"All the privilege I claim for my own sex is that of loving longest when existence or when hope is gone. I need to stop loving him, thinking about him, and hoping that he will feel bad about what he has done."
Nineteen-year-old Tom Riddle has it al...
The name was etched into his mind and his being. He knew that he did not look like his pureblood mother. He looked like his father and he hated it. He did not want to look a thing like him. After all, the man had walked out on his mother.
"Muggle father," Tom thought in dismay.
He heard his mother was not the most dazzling of women. Her name was Merope Gaunt. She was a pitiful creature and lived her life cowering in fear. Merope dressed in rags. Her clothes were pieced together from older robes like some rag doll. Her oil slick hair hung around her head like a curtain. Tom heard from various accounts that she was dull with a wide, determined jaw and eyes that gazed in opposite directions.
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The only way Merope could marry Riddle Sr was through a love potion. They were happy for a time. But, the guilt became too much for her and she allowed the potion to wear off. She hoped he could learn to love her. As can be imagined, he was shocked to find he did not love the woman he had married and left her. Beggared and pregnant, Merope died in childbirth, leaving the heir of Slytherin alone in a world full of love he would never understand.
The last image Tom had of his father was not handsome. In fact, it was horrendous. Tom believed he had done what he had to do or what he thought right at the time.
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