House: Slytherin
Category: Themed
Prompt: Potion
Word Count (excluding A/N): 1175
Summary: Merope Gaunt discovers Tom Riddle isn't as enamored with her as she'd thought.
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It'd started when her monthly bleeds ceased. When she, Merope Gaunt, had begun to believe her husband loved her, truly loved her, and would love her even without the Amorentia. Perhaps her optimism stemmed from her suspicion she was carrying his child, or perhaps it was only wishful thinking; nonetheless he seemed enamoured with her, much more than usual. Underneath his potion-induced haze, he loved her. She just knew it. And it was a great relief.
Ever since she'd first dosed him with love potion, starting their courtship, she'd been haunted by doubts. What if he didn't love her? She knew she'd used Amorentia to bewitch and ensnare his senses at first, but even then she'd hoped that, in time, he'd come to love her, for she loved him and couldn't live without him. And while he may not reciprocate her feelings, Merope needed to know how he felt about her, for sometimes as she lay awake at night, listening to his deep, steady breathing at her side, contemplating their sham of a marriage, Morfin would appear. "Ugly," he would jeer, cackling and pointing at her. "Disgusting. Even a Muggle doesn't want you without love potion."
She'd freeze, the breath catching in her throat. Those old, half-forgotten taunts re-opened festering wounds and forced her to confront a terrible thought — What if Tom didn't love her? She loved him beyond words, but he still might not love her… Shaken, she'd be unable to respond beyond whispering, "He wants me. I know he wants me."
But Morfin would only laugh at her words, his eyes rolling wildly in all directions as he spat, "That's the potion, Merope. You idiot."
"No, no, it's more than the potion!" she'd cry, tears welling in her eyes even as Morfin laughed, "Filthy, lying Squib," before disappearing.
Those poisonous words haunted her. When Tom held her in his tender embrace, they would echo in her ears and she'd burst into sobs. His caresses which once had felt so loving now felt false as his fingers fumbled over her bare skin. His sweet whispered nothings were nothing, for it was only the potion speaking; Merope would still smile and kiss him, but all the while she heard her brother's voice whisper, "Filthy lying Squib. This isn't love. No one could love you."
It was an awkward, uncomfortable state of existence, one which Merope both loved and hated. She had Tom Riddle, but she didn't have him, heart and body and mind. She had his body, and the potion held both his heart and his mind. He'd never choose to be with her of his own free will, though she desired that beyond anything else. If she knew he loved her, truly and absolutely, it would silence Morfin's whispers and make her blindingly happy. But that would never happen, not unless she stopped dosing him with love potion.
Finally, she could bear it no longer. Her belly was already swollen with a child, she was carrying his child, and even if he didn't love her — which he did — he wouldn't leave her. He couldn't. Tom Riddle was too good a man Too honorable. He'd never leave her, not if she were pregnant with his child. He wouldn't. And no matter what Morfin said, he did love her beneath the Amorentia. She knew it.
Nonetheless, she waited with bated breath when she withheld his evening dose of love potion. Dinner that night was a strained affair, for he didn't speak much, instead only pushing his food around his plate in a look of studied concentration. Merope put it down to the potion leaving his system, but she still worried. So after she'd cleaned up the meal, she cautiously approached him where he sat on their sofa, swirling the wine in goblet round and round. "Tom?" she asked, "Why aren't you on the loveseat?"
He looked up and met her gaze with eyes far clearer than they'd been in months. "Because I don't love you, Merope."
Her breath caught in her throat. "B-b-but Tom— you love me— I know you do— say you love me—"
"No, I don't love you, you witch," he snarled, and that word, which Merope had so longed to hear from her father and brother, made her flinch as Tom, her Tom, said it to her, for from him, it was a curse. "You fed me some foul concoction to make me yours and I'm ashamed of what I've done — I've gone and broken Cecilia's heart, my darling Cecilia—"
"You've broken my heart!" Merope wailed, tears falling as Morfin's taunts and jeers rang in her ears louder than ever before. She ran to the cabinet, only one thought running through her head: get to the cabinet, get to the cabinet, the potion's in there… If she could dose him again, he'd be hers again, hers and only hers—
But Riddle crossed the room in two strides, catching her wrists and keeping her from reaching the Amorentia. "Don't you dare," he growled. "I won't let you poison me again." He fisted her hair and twisted her arms behind her until she whimpered in pain, then threw her to the floor.
Merope stumbled, her arms thrown out before her to break her fall as she wailed, "The baby!"
Tom, who was already leaving the room, stilled. "The baby." He said the words slowly, as if tasting them on his tongue.
"Yes, yes! Your baby!" Merope sobbed. "Don't go Tom, please don't go, we've got a baby—"
But he was already advancing on her again. His breath reeked of strong wine as he stepped forward shouted, his eyes flashing, "That baby isn't mine. It's yours and only yours, you witch." With that, he stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him and leaving the sobbing Merope on the ground cradling her stomach.
Merope lay there throughout the night, staring at the door, wishing with all her heart he'd return — but he never did. When the sun began to rise and the sky became tinged by pink and the light of day once again kissed the Earth, she slowly rose and hobbled to the mirror to wash away her tears. As she dried her eyes, though, Morfin materialized in the mirror behind her. "Stupid Squib," he crooned, running phantom fingers through her hair, "You've lost him. And you can't survive without him. What a failure you are, little Merope…"
"Quiet!" she shrieked, the mirror rattling in its frame at her distress. "All I wanted to be loved and I won't listen to you anymore! Begone!"
And to her surprise, he did just that, smirking as he faded into the air. His caustic, casual condemnations ceased and his voice was mercifully silent, but then it was replaced by her own.
"Filthy, lying Squib," she whispered to her reflection. "He didn't love you. He never did. And look what it cost you to discover that. You've lost him— you've lost him— you've lost him— you've lost everything, you filthy, lying squib!"