The Blood of Deceit

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|★⋆ ┊ . ˚The stench of rotting refuse clung to Oliver Wood
| ˚★ like a second skin. He wrinkled his nose, pulling his threadbare scarf higher.

Thuk, thuk, thuk.

The grotesque sound resonated from the alleyway's grimy bricks, a rhythmic tapping that sent shivers down his spine. He risked a peek around the overflowing bin.

There, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a flickering gas lamp, stood Albus Dumbledore.

And beside him…

Oliver's breath hitched.

A Jorōgumo. He’d only seen them in Forbidden Forest lore books, monstrous spider-humanoids said to lure victims with their beautiful faces and ensnare them in sticky webs.

This one, a female judging by the silken sheen of her human torso and the chillingly graceful way her eight legs moved, was easily seven feet tall.

“... the arrangement is agreeable, then?” Dumbledore's voice, though calm and measured, sent a jolt of pure fear through Oliver.

The Jorōgumo let out a low, clicking sound, a sound that scraped against Oliver’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.

“The… benefits… outweigh the… risks. Your… offer… is accepted.”

Oliver's heart hammered against his ribs. Benefits? Risks? Offer? What in Merlin's beard was Dumbledore doing making deals with a creature straight out of nightmare?
He knew, he knew it.

He'd known for years, ever since his first year, when he'd accidentally stumbled upon Dumbledore in what he'd dismissed as a bizarre dream – a dream of whispered incantations and bubbling potions in the Headmaster's office, a dream that felt too real, too wrong.

He'd tried to tell people, his teammates, even Madam Pomfrey. They'd laughed, patted him on the back, and told him the Quaffle had probably concussed him.

But Oliver wasn't stupid.

He might be obsessed with Quidditch, but he wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the glint in Dumbledore's eyes, the subtle manipulations, the way he always seemed to be three steps ahead of everyone else.

He’d suspected Dumbledore was up to something, something dark.
He might be obsessed with Quidditch, but that didn't mean he was stupid enough to ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut. He needed proof.

And now, here it was, served up in a back alley like a rancid dish.

꧁༒☬☬༒꧂

"1"
"2"
"3"

Harry Potter blew out the pathetic little candle perched precariously on his cupcake.

Another birthday, another year of neglect.

The taste of the sugary confection was bittersweet, a hollow substitute for the warmth and security he craved.

He missed Sirius. Missed the gruff affection, the promise of a life outside the suffocating walls of Hogwarts, outside Dumbledore’s controlling gaze.

Why wouldn't Dumbledore let Sirius take him? Why was he stuck here, treated like a weapon to be honed, rather than a boy who deserved a family?

He was about to drown his sorrows in icing when a letter fluttered onto his lap.

It bore the official seal of Gringotts. His heart skipped a beat. Gringotts rarely contacted students. It had to be important.

The letter requested his presence at the bank to discuss important matters related to his vaults. Matters requiring absolute discretion.

Harry frowned. What could be so important, so secret, that it couldn’t be discussed at Hogwarts? He felt a prickle of unease, a sense of something shifting beneath the surface of his life.

He made a decision. He was tired of being kept in the dark. He was tired of secrets and lies. He was tired of being a pawn in someone else's game.

"Apparition," he muttered under his breath, the forbidden spell crackling around him.

He'd been practicing in secret for weeks, driven by a desperate need to understand the forces shaping his destiny.

The world twisted and reformed, leaving Harry dizzy and disoriented.

He stumbled, catching himself on a plush, velvet chair. The room was sparsely furnished, lit only by a single flickering lamp that cast long, dancing shadows.

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, its surface piled high with ledgers and scrolls, was a goblin.

It was smaller and leaner than those he'd seen guarding the vaults, its eyes sharp and intelligent.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin said, its voice a gravelly rasp. "Or rather, Mr. Riddle."

Harry blinked, confused. "I'm Harry Potter."

The goblin fixed him with a piercing stare. "I'm afraid there's been a mistake. A significant one. We need to conduct an inheritance test."

A cold dread bloomed in Harry’s stomach. Inheritance test? What did that mean? He felt adrift, lost in a sea of cryptic pronouncements and unspoken meanings.

Why did the goblin call him Riddle?

The goblin, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil, instructed him to prick his finger and let four drops of blood fall into a waiting potion.

Harry’s mind raced. Why? What was going on? Why couldn’t anyone just explain things to him? He hated being in the dark. He hated the feeling of being manipulated.

He gritted his teeth and complied. The potion hissed as his blood mingled with it, swirling with an unnatural light. The goblin leaned forward, its beady eyes gleaming with anticipation.

The potion settled, leaving a parchment afloat on its surface. The goblin snatched it up and scanned it, its expression hardening.

He looked up at Harry, a mixture of disbelief and...pity? in his eyes.

"The results," the goblin announced, his voice devoid of inflection, "are… unexpected." He handed the parchment to Harry.

Name: Hadrian Riddle né Potter

Blood Status: Pure-Blood

Father: Thomas Marvolo Riddle né Potter

Mother: James Fleamont Riddle né Potter

God Mother: Lily Jade Evans

God Father: Sirius Orion Black

Brother: Oliver Riddle né Potter

Harry's mind reeled. Hadrian? Riddle? He stared at the parchment, the words blurring before his eyes. What was going on? Was this some sort of cruel joke?

His father… Voldemort? But… his father was James Potter. Wasn't he? And what did 'né Potter' mean?

Then, a new wave of shock crashed over him as the final line registered.

"Oliver Wood is my brother?!" he blurted out, his voice cracking. The seeker, the Quidditch captain, the meticulous strategist… his brother? The world tilted on its axis, everything he thought he knew dissolving into a sea of confusion and unanswered questions.

He was Hadrian Riddle. And Oliver Wood was his brother.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice shaking as he glared at Griphook.

"The potion does not lie, Mr. Potter," Griphook replied, his voice devoid of emotion. "Your true parentage and lineage are revealed here."

He couldn't process it all. Not now. He needed to act. He'd been a puppet for too long.

He stood tall, his voice hardening with newfound determination. "I want Dumbledore to no longer have access to any of my vaults. And if he has taken anything, I want it returned. Immediately."

A slow, predatory grin spread across Griphook's face. "Of course, Mr. Potter. Or should I say, Mr. Riddle? Your wishes are our command."

Harry nodded curtly, turning and walking out of the office, his mind racing.

As he stepped back into the bustling main hall of Gringotts, a sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes.

He blinked, rubbing his temples. He suddenly felt incredibly disoriented. He took off his glasses to alleviate the pressure, and then froze.

He looked at his reflection in the polished marble wall. His eyes… they were changing.

They weren't the familiar, bright green anymore. They were… red. A startling, vibrant crimson, like rubies glinting in the dim light. And his hair… it seemed darker, richer black than before, as if the shadows themselves had seeped into the strands.

"Hadrian Riddle né Potter," he whispered, the name tasting foreign and dangerous on his lips.

Dangerous, yes, but also… powerful. He let a small, slow smile curl onto his lips.

They thought he was just Harry Potter, the oblivious savior. They thought he was weak, malleable. They were wrong. He might have played the innocent, the Gryffindor golden boy, but he was no fool.

And he certainly wouldn't play on the losing side anymore. Hadrian Riddle né Potter. He liked the sound of that. Very much.

꧁༒☬☬༒꧂

Oliver shivered in the damp alleyway, even with his thick cloak pulled tight. He’d followed Dumbledore and the Jorōgumo into this abandoned building, a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of London.

The air inside was thick with the smell of dust and decay, and something else… something acrid and unnatural. He pressed himself against a crumbling brick wall, peering through a cracked windowpane into the cavernous interior.

He was scared. Terrified, to be honest. But he had to know. He had to understand what Dumbledore was planning, even if it meant facing the darkness head-on.

He crept along the shadowed perimeter of the building, peering through broken windows and gaping holes in the brickwork, his heart pounding in his chest.

He finally found a vantage point, a cracked wall overlooking a dimly lit cellar. And then he saw him.

A man, chained to the damp stone wall, his head lolling against his chest. Oliver’s breath hitched in his throat.

Sirius Black. It was undeniably Sirius, gaunt and weakened, his once vibrant black hair dull and matted, but still, unmistakably Sirius.

What was he doing here? Why was he chained up?
Then Dumbledore stepped into view, his silhouette tall and imposing against the flickering candlelight.

He raised his wand, the tip glowing with a malevolent red light. Oliver’s blood ran cold.

“Tell me what I want to know, Sirius,” Dumbledore’s voice, usually so calm and soothing, was now sharp, edged with steel.

Sirius remained stubbornly silent, his head still slumped. Dumbledore sighed, a sound devoid of patience or kindness.
“Very well,” he said, his tone chillingly even. “You leave me no choice.”

And then, with a flick of his wrist, Dumbledore uttered the curse. “Crucio.”

Sirius’s body convulsed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat, a sound of pure, unimaginable agony that ripped through the silence of the cellar and echoed in Oliver’s horrified ears.

Oliver choked back a gasp, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle any sound that might betray his presence.

He watched in petrified horror as Sirius writhed in pain, his screams echoing in the cold, damp air.

He wanted to scream, to intervene, but he was paralyzed, rooted to the spot by a horrific fascination.

Dumbledore repeated the curse, and again, and again, each time Sirius refusing to break, refusing to speak whatever Dumbledore wanted to hear.

The brutality, the cold, calculated cruelty of it, shattered Oliver’s remaining illusions.

This wasn’t the wise, benevolent wizard the world revered. This was a monster.

The Jorōgumo chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent icy tendrils down Oliver’s spine.

She moved closer to Sirius, her spider legs clicking on the stone floor. Her voice, when she spoke, was like silken threads laced with poison.

“Such defiance. Such… spirit. Perhaps a different approach is needed, Albus.”

She reached out with a clawed hand, tilting Sirius’s chin up, her gaze burning with a horrifying, predatory lust. Oliver watched in nauseated horror as the Jorōgumo began… touching Sirius, her movements slow, deliberate, utterly violating.

Hours crawled by, an eternity of whispered threats, sickening caresses, and Dumbledore’s chilling silence. Oliver was paralyzed, trapped between revulsion and a desperate, clawing fear.

Finally, as dawn painted the sky with streaks of grey, Dumbledore turned away, the Jorōgumo trailing languidly behind him.

“I tire of this charade,” Dumbledore said, his voice flat. “The information will come, eventually. For now… entertain yourself.” He gestured towards Sirius with a dismissive wave.

The Jorōgumo smiled, a terrifying, many-toothed grin. From the shadows behind her, scuttling on countless legs, emerged her children.

Small, grotesque spiders, their eyes gleaming with hunger.

She shoved Sirius towards them, laughing as they swarmed him, their legs and fangs reaching…

Something snapped in Oliver. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, just… act. He ripped his wand from his pocket, his hand shaking violently, but his voice clear, cold as ice.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The green light erupted from his wand, striking the nearest Jorōgumo child, the sickening creature collapsing instantly, its multiple legs twitching once, then still.

Silence descended, heavy and absolute. He had done it. He had just cast the Killing Curse. And he had just declared war.

Oliver didn’t hesitate. He scrambled through the broken window, landing heavily on the stone floor.

He rushed to Sirius, his hands trembling as he fumbled with the chain locks, muttering the unlocking charm again and again until they finally clicked open.

Sirius slumped forward, falling into Oliver’s arms, a broken shell of a man. He whimpered, a low, pained sound that ripped at Oliver’s heart. “James…?” he croaked, his voice barely a whisper.

Oliver winced. Sirius was barely coherent. He was injured, broken, and clearly delirious.

He needed help, and fast.
Oliver heaved Sirius up, looping his arm around his shoulder for support.

Sirius was surprisingly light, a testament to his starvation and the abuse he had suffered.

He limped slightly, each step a struggle as he tried to pull Sirius towards the nearest exit – a grimy window overlooking the alley.
"James...." Sirius mumbled again, his voice weak and slurred.
Oliver ignored the murmurings. He focused on the task at hand: getting them both out of this hellhole.

He boosted Sirius up towards the window, then clambered out himself.
They tumbled onto the ground outside, landing with a thud next to the overflowing garbage bin that had been Oliver’s hiding place. The stench was overwhelming, but Oliver barely noticed it. They were out. For now.

꧁༒☬☬༒꧂

Harry, now Hadrian, pulled his hood up as he entered Diagon Alley, his red eyes scanning the crowd. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he knew he had to start somewhere.

His father was Lord Voldemort, but he didn't know the whole story, the circumstances of his birth, the reasons.

He'd heard snippets, whispers, rumors of a prophecy, of a chosen one.

He was deep in his thoughts, his mind a whirlwind of questions, when he saw him.
Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy. What was he doing?
He was talking to Severus Snape, their heads close together, their voices hushed.

They looked...conspiratorial. Harry felt a surge of suspicion. What were they discussing?

Then, Malfoy looked up. His eyes, sharp and perceptive, met Harry's.

Recognition flashed across his pale face, quickly masked by a familiar sneer.

They saw him. He knew he had to move, and fast.