Chapter 55: Chapter 50 Riddle is not an Regressor!
Tom Riddle looked around the table, noticing forgotten but still familiar faces as he tried to think about these people. He was taken aback by a sharp pang of pain in his head, closing his eyes and pressing his hands against them. When the pain subsided, he seemed to better adapt to the environment, even recalling the names of those children. The experience left a bitter taste in his mouth, and his head was confused, trying to understand what was happening.
Around the large dining table, about twenty-five orphaned children sat, of various ages, accompanied by at least three adult caregivers. They wore thick cotton, leather, or woolen capes, all with open or stitched cuts showing signs of aging, highlighting them as faded in shades of gray, brown, or dark tones that contrasted with the peeling white walls of the orphanage. The room was poorly lit by candle lamps or the dim light coming through the large windows on the wall.
"Mr. Riddle," someone with a stern voice called, drawing the boy's attention. As Tom looked at the woman, an elderly and tired-looking matron with neither white nor black hair, she had a sour expression as if she had sucked on a lemon. He recalled her name, Edith Cartwright, the matron of the orphanage, and replied, "Yes, Mrs. Cart."
She looked at him annoyed or expecting a different action. "Say grace before dinner, can't you see we're waiting for your patience?"
"Sorry, Mrs. Cart," he replied, wondering what on earth he was going to do, as if saying a prayer. But, as if by reflex or memory, one of the prayers he had memorized came to mind, and as he was obliged to recite it, even though he had never believed or sympathized with such a God, he took the initiative to stand up, speaking with a low but audible voice to everyone present.
"Lord, we thank you for this day and the food you have given us, even if it is so scarce and tasteless. We ask you to bless this meal and those who prepared it, even if they have not done the best job. We also pray for those who need your grace, especially those who are not fortunate enough to have a family or a home. Guide them, enlighten them, and bring them to your flock, even if they do not deserve it. We pray for ourselves, that we may be loyal to you and your church, and that we excel in virtue and knowledge, even if it makes no difference. We ask this in Christ our Lord. Amen."
"Amen," everyone responded together to the prayer without giving it much thought, although the adults frowned upon hearing the boy's prayer.
Matron Edith then shook her head and raised her voice. "Amen, now eat in silence, in silence!"
Not thinking much or acting on reflex, Tom just plunged his spoon into the vegetable and dried meat soup, same with a piece of moldy bread, soaking it in the hot soup to soften the hard bread, and brought it to his mouth. The taste was unpleasant, with a bland smell that almost made him spit it out immediately, but he refrained because it was either this or hunger.
As he chewed, he quietly observed the surroundings. Everyone seemed to be making an effort to follow the matron's orders, eating quietly, or as quiet as children can be. His gaze was caught by a face among the many children, a boy around his age, about ten years old, with purple eyes and white hair hidden under a black military beret, probably the only memento from his parents who must have died in the First World War. But something about the boy bothered him, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The boy in question, noticing the gaze, turned his attention to Tom Riddle, looking him straight in the eyes. The boy's eyes briefly shone in a mystical purple, and he laughed maliciously.
Seeing the smile, the young dark lord felt a shiver down his spine, then looked at his soup. Alive worms were wriggling among the scarce dried meat, along with carrots and potatoes still with peel. His mouth turned bitter, and he spat it back onto the plate, pushing it forcefully to spread the contents all over the table. His soup had been sabotaged, and by the smirking expression, he already knew who the culprit was.
The children and caregivers looked at Tom trying to understand the scene he was causing. The soup wasn't the tastiest thing in the world, but everyone ate happily or unhappily with it, and seeing the boy's wasteful action was infuriating.
Before the matron took any action, he quickly stood up. "I apologize, Mrs. Cart, there are worms in my soup."
Upon hearing the claim, everyone at the table made disgusted faces. They wouldn't be eating worms, right? Everyone focused their attention on the food, examining every aspect. It was clean, as expected.
Meanwhile, Matron Edith approached the boy, taking the soup for herself. A small portion of scraps of dried beef, vegetable remnants like carrots and potatoes roughly cut, barely standing out in the water, but no worms!
She then looked furious. "Tom Marvolo Riddle, this soup is in perfect condition. Do you think you're too good for the orphanage's soup?"
Upon hearing the lady yell, the childrens collectively mocked Riddle, laughing and taunting the snobbish boy.
"Does His Royal Highness have too refined a palate for our soup?"
"If you don't want it, give it to me. No need to cry like a sissy."
"Weird boy always seeing 'things!'"
...
The boy's face turned red; he was furious, almost possessed. They were mocking him; how could they not see the worms? He looked at the soup, and they were clearly there, worms moving around. He could taste these creatures.
"You're blind; they're moving everywhere in the soup!" he asserted.
But after checking with Mrs. Cart, she became even angrier. "No, they're not. You're disrupting dinner; you'll go without dinner. Lock yourself in your room and don't come out until I say so."
Unsatisfied, he tried to argue, "But Mrs. Cart..."
"No 'buts,' just go!" she interrupted, ordering him once again to go to his room. She then returned her attention to everyone at the table, annoyed by the commotion. "Continue your meal in silence."
As Tom moved, he glanced at the white-haired boy, who enjoyed the scene with a Cheshire smile. He could notice a sinister gleam in the boy's purple eyes; what happened was not natural. He could feel it, a sense of familiarity ran through his veins but quickly retreated; he didn't know, but it seemed like he knew. And he needed to reflect on that.
He climbed to his room on the third floor of the building, with the older children, a shared room. The stairs had high wooden steps and a safety railing that, by his memory, was unsafe for an orphanage; there had been several accidents, some of which he may or may not have caused. The steps on the wooden stairs created a distinctive drumming and creaking noise, which irritated him to the point of wanting to learn to fly just to avoid those odious steps.
He walked down the corridor guided back to a familiar place, although confused, it seemed like his steps knew where he had to go. He found himself in front of a broken door, his room, and opened it with familiarity and disgust. Only to be greeted by the putrid smell of a corpse. Under the illuminated window of the dark room stood a kitten in an advanced state of decomposition with worms coming out of the body, remarkably similar to the ones in the soup. Parts of the cat had been devoured, and parts were still raw, emitting a foul odor. His initial reaction was to step back, a natural biological response, and after observing it closely, he could recognize the cat; he had killed it himself out of revenge. In the middle of the cat's corpse was a sealed envelope with a seal, with only one writing standing out. For TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE.
Intrigued, he approached, trying to endure the smell, then tried to use his magic to float the letter away. Focusing his will on the power that was uniquely his, he naturally learned some tricks to make it work. But there was no response; for some reason, his power wasn't responding. With no other options, he reached into the corpse, retrieving the letter from the animal's entrails. The white paper stained with blood didn't seem to elicit much reaction from the boy. Upon opening it, he could only see a few words, perhaps a challenge.
"I know what you did; I know what you are. I want to punish you, destroy you.
Welcome to Hell, Tom Riddle.
By Moon Rabbit"
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
_Arthas_
_Arthas_ Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!
Creation is hard, cheer me up!
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