Sullen Fate

By: xxlostdreamerxz

Disclaimer: No, I do not own HP.

Chapter 2: Awakening

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction...The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.
- King

Dumbledore watched Madam Pomfrey cast an array of healing charms on the "poor dear." A wry smile grew upon his lips as he took in the irony of the situation. The boy was the heir of one of the darkest lords in history. The boy had been raised as nothing more than a killing machine. He snorted once again.

'Poor dear, indeed.'

Dumbledore's eyes darkened as he took in the dark stains of blood on the boy's shirt. It had a close call. Too close for his liking. According to Poppy, Alex had tried (and nearly succeeded) in biting his tongue completely off. And with a truth serum floating in the boy's veins, the power of healing charms and potions were reduced to a frightening degree.

The boy had almost died. And this time it was his fault. Dumbledore felt a flicker of self-disgust as he reevaluated his past actions. The war was over; Voldemort was dead; the wizarding world was at peace once again. Was there truly a point to question the boy about his past? Especially so soon in the game? The boy had just lost his father; the boy was broken already. It was cruel, inhumane perhaps to ask so much of a child.

"You know it might surprise you to know how much you remind me of the Dark Lord."

The headmaster shivered. No, he was nothing like Voldemort. Nothing. Dumbledore closed his eyes painfully as he recalled the bright, trusting faces of his past protégés. They had trusted him; they had sworn their lives to him...and he'd sent them to their death. A single silver tear dripped down his face as the memories attacked him with vengeance. So many dead, so many...

"There are innocents on both sides of the war, Dumbledore. Your so called 'protection' only extends to those who support your beliefs."

Shamefully, Dumbledore knew that it was the truth. There were truly no winners in a war; there was too much death, too much pain, for any one side to truly win. But...he had to try. He knew what life would have been like had he allowed Voldemort to win. The Muggles, Muggleborns, and even Half-bloods would most likely be enslaved, forced to serve their superiors - the purebloods. And, death or no, Dumbledore refused to allow such a thing to happen.

Yes, that was it. That was what he was fighting for: Freedom.

The headmaster took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Yes, that was it. He and his followers were liberators. They protected the weak; they were heroes; they fought for the future. Dumbledore's eyes cleared up, as he found his purpose once again. He couldn't afford to doubt himself. Not now, not ever. He was old now, too old, and the war had scrambled his brains. But, he had lost so much...

Dull blue eyes stared blankly at the wall. His family, friends, and companions, were all dead. Dumbledore stiffened as memories assaulted his frail grasp of reality. He saw them all again; his little Silvia giving her a toothy grin; his wife standing next to him...

...before the bittersweet taste of reality torn him away. Dumbledore's closed his eyes painfully as if the action would grant him solace. They were dead because of his carelessness. They were dead because he hadn't been strong enough to protect them.

"Albus? Are you alright?"

Dumbledore flinched, before quickly plastering a smile upon his face. "Fine, Poppy. But how is he?" he asked quietly nodding towards the Dark Heir. "Will he be..."

"Yes, he'll fine. He will be up and about by this afternoon," Madam Pomfrey answered briskly, though her hands shook slightly. "I have cast a diagnostic charm that will alert you as well as me when he begins to awaken."

The headmaster paused for a second before nodding. "Yes, well, I suppose everything is in order then," he said evenly, as he gave Madam Pomfrey another smile. "I have a meeting with the Order right now, so if you need anything you know what to do."

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes. Honestly, he doesn't have to remind me every time...

Order of the Phoenix: Dumbledore's Office

It was here, at a quarter to eleven, that the famed Order of the Phoenix assembled for a quick briefing about the Final Battle, as it was now referred to as. Bright, cheerful flames danced about in the furnace, welcoming each witch and wizard as they flooed in from their homes. The office, which had once been so desolate and cold during the war, now sparkled with a sort of inner light.

Dumbledore watched as each of his subordinates flooed in with a sad smile on his face. So many dead, he thought grimly. Of the original Order, only twenty families had survived the war intact. He had, during his time in office, seen many of his members throw themselves in an almost suicidal fashion into the war. These particular members had wanted revenge for their departed loved ones; however, their efforts were futile - most of them died within a matter of months after they decided to go on rampage.

Even the most skilled dueler could not last long when outnumbered. His eyes closed in pain. However, with the growing number of Death Eaters, they simply wasn't a choice. They had to fight. Dumbledore shook his head slightly, as he met his subordinate's curious eyes. Now was not the time to dwell on the past...

"As you are all undoubtedly aware, two days ago Lord Voldemort met his doom at the hands of our own Nate Potter," Dumbledore stated evenly, as proud smile grew upon his face. "Even despite the odds, young Nate shot a barrage of curses and managed to hit Voldemort with a soul-shattering curse."

There was a short pause as the Order stared at Dumbledore with varying amount of disbelief.

"That's preposterous!" An auburn haired man declared as he stared at Dumbledore with a mix of pure disgust and awe. "That spell is classified as Dark magic. And You-Know-Who is a Dark Lord for heaven's sake!" the man said with mounting frustration. "Don't you think he would have taken steps against such a spell?"

Murmurs of agreement echoed about the office.

Dumbledore's smile widened. "No, that is where you are wrong," he said brightly. "The soul-shattering curse is not a form of Dark magic, instead it is classified as ambient magic." A sea of confused faces met his. Dumbledore sighed once again. "Ambient magic can be categorized as gray magic, if you will. Such magic is not dark because it does not feel off of emotions such as anger, pain, or disgust; instead, it is all based on intent."

"But it's like the Dementor's kiss!" a woman protested. "How could such a spell not be dark."

The headmaster shook his head. "The Dementor's kiss is different because after death, the soul is trapped with the creature for all of eternity," he clarified, as a slow shiver ran up his spine. "It is said that souls within the Dementor shall be forced to suffer and watch all the evils that occur in the world. They are forced to face all their own horrible memories as well as any new soul the Dementor eats up." Dumbledore took a deep breath. "The soul-shattering curse on the other hand, does not have such an effect. It merely shatters the soul into pieces and forces it to travel to the afterlife."

The auburn man raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Why would it matter if it was ambient magic? It doesn't matter what kind of magic it was since You-Know-Who would have undoubtedly learned about it anyways, right?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement. "Wrong again," he said lightly, as he gave the man a small smile. "Voldemort as well as I, for the matter of fact, are Lords of magic. We were given at birth a enormous amount of power to wield throughout our life. In a way we are power, we are magic, but regardless of our strength we were still human. Ultimately it came down to choice - we could commit ourselves to the Light or to the Darkness." Dumbledore sighed. "I chose Light magic and because of that I am unable to perform any Dark Magic whatsoever. And Voldemort is the same; as a Dark Lord, he is unable to perform any Light magic at all. And of course, ambient magic is considered as Light magic; hence, I know for a fact that Voldemort could not have adequately prepared himself for such an attack."

The Order members nodded in understanding.

"Therefore, I would have to conclude that Voldemort has been vanquished once and for all," he said solemnly, though his sparkling blue eyes belied his joy and relief. "Our efforts and sacrifices have finally paid off. No more shall the darkness reign unchecked over our world. No more shall the powerful prey upon the week and the innocent." The headmaster's lips widened into a full smile. "We have done it! We have regained our society back from our tormentors! We are now...free.

A loud roar of approval met the headmaster's words as the Order members alternatively gave each other hearty pats on the back. It had taken quite awhile for the news to sink in, and even yet some member still couldn't seem come to terms with it. But then again it wasn't everyday that You-Know-Who, the o' so powerful Dark Lord who had made his as well as everyone's life a living hell during the past few years, was killed by a 4th year.

The headmaster watched with a carefully crafted neutral expression as his Order celebrated gleefully about at the news. And yes, it was good news, he admitted. However, he had certainly hoped that someone perhaps would notice that he had left out one particularly important fact.

But alas, tis' a futile attempt.

His Order's sprits were too high. They had suffered so much indeed and perhaps, they needed a little rest. Perhaps now was not the best of times to inform them that the Dark Heir of all people was lying in the hospital wing.

Dumbledore winced, as an image of his Order lynching the poor lad in his sleep. 'No indeed.'

Dreamscape: (10 Years Old)

"How in the name of Circe are you ever going to face them?" demanded Voldemort, through clenched teeth. "Information gathering is a basic mundane task. It is nothing complicated. Nothing painful," he emphasized, giving Alex the evil eye which the boy skillfully ignored. "And hence, reading it shouldn't be that much harder, correct?"

Young Alex glared back grumpily. "Yes, but it's boring." He crossed his arms stubbornly and gave the image of a sullen teen. "I don't understand what's the point of learning all these random facts about our enemy. It's useless and stupid."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed.

"I mean...when would I ever need to know that Dumbledore is a lemon drop fanatic! Or that he has a ungodly obsession with socks, especially those that are fitted with miniature pockets!" demanded Alex.

"When we're invading Hogwarts, of course," snapped Voldemort, as he met the boy's challenging glaze. "I have evidence in fact that the passwords to Dumbledore's office is based upon his favorite sweets. Licorice wands, blood pops, and other things," he said dismissively, as if talking about candy was taboo for a Dark Lord. (And it is). "But of all things, according to surveillance, his passwords always resort back to their customary 'Lemon Drops' every other week."

Alex blinked in surprise. "Candy?" he repeated dumbly. "The great Light wizard Dumbledore's passwords are based upon candy!"

"Yes."

Alex fell back against his chair. "Fine, fine," he grumbled, as he met his father's triumphed glaze. "I'll memorize the entire list of Dumbledore's favorite candy," he finished reluctantly.

"And his socks."

The boy frowned. "No. There is no way in the name of hell that I'd memorize that twelve page list of all Dumbledore's socks. The candy idea might have merit, but this is utterly pointless and cruel."

Voldemort snorted. "Then, you'd be surprise to find that those miniature pockets in his socks is where Dumbledore selectively places his portkeys," he explained, purposely ignoring his heir's disbelieving snickers. "Haven't you ever wondered why the old fool wears such flamboyant socks?" he questioned.

Alex shook his head in denial. "I thought he was nutters," he complained. "And dressing weirdly is what crazy senile old people do." He gave his father a pointed glaze. "It's a custom, isn't it?"

"Ye-No," hissed Voldemort, as he realized the double meaning in his heir's words. His ruby red eyes narrowed darkly. "I am nothing like Dumbledore," he stated harshly. "Nor do I dress like him," he said in an afterthought, as he glanced down at his inky black robes. "My robes are made befitting to a Lord of my evil status," he said arrogantly. "Finest spider-spun silk in the country, silver thread from the elves, and..." he babbled, determined to emphasize the difference between his stylish robes versus Dumbledore's gaudy ones. After a few more minutes of rambling and curses, Voldemort concluded that he was "nothing like the old fool."

Alex rose a taunting brow. "No, you are not," he said casually, as he gave his father a once over. "Though now, thanks to your becoming speech, I can conclude that you are more like a Malfoy then anything else. Or perhaps, you can say you are the mirror evil image of Dumbledore..."

"Cruc-"

"Alright, alright! I take it back!" cried Alex, as he threw his arms mockingly over his head. "O' Lord Voldemort the Great, I, your evilest minion apologize profusely for stepping out of line! Please let me kiss your robes! Let me slobber over your leather boots! Let me..."

"Silencio," hissed Voldemort, as a red jet of light slammed into the boy's mouth. Bloody Hell, what in the name of all that is evil had he ever done to deserve this...torture? Yes, he knew he wasn't a nice guy. But mother Circe! What in the world was he thinking when he picked this little snot-nosed loud brat as his heir? After permanently tying the boy to his bloodline, Voldemort was now unable to cast any...deadly spells towards his heir. After all, if he did...well, at best they'd do nothing but reflect back at him.

Once again, Voldemort found himself cursing his past idol and ancestor Salazar Slytherin. Why had that bloody fool set up that god-damn curse? One where a Lord cannot harm or kill his own heir? Well, not that he was planning on killing the lad, but there were times when he'd dream for nothing more than to Crucio the lad - just for a second...one heavenly second.

Poke.

Voldemort's eye twitched in annoyance, as he met Alex's golden brown eyes. "Stop it," he commanded, prodding the boy away with his foot.

Poke.

"Look brat, leave me alone for a few minutes and I will remove the spell," the Dark Lord snarled through clenched teeth, as he slowly stacked the pieces of parchment.

Poke.

Voldemort lost it. Grabbing his wand, he uttered a quick incantation that made the boy fly up from his seat towards him and halted a few inches away from him. "Do Not Push Me, brat," he hissed, emphasizing each and every word as he glared evilly into his heir's eyes.

Alex gave him a toothy grin and pointed at his mouth.

The Dark Lord sighed hopelessly. "Finite Incantatem," he grumbled, pointing his wand towards his heir. It was impossible to stay mad at the boy too long. God forbid, if it didn't know any better, he would have sworn that he'd grown fond of the boy.

A loud eep' and the boy tumbled back onto the ground and landed in a half crouch, half sprawl. Alex's eyes lit up in amusement as he met his father's weary ones. "I take it you didn't like my Death Eater demonstration?"

Voldemort glared.

Feeling prudent to escape punishment, Alex hastily retreated to a safe topic. "So what were you saying about Dumbledore's socks earlier?" he tried.

Voldemort gave Alex a knowing glance. "As I was saying," he drawled, "Dumbledore's socks are so flamboyant so that he would know which one to wear depending upon the occasion. Each one of his socks are equipped with a portkey to a different location. The details of which sock leads to which location is stated in this report," he stated, as he tossed a bundle of parchments to his heir.

There was a short uncomfortable silence.

"Bloody hell...you're paranoid!" declared Alex. "There is no way Dumbledore would do something so..."

"Crazy?" prodded Voldemort, as he gave Alex a dark look. "Look brat, we are in a war right now and the only way to survive is to find out all the weaknesses and strengths of our enemy."

"But..."

"I had my suspicions at first, but I demanded that my Death Eaters bring me more proof. And alas, one of them managed to capture one of Dumbledore's famed socks and discover his password (lemon drops). The portkey transported us to a nearby port in Newcastle, in the home of Dumbledore's wayward brother." Voldemort sneered darkly. "And, fortunately for him, the man was not home. But nonetheless, we destroyed and raided the entire village."

"...socks," Alex finished weakly.

Voldemort shook his head and rose from his desk. "I want you to memorize everything in there about Dumbledore and the entire Hogwarts staff. It does not matter how trivial the information appears to be, but you will finish by noon tomorrow."

"What! You've got to be..."

The Dark Lord turned away from his heir. "Just do it Alex," he said sternly, as his voice wavered uncertainly. "Remember to keep your allies close but your enemy even closer." And what those words, Voldemort spun around and left one utterly confused Alex Mortimer staring dumbly at the door.

End of Dream

Alex's mind wavered uncertainly as he awoke from sleep. Had it all been a dream? His father's death, his capture, his so-called interrogation? Alex frowned as he tentatively reached out with his magic and surveyed the area. A soft yet gentle yellow haze covered his form, Alex frowned lightly and gave the magic a light prod. The haze darkened slightly, as if sensing the magic.

A alarm and tracing spell, he concluded as he quickly sucked his magic back in. One based upon magic use or health levels. The spell would let out a horrendous scream the moment he either physically woke up or when he used his magic. Alex cursed softly, as his hope drifted away.

So it wasn't a dream.

It had only been...yesterday when his father had been killed, him captured and subjected to questioning. Alex quickly replayed the memory as he reevaluated his actions. He'd been so stupid. So utterly pathetically stupid. Though in the light of his father's death, he couldn't really be blamed for making such a mistake.

He should have answered in Parseltongue.

Or some other language perhaps. Though, that might not have worked seeing as how Dumbledore is fluent is many languages just as well. Ah...so Parseltongue was he only weapon against any truth potion. Alex cursed himself for his stupidity once again. Now...unless he knew better, Dumbledore probably suspected that he was related to some degree to the Potters.

Curse them.

Alex's golden brown eyes darkened with hate at the mention of his biological parents. He had given up upon them a long time ago. He had needed them once upon a time when he was a child. How he had wanted...desired nothing more than a few words of praise. He had wanted to be acknowledged, to be loved for who he was.

A self-deprecating smile grew upon his face. But alas, should Dumbledore or the Potters discover his true heritage, it would change nothing. He was no longer a child. He was a man now. He could see beyond their frivolities and see them as the worthless beings that they were. He could see how fake, how meaningless it was to live and be like them.

But...he still needed him. The Dark Lord. His father, his mentor, his best friend.

'I'll bring him back,' he vowed, as his golden brown eyes gleamed with determination. 'You hear that, father? I'm going bring you back and kick you in the ass for what you're going to put me through.'

A slow smile grew upon his face as the beginnings of an idea began to form. Yes...that would work well wouldn't it? This was Hogwarts of all places. The paradise of lost or hidden knowledge. Alex's smile grew.

"Keep your allies close, but your enemies even closer..."

Alex grinned mentally. Within a matter of minutes, he flared his magic out in one quick violent burst and heard, more than felt, the yellow haze shatter and began to scream. With care, Alex casually set himself back against his pillows and waited patiently for the headmaster and his hoard of followers to come trampling down into the hospital wing.

"Let the games begin."

A/N: Please check out my ShortForm. I'd REALLY, REALLY appreciate the help.