Illusion was beauty made true...
Beauty surrounds me,
The dream is always there...
-crimson moonlight
In all her life, she has never owned something shiny. Squibs don't deserve such things, she knows. Still, Merope sighs for beauty she cannot have, desires that will never be fulfilled.
In her head, they exist. Her collection. Bright things, pretty trinkets, mental photographs that she hoards. While sweeping, she imagines the dust glitters with gold. As her father yells at her for burning supper once again bloody squib, no daughter of mine; she drowns out his voice. She imagines owning his silver locket.
...
She is falling in love. The problem (besides for her being unlovable, as Morfin has told Merope that she is) is that he's unquestionably Muggle. But he is exquisite and Merope wants him, the same way she thirsts for the beauty of the silver locket around her father's neck. That week she breaks twice as many mugs as usual because all she can see are his eyes, filled with confidence and life.
His name is Tom Riddle, which she finds out by leaning so far out of the window while he rides past her house with his friends that she almost falls. For the first time, instead of just wishing for pretty things, Merope wishes that she herself were beautiful. That she could even think of standing a chance with him.
...
As, for the twentieth time today, Marvolo yells at his daughter, Merope pretends she cannot hear him. She imagines owning Tom Riddle. In her mind, he is another beautiful trinket that she will one day add to the collection. Love potions, a confounding charm, maybe even an Imperius are all methods of capture that she contemplates. If only she really could do magic. (If only he would love her without any of this.)
...