The Biggest Hoax

Summary: Harry Potter has pulled the wool over the entire Wizarding World's eyes. Who is Harry Potter really? Is he the trusting soldier molded by Dumbledore? Or is he the Dark Lord's long kept secret?

* edit 02/09/09: BUGGER! I realized that Voldemort never found his wand until later... so I fixed that plot hole up. :(

Chapter Three; Boy Who Lived

"I understand," I said in a hardened voice.

We met eyes, he saw that I meant it, that I would willingly submit to his tutelage, and stood up.

"We start tomorrow,"l

I knelt before a bed of weeds in the front yard, worrying about how I was going to meet Mr. Atherton when I was being worked like a horse. The sun was blazing hot, and burned at my neck as I bent over, yanking at stubborn weeds. I woke up at the crack of dawn, gasping awake as I dreamed about bright green lights and flying motorcycles, and then ran around non-stop doing house chores. It was around one or two in the afternoon, judging by the ferocity of the sun's heat.

My head snapped up when I heard the familiar crackling of gravel under a person's foot, and saw Mr. Atherton purposefully walking up the driveway and to the front door. He met my eyes, and put a finger to his lips, indicating that I should be quiet and ignore his presence. I perked up, despite the fact that I was dripping with sweat and hungry as hell, and pretended to go back to work.

He knocked on the door. There was a moment's pause, and then I heard the slow creak of the front door opening. Aunt Petunia had her sunflower-yellow kitchen apron on, and a hand towel in her hands.

"Arthur!" she exclaimed. "What a surprise!"

I strained to hear their conversation.

"Petunia, you look lovely as usual," Mr. Atherton said, bowing his head. Aunt Petunia gave an odd, keening giggle and opened her door wider.

"Come in, come in," she insisted, and he entered the Dursley household. The door slammed shut, preventing me from hearing any more of their conversation. I paused, wondering if it was worth the risk, and scrambled over to the open bay windows of the kitchen. I crouched underneath the window and eavesdropped on them. What was Mr. Atherton's plan? What was he up to?

"... expecting you? No work today?" Aunt Petunia asked.

"No, I'm afraid the museum has run out of things for me to do. They told me to go on paid vacation, and I suspect it is because they are exasperated with my constant hovering. But, I have no desire to travel in this blistering heat, so I came here, hoping you could help me."

"Of course, Arthur, we've been neighbors for years."

"I'm thinking about fixing up the house, it's starting to look a tad decrepit, but my back has been bothering me and the Doctor's order is to stay well rested. I was hoping the boy would help with the gardening and such, since he seems well-experienced enough. I'd pay you, of course."

There was a moment of awkward silence, and I could imagine Aunt Petunia struggling to keep up the good 'neighborly' act.

"T-the boy? You want the boy? Are you sure? He's a thieving little delinquent, I'm not sure it's safe for him to be in your home..." she trailed off.

I stiffened at her words. I was most definitely not a thieving little delinquent, okay, I admit, I stole leftovers once in a while but only because I was weak with hunger and couldn't complete my chores.

"All the other boys in the neighborhood seem to be busy with something. I'm sure I can handle him, even if he is a delinquent. One foot out of place, and I promise he'll be put back into line. So are we in agreement, my dear Petunia?"

"For how long, Arthur?" she asked nervously.

"The rest of the summer, every day except Sunday, from about ten in the morning until supper time? I plan to remodel the entire house. And as for pay, I'll send him home with thirty pounds a day... I know it's not a lot for the hours he'll be working, but he is only about eight years old."

"I'll have to talk it over with Vernon, you see, but I'm sure something can be arranged..."

It seemed as if the conversation was coming to a close so I ran back to the weeds and pretended to wrestle with one. The door opened again, and Mr. Atherton left the house. I looked back at the door and the window, to see if Aunt Petunia was spying, and tried to get in a word with Mr. Atherton, but he quickly left. Disappointed, I went back to the gardening.

&

I was in the cupboard when I heard Uncle Vernon come home during the evening. The car door slammed shut, and I could hear Aunt Petunia taking his coat, offering him a drink. I remained in the middle of my floor mattress, eager to hear Aunt Petunia mention the conversation she had with Mr. Atherton.

"Vernon, I got the strangest request today, from Arthur," she began, during dinner. I could hear the clanging of eating utensils and their conversations from underneath the stairs.

"Arthur Atherton? That nutter museum curator?"

"Yes, him. He asked for the boy to do some gardening and remodeling in his home. For the entire summer!" she shrieked.

Uncle Vernon made noises of disapproval.

"He stays here, Pet, so he can earn his keep." he huffed.

Aunt Petunia hesitated, as if she wasn't sure if she should mention the pay, but spoke anyway.

"Arthur offered to pay thirty pounds a day for about eight hours of work a day."

Uncle Vernon grunted.

"Of course," she quickly added, "The boy must give the money to you for being so generous, allowing him to help a neighbor."

And the bickering continued on like that until the end of dinner.

"BOY!" Uncle Vernon shouted. I jumped up in alarm, my heart pounding in my chest. He doesn't have to bloody scream like that, I can hear him just fine, I thought angrily. I could hear him lumbering towards the cupboard door, the floorboards shaking as he came nearer. The door flung open, and he grabbed me by the arm and dragged me into the living room. I winced as I felt bruises form on my upper arm. He threw me down and towered above me.

"Out of my better judgment, I am allowing you to go to Mr. Atherton's house to work for the summer,"

I managed to look worried outside, even though I was cheering in the inside.

"Don't do anything freaky," I scoffed in my head, "and don't talk about what goes on in this house, if you know what's good for you." he threatened me.

"He'll be paying you thirty pounds a day for doing work around his house, but you'll be giving that money to us at the end of the day, you hear? It's the least you could do after we've fed, clothed, and sheltered you for almost seven years."

"Yes, Uncle Vernon," I droned. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me close to his face.

"I'm serious, boy, " he growled. "Nothing unusual, or you'll regret it,"

Too late, I thought. He smacked me across the face for good measure, then threw me back into the cupboard.

"You start tomorrow! But you'll be doing the same chores! You'd better wake up early, boy, or else you won't be able to finish them," he said through the closed door. I shivered, because I heard a clear threat in those words. Finish them, or else.

&

The next morning, I managed to wake up at four in the morning. Four. In the morning. I was so afraid that I wouldn't be able to wake up on time that I had an uncomfortable, fitful sleep. To my amazement, I found the cupboard door unlocked, as I was sure Uncle Vernon would 'forget' to unbolt it, and I crept out into the kitchen. I took a piece of bread from the top of the garbage bin (desperate times call for desperate measures) and headed out to the back of the house to do maintenance work.

I finished painting the fence in time to run inside and make breakfast for the lot of them, then helped Aunt Petunia vacuum and clean some of the rooms. At precisely 9:50AM, she pushed me out the door and told me not to come back until suppertime. Excellent.

I practically sprinted to Mr. Atherton's house, which was only a few houses down, and banged on his front door with my fist. After a moment, the door was pulled open.

"Do control yourself before you enter, Potter," he said dryly, eying my eager excitement with distaste.

Well, that was an easy request. I had enough experience in the Dursley household to control my facial expressions and emotions. I let my body go lax, the signs of excitement now gone, and let my eager expression slip off. Mr. Atherton stared at me curiously.

"You're quite the little pretender, aren't you," he observed, and stepped aside.

"Is that a problem?" I asked coolly, brushing by him as I entered his home.

"On the contrary. Your acting skills will come in handy during our game," he said.

"Back to the game are we? I thought you weren't telling me anything yet,"

He chose to ignore the comment, and led me into another dusty room. It looked like a small den, or an office, with an impressive oak desk on one side and two twin bookcases, lined up next to each other, on the opposite end. And of course, it was dotted with the same eccentric objects that were frequently seen in the living room.

"You'll be making yourself home here for the next three weeks," he said, sweeping his arm out into the open room.

"What will I be doing here?" I asked curiously. I was secretly hoping for something exciting, but he said we would be going very slow so I highly doubted it would be what I hoped for. And I was right.

"That," he said, pointing to the desk, "is your desk. Sit." he commanded. I drummed my fingers over the smooth surface of the desk as I walked around to the knee hole, and sunk into a black leather chair with a high back. I immediately felt overwhelmed by the large desk and chair. I was, after all, only (almost) eight years old, and the desk was made for a fully grown man.

"You look rather uncomfortable," he commented, with a raised eyebrow.

"Yes, well, if you didn't notice, I'm only eight years old. This bloody desk is huge," I complained, with my arms folded across my chest.

I watched as Mr. Atherton flicked his arm again, producing the wooden rod that I saw the last time, and pointed it at the desk. I tensed, almost expecting him to do something to me, but instead, the desk shrunk. He kept the wand trained at the desk until it became a comfortable height for me.

"What is that... rod?" I asked. It seemed to be channeling his magic somehow.

"It is my wand. Every witch or wizard purchases one. It is essentially the most important object you will ever have in your entire life, because it is used to perform magic." He walked closer to me and allowed me observe the wand closer. "The outside is made up of wood, nothing special, but the inside holds a unique magical item that acts as the core."

"What's the description of your wand?" I asked, completely fascinated and intrigued with the idea of a magical wand.

"Made from a yew tree, with a dragon heartstring core." he told me, and flicked his wand in the air as a demonstration. A bright stream of light shot out of his wand. "This is not my original wand, however." he said, with regret. "After possessing this body, I went back to where I lost my wand, but I could not retrieve it..." he trailed off. "Perhaps someone has picked it up. In the future, I will search for it. It was a yew with a Phoenix feather."

My eyebrows shot up. "Phoenixes are real?!" I gasped.

"Of course they're real. Werewolves are real. Dragons are real. Elves and Goblins are real. Everything is real."

"Awesome!" I exclaimed. "But then, how did you get that wand?"

"I traveled into Diagon Alley - a wizarding shopping district - and slipped the wand away from an unsuspecting shopper. Not all keep their wands so close to them... especially in these times, when they are sure that they are free from danger."

I looked up at him with excitement.

"Can we go to, what was it? Diagon Alley? And get a wand for me?"

"No," he said, quite flatly.

"Why!" I whined. A wizard should deserve his wand, right?

"Don't contradict me," he growled, jabbing his wand down at the table, burning a small black hole in the dark oak. "You'll be reading, quite I lot I imagine, from now until your birthday. You don't need a wand for that,"

"Fine," I grumbled, only because I had promised that I would learn what he wanted me to without question, without hesitation.

"Good," he said, his eyes flashing, and tucked his wand away up his sleeve. He pointed his hand towards the direction of the bookshelf, and two books came flying off the shelves. He led the books to the desk, and then flicked his hand, causing the books to drop with a heavy 'thud' in front of me.

I stared at the thick leather-bound volumes, then up at Mr. Atherton.

"I thought you said you needed a wand to do magic."

"Yes, most wizards do, but I am gifted enough to do both wandless and silent magic. Most magic is done by spells."

I waved my hand at his arm, where his wand was. "So all that stuff you did, most wizards would need to say a spell? But you just did it without saying anything?"

"Correct," he said shortly.

"Interesting..." I muttered to myself.

"But enough of your questions," Mr. Atherton said, walking towards the door. "Read."

&

As it neared the date of my birthday, Mr. Atherton seemed to become more anxious and ill-tempered. He would deposit me in the study with a book, a tray of food, and then storm off without speaking to me. I stopped complaining about the difficulty of the books (my eight year old, Muggle-educated mind simply could not wrap around the vernacular and vocabulary) and I stopped asking him questions. He growled and snapped at me whenever I dared to speak out of turn.

The day before my birthday, he gave me another book. It seemed to weigh less than the other books, and had a fairly modern cover. Thank God, because I was getting tired of Pure-Blood Customs, Wizard Genealogy, Blood Purity, The Rise and Fall of the Early Dark Lords, and A History of Magic. Another word about the Trojan war and the witch Circe, or the four founders of Hogwarts, and I would vomit all over his desk and stupid books.

"This," he said, while slamming down the book in front of me, "is the last book you have to read before your birthday."

I picked up the book with interest, and read the title.

"The Boy-Who-Lived," I read out loud. "Sounds like a load of fiction to me," I mumbled under my breath, then shrunk away, because Mr. Atherton would have threatened me with a curse by now. But none came, and when I finally managed to look up at him, he seemed calm and composed.

"While you may think it's fiction while you read it, I assure you, it's not. This book has all the facts." he said. He looked a bit uncomfortable, actually.

"Potter - " he began hesitantly. "You may find yourself upset while reading this, but you must finish every last word. Do you hear me, Potter? Every. Last. Word." he emphasized, pointing his spindly finger down on the dark green cover of the book.

I looked at him oddly. What was so important about this book? Why did he think I would get upset over the stupid book? I rolled my eyes.

"Trust me, I'll finish it," I said. "If I can go through 600 pages of Malfoy ancestry, then I think I can go through this as well."

"I want to be sure that you finish this, so I'm warding the room. You will be unable to leave the room until you finish the very last word."

"Er - okay. What if it takes longer than the time we have today?" I glanced at the clock. "It's eleven in the morning."

"That's not important right now," he snarled, and spun on his heel. He left the room. The way he glanced back at me one last time before leaving the room had an air of finality to it. A ball of anxiety began to form in the pit of my stomach. Something was wrong.

I gingerly picked up the book and cracked it open, and flipped to the first page. I began to read.

Harry James Potter was born on 31st July 1980 to Lily and James Potter, formerly the golden couple of Hogwarts and then active members of the Order of the Phoenix. During their time in the Order, James and Lily had encountered He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on three occasions and escaped each time. On the night of 31st October 1981 when Harry was just 15 months old, the Dark Lord turned up on their doorstep... (1)

I flinched the first time I read my own name in the book, and flinched again, when I read about their deaths, their murders. It was a harrowing story that I had no desire to finish, but had to finish anyway. I held the book tightly in my hands, the tip of my nose pressed against the tiny printing on the page, and read. For hours. The final, magical moments of my happy childhood with James and Lily Potter. That Halloween, when a dark wizard named He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named came to our doorstep and killed my mum and dad. The curse that he sent my way, only to have it rebound and curse him instead. How I became the celebrated Boy-Who-Lived, the only person to have ever lived after being cursed with Avada Kedavra. How Sirius Black betrayed his best friends. How Albus Dumbledore hid me away, and to this day, no one knows where I am. Where has the Boy-Who-Lived gone? Where is the boy with the thunderbolt scar on his forehead?

By the end of the book, I was sobbing, great heaving sobs that ripped through my chest, leaving me unable to breathe. My tears splattered over the black words on the page, and I smeared them, crazed with the temptation to burn the book. I picked up the book, and threw it across the room, unsatisfied when I heard the dull 'thump' of the book colliding with the wall.

He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. What was his real name, I thought bitterly. What had he done in his time to create such fear? I touched the scar on my forehead, the scar I thought I had gotten from a car crash that killed my parents, and began to put the pieces together in my head. Why it hurt when I looked at him that time when he was angry with me. We had some kind of connection. This no-name Dark Lord was possessing Mr. Atherton.

I stormed out of the study, sick to my stomach, and into the living room. He was waiting for me, patiently it seemed, on the very chair he sat in the first time he told me about himself.

"Murderer!" I hissed, my eyes narrowing in on the Dark Lord. "It's your fault I had a shitty life, Riddle. It's why I got thrown with the fucking magic-phobia Muggles. You killed my parents!" I screamed, and every glass object in the room, including the windows, shattered to bits.

I stood in front of him, out of breath, with my fists clenched into tight fists, and all he did was clap.

"Impressive display of accidental magic," he said. I growled in a way I never knew I could, and began to advance towards him.

"I am going to bury you," I whispered quietly. I felt as if I had all the power in the world at my fingertips. I felt invincible. I would avenge my parents. But before I could do anything, he waved his hand, and I found myself in place, unable to speak or move. He stood up and circled me, observing me with new eyes.

"You can't kill me, silly boy, I am Lord Voldemort." he said, with a laugh. "You are not the only wizard to survive the killing curse - I survived as well," He made another slow circle, while I struggled with all my might to throw myself at him. All I could do was watch with helpless eyes.

"There was a prophecy..." he hissed. "A faithful servant told me a part of that prophecy. Would you like to hear it?" he asked, mockingly. "THE ONE WITH THE POWER TO VANQUISH THE DARK LORD APPROACHES… BORN TO THOSE WHO HAVE THRICE DEFIED HIM, BORN AS THE SEVENTH MONTH DIES…"

"Do you see, Potter? There was a prophecy made about my demise. I, the Dark Lord, could not let a mere child get in the way of my reign. So I searched. I searched for children that were born on the last day of July, and found two. The Longbottom family, and the Potter family. They had both thrice defied me."

"I made my choice. I would kill you, Harry Potter, the child that was born on July 31. But for some reason, for some reason, the killing curse deflected. I survived, because of my safeguards, and I despaired in the forests of Albania. This child, this mere child, put the the most fearsome Dark Lord of the century into a shattered mess."

He leaned into me and brushed aside my bangs. He put a single fingertip to my scar, and it pulsed with energy, bordering on pain.

"This scar," he muttered. "This scar marks the day of my downfall. There will not be another downfall again. Mark my words."

His words buzzed in my ear, suffocating me. I didn't want to listen to him anymore.

"Surely, you can understand, why it was necessary? It was for the greater good. I had plans for the future of the wizarding world. I had to stop the mixing of bloods and fight a corrupted Ministry. I had too much to do. If not me, who else would? Who would carry out the vision of Salazar Slytherin, who already knew in his time, what was necessary? Many would say I was cruel, that I killed unnecessarily, but it was unavoidable. I needed the obedience of the people. Sometimes," he hissed, "fear is the only way you can control people."

"You've read, Potter, all of this. What will happen, along the road, if we breed with Muggles? How our magic might be lost through generations of shameless mixing of non-magic folk? And you, you are powerful. I can show you the true way, and together, we can bring down the Light side. They favor the mixing of bloods. They are stupid, and blind to the truth."

And quite suddenly, I collapsed forward to my knees, the loss of spell giving mobility back to my body. I buried my face in my hands and continued to cry, my mind at war with my inner feelings.

"I know," I sobbed. "I know of the vision. I know that it is right and true that we should Purify our blood. But how can I forget that you are the murderer of my parents? How?"

"You will not forget. You may not even forgive. But they impeded my quest to correct the world. It was necessary. For the greater good."

For the greater good, he kept repeating to me. For the greater good.

"I took you out of the hands of a Light family supporting Dumbledore, and took you out again, of a Muggle family. You should be thankful that I found you, thankful that I have educated you and opened your eyes. This is only the beginning. I can teach you things you would never learn under Dumbledore. Dumbledore," he spat, "is only looking to make you into a soldier of the Light. He put you with the Muggles so that you would be grateful when he took you out, after ten years of agony. Under him, you would never reach your fullest potential. He desires for everyone to be under his thumb."

He paused.

"I would know best. He did the same in my youth. Already assuming that I was dabbling in the Dark Arts when I was a student at Hogwarts, keeping an eye on me, trying to control me. I would not do the same. I would help you grow. I would nurture your power. I can teach you magic that wizards have only dreamed of."

My sobbing quieted down to low hiccups. I silently contemplated his words. Though the entire chain of events occurred because of him, Dumbledore would have used me in a much worse way than the Dark Lord would. I could walk beside the Dark Lord, or at the very least, create a name for myself that I would otherwise unable to do alone.

I finally lifted my head from the floor of the living room and stared up at the Dark Lord. Lord Voldemort, he said his name was. I trembled when I looked into his eyes.

"I-I don't -" I stammered. "I-"

The Dark Lord offered his hand out to me. I hesitated, and grasped it with my own, feeling another pulse go through my scar.

"Do you accept, Harry Potter? Will you join me?" he asked me. The pulsing grew faster and more frantic the longer I held his hand.

I bowed my head.

"Yes," I whispered.

Third chapter! Thank you for all the answers regarding the question I posed in chapter two. It has really cleared up a lot of confusion for me.

(1) Edited text that I took from the hp-encyclopedia.

Reviews and such make me uber happy. (: They encourage me to write *hint hint* And I know it hasn't been terribly exciting... but things will pick up next chapter. I'm just establishing why Harry joined Voldemort, and the kind of relationship they have. Come back for chapter 4!

Let me know via. review if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes. Thanks!