It was a hot, dusty day, the kind Merope had always hated. The hovel she lived in was small and badly constructed, making it freezing cold in winter and unbearably hot in summer. Everything, from Merope's skin to the dented pots and pans, felt sticky.

And yet, she almost didn't mind the heat that day. Before her father and brother went to Azkaban, she would have been terrified: as the temperature rose, so did their tempers. But now she was alone, and free to do as she wished.

She knew exactly what she wished.

Merope Gaunt was used to being lorded over, but at heart, she was still a Slytherin, and like all Slytherins, she had ambitions. She had plans.

As it turned out, luck was in favor of her plans that day.

She'd just poured herself a glass of lemonade, something she indulged in often now that she was free to do as she wished, when the sound of clopping hooves reached her ears.

A jolt of shock ran through her body. She placed her glass of lemonade on the table and leapt to her feet, desperately scrambling through her cupboards in search of the small bottle she'd purchased a few weeks before.

She spotted it and snatched it from the shelf, fingers shaking slightly as she pulled the stopper from the bottle and dumped the liquid into her glass of lemonade.

There was no time to hesitate. Clutching the glass tightly, she rushed to the door and threw it open. "Sir!"

The horseback rider tugged on his reins, pulling the horse to a stop. "Is everything alright, miss?"

Merope supposed she looked a bit bedraggled, but there wasn't any time to worry about that. "Yes," she said, moving forward a little. She couldn't believe how handsome he was up close. "I just thought you might want a glass of lemonade. It's terribly hot out here." She held out the glass.

The dark-haired boy blinked with surprise, no doubt astonished that a girl living in a hovel might actually have manners. "Oh," he said. "Um, certainly. Thank you."

"The pleasure is mine," said Merope sweetly. She pressed the glass into his hand, shivering a little as their fingers brushed.

He didn't bother to get down from his horse, and hesitated for a moment before lifting the glass to his lips, but in the end he tilted his head back and drank it all. When he was finished, he handed her the glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Thank you again," he said, without looking at her. "I'd best be on my way."

Merope's smile fell. Was the potion faulty?

Abruptly, the boy's body stiffened. His eyes landed on Merope's face and widened. "Miss," he said, in an entirely different voice, "may I have your name?"

Her whole body trembled. "Merope Gaunt," she said.

"Miss Gaunt." He slid from his horse and took her hand. "Pleasure to meet you. Tom Riddle, at your service." He pressed his lips against her hand.

"Yes," Merope whispered. "Yes, you are."