The man has a roaring headache. The pain screams behind his eyes and deep into his head, and he can feel his body slip into a cold sweat as the pain rages on.

"I…" He hears himself say, and his head fills with cotton as the pain subsides. For some reason, he can't bring himself to remember where he is. The only thing he can do is look right ahead, blinking, into the brown eyes of his… of…

The eyes belong to a plain-looking woman with dull hair, a fragile smile, and hopeful eyes that tilt in different directions. She's clutching his hand like it's the only thing tethering her to the ground, and all of a sudden a wave of nausea washes over him. Vomit bursts from him as he slumps over, spewing liquid. Her grip gets tighter. "It's okay," she says, focused entirely on him. "You might feel a little...odd."

He feels odd. And tired. And sick. He feels as though he hasn't slept in a thousand years. His limbs feel heavy, and the girl gets up out of her chair to wipe his slack mouth and push him back into his chair.

He tries to bring to mind the last thing he did, because right now his brain is flooded with foreign information. All he can remember is a gorgeous figure with the voice of an angel touching her belly. "I just had...the most...vivid dream," he manages, although all of his words come out slurred and half-formed. "I…"

He can't remember anything. Holy hell, what happened to him? The girl continues to rub gently over his hands and up his arms as though to coax the life back into him through his skin, but all he feels is wrong.

His body is not his own.

When the girl says, "You remember, don't you, my darling?" he only remembers my darling before his brain slips again. His body tilts, his skull the weight of a planet, and she pushes him back again. Saliva spills out of the corner of his mouth. She wipes again. "Here." She's settling in his lap now, touching a cool glass against his unmoving lips. "Drink up. You'll feel much better." Liquid dribbles down his chin, but as she moves the cup, he struggles to swallow a few mouthfuls of the tangy drink.

Why is he so tired?

Why is everything so strange?

Why can't he move?

Why…

Little by little, his mind clears, cleaning up the clouded memories that seem so far. His name—Tom Riddle—as well as the girl's—Merope. "You…" He's still confused, fumbling for answers he can't quite reach.

"That's it," says the girl. "Take your time."

All at once, this plain girl feels impossibly dangerous. Her voice is too familiar, her hands too affectionate, her face… He feels like he's seen her in every dream he's ever had. He sits up, stronger now, as life returns to him atom by atom. As he does so, Merope rocks back on her heels, one hand moving to the swell of her belly.

Her belly…

Oh.

"Are you…?" he starts. Every sentence Tom says now feels like a steel trap. Why can he never finish what he's trying to say?

Merope understands, and she nods desperately. "Yes, darling. Don't you remember? This is your baby. I wanted…" She's shaking. "I wanted to come clean. I wanted you to know...your baby. Truly know him. You love me, and I know you'll love him, too."

His son...

His head hurts again. "I—I don't know…" he stammers.

There's a hand on his knee now, caressing slowly. "Yes, you do, you do… You love me, don't you, Tom? You married me. Left everything for me. You—you love your baby, too."

The pieces of this murky jigsaw puzzle are finally collapsing into place. He feels sick; if he could, he would run, as every cell sputters in confused dread. "Is this love?" he whispers, echoing her words.

The girl in his lap looks heartbroken. "Of course it is. You love me, you said you love me, you made love to me…" She's wearing a navy blue dress and an amber ribbon in her hair, and Tom is having trouble focusing on anything else. Where is he?

"That wasn't me," Tom says, because he doesn't remember any of that. He only remembers pieces—a sweet drink, a lacy wedding dress, a hand running down his naked chest—and it's not enough for him to understand who she is. He's so confused and disturbed and, for some reason, scared. "I don't—I don't know who you are."

"Yes, you do," Merope says emphatically, her face sloping into a frown. "Yes, you do! C'mon, darling—" She loops her arms around his neck and pulls him into a sudden kiss, pressing her face against his so hard that it feels like she's trying to weld their minds together. He pushes at her weakly, his strength still sapped, but she keeps going. His body is hers, he realizes, as she touches his face, his neck, his shoulders.

"Stop," he mumbles, helpless, against her mouth. "Stop—"

She pulls away, pleading. "I'm your wife." She leans in to kiss him again, and he tries to turn his head away from her, but his muscles are half-numb.

Tom Riddle doesn't remember much, but what he does know is he's not married. "What have you done...to me?"

Grief riddles her face. "Nothing, I—I just wanted you to love me."

He remembers now. She's the girl who used to peer at him through the windows of her rundown cottage, always bruised and dressed in tatters. Merope Gaunt, he thinks, and then he says it.

Upon hearing her name, the girl's face twists. "It's Riddle now," she says, her voice right as though the words themselves pain her. "I'm yours, and you are mine." Tom shakes his head, and she stops him with another kiss, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "You'll remember. You will. You love me."

He finally gains control of his arms and pushes her backwards. "You don't know what love is," he counters, sick to his stomach. "You did something to me… I didn't want this. Where's Cecelia?" Cecelia he can remember—his sweet fiance with black hair and twinkling eyes. The last thing he remembers, the last thing that feels real and solid in his mind, is Cecelia's face.

Merope looks as though she's been torn in two. "That Muggle doesn't matter. You love me." Her voice contorts with her pleas. "Just this morning you were talking about how much you loved me, and our son, too. We're to name him after you." Her eyes grow bigger in her desperation. "Tom."

It all comes together. Merope, her insistence on love and marriage, the baby growing inside her… Everything is so hideously clear. He remembers, what seems like years ago now, when one of the girl's family members shouted curses at him and made hives erupt over his body. "How long has it been…?" he says, voice dry. "Since I saw Cecelia… Since I saw my family…"

The pregnant girl gulps as though blindsided by the question, and for the first time since Tom woke up, she breaks eye contact with him. She's quiet for far too long, and she touches her hand to her protruding stomach. "Two years."

"...years?" he chokes out.

He knows now. She's a witch, or a hag, or an enchantress, something of that cruel nature. Something of the same sort that gave him that curse over his skin. She must be. No wonder he feels like shit, no wonder he feels sickened every time she lays a hand on him. "Two wonderful years, darling," she assures him, and now she is close to tears. "They've been the most incredible years of my life."

Tom shakes his head. "Where have you taken me, bitch?" He forces himself to stand and pushes her out of the way, gripping the table for support. "You've cursed me. You've…" A wave of dizziness causes him to keel over. "You poisoned me, too? What was in that drink?"

Merope starts to cry.

"Answer me!" he shouts.

"it wasn't supposed to be like this!" she cries, shoulders shaking with the force of her voice. "I just wanted to be a family! But the potion—i-it only worked on me, not the baby, it wouldn't make you love both, and all I want is for you to love us both! Is that too much to ask for, Tom? Please, please won't you just love us?" She's bawling now, ugly tears streaming down her witchy face.

For a second time, Tom reaches his feet, his body aching with the force of whatever this witch cursed him with. He's half-alive, half-human, and his thighs ache as he stands. "I won't come near you or your spawn," he spits. Horror trickles through his body, and she grabs his wrist to try to sit him down again. She's no longer seductive or well-versed. She's only desperate. "I thought you were an angel… A… But you tricked me. You bewitched my—my mind. Come near me again and I'll kill you myself!"

"Tom, please—"

He shoves her aside and staggers to the door. Two years under this witch's evil curse? How was it possible?

She's still protesting as he flings the door open and walks out into open air, but he ignores her. He feels no ties to her or her baby. He was no willing participant in the creation of that thing, and he would have no part in the rearing of it. He can hear Merope screaming and sobbing, and a part of him revels in her anguish. It's what he feels now, knowing his mind was trapped in her beauty for so long, his thoughts blurred to simplicity. He limps past their front gate and into the street.

Tom Riddle doesn't look back.

WC: [1649]

Assignment #3: Folklore, Task #4: Write about someone revealed to be under a spell because it was broken.

Challenges: Character Appreciation [12], Record Collection [Frank:1], Bingo [17], Amber's Attic [9], Lizzy's Loft [8], Angel's Archive [9], Scamander's Case [15], Film Festival [30], Marvel Appreciation [Agent Carter:2], Lyric Alley [8], TV Spree [16], The Forecast Says [21], Entitled [19], IPC [303], 365 [33], Days of the Year [July 14th], Unlucky Month for Weddings [4], National Ice Cream Month [4], National Indoor Plant Month [20], Colours [15], Tarot Reading [7], Dragon Breeding Month, August Writing Month