Archive of Our Own ^beta

Welcome, true heir.

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“Do you have any qualifications to show us? You will understand that we have a certain excellence to uphold at Hogwarts....”

Merope smiled, and thought of the many potions she had brewed.

She thought of Marvolo, choking in his cell in Azkaban, having bitten in a bread previously coated in a concoction of hers. She thought of Morfin; of the torpor that would seize him for the rest of his days, a consequence of being force-fed too many Draught of Peace.

She thought of Mary Riddle and Thomas Riddle, who had this eternal expression of confusion and incomprehension, who said yes to Tom’s every word for they couldn’t say any other thing.

“Oh yes,” she softly answered. Merope then swiftly retrieved a parchment from her bag, before sliding it on the desk towards the headmaster. “You will find here my previous employments.”

Armand Dippet nodded, gracing her with a "very well", before taking it. He gazed at it, first with a polite air that was supposed to hide his boredom, then with an awed incredulity.

“You have been the direct assistant of Arsenius Jigger?" he breathed, raising his eyes to meet hers. "How in the world- he refused to take any assistant from Hogwarts! Telling them underqualified! You must be truly extraordinary…”

Merope gave him another faint smile.

“Oh, no,” she murmured. Nothing that a well-placed Imperius couldn’t have given her. He had been resistant, Merope accorded him this. But not resistant enough for the Gaunt’s blood that ran in her veins, for their easiness with Unforgivables. “Nothing of the sort. I merely enjoy a brewing of quality…”

“You certainly must,” Dippet said in a whisper; staring at her with a whole different look in his eyes.

Whereas he had been dubious, even perhaps annoyed to see a witch ask for the Potion Master’s post; he now gazed at her with barely hidden greed and admiration. She ought to thank Tom, Merope thought. He had been the one to say that a good reference would even open the gates of Heaven.

He had yet to forsake his misplaced faith in the muggle God, but Merope did not mind.

Dippet sighed then, passing a hand over his forehead. “It is true,” he murmured. “That we are painfully in need of a talented potioneer. Horace leaving us at a time like this… Of course, other opportunities called to him, I understand… but still...”

“An opportunity for both Mr Slughorn and Hogwarts,” Merope said. “It is good for the students to see another approach to potions. I would, if chosen for the post, ask of you the possibility of bringing interveners in my course. I have many contacts that would be only too delighted in meeting the students for a day, sharing their experience with them…”

“You would?” Dippet breathed.

Merope tilted her head to the side.

“Certainly.”

“Very good, very good…” Dippet marked a pause, trying to appear composed. He was doing a poor job at it, Merope’s mind remarked. Perhaps because she had learned to recognize, better than anything else, the shine of greed, or perhaps that Dippet made a pale figure in comparison to purebloods and muggle nobility. “Then,” Dippet smiled, having waited the necessary few seconds to announce his decision. “I believe it to be settled.”

He let a second pass before sliding a teacher badge towards Merope.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Lady Gaunt. We will be very pleased to have you as our Potion Master. Or Mistress?” he added in a laugh.

Merope swiftly retrieved the badge. “Thank you,” she murmured, and her own triumph was entirely hidden to others. “I am certain we will do a perfectly satisfactory work together.”

As soon as she had spoken, she felt something in her mind.

A touch, one that she could not say familiar and felt like it all the same. One that she recognized immediately, even when never having before stepped upon those grounds.

Welcome, true heir, Hogwarts murmured.

~*~

 No one, Merope thought, had judged her decision as sane.

Tom himself had pointed it the incomprehension it.

~*~

“ Why in the seven hells-” Tom had said, incredulity lacing his words. “- why would you want to work?”

“Are you not working yourself, husband?”

“This is a different matter,” Tom had opposed, shaking his head. “I contribute to the future of our country. You do not need to work. Even less to teach. Teaching, my dear wife, as you might have forgotten includes facing children.”

Merope had looked at him with fondness. Ever since Tom had managed to join the political life of the country, being appointed defence secretary, not a day could pass without him subtly letting it join a conversation.

“Am I not doing the same?” she had asked; leisurely pouring milk in her tea. Tom’s eyes had followed the movement;  his lips just slightly moving downwards, ever feeling distaste upon seeing her alter her tea in such a way. “I contribute to the future of the wizarding world. How better than by having direct access to its future members?”

Tom had marked a pause.

“True,” he had said. Then, arching an eyebrow. “But you are not doing this for the unique reason of gaining a way to the children. I know you better than that.”

“Truly? Then what am I aiming for?”

“What are you aiming for?” Tom had murmured; just so slightly smiling. His usual smiles, the ones where the faint quirk of his lips reminded her of the adders Morfin used to nail to their house in the woods. “Would it not have a thing to do with what our son is up to?”

Merope had hidden her smile between her cup of tea. “Would it?”

“You want to keep an eye on him,” Tom had said; lifting an eyebrow. He knew himself to be right, Merope had seen it in his mind, and this knowledge had only increased the smugness on his features. “You want to be certain there will be no others accidents.”

“Accident?” Merope had laughed. It was a mirthless laugh. “This was no accident, husband. He might have said so, but you should know better than accord credit to Junior’s words. Especially the supposed truth of it." Merope had shaken her head. "What was he thinking, releasing a Basilisk in the school-” She had hissed the last words; parseltongue eluding her when angry.

“Then go,” Tom had said, arching an eyebrow. “How terribly embarrassing was it to have the visit of this Dumfledore man. Holding no real proof amongst all things. He should have been thrown away by the creature.”

“Dumbledore,” Merope had corrected. “And he was thrown away by our elf, husband. You have seen to that.”

“Ah yes.” Tom had grinned. One of those grins that made her realize where she was. One of those grins that made her want to climb on his lap, disregard their cups of tea, and lose herself in his touches. “I did. The sheer audacity of this old man, coming to our home to speak about Junior-”

And his words had faded, taken away by the kiss Merope had given him.

They had not talked much about Dumbledore or Hogwarts after that.

~*~

Apolline Malfoy and Melania Black had not shared her elation either.

“You want to what-?”

“Teach,” Merope had softly said, carefully looking at the fabrics in front of her. Junior had asked her for one or two; desiring to do something with them that she had not quite understood.

“But why? Can you not join the administration council if you desire to have a say in Hogwarts’s curriculum?”

Merope had risen her eyes from the fabrics to gaze at Melania. “I could,” she had agreed. “But I want to teach. I want to be in Hogwarts, not merely send owls requiring for a thing or another.”

Apolline Malfoy had shared a look of distaste with Melania Black. Then, pinching her lips. “What an awful idea.”

“I am sure you think so,” Merope had said in a laugh. “Have no worry, I will not ask you to replace me should I feel sick.”

“I hope not!” Melania had cried out. “A Black working! And what else? Being paid?”

“Well,” Apolline had then commented; always one to see the benefits in all situations. “You might teach a thing or two to Abraxas. I am afraid the boy is an entire lost cause in Potions. Be not disappointed if he earns himself Trolls. It will certainly not be your teaching in cause.”

“Trolls?”

Merope had given her an amused smile, both ignoring the outraged gasp of Lady Black. “Potions are not difficult at all when talentedly taught. Horace Slughorn, for all the influence that he had managed to acquire, was not one for adequate pedagogy.”

“Perhaps. But you will also agree that some are lost causes. You know what,” Apolline had then said, grinning in the way she offered her smiles when in friendly company. Not the carefully crafted one the vast majority knew of her. This, perhaps more than words, was the proof to Merope that Lady Malfoy considered her as an equal, as a friend. “I will offer Lord Riddle one of our Abraxans; should you manage to make Abraxas earn an Optimal. I know how your Lord husband had been yearning for those horses, not managing to find one anywhere. Let him fret no more. I will give him the one he prefers.”

“Betting, Apolline?” Melania Black had shouted, her high-pitched voice outraged.

Merope had let her fingers brush against the fabric of her choice; admiring for a second the vivid purple her son had asked of her. She had taken it then, putting it on the basket she had brought, before raising her eyes to Apolline Malfoy.

“Very well,” she had murmured, smiling. “I will earn your son an Optimal, and you will gift Lord Riddle the Abraxan of his choice.”

“Filthy actions,” Melania had hissed. “Are you both drunkards in a pub to bet? Bet on your Heir, on all things!”

But Apolline Malfoy had merely laughed. “Excellent!” she had said. “Try to give my son those grades, Merope; for it will rather rain gold than happen.” Then she had tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “And no cheating, Heir of Slytherin. I want to see the copy with the Optimal. No leniency.”

“No leniency,” Merope had softly agreed.

Sixteen years passed with Tom Riddle had taught her ways to get to what she wanted, and she would not let the indolence of one Abraxas Malfoy stand between her and her desires.

And then, she had bought the purple cloth.

And a deep green one; the two colours her son had requested of her.

How expressive were the Riddle men with their desires, Merope had fondly thought.

~*~

Merope was not one for hearted laughs. Not one for the barking hilarity that shook some; beginning low in their stomach and making their shoulders tremble. Not one for the painful delight it caused; tearing the lips and placing a freezing grip on the lungs, inducing breathlessness.

No, she thought, but she just might right now.

Across the Great Hall; Tom Junior was gazing at her with such horror and incredulity that she felt her lips quirk despite herself. She rose her glass to him then, for she had long forgotten the shyness she had been born with; and relished in seeing him flush a deep crimson.

Abraxas Malfoy, next to him, a boy who had spent his youth running in the garden of the Riddle Estate, waved at her with a beaming smile.

Merope did not wave back, but her smile stretched on her face.

Around them, the ceremony of Sorting was beginning.

Merope returned her focus to it; fascinated by it. Never before had she seen it, never before had she worn the Hat, and she wondered in which house she would have been placed. Slytherin, of course, would be an evidence; but she remembered her eleven years old self and thought that her younger self displayed none of the features she had grown to have.

“Amazing isn’t it?” the Professor next to her murmured.

She had said her name to Merope. Merope had immediately forgotten it.

“It is,” she murmured back; genuineness colouring her voice. Her gaze was riveted on a young girl. She advanced towards the Hat, only a handful of seconds passing before the girl was sent to Ravenclaw.

Ravenclaw. Perhaps she would have liked the house. Perhaps not; but despite all her thoughts, ambition or not, Merope knew the Hat to see where one could grow to. She knew what it would have said; for it had said the same words to her son.

A greeting for the true heirs to return. The same whisper Hogwarts had given her.

It was Orion Black’s turn, then. Merope watched with interest. She had no doubt where the boy would end up, having passed too many days gazing adoringly at her son. In a way a brother looked to another; but upon the disdainful disinterest her son had given the boy, Merope had thought it a good thing that Tom and she had judged one Heir sufficient enough.

“Slytherin!” the Hat exclaimed, and the boy beamed.

It was intriguing, Merope thought, how akin to Arcturus the child looked. The same excitation towards life; the beaming smile he offered to the world. And yet, whereas Arcturus’ one hid desires far darker than his joyful mask showed, the boy seemed to display none of those features.

Or perhaps he was more skilled in hiding it than his Father was.

It went quickly then.

A few more students to Slytherin; more than in the other Houses. To no surprise, she thought. Ever since Hyperion Malfoy had taken the post of the Minister, barely winning, one voice making the difference; effectively managing to ban Grindelwald from the country; the Slytherin House had been praised and praised.

It was a Slytherin, people muttered, who had managed to leave Great Britain intact from the assault of the Dark Lord.

Others countries could not share the sentiment, their borders crushed by Grindelwald, but no one in Great Britain could bring themselves to care. Patriotism, Merope had often thought, vastly came at the expense of the rest of the world.

“Good luck for tomorrow,” the witch next to her said, speaking once again. “You begin with the first year, it will be easy enough. They’re all shy at this age; keeping their mouth closed because they’re intimidated by the castle. It’s the third and fourth years who are the worst.”

“Thank you,” Merope murmured, smiling. “I am certain I will manage.”

~*~

As the witch had told her; no one spoke as she entered the classroom.

How delightful, she thought, seeing them all sitting; looking at her with huge eyes. Orion Black, in particular, was staring at her in admiration, and she was quite certain to see him murmur something to his neighbour. She was proved right a second later, when said murmur morphed the slightly anxious face of the second boy into incredulous awe.

She wondered what words had caused such an effect on the boy.

Merope walked to her desk, and extended a hand on the wood of it, long enough for Vasuki to slither the length of her wrist. The Runespoor immediately curled on himself.

They were gasps and ahh that ran through the classroom.

“Good morning,” Merope wasted no time to say. “You are finding yourself, as you are well aware, in your first potion class. Potions, now, are not an art to be taken lightly. It can be tempting, especially for those of you coming from a... different background, to judge it as similar to the art of cooking. Immediately forsake such thoughts. It is not. If it is possible in the second case to deviate from the recipes, to indulge in fantasy because there are no serious consequences, it is strictly forbidden to do the same here. Am I making myself clear?”

Murmurs of agreement went through the room.

“Am I making myself clear?” Merope insisted.

“Yes !” the class answered.

“Very well,” she said, returning to her quiet but firm voice. “The slightest deviation in a recipe can lead to a fantastic discovery as well as blow up the entire castle.”

A few students blemished. Some erupted in worried murmurs.

Merope raised a hand, waiting until the silence came again. “Of course,” she said. “I am here to provide protection. As soon as we will begin brewing, shields will be cast around every cauldron. Each of you has the demanded cauldron, yes?”

Murmurs of agreement once again ran through the classroom.

“But I still will ask of you perfect attention. You are not only responsible for your cauldron but for the safety of the others students. Should you see this as a joke; play with it; then you will find yourself the sole to blame if a fellow student is injured. Perhaps a friend. And I assure you," she murmured, trailing her eyes on the classroom. "There will be no leniency towards those who don't take this class seriously. At best it will be a detention and a letter to your parents. At worst, expulsion. Do you understand me?”

The first years nervously glanced at their neighbours, the friends they had already made, and fiercely nodded.

“Perfect,” Merope said, letting a faint smile grace her lips. “Now; it is true that I am demanding a constant focus. However, this does not mean that I will punish you for asking me precisions or requiring assistance. Every question is welcome, should you be afraid of them being foolish or not. Learning comes by asking.”

A hand raised in the air.

“Yes?”

“And what about going to the toilet?”

Merope did not let her smile falter. “You do not need to ask for permission to go the bathroom. I merely wish, if we are in the middle of a preparation, for you to ask of me to cast a freezing spell on your concoction while waiting for your return.”

The student, a girl with reddish hair and glasses, nodded.

Merope then walked to the chalkboard. “You might call me Lady Gaunt,” she said, writing her name. “Professor or Madam. I will not answer any other appellation.”

She turned to face the class, making sure of their attention. A few were nodding, and a larger portion were scribbling on their parchments.

Very well, she thought, and cast a quick glance at Vasuki.

“Now,” she said. “You might ask yourself why it is that Vasuki graced us of his presence today. Can someone tell me what Vasuki is?”

There was a silence.

Then, slowly, perhaps the only one to find enough bravery to do so, Orion Black rose his hand.

“Yes, Mr Black?”

“It’s a Runespoor!” he exclaimed. “A three-headed snake from Africa.”

“Very good. One point for Slytherin. And can someone else tell me why it is that I asked of him to come today?”

They were a few hushed whispers, and Merope smiled. “Yes,” she said. “For those of you who are not aware, I am a Parseltongue speaker. I asked him to join us today, and he gracefully accepted. But please, I would rather see my question answered, this is not a time for gossips and barely hidden whispers.”

The girl with the red hair and glasses rose her hand.

Merope inclined her head.

“For potions ingredients?” the girl tentatively asked. “Like his venom or something like that?”

“Very well,” Merope agreed. “One point to Hufflepuff,” she then said, glancing at the tie that the girl was wearing.

Then turning to walk behind her desk, she continued. “The venom of the Runespoor is a very powerful potion ingredient. You can all put your wands in your bags. We will begin today by analysing the most common potion ingredients and their effects on a potion…”

The class slightly groaned at the prospect of theory, but she wrote Runespoor’s venom on the chalkboard, continuing to speak. "It is only one head of them that secretes the poison, one highly toxic, but added to a potion in the right quantity, it helps to create mild euphoria and hallucinations, one that is notably used in the Euphoria Elixir-”

~*~

Her son cornered Merope in her office just after her first day of teaching.

She had fallen in her chair, pressing a hand against her eyes; feeling so exhausted that she could have skipped to dinner to aim straight for her bed. After teaching the first grades, she had had a class of the seventh, and the third years. The third, as it had been prophesied, were every inch of the nightmare they were supposed to be. But Merope needed still to go to Hogsmeade, to apparate to London.

One of her promises to Tom had been that she would not sleep at Hogwarts; that she would not let her new post take anything away from their daily life.

But first, she thought, she needed to finish writing this letter to Melania.

There was a knock on her door, and Merope briefly wondered which student was already in need of her advice.

“Open,” she hissed; and the door pivoted.

Instead of a confused student, it was her son; arms crossed on his chest and glaring at her, that was standing in her doorframe. He waited not for her to tell him to enter, striding into the office with the irritated pinch of his lips he had borrowed from his Father.

“Mother,” Tom Marvolo Riddle said. “How surprising to see you here.”

Merope smiled and pushed her letter away from her. She, as always, relished in the sight of her son.  He was every inch of the Heir she had wanted him to be. So akin to Tom, for the exception of the black eyes of his, the one he had taken from her.

There were differences, of course, for there were bound to be. Not exactly the same features; although Tom Jr shared many characteristics with his Father. The same nose; but her son’s pallor was much more akin to hers, the same dark hair but Tom Jr’s had short curls that his Father never had. The same chiselled cheekbones; but rendered entirely different on her son. Perhaps too chiselled, she thought, taking in the new gauntness of his cheeks, the new dark circles under his eyes.

But, in this instant, the identical sneer that Tom wore when infuriated with something.

“Hello, Tom,” she murmured. “Have you eaten well at dinner? I saw you pick at your food. Are the meals in Hogwarts not satisfactory enough?”

Tom Jr glared at her. “I ate perfectly well,” he said through gritted teeth. “Don’t avoid the subject, Mother. Why are you here?”

“And why not?”

“Because I’m studying here!” he snarled. “Could you not have waited two more years? Two more and I would have been out of the castle!”

“It is true,” Merope nodded. “Unfortunately the post was to be provided now.”

“Do not lie to me,” her son said. “I know perfectly well that Slughorn did not choose to resign by himself. The man could not have a single decision not motivated by greed, and there is none in abandoning his precious post here.”

“Lying,” Merope repeated, leaning back in her chair. “What an interesting choice of words.”

Tom Jr glare’s lost a little of his intensity.

“What are you saying?”

“Lying,” Merope said again, as if he had not talked, then hissing in parseltongue. “Could be for example invocating as an accident the murder of a mudblood. Lying could be looking at your Mother and Father and crying crocodile tears, saying that you did not wish for a death to happen. Lying could be releasing a Basilisk in the castle and giving the blame to this half-breed we saw at King's Cross."

“So it is the reason for your presence here,” Tom Jr said, his voice soft and cold. “You want to keep an eye on me. You do not trust me.”

Merope laughed. She reached forward, enough so to seize his wrist between her fingers. A small touch, yet one that conveyed all of her affection. Much akin to his Father in this manner, Tom Jr did not like overwhelming touches. “Of course, I trust you,” she said. “I love you.”

His lips twitched, but Merope was not one to be fooled by her son. The words, as unpleasant to him as he made the world think they were, in truth made him entirely too pleased. So pleased in fact, that Merope relished in saying them as often as she could.

“But you are the son of your Father. And my son too,” she added after a second of silence. “And it is a blood feature of our family to let avidity impair our better judgment. Your Transfiguration Teacher already came to see us. Speaking about you and how he thought you to be the one behind the attack. Glaring at us. Asking of us to give you a better education.” Merope pinched her lips, and hissed. "The nerves of this man-"

“He what?” 

“Oh yes. But have no worry, your Father threw him outside. And by throwing, I mean throwing. Kraeber seized him by his robe and launched him out of our property.”

Her son froze.

And then his eyebrow twitched.

And then, he laughed.

An incredulous laugh; all too pleased and delighted, one that shook him entirely. “Father did what?” Tom Jr managed to ask, between two breathless puffs of laughter.

Merope smiled, delighted in spite of her. “He has a temperament your Father. He did not appreciate being reprimanded by what he called a senile imbecile.”

Her son averted his gaze to try regaining his composure. He shook his head. “This is why he was glaring at me during the ceremony,” he murmured, an ugly pleasure colouring his features. “I was wondering the reason for such a hatred. He is usually more subtle in his despise.”

“Perhaps you should not have made Blue bite him during your first encounter,” Merope flatly said.

“Perhaps he should not have insulted Father,” Tom Jr merely said, his smile bearing the same resemblance to snakes Tom did.

Silence fell on them then.

“And how is Abraxas?” Merope asked in a murmur.

Tom Jr arched an eyebrow. “He bears the same vanity as always. He is entirely too delighted in seeing you as our new Potion Master. He believes you to be more lenient than Slughorn. He bought three bottles of firewhiskey to celebrate the occasion.”

“Oh?”

“Precisely,” her son said. He smiled again, one that betrayed the fondness he had for the Malfoy boy. “I told him to not have such high hopes.”

“He will succeed this year,” Merope absently murmured.

Tom Jr lifted a surprised eyebrow. “Will he? With my assistance, he had passed Troll to get to Acceptable. He is alas a lost cause in potions.”

“You can tell him he will have an Optimal.”

Her son, not one to not recognize a decision when a member of the Riddle family had made one; scrutinized her. “And why is that?” he murmured.

“Apolline promised me an Abraxan for your Father, should Abraxas get the grade. I will not make empty promises to your Father.”

Both son and Mother smiled then.

“Perhaps I should advise him to invest in Draughts of Peace,” Tom Jr said. “It seems he will have many breakdowns this year.”

Merope felt her smile stretch on her lips.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. Then, after a second. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Tom Jr contemplated her in silence.

“Alright,” he murmured.“Only because coming there made me skip it.” 

They exchanged a glance, then. Something faint, but lingering long enough for Merope to smile.

Oh yes, she thought. Junior would do just fine with her presence in the castle.

~*~

Abraxas found her the following day, just before breakfast.

“I can not believe this conspiracy against me!” he cried out to her, just as Merope was trying to pour herself some coffee. She had arrived in the castle an hour ago; and was still trying to shake off the effects of a long night of sleep. “Against me! Who always had faith in you! Who admired you! Tu coque mater mea!”

Merope regretted introducing the boy to Caesar’s works.

“I am not your Mother,” she placidly said, adding milk to her coffee.

“You are as good as one! The original one spends all her time in ski or beach resorts!” Abraxas retorted. Then, with a triumphant smile. “And it is only a matter of time, really.”

Merope sighed. Then raised her eyes to where Abraxas was standing, arms crossed on his chest, and a pout on his face. “I am not asking you to slice off your left arm, Abraxas. I merely made a bet with your Mother and I intend to win it.”

“At my own expense!”

“Is achieving an Optimal in Potion such a dreadful thing?”

“Yes!”

Merope sipped at her coffee. “Then take profit of it, Abraxas.”

His protest died on his lips. Then, slowly, he asked. “And how would I do such a thing?”

Merope took a croissant, eyeing it for a second before offering it to Abraxas. He snatched it with the quickness and viciousness of a squirrel, for never had she met a growing teenager that was not driven by hunger.

“Tom,” she then said. “Share the same bet I did with your Mother. Ask of him anything you would desire should you get this Optimal.”

Abraxas gazed at her in wonder.

“You know,” he murmured, awe lacing his tone. “If I had not been so infatuated with mon chou, I would have married you, Lady Riddle.”

Merope laughed, and sipped at her coffee. “Even if flattered by your proposition, I am entirely pleased by my current wedding. And,” she added, smiling to contrast her flat tone. “I would not have searched a potential companion in a boy I have almost raised.”

“True,” Abraxas agreed, not disturbed at all by her refusal. He was still grinning, the same one she had seen so many times given to her son. “We will both have to settle for a mother-in-law to son-in-law relationship.”

A few students began to enter the Great Hall, and Abraxas glanced at them before bowing, tipping an invisible hat. “Thank you for your great advice, Mère, I shall make the best out of it!”

“I am not your Mother,” Merope said, but he was already walking towards the Slytherin’s table.

She sighed, and watched as the Great Hall began to be filled with students.

Merope was not certain to know if her friendship with Apolline Malfoy had been very wise, in the end. Her eyes trailed on the Great Hall, ending on the Slytherin’s table, where Abraxas had taken to fill her son’s plate with every fruit that existed in the world.

Tom Jr was gazing at it in distress, and she did not care to hide the laugh that escaped her lips.

Or perhaps it had been very wise, indeed.

~*~

“You know,” Merope said to Tom the following night, her head resting on his shoulder. She let her fingers graze along his collarbone; exploring the warm skin under her touch. “I think we did an acceptable job with our son.”

“Acceptable only?” he murmured, relishing in her caresses.

“Alright. A great one. Even with his meddling with Dark Arts,” Merope corrected, a smile tugging at her lips. “And even greater in choosing our frequentations."

“Of course, our son would have an interest in Dark Arts,” Tom quietly chuckled. “Gaze at yourself, wife of mine. Gaze at the husband you have chosen for yourself.”

Perhaps, Merope thought, and she closed her eyes.

She would teach Potion, she thought. She would gaze at her students and learn the way to their hearts, the way to their minds.

And at the same time, she would ensure for her son not to fall on a path too far for either Tom or her to reach.

She had seen the gaunt look on his cheekbones; barely there, but enough so for her to know.

Her son had made a Horcrux with the death of the mudblood, and she would make sure for this number to stay the same.

~*~

“Hello,” Merope said to the gates of Hogwarts the following morning.

She smiled.

“Many Gaunt had not been able to see you,” she said. “Because of the foolishness of a man, driven insane by his delusions. But this ends now.”

She waved her hand and the snake at the entry hissed.

“We are back,” she murmured. “And we intend to change things.”