She wasn't pretty, nor was she clever.
Her father, for all of his righteous anger and zigzagging vitriol, was at least right about that.
She had been only eight when her mother had died. Her father had never talked about what happened the night her mother died, and Merope had never dared to ask. He had never cared much for her mother anyway.
But her father's anger at the inconvenience of having a dead wife was diminished slightly at the prospect that there would, at least, be someone to take Malda's place at the stove.
Prior to her mother's death, her father had not paid her much attention. But when Malda died, her father had been surprised to find that his daughter did not cook as well as her mother had done. She learned quickly. She found a decaying wood crate in the yard, and she used it as a stool until she was tall enough.
Merope had her mother's thin black hair, and for the first few years she had worn it long as Malda had. Of course, Merope had to tie it back when she cooked, and the heat of the stove would make it feel greasy and tangled.
When she was fourteen, she had singed it quite badly on the old stove. She wore it short after that. It was easier, anyway.
Sometimes she liked to imagine that she was being fashionable, that her lopsided nest of hair looked like the sleek curled bobs of the more fashionable girls in the village. She envied them their muggleness, and knew that she would give up what little magic she had just to be one of them.
The days slipped by almost unnoticed. Her father's roars were so familiar that they were merely white noise. This was not to say that she didn't hear him anymore. Sometimes, when the food had been served and her father lay in his bed in a stupor, she would curl up and hear the things he said over and over again. But it was not the names that made the tears prick her cheeks. It was how she had never once turned to him and told him to fuck off. She was numb, but her responses were instinctual, uncontrollable. When her father yelled, she did what she was told. And somehow, she could never quite manage to disobey. That's what Merope Gaunt lay thinking of at night, not what her father had done, but what she had not.
Tom was everything a muggle was supposed to be. Attractive, well-dressed, wealthy, and totally unaware of the parallel world of magic and spellwork. She hated Cecelia and all of the other girls that went riding past her little hovel. Hated them more than her brother or her father. The girls, silly and sheltered muggles that they were, had no idea of the gift they had been given. They with their lovely silk dresses, wide-brimmed hats, and pleasant muggle lives.
Then the little man returned, flanked by two burly men in clean robes. They brandished Ministry badges and took her father and brother. She felt irrationally angry at the men, especially the first one, who had fixed the chipped clay pot for her when he had come the first time. They had robbed her of something, the chance to find her courage and scream and scream and scream until her father was dead from the noise. She might have done it too.
The house felt smaller without Morfin and her father to fill it. Most of the time, she laid on her little bed, wishing that she could be like the silly girls who rode in Tom Riddle's carriage.
Then came the potion.
He swept her up and he told her that she was just as beautiful as any of the girls that he had ever taken riding. He stroked her choppy hair and caressed her cheeks. The other whispers of the other villagers were inconsequential.
He took her to London, and tried to buy her every trinket she paused to admire. She bought a silk dress with turquoise beading, and he said she was the most beautiful thing in the world. The saleswoman's mouth had thinned, but Merope didn't care. They were married, she was married, and that was all that mattered. Merope Riddle, the wife of Thomas Riddle.
She fell pregnant after only a year, and he was so pleased and proud. He dotted on her terribly, and she promised him that the baby would have his name. Merope Riddle, Thomas Riddle, and Thomas Riddle II.
It was just the three of them in a pretty little world of their own making. Of her own making.
Then one day, she forgot to put the potion in his morning tea.
He shouted at her and she sobbed quietly. He wouldn't let her pack. Said he would have her thrown in prison for stealing if she left with anything more than the clothes on her back.
She didn't have any money. The hat was only worth 2 shillings. The man at the shop in Greater Hangleton said it was out of style these days. She had thought wistfully of the pretty baubles from Bond Street, and wished she had been wearing jewelry when she left. Instead, she handed over her jacket for another 4 shillings. It wasn't until she left the shop that she realized she didn't have anywhere to go.
Not back to her old house. London, then. She had never been anywhere else besides London and Hangleton.
She stumbled around London until she found the entrance to Diagon Alley.
It had been years since she had been to Diagon Alley, but the man at Borgin & Burkes said he would give her a special deal, since she was a Gaunt. She thanked him and he handed over 10 galleons. Morfin had always handled the money, and they hadn't had much in the first place. She didn't know how much 10 galleons was worth, but it was enough for three nights at a bed and a bit of food at a dirty little inn in Knockturn Alley.
There was something wrong. A sharp pain, and another. It was like her magic was trying to remind her of its existence by attacking her and the baby.
She wouldn't give in. She was not a witch. Those days were behind her now.
Another stab of pain. She cried out in surprise, and passersby looked at her with an ugly mix of pity and distain.
She realized, dimly, that it was not her magic after all.
It was the baby.
Somehow she found her way into an orphanage. The dark-skinned matron loomed over her as tears ran down her face. The pain wracked her body, reminding her of one of her father's rare Cruciatus curses.
The matron was asking her about the name.
Tom Riddle, she had said. Her throat felt raw and her voice was barely audible. They were asking for a middle name. What had Tom's middle name been? She couldn't remember. She wished she could remember. She said her father's name, because she couldn't think of any other names that mattered. Someone was talking.
The baby was lifted from her arms. The world was shrinking into blackness.