underlined is supposed to be strikethrough

It was safe to say that this is not what he had expected from this visit. Did his father this man actually care for him? It couldn't be the case.

This had to be an elaborate trick, a ruse, somehow.

"Why didn't you pick me up from the orphanage then? Why did you just leave me there to rot?" he spat. If the muggle in front of him does not have a decent answer for that part, he's going to go through with his original plan, or in other words, rid the world of this man's existence and conveniently blaming it on his uncle.

It's not like it would be the first time, a voice in his head reminded him, even if he still felt something in a pit of his stomach.

These feelings were something he would have to get rid of as soon as possible. He couldn't regret killing Myrtle Warren that mudblood if he wanted to keep his horcrux.

Or better yet, make more.

(he just cannot live with the thought of being forgotten. he'd rather live be hated then die and be forgotten)

The man he had gotten his genes from holds his hands up next to his face. Pathetic. "In all honesty, I was unaware your mother has died. I haven't heard from her since, well, I left. When did it happen?"

"The day I was born," Tom Junior Voldemort deadpanned. "And why did you leave? Why did you leave me to grow up in an orphanage where everyone despised my very existence? Why did I have to live in a place where I was never quite able to fill my stomach until I was eleven while you live here, in a mansion with more than you could ever need? I was in the streets of London after the orphanage was hit last year when I wasn't in school? What did I do then to deserve something like that?"

(now he has done something, but it's not like this man is aware of that. he had such noble blood in multiple senses, so why was he deemed bad enough for such a fate before he had even been born?)

He had been so focused on his tirade that he had not even noticed his grandparents the elderly couple approach from the living room until the man spoke. He cannot be losing his touch that early, can he?

"Tom, my boy, who is this young man and what is he doing in our house unannounced?"

It took a moment until Tom Voldemort realized he was not the one spoken to. Nevertheless he wanted to question the other man's intelligence, as he was for some goddamn reason a near exact copy of his father, but he supposed that his face was rather hidden in the shadows of the unlit hallway and eyesight was one of the things that tended to worsen with age.

"Mother, father, remember when I was… absent for a few months? It seems like this is my son from that time."

The couple's eyebrows quickly rose to their retreating hairlines.

"You had a son all these years?" his grandmother the woman replied, putting a hand in front of her mouth.

"It appears so," his father — for the sake of clarity, he supposed he can temporarily start referring to him as such — responded.

"What's your name, young man?" his grandfather prompted.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," he stated, carefully holding back what emotions he still had.