The next few weeks saw Merope's infatuation grow. At the same time every day, just after lunch, she would sneak outside to peer through the hedge, watching as the handsome young man rode past on his horse. Occasionally he rode past with others, but they were always men, to Merope's relief. But her insecurity as to the young man's relationship status grew after one afternoon, when the man rode past with a male companion many years his senior, his grey hair poking out from under his bowler hat. They were chatting casually as they approached the House of Gaunt, indistinctly until Merope huddled against the hedge.

"Well come on, Tom. Who is she?" the older man was saying in a teasing tone.

Merope's heart skipped a beat. His name was Tom? What a beautiful name. Simple, but elegant all the same.

"Ah, Mr. Lewis," came the young man's smooth voice, almost making Merope's heart stop altogether. "I couldn't tell you that. We're trying to keep it quiet, you see."

"What on earth for?" the older man said.

Merope saw Tom shrug. "Makes the game all the more fun, wouldn't you agree?" he flashed a smile, displaying perfectly straight, bright white teeth. Though her mind was reeling about the prospect of Tom seeing a girl, she still raised a hand to her mouth and gingerly felt her own teeth. She knew they were slightly yellow, and there was one missing to the side where she had knocked it out on a kitchen counter during one of her father's physical rages. The men were right in front of her now; she could see how Tom's shirt had been ironed to perfection and fit snugly around his torso.

"Just tell me, you cheeky young Riddle!" said the older man, affectionately.

Riddle. Tom Riddle. Merope assumed that he must be the squire's son, of Little Hangleton; the village the Gaunts lived just on the outskirts of. She knew her father and brother hated the Riddles, calling them 'the filthiest of all poisoned Muggle blood'. Surely that didn't refer to their son? Surely he was different?

"All right," said Tom, as his carriage began descending the hill past the Gaunt house. "Miss Cecilia Jones."

Merope didn't catch the old man's reply. She felt her eyes fill with tears. Cecilia, she thought bitterly. She was probably very beautiful, with flowing golden hair and full, pink lips. Her eyes wouldn't face different directions.

"What are you doing?" came a hiss behind her.

Merope jumped up and turned around. Morfin was standing behind her by the door, watching her. A long, thin snake wrapped around his shoulders. Merope avoided his stare and walked past him and inside, feeling his dark gaze follow her.

The next day passed just as the one's before, except for when Merope routinely snuck out of the house to peer through the hedge at Tom Riddle. It was in vain, for he did not come past at the moment he usually did. Merope waited for minutes, feeling increasingly foolish as she did so, before turning back to the house, defeated. It wasn't until she was washing the dishes after dinner, idly staring out the open window into the cool evening front of her, she heard the steady clopping of horse hooves coming down the road. Merope almost dropped the plate. He was here. She peeked out into the hall, but her father was sitting on his armchair, writing with an old, grey quill on parchment. He would surely see her if she tried to go outside. Running quietly back into the kitchen, she looked out the window again, but Tom Riddle was already nearing the house. Panicking that she would miss him, Merope literally leaned out of the window of see.

"'Andsome, in't he?" said Morfin behind her, sounding forcibly calm. "That Muggle scum." Merope straightened up, forgetting herself momentarily and banged her head on the top of the window. Eyes watering and ears filled with Morfin's insane cackling, she saw her brother casually twirling his wand between his fingers. Merope tried to look as though she had no idea what he was talking about, though she could feel her face burning at being caught, as he approached the window and looked out. Before Merope knew what was happening, Morfin had aimed his wand at Tom Riddle, now directly in front of the house, and a bright light emitted from his wand. There was a cry from Tom, drowned by Morfin's manic laughter, and Merope could only look from one to the other with her mouth open. Tom had stopped his horse and stood up in the stirrups, looking toward the Gaunt house with his hands over his face, both of which were now covered in angry disappeared from the kitchen, his laughter echoing down the hall.

Tom had let out a cry at the sight of Merope and Morfin at the window, and now he looked at Merope in disgust. He sat back down and cantered the horse down the road, covering his face as best he could with his hands. Tears welled up again in Merope's eyes. That look. That look. It broke Merope's heart. Never had she felt uglier, or more humiliated in her life, when all she wanted to do was hold Tom, caress his soft, dark hair and cure the hives; though she'd probably end up blasting his nose off in the process. Filthy, useless Squib, echoed in her head. Merope's hand started shaking as fresh tears formed, but this time of anger at her brother. Of hate. She ran to Morfin's room and flung open the door. He was sitting on his bed, stroking the snake around his shoulders, crooning to it in Parseltongue, but he looked up at Merope's dramatic entrance as though he had been expecting her.

"You- you- you-" she stuttered.

"You- you- you-," Morfin mimicked in a high voice. "You wha'? You are such a disgrace to this fam'ly, Merope! Staring at a filthy Muggle? What's the mat'a with you?!" he was angry; Merope could see his hands shake as he rose from the bed. She could only retreat into a corner as he approached.

"I mean, you were actually leaning out the window! A Muggle! A low, dir'y blooded Muggle! Does your fam'ly heritage mean nuffin' to you?!" he let out a roar of anger and pulled out an old, bloodstained knife, brandishing it above Merope, who was now cowering on the floor. She could only open and close her mouth like a fish in her shock as his odd eyes burned a hole of rage into her equally mismatched eyes. But Morfin lowered the knife and, closing his eyes, took a deep breath in order to calm himself.

"Out," he said, but Merope only stared, unable to move. "I said out!" Morfin took hold of Merope's upper arm in a firm grip that made Merope wince, pulled her roughly to her feet and threw her out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Her father yelled something in a gruff voice from downstairs, but Merope didn't hear over the pounding of blood in her ears. She rose to her feet slowly and unsteadily, before slowly retreating into her own room. She only just made it to her bed before her shaking knees collapsed under her, and she fell, face down, onto the musty covers. Was Morfin right? Was she really a disgrace to the family? Merope idly toyed with the locket around her neck. It was a very important locket, whose gold chain she was to keep on her being at all times. Salazar Slytherin's it was, of whom she and her brother and father were direct descendants. Had she disgraced him too? Always the failure, she thought bitterly of herself. She grabbed a pillow and violently shoved it against her face, meaning to scream into it with all her might. But nothing came out; only a strangled sob. She had no voice.

But she had never had a voice.