Orphanage.
How could Ian not be familiar with it?
That was where he grew up—the Wu's Orphanage.
It was a drab building on the outskirts of London, with mottled walls and several cracked panes of glass in the windows, patched together with old newspapers. And this was the meeting place.
The typical London rainy weather cast a damp gray hue over everything. In the center of the picture, a boy of about seven or eight years old stands in front of a glass window covered with condensation.
He wore a faded gray shirt, the kind issued by the Orphanage. The shirt was clearly a size too big, and the sleeves were rolled up several times to reveal his wrists. His wet black hair clung to his forehead, and his face, though delicate, was pale, showing signs of malnutrition. The boy's nose was almost touching the cold glass. His breath condensed into a small mist on the window, which he unconsciously wiped away with his fingers.
All I saw was...
Outside the window, in the small courtyard of the Orphanage, seven or eight children were playing in the rain. They were all dressed in the same gray clothes, but their running and laughter made them seem full of life. They chased after a tattered ball, splashing mud that dirtied their trouser legs, but no one cared. An older Girl shouted something, and all the children ran towards her, forming a circle around her, their laughter faintly coming through the blurry glass.
But the boy at the window was not invited.
He stood there, motionless, his nose pressed against the glass, watching the children. There were no tears, no pleading in his eyes, only a complex emotion completely out of character for his age.
That was longing.
An intense longing to fit in, to be accepted, and to be seen.
At the same time, it was also anger.
Anger at being rejected, forgotten, and treated as if invisible. Of course, there's something deeper, Voldemort's most vulnerable side, the inferiority complex he sometimes masks with layers of stubbornness and indifference. That deep-seated inferiority complex, unique to abandoned children. "I'm not good enough, so they don't want me."
This was Tom Riddle's original idea.
Upon witnessing this scene...
Voldemort's body trembled slightly.
In that gray void, his figure visibly swayed. His scarlet eyes were fixed on the boy in the image, something deep within his pupils trembling violently.
He knew.
That was him.
That was Tom Marvolo Riddle more than seventy years ago.
That lonely child who hadn't yet learned to arm himself with fear.
"Damn it! Why are you showing me this?!"
Voldemort is roaring.
The second image then appeared silently, following the first.
The Great Hall of Hogwarts.
That familiar magical space, illuminated by thousands of candles, was filled with students in different colored robes sitting around four long tables. Laughter, the clinking of cutlery, Owl flitting about, and ghosts drifting by.
This is Hogwarts' most typical dinner time.
The camera focuses on the edge of the Slytherin table.
A boy sat alone, surrounded by plenty of empty seats, yet no one approached him. He wore a brand-new Slytherin robe, his tie impeccably tied, and a silver-green scarf draped perfectly over his shoulders. His face was even more handsome than in the Orphanage, his black hair neatly combed, his features like a meticulously sculpted work of art. He sat upright, his posture elegant and noble, a faint smile playing on his lips.
But the smile didn't reach her eyes.
His eyes—those eyes that were already faintly glowing red—scanned the surrounding classmates. The students whispered amongst themselves in twos and threes, occasionally glancing up at him with a mixture of awe, curiosity, and a hint of barely concealed... fear. Then, they quickly looked away, continuing their conversations as if he didn't exist.
He could hear what they were saying.
"Have you heard? Senior Riddle has received another Special Contribution Award..."
"How did he do that? I heard he found Chamber of Secrets..."
Shh! Don't say anything, he's looking over here...
Their voices were low, but the boy —Tom Riddle— heard them clearly. Even more clearly, he heard what they didn't say aloud:
"Stay away from him..."
"Something's wrong with him..."
"The people of Slytherin all say he's... dangerous..."
Upon hearing this...
Young Tom's smile remained unchanged, but his fingers gripping the knife and fork tightened slightly. Something churned deep within his eyes—not anger, not resentment, but a deeper, carefully concealed unease.
"I succeeded, yes, that's it," he told himself. "They fear me. They dare not ignore me. That's enough." But deep inside, a voice asked:
Why is nobody... coming near me?
The image freezes on those seemingly arrogant, yet actually empty eyes.
Voldemort's breathing became rapid.
The third image shows a dilapidated little house.
The space was cramped, the furniture simple, and a dusty full-length mirror leaned against the corner. The mirror was blurry, and the silver plating around the edges had peeled off, revealing the mottled wooden planks behind it.
A young man stands in front of a mirror.
That was Tom Riddle, around twenty years old. He wore a simple black robe, and his face was more mature and handsome than it had been at Hogwarts, but the light in his eyes was completely different—it was the cold and dangerous light that belonged to the Dark Lord.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
The image in the Mirror began to change.
At first, it was his own face—young, handsome, and full of confidence. But the next second, that face began to distort, his cheekbones became higher, his cheeks began to sunken, and his skin became pale and smooth, like snake scales. His nose gradually disappeared, leaving only two thin slits, and his lips became extremely thin, almost invisible. His eyes became more elongated, and his pupils turned into scarlet vertical lines.
That was Voldemort's face.
Tom's pupils contracted sharply.
The image in the mirror changed back to his original face. But only for a moment, then the face began to distort again, reverting to its serpentine form. It changed back, then back again, then back again... like some terrible cycle, like a curse from which Destiny could not escape.
Is this Prophecy?
The young man stared at the constantly changing images in the mirror, and for the first time, an emotion he himself could not understand appeared in his usually cold and dangerous eyes.
Puzzled.
Confused about what "self" really is.
disgust.
I loathe that ugly snake face that is slowly devouring me.
And fear.
Fear of becoming what I am becoming, something I cannot even look at myself in the eye.
"No..." Voldemort murmured, his voice beginning to tremble.
But the video didn't stop.
The fourth image rushes in.
That was the battlefield of the First Wizarding War.
Countless Wizard clashed in a chaotic battle, the light of spells blooming like fireworks of death in the night sky. The green light of the Killing Curse, the red light of the Reductor Curse Cutting Curse, the cracking sounds of the Shattering Curse, screams, curses, and explosions intertwined to create a symphony of hell.
Amidst the chaos, Voldemort's figure appeared and disappeared. He moved across the battlefield like a ghost, and with each swing of his wand, at least three Auror fell. Behind him, the Death Eater chanted his name fervently.
"Long live the master! Long live the Dark Lord!"
The shouts were deafening, as if the whole world was bowing down at his feet.
But the camera suddenly zooms in, focusing on Voldemort's profile.
A satisfied smile played on his lips, but deep within his crimson eyes...
An empty void.
He could hear the shouts. He knew the Death Eater were calling him. But what he knew even more was why they were calling him.
It's not because he deserves to be followed.
It wasn't because his ideas convinced them.
Simply because... he is stronger than them.
They were so powerful that they dared not resist.
So powerful that not following them will lead to death.
That's all.
They feared him. They depended on him. But they never truly... loved him.
Behind him, a Death Eater fell in the battle, but the others didn't even glance at him. They only cared about their own lives and how to survive under their master's protection.
As for the owner himself?
That's not something they need to care about.
The image freezes on the fleeting, profound loneliness in Voldemort's eyes.
The fifth image.
That was truly a Prophecy.
It wasn't a specific scene, but a swirling, chaotic mist. Within the mist, a voice echoed, ancient and mysterious, carrying the inescapable force of Destiny:
"The one with the power to conquer the Dark Lord is approaching... Born into a family that has resisted the Dark Lord three times, born at the end of July... The Dark Lord will mark him as his formidable enemy, but he will possess power unknown to the Dark Lord... One must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live; only one can survive... The one with the power to conquer the Dark Lord will be born at the end of July..."
Voldemort stood in the mist, listening to the Prophecy.
For the first time, genuine fear appeared on his face.
It wasn't the fear of death—he had already created Horcrux, and he believed he could live forever.
It wasn't the fear of failure—he was already the most powerful Dark Lord of this era.
Rather, it is a deeper, more fundamental fear.
"It was destined".
There was a boy, a newborn boy, who was destined to possess the power to overcome him.
There was a boy, a boy he didn't even know who he was, who was destined to be his end.
All the power he pursued, all the Horcrux he created, and all the terror he established seemed laughable in the face of that "destiny."
He was furious. Furious at the injustice of Destiny, furious that someone dared to challenge his position.
He was afraid. Afraid of the unknown boy, afraid of the "predestined" curse.
But what he found most unbearable was that profound sense of powerlessness.
It seemed that no matter what he did, he could not escape that Prophecy.
It was as if all his Hard Work were only leading to that predetermined ending.
The sixth image appears.
It was a blank page.
It wasn't a void of gray, but a pure, complete, and utterly empty space. That emptiness was so complete, so absolute, as if nothing had ever existed there.
Voldemort was stunned.
He stared at the blank space, his crimson eyes filled with bewilderment.
"What is this?" His voice was hoarse and dry, and for the first time, he had lost his usual lofty and authoritative demeanor.
Dumbledore's voice sounded behind him, gentle and calm, like a teacher explaining a simple truth to a student, "This is the future, Tom. A future without you."
Voldemort whirled around and stared intently at him.
In those scarlet eyes, anger, fear, confusion, and resentment—countless emotions were frantically intertwined.
"Without me?" His voice turned sharp and piercing, like the scraping of glass. "How could I be without you? I am immortal! I created Horcrux! I split my soul! I have entered the Legend! I am the most powerful Dark Lord! How could I be without you?!" Dumbledore shook his head. There was no mockery, no smugness in that movement, only a calm that bordered on compassion.
"In this future, you failed, Tom. You were defeated by a boy—not because you weren't strong enough, but because you never knew what true strength was. Your Horcrux were destroyed one by one, the fragments of your soul were erased one by one. Your body vanished, your consciousness collapsed, your existence..."
He paused, his voice becoming even softer, yet like the sharpest knife, piercing the deepest recesses of Voldemort's soul:
"It's been erased."
Voldemort's face turned deathly pale. His already bloodless snake face looked even more terrifying now.
"And then?" he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"And then the world went on," Dumbledore said. "The war was over, and peace was restored. The children returned to Hogwarts, no longer afraid of being attacked by Death Eater at night. The Ministry of Magic resumed its normal operations, and people no longer had to live in fear. Life... went on." He raised his hand and pointed to the blank space.
"People have forgotten your fears. They no longer mutter your name in the night, no longer refer to you as ' the Dark Lord.' The New Generation of Wizard doesn't even know who you are—you're just a footnote in history books, a vague memory occasionally mentioned by the older generation of Wizard. Like... Grindelwald."
Upon hearing this...
Voldemort's body began to tremble. The trembling started at his fingertips, spread to his arms, to his shoulders, and to his entire body.
"No..."
"Then, those who once feared you began to mock you," Dumbledore continued, his voice still calm, yet each word like a knife. "They mocked your madness, your failures, your ridiculous ' Pure-blood ' theory. They said you were just a pathetic, insecure person, a loser who could never escape the shadow of the Orphanage."
"Shut up!" Voldemort roared, and a thick, destructive stream of Magic Power shot out from his hand, heading straight for Dumbledore! The Magic Power was powerful enough to tear through space and devour anything that stood in its way.
Dumbledore didn't even raise his hand.
The Magic Power suddenly changed direction a foot away from his body, as if it had crashed into some invisible, insurmountable barrier, and then dissipated into the gray void without leaving a ripple.
"Then," Dumbledore continued unmoved, his voice as unstoppable as Destiny itself, "They began to dig into your past." The surrounding scene shifted once more.
This time, it's not Tom Riddle's past, but a deeper, more hidden part of his lineage that he spent his entire life trying to bury.
A young woman appears in the picture.
Thin, pale, and dressed in a tattered long dress, she stood in front of a dilapidated hut. Her face bore a resemblance to Tom's, but her eyes lacked Tom's light, displaying only an empty, despairing numbness.
That's Merope Gaunt.
Tom Riddle's mother.
This is also Voldemort's most insecure origin.