Disclaimer-I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters.

Chapter One.

Merope Gaunt: Potion (#14)

It had taken ages, it seemed. Ages and ages of squirreling away every coin she could find, every bit of scrap metal or herbs she could sell. She had her stash hidden in a tiny hole behind their shack. And she waited. And waited. And waited, until finally she had the exorbitant fee charged by the elderly outlaw witch, who lived in a hovel worse than the Gaunt's.

When her father was sleeping one night, and Morfin was absorbed in singing to his current favorite snake, Merope snuck out of the house with her entire stash of small coins and rare herbs.

While any other person would have been terrified at the thought of walking through a forest in the dead of night, Merope welcomed the solitude.

Finally, she reached the hut where the devious witch lived, knocked three times and waited. She didn't have to wait as long as the first time, for the witch must have been anticipating her arrival. Within seconds, the door (if one could call it that) creaked open and the witch beckoned her in.

"It is ready?" Merope asked, trembling with suspense and excitement. The witch nodded, and pointed to a cauldron bubbling over the fire pit in the corner. It had a silvery pearl colored texture, and had spirals of steam twisting above it.

Merope gasped at its beautiful appearance, and suddenly an exquisite smell wafted to her. It smelled of horses and grass, and somehow, just somehow she smelled little silver carriage bells. Tom. It smelled like Tom.

"I have the money." Merope reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out her meager handful of coins and the rare herbs the witch had asked for, the rarest of which she had sold for a slim wage. The witch's eyes widened and she stretched out her hand greedily.

Merope had sense though. The witch could easily take advantage of Merope's lack of magical ability. She shook her head firmly and closed her hand around the riches. "Potion first."

The witch gave a little sigh of resignation, then produced a flask from somewhere inside her grungy, ripped robes. Squatting carefully over the cauldron, she filled it to the brim and then handed it to Merope. Merope held the flask in her hand. It was still warm, and she felt the powerful tingle that went that this was serious magic. Serious magic, indeed.

"What love potion is it?" she asked the silent witch.

" 'Tis Amortentia. Love potion of immense strength…driving the drinker to love, yes, but a consuming, obsessive love, not pure and true."

Merope had ceased listening to the witch's hoarse, hushed voice after the word strength. She shoved the money and herbs into the witch's hand then fled eagerly from the hut.

She would do it today. She only had a little time, for Tom went on an early morning ride, and the sun was already rising.

She ran and ran, until her lungs were bursting and her legs aching, her arms scratched by errant branches.

As soon as she reached her shack, she slipped in silently. They were still asleep. Good. She found their best cup, poured the potion in, and neatened herself up the best she could.

And then she waited. And waited. And waited. Just when she began to think that he wouldn't ride by, she saw his horse turn round the bend in the path.

And as he slowly rode down the path, she was there, smiling gently and saying, "Fancy a cold drink?"