Voldemort's red eyes narrowed dangerously. He did not interrupt; he wanted to hear what sort of story this silver-tongued fellow could concoct.
The Death Eaters around them were even more motionless. They were all stunned, their minds blank.
What on earth was this fellow trying to do?
Could he be stalling for time?
"Your life palace, my upperclassman Riddle, looks quite broad thanks to your current appearance, but the lines across it are a complete mess, and its complexion is rather dry and withered."
Douglas, however, continued leisurely.
"An unstable foundation in your life palace indicates that you're stubborn and that your luck is erratic.
"If a wizard spends his entire life searching for a home he never had, all his achievements are like a house built on sand. No matter how high he builds it, it will collapse."
Voldemort's body abruptly stiffened.
The Orphanage.
The place he had spent his entire life trying to escape, yet which had made up his entire childhood.
A starting point without roots.
He wanted to argue, only to find that the other man's words had struck the very truth he was least willing to acknowledge.
Douglas ignored his stiffness and shifted his gaze slightly upward.
"On either side of the forehead, above the brow bones, lies the parents palace. It symbolizes the inheritance of one's bloodline and the blessings received from one's parents."
"Your parents palace is very thin and dark in color. A child who grew up with no one to love him would naturally become obsessed with immortality and power, hoping to fill the emptiness inside with outward strength. What do you think?"
Voldemort's breathing abruptly grew heavy.
That witch mother of lowly blood who had used a Love Potion, that Muggle father who had abandoned him and brought him shame!