"..."
Ms. Merope left with a flushed face, leaving William and Little Tom alone in the office.
With a Confundus Charm, William easily obtained a teaching position at this Muggle Orphanage, teaching the kids whose families died in the war to read, although Madam Cole, the orphanage director, was fully capable of handling this position herself. But, that's magic for you...
As for Tom, he wasn't considered strange in this orphanage.
The only difference from others, perhaps, is... he has a mother.
For some unknown (not unknown) reason, after pulling herself together, Ms. Merope didn't choose to leave Wu's Orphanage with Little Tom or abandon him to seek a new life. Instead, she sought a position within the orphanage—
Thus, our Little Tom even had a relatively complete childhood.
Everything seemed to be heading in a positive direction... if it weren't for the fact that the broken soul residing in this body is nearly seventy-year-old Voldemort.
Voldemort was cautious, living carefully for the past eight years—in fact, he originally wouldn't have been so restrained if it weren't for his clear memory that, during his childhood, there had absolutely been no man named William Richard. Otherwise, he might already have started planning to develop Death Eaters at Hogwarts.
"Can't Lead, You're Dead" .jpg
Black wizards must be cultivated from a young age...
But the presence of this man made Voldemort dare not act recklessly, not even daring to reveal intelligence beyond that of an ordinary child—because Voldemort now believed he had been reborn back to his childhood, and having once scrubbed wire balls for two years, he had no aversion to the concept of "enduring."
Only those who survive can achieve victory; he once died once... now he won't.
Taking a deep breath, Tom's face displayed a harmless smile. He flicked through the textbook in his hand, turning to the last few pages, "Yes, sir, but I'm still unclear on some questions, like this one..."
[A farmer living in Sutter County raised a group of chickens and rabbits. He placed them together in a cage, and there are now thirty-five heads...]
What kind of twisted old farmer would put these two animals together?
Tormented by elementary math problems for two or three years, Tom took another deep breath, ignoring the tearing pain at the back of his head brought on by the soul mismatch, and smiled at William.
"Oh, this is simple, look—"
William picked up the quill dipped in red ink and started writing and drawing on the notebook, "You first let each rabbit lift two feet..."
...even more twisted.
Maintaining the stiff smile on his face, Tom slightly stepped back, using the wooden table as cover, his wrist subtly shook, and a small snake about forty to fifty centimeters long, entirely brown, dropped in the corner of the room. It raised its head, gently flicking its tongue at Tom.
"Hiss..."
The sound was barely audible, and having done all this, Tom relaxed, not even noticing William's sudden pause while explaining the problem.
"...Alright, finally concluding there are twelve rabbits and twenty-three chickens."
William tapped on the table with his knuckles, drawing Little Tom's attention back.
"...Teacher, is there another method to solve this problem?"
"Yes, certainly, for such simple solutions, I have twelve more ways—"
...
With a smile, Voldemort waved goodbye to William, walking down the dimly lit corridor, the boy breathed a sigh of relief.
Despite years of probing, our Lord Voldemort still hadn't found any flaws in this "teacher," who from start to finish really seemed like a slightly handsome early 20th-century Muggle gentleman typical in England.
So, he decided to just kill him.
That European Viper he found in the orphanage's backyard because even though he was "reborn," his talent for Parseltongue remained, so even without magic power, he could easily create the best alibi.
But why no magic power?
Tom looked at his palms. According to his memory, despite not knowing his mother's true identity, he could control his magic power very well at a young age—he could move objects with his mind, command animals and creatures to follow his orders, and speak Parseltongue.
But now, it seemed only the Parseltongue skill remained.
Standing in the middle of the corridor, Tom suddenly raised a hand, his eyes locked onto the flower pot not far away, veins bulging on his forehead—the vase didn't move at all.
"Hey, Little Tom!"
Hearing the voice, Tom didn't turn around but silently sighed and thought, having lived for sixty, seventy years, still being bullied by some snot-nosed kids. He really felt like he was living backward—but he had no choice because he couldn't show any strange behavior in front of William, so he could only continue to endure.
"Riddle, I'm calling you!!"
A sturdy hand slapped on the boy's shoulder. Tom turned around to see the caller, a boy about his age, but much larger in size, Billy Stubs—Tom still remembered the name—and the two boys trailing behind him.
"Little Baby Riddle, are you going to hide to cry again?"
The source of the bullying stemmed from being different. As the only boy in the entire orphanage with a mother, Tom, from a young age... Ugh, William never understood how, unlike Valorant, even having a mother could become a reason for bullying?