When She Thought

When She Thought

By Dimgwrthien

Merope had the potion planned out for nearly a year. The first day she had seen the man ride by her house was when she tried to think of a way to ensnare him, to call him her own. The idea of the love potion came only a short while later.

When she went to sleep in her ragged bed, hearing snores filter into her bare room through the thin walls, she closed her eyes and saw his brown eyes staring back at her. When dreams came and conciousness left her, she could see him, on his white horse, riding past her house. There was no girl next to him at those times. It was only the two of them. She was wearing the beautiful dresses he bought her, holding the single red rose he gave to that other woman. She was the one, laughing at the small house they passed, making snide somments about the strange Gaunts.

When she woke up, her mouth formed the word 'Tom' over and over again until she saw was she was doing.

When she dressed in one of her old, gray dresses, Merope was the one standing before the grimy mirror that, no matter how much cleaning hit it, would always blur her reflection. It was Merope who was twirling around, whispering to a man she could not see, thanking him for such a beautiful invitation to such a beautiful ride on such a beautiful day. She pinched her cheeks, bit her lips, trying to redden them like the other woman he spoke to. No matter how much she tried, however, her pale face remained the same and her lank hair hung to her shoulders, coated in dirt and dust. She tried to cross her eyes and get them to face forward as the other woman's startling blue eyes did.

When she cooked for her surly father and brother, she imagined the main, decked in expensive black, serving herself and the handsome boy. She curtsied and ignored it when her father hissed at her to stop acting so foolishly.

When she cleaned around the house as her father ordered her, dropping almost everything she touched as his yells frightened her, forgetting spells she needed, she caught herself looking out the window, waiting for him to ride by. When he did, she would forget everything she was doing and found herself staring. Her stomache dropped deep into the floor and she felt weightless, as though nothing, not even her father, could pull her down. Her hands reached to the sides of the dusty window, and she clutched the sill, trying not to fall. She watched, heard his voice, until he was gone. Her father would yell for her not to stop, and she never even bothered thinking about how lucky she was for him to not notice she was in love with a Muggle.

When she lived, every day for years, inside that house, trying her best to leave it, willing herself to break away from her family and go to the man, she found herself pining for him more than ever. She was almost crazed with the idea of the man. He haunted her dreams and thoughts and no matter where she turned, she saw his elegant face with the black locks falling into his dark brown eyes.

Then, one bright morning, Merope spoke to Tom Riddle for the first time in her life.

It had been simple enough to speak to him. He looked at her with comtempt, but Merope only saw that he even looked at her. She offered him a drink, which he accepted, and she had him there. Even as that woman he was always with watched, his gaze turned from scornful to loving in a moment. He spoke to Merope the same way he spoke to his girlfriend, and he took her hand at one point.

That had been the beginning of their love.

Once her father and brother were sent off to Azkaban, Merope spent more and more time in the presence of the man. She no longer went around, wearing her gray dresses and pretending they were a gown. She no longer had to clutch her limp pillow and wish it was him. She finally had his arms to wrap around her, sieze her in the only real hug she could remember recieving in her entire life.

Within months, she was pregnant.

He showed an almost sickening passion towards her, and she only gave it back with joy. She told him, in the dark of night as he comforted her before sleep, how she had always loved him, and how she knew that day was to come. She fell asleep, no longer mouthing his sweet name, but instead "I love you." And he returned it.

And every morning she gave him another dose of love potion.

He never noticed it when she slipped a small vial of it into his water or tea. Never any questions from him or the maids. She was able to keep up the act, making sure their love never died.

And one morning, Merope decided it was enough.

Even though he would walk up behind her, grabbing her around her waist and kissing the top of her head, she felt a forced feeling behind his actions, as if they were not his own. Taking the vials of love potion she had made, she let them all into the garden, seeing the roses drenched in the clear potion as though she were watering them. She never gave him a love potion after that.

He was there, beside her at the table in the morning. From the way he acted, she knew that he still loved her, even without the potion. However, by midday, there were changes.

He gave her curious looks as though trying to remember who she was. He stopped kissing her and holding her tight. By nightfall, he had left her.

When she ran away, she knew that she was back where they started.