Chapter Text
The Witch of Little Hangleton
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“You are a witch.” Tom Riddle said to her on the 28th of June, near the river in the woods.
Merope Gaunt had been a witch for eighteen miserable years, her noble legacy bringing more suffering than the golden lies the Gaunt told the world. She had become accustomed to it, however, had learned over the years that the picture offered to the world's gaze was different from that of ordinary days.
One day, on her tenth or eleven birthday, she had sneaked out of their house. Days of watching lovers hide from sight from her window had taught her to pull down the hood of her cloak and blend into the forest. Marvolo had fallen asleep in the armchair for his morning nap and Morfin was entertaining himself by setting beetles alight with a stolen wand.
Merope had gone to the old Muggle apothecary, the one who had books in his shop. She had gone in, pretending to choose a concoction, before subtly stealing one of the books.
It was a book about witches.
She had spent hours looking at it, until her eyes burnt, and she felt tears falling; until the pages became too yellow and soiled for her to open it. She had traced the letters under her fingers, repeating each one in a whisper. Merope had learnt to read with one of the women in the village, back when Marvolo was deserting their house for days.
Then, one day, the gardener had found the woman teaching her and he had yelled. She remembered it vividly, the fury in his voice, how he had thrown stones at her and cursed her, and Merope had never again returned to the village.
“I am a witch,” she said, the words flying out of her mouth before she could hold them back.
Tom Riddle looked at her, and said nothing. He had come on the black horse he affectioned, and the animal approached her to sniff her apple’s basket.
Merope kept her eyes riveted on Tom Riddle, and, slowly, she took one of the red apples. Tom Riddle’s gaze darted to it; the very same apple he had just seen her retrieve with a wave of her wand. He seemed to want to say something, but kept silent, his black eyes riveted on the apple.
“It is nothing but a fruit,” Merope said.
“It is everything but nothing,” Tom Riddle said, tone so quiet the words must have been addressed to himself. His eyes found Merope’s again. He had nice eyes, she thought, with long lashes. “You have magic.”
Merope smiled. “Witches usually have magic.”
“Witches are said to be the spawn of the devil” Tom Riddle whispered, his pale, long fingers extending towards one of the apples. He flexed them; as if he couldn't choose between taking one or keeping his fingers at bay. “Befitted for the pyre.”
Merope gave it to him, and he did not seem to care that her hands were soiled with dirt, nor calloused by digging into it. It was nice. Marvolo and Morfin always said that she had a man’s hands.
“It is only an apple” she softly answered, and took one too, biting into it.
It was sweet, that sort of sweetness that came with fertile ground, its juice dripping on her chin. She wiped it with her sleeve; the juice sticking to the soiled fabric. For so long she had been making pies with them for she knew Marvolo to like them. He never complained as much about her cooking when it was apple pies.
Tom Riddle kept silent, and took a few bites of the apple. She had heard girls speak about his name, marvel over his chiselled cheekbones, and she was greedily looking at him now.
He must be handsome, she thought, for them to praise his features. Perhaps he was. She tilted her head to the side, and Tom Riddle’s eyes followed her with deep intensity, something akin to hunger flashing within them. Yes; this is beauty, she suddenly thought, admiring how his silent desires deformed his features, how it made them more alive.
“Teach me,” Tom Riddle said, his visage having returned to its usual placidity. “I want to do it too.”
Merope hummed under her breath.
“I cannot.” She smiled, a sad little smile, one that spoke of constraints that she had no influence upon.
“And why not? I ask it of you. I am the Lord of these lands; you owe me obedience.”
Merope laugh was no louder than a whisper. If there was something that Marvolo had wished for her to know, it was this. She was a Gaunt. Gaunt came from Slytherin himself. Gaunt were of a noble lineage. Gaunt were purebloods. Gaunt obeyed to no one.
“I cannot” she repeated. “This is not something to teach” she added as he frowned, frustration blurring the smoothness of his face. She found him better like this; true and raw. Not like he was with these girls, with her: Cecilia. A face that Merope was the only one to see. “You are either born a witch or a muggle.”
“Muggle?” Tom Riddle curiously repeated, the word foreign on his tongue.
“People born without magic. You. I am a witch, and I cannot teach it to you.”
“But surely, you can do other things than retrieve an apple.” Tom Riddle’s tone had grown greedier, interested. She felt her cheeks burning. Nobody had taken an interest in her before. “Other things with your powers… Can you not?”
“I can” she lied; because she didn’t want for him to go away and her to return alone to her house. “Magic can do many things.”
“Show me.”
She did not hesitate a single second; retrieving the wand from where it was resting inside her apron. It was not hers; nor Marvolo. It had been stolen the last time Aurors had come to arrest Marvolo and Morfin, and she had hidden it under her pillow; not giving it back, not even when Morfin and Marvolo had been taken to Azkaban.
She needed it, and she would not give it back.
Merope did not know a lot of spells. When Marvolo and Morfin had gone to Azkaban, leaving her alone in the wooden house, she had searched for books. She had been finally free to read them without fearing repercussions.
She had found a lot of magic spells. One in particular, she had settled her eyes on, whispering it under her breath until the words lost their meanings. She found now a valuable occasion for it to be tried.
Merope pointed the wand to the horse.
“Imperio” she whispered. Then, in her mind. Run around us. Run around us. Run around us.
The horse neighed and shook its head.
Run around us.
The horse snorted and galloped off, his halter slipping from Tom Riddle's hand, who let out a small exclamation of surprise.
Merope laughed in mirth, loud and clear; something that she could not remember happening in the past. The horse was running around them; without sign of him stopping; and she suddenly felt like she could do everything she wanted. She pointed once again her wand on the horse, thinking jump, and she found her smile stretching when the horse jumped, so high.
“Do it again” Tom Riddle demanded; greed once again creeping on his features. His tone was insistent, impatient. “Do it again, girl.”
Jump, she excitingly thought, jump!
The horse neighed; high and complaining but obeyed, not once but thrice. Merope’s heart was pounding in his chest; adrenaline so foreign, for it was the first time she experienced it, that it made her feel like she was walking on clouds.
She laughed again, and it felt to her that her laugh was echoing on the trees.
She was a witch, she deliriously thought. She was a Gaunt. Gaunt were of noble lineage. Gaunt were purebloods. Merope was of noble lineage; Merope was a pureblood.
“Amazing” Tom Riddle breathed. He was staring at the horse, so still that he seemed frozen, unblinking, and no air escaping his lips. “You manipulated his mind. You ordered him to obey you. He was bewitched, had no other option but to submit.”
“I did,” Merope said, thinking of Marvolo, thinking of Morfin. Marvolo who had screamed at her, who had called her a squib, a muggle, who had hit her with that spell; that one that made her scream and wants to claw at her own head, at her soul; and tear her mind out of her brain, anything to not feel anymore.
Morfin, who, when seeing that she had befriended a viper, had been too overjoyed with stealing it from her; who had sung to the snake as he had nailed it to the door.
Merope had cried; ugly tears; one that spoke of lost friends and a habit she could never have, getting used to seeing her companions nailed alive, one after the other.
“Is it limited to animals.” Tom Riddle’s sentence was not a question. “Your… magic, your bewitching. Can it be used on humans too? Can it be used on aristocracy?”
Merope smiled, and pointed her wand at him.
He recoiled; a flash of fear making his eyes widen, but Merope was filled with the confidence of those intoxicated by success.
“Imperio,” she said again, then: Come to me. Come to me. Come to me.
Tom Riddle shivered. He opened his mouth to talk, but no words were said.
Come to me.
He stumbled on his feet; his previous greed having faded in favour of a sort of drunken bliss. The lines of want on his face had faded, soothed, as he now stumbled forward; any worry seeming to have deserted his mind.
He seemed no more handsome like this, Merope thought; silently watching as he slowly advanced towards her. No longer she saw the beauty she had previously seen in his features; for the elation brought by the spell seized his face into its grip, smoothening it into something that seemed terribly plain.
Come to me, she thought once again, and Tom Riddle reached for her.
His fingers came to rest on her face, cold and pale, and she shivered. Her skin was uncustomed to such a soft contact, and it simultaneously felt as if she was burning and freezing. She leaned onto the touch; eyes open wide, as he traced the contour of her jaw.
Merope closed her eyes and reluctantly took a step backwards.
When she opened them again; Tom Riddle was looking at her with delight.
Not the pure bliss that had overtaken his features after the spell, not this enthralled peacefulness, but a far more selfish joy. One that spoke of personal desires and self-serving needs. One that made his eyes gleam, and his lips stretch into a smile.
“You are perfect” he whispered, and Merope’s heart skipped a beat at the egoistical adoration that filled his gaze. “You are everything I never knew I wanted.”
Merope said nothing and looked at him.
Tom Riddle smiled, and this smile was sharper than the fangs of the vipers she used to befriend.
“Marry me” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Marry me, and we will have everything we could ever wish. Marry me, and I will be taking you away from this hut in the woods. Marry me, girl, and I will make us gods upon this land and the others.”