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"Your move, darling," Merope said softly, her voice warm yet strangely measured. It had already been a week since her husband's last dose of Amortentia. If she kept him waiting a bit longer, he would start to get suspicious. She gestured at the chessboard between them.
Tom Sr. blinked, his hand hesitating over a knight. He moved it aimlessly, his brow furrowing. His dark, handsome features were calm and epitome of stately refinement, but there was something off about him—his gaze was unfocused, his fingers twitching ever so slightly as though they moved to a tune no one else could hear. He stared at his wife with a peculiar mixture of adoration and confusion, as if he were perpetually trying to recall something just out of reach.
"Yes... of course, my love," he murmured, though it was clear he had no clue why he made the move.
Young Tom Jr. smirked, before his sharp features contorted momentarily as he observed his father closer. He had long noticed his father’s absent-mindedness, his mother’s strange power over him. He didn’t know what it was, but he needed to know eventually.
"Checkmate," Merope said, her lips curling upward with triumph. She leaned back in her chair, the firelight catching the simple locket she always wore.
Tom Sr. blinked again, dazed. "Ah, well done," he said with a weak smile, as though the outcome mattered little to him.
"Father, you’re terrible at chess," Tom Jr. said with a sneer that belied his youth.
"Now, Tom," Merope interjected smoothly, her tone as soothing as velvet. "Be kind to your father. He works so hard to keep us all comfortable."
The boy rolled his eyes but said no more, retreating into his own thoughts. His mother’s words always had a strange...weight to them, as though they carried secrets he wasn’t yet meant to understand.
“Would anyone like something to drink?” asked Merope, her voice light and casual.
“An orange juice, please,” Tom Sr. replied, his tone polite, his eyes soft as he gazed at his wife with longing. She hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. Then, she tipped the contents of the vial into it, stirring carefully until the liquid was smooth.
Once, years ago, Merope had considered stopping. She had thought, perhaps, that the child they’d made together might soften him, might make him stay. She had even gone more than a week without the potion, her heart pounding as she waited for some sign—some flicker of affection that wasn’t born of her magic.
But when she looked into his eyes that night, she had seen the truth. The cold disdain, the flicker of resentment that lingered just below the surface. She had seen the man who would leave, who would leave her penniless and pregnant, and who would never look back.
Tom Jr. looked up as his mother came back into the room, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the routine. Every Sunday, without fail, his mother would pour his father a glass of orange juice, and his father would drink it. No exceptions.
He had noticed something else, too. On Sunday afternoons, his father always seemed... different. Much more attentive to his mother. More obsessed with her, though he could never quite put a name to it.
Merope returned to the sitting area, handing the glass to her husband with a practiced smile. He took it without hesitation, his gaze never leaving hers as he drank deeply. His wife's orange juice was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted, and it smelled like everything he loved, so why would he ever stop?
Tom Riddle Sr. drained the glass, just as he had every Sunday for the past ten years. Merope’s smile softened as she took the empty glass from his hand, her fingers brushing his for a moment longer than necessary.
“Perfect, as always,” Tom Sr. murmured, his voice filled with a devotion that sounded hollow to anyone who listened closely.
Merope’s smile didn’t falter. She turned back to the kitchen cabinet, placing the glass carefully on the counter. Behind her, her son’s eyes followed her every move, his expression unreadable.
The fire crackled in the hearth, and Merope Riddle closed her eyes for a moment. She breathed deeply, her hands steady, her heart resolute. She had a perfect family.
Everything was as it should be.