Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“A female mountain troll proposes to Mr. Mannelig, a knight. In return she promises him gifts, a good life and devotion. If Mr. Mannelig accepts the proposal, she will turn into a human. However, Mr. Mannelig rejects the proposal. Her love unrequited, the troll retreats to her home and weeps. The mountains shake with her weeping, the birds in the trees come to the troll and begin to weep with her, but no one can stop her tears. “

For Merope Gaunt Riddle. NAUDHIZ from the rune symbols.

✯

His dilated pupils remained fixed, as if trying to etch the young woman's face into his memory, while the glass slipped from his loosening fingers, surrendering to gravity.

A sharp intervention had been made in the line of fate; nature, as if eager to unleash its fury, sent its loyal guardian, the breeze, rushing toward the young woman's face. The trees, the flowers, the animals—even the spirits who had lost their bodies—held their breath, maintaining their silent rebellion against this injustice.

As the young man collapsed onto the ground on his knees, the witch approached and took him into her arms. Stroking the jet-black hair of the man she loved, her voice softened into a soothing tone.

"It's over, my love. Everything is over now."

But her beloved did not move. He did not speak. He did not smile. He only fixed his large green eyes on the young woman before him, eyes that now gleamed with a cruelty most unnatural to her nature.

This was his final struggle.

His last plea.

Tom Riddle could feel his soul being pulled away. The proud, imposing young man had become a helpless wretch, unable to even command his own mind—and that alone was enough to drive him mad.

Because he was used to control. And now…

His mind was in shambles; he could no longer govern his emotions, his impulses. He wanted to escape this place, to mount his horse and ride away until he reached London. But he couldn't. No matter how hard he tried, he could not move an inch.

As the thoughts he desperately tried to hold onto tumbled away, one by one, he wanted to scream, to cry, to shout. And as his final fragments of self disappeared beyond the horizon, only a sweet, all-encompassing void remained—along with the eager eyes of the witch gazing upon his face.

As the young girl’s presence climbed step by step into his mind, he managed to meet her gaze one last time.

"Please... stop..."

The witch laughed, exhilarated by the sight of her magic taking hold. She couldn't hide her delight, not until that wild grin had stretched across her entire face.

"Everything will be just fine, my love. Trust me. Just surrender. Surrender, and it will all be easier for you."

Then, she lifted her handsome lover’s head. Pressing her forehead against his, she took his hands in hers. Like a mindless puppet, he mirrored her movements, and from his lips slipped a sentence he would have never imagined himself saying.

"I love you, Merope..."

Merope Gaunt jerked back, staring at his face.

She saw him there, lips curled into a drunken, distorted smile, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide. And deep within herself, something stirred uneasily.

It was her conscience—the one she had thought she had silenced.

She had made a mistake. A terrible, unforgivable mistake.

This wasn’t love. Love set people free, it didn’t enslave them. Then what was this? She had finally gotten what she wanted, so why did she feel nothing but disgust? Already knew the answer.

She was disgusted with herself because she was a tyrant.

She was disgusted because, for years, had secretly condemned her father and brother for using magic in its ugliest forms against Muggles—yet now, she had done something far worse. She had committed the greatest cruelty imaginable. She had taken love and twisted it into a leash, turning the man, desired into her slave.

But really, what else could be expected?

She was a witch.

A pitiful witch who had spent her life beaten, tormented, and abused under the rule of a father and brother who took pleasure in blaming her for their filth and misery. A witch descended from the great Salazar Slytherin himself—powerful, cunning, limitless in magic. So limitless, in fact, that even she did not fully understand the extent of her abilities.

And a witch as powerful as she was could have anything she desired.

Even a Muggle’s heart.

At last, she had heard the words she had longed for so desperately.

And yet, Merope felt no joy.

And she knew she never would.

Right now, she could run. Disappear before the potion wore off.

Or… how hard could it be for the heir of Slytherin to brew an antidote?

Once he was free from its effects, she could erase his memories, and they could both walk away as if none of this had ever happened.

She could set him free.

He and Cecilia could still marry.

They could still have a life together.

A child—his son—might still be born.

A boy with coal-black hair and piercing green eyes, just like his father.

But Merope couldn’t live without him.

She had no choice. She couldn't bear to lose him. She couldn't bear this life any longer.

That young Muggle was the only one who could save her—from her family, from the eighteen years of fear and violence that had defined her existence.

That handsome Muggle was her one and only escape from this wretched life. And Merope couldnt lose this chance.

She couldnt lose him and could not share him.

Tom had to be hers. He had to be with her.

There was no other way.

Tom would take her away, and they would escape. Everything, everyone, would be left behind.

And one day...

Merope took a deep breath.

"One day, he'll truly love me. Time. We just need a little time. He'll get used to me. He'll love me. Yes, of his own free will, he will love me. We’ll have a family, and he won’t be able to leave us."

"You won’t leave, will you, Tom?"

With that same drunken smile, like a machine responding to a command, the young man nodded.

It was all a dream to him, just a dream.

None of this was real, none of these words were truly his.

How could they be?

How could he confess love to another when his heart had belonged to Cecilia Pride since boyhood?

Yes, surely, this was nothing more than one of those strange dreams people had from time to time.

And Thomas Edward Riddle watched this absurd, impossible dream unfold as if it were nothing more than a bizarre comedy.

"I love you, Merope."

But those words brought the girl no happiness.

She clung to him, pressing her face into his shoulder, inhaling his scent.

As crisp as the pine trees she had wandered among for hours, as clean as the fresh soap that lingered on his carefully kept sheets, as wild and free as the wind rushing past him when he galloped across endless valleys on horseback.

At last, he was hers.

That bright June morning was now behind them, and the sky had darkened with the gathering storm.

The gods had seen the great sin committed in this small London village, and they were furious.

The heavens rumbled, threatening to break open at any moment.

Merope lifted her head, gazing up at the sky.

"They know what I’ve done," she whispered.

Yes, they knew.

And they would do everything in their power to erase it.

The clouds would spill their rain to wash away her sin.

The wind would sweep it clean.

The earth would swallow it whole.

A heavy silence had fallen over the land.

Mother Nature had warned her children to flee—she did not wish for any witness to remain.

Fate had already sealed its judgment.

And now, there was no turning back.

The gods had made their decision.

When the time came, she would pay for her defiance with blood.

There would be no mercy, no forgiveness.

Merope knew this. And she accepted it.

She would pay for the brief reign she had stolen with a lifetime of suffering and agony.

As silent tears slipped from her chin to her throat, she kept her face buried against the man she loved and whispered,

"Forgive me, Tom."

"And somewhere, beyond the storm clouds and the restless earth, a voice from the past echoed—a lament carried on the wind, crying out into the abyss:

"The handsome man should have been mine... Then my sorrow would have been no more!"

✯

Chapter Text

"Normal is just an illusion. What is normal to the spider is chaos to the fly."

*For Tom Riddle Sr. OTHALA from the rune symbols.*

✯

Little Hangleton, June 1925

She threw a quick glance at the clock when she heard the fast-approaching sound of hooves. It wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. The young girl laughed to herself, cheerful.

"It's still early. That means he’s alone today."

A rider on horseback was speeding down the road. The girl rushed to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the handsome man before he disappeared from view. She was right—he was alone, riding at full speed out of town.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the chestnut horse until it vanished into the woods. It was like watching the sweetest dream slip away.

"He’s alone today," she repeated to herself. "If I’m ever going to do it, this is the moment. Right now."

She walked over to the corner of the room where an old, wobbly-looking cupboard stood. She opened it and pulled out a small wooden box. That box held all of the young witch’s deepest secrets and most forbidden desires. Decorated with entwined silver snakes, it was a gift from her beloved mother—her silent confidant, the one thing that knew everything she could never say out loud.

Inside was everything she needed to make her dream come true.

Merope carefully picked up a glass bottle filled with a pink liquid. That tiny bottle was her ticket to the love of her life. Thanks to it, she could escape the violent life she’d lived for eighteen years and start over—completely fresh.

All that was left was one last step.

She looked out the window again, toward the woods where the young man had disappeared. It was mid-June, and London was making up for its foggy spring with a sweltering summer. Merope loved the summer. Some of her few friends from nearby villages would return home from Hogwarts during these months. Despite her father’s strict bans, she and her brother Morfin had managed to secretly buy owls to write letters to them. It was the only thing the usually hostile siblings ever agreed to keep a secret.

Well… and Tom Riddle.

Tom Riddle, the only son of the grand house at the far end of the valley—the boy Merope watched from her window every single morning. The boy who never seemed to miss a moment of daylight. Merope figured, why shouldn’t I be out there too?

During the summer, the manor would come alive with laughter and parties every evening. But Tom never seemed too interested in those events. Merope knew he preferred riding horses in the woods over dancing in ballrooms. Whenever he slipped away from the crowds to head outside, he had no idea a pair of curious eyes were watching his every move—breath held, heart racing.

Tom.

Merope couldn’t remember exactly when she fell in love with him. She’d admired him for as long as she’d known he existed. To her, Tom Riddle was what the word love looked like. Only something as majestic, flawless, and beautiful as him could deserve that name.

She always wanted to see him, to hear his voice… but she never had the courage to speak. The boldest thing she ever did was leave the house for a "walk" in hopes of catching sight of him. And sometimes, it actually worked. Occasionally, she’d see Tom by the window, in the garden with the roses, or heading to the stables. She’d hide, watching him closely—careful not to trip on a stone or prick herself on a thorn. A few times, she even helped him avoid accidents, subtly using her magic. Tom must’ve been puzzled when what looked like a rock suddenly turned into a flower or bug. He’d kneel to examine it, shake his curly head in confusion, then walk off again. Merope would just giggle from her hiding spot.

Merope Gaunt, the witch, was in love with Tom Riddle, a Muggle. Very much in love.

At first, his lack of magic didn’t seem like a problem. She believed they could be together somehow. Tom was different. His family, his social status, his entire life—they were nothing like hers. The Riddles were one of London’s most respected wealthy families. Tom’s father was a doctor, and his ancestors had risen up during the bourgeois boom, building their fortune and gaining aristocratic status. Eventually, Thomas Riddle married Mary Crabbon, a noblewoman, and moved to Little Hangleton to find a quiet life.

Merope tried to remember the first time she ever saw Tom. She couldn’t have been older than eight. She clearly remembered the boy peeking out the carriage window on the day they moved into their newly built mansion. Their eyes met for just a second—and she never forgot that face.

Her innocent love had stayed safely hidden inside for a while. But there was one thing she hadn’t accounted for:

Morfin.

Just thinking about him made her angry. She could feel the magic in her blood start to stir.

As they got older, her brother Morfin—two years her senior—became crueler. His unstable behavior had turned into full-on violence. Their father did nothing to stop him. He let Morfin beat her down and acted as if Merope didn’t even exist.

She lost her mother when she was just five. After that, whenever she got slapped or cursed, she’d learned to just stay quiet and cry in a corner. She never fought back—she didn’t dare. She was so afraid that she couldn’t even tap into her magic anymore. Even the simplest spells became a mess in her trembling hands.

She’d never been formally trained. Though both siblings had received their Hogwarts letters, their father refused to send them. He said sending his children to a school "tainted by Muggles" would disgrace their pure-blood family. And that wasn’t all—he’d isolated them from the outside world entirely. They weren’t allowed to talk to anyone, magical or not. Most of the time, they didn’t even leave the house.

That constant pressure made it even harder for Merope to control the powers she didn’t fully understand.

But no secret stays hidden forever.
Morfin, who had practically made a hobby out of tormenting his sister, began targeting others as he got older. The Muggle families in the village had started to dread him. But there was one person in particular that Morfin had set his sights on.
The rich and handsome Thomas Edward Riddle.

Morfin called him “the little bastard” and picked fights with him every chance he got. Young Riddle, with his naturally arrogant temperament, couldn’t tolerate the disrespect from a family he already saw as beneath him. He wasn’t afraid to strike back using the same weapons as Morfin. More than once, local villagers had to break them apart, or Morfin would be dragged away, kicking and screaming, by the Riddle family's estate guards.

After every fight, Morfin grew more bitter toward Tom, and the next clash would only be worse than the last. Their scuffles slowly escalated from words to blows.

Morfin’s hatred for young Riddle was rooted in nothing but sheer jealousy. Tom was rich, powerful, and extremely good-looking. Morfin was none of those things.
It was a cruel twist of fate that a family like the Gaunts—descendants of the mighty Salazar Slytherin himself—should live abandoned in a rotting shack, stripped of both wealth and beauty, while the Riddle family possessed everything they never could. The shame of it drove Morfin mad with fury.

But there was one thing Morfin had that Tom never would.
Magic.

Merope closed her eyes and let herself remember that day.

✯

April, 1925.

It was early morning. The sky was clear, and spring had finally decided to show itself in Little Hangleton after a week of relentless rain. The air was heavy with the scent of damp grass, and even the Gaunts—sour as they were—felt the lift in their spirits. All three of them had stepped out onto the front porch to enjoy the rare bit of sunlight and the scent of pine drifting through the air.

The peaceful quiet, broken only by birdsong, was suddenly interrupted by the sound of hooves clattering in the distance.

Merope tensed. It was nearly 10 o'clock. She spotted a tall figure in a black riding coat approaching from afar, and her anxiety deepened.

Even though she silently prayed it wasn’t him, she already knew who it was.
Young Riddle never arrived a minute too early or too late.

When Morfin noticed who it was, he twitched in his seat—but their father growled a warning in Parseltongue:
“Don’t.”

Morfin froze, though he didn’t stop glaring daggers at the young man approaching them. Tom noticed. He reined his horse in gently, gliding closer to the Gaunts until he stopped right in front of them.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Gaunt,” he said mockingly.

Morfin let out a snort and leaned in to whisper to his sister,
“Look who it is—your little bastard’s come calling.”

Merope flinched at the remark. She stared at her brother in fear.
Morfin grinned wide, raised a finger to his lips, and made a shushing gesture.

“Your secret’s safe with me, dear sister. I know that filthy half-blood’s got your head twisted.
But it’s not you whose blood is worthless—it’s him.”

With that, Morfin leapt to his feet and stepped right up to the nose of Tom Riddle’s horse. Then, with an exaggerated flourish, he bowed deeply.

“So you’ve graced us with your presence, Lord Riddle.”

Tom’s dark eyebrows furrowed in irritation. The smooth, pale skin of his face flushed red as anger flooded his cheeks. He opened his mouth quickly to snap back.

Even furious, Merope couldn’t help but think how handsome he was.

“Oui, trou du cul, je me suis pointé.”
(“Yeah, asshole, I showed up.”)

Morfin didn’t understand the French, but the tone said it all. He roared in fury.

“You filthy intruder! You come onto our land and treat us like we’re the scum in our own home! I should’ve snapped your neck the first time I laid eyes on you!”

Young Riddle didn’t even flinch. A smirk played at his lips as he nudged his horse forward, making Morfin instinctively step back. Tom let out a loud, mocking laugh.

“You? Don’t make me laugh, you lunatic. The best you can do is wave that rusty old fruit knife around and bark threats. A half-blind failure like you is nothing but a joke to me.”

He tugged his reins, then turned his gaze to the father and daughter still seated.

“Stay out of my way, you filthy trash.”

That was it—Morfin snapped.
Merope sat frozen, her eyes welling with tears as Tom rode away. Marvolo, sensing that his son was about to do something stupid, made a grab for him.

But he was too late.

Morfin let out an animalistic scream.

“No one calls my blood filthy! Furnunculus!”

When the curse from Morfin Gaunt’s wand struck young Riddle’s face, Merope let out a scream. Marvolo, on the other hand, roared.

“Morfin!”

Morfin couldn’t hold himself back; he seemed to have no intention of stopping. His hissing in Parseltongue was like the whistle of a volcano about to erupt.

“Attack! Destroy the filthy Mudblood!”

At that moment, dozens of snakes emerging from all sides of the forest gathered around young Riddle. The young man screamed in pain from the curse he had taken to the face, and at the same time tried to fend off the assault of the serpent army surrounding him. Clutching his face with one hand, he tried to regain hold of his horse’s reins and mount it. However, startled by the swarm of snakes, the horse reared up and threw him off. Galloping away at full speed, it left the young man shrieking as he practically flew into the pile of snakes that had gathered around him. Another scream of pain rose from his throat after the fall. His right arm was most likely broken. But the terror caused by the snakes surrounding him overwhelmed the pain, and with his good arm, he hastily drew his weapon and began firing blindly at the serpents.

His face was crimson, his curly hair soaked with sweat stuck to his forehead and nape, and his lips were twisted in pain. Yet he was determined not to give up—he continued to fight. When Merope turned to her father to urge him to do something, she noticed that Marvolo silently admired young Riddle’s courage and pride, even in such a desperate situation, refusing to ask for help. How strange.

Her father must have sensed her confusion, for he murmured without turning to her:

“The boy isn’t afraid of us, is he? Why? We’re the complete opposite of his nature.”

At that very moment, a third scream escaped young Riddle. When Merope turned to him in fear, she saw that one of the snakes had managed to land a successful strike. Two large fang marks pierced the thick linen fabric of Riddle’s left leg.

“Green viper!” she shrieked, her eyes bulging from their sockets.

She could take no more.

She grabbed her wand and was about to rush forward, but her father beat her to it. Speaking in Parseltongue, Marvolo commanded the snakes to leave and dragged both his children back toward the house by the arms. Merope didn’t want to go—she wanted to help the young man groaning in pain. But her fear overpowered her love. Marvolo shoved them inside and slammed the door shut.

They left Tom Riddle alone in his shock and agony.

Merope went straight to her room and shut the door behind her. She was crying. The young man she loved had been hurt, and she hadn’t been able to help him. On the other hand, the man she loved had also caused harm, and she hadn’t been able to prevent that either. Her heart was shattered.

What would happen now? Marvolo and Morfin’s argument was still going on; the hissing and grumbling turned the house into what felt like a boiling cauldron.

“You fool! What were you thinking, attacking that Mudblood? Didn’t I warn you before? Don’t you know we’ll be in trouble if you don’t stay away from him? You’ve cursed him plenty of times already! Do you think the Ministry will let us off this time?”

“He mocked our blood, Father! I can’t stand him any longer! That filthy Muggle and his family have invaded the village that has belonged to us for centuries! I can’t even bear to breathe the same air as them, and yet he has the audacity to insult the heir of Salazar Slytherin to my face!”

Morfin’s hissing was becoming nearly lethal. Merope heard books, plates, and various household items crashing against the walls. If her brother was performing wandless magic, it meant he was at the height of his power—and that he was dangerously angry.

“I’ll snap his filthy neck! And before I do, I’ll gouge out those snake eyes of his! Damn Riddle!”

Merope shivered at those words. Could Morfin really harm Tom to such an extent? Would he kill him, even if it meant going to Azkaban?

“I’ll feed him and his whole family to my snakes for dinner!”

Merope jumped in fear. She backed away quickly in her room as if Morfin was coming to kill her, until she bumped into the mirrored dresser in the corner. The mirror fell and shattered into a thousand pieces.

The young girl took her wand and tried to clean the mess, but her hands were trembling so much from fear that she failed. Some shards trembled, others floated into the air, but the mirror didn’t reassemble.

Just as she was about to give up and return to her bed, she heard a groan coming from beneath the window.

“Someone, please help… God, it hurts!”

When she leaned out the window, she saw young Riddle trying to stumble away. He held his broken arm with his remaining good hand and limped, careful not to step on his injured left ankle—which would’ve made things worse. He was trying to get away, trying to find help. Merope realized from the sound of his voice that he was crying, and that detail shattered her heart once again.

“Green viper!” she exclaimed once more to herself. “Hurry up, you fool—what are you waiting for, his death?”

Yes, Tom’s right arm was broken, and his face was covered in painful boils, but what truly threatened his life now was the venom from the viper that had bitten him. This venom was lethal, and if not treated, would kill him in less than two hours. Merope knew perfectly well that no Muggle hospital could provide this “treatment.” If no one helped him, Tom wouldn’t even make it to his house across the valley, let alone a hospital.

And Tom Riddle dying was the last thing Merope Gaunt would ever want.

The young witch rushed to her worn-out wardrobe and opened the wooden chest inside. It was like a miniature potion shop. Inside were dozens of potions she had brewed in her spare time (usually when she was alone). Some were simple, like ones to thicken hair or ruin a neighbor’s year with just a drop in their food, while others were far more complex. Merope Gaunt had been born with a unique talent for potion-making. She was a natural-born healer.

And now it was time to put her talents to good use.

She pulled out a potion bottle filled with silver sparkles.

The truth was, Tom Riddle wasn’t the only one who liked walking in the forest. Merope, too, would sneak away from home whenever she could and take long walks in the woods. Sometimes, she was accompanied by various snake “friends.” (Although now she wasn’t sure if they were truly friends—they had bitten Tom!) She would sit among them beneath rustling trees, glad that the moonlight masked the forest’s ugliness, and pour her heart out. And of course, as the heir of Salazar Slytherin, she knew all the venomous and non-venomous snake species in the forest and could make a unique antidote for each. For Merope Gaunt, it was as natural as breathing.

Just in case, instead of using her own wand, she took her deceased mother’s wand and Apparated to Tom with the antidote in hand.

Yes, she had managed to Apparate. Her magic, repressed for years under her father’s fear, had finally burst forth from an even stronger fear.

The fear of losing Tom Riddle was the greatest fear she had ever known.

As the young man limped forward, limited by his blurred vision and aching ankle, he felt someone’s presence behind him. In a dazed, confused state, he quickly turned around, assuming it was Morfin come to finish the job—and instinctively pointed his weapon.

“You—what?!”