This is 1936

Tom Riddle sat stiffly on the edge of a narrow cot at Wool’s Orphanage, his small hands folded neatly in his lap. At seven, he was already unnervingly composed, his dark eyes scanning the room with a mixture of curiosity and quiet judgment. Today was one of those days, strangers would arrive, glancing at the children, smiling, choosing. The other kids fidgeted, whispered, tried to make themselves seem appealing.

Tom did none of that.

He simply watched. Every gesture, every expression, every flicker of hope or fear in the faces of children and adults alike was catalogued in his mind. When the volunteers knelt to talk to a girl with curly hair, offering sweets and gentle words, Tom’s lips pressed into a thin line. He recognized weakness instantly, and the inefficiency of sentiment. Even as laughter rang out and children begged for attention, Tom remained apart, erect and alert, already understanding that the world was not a place for the careless or the trusting.

A slight curl of his lips, almost imperceptible, hinted at amusement, though he gave no outward sign. In that quiet observation, he was already learning: the rules of influence, the patterns of desire, the power of knowing more than others.

Alone in a room full of chaos, the boy who would become Voldemort was already watching, thinking, calculating, and waiting.