Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, Season 5, Round 2

Kenmare Kestrels, Beater 1

Mandatory Prompt: Write a story set in Little Hangleton

Optional Prompts: (image) image. shutterstock z/stock-photo-376350100. jpg (heart in a cage)

(word) past

(word) shadow

Word Count: 1,012

My wonderful beta: Amber. Thank you!

Tom Riddle was her heart.

Merope knew she had to trap him in a cage of her making; it was the only way he would see that they were meant for each other. They were soulmates, she could feel that in her own soul. His called out to hers like a siren. She was no longer a naive little girl; she knew that, much like a real siren, Tom Riddle could be a grave danger to her. She didn't imagine he would ever hurt her himself, but there would be no shortage of people scandalized by their union. She would have to be careful to avoid crashing into the jagged rocks on the perilous shores of a disapproving society.

She had big plans, or rather the beginnings of such. A few days previous, she had found a stack of old books hidden under the weathered floorboards in one corner of the shack. How fortuitous it was that her foot had gone through the floor when she had been giving the walls a vigorous scrub. The new scrapes and bruises were worth it. The books were a real treasure, even more so by comparison to the less glamorous things hiding under the floors—old snake skins and layers of dust thick enough to choke on. There were subjects like charms and potions. It was in the well worn pages of the latter that she discovered the notion of love potions.

Amortentia. She mouthed the word to herself. It sounded so lovely. How could anything that sounded so nice, so pretty, be bad?

She knew Tom had to feel the same way. Her sweet Riddle had feelings for her deep down inside and those feelings could surely only be enhanced by the potion. He wasn't the cruel snobbish man everyone said he was. He was a good, kind-hearted man. He was dashing and adventurous, perfect for sweeping Merope off her feet. That was just what she needed in her life. He cared for her, loved her. It was under his skin and in his very bones. The man was made for her. He loved her, even if he didn't realize it yet. He simply needed a little nudge in the right direction.

Luckily, he had Merope to deliver that gentle, loving nudge. She just needed to procure the proper ingredients and put in a sufficient amount of practice. Her magic wasn't her strength. It was so subpar that her father had gone so far as to accuse her of being a Squib. He was wrong. She knew she had magic in her, even if it had been dampened over the years. She could still feel the faint thrum of it. Someday things would change. She would make a better life for herself.

For now, she sat in the shadow of one of the bigger oak trees on their small patch of land. She carefully dragged a piece of coal against a large scrap of parchment she had managed to keep tucked away for her own use. It was creased and a little ragged at the edges, but it was mostly usable. The hidden pockets she had sewn into the folds of her ratty old dress had proved very practical. The quiet sound of charcoal on parchment was soothing. To see a proper image come together from lines and curves and shading was gladdening. She worked on yet another sketch of her beloved Tom, her handsome Tom.

The nicest thing anyone could say about her appearance was that Merope Gaunt was a plain girl. More commonly the people of Little Hangleton who caught a glimpse of her described her as ugly or worse. Morfin delighted in telling her all the things people said about her, even adding his own callous commentary. He was always eager to hurt her in any way possible, be it physically or emotionally. She had begun to grow numb to it. Her head was her safe retreat. Her looks and people's opinions of her looks didn't matter there. Despite lacking any real beauty herself, she knew how to create it. Her art was her talent. There were already several of her drawings—all various renderings of Tom, of course—tucked away in places her father and her brother would never think to look. The love she felt for the squire's son was her own beautiful secret.

It was Merope's duty to maintain a semblance of upkeep in their rundown home, so naturally she came to know all the best hiding places their dingy little hovel had to offer. It was one good thing to come from having spent countless hours of her life cleaning every inch of their shack by hand. It was just one of her punishments to have take care of things the Muggle way. In her family's eyes that was all she was worth. To them, she wasn't a real witch. She was a disgrace. She was a shame upon the House of Gaunt. She served as a bitter reminder of the wife and the mother she had taken from Marvolo and Morfin. Merope's mother died giving birth to her, leaving a gaping wound in their lives that they would never let heal. It was a past she continuously paid for with her own wounds.

Merope pushed those unpleasant thoughts aside. They were painfully distracting. She would never finish if she let her thoughts go too far in the wrong direction. She dropped her bit of charcoal in her lap, ignoring the marks it left on the fabric of her dress, and took a look at her progress. There was Tom's strong jawline, the subtle upturn curve of his lips, and the column of his throat. It was a nice start. Her lips remained a flat line, but she was happy with her work so far. Soon, she hoped, she would be able to show Tom each of her drawings. He would see just how much love she put into them, how much love she was willing to put into him.

She couldn't wait to show her heart.