Hadrian Riddle(His Son)

The Eighth Birthday

Chapter Two

The sun barely peeked over the horizon when Hadrian woke on his eighth birthday. A chill hung in the air, the kind that clung to the bones and whispered of dark things. Hadrian loved it. He stretched in bed, pushing the heavy covers aside, his mind already racing with anticipation. His father had been promising him something special for months, something that would mark the beginning of his true education.

His room, decorated in dark hues of emerald and silver, reflected the pureblood heritage he had been taught to revere. A large snake carved from obsidian coiled around the bedpost, its eyes made from glittering green jewels. It was a gift from his father, given on his sixth birthday—a reminder, Voldemort had said, of their shared legacy and the power that ran through their veins.

Hadrian quickly dressed, donning the dark robes laid out for him. They were a bit too large, but he liked the way they billowed as he walked, a shadowy figure in the dawn's light. Today was different. Today, he would begin to learn the arts that had made his father the most feared wizard in the world.

He descended the winding staircase that led from his room to the lower levels of the sprawling manor. The walls were lined with portraits of ancestors, their eyes following him with a mixture of pride and disdain. They were silent, respectful of the momentous day.

In the grand hall, Voldemort awaited him. He stood tall and imposing, his presence filling the room with an oppressive energy. His pale skin almost glowed in the dim light, and his red eyes locked onto Hadrian the moment he appeared.

"Come here, my son," Voldemort commanded, his voice smooth and cold, like the surface of a frozen lake.

Hadrian approached, his steps careful but eager. He had long admired his father's power, the way he commanded respect, fear, and obedience with a single glance. Today, he would begin to understand that power.

"Today marks the beginning of your true education," Voldemort said, placing a hand on Hadrian's shoulder. "You are no longer just a boy, Hadrian. You are my heir, and you will learn to become more than just a powerful wizard. You will become a master of death itself."

Voldemort led Hadrian through a concealed door, one that opened with a mere flick of his finger. They descended a spiral staircase that seemed to go on forever, deep into the bowels of the manor. The air grew colder with each step, and the darkness pressed in around them. Hadrian's heart raced, not with fear, but with excitement.

At the bottom of the staircase was a vast chamber, illuminated only by the flickering light of green flames that danced in sconces along the walls. In the center of the room was a large stone altar, carved with ancient runes that glowed faintly. Surrounding it were various instruments, weapons, and vials of strange liquids.

"This," Voldemort said, gesturing to the chamber, "is where you will learn the arts that no other wizard dare teach. You will learn to move unseen, to strike with precision, and to wield fear as your greatest weapon."

He turned to face Hadrian fully, his expression a mixture of pride and expectation. "Tell me, my son, what do you know of death?"

Hadrian hesitated for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "Death is the ultimate power, Father. It's what you control, what everyone fears."

Voldemort nodded slowly, a thin smile curling on his lips. "Good. But it is not enough to understand death; you must become its master. You must learn to take life without hesitation, without remorse. Only then will you truly understand the power that I wield."

He gestured for Hadrian to approach the altar. On it lay a dagger, sleek and sharp, its blade black as night, with a handle wrapped in serpent skin. Hadrian picked it up, feeling the cold weight of it in his hand. The blade seemed to hum with dark magic, resonating with the energy of the room.

"Your first lesson," Voldemort said, his voice low and commanding, "is to learn the importance of silence. A true assassin strikes from the shadows, without a sound, without warning."

Voldemort waved his hand, and from the shadows emerged a small creature—a rat. It scurried across the altar, oblivious to the danger that lurked nearby.

"Kill it," Voldemort commanded, his voice void of emotion.

Hadrian hesitated, the dagger trembling slightly in his grip. The rat was insignificant, weak, yet to take its life felt like crossing a threshold from which there would be no return.

Voldemort's gaze bore into him. "Do not think, Hadrian. Act. This is not a choice. This is who you are."

With a deep breath, Hadrian steadied his hand and brought the dagger down swiftly. The blade sliced through the air, meeting its target with a sickening thud. The rat twitched once, then lay still, its life snuffed out in an instant.

Hadrian stared at the lifeless body, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. But before he could process them, his father's voice cut through the silence.

"Well done," Voldemort said, his tone almost approving. "You have taken your first step towards mastery."

He placed a hand on Hadrian's shoulder, squeezing it tightly. "Remember this feeling, Hadrian. It will become easier with time, but never forget the power that comes with it. Life and death are yours to command, and with that comes the responsibility to wield it without weakness."

Hadrian looked up at his father, his heart still pounding but his resolve solidifying. He had always known that he was destined for greatness, but now he understood what that truly meant. He was no longer just a boy; he was a weapon, being forged in the fires of his father's dark arts.

Voldemort led him away from the altar, deeper into the chamber, where more lessons awaited. As they walked, the green flames flickered, casting long shadows that danced on the walls like specters. Hadrian felt a thrill of anticipation. This was only the beginning.

Today, he had killed a rat. Tomorrow, who knew what—or who—he would be asked to kill. But he was ready. He would not falter. He was Hadrian, son of Voldemort, and he was destined to be the master of death.