AN: Hello! I am Sophia Supernova, and this story is written in conjunction with my co-author Wicked Sapphira. We had the idea to write a fanfiction inversing the circumstances and souls of Tom Riddle and Harry Potter. Thus, we warn you that the main characters notably these two, will be inversely IC. So Harry will have canon Tom's personality and Tom will have canon Harry's personality. The relationship between their parents in this story will stay true to canon, but like everything else will be inverted. This is going to be an epic story if it goes where we want it to go. So basically, our fanfic will be the HP universe upside-down, but still respecting plotlines of the original series. I repeat, the characters will be inversely IC!! I will be writing Tom's POV, 3rd person, and Wicked Sapphira, Harry's POV 3rd person.
Our chapters will alternate: one chapter will be Tom, the other will be Harry, one chapter will be Tom etc. Thus, each chapter's author will alternate as well. So Wicked Sapphira will write the 2nd chapter, and I will resume in the 3rd chapter, she will resume the 4th etc.
So this chapter which I wrote, focuses on Tom's parents' relationship which as we know, is a determining factor of his soul in the book. There is major Tom Riddle Sr/Merope interaction in this chapter for the purpose of this story, but don't worry the main pairing will be Tom Riddle/Hermione Granger! ;D
Merope Gaunt watched through heavily-lidded eyes as the Ministry officials subdued her brother and her father, closing her eyes shut as she heard curses and spells cast, searing jets of lights of all colors, a veritable artwork of prism's reflections, rebounding and crashing into miscellaneous objects. Splinters, crashes, shards of chaos ricocheted wildly, smashing everything that had the impudence to be in the way. Merope had lost count of the number of windows and doors that had shattered, been struck down as if battered in by mighty giant fists. She huddled in on herself, hoping to sink into the dirty walls, to blend into nothing, her wild matted hair curtaining her face from view. A dry rasping cough shook her frail frame, and tears burned their way up in her eyes, as her brother hissed out in Parseltongue, his eyes demented:
"Look at her, the cowering little whore. I'm sure that you've been waiting for this for a long time; now you can join your little Muggle lover scum! You love strangers more than you love your own family. You're a shame to Salazar Slytherin you wench!"
He struggled insanely as at least six men sent a Stupefy at him, his roars ceasing to reverberate throughout the house, his mighty fists quelled in their violent thrashing, in an infernal halo of blood red. Marvolo was more dignified and calm, his mouth twisted in scorn, having been effectively silenced, he faced his fate with astounding aplomb, only his beet red countenance and his bulging eyes betraying his ire. The dark look he sent to Merope made her shiver, her thin hands instinctively clutching at her ragged clothes, her eyes cast down in shame. He looked away, and with visible fury allowed himself to be escorted out of the dwelling, followed by the rest of the Ministry officials, his son floating eerily behind, bathed in the crude harsh yellow light of the house's open door. The officials never once looked at Merope, not even noticing her, so discreet and effaced was she. Merope tensed as she heard angry and panicked shouts, the sounds of scuffles and swearing echoing harshly through the night, as Marvolo seized one last desperate chance to escape. He was easily overpowered again in a flurry of crimson lights, and stupefied just like Morfin. The group Disapparated with a loud pop, leaving the night air nude and fatigued in its sudden silence. The young woman let out one long rattling breath which merged in with the night's raspy quiet. As her bosom rose with that breath, it heaved as others, more jagged and loud, succeeded themselves, rising in a crescendo of relief, till she was sobbing in earnest, her body sagging down in the filth of the floor, her arms wrapping around her knees, as she rocked back and forth like a lost infant. Tears pearled down her gaunt cheeks, down her neck, landing softly with infinite grace in her mousy brown hair, which lay as a shower of broken dry brambles over her face, over her knees. After a few minutes of hacked, shaky sobs, she coughed long and hard, cradling her stomach with one arm, throwing her head back and breathing in one long swipe. She opened her eyes, one eye looking out at the night sky, and one eye roving around the house. A small tremor shook her frame, and a weak watery ghost of a smile flitted across her visage, and for a moment, that plain, rugged face was the most beautiful thing to behold in that house. Relief had come with its catharsis of tears, and now, now, she could be free. Finally, completely, after eighteen years of abuse, eighteen years of cowering and cringing and always striving to be the perfect servant, the perfect daughter. Free. She was free.
The beginnings of a laugh bubbled up in her throat, and picking herself off the floor, she eyed with disgust the mess around her, the squalor and the filth of enslavement. She winced as her back rubbed against the rough edge of the marble kitchen table, the bruises on her skin brushing painfully against the surface. Never. Never again would she bend to anyone's will. Teetering slightly, and hobbling awkwardly across the room, with a shaking, pale hand, she hesitantly patted the floor here and there, scrabbling for an important piece of herself. Opening her mouth in silent relief, her hand sought what it had searched for; the wooden reassuring length of her wand, its surface gleaming and sticky with sweat and grease, powdered with dust, met the callused knuckles of her clammy fingers. Grasping it, she cradled it for a moment to her chest, relishing in her power to once more have the opportunity to wield that power. Straightening, she pointed her wand at the nearest shattered widow and enunciated clearly with barely a tremor:
"Reparo." And a faint wind billowed from her wand, transparent filigrees of forgotten magic spreading and twining around the window, ghostly breaths of reawakening power briefly mending the broken glass, before the memory disintegrated, the shards dropping back on the ground, dejected.
She frowned and smiled grimly as she realized that it would be a long time before her magic would function wholly again, without the shadow of revolting fear pushing down on her. But it was a start, a beginning, a renewal, and by Merlin, she would wait as long as needed to find herself again. Going into her cramped minuscule room to gather the few belongings she possessed, which consisted of a few ragged dresses and some meager miscellaneous objects, she rolled them up in a bundle manually, and shuffled out of the room. Staring at herself in the broken pieces of mirrors on the floor, she gazed with loathing at her reflection which wavered like an eerie phantom of mockery in the light of the few flickering candles. Her face was pasty white, hollow and pre-maturely aged, with frown lines etched in her forehead, and the dimples near her mouth and chin harshly accentuated. Scars and fading bruises littered her too pale skin, making her look like a wandering wraith. Resolutely stepping her foot on the piece of glass, she gathered a thin sheet of paper and a nub of charcoal, and wrote a few lines.
Dear Father and Morfin,
I know that with these words, you will detest me with a passion, cursing me to eternal shame. I know that by leaving, you both will be alone and have no one to care for in the upcoming years. But this house has too many memories for me, and I must go. I will be much happier and you both as well, ultimately by living separately. I realized that I don't need anyone anymore to control my life; I have years and years ahead of me and I will do as I choose, as I want to. I do not love you any less, but if you love me still, you will understand my decision to leave.
Farewell, and my wishes accompany you,
Merope G.
Neatly placing the note on the kitchen table, she turned her back on it, though her face crumpled slightly from her emotion. Walking blindly, quickly away before her resolution wavered, she strode out into the night with her belongings, searching for her freedom. She would find it, that liberty, and live her life. And she would banish that little arrogant snob, Tom Riddle from her mind, her heart, now and forever. She didn't need him now, now that she was free and could think for herself. The cloud of defeat vanished from her eyes, she saw who he was. Ah, how wishful thinking is divine, and she would find what she sought; but the Fates, the weary Fates would twine Riddle's life with hers, the lonely, defeated as of now tramp… Fingering her golden locket of Salazar, she became one with the night's wan shadow.
The first month, Merope had an enormous hassle in finding a home in little Hangleton, where someone would accept her. Rumors and whispers had flown all ready, cruel and nasty words of Look at her, she is part of those madmen's family! Those horrible Gaunts! Do you think they eat snakes like that brother of hers is said to do? How horrible! Oh yes, Merope shook her head sadly, she was well acquainted with the public's opinion of her family. But she had persevered, had marched doggedly on, not ever letting herself be stamped upon, spat upon. Oh, she would see the superior looks of the men, and the hypocritical disgust of the women, purposefully shivering whenever Merope was near, wrinkling their noses and turning their heads away. But that was how life was, the peoples' endless idiocy, judging, ranking a person by their family and not for how that person was, inside. Once, she would have been shattered, crushed. Now, she couldn't care less. It was almost amusing to see them run away from her, or stare at her as if she would curse them to oblivion. The young woman fondly tested her wand, its surface now spotless and impeccable, its walnut color shining superbly in the sunlight. Walnut. Her hair, her hair whom she had tended and repaired herself, now brushed and gleaming proudly in the sunlight, untamed, but beautiful. Curtains of walnut brown, warm, spicy, passionate, and smooth, like rivulets of wood, obscuring the right side of her face. Her skin though naturally pale, had regained a healthy color, had even obtained a healthy flush of crimson in her cheekbones. Merope knew very well she wasn't a beauty, far from it, for she never had been. But she was a woman, and she had accepted it, and nourished its neglected sheen. She still couldn't believe her freedom, her liberty, the reality of making choices in a way. Absently passing a finger over the gold locket nestled in the hollow of her throat, she picked up the bolts of fabric of her mauve skirt, which trailed on the ground. Smiling gently, with a pique of mischief, Merope called to mind one aspect of her new self she relished in. Her magic. Now released from its fetters of subversion, her magic had developed fully, improving, honed itself to an almost dangerous level. She was by no means a brilliant witch, but with her Slytherin cunning, her wand was one dangerous weapon indeed. She had used it discreetly, while negotiating for a home with the Riddle landowner, who had tried to refuse her a lodging. He had been quick to accept her after her little Furnunculus spell. He hadn't known what had happened of course, but after a week of painful pustules, he had deemed it pointless not to give her what she wanted. A small grin graced her heavy-set lips, but it vanished as soon as she saw the son of Thomas and Mary Riddle, riding past her on his carriage, with his lover Cecelia. Walking brusquely away, she tossed her head indignantly as he blew a playful kiss at her.
"Oi, you young lady there! What is a beautiful woman like yourself doing on such a warm day? Care for a ride, my sweet?"
Even from a distance, his dark eyes smoldered into hers, burning into hers with a mischievous intensity. Merope marveled at the irony of life. Up to one month ago, when she had still been confined at home with her father and brother, he had ignored her completely, never deigning to look at her, never giving one sign he knew she existed. The more she had clung to the memory of his hair, his eyes, his frame, the more his physical self had distanced away from her. But now, now that she was a person, a woman, no longer clinging to anyone but her respect, he saw her, a spirited woman-child, and the tables had turned disastrously. First, discreet hasty looks cast at her whenever he walked or rode by. Then, the smiles had started, the little grins, the rich warm laughter to melt her veins in her heart. Then small gestures to help her, little pleasantries, careless offers to accompany her home. He was quite a charmer, a refined seducer, but he grated on Merope's nerves at present. She was no one's doll, no one's plaything to amuse oneself with, to discard later. He had gotten so insistent at one point, she had been forced to point her wand under his throat, to stop him from touching her. He had looked frightened then, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously under the length of wood, but the next moment, he had shrugged her off stating in that unctuous tone of his and that infuriating lazy grin It will take more than that to drive me out, darling. Since then, his courting had gotten more open, more obvious, till the whole town swooned with shock to see the handsome, skirt-chaser Tom Riddle actively pursue the daughter of the feared Gaunts.
"Tom, darling, it hurts me so to see you fraternizing with that chit. You know she can never be what I can be. Come back to me, forget her. I am all you can ever want me to be." Cecelia said, pouting darkly, glaring at Merope across the carriage, her blond hair shining superciliously in the sunlight.
Her companion though didn't even spare a glance at her, and gracefully jumped down from the carriage, amiably patting the head of his white horse, before heading towards Merope. The young woman froze, a hand in the pocket of her skirts, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. She craned her neck as the young man halted before her, looking down at her, his lips upturned in a teasing smile. Her heart clenched as she saw a lone lock of ebony fall elegantly on his alabaster white forehead, a dark swan gliding across ivory waters. His eyes kept hers in a confusing, burning geol. The next moment, he had kissed her, his lips gripping hers, claiming hers, devouring hers. When he released her, ignoring the shriek of surprise and indignation from Cecelia, he whispered
"So, you still won't take my offer to accompany you to your dwelling, beautiful Merope?"
The first month, Tom Riddle was slapped within an inch of his life on the cheek.
The second month, when he kissed her again under the pouring rain, he received a caress through his hair, soft accepting fingers smoothing waves on seas of onyx and the next moment, the words You do not have me yet a laugh of rebellion and a sparkle of mischief in her eyes.
The next time he called her beautiful, after rescuing her from delinquents who had tried beating her, after seeing her face marred with bruises, blood and scrapes she had kissed him on the cheek.
The next time their lips and eyes met, all in sincerity and mutual respect, reciprocated progress and change, sighs and sounds and scents had permeated their souls. Scratches and screams of sorrow and seduction had perfumed their fragrance of union. Their bodies meeting, joining, in the most poignant signet of devotion and betrothal, with the benediction of the moonlight. Virgin blood and slick fluid of pleasure, bathing in content satisfaction.
The third month, he had proposed to her, all blushes and clair de lune's melody, dapples of love and respect simmering on forest's ground's honesty. She said yes, and donned herself with bridal gown and he with the groom's attire. The town of little Hangleton rebelled initially against this scandalous union, too contrary to the hypocrisy of courtship and false words, but the bride and her groom had united nevertheless, the Muggle and the Witch, united in their lips and soul. Eyes united in gleaming stardust of hope.
The fifth month, they reclined together in their marital bed, flushed and satiated, eyes as yet pure and merry, and she whispered Tom I'm pregnant. A widening of dark eyes, a deep guttural warm laugh and he whispers back We are to be parents, Merope. The wonder of it all! His hands cradling her slightly swollen abdomen, protecting the little life within and soon to be.
The ninth months, screams and pain and fire, stretching and tearing and burning. Tears and sighs and convulsions, arching body and mother's christen hood. Her hand gripping his as the nurse kindly says Push, just once more. His eyes conveying all his sincerity, his love, his determination. A decision, an unbreakable vow of promises. A few seconds later, a baby's scream resonates like a horn in the night, the horn of change, strident joy in the frigid numbness of the New Year. His eyes, his hair, his corpulence, already so like his father. Gasping sighs of relief, eyes too wide in joy and pain, lips quavering in a smile, meeting his and she says
We will name him Tom Marvolo Riddle.
And the Fates spun their loom, unhurried, unwavering, uncaring of the abyss of fortune and destiny that had just commenced.