Hadrian Riddle(His Son)

⏳Prelog ⏳

All Credits go to JK.ROWLING

Hadrian Riddle

Prologue

The wind howled through the darkened streets of Little Whinging, carrying with it the foreboding chill of an uncertain fate. The night sky, shrouded in heavy clouds, offered no solace to the small, huddled figure lying on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive. Beneath the blanket, the baby stirred, his tiny face scrunched up in discomfort as a strange, jagged scar marred his forehead—a mark of something far darker than the world could yet comprehend.

Far above, in the realms of the unimaginable, forces beyond mortal control shifted. Albus Dumbledore, in his infinite wisdom, had placed Harry Potter in the care of his last remaining family, believing blood would protect the boy from the malevolent gaze of those who sought to harm him. But even the wisest of wizards could not foresee everything.

For in the shadows, another power stirred—one far older and more cunning. He who had once sought to destroy the child had not perished as the world believed. Voldemort, diminished but not defeated, clung to existence, his mind feverishly plotting a return to power. And in his weakened state, something strange and unforeseen had occurred. A vision—distorted yet clear—had pierced the void in which he lingered.

The image of a child, his enemy's son, lying vulnerable and unprotected in the muggle world.

Intrigued and driven by a dark curiosity, Voldemort had watched as the boy was left on the Dursleys' doorstep, the echoes of ancient magic faint but discernible. The wards would protect Harry from many threats, but Voldemort was no ordinary adversary. He was the master of deception, a serpent in the shadows, and in his current form, he possessed an uncanny ability to evade detection.

He could not yet touch the child, but he could watch. And as the days passed and the boy's cries echoed through the cold, uncaring night, Voldemort's interest deepened into something else. A twisted idea took root in his fractured mind. The boy was destined to be his nemesis, but destiny was not a fixed path. If the boy could be molded, shaped—corrupted—then perhaps the prophecy could be rewritten. Perhaps the boy could become his heir, not through blood but through the dark bond of master and apprentice.

And so, on the night of Harry Potter's first birthday, when the magical wards were at their weakest, Voldemort made his move. A silent figure, cloaked in shadow, slipped through the cracks in the magical defenses, his presence masked by ancient and terrible magic. The door to Number Four creaked open, and the Dark Lord stepped into the house, his eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

In the nursery, the child stirred, sensing the presence of something dark and powerful. But instead of fear, there was a strange calm, as if some deep part of him recognized the presence. Voldemort approached the crib, his hand reaching out to touch the child's scarred forehead. The connection was instant and electric, a bond forged in blood and darkness.

"Harry Potter," the Dark Lord whispered, his voice a sibilant hiss. "You belong to me now."

And with that, the course of history was irrevocably altered. The boy who lived was no longer merely the child of prophecy. He was the chosen one—by the darkest wizard the world had ever known. And as the Dark Lord vanished into the night, the world remained blissfully unaware of the terrible fate that had just been set in motion.

For Harry Potter would grow up not as the hero the world expected, but as the Dark Lord's most prized possession. A weapon forged in darkness, destined to change the fate of the wizarding world forever.

Should I continue?