For QL

Captain, Falmouth Falcons

Prompt: "This tastes nothing like chicken."- from the show Merlin

Warnings: some abuse, as well as dark themes (I cannot elaborate without spoilers, but, to my QL judge, the mods say you can message them if you need it expanded upon)

Word Count: 1988

Mrs. O'Leary will not take no for an answer. Her plump fingers wrap around Merope's bony wrist, pulling the younger girl into the shop. Merope shivers, despite the warmth from the oven and fireplace. If Father finds out that she's doing this, he'll be angry; he'll hurt her again.

Her task is simple. Twice a month, she's sent into the village to haggle for supplies. During her time around the Muggles, she is only supposed to do her job. Father and Morfin often tell her how disgusting Muggles are, how dangerous they can be. She is supposed to stay detached and observe from afar, never risking getting too close.

"Here you are, dear." Mrs. O'Leary prepares a plate with a small slice of meat pie on it. "You're skin and bones. Don't they feed you out there?"

Merope nods mutely. It isn't really a lie. She cooks and cleans, and her father and brother reward her with scraps at the end of the night. The scraps never fill her up, but they keep her alive.

"What sort of meat is this?" she asks, her voice as thin and weak as her body.

"Chicken."

She stares at the white meat in a pool of gravy. "This tastes nothing like chicken," she says, stabbing a chunk with her fork.

"Better, I hope?" Mrs. O'Leary asks with a soft chuckle. "The secret is in the spices."

Merope considers this. They can't afford spices, other than the occasional bit of salt and pepper her father can steal from a weary merchant or peddler as they pass. That must be it.

When her plate is clean, except for smeared streaks of gravy, she offers her thanks. "I really must go," she says. She's been gone for too long. Father will be angry. "My father will start to worry."

Mrs. O'Leary sighs heavily, resting her hands on her flour-dusted apron. "I hate the idea of you walking alone. You heard what happened to the Addington boy, didn't you?"

She shakes her head, but she can guess easily enough. It seems that every trip into the village is met with whispers of a new disappearance. Over the past year, at least three kids have gone missing each month across Little Hangleton and the neighboring villages.

"Quite the tragedy." Mrs. O'Leary sighs again before offering Merope a sad smile. "How old are you?"

Without answering, Merope grabs her raggedy sack and slings it over her shoulder. She's already broken the rules by staying in the little pie shop. This is far too dangerous, and she needs to stop before it's too late. Dropping her gaze to her feet, she rushes from the cozy shop and into the snowy street.

…

"What sort of meat is this?" Merope asks when her father drops the scraps of meat and vegetables into a pile of slop on the floor.

"Chicken."

She chews it, ignoring the subtle crunch from the dirt and dust. "Doesn't taste like it."

This is the wrong response. Her father grips her dark hair roughly and forces her to the floor, rubbing her face in mushy carrots and potatoes.

"Think you're too good for what we give you, girl?" he snarls. "Think you can do better than this?"

Despite the panic that clouds her mind, she thinks back to the meat Mrs. O'Leary had given her. It had been so much grander than their bland chicken, pork, and lamb that always seems to taste the same. And yet she knows she cannot do better. Seasoned meat and aromatic gravy are luxuries she could never claim as her own.

She ought to be grateful for what she has. Her father works hard to keep his little butchering shed stocked with meat. Merope doesn't know how he does it, only that it isn't her place to ask. Somehow, he keeps meat on the table. They may live in a little hovel without even a Knut to their name, but they are more fortunate than most in their situation.

"S-sorry," she says, her words muffled by the chunks of meat and vegetables that go in her mouth when she opens it. "I'm sorry."

He holds her there for a few seconds longer before releasing her. "Get yourself cleaned up," he snarls. "You're disgusting."

…

Nearly a week after her trip to the village, she's on the porch, clearing it of snow. She doesn't know why she has to do this. It isn't as though they ever have any visitors, and she knows her father doesn't want to impress the Muggles that pass by the rundown little shack. Maybe he just wants to keep her busy and out of the way.

She shivers. The raggedy, patchwork robe offers little protection from the icy wind. If only Father would have let her go to Hogwarts. Not only would she have learned some charm to keep herself from freezing, but she would also have a spell to melt the snow away and shorten the time it takes to finish her household chores.

"What an eyesore!" The voice draws her out of her thoughts, and she turns her attention to the source of the sound.

Two young men approach on horseback. She recognizes one in an instant. Tom Riddle is tall and slender with dark hair, even darker eyes, and a proud, arrogant smile; Merope seems to fall in love with him every time she sees him.

"Eyesore?" Tom echoes with a laugh. "Are you talking about the shack or the girl?

His friend strokes the ginger wisps of hair on his chin. "Both."

Laughing, they come closer. In her most secret dreams, she imagines him stopping and speaking to her. He would see her as more than just that poor, pitiful Gaunt girl, and, against all odds, he would love her back.

It never happens, of course. As with every other time their paths cross, he passes her by with little more than a revolted curl of his lips. Merope leans against her shovel, watching them ride off.

"Love the Muggle, Ropey?"

Her brother's voice sends a chill down her spine. Merope turns, wrapping her trembling arms around her body. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. If he tells Father, she'll be beaten.

"I was just looking," she says weakly, staring pointedly at the ground.

Looking is just as forbidden as talking. As far as their father is concerned, looking is a betrayal that can lead to deeper transgressions.

"Please, Morfin," she whispers, reluctantly lifting her eyes to his. "I've done nothing wrong."

Her brother's thin lips pull back into a grin, exposing a mouth filled with rotting and missing teeth. "Oh, you do. You love the filthy beast," he taunts, giggling and rubbing his hands together with a sick glee.

"Morfin…"

But it's too late. Still laughing, Morfin turns and runs away before she can stop him.

…

By some miracle, her father doesn't beat her or punish her at all. She wonders if Morfin had changed his mind about telling their father, but that doesn't seem like him. Her brother enjoys watching others suffer, and Merope has always been his favorite victim.

Still, the days pass, and her father remains in good spirits. Morfin smiles at her like he knows some tremendous secret, but he never says a word.

Tom doesn't pass by again. It isn't a major catastrophe; after all, it doesn't seem that the little road by the hovel is his regular route. Merope always wishes he would pass by each and every day, but that's little more than a foolish girl's daydreams.

…

The whispers reach her within minutes of returning to Little Hangleton. Merope makes her way through vendors, searching for someone who might take pity on her and help her collect the things she needs when she hears the group of girls.

"Are you sure he hasn't found some new girl to occupy his time, Cecilia?" a girl with red curls asks. "You know how he is."

Her blonde companion huffs and adjusts her fine, wool shawl. "I'm telling you, Rebecca, Tom is not the type to just go missing like this!" she says as they pass by Merope. "Besides, with all the others who have gone missing, don't you think I have reason to worry?"

It feels like an invisible fist has slammed into Merope's stomach. The news about the other missing boys and girls never quite had an effect on her. This is different. Her Tom is missing, and she can feel her heart breaking within her chest.

Sniffling, she pulls her worn-out robe a little closer to try and block the flurries of snow that begin to fall. Later, when she is alone, she will take the time to grieve for the boy who could never know how much she loved him. For now, she has a job to do, and she will do everything in her power to avoid angering her father.

…

"Father?" Merope calls, struggling with her sack.

There's no answer, but she isn't surprised. Her father and Morfin are rarely ever home during the day. Normally, she doesn't mind. She likes the peace and quiet while she does her chores. Today, however, her bounty from the village is a bit too plentiful, and she wishes one of them could help her with the lifting.

She sets the sack down on the table and sorts through her haul. It's mostly undesirable fruit and vegetables–aged and damaged things that vendors are happy to get rid of before they expire–but there's a special treat just for her father. The butcher's boy had given her salt to help them preserve the meat.

"Father?" she calls again.

Still no answer. Merope doesn't want to just leave the salt there. As rare as it is that they ever have any sort of seasoning, the salt is far too valuable and precious.

An idea occurs to her. She isn't supposed to go near her father's butchering shed. She'd tried to peek inside it once, and her father had screamed at her for it. The shed is only for him and Morfin; girls could never understand the importance of what goes on inside.

Maybe he wouldn't mind this time. If he's in there, he'll see the salt, and he'll be happy to see her. Merope nods to herself, as though this personal affirmation would somehow make it true. She collects the bag of salt, taking care to not let even a single grain spill as she positions it under her arm and heads outside.

The trek to the shed doesn't take long. Merope lingers outside the weathered building, arm raised and fist clenched. She hesitates. What if she's wrong and her father gets angry again? What if the salt isn't enough to satisfy him?

Swallowing dryly, she leans in, pressing her ear against the door. There's only silence on the other side. Maybe her father and Morfin are out collecting more meat. She'll just leave the salt and head back into the house.

She opens the door, and the salt falls to the ground, spilling into the snow. It looks like any butcher shop might, with hunks of meat hanging from hooks and tools on the butcher's block. But there's one thing that is out of place, one thing that makes her blood run cold.

She recognizes the dark hair and darker eyes–now glassy and unseeing ane so unlike her Tom's. This time, there is no proud smirk on Tom Riddle's face; instead, his mouth is twisted into an expression of pure terror. It takes several moments to notice the flesh missing from his legs, and how the only thing left is the bone. Something tells her that he isn't the first Muggle to be brought here.

Merope drops to her knees, doubling over and throwing up as understanding dawns on her. Now she knows why the meat doesn't taste like chicken.