What She Deserved (Justice)
Title: What She Deserved
Author: fernwithy
Type: Fic
Length: 1725 words
Main character or Pairing: Merope/Tom, with implied Voldemort
Card: Justice
Card Interpretation: Justice. Proper balance. Harmony. Virtue. Honor. Just reward. Equilibrium. Poise. Impartiality. Reversed: Bias. False accusations. Bigotry. Severity in judgment. Intolerance. Unfairness. (I'll leave it to you all to decide whether or not Tom's card was reversed!)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Standard--JK owns it.
Warnings: Murder and other adult themes.
Summary: Tom Riddle feels a need to explain a few things to his visiting son.
Author Notes:First, I switched card interpretations, because I forgot I'd been using the Gray and was going by the little book in with my cards. Second, I tried this format once in Merope's point of view, decided it was too weird for the challenge and disqualified it by posting it publicly on my journal early, then, when I sat down to do the story from Tom's point of view, ended up in the same style! Oh, well, I guess this is the voice it wanted. Beta'd by kizmet_42
Mum, Dad, we were out of the twenty-seven, so I brought up a bottle of...
Oh.
Well. I saw you out the window earlier. Didn't think you'd come in, though you rather clearly have. I'm guessing you're Merope's little prize, aren't you?
Here to kill me, are you?
Mum and Dad first. Interesting choice. Have a seat, if you don't mind the corpses. Would you like a drink? No?
She didn't drink, either. Didn't mind making sure I did, though, and it was quite a bit worse than a shot of whiskey.
Oh, for God's sake, boy, sit down. If you meant to kill me without listening, I'd be as dead as they are, so stop pretending. You want to know about Merope Gaunt? Fine. But at least pour yourself a damned drink. Leave it alone if you don't want it, but pour it.
There. That wasn't so hard, was it?
That's how she got me. "Glass of cold water, Tom? It's so warm out." And the next thing I knew, she looked like a damned goddess.
Can you even imagine? That freak of nature... her eyes didn't even point in the same direction. But I'd have followed her anywhere. She kept dosing me. Maybe I should've suspected, the way she made sure I ate at home at least once a day. And she never wanted to meet anyone. Ever. How's that for suspicious in a woman? But she kept me in control. She was in charge. I didn't question. Couldn't question the brainless little twist.
Oh, stop pretending you're going to do anything until you've heard it all. We both know better. Raise your glass, boy. Drink to your stupid bint of a mother. Oh, fine. Glare, then, if it suits you better. I prefer it to her sloppy weeping, at any rate.
Still think I'm the villain here, don't you? Abandoned your poor, innocent little mother. Ha! There's a laugh. Innocent Merope. I've been with women in my life, most of them with more experience, but not one of them less bloody innocent. She got what was coming to her. It was justice.
You don't believe me? Do you want to hear what she liked to do to me when she had me particularly besotted? Your innocent mother? No? Well, I suppose that's more than you need to know. My good deed for the year--I'll keep that to myself. But she did have quite the appetite. Insatiable, really.
If she'd had a brain in her head, I might actually respect her. If she'd got what she wanted--a pretty little baby boy--and then had a laugh at me and gone on her way, I might even think she had some pluck. Could be thought of as daring, in a way, you know, going against what her family wanted, going after what she wanted. But that's not the way it went. No... she decided that she wanted me to "love" her without any assistance, which, if you'd ever seen her, you'd know was no easy feat. And instead of having a laugh at me, she sat there crying.
You tell me... if someone had kept you drunk for the better part of a year in order to take advantage of you, would loving her be your first thought? I mean, she wasn't even particularly memorable in action, if you know what I mean. You do know, don't you? Good looking boy like you, you must have a few girls tagging around, and I imagine if you picked up Merope's courting habits, as a lad you'd have a bit more fun with them than she decided to.
Will you stop glaring? Who do you think you're judging here?
If you want to hate someone, hate her. It was all her, from beginning to end. She dragged you into this world. I didn't have any interest in it. Or her. She was just a filthy squatter who lived on the far side of town. I didn't even know her name. I'd ride by from time to time, and she'd be mooning about with that sheep-face of hers. One of the girls I used to go about with--I don't remember her name, but I think she married a viscount--tried to tell me she'd set her cap for me, but I didn't listen. I didn't imagine it could matter. I didn't know what she was capable of.
You know, they laughed at me. My old mates, even the girls. Tom Riddle, what a fool, taken in by the tramp's daughter. They didn't know. I told them she got me drunk then lied about being pregnant. They still have a good laugh sometimes at my expense, about how gullible I am in my cups. Goddamned Finchy--he's a mate from uni--still stuffs pillows under his shirts if he catches me drunk and makes cracks about how he's got something to tell me.
Better than the truth, though, don't you think? That I followed the freakish little tramp about without any reason except that she kept me like... like a pet. Her personal toy. Don't imagine she didn't get exactly what she deserved.
I don't know what made her stop. I finally got her to a party down at my father's beach house. She must have used some sort of magic, as no one paid the slightest attention to her, even though she was hard to miss. She got talking to some silly trollop that the boys were having a bit of fun with, and the next thing I knew, she was pouting in the car, and I was feeling woozy. I was more concerned about her, mind, because the poison hadn't worn off yet, but I knew something was wrong. She took me to bed, and she started crying after, and I hated the sound of it. It was the first time I remembered hating anything about her.
I fell asleep, and when I woke up, she had the whole house locked. She started feeding me regular food. And it all started wearing off.
That's when she started begging. There's nothing worse than a woman who begs. I hate the puling and whinging worse than anything. "Please, no! Oh, dear, not that! Don't leave!" Grates on my last nerve. I see you know what I mean.
I saw her that morning, the real thing, right down to her nose running all over her ugly face. "Tommy, please! Listen to me!"
Oh, I listened. I listened to every damned word that came out of her mouth. She told me everything she'd done to me. Begged me for justice.
Justice!
After using me and dragging me through filth and treating me like a stallion put out to stud, she thought it would be justice to be put up in the big house and pampered like a queen--in other words, to get exactly what she was after from the start. I'm sure you'll excuse me if I didn't consider that a real balance to the scales.
Oh, don't look at me like that. You'd have done nothing different, as I'm sure Mum and Dad would tell me, if you hadn't decided to kill them on sight. There, that's got you. All I did was turn a silly bint out of my house. She died on her own. That's not on my head. I gave her everything she came with--her clothes, that locket, and that damned potions book she'd been using to keep me drugged. She could have sold the locket, probably got a bit for it, and I can testify that she brewed a good enough potion to get a job doing whatever it is your sort do for money. If she didn't try, that was her fault. All I gave her was exactly what she deserved. She was damned lucky I didn't take her to see a doctor friend of mine who would have got rid of the last thing I'd given her. Not precisely legal, of course, but it hadn't stopped him before. I imagine Mum and Dad wish I'd gone that route.
Yes, it was raining when I put her out, but she didn't melt. I saw her a few months later, scrounging around London, and she didn't even have a sniffle, so that's not what killed her. Stupid woman saw me and tossed that book of hers in a dustbin outside of some nasty little pub on Charing Cross Road. Tossed it in with a big gesture and came over like that had solved everything. Said she gave it up, and tried to put my hand on her damned stomach. I pushed her away. That was the only time I laid a hand on her in anger, so you can just give up any idea that I went about blacking her eyes, and it was just a little shove. She didn't even fall. She just started crying again, and then she went back to the dustbin, and she screamed. Some other woman had run off with her book. This was apparently my fault, even though she was the one who threw it in there in the first place.
She ran back over and started in on the begging again. Grabbed hold of my arm when I called for a hansom cab, and I couldn't shake her loose until I closed the door. Last I saw of her, she was standing in the middle of the street, leaking at the eyes and nose and stomping her feet.
I don't know what she expected I would do. It's not as though I'd ever have had anything to do with her if she hadn't tried to make me a slave in the first place. What did she think she deserved from me?
Well, whatever she imagined, she got what was actually coming to her.
Which brings us to the question of what you imagine you deserve from me, doesn't it, boy? What do you think? She stole from me to get you--stole me to get you, actually. It was more than I'd have given her, or you, already. I owe you nothing. Except perhaps a visit to your authorities. I don't imagine they'd smile on what you did to Mum and Dad.
Oh, God, will you stop pretending that you have any intention of--