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They had taken the baby away from her as soon as he was born. She knew he had dark hair, but he had yet to open his eyes, and therefore she had yet to make a solid opinion of him. Her son, the boy who she wanted to give so much love, so much affection, lay distant and silent in another room, taken from her by the Muggles.
The woman who stood by her side did not touch her. Mrs Cole evidently had suspicions that she was a gypsy, or had run away from the circus, so was immediately suspicious of this strange outsider. Merope could tell that she thought her a freak. But she was glad she was there; although Mrs Cole was cold and austere, she was giving her a warm smile, and kept offering her tea to drink to keep up her strength. Merope could tell this woman was fascinated by her; the shadowy stranger who had knocked on the door of the orphanage on the last night of the year, screaming for help.
“Where’s my baby?” asked Merope, desperately, reaching one arm towards her only companion, hoping she would take her fingers and soothe her, “where did you take him? I need to see him.” Mrs Cole plumped up the one meager pillow that supported Merope’s head before shushing her, still adeptly avoiding this filthy child.
“Mary has taken him to be bathed and swaddled. She will bring him back here in a minute.” Inwardly glowing at the thought of her son, that little bit of him she still had, she turned back to Mrs Cole, who gave her a look of bemused kindness. They tiptoed round each other, on the edge of formality, not sure what to make of each other. Mrs Cole was from this other world, a world that Merope never thought she would be part of.
“Mrs Cole, you saw him didn’t you? Did you get a proper look at him? What does he look like? Is he a pretty baby?” Mrs Cole sat on the stool beside the bed, before tucking Merope under the covers a little tighter. Merope thought this woman pitied her, but she didn’t want her pity.
“Your son’s a handsome child,” Mrs Cole said tersely, fussing over the corners of Merope’s blanket, “dark hair, dark eyes, a little pale. Very silent when he came into the world, but there’s nothing to suggest the little’un is unhealthy. When you are a little stronger, you can hold him. And then maybe you could write a letter…I mean it’s none of my business, but a letter… to the father?”
The tears were welling in Merope’s eyes at the briefest mention of him. Of Tom. As she closed her eyes, she could see him on his horse, that great black stallion riding through the countryside, the land that was his by blood and right. Merope never realized a Muggle could be so handsome; he had the darkest of hair, like the inky black night, which fell across his face in a styled sweep. His eyes were large, the size of silver pennies, but the deepest cerulean and seemed to tell a tale far older than his young age.
Like his son, he was an aristocratic porcelain, with a slight upturn to his nose, and the remnants of his shaved beard would always be reappearing by the time he rode past Merope’s house in the afternoon. Another thing about him that beguiled her was his clothes; he had the air of a regency dandy, but dressed like a twenties playboy. He had an old pocket watch, which hung from his lapel; it was the size of the locket Merope wore around her own neck. She had loved him on sight.
But then there had been Cecilia, pretty, silly Cecilia. Unlike Merope, Cecilia had been desirable. Flaxen hair that seemed to shimmer, she had a lilting voice that entranced the listener. Merope would watch as Tom walked by her horse, a pretty chestnut filly that seemed to possess a girlish skip. Tom would hold the reins of Cecilia’s horse and look up at her, his face glowing with affection. They spoke with similar upper class drawls, but Tom had gravel to his voice that made Merope want to listen.
Merope could not quite remember what made her crack. Maybe it was the day that Morfin had cursed Tom with hives, and Merope had longed to run out and hold him, to kiss away the blotches bursting all over his warm body. Maybe it was the time Tom had taken Cecilia by the waist as he lifted her off her horse and embraced her, and kissed her, and told her he loved her.
The thought of those times made Merope weep. Tom had been as distant as the moon, like the star-spangled night sky that hung tantalizingly above her every night when she tried to sleep. He was gold and silver, while she was the dirt of the ground. Pure blood mattered for nothing when he was so very handsome.
Every day he had ridden past, and some days she had hovered at the gate as he went by, convinced today would be the day she would run and embrace him. But she always lost her courage, and could only ever offer a deferential bob of submission, to which he would flinch and give her a nod of acknowledgment in return.
When her father and brother had been taken away, Merope had the house to herself. She took to cleaning it, to having the doorstep that bit brighter as he rode past. And then she waited. The love potion was stored in the house for the right time, for the exact moment when Tom would drop his guard, when he could be tempted inside.
The time had come one beautiful Midsummer Day. The crops were gold in the field and the sun was heavy. Merope spent the morning brushing the knots from her hair, and fixing the one presentable dress she had, as she did every morning, just in case today was the day.
His black stallion had appeared on the road under the beating Midday sun. Tom was dressed differently than usual; his jacket had been discarded and his sleeves were rolled up in a jaunty fashion, revealing his sculpted forearms. He was wearing no tie, and had even undone the top two buttons of his shirt, hinting at the vest underneath and revealing his Adam’s Apple. There was a sheen of sweat across his face and in his hair from the heavy riding, but that only increased his appeal. For a moment, he seemed almost human, that little bit more obtainable.
As he reached the house, Tom dismounted his horse, swinging his bulging leg over the saddle and landing with artless grace. Merope peered from behind the curtains as he pulled his flask from his knapsack. Lifting it to his mouth, he attempted to drink, but it was barren and dry. Slytherin’s traits coming to the fore, she seized her chance.
“Mister Riddle!” she called, tripping up the front drive. Looking up bemusedly, he caught sight of Merope staggering towards him, and grasped his horse’s rein protectively. “Mister Riddle!” Merope called again, offering what she hoped was a sunny smile, “It’s such a hot day, I was wondering, I was wondering if you would like a drink to cool yourself.”
He stood there, handsome, unobtainable and distant for only a moment more. Casually, he smiled one of his brilliant smiles that he had only ever gifted Cecilia, and nodded. “Thank you, what was it? Mary?” Merope faltered for a moment on the precipice of the house.
“Merope, my name is Merope.”
Merope had directed him to the derelict table in the sitting room as she hurried to the cupboard. Taking several bottles of love potion and concealing them behind the clock on the shelf, she hurriedly poured another into Tom’s flask. Pricking her ears up intently, in case he came to find her, she shut the lid tight and scampered back to him, like a faithful dog.
“Here Mister Riddle,” she beamed, putting it straight into his hand. Without a moment’s hesistation, he began to undo the lid and move it towards his mouth. Merope wanted to sing, she wanted to dance around the house and shout. She wasn’t a squib! Her magic would get her what she wanted; she would have Tom Riddle!
“Thank you Merope,” he said, lifting the flask to his lips and taking small sips, “it is an awfully hot day today, I feared I was going to roast in the sun. Cecilia refused to come with me, she didn’t want to melt, and she is such a delicate creature.” It was that moment that his eyes flicked up to Merope, and she saw they were dulled, as if he was having a hazy dream.
“Such a delicate creature…” his words slowed as he gazed at her, and he put the flask down beside him. “She is so beautiful…” For a terrible moment, Merope thought the potion hadn’t worked, that he was thinking of Cecilia, fighting for her. But then his face was washed of emotion and a smile of utter contentment crossed his lips.
“You are so beautiful Merope!” He dropped to the floor, taking her hands in his and kissing every one of her fingers. Blushing, she drew him to a standing position as he whispered, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you!” Forcefully, snagging the material of her dress, he pulled her to his mouth and kissed her with the force of a man dying of hunger for her.
They broke apart, but he continued to kiss her; her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, her ears. His fingers ran through her hair as he kissed her neck and she groaned with desire. Tom Riddle was hers! And she was his! She let him lead her as he took her upstairs and into the bedroom, and she cried with happiness as he held her in his arms, and he became totally hers.
He fell asleep beside her, his limbs, hands and body still intertwined with hers, her curls wrapped around his fingers. Tiny breathing noises escaped him as he slept, and Merope ran her fingers along his back and his arms, and kissed his cheeks. Desire was pushing her to tears, and when he woke up they were together again and Merope thought she would burst with happiness.
Only when the moon was high in the sky, did Tom rise out of bed and redress himself. Merope felt slightly sad about this, but when he smiled at her, she felt herself melt again. “My darling,” he beamed, “come with me.” Suddenly she was the princess she had always wished to be, and she took his hand as he led her downstairs.
“We must get married,” he mused, “tonight. I know the local vicar, and we can be husband and wife before morning if you wish, my love.” Her heart hammering in her chest and feeling giddy with joy, she nodded enthusiastically. “You will,” he intimated, “oh my love, my love.” My Love, My Love, My Love…
Simultaneously, he kissed her and tried to drag her from the little house, but she resisted with a laugh on her lips. “One moment my love,” she whispered, reaching for the love potion she had stowed behind the clock and stored it in the bag she planned to carry with her. “One moment.”
Merope opened her eyes and Tom had disappeared from view. Mrs Cole stood before her, still giving her the same bemused smile.
“My girl,” she whispered, concerned, leaning closer to her in hope of hearing Merope speak, “do you have a family? Do you have any friends? Do you have any help? Anyone at all?”
Wiping the tears from her eyes, Merope tried to embrace the darkness; surely it would all go away if she did. If she answered the call of death, then one day, when Tom followed, they would be together again. But thinking of Tom hurt so much, and she refused to answer Mrs Cole; she couldn’t bear for her to know what had happened. She would never answer her questions.
The marriage had been conducted with whispers and kisses, and the terrified vicar had implored Tom to reconsider, to rethink his rash and hasty decision. Tom, with all the fury and entitlement of an angered aristocrat, shouted down the old man, and ordered him to marry them at once.
The ring Tom gave her was his family signet ring; it had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Tom refused to stop kissing her as they ran from the church together, and he drew her onto his horse. “My love,” he cooed, “we will not be safe here. We must go to London where we will be free from our families and friends, from our pasts. We can build a future together.”
Tom was so eloquent, so graceful that Merope had believed him, and wrapped her arms around his waist as he rode the horse out of Little Hangleton, the town that had been her gaol her whole life. Tom had been her only light and now he was taking her with him, and she would never look back.
The journey to London was the most wonderful in her life; with Tom she loved and laughed, and kissed him every night before he went to sleep. But when they ate, and when they drank she would make sure he sipped some of that magical golden elixir that made him hers for the rest of their days.
London was a bright jewel; roads full of grand houses, ancient monuments to the past and a thousand more places for her to love Tom. “My darling,” he smiled, nibbling her ears as he spoke, “we must go to the Ritz. It’s wonderful, a place where dreams are made. It exuberates love! It is a place where dreams are made!”
Merope had smiled at him and kissed him gently, “anywhere I am with you dreams are made!” With his father’s money, he booked a room at the grand muggle hotel, and they loved each other, with every day passing in unremitting happiness.
“Say it again,” Merope chortled, running her fingers through his hair as he tried to kiss her. She held him back, giving him a stern look as she bid him to say it. That dazed expression of euphoria continued to light his face as his eyes consumed her.
“I love you Merope. I am always yours!” Those words made her melt, but she held him back, the anticipation of the kiss making her laugh. “Please, Merope, I love you, I love you, I love you!” He stood on the bed and cupped his hands around his mouth and was shouting it at the top of his voice.
“Say it again!” Merope laughed, pulling him down to lay beside her, “say you love me again, and that you are always mine. I want you to say it again so I know that it is true.” Tom reached his arms forward and pulled Merope underneath him, covering her neck and shoulders with kisses.
“I love you Merope. And I say it because it is true! I say it because I mean it more than I have ever meant anything! I would shout it from the rooftops to prove it to you! I love you!” Merope could not help but laugh at this and she leant forward and kissed him.
“Go on then,” she smiled, “shout it from the rooftops!” Without a moment’s hesitation Tom leapt from the bed and ran to the French Doors leading out to the balcony. Leaning over the iron railings, he cupped his hands and bellowed into the night, making Merope roll around in laughter.
“I love Merope Riddle! I love my wife! I shall love her until the day I die!”
The months had passed like a dream, and with every minute Merope had loved him more and more. Tom was happy, joyful and cheerful every moment, a look of dazed pleasure dancing across his face every second of the day. He was always willing to serve; always willing to tell her how much he loved her. After a month of living together as husband and wife, Merope had discovered she was with child, and Tom had kissed her, and held her, and promised to be with her for all time.
She didn’t know why she had been so stupid. Now she was in the shadowy darkness of the orphanage, away from the glistening lights and laughter of her marriage to Tom. She was so alone, with no one and no point to live. Pressing her eyes shut, she tried to remember what had caused her to ruin her life, to end her love with Tom.
Why had she done it?
Tom had bought her a dress of pastel blue with a stylish hat and a string of pearls. “You will be the bell of the ball, my love.” A friend from boarding school, Algernon Napier, was in town, and was holding an extravagant birthday party in the Ritz ballroom. Tom had begged her to go.
“I don’t think I’ll be wanted,” murmured Merope, knowing the huge gulf that existed between her world of squabbling, deranged Purebloods, and his world of high society, Muggle, hedonistic glamour. Only her magic had brought them together, and in his world she would feel a fish out of water. “Your friends are so very different from mine!”
“You will be cherished by my friends as I cherish you,” Tom had beamed, playing with her hair, “you will be the Princess, and they will all be jealous that you love me, and I love you.” In the end, Tom had persuaded her that she would be welcome with a mixture of kisses, laughter and a string of pearls. How very wrong he had been.
Algernon Napier was a huge man, made on the rugby fields of England’s public schools. His father worked somewhere in the colonies, and he had the biggest sense of entitlement of anyone Merope had ever met. The antithesis of Tom, he was golden haired, tanned, with a jaunty, jovial smile. However, when Tom and Merope had entered the party, his face had gone a nasty green.
“Riddle,” he spat venomously when they moved to greet him, “what the hell are you doing bringing your whore here? When Cecilia is here? She may be coping better now, Riddle, but bringing that little slut here was the worst thing you could do!”
Tom had reacted so quickly that Merope had screamed. Launching himself at Napier, the two men careered to the ground and wrestled each other, Tom punching his former friend again and again and again until his teeth spattered across the floor. The party had descended into uproar in the blink of an eye, and Merope could only stand, shocked, at the havoc that was her making. The blood trickled from Napier’s nose and mouth, but his great hands darted to Tom’s small white throat, his bulbous brutish fingers closing around his target and choking his opponent, causing Tom to stop his flailing and fall to the floor. Napier had scrambled to his feet but she crashed down onto his rival, his hard balled fists hitting Tom’s torso, arms and face.
“This is for Cecilia!” cried Napier, slamming his knuckles into Tom’s mouth. Tom was slighter than Napier, and so in panic was reaching up and grabbing at Algernon’s face. Suddenly transforming his fingers into weapons, his thumbs went straight for Napier’s eyes, causing the great man to throw himself out of the way. Tom threw himself at Napier again, pulling his hair furiously, and clumps of golden hair came loose in his hands.
“Don’t you dare call her that again!” yelled Tom, as several of Napier’s friends tried to pull him off, “She is a beautiful creature…She is a beautiful creature…” The hotel manager, a tall man with a bushy moustache, threatened Tom with expulsion from the hotel, so he was expelled from the party, and Merope hastily kissed his cheek and told him she would be with him in a moment, only staying behind to give the handsome fopps and pretty toffs nasty looks.
To her surprise, the injured Algernon Napier staggered towards her, a look of abject venom on his face. Her conversation with him changed her life forever. Napier was a man in normal circumstances she would never had come across. He was rich, a Muggle and part of Tom’s glittering world.
“You have destroyed him,” hissed Napier, “you destroyed his relationship with Cecilia, with his parents, his chances at a career in the diplomatic service, a chance in the real world. You and that baby have condemned him to nothing, and when he dies alone and miserable, you must look at yourself, and realise what your love has done for him.”
Vulnerable, Merope had held back her tears and her magic as she whispered, “he loves me, in spite of what you think and say, I know he loves me, and would willingly give up all those things just to be with me.” And she had turned her back on him, determined to prove Tom’s love, and determined to ruin her own life.
“Dear, try to drink something, you look white as a sheet. I think you have lost too much blood.” Merope ignored Mrs Cole as she stared ahead of her, looking to the window and the moonless sky. She didn’t care for drinking or eating; she wanted Tom, and she wanted it to go back to the way it was, under the star studded sky at the Ritz. But it never would.
When she had returned to their room, she found Tom bloodied, but asleep on the bed. The sight of him broken and bleeding in defense of her made her feel terribly guilty. He needed some love potion, immediately, but Merope, spurned on by Napier’s word’s knew she needed to prove that Tom’s love was something more than just the effects of magic. She needed to know that Tom Riddle was hers, and hers alone. “He must love me now; we are married and are going to have a child.” He had protected her, become cut and bruised in a fight for her. There was no way he could not love her. He had told her so many times, and she believed him wholeheartedly.
He looked like a sleeping angel; his inky black hair was swept across his face and his stubble was beginning to show. His dark eyes were obscured by his eyelids, but he was as handsome as the day that Merope had first seen him. Crossing her fingers, she had kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “remember I love you. Always remember that.” Then she had tucked herself in bed beside him, resting on her head of his bare chest, waiting for the morning to come.
Tom had woken early and the room had a dusty darkness to it. Merope had been awoken by his fumbling around in the sheets next to her, and had rolled over and looked into his beautiful face. She had expected to see his welcoming smile, and feel his loving kisses. What she saw horrified her.
He had leapt out of bed and pulling his clothes on, “you bitch, you bitch! You have hoodwinked me, you have lied to me, you have used me!” Merope had panicked and had started sobbing hysterically; she tried to hold him close, as she had done so many times before. This couldn’t be happening, it was some terrible nightmare from her old life.
“Tom, you love me, remember? It’s me, it’s Merope! I’m your wife! I’m the mother of your child!” His eyes widened incredulously as he looked her over, and they lingered on the swollen bump of her belly. He looked revolted. Tom did nothing to stem her tears and she fell to the floor, grasping at his legs, imploring him, begging him to listen.
“Remember you told me you loved me? You told me we would be together forever? That we were always meant to be?” Haphazardly dressed, he paced around the room, running his hands through his luscious, dark hair. Merope was so scared; more scared than when her father and brother had beaten her and abused her. She was going to lose the most wonderful thing in her life, and it was all her own fault.
“But Cecilia! I was going to marry Cecilia! My parents had booked the church, and Cecilia had bought her dress, I know she had! What has happened to Cecilia?” Tom had spun round, and grasped Merope by the scruff of her neck. She tried to wriggle free, but he was incensed, his eyes alight with a fiery red rage. He almost looked like a snake.
“Tom, please listen,” Merope implored, tears drenching her face as she sniffled at him, “You married me. Me. We are married Tom, and you love me. Please remember! Please remember!”
He looked at her like she was vermin on the bottom of his shoe, and it was soul destroying.
“You’ve ruined me!” he bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth, his pale face red with anger, “you’ve taken everything from me! You’ve taken everything that matters anything to me and thrown it aside for your own selfish desires. How did you do it? Was it witchery? Have you been sitting in your little hovel, brewing up a potion out of frog’s spawn and eel eyes to make me love you? How have you done it?”
Trembling, prostrate before him, the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Please Tom,” she sobbed, desperately grasping his clothes, as if that would remind him of the joys of her being close to him, “we are going to have a baby, we are going…” He shook her off him, like he would mud from his boots and looked at her in absolute disgust. Suddenly he was that handsome distant man who used to ride with Cecilia once more, and the Tom who had loved her, that dazed boy who had idolized her, had disappeared into her past.
“I don’t care,” he hissed, “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care!” Raising his hand, the slap came hard and fast, and Merope landed on the floor, a terrible crumpled heap. “Don’t you ever come after me!” shouted Tom, “don’t you write, don’t you call, don’t you ever try to talk to me! I never want to see you again!” Scrambling around, he picked up a few remnants of his belongings and ran from the room, slamming the door behind him. The deafening sound reverberated around the little room, shocking it into silence.
Merope had not moved, and stayed on the floor, sobbing hysterically. She did not try to chase him; Napier’s point had been proved. Tom did not love her; Tom had never loved her. It had only been a dream of hers, conjured into reality by her own magic. She had lied to herself and to Tom, in the hope that something good would come of her life, in the vain hope that all her dreams could come true.
But she had lost him forever…
The whole room seemed darker, and all the colours were gone. Merope could barely lift her head from her pillow. Mrs Cole’s movements went totally unnoticed as Merope remained in the bed. The clock kept going, kept marking its steady beat.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Hearing the murmurings behind her, Merope did not turn round. Not caring anymore, she closed her eyes and tried to hold onto the darkness, to feel it’s kisses and caresses. The darkness was like Tom, alluring, tempting but constantly dancing out of her reach. But she wanted it; she wanted the darkness…
“Miss,” came an unknown voice. Merope opened her eyes, and saw the pale girl, Mary, who had taken her baby. She had a hesitant smile on her face, and was holding the baby out to her, the bright new boy cleaned and wrapped in a blanket. “Your son is here. Do you want to hold him?”
Merope rolled her eyes onto the boy, but on the sight of him she was repelled. Tears rolled down her cheeks; the baby was part of Tom, and she could never possess that again, so had no right to this child. “No,” cried Merope despairingly, “keep him away from me.” Mary’s smile dimmed and she removed the baby from view, a sense of confusion washing over her face.
“I want…” began Merope vaguely, “I want to name him. Call him…” the words danced on the tip of her tongue, “call him Tom Marvolo Riddle. After his father and grandfather.” Mary nodded and moved back to stand by Mrs Cole as all the colour seemed to drain out of the world.
“Oh, Tom,” moaned Merope, finally letting the darkness draw his arms around her. “I love you.” The darkness was so kind, so comforting and so close. She reached for it and hungered for it.
Oh, Tom…