Cursed
The shivers running through her body were not of cold, even though the wind was icy this time of year; they were shivers of fear, and loneliness—feelings she had once hoped never to experience again. Her hands could not stay steady, and her dark hair flew freely in the breeze while wheat stalks brushed against her face. It did not bother her as much as usual; her desperation was too great.
No matter what she said, Tom would leave. She had had hopes, when an entire moon cycle had gone by without her period coming, and when all food refused to remain in her stomach—she was not brilliant, but she was certainly no fool and could identify the symptoms. She had reckoned then that it would be safe to get rid of the potion, and to share the good news with him.
She had been mistaken. Upon his awakening from the enchantment, fury and horror had overtaken Tom. He had yelled until his voice had become hoarse and thrown things around the house. She tried, in vain, to fix the objects with her wand, but the terror inspired by the threats in that voice she loved so dearly was such that she found herself unable to perform even the smallest bit of magic. At last, he declared that he would leave; since his body had awakened in response to his intense desperation, blood had boiled within him—raging mad and out of control, he fell unconscious on the floor.
Merope had run out of the house, sobbing, crossing the wheat fields on which the last harvest of the year flourished. Tears ran down her face, and she wondered how she had failed him as a wife. She had tended to his laundry, to their house; she had been fertile, and she would give him an heir. It did not occur to her that a woman had to be more than that; she had never been more than that in her father's home. No one had taught her differently.
Her mother had not lived long enough to see her leave childhood and become a woman. To her father, Merope had always been a hindrance, little more than a house-elf. Her only value had been a hypothetical alliance that would restore some of the Peverell luxury and elegance that the Gaunts had squandered over the years. However, after everything that had happened, not even that was an option; an abandoned wife was an honourless woman. And now, a little over twenty years old, Merope felt the weight of old age fall upon her.
She reviewed her plan step by step, searching for flaws. She had obtained all the necessary ingredients to make Amortentia, all twenty-one, and let them cook under the full moon light. She had added her loving memories, and a ringlet of her hair. Merope had let the potion rest during her menstrual cycle—of course, it would have been a waste to give it to him then. She had then searched the family's old books to find out what was the best time of the month to use the potion. Obediently, she waited for the moon to start growing full again, and for the summer to show signs of its presence. She used her intuition and her magic to sense when animals began to mate, and then, using a spell to make the potion resemble water, she offered it to Tom.
That same night, when the air around her was sultry and tense, he had come to her door, and held her in his arms with passion. He had kissed her, caressed her, and taken her to be his wife in the most ancient form of all. And even when, the following morning, Mr. Riddle had refused to accept their relationship, Tom had stood by her side. Since then, Merope had been a model wife, serving him with perfection both in bed and at the table. She wondered cluelessly what had gone wrong.
Merope could not understand that her biggest mistake had been to disrespect the free will every human being is entitled to have. She could not comprehend that choices should be made consciously, with no subterfuges, fantasies, deceit, or ruses. Merope did not know that nothing was more valuable to true love than honesty and companionship. No one had taught her these things. No one had shown her what real love was — and she lived in the illusion that her obsession was real love.
Nothing could prevent his departure, unless she were to deceive him again. He would certainly grow to feel differently when her belly had grown more, when she was about to give birth to their child. She would give Tom an heir, she repeated to herself, and that would be her expiation. She imagined that Tom would love the child. In that case, she hoped that part of this affection would also be transferred to her. No man would be cruel enough to abandon the mother of his first-born.
Having come to terms with her bad luck, she walked back to their flat. She was calmer now; her breathing was carefully controlled. When she entered, she saw Tom, still dizzy from hitting the ground, packing his things. He looked at her with contempt when she walked in, but she did not let it get to her.
Merope raised her voice, and said in a cold, commanding tone, "Stop."
He stood still, staring into the eyes of the woman he despised the most. She smiled, contorting her ugly features, and offered him a glass full of potion.
"Drink," she ordered in the same tone, and he did not dare argue.
He could not have resisted even if he wanted to. There was more to her commanding tone than Tom's fear of the witch; it was like the order of a high-ranking military officer, authoritative and unquestionable. He did not, could not understand that she was using the rudimentary form of a spell that bound him to her will.
Tom felt his throat dry, desperate for liquid; when he put the glass down and opened his eyes, the woman in front of him grew and changed, as if a veil of beauty had descended upon her visage. Fascination blossomed inside him, and he leaned forward to her, trying to touch her, if only with just his fingertips.
"Me—Merope," he mumbled incoherently. "Please, Merope... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—my—my wife... My goddess..."
But her bitterness over the falsehood of his love for her had already poisoned her heart, nurturing anger instead of obsesive adoration. A dark veil covered her eyes, making her see Tom as a weak, ridiculous man, incapable of living alone.
"I was your wife, Tom Riddle. I was your wife—I loved you, I wanted you and I cared for you. But I will also bring about your death."
The man's eyes, clouded with adoration, did not seem to register the threat. He attempted to kiss her, but she pushed him away; it was her turn to look down on him with hate. He had no honour or willpower; he was a puppet in her hands, and in the hands of whoever wished to pull the correct strings.
Merope despised him then, and hated the choices she had made. She hated the child in her womb. Tom continued to look at her like a lost puppy seeking shelter; she smiled—but it was a cruel smile, much like the one her son would sport years later—and held his hand, pressing it against her belly.
"This," she said with hatred, "is the beginning of your end."
Perhaps, if Merope had had an inkling of how right she was, she would not have dared utter those words. In that moment, she felt furious, and in that selfsame disposition she had tossed the potion and kicked him out of the house, retaining as much money as she could.
Only much later would she grow to regret this; even that phony façade of love, that forced devotion, would have been better than the torment of surviving a pregnancy alone. As her belly grew, her hormones betrayed her; she longed for her husband's presence, but still her pride was stronger than all her other emotions.
She was only able to forgive him in the struggle to give birth to his son; she named their child after him, but it was too late. Merope's hateful words had enveloped Tom in too powerful a shadow, and she did not have the power to undo the fate she had summoned to him. Having been immersed in such hatred and resentment from the womb, Tom's child was the perfect weapon.
Maybe, if Merope had seen what that child would grow into, she would have felt regret.
When an unknown teenager boy came to the Riddles' house and murdered Tom's parents before him, all Tom saw was the slight resemblance the boy bore to his mother. Tom knew then that the witch's words had been fulfilled; Merope had been the beginning of his end.
He tried to remember how beautiful she had seemed to him while under the effect of the potion, but all he could see was Merope, in black robes and veils, opening her arms to him like the smiling face of Death herself, ready to lock him in an eternal embrace.