It wasn't as if he hadn't tried, but Riddle had been oddly keen to absorb parentless, Pureblood toddlers into the New World Order, as if he saw them as kindred wretches. They were treated preciously, as bizarre as the notion seemed. If Teddy was lucky, Harry thought, he was dead. If he was still alive, he would be one of the generation of brainwashed children who had been taught to believe that Tom Riddle was some sort of universal father, a semi-divine wizard, anointed by the Gods of Magic themselves as their living incumbent on Earth, whose word was law and gospel, and who had been trained from birth to defend their One True Lord even at the cost of their own lives.