A/N: No Character is Owned by me.

Chapter 1

it's often said that children don't form memories in their earliest years. But for me, this was never the case. No, Victor Von Doom remembers it all – every moment of this life which has tried so hard, yet failed to break me, every sacrifice, every loss and every act of vengeance exacted by these hands. I could not forget them even if I tried.

My father was always skeptical, but I'm certain my consciousness began in my mother's womb. Perhaps it was the influence of the demon with whom my mother had a dalliance. Maybe it was that entity's touch that sharpened my senses too early. However, while my father dismissed my tales, my nanny – or should I say, my mother – never once doubted me. How could she, when I confronted her with the knowledge that I am the illegitimate son of the man I called my grandfather, and her, a mere maid in our family? I can still see the astonishment on her face that day. "You know..." she began, her voice quivering with fear. But after a brief pause, she embraced me tightly, a hug that remains imprinted in my memory till day. Mother's warm embrace was something I cherished, like any young boy would. Only later did I realize the chilling reason behind the coldness of her touch.

Victor Von Doom. That's not the name they used to call me, not the one whispered into my ear as a lullaby or yelled across the yard during fleeting moments of childhood play. That is a name I chose for myself, later in life, a mantle I donned when the world had shown its true colors. The name I was born with, the one inked into the annals of my family's history, was Whitley Schnee. A name imbued with the promise of peace, purity, and beauty.

Whitley. Even now, the irony of it doesn't escape me. Peace, purity, beauty - such lofty ideals, painted in strokes of white and light. But the canvas of my life never mirrored those shades. To me, these were merely words, abstract notions that society used as a veil to mask the ugliness and chaos that often lurked beneath.

I never held that name in high regard, never truly felt it was mine. Because I knew, deep down, like everything else in my life, peace, purity, and beauty were nothing more than illusions. Grand concepts that poets wax lyrical about, that artists try to capture on their canvases, but which never truly existed for me. For in the shadows of those bright ideals, there was always a darkness, a truth that Whitley Schnee - or Victor Von Doom - had to confront.

By birth, I am the youngest son of the Schnee family. The family which held the largest Dust Empire in Remnant. My grandfather, Nicholas Schnee, was the one who laid the cornerstone of this empire. To the public, he was a beacon of hard work, determination, intelligence, courage, ambition, and fearlessness. They hailed him as a visionary, a titan of industry. But you see, people often believe the facade shown to them. The Nicholas Schnee I knew was far removed from these laudatory tales. Behind closed doors, he was greedy, cowardly, lustful, and more than anything, a fool.

After my birth, in a desperate attempt to protect his own reputation and that of our family, he handed me over to his son-in-law, my adopted father. A twisted game of family chess where I was nothing but a pawn. And the most grotesque part of it all? My real mother was relegated to the role of my nanny, a silent sufferer watching her child grow up knowing the truth but unable to voice it.

Like minds indeed attract, and it wasn't surprising that Nicholas found in Jacques a suitable match for his daughter. Jacques Schnee, my adopted father, mirrored Nicholas in every sense. They shared the same flaws, the same hunger for power, and the same disregard for those they deemed beneath them.

If my birth father was the shadow, he was the storm itself. A man so power-hungry, so obsessed with the family business, that it consumed him entirely. To him, everything was a transaction, including me. I was just another asset to be used, another rung to be stepped on in his relentless climb to the top.

I don't know which one I hated more. The father who was responsible for my birth or the father who adopted me. Both tainted my existence with their shadows, stretching over my days like the darkening clouds of an impending storm.

Then there was my adoptive mother, or should I better say, my sister, Willow Schnee and I, we merely tolerate each other. She never recognized me as her son. In fact, she doesn't even know I'm her blood brother. To her, I'm nothing but the illegitimate child her husband shamelessly brought into their home, staining their lineage and relationship.

Winter and Weiss Schnee, my older nieces or sisters, whichever label you'd prefer, always remained distant figures in my life. Winter, always the stern one, was six years my senior, and Weiss, just a year older. Our interactions were limited, never stretching beyond the superficial courtesies. I tolerate them, and they do the same in return. No love lost, no familial bonds felt.

Despite the shadows that loomed over the earliest chapters of my life, I would say I was not completely lost, the light that illuminated my life, my mother, Cynthia Von Doom, was there with me. In the darkness of my life, she was the guiding luminescence that lit up every corner, every nook and cranny. She bestowed upon me hope when despair threatened to overpower, and joy in moments when sorrow seemed ceaseless. But like every flame, her light wasn't immune to the gusts of fate. And the day it flickered, the day its intensity waned, so does the trajectory of my existence.

In the tender years of my early childhood, while most children basked in the innocent joys of play and exploration, I was shackled to a bed, ensnared by relentless bouts of sickness. When children of my age were learning to run, laugh, and explore the world around them, my days were a montage of lethargy and pain. At just three years old, I remember lying weakly on my bed, looking out of my window to see Weiss, my sister, a mere year older than me, dancing and playing in the courtyard. The contrast between our worlds was glaring, like a sunbeam piercing through the dense clouds of my own fragility.

Yet in those gloomy moments, my ray of hope - my mother, Cynthia, never dimmed. Gentle and nurturing, she never left my side. Her hands, soft and comforting, would stroke my forehead, easing away the fever and pain. Her lullabies would guide me into peaceful slumbers, even on nights when agony seemed insurmountable.

But in the midst of her comforting presence, I would sometimes catch a glimpse of a hidden sorrow in her eyes, a weight she carried silently within her heart. On the nights when the pain grew unbearable, as tears welled up in my eyes and silent screams clawed at my throat, I would hear her, cursing herself in hushed tones. "It's all my fault," she would whisper, a mournful chant that baffled my young mind. How could my suffering be a result of her actions? How could she, who brought me comfort and love, be the source of my affliction?

It wasn't long before I became privy to a side of my mother that no child should witness. In the secrecy of night, I'd observe her delving into mysterious rituals, the realm of what I'd later come to understand as dark arts. At times, she'd approach my bed, her fingers tracing symbols in the air, a determined intensity in her gaze. Grasping my small hand in hers, she would whisper, "Hold on, my son. Momma is going to take the pain away." And she did. Through her esoteric practices, she siphoned away my agony, replacing my feebleness with a surge of vitality. It was a miraculous transformation, one that came at a great cost. For days after these rituals, Cynthia would be confined to her bed, pale and drained, a sacrificial lamb who bore my pain within her.

It was a heart-wrenching cycle. Watching my mother's vitality wane as mine was restored brought forth a mixture of gratitude, guilt, and confusion.

Despite the renewed vigor that I felt every time Cynthia intervened with her rituals, the world around us was not as grateful. To many, her recurring bouts of frailty weren't seen as the selfless sacrifices that they truly were. The cold, unappreciative eyes of our household, particularly those of Willow Schnee, viewed Cynthia's incapacitation with disdain and suspicion.

I can still hear the echoes of Willow's biting words, dripping with contempt. "Again, Cynthia? Really? How many times will you trot out this same tired excuse to shirk your duties? I can't fathom why we still tolerate presence of a street rat like you, let alone provide you a place in our esteemed home." Each word was like a sharpened knife, intended to wound, to belittle.

Witnessing such brazen unkindness aimed at my ailing mother would ignite a fire of rage within me. My young heart, full of fierce protectiveness, yearned to retaliate, to defend her from these unrelenting verbal assaults. But every time I mustered the courage to act, to voice my discontent, a gentle touch from my mother would still my resolve. Her pleading eyes, imploring for silence and understanding, would anchor my simmering emotions.

In moments of respite, when the two of us found solitude, Cynthia would often reflect on her past relationship with Willow. "You know," she'd begin with a wistful sigh, "when I first arrived here, Willow and I were close friends. We shared dreams, secrets, and laughter. But things changed after you were born. We drifted apart, consumed by misunderstandings and unspoken grievances." There was a melancholic hope in her voice as she continued, "I always believed that, given time, we could bridge the chasm between us, find a way back to those happier times." A sad smile would cross her lips. "But perhaps I was too optimistic."

That fateful day marked a turning point in my tumultuous relationship with Willow. Every time she targeted my mother, a wellspring of resentment would bubble within me, but I had always managed to restrain it – until that moment. Her eyes, normally cool with indifference or sometimes flashing with suppressed anger, were shadowed with something different that day. Was it despair? Was it defeat? Jacques' increasing disregard for her, compounded with the deteriorating health of my grandfather, seemed to deepen her anguish.

"You... it's always been you, hasn't it?" Willow seethed, cornering my mother. "You've ruined everything!"

Before I could process her words, her hand shot up, striking my mother with a stinging slap. That act, so unexpected, so violent, shattered my last semblance of restraint. In a blind rage, acting purely on impulse and driven by an innate need to protect my mother, I hurled the closest object to me - a flowerpot. The look of shock and pain on Willow's face as the pot grazed her, the scarlet bloom of blood that slowly spread from the gash on her forehead – these are images that still haunt my dreams.

However, it wasn't Willow's reaction that distressed me most. It was the fear and the plea in my mother's eyes as she stepped between us, shielding me from any retaliation. I was incensed, ready to challenge Willow on my mother's behalf. Yet my mother, ever the peacemaker, sought to diffuse the situation.

That night, ensconced in the quiet cocoon of our shared quarters, my mother and I had a heart-to-heart. "What you did today was wrong," she began, her voice filled with gentle reproach. I retorted defiantly, "But she's not my mother. You are."

She sighed heavily, a weight of years of concealed truths and stifled emotions evident in that sound. "She may not be your mother by birth, but in the eyes of the world, by name and by circumstance, she is. She is family."

"But..." My protest died in my throat as I met her gaze.

With earnest eyes and a tremble in her voice, she whispered her sole request, "Promise me, my dear son, that you will never hurt your family. Not with your words, not with your actions. Promise me this." And even though my heart seethed with resentment, for her, I promised – a vow I have upheld, albeit begrudgingly, to this day.

I was only four years old when the incident unfolded. The whispers around the mansion spoke of the old man suffering a heart stroke, leaving him an enfeebled shell, confined to his bed. The air buzzed with myriad emotions—Willow's sorrow, the mournful eyes of Weiss and Winter, and Jacques with his ambiguous sympathy.

Sympathy, a sentiment I couldn't muster for that man, who abandoned my mother. No matter his condition, my heart refused to harbor any sentiments for him, but I guess fate had a different plan. He summoned me one day, to his dimly lit room, where he lay, a fragile husk of his former self. As my feet remained anchored at the threshold, my emotions swathed in a cold indifference.

"Come here, Whitley," he beckoned weakly. My greeting was a facade of indifference, "How is your health, 'Grandfather'?"

His gaze held a mixture of sorrow and resignation, aging his already weary visage further, "I know you know the truth, Whitley." Internally, I hissed, my thoughts seething, "What are you talking about, Grandfather? What truth?"

He continued, "And I know Cynthia did not tell you; she would never disobey me." My facade remained, impenetrable.

"What do you want, Grandfather?"

"You were always a smart boy, even at the age of four. The way you observed, questioned, and absorbed information was truly remarkable. It was apparent, even then, that you possessed an intellect that belied your tender years," Nicholas commented, his voice imbued with a mixture of admiration and regret.

He endeavored to draw closer, his hand reaching towards my shoulder, only to be met with swift rejection. His voice, a whisper laden with regret, asserted, "I am not as cruel as you perceive, son. Had I been, neither you nor your mother would be here today." I just glared.

Nicholas sighed, his eyes, pools of untold stories and regrets, met mine, "In life, I have accumulated a myriad of mistakes. They say, at life's twilight, one sees the errors of their ways." My face, a mask of indifference, betrayed no emotion, "I still don't understand, Grandfather."

His apology hung in the air, a muted plea for forgiveness, "I am sorry, truly. To you, and to your mother. I have wronged you, especially your mother, Cynthia." My stoic expression remained unaltered, "You should say that to Mother."

"Acknowledging it now may change nothing, but hence, I desire to make amends." His eyes, now locked on mine, proclaimed, "Whitley Schnee, I want you as the heir of the Schnee Dust Company."

The proclamation hung heavy in the air, a tempest of emotions churning within me, a storm threatening to burst. Anger—hot and bitter—rose within me. Was it not a mere farce, a cruel jest played by a man who never bothered to look my way? To suddenly anoint me heir to the Schnee Dust Company, to bestow upon my young shoulders a burden colossal and weighty?

My voice, a fiery echo of my internal tempest, reached out to him, "You think you can just ignore me all my life and suddenly thrust this colossal responsibility upon me?" The words flowed, the dam broken, "What about your daughter? What about your son-in-law? What about your granddaughters? I am but a child! How can you impose such a burden upon me so thoughtlessly?"

Nicholas, amidst his frailty, responded with a semblance of resolve, "I realize the magnitude of the burden I place upon you. But you, Whitley, are the one I trust to bear it." His voice softened, revealing a sorrow long hidden, "Despite my numerous faults, my deepest transgression is the boundless love I hold for my family. Jacques, no matter the depth of his contempt, lacks a semblance of familial love. Entrusting the company to him would herald its ruin. As for my daughter, she is entangled in his schemes, lacking the insight and strength to helm the empire."

His gaze shifted to my sisters, "Winter has chosen her path, her heart unswayed by corporate intricacies. And Weiss… my little snowflake… the company's influence would taint her innocence." A flare of anger sparked within, questioning his rationale, "So, I am the disposable one, the leftover, suitable to be cast into the inferno?"

"Yes," he admitted, his eyes, however, gleamed with a semblance of respect and hope, "In you, I see the determination and resolve that mirror my younger self." In that moment, the tempest within me subsided, giving way to a resolve forged in fire and promise, "I will elevate the Schnee Dust Company to unprecedented heights," I declared, my conditions unwavering, "but only if you bestow upon my mother the respect she rightfully deserves."

A sigh, a whisper of resignation and agreement emanated from Nicholas, "I will see what can be done." With no more words to spare, I walked away, leaving the chamber behind, a silent mausoleum of untold revelations and unfulfilled promises.

My grandfather, albeit reluctantly, began to fulfill his promise. My mother's status was elevated from a mere servant to his personal assistant—a position that brought an enhanced level of respect and responsibility. It wasn't the full acknowledgment I desired for her, but it was a beginning, a step towards justice.

Willow's face, at the time of the announcement, was a tableau of shock and disbelief, as though the ground had shifted beneath her. Her potential despair and possible knowledge of my impending inheritance were secret joys to me, small triumphs in our silent warfare.

Jacques was another spectacle. His face, marked by pallor and tension, revealed the signs of many a sleepless night, his eyes a maelstrom of hidden thoughts and veiled fears. Perhaps he perceived the tides of change, the unseen battle of wits transpiring. His eyes met mine often, each exchange a silent duel of unspoken understandings and concealed antagonisms.

As my mother plunged into her newfound roles, I sought solace in the bound pages of numerous books. The library was my sanctuary, shielding me from the brewing storm of familial confrontations. Every book, from whimsical fairy tales to advanced scientific discoveries, was explored; no facet of knowledge was left untouched.

The frigid relationships with Willow and Jacques persisted, but amidst the icy silences, a fragile camaraderie developed between Weiss and me. Our shared love for fairy tales connected our divergent worlds. "Whitley, have you read the tale of the Frost Queen?" Weiss would ask, her eyes sparkling with innocent curiosity.

"I have," I'd reply, delving into discussions about the morals and magical elements of the tales. "Do you believe magic like that truly exists, Weiss?"

"I like to believe it does," she would respond, her voice a mix of hope and wonder, and we'd lose ourselves in the world of fantasies and wonders.

Weiss's butler, Klein Sieben, aiding my burgeoning interest in medicine and healing, became another significant presence. He was more than willing to quench my thirst for knowledge, ever pleased with my unabating curiosity.

Winter, maintaining her reserved nature, occasionally conversed with me. Her sparse words were laden with unspoken understandings, and shadows of untold tales lingered in her eyes.

However, in my naive absorption in knowledge and subtle family alliances, I was oblivious to the looming shadows, unaware that the relative peace was merely the calm before the storm, the light of dusk before the enveloping darkness yet to unveil its true face. The shadows grew, whispering untold secrets and unseen truths, and I, unknowingly, walked the edge of light and shadow, teetering on the brink of revelations and darkness.

The night remains an eternal imprint on my soul, a silent, watchful moon its sole companion, days dwindling before the dawn of my fifth year. A tiny heartbeat synchronized with anxious anticipation, each ticking second an echo in the vast silence, the absence of her presence a ghostly whisper in the lonely chamber.

The quiet shattered with the sudden influx of hurried footfalls and the violent sweep of the door. There, my mother—shadowed and torn—stood, her garments dyed in the cruel hue of warfare, resembling a warrior returned from a harrowing conflict. "Mother…What…" My words were fragments, suspended in the air as her arms encased me, her features sketched with haunting terror, "Whitley, we must leave now."

I nodded, my small soul swirling with chaos, willing to follow her footsteps into the consuming uncertainty. Concealed beneath blankets of refuge, we navigated the labyrinth of corridors, our destination the shadows of the courtyard and the silent gates. The symphony of chaos resonated from the mansion; her steps transformed into desperate sprints. "Capture her!" a voice emerged from the dark, and our sprint became a flight of survival. "Halt!" Commands soared through the air, "She's taken the young master!" A menacing silhouette barricaded our path, his hand wielding the blade of fate. Swiftly, my mother's hands danced, creating a symphony of fire around our adversary. Her protective spells wove a barrier between us and our pursuers. Their cries harmonized with the howling night; our hands etched paths of escape, until the sharp wail of steel meeting flesh permeated the night.

My mother faltered, her eyes—reflecting eternal love—clung to mine as our hands, now cloaked in her life essence, held onto fleeting hope. A strike blurred my senses, my vision swimming in pain. As darkness folded its arms around me, the remnants of the world were the malevolent gaze of Jacques Schnee, looming over our fallen forms.

"Whitley…" Her voice, a whispering echo, her grip barely a ghostly touch, "be… strong, my love…"

The burning of tears, silent vows, chained footsteps, and his taunting laughter became the endless echoes in the labyrinth of my heart.

The days that followed were a haze, the clarity of moments masked by a fog of grief and confusion. Whispered accusations reverberated through the somber corridors. "She was a witch," one voice hissed. "A demoness," another murmured, voices weaving tales of malevolent deceit. "Did you not hear what she did to Mr. Nicholas?" "She was poisoning him; she was the reason his health was deteriorating." The murmurs grew, each word a dagger in my young heart. "She wanted to usurp everything," one declared. "No, she was exploiting him for some dark rituals," another speculated. "After Nicholas, she would have targeted us."

"It's good Mr. Jacques discovered her true nature," they nodded, their tones laced with a mix of relief and disdain. "Poor old Nick, lost to her treachery. I heard she stabbed him in her desperate attempt to escape," a voice tainted with sorrow and fear revealed. "She even tried to abduct the young master."

I couldn't bear the cacophony of their false narratives anymore, "Enough!" My voice, laced with anguish and rage, sliced through their whispering. "Shut up! Shut up, all of you! You know nothing about her!" My eyes, ablaze with an inner fire, scanned their horrified faces. "Say another word, and you'll see what she supposedly did!" My voice echoed in the silent corridors, the weight of my words sinking in, creating a pool of tense silence around me.

Suddenly, a sting radiated across my face, and I found myself facing to my older sister Winter, her hand raised, anger, and disappointment mingling in her eyes. "Whitley! How dare you! Our grandfather is dead, and you dare to support the witch who killed him?" Her voice, usually soft, was a sharp rebuke now. Her eyes were filled with tears, but whether it was from sorrow or anger, I couldn't tell. My cheek burned from her slap, but my heart burned fiercer with the fire of vengeance and sorrow.

No sanctity of a proper burial was bestowed upon her; her corpse was left to the merciless crows, a cruel reminder of their unfounded accusations. As I buried my mother with my own hands, the soil mixed with my tears, a vow crystallized within my soul. "I promise you, Mother, they will pay for what they did to you. I will ensure the Schnee family and the Schnee Dust Company crumble, descending to where they belong—to dust."

Each whispered falsehood fueled my resolve, a searing flame of vengeance within my heart. The world had cast her away, dishonored her memory, but I, her son, would rectify the wrongs, unearthing the truth and dismantling the empire built on lies and deceit.

E/N:

I was inspired to write this chapter from various sources, House of the Dragon (which have similar family relationship) and Books of Doom (One of the best Doom comics)

So those who are still confused.

In this AU

Whitley Schnee is not son Jacques and Willow, but he is son of Nicholas and Cynthia (Marvel), and Nicholas gave him to Jacques to raise as son.

I know, a bit complicated. But I don't want to create a new character in a crossover, I will rather replace and mold them from an existing one, in my opinion that add more fun.