Personality

He speaks in a very polite way, always addressing others with respect - sometimes even calling Azul “sir.” His appearance is equally immaculate; his uniform is never out of place, his manner always calm. Official descriptions highlight this aspect of him, noting how he presents himself “in a polite and formal manner, putting on a friendly smile.” In social situations, this way of acting makes him seem approachable, trustworthy and even gentle. He rarely raises his voice, measures his words with care, and rarely lets his temper show. Even the smaller details - his talent for brewing tea, his knack for keeping things in order - reinforce the impression of a man who is disciplined, refined and reliably in control.

Canon material is clear in pointing out that Jade is duplicitous and self-serving. Unlike Floyd, Jade prefers subtlety and he works toward his goals with patience, masking his intentions behind courtesy and observation. It is said that “his actions often have ulterior motives behind them,” and this is true: even his kindness carries the possibility of a hidden edge. He takes quiet amusement in watching others squirm, delighting in their unease without ever breaking his calm exterior. Where Floyd lashes out with open unpredictability, Jade teases, schemes, and unsettles - always with a measured smile.

At his core, Jade is defined by this balance between civility and cunning. Outwardly, he remains calm, polite, and dependable; beneath the surface, he is watchful, calculating, and quietly ruthless. His trust is reserved for very few - chiefly Azul and Floyd - while the rest of his true self remains carefully guarded, tucked away behind his impeccable manners.

Relationship with Azul

Jade’s relationship with Azul Ashengrotto is complex: it blends genuine loyalty with practical alliance, and it plays out under a subtle power balance. Historically, Jade and Floyd rescued a young Azul from bullying and brought him into their own circle, making the three close since childhood. In the present, Azul is the official Housewarden (boss) and Jade the Vice Housewarden. Jade addresses Azul with formal respect (he even calls him “sir” in dialogue), indicating that he honors Azul’s leadership role and dutifully carries out Azul’s orders, helping him to manage the Monstro Lounge. This outward deference suggests a hierarchical relationship.

Yet canon commentary reveals that in reality Jade is not a subordinate. Azul himself admits that he has “no control over the twins, nor do they work for him - they simply decide what they want to do”. In other words, Azul and Jade are friends and partners rather than boss and underling. Jade supports Azul’s plans only as long as they align with his own goals. For example, when Azul loses his contracts (Book 3 events), Jade and Floyd show up to help out of loyalty and perhaps self-interest, but Jade makes it clear he won’t stick around if Azul becomes dull or powerless. Azul even joked that the twins would leave if he became “boring,” and in fact Jade made it clear he would never willingly bind himself to Azul (or anyone) without good reason.

Despite his independence, Jade proves himself genuinely loyal in practice. His commitment to Azul is not blind obedience, but rather rooted in history and choice. Azul became friends with the twins when they were young, and ever since, Jade has regarded him as family. This connection explains why Jade so readily aids in Azul’s schemes - such as his investigation into the cause of Kalim’s hypnosis - without hesitation. He also extends courtesy to Azul’s circle, treating his companions with the same polished politeness he shows in other settings.

The dynamic between them is a balance of strengths. Azul serves as the charismatic frontman, the one who draws others in, while Jade acts as the strategist at his side - and ensures they always remain a step ahead. Azul relies on Jade’s discretion, often entrusting him with delicate work that demands subtlety, while Jade in turn benefits from Azul’s resources and the structured environment of Octavinelle. Psychologically, Jade respects Azul, but never surrenders his own autonomy. In private moments, he is willing to tease, critique, or speak candidly, yet he also recognizes Azul’s insecurities and provides steady support when it truly matters.

Their relationship is best understood as one of mutual benefit tempered by genuine friendship. Jade stays at Azul’s side not because he is bound by obligation, but because he chooses to - finding in Azul a partner who complements his own nature.

Machiavellianism

Jade embodies many traits of a classic Machiavellian figure: he is strategic, manipulative, and emotionally detached. Canon material makes this side of him explicit, showing how he deliberately bends situations and people to his advantage. Even his signature spell, Shock the Heart, is an instrument of control. By locking eyes with his target, he forces them to reveal the truth against their will. In practice, Jade uses it with detachment - in Book 4, for instance, he casts it on Kalim solely to extract information. Once Kalim provides what he needs, Jade dismisses him with nothing more than a curt “thank you.” The interaction underscores how comfortable Jade is with overriding another’s will whenever it serves his purpose. Despite the situation, it’s still manipulation - and clearly, Jade doesn’t feel bad about it.

This streak is further evident in his meticulous planning and his cold approach to others. Official trivia notes that, in preparation for a wave of new students, Jade collected extensive personal information on his peers - everything from their home countries to their private social media accounts - explicitly “as possible blackmail.” He builds dossiers on people to ensure he could leverage them if he ever needs it. His approach to relationships is much like a chess game - calculated, two steps ahead, rarely sentimental - and when working alongside Azul, Jade often proposes pragmatic but morally questionable tactics, such as trickery or coercion. He even takes pride in his ability to see through others, remarking that only the “overly cautious or strongly resistant” can resist his spell - a comment that reveals how much he relishes outsmarting those who let their guard down.

On an emotional level, Jade remains strikingly detached. He seldom displays vulnerability or genuine empathy, and he has a habit of provoking others purely to watch their reactions. Causing discomfort doesn’t seem to trouble him; if anything, it amuses him. His polished courtesy is, for the most part, a mask, and beneath it lies someone who sees people less as companions and more as opportunities - whether for manipulation, amusement, or advantage.

Possible Diagnosis

If I was to make a psychological profile of Jade based on canon, he would almost certainly rank high in Machiavellianism and the related Dark Triad traits. He is methodical, manipulative, and often untroubled by empathy when pursuing his goals. His amusement at others’ discomfort combined with his willingness to use people as sources of information, points to traits often associated with antisocial or psychopathic tendencies.

But Jade is not a reckless or violent psychopath - he operates within his own code and maintains genuine bonds with few, most notably Azul and Floyd. His conscientiousness is evident in the responsibilities he fulfills - whether in dorm management or club leadership - where his discipline and self-control stand out. These traits suggest that Jade’s weaknesses are not in impulse control but in his guarded emotional life. While he does care for Azul and perhaps others, he deliberately hides these attachments beneath a layer of composure.

Jade might best be described as a high-functioning manipulator. Within personality taxonomies, he would align most closely with the narcissistic or antisocial spectrum: proud, self-directed, lacking in genuine empathy, yet exceptionally organized and restrained. He clearly exhibits Machiavellian and psychopathic tendencies, but his capacity for loyalty and selective affection prevents him from being entirely devoid of humanity. In short, he fits the mold of a High Machiavellian - someone who views people as tools or games, manipulates them with skill and enjoys the power it affords him, while still holding on to a few carefully chosen bonds that anchor him.

Let’s look back to his childhood, where both the orphanage and Hogwarts reinforced a hierarchical worldview in Tom’s eyes. And it’s particularly interesting to note that Hogwarts was, in fact, a major change of environment – a positive one – also because it fulfilled his basic need to belong somewhere special, meant for special people. There’s nothing inherently “supernatural” about him beyond the construction of his personality and the emotional patterns shaped by his environment and traumas.

It’s similar to Harry, whose core trait is resilience. You could argue the same for Tom, except Harry had far more exposure to healthy emotions and relationships than Tom ever did. So while they’re the two characters closest in terms of trauma (they really are), comparing them directly is still unfair.

So yes, Tom’s response was to seek power, but that doesn’t mean he is power incarnate, nor that he was ever destined for it.

Understanding Tom Riddle as a human being who had human responses to human problems is crucial. It’s different from taking his traumas or poetic symbolism and turning them into some mystic-human or more-than-human foundation to push a personal ideology, instead of engaging with the character through a genuine psychological and passionate lens. You can do both. And no, this isn’t about demeaning “unrealistic” interpretations. it’s just about seeing him clearly, understanding that Tom Riddle isn’t a divine tragedy or a romanticized monster. He’s a portrait of what happens when someone builds their entire sense of worth on control, because losing control once felt like death. He is fragility masked as greatness.

That’s what makes him compelling. Not the grandeur, not solely the power, not the cultist “darkness,” but the desperation behind it. Strip away the theatrics, and what remains is a boy who could never, ever make peace with being ordinary. And he isn’t ordinary; he couldn’t be. That doesn’t diminish the character, it deepens him. It shifts the focus from seeing him merely as a figure of power to understanding him emotionally. One doesn’t cancel out the other – they coexist, adding to the undeniable complexity of his being.

And that’s also what makes Harry his perfect equal. Harry not only has the power to defeat him, according to the prophecy, but he also has the ability to understand and accept precisely what Tom cannot. They’re not diametrical opposites. The narrative itself presents them as parallels, and Dumbledore – often used as the author’s mouthpiece – is judgmental enough to imply that someone like Tom had, ultimately, chosen his own ruinous path. And that doesn’t mark an absolute contrast between Tom and Harry; it underscores how alike they truly are: equals, standing on opposite sides of the same line. Two sides of the same coin.

What the philosophy of yin and yang calls the forces in the world that define each other rather than merely oppose one another. One pole only exists because the other gives it form; one’s control only makes sense in the face of the chaos that threatens it. Both are born from the same source, move in opposite directions, and yet remain connected by the same pulse. Balance is not born when one side defeats the other, but when each recognizes that it carries a piece of its opposite. Every attempt to reject the opposite is, at its core, an attempt to deny the part of oneself that reflects it. This is the paradox; two halves trying to exist separately, each denying the reflection they see in the other.

Tom and Harry meet as reflections of the same circle, tracing opposite paths that start from the same point. Each is what the other could have been, and symbolically, that’s why neither of them narratively exists without the other. And to be very fair, I’m not literally meaning they’re entirely dependent on one another, but rather interdependent characters who complement each other within the narrative itself.

Now, the example of Voldemort’s identification, something already clear throughout the books, but let’s be direct:

“book: Why did Voldemort pick Harry and not Neville?

JK Rowling: Dumbledore explains this in 'Order of the Phoenix'. Voldemort identified more with the half-blood boy and therefore decided he must be the greater risk.”

It’s worth noting that this statement was made before the entire saga had even been released. At that stage, Rowling was still offering short, straightforward answers and this one, in particular, directly explains why Voldemort went after Harry because of the prophecy.

I’ve seen countless arguments trying to fabricate an imaginary irrelevance around Harry, claiming that Neville could have been in his place. But that kind of fallacy only exposes a need to diminish the protagonist of his own story in order to elevate another character (and I’m not referring to any specific one). The Wizarding World is vast and expansive, but Harry Potter is the saga that was created. I don’t think that needs to be explained, because in this case, there are no theories or debates. It simply is what it is. It’s not meant to counter anyone’s preferences or be some uncomfortable fact for those who dislike the character, and that’s fine; you don’t have to like the protagonist in order to love other characters.

However, the moment a narrative depends on another – as is the case with characters like Tom Riddle, Hermione, Ron, and many others who coexist within the story’s central element – you have to at least acknowledge and accept that this element exists, and that it exists strongly enough to influence the significance of the others.

That said, Rowling’s answer about Voldemort choosing Harry addressed the question of why Voldemort, at first glance, decided to go after him. It’s a starting point, not the superficial definition.

Tom Riddle prided himself on being “above” all human feelings, yet he unravels most visibly in the presence of one person: Harry Potter. It’s easy to say that love is alien to him. But emotion isn’t just love. Intrinsic fear (of death), rage, obsession, humiliation; these are also emotions. And in every category that matters, Harry is the one who brings those feelings to the surface more violently than anyone else ever does.

When he tries to kill Harry and fails, Voldemort experiences something unprecedented: defeat and vulnerability. That failure doesn’t just wound his pride, it surely defines his next decade. One of the greatest Dark Wizards alive is reduced to “less than the meanest ghost,” as he puts it. And what caused it? Harry Potter, as a baby. That humiliation becomes the emotional root of everything that follows. It’s telling that, when he finally regains his body in GoF, his first act isn’t to conquer, or to plan, it’s to prove himself. He calls Harry to the graveyard to demand recognition of his power. He stages a duel, taunting Harry into fighting back. He so desperately needs to be seen as superior.

That’s not strategy. That’s ego. That’s emotion. And the fact that Harry escapes again only deepens the wound. It’s directly a form of emotional challenge. Emotions don’t have to be exclusively positive to be processed as emotional weight. If anything, in Voldemort’s case, it’s precisely the discomfort he most needs to confront.

Voldemort is a character built on avoiding emotional pain. Mostly every negative emotion (trauma) that shaped him – abandonment, rejection, fear of death, humiliation – was locked away and denied. And yes, just because his fear of death involved recognition (the first step), it doesn’t mean he had progressed to acceptance, and therefore to overcoming it. He never processes these experiences, only transforms them into control, power, and denial. But from the perspective of Emotional Processing Theory [Foa & Kozak], this is exactly what keeps trauma alive: avoiding discomfort prevents emotional integration.

And this is where Harry Potter comes in.

Harry represents the return of the repressed. Everything Voldemort spent a lifetime trying to erase from himself. Harry is the necessary discomfort. He stirs emotions Voldemort can’t control or rationalize: rage, intrinsic fear, fascination, humiliation, obsession, even a kind of involuntary recognition. In psychological terms, Harry is the trigger for emotional exposure. He forces Voldemort to relive his original trauma, the surviving baby, the mirror of mortality, the affection he never understood. Every encounter between them is a frustrated attempt at repression. Voldemort tries to (literally) ‘kill the discomfort’ rather than face it.

“The repressed thus retains its initial impulse, its urge to penetrate consciousness. (...) if at any time in recent experience impressions or experiences occur which resemble the repressed so closely that they are able to awaken it. In the last case the recent experience is reinforced by the latent energy of the repressed, and the repressed comes into operation behind the recent experience and with its help.” – Freud, “Moses and Monotheism”.

Freud would say Harry is the symbolic form of the return of the repressed: the denied affection that insists on coming back as a symptom, in this case, obsession. And from the Emotional Processing Theory angle, Harry is the only stimulus that could, in theory, lead Voldemort toward integrating his emotions, if only he could feel without denying it.

From OotP onward, Voldemort’s fixation reaches its peak. The prophecy ties them together – “neither can live while the other survives.” But more than prophecy, there’s the psychic connection. Harry becomes the one person who can access Voldemort’s feelings, his memories, his anger. In that moment in the Department of Mysteries, when Voldemort possesses Harry, it’s not just mere physical control he seeks. He tries to fill Harry’s mind with despair, to make him want death. But Harry – who can still feel love – expels him. Voldemort flees in agony, because feeling that emotion burns him. That is one of the most visceral demonstrations of emotion in the entire series: Voldemort is literally driven out by the force of an emotion he cannot bear!

He experiences an unprecedented emotional breakdown. Voldemort’s inability to kill Harry cleanly, his repeated failures, keep forcing him into psychological challenge. He hates what Harry represents; the equal who has access to emotions he doesn’t, and the acceptance of weakness that he himself lacks, because he feels those things as threats. That paradox is Tom Riddle himself.

The final book is Voldemort at his most human, and therefore his most unstable.

He feels fear at the idea of the Elder Wand not obeying him. He feels suspicion of everyone around him. He grows frustrated and enraged when his connection with Harry reveals unexpected insights or thwarts his plans. He was afraid and confused when he suspected the killing curse could have gone wrong. But above all, when Harry walks willingly to die, Voldemort is unknowingly facing something that exposes a flaw in his expectations. Harry embodies what Voldemort can’t really comprehend: choosing death, not fearing it. In the Great Hall, his killing curse rebounds, and the irony is almost poetic: his strongest weapon, driven by the emotion he can’t control, becomes the source of his undoing.

When he dies, the narrative doesn’t describe him with grandeur or dignity. His end is not that of a god, but of a man consumed by suppressed emotions he was unable to acknowledge.

“It had the form of a small, naked child, curled on the ground, its skin raw and rough, flayed-looking, and it lay shuddering under a seat where it had been left, unwanted, stuffed out of sight, struggling for breath (...) Small and fragile and wounded though it was”

This one scene, which occurred before his death, captures the very essence of Tom Riddle. It reveals his tragedy, leaving a bitter sense of disquiet – especially for those who care deeply for both characters – even as they can still celebrate Harry’s victory now, which, in a way, was always expected; the boy who became the Master of Death himself. It might be difficult for some to accept that it wasn’t mere luck, but coming to terms with what happened in canon is essential for understanding how Harry’s life was shaped by Tom’s interference; yet, at the same time, Tom Riddle’s character was just as deeply shaped by Harry Potter’s choices. It’s a parallel that may seem subtle for some, but it runs powerfully throughout the entire saga and becomes increasingly clear by the end.

Tom might not have died to Harry in a strictly magical sense, given that his emotional and psychological state already placed him in a unique position, where we could say his greatest enemy was himself. Yet his obsession with Harry killed him just as much. And to say that Harry was merely a tool to showcase the overwhelming ego of someone like Tom Riddle is lazy. Because then you would have to ignore that the author herself made Harry’s entire life, from the very beginning, directly affected by Tom—not dominated, but intertwined with him. Also, the prophecy is just a device for their connection, not the characters themselves. Both narratives depend on a mutual understanding of the emotions and the motivations behind the decisions of both Harry and Tom. To deny one is to erase the other’s story. It would also mean minimizing an extremely important part – formally, narratively, and intrinsically – of who they are psychologically.

And I can say openly that no other characters carry the same weight. Because the story was about the two of them. There’s nothing hidden, obscure, uncertain, or retroactively decided about it. The saga was about them. Harry Potter is the title. Voldemort is the central villain. They are the whole core.

This doesn’t need to be understood or accepted in a romantic way – it never would have happened in canon – and yes, we as shippers appreciate it in fanon, but first and foremost by grasping who they are to each other. The fact that there’s no romantic compatibility in canon doesn’t give anyone the grounds to deny the extensive and extraordinary reading of the seven books, which overwhelmingly centers on the involuntarily attachment and deeply intense bond between Harry Potter and Tom Riddle. Because that’s not fanon, or headcanon, or “what if.” That’s what was written. To downplay that just to uplift any other side character or hierarchical dynamic is, inevitably, to step into the lane of fanon interpretation. Regarding fanon, Tomarry is already well established for us.

Every other person in Voldemort’s life serves a function; follower, rival, mentor, obstacle. Only Harry becomes personal. Harry’s existence touches every nerve of Voldemort’s identity: His fear of death. His hatred of weakness. His denial of love. His need to control fate. His craving for approval. His most human side. His equal.

Harry sees him as Tom, not as Lord Voldemort.

Among all the acknowledged parallels, why would they have been created merely as a demonstration of coincidence? Because it’s not a coincidence. Someone like Voldemort – or rather, like Tom Riddle – whose dysfunctional way of processing emotions limits him to seeing others only through their usefulness, could not have been challenged, canonically, by anyone else except someone capable of materially understanding part of what Tom suffered as a human being, from childhood through adolescence, and of recognizing the worsening consequences of that as he reached adulthood.

Harry resisted him. That’s a fact. But what some people might fail to see is that Harry also challenged him, regardless of the outcome being death.

Returning to the point that Harry became the Master of Death already disproves the argument people like to make about “pure luck” or that Voldemort’s death was somehow unfair in the context of their dynamic. Merit doesn’t come solely from the direct pursuit of a goal, but from the very meaning of the word: deserving. The fact that Harry didn’t choose his circumstances doesn’t mean he didn’t deserve his victory; in this case, one justifies the other within the narrative.

Each encounter strips away another illusion of power. Harry doesn’t just defeat Voldemort magically; he dismantles him emotionally, until there’s nothing left but them, and consequently, the tragic destruction of one.

When we talk about him being the one who stirred the most extreme emotions in Voldemort, it’s fundamentally about intensity, vulnerability, loss of control. Not about affection or love. Even if he had felt the latter in canon, neither of these emotions would have been as intense—or as much—as the emotional and involuntary challenge that Harry’s presence posed for him.

Voldemort, around other characters, is portrayed as someone to be feared – except with Dumbledore, for whom Tom himself felt fear – or someone to be bowed to, as a symbol. Around his Death Eaters, he can shift in tone, nicknames, and speech, but never enough to lose that ruthless, composed demeanor, unless in a context not tied to a single character. He is far from stoic, and his reactions can slightly vary depending on the devotion shown by those around him, or on the broader context of battle, where his behavior reflects the fight as a whole rather than his individual interactions.

I emphasize the point about devotion because, although I think several other parts of this meta already make it clear how much simpler that is in a canonical context, I’ll say it again: devotion wouldn’t challenge Voldemort. It’s like saying that a powerful servant of a “master” knows them better than someone powerful who understands that same “master” through an involuntary connection (material, like the Horcrux), as well as through a material understanding of what they lived through, in parallel. Do you see how both situations involve a material link, not just surface-level resemblance to Voldemort, or some romanticized version of Tom Marvolo Riddle? (Which, to be very clear, is not a critique of romanticization. Not at all. I’m simply making a point.)

And, really, I find it fascinating how Voldemort’s emotional life is shaped: someone who would be extremely devoted defines him only through the absence of his wounded self and the denial of his humanity, whereas Harry defines him through direct confrontation. The man who believed he had transcended emotion ends up undone by it, and the boy he marked as his equal becomes the mirror that finally makes him feel. No matter how emotionally unbearable it sounds, because that is precisely what constitutes a challenge for someone who cannot process their emotions functionally.

Someone who accepts him unconditionally would have to, at the very least, understand that pain, not romanticize it, nor help him build a fortress around himself. And we know that Harry literally saw Tom’s memories, and even felt pity for him, which is further proof of that understanding. As Ron himself says, Harry understands him, and even though it’s just a character’s line, it’s worth reflecting on why the narrative itself points us toward that, especially alongside the many parallels between them. And that, paradoxically, is also what makes their connection the most human relationship Voldemort ever has.

It’s also what the author created, not what would exist from one character’s exclusive point of view. Or from some intense feelings that Rowling clearly defined as one-sided.

“Did Voldemort ever love a girl?

No, he loved only power, and himself. He valued people whom he could use to advance his own objectives.”

If we’re discussing about canon, based on the word of the person who actually created the books, then we have to be fair and admit that any context that might – but wasn’t shown, and exists only in the personal interpretation of those who want to believe it – be extremely intense with another character is nonexistent. Not because we’re being literal or “illiterate,” but because it directly contradicts what you use to justify the so-called “canonical superiority”: the author’s own statements. No, your subtexts aren’t richer or more developed. Don’t confuse artistic skill with the word of truth. Using it as a pretext to claim your interpretation is superior, or that you see what no one else does, is pure cherry-picking.

Besides, Voldemort’s feelings toward other characters were occasionally shown, but never as clearly or pointedly as they were with Harry. At best, those interactions reflected moments of power, battles, or instances where he felt triumphant as the leader of his cult, welcoming his followers back. It was always about a gain in control, not a form of twisted affection. It’s almost parallel to a political figure regaining popularity after a fall, climbing back onto the stage again; only, in Voldemort’s case, his “votes” were people.

We’re told he had never been as happy in fourteen years as when his Death Eaters (plural—as a collective) were freed. All of them functioned as conditional slaves for him, “conditional” because they weren’t literally enslaved, but had accepted their positions under him. And remembering that Rowling herself said Voldemort felt a certain identification with Harry – something the narrative itself also supports through their many parallels – it’s fair to say that the characters Voldemort truly-partially identifies with are those who share something of himself. And this identification is not a voluntary factor, nor a mystical concept beyond what was written in the books. Rowling directly stated he chose Harry because of this same factor, and we also know he expressed a certain regret over killing Snape (a half-blood), and even would have spared the mother of the very child from the prophecy who was said to have the power to vanquish him.

But to be more realistic, I couldn’t say he was close or intimate with Snape, because in the conception of Voldemort’s character, there was never anyone like that; everyone’s usefulness to him always outweighed their worth as individuals. And this is just a confirmation. It might be hard to accept in some cases, but that’s how his character was written. First you accept the foundation, then you build or change whatever you wish within fandom. Personally, I found myself in Tomarry. But the fact that their canonical dynamic is the most complex doesn’t diminish other ships, where the focus on romance is something that, in canon, could never have occurred between them.

The canon itself reinforces this. Voldemort’s defeat, and the destruction of his soul, are bound to Harry’s continued existence. Even speaking metaphorically, Harry remains the axis of Voldemort’s undoing. He embodies the lesson Voldemort never learns. You can’t remove Harry and keep Voldemort’s arc coherent; it literally collapses. Not even someone the fandom might theorize as being more intimate to him fulfills that role. Such a person would only illustrate his followers’ fanaticism, not his personal and intrinsic purpose or character progression.

Voldemort’s emotions toward Harry are the central emotional engine of the entire saga. Any other important and familiar figures contextualize his psychology, but only Harry produces active transformation – however destructive – in him.

And by “important,” I mean especially his parents. Canon initially shows that his mother wasn’t central in Tom’s mind, while his father was someone he idealized as a wizard, probably someone he imagined getting close to one day. To ignore his father just because the character expresses hatred for him as a muggle is extremely biased, just as claiming that Merope couldn’t have cared about her son is a theory, not a canon-confirmed fact. He has both mom issues and daddy issues. The narrative leaves the former more open, but you can trace his concern for his mother in how much he suffered, just as she did, “because” of his father. His resentment toward his father is impossible to overlook, because that absence shaped how his feelings toward his mother developed; his father becomes primarily a figure to be detached from; a muggle who abandoned them.

These parental issues are a key part of his personality, directly tied to his lifelong quest for external validation, which hasn’t matured since childhood. What’s particularly interesting is how Tom’s disdain for his father, alongside the realization that he abandoned both him and his mother, links directly to his obsession with tracing his lineage at Hogwarts. He wasn’t just curious, he wanted confirmation of the ideal of greatness he was connected to. So, while his deepest feelings toward either parent are ambiguous, that doesn’t stop us from analyzing him as a child profoundly shaped by the absence of his parents.

Although Tom and Harry circumstances were indeed different, Harry experienced a similar core absence; he lacked his parents’ presence and material guidance, and a child’s response to that isn’t fixed and can vary, but for Harry it left him with feelings of longing, a deep need for belonging, and a protective emotional barrier – a coping mechanism. But while Harry’s experiences allowed him to grasp love, even if excluded from it, and gave him a more naturally grounded resilience (avoidant – stoic traits), Tom never truly understood it, and his insecurities centered even more on himself, fueling a desperate need for acknowledgment that warped his sense of self (narcissistic – entitlement-driven traits).