Hadrian Riddle(His Son)

The Serpent's Son

Chapter One

The wind howled around the desolate manor, the night sky a curtain of impenetrable black. Clouds covered the moon, and not a single star dared to shine. The manor itself stood isolated, its towering spires like the claws of some ancient beast reaching into the void. It was a place that bred fear and whispered of dark deeds. Tonight, however, it held a presence far more malevolent than the house itself—inside, a ritual was about to unfold.

Lord Voldemort, draped in robes of deepest black, moved silently through the grand hallways. His expression was inscrutable, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the torches that lined the walls. The Dark Lord was not accustomed to uncertainty, but tonight held an unfamiliar weight. In his arms, cradled gently, was a small, quiet child—no more than a year old. The boy's bright green eyes stared up at him with innocent curiosity, as though oblivious to the darkness surrounding him.

Harry Potter, the child of prophecy, the one foretold to bring about Voldemort's downfall, was here. But instead of anger or fear, the Dark Lord felt something far more dangerous: intrigue.

The idea had come to him unexpectedly, almost as a whim—why destroy something when it could be shaped, molded, turned into a weapon more powerful than any wand? This child, the supposed threat to his existence, could be more valuable as an ally... or even as family. It was a mad idea, of course, but madness and genius often walked hand in hand.

The boy in his arms cooed softly, reaching up to grasp the edge of Voldemort's robe with chubby fingers. He didn't cry, didn't tremble in fear as most would in the presence of the Dark Lord. Instead, Harry gazed at Voldemort with wide, trusting eyes, as though sensing no danger from the man who had murdered his parents.

Voldemort paused, looking down at the boy. There was something strangely disarming about the way the child looked at him. A flicker of something—something the Dark Lord had not felt in years—stirred in the deepest recesses of his heart. It was not affection, not yet, but perhaps... potential.

Without a word, Voldemort continued walking, passing through a heavy wooden door that led into a small, circular chamber. The walls were lined with ancient runes that glowed faintly with a sickly green light. At the center of the room lay a stone altar, cold and unyielding. Voldemort approached it with measured steps, carefully placing the child on the stone.

Harry gurgled happily, the cold surface beneath him seeming to matter little. He gazed up at Voldemort, a smile forming on his small face, and then, with the unsteady movements of an infant, he reached out toward the Dark Lord, his tiny fingers grasping at the air.

Voldemort watched the child's movements, his mind calculating. He had intended this to be a straightforward ritual—a means to bind the child to him, to claim the power within him for his own. But now, as he looked into those bright green eyes, he hesitated.

The boy liked him.

It was absurd, yet undeniable. The child held no fear, no distrust. Instead, there was a strange connection, one that Voldemort could not easily dismiss. He had known hatred, loyalty, fear—but this? This was new. This was the unquestioning trust of a child, something he had never experienced, even as a boy himself.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Voldemort extended one long finger toward Harry, allowing the child to grab hold. The boy's grip was surprisingly strong, and he laughed—a pure, untainted sound that echoed off the stone walls.

"Harry," Voldemort murmured, tasting the name as if it were foreign. But the name did not feel right, not for what this child was to become. "No," he whispered, "not Harry. Hadrian. Hadrian Marvolo."

The words felt powerful, filled with meaning. He would remake this boy, this child of prophecy, into something entirely his own. Hadrian Marvolo would not be the downfall of the Dark Lord, but his legacy, his blood and power intertwined.

Voldemort began the ritual, his voice low and commanding, as he traced symbols in the air with his wand. Dark magic swirled around them, filling the chamber with an oppressive energy. Yet through it all, the boy remained calm, still holding onto Voldemort's finger, his eyes fixed on the man before him.

"Blood to blood, life to life," Voldemort intoned, slashing his palm and letting the blood drip onto the child's forehead, mingling with the remnants of the lightning-shaped scar. Harry—or Hadrian—watched with fascination as the blood trickled down, unfazed by the dark magic that surrounded him.

The room trembled as the magic took hold, binding the two together in a way that went beyond mere spellwork. It was ancient, primal—a connection that could not be undone. As the last words of the ritual echoed into silence, Voldemort looked down at the boy once more.

Hadrian blinked, his eyes wide and curious, and then, with a soft murmur, he reached out again, this time touching Voldemort's cheek with a small, warm hand.

For a moment, the Dark Lord froze. He had not expected this—this gentle touch, this innocent affection. It was as if the child had accepted him fully, without question, as though they had always been connected.

Voldemort, the most feared wizard of his time, felt a strange warmth in his chest, something almost... paternal. He, who had never known love or family, was being accepted by this child without hesitation. It was a power greater than any spell he could cast, a bond forged not through fear, but something more profound.

He lifted the boy from the altar, holding him close, and for the first time in decades, the Dark Lord allowed himself a smile—small, but genuine.

"Hadrian," he whispered, "my son."

The child cooed in response, snuggling into Voldemort's chest as though he belonged there. And perhaps, in some twisted, inexplicable way, he did.

As Voldemort carried his new son out of the chamber, the manor seemed less foreboding, the darkness less absolute. The world outside remained unchanged—cruel and unforgiving—but within these walls, a new beginning had taken root.

And for the first time in his life, Lord Voldemort wondered if perhaps there was more to power than fear—if perhaps, in this child, he had found something even greater.

The serpent had claimed his son, and in turn, the son had begun to claim the serpent's heart.