it, and whispered, “One day, you’ll avenge me, Tom. And you’ll be the most magically powerful person ever to live. I’m sorry.”
The baby cooed as if in understanding and stared up at her with his grey-blue eyes.
An hour later, Merope Gaunt was dead.
Once again, destroyed by the labour expected of her.