AN: First time writing. Tis made for fun. Like/Fav/Review. Constructive Critism is also welcomed. Thanks for reading!
Faced with a padded wall, a young boy; roughly around the age of eleven, was currently sitting – his legs spread out.
Simply entertaining himself.
He dallies with the likes of a small round blue bouncing ball, watching closely. His dark eyes tracking the rollick as it went back and forth, whilst catching it with his hand. The attention he had was solely fixated on the ball alone. It was a cycle that's been repeating for hours. And yet, the boy has not shown signs that indicated any sense of tiresome.
Maybe it was due to the lack of obligations, lack of responsibilities, lack of motivation…
A small gift from his charges that he was able to spend it playing. Given this free time, his only concern at the moment was surviving.
He wasn't worried though. Despite it being nearly a week since they quitted him here; the child kept count. If he were more honest – it felt a lot longer. Anyone in here would tell you that time carries far slower when you're placed in confinement. The only reason he hasn't gone mad yet was due to a small trinket toy he had at hand; endless entertainment.
Endless fun…
Truthfully, he felt as though he didn't deserve their punitive measures.
It wasn't his fault the moronic nurse began bleeding from his overly large snout…
The lad was simply minding his own business, watching programs with the rest of the obnoxious children.
And for the first time, the atmosphere was calm - normal for once. Diverging from other days where he was obligated to sit and hear the howling tantrums of the bratty children. Quite the opposite on that particular day. It was nice and orderly; quiet as they sat and watched cartoons.
Yes, it was strangely comforting knowing he wasn't the only one paying attention to what was being shown. Luck might have been on his side that day considering the rest of the children watched attentively, engaged to the point that some had laughed at the tomfoolery of the characters.
Had it stayed that way, they would've been easily rewarded special privileges.
And the place could once again be livable. Tolerable.
That was until it was ruined by him.
A large bald-headed – pudgy middle-aged man who wreaked of cigarettes and cheap cologne – Nurse Hill; Nicknamed lout-bout by others.
A lout indeed. He was person who actually enjoyed stealing from patients. A rotten person you would often catch harassing co-workers, a bully who had no qualms picking on the weak; especially children.
The brute nurse had no business being there to begin with. His only conclusion was to rag on them. To feed his self-glorified ego. And he had no problems doing it happily, showing his fowl crooked teeth, acting as if it were a sport to him.
Naturally, the boy's only choice at the time was to ignore him. Shutting him out of his thoughts. The boy pretended the nurse didn't exist.
Just him and the animated screen.
However, this only seemed to upset the man even more so when he realises his actions had no effect on the boy.
This quickly angered the male nurse as he became physical when he aggressively poked the boy's temple. Saying things on the realm of being an unwanted brat. An unwanted brat that didn't belong anywhere.
The boy couldn't stand him. Like really stand him.
The mere mention of lout-bout made the boy's hands clench tightly shut. He wanted to hurt him, make him suffer for his guttural comments. Wanting to rid people like nurse Hill, those that made it their mission to antagonize and make it harder for people to live day in and day out. Yes, how wonderful that would be… He could see it now, the thick-headed nurse writhing in pain as he is being pulverised; by a kid no less.
Of course, not long after the image had left his mind, the nurse began to thrash from his spot, clutching his head tightly, as if something were crushing him from the inside.
Everyone became shocked. The patient's heads quickly turned to the boy who stared with great interest. Some claimed he was smiling, others said he was laughing, the rest, a despondent boy lacking any sense of emotion.
It was there that they decided to point their fingers at him. Consequently, resulting a week in the confines of his room.
The boy did not feel bad though. The nurse deserved it.
Letting out a silent sigh, the young boy leaned back against the wall. Secludedness was well welcomed, it gave him a moment to think; a quiet moment to himself honestly. The other times he was forced to endure stint crowds he nearly lost his wits. They were nothing but the rum kind of sort, those who couldn't hold a conversation without fidgeting. It annoyed him to be treated as though they were equals. They weren't. To him, he was normal compared to the rest of them.
Turning back, he continues his everlasting quest of dawdling the ball until his arm gave out. There was a sense of content as his mind was empty and free from thought. Despite everything he's said about this horrid place, he wouldn't have it any other way.
"Mortimer." He pauses upon hearing his name.
"Charlie," The boy called out, knowing well that wasn't actually his name. Though, the doctor never bothered to correct him. "Am I being too loud?" He asked, innocently tilting his head.
"No. You have a visitor." Charlie noted, sounding subdued from his previous cheery tone the boy was accustomed to.
The doors open wide.Behind the doctor were two guards. With them, they bring a specific recliner every patient here is familiar with.
'Charlie' coughed by means of distraction. "For safety purposes we're going to have to 'limit' your movement."
The young boy didn't respond. Instead, he watches the escorts insert themselves into the small confined room.
Mortimer did not understand why they thought it was imperative for him to be dragged in this ill-manner. It was uncalled-for. Though the main reason lies between negligence and incompetence. They would only end up tying the straps firmly to the point where room for air was nonexistent. It was enough to cutoff the blood circulation on his members.
Without any word from the guards, they place the small boy on the restraining chair.
Part him wanted to object but knew better than to protest. He's been in enough trouble to last him a while. He didn't need more time in the 'quiet room' but rather prefer the loud noises exhibiting from the children. As crazy as it sounds, spending majority sitting still, staring into nothing but a blank empty room, with no sounds, no contact of any kind. You're trapped inside your own thoughts.
You tend to hear things, see things you believe are there. Plagued with bizarre ideas you came up with. The further you dig the more you become imprisoned by the hole of thoughts you've dug up.
There, you slowly become your own enemy, your own protector, your torturer, your savior. You realise in the end that you are completely alone. You feel completely alone.
Instead of making his situation worse, the patient surrenders and inclines his body which allows the guards to bind him down.
Mortimer was confused and yet intrigued. Never having had the privilege of receiving habitual company. He was skeptical about why anyone would come and see him.
He had no family, no friends; not one to claim him. He had nobody - there was no body.
Couldn't be his parents, they were long gone before he could even remember. Unless the dead could be resurrected, his grandmother solely came to mind. But no, it was not possible. That old hag was long dead. He was very adamant about that.
His suspicion only grew once he noted the strange behavior his doctor was showing. Charlie seemed lucid, as if he was here but not really here.
Raising an eyebrow, Mortimer couldn't help but question. "Charlie? What's going on?"
There was no response. Not a hint of acknowledgement, his curiosity is shunned. The doctor impassively stares down at mortimer from afar, watching the men work. One by one, each escort set about strapping down his limbs tightly. Working their way to his ankles, wrists, shoulders, and waist. They made sure the boy was left fully incapacitated.
Glancing up at the fluorescent lights, mortimer silently thought himself, should the possibility of leaving this place ever present itself, he would take it.
Kept inside for far too long, mortimer has been itching to get out.
He wanted to feel the air brushing against his skin. To be able to walk free amongst others. Not being followed – dragged around like a dog on a leash. Yes, it would be very nice indeed.
Further inspection was made before mortimer was promptly wheeled out of the room. The now bound boy, alongside Charlie, followed from behind to escort Mortimer through the areas vicinity.
Rolling across the corridors, Mortimer knew they would have to go through a series of well-guarded posts before reaching to their destination.
Mortimer remained dubious that the young boy couldn't suppress the urge to look over his shoulders. He still didn't know the extent of the visit, nor did he know anyone who would. It made sense for him to be suspicious since there was no one to speak for him.
It happened so suddenly that Mortimer was still having a hard time wrapping around the fact that there was someone actually interested in talking to him. No one has ever shown up for him. Some of children here, no matter how mental, were often visited by their loved ones. But in his case, none had showed up. He hadn't known of any living relatives, though had hoped to be proven wrong.
Mortimer's lets out a short breath, steading his nerves, he cracks his neck. He begins to act, pretending that everything was fine. On the inside however, was spiraling with tense nerves.
They inevitably came across the other guards.
When they didn't sneer at him, they mostly ignored him. Rare as it was, some smiled, commonly though, gave him the same annoyingly expression they gave all the patients here.
A few left turns and bodily-searches later, Mortimer could feel the chair mounted on wheels coming to a close.
Charlie goes ahead and turns the knob on the door. The boy is met by a small furnished room he's had countless of sessions.
The therapy room was made to create a safe environment. To enable one to vent frustrations and discuss emotions. A lie mostly, considering most loonies here were only interested in rambling because some were incoherent, while others were paranoid enough to accuse the staff, even the therapist, of conspiring to get them. Which in turn finished in sourness.
Most of the time their little shows would end with being sedated by them. The crazier ones were dragged through these halls, their numb bodies being sent away only to disappear before returning in the upcoming days.
Unfortunately, no one ever did get better; at least not the ones he knew. But Mortimer couldn't complain. The nice welcoming furniture, alongside the warming wallpaper was a nice change in tone when comparing it to his isolated room.
With the guard now fully inside, he brought Mortimer to a halt with no issue and steered him in the middle of the room, putting down the brakes so he couldn't escape.
Appearing spellbound, Charlie stood there for a few seconds before asking. "Anything else I can do?"
"No, that will be all. Thank you." A softly spoken voice said. "You may leave us now." Finishing with a warm smile.
Alone with the unknown figure, the first thing that came to mind was uncertainty. Apprehensive towards the strange figure that stood before him. Mortimer frowned, almost as if he was disappointed.
Did he honestly expect a motherly face? A father figure? Coming here to whisk him away? Mortimer felt embarrassed at the preposterous thought. Knowing well deep down inside he was condemned for this life.
It felt like a rock that was stuck in his chest, it was heavy.
Mortimer's attention was taken by the stranger's weirdly appearance. Puzzled, he quickly notices the figure's long snowy beard.
An old man – He wore a simple brown suit. Despite the warm weather, he was also wearing a long extended coat that matched with his outfit. Then there was the rimless glasses, which reflected the sun's gaze just outside the windows.
Their eyes aligning, Mortimer also notes a disturbing glint in the old man's eyes that sent shivers down his spine.
Mortimer's forehead puckered, perplexed at what could have brought this man here today. He looked too old to be in law enforcement. A social worker came to mind. They were nothing new. Somewhere in the back of his head told him it was something entirepy different. What business did he have visiting a here? Not unless he was crazy himself, even then it still didn't answer his question as to why he was here. Before mortimer could find any logical answer, another question was brought up by a voice.
"Tell me, was it necessary to bound you in this sort of manner? Are you so perilous to act that you require restrictions?" Tilting his head slightly, the puzzled old man wondered.
"You have to ask my therapist that – " Mortimer briefly paused and raised a brow, questioning him. "You're not some long lost relative, are you?"
"Sadly, I am not." Said the man in a polite tone.
A small relief. The visitor continued with. "But that does not mean you are not without family." Eyes peering beyond the boy.
"What do you mean?" Mortimer began twitching behind his straps. "Who are you anyways? And why did they let you in here? I thought visitors weren't allowed during the weekends."
"Ever so curious." The old man let out a small chuckle. "You are correct to inquire my – should I say, unusual presence here today."
Reaching his coat, the old man began digging inside until he finally drew out what appeared to be a well-sealed envelope. "I have come to personally deliver your acceptance letter."
"Acceptance letter?" Mortimer groused inertly, his droll eyes blinking slowly, trying to comprehend the old man's words.
"Yes, your acceptance letter." He repeated, strolling near the boy. A smile formed when he formally rests an envelope between Mortimer's parted thighs.
Of course, being restrained head to toe, he was unable to grab it. Rather stared with vexed passion. Narrowed eyes moved between the envelope and then to the old man.
"I seem to be tied up at moment. If you could kindly open it for me, I'd appreciate the assistance." He asked in toneless voice but kept it polite.
Mortimer's choice of words made the old man's mouth quirk up in response. Nevertheless, had nodded his head and began cracking the envelope seal to reveal the lettering.
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Having only read the title, Mortimer let out a humorous scoff.
This man really was out of his mind.
The start of some odd joke and mortimer appeared to be the punchline. Granted he was never optimistic in the first place. There was a small, teeny, tiny part of him that truly wanted to believe in chance. With most things – speaking from his own experience's, had suspected that this was some kind of a ruse to let his guard down and before he could turn his head, would be struck in the back.
Knowing it was too good to be true. Mortimer's dismissive breath and his hopes were quickly diminished by this piece of scrap that laid before him.
Finding himself dissuaded at the witticism and after a moment, he fully inhaled a breath. "Right, well thank you for delivering this interesting," Useless "letter..."
Mortimer eyed the letter one last time before glancing back at the man. If this was meant as a joke, Mortimer was not laughing. If anything, he felt insulted. Insulted that anyone would go far as to prank him; almost pathetic.
Not knowing what else to do, mortimer solely wanted to go back to his room. Or at least get away from this geezer.
He starts stretching his neck as far as his body would allow him to. He then howls at the door, frowning once he caught the fossil pursing his lips. "Charlie! I want to go back to my room now!"
Met with silence. Mortimer grimaced seeing as how his calls were ignored.
The old man's gleaming expression never left the boy. His ambiguity was annoying Mortimer more as he offered his not-so-charming smile.
"I'm afraid 'Charlie' won't be able to hear us." Raising his half-moon spectacles. "You see the reason I am here today was to introduce myself and inform you on a few things."
"Like?" The young boy questioned the man before silently glancing down at the letter. Due to his curiosity and an excuse to avoid eye contact, he skimmed over the parchment. He began reading what appeared to be a list of unheard supplies.
On impulse, this causes mortimer to snap his neck. To ease the tension on his hardened body.
The aged man peered in front the tightly bound lad. "My dear boy, have you any knowledge of your parents?" He began.
Mortimer halted briefly. There was a time where thoughts about his parents clouded his mind. He often wondered what they were like. How did they look? Did they know he even existed? Unfortunately with so little information, he never found any answers. More so with fewer people to enquire from.
He had thought about asking his grandmother – Nana as he called her – However, a certain fear he felt when drawing near had made it impossible. Let alone to find the courage.
Logically the only answer he could only come to is, "No. . . I think they're dead." He pauses slightly. "Or maybe they didn't want me..." Sickly, he told. "I mean, look at me; ain't the sort of place you expect to find a kid." He grumbled.
The unknown man hummed in agreement before nodding his head slightly. "And how long have you been in here exactly?"
Mortimer sighed, recalling his arrival.
When they told him that he would not be able to go 'home' due to unfortunate events, mortimer cried. As most children would, the idea of never returning home or even seeing their loved ones would certainly drive them into a frenzy. Though, mortimer's situation was different.
Yes, he was crying and despite the image.
However, they weren't tears of sadness – no – that would imply that he cared. No, they were tears of joy.
Stepping foot into a new sanctuary, he remembered being relieved to the point of being thankful. Thankful to be finally removed from that atrocious house. Away from that biddy old hag who calls herself a grandmother. Mortimer was all too grateful to even bother to care for her faults.
For the first time in years, he felt optimistic. Looking towards better days, mortimer had achieved absolute freedom. Sure, living in mental institute wouldn't have been his first choice. Though, being away from Nana was enough for him.
"Mmm- 'bout four years." He answers truthfully.
The man found himself wondering for a moment. "What do you recall?"
Giving him a warily expression, Mortimer quelled and gave a scruple muse. "Recall what?"
"Before your arrival." Clasping his hands together, he asked with unperturbed force. "Certain details, prior, are a little muddled to begin with and it would be nice if you could clear up a few things."
"Like what?" Mortimer mouthed with his eyes glued on the green ink parchment.
The silver-bearded man gave him one look. A stare communicating its intent, mortimer could sense without having to physically move.
"It was reported that during your adolescent's, you lived with an elderly woman by the name, Miriam Porton." The old man observed. "Is it true?"
Mortimer gave him a briskly glare before returning to the letter. "Nana? Yeah – What about her?"
He cleared his throat; nearly reluctant to ask but imminently asked. "If I may be so bold. What became of her? It was reportedly labeled as unforeseeable circumstances - 'Spontaneous Human Combustion' - They say."
At this point, Mortimer had stopped reading. It was obvious that the old man didn't believe the story. Nor did he sound too surprised that something as uncommon as this unfolded in front of the boy.
Mortimer stood quiet for a second. He had to reassure himself that old man knows nothing. That mortimer isn't guilty of anything. "It's true." He says, ignoring the pounding in his chest.
"Is it?" The elderly man retorts back. The perceptive man watches him closely when he sees the boy tense up.
There was something off about the old man's tone. He pauses, it seemed mortimer was taken aback and was even more surprised when he noticed the old man's deep gaze.
A type of insinuation in the elder man's tone that made the boy believe he knew more than he let on. While it was true, mortimer didn't intend to pour out his entire being to a complete stranger. It would be incredibly stupid to confess now after these years.
And even though mortimer wasn't allowed much mobility, he tried to straighten himself before answering. "I was there. So – Yes. How else would you explain it? Honestly, I know nothing more than what was already told, Sir."
"Ah- forgive my manners. I am Professor Dumbledore." A greeting smile plays before he bobs his head.
Such a strange title. Mortimer found himself struggling to follow. What would a professor be doing here? Still, it wouldn't be the first time they have visitors like this. There were those who wanted to learn and study the mental and unbalanced. He was rather confused, considering he was the least interesting out of all the other children.
True to himself, mortimer believed there were better test subjects to choose from, aside from him. For example, his roommate Kevin; everyone called him kook. The reason for the name unfortunately stem from the fact that Kevin was schizophrenic. A fidget boy. From time to time his little buddy was often caught talking to inanimate objects. And these weren't your typical murmur of words, no, these were conversations. Conversations that soon turned into arguments. Arguments into full blown fights.
Comparing himself to his roommate, mortimer lost in that department. If anything, he was the most sane of all the children here. It was nearly embarrassing having to admit that he was actually boring; plain and basic.
Turning his attention, mortimer questioned in a passive tone that almost sounded humorous. "You're Professor? A professor of what? Nuts?"
Dumbledore proceeds to smile with his twinkling eyes that pierced right through the boy's dark peering orbs. "I guess that would make me the Nutcracker." He laughs softly. "Ah- No. As interesting as that would be, I am not. But I deviate from the topic here."
After a short break, Dumbledore's face turns into a serious expression that crept along his bearded face. Putting his hands behind his back, the professor asks. "What was your experience living with your grandmother?"
Slowly, his heart begins to race. This was not the conversation he was expecting. It was also one he didn't want to dwell on. Brooding over the eerie and uncomfortable memories he tried to forget. Even now he still had a hard time.
The man continues to stare in silence. He was waiting for an answer, which causes mortimer to stiffen. The boy's coldness resembling another moment in time. Knowing that history tends to repeat itself, Dumbledore prayed he isn't too late. "I know it may be hard for you to discuss such issues but it is an important matter."
"For who?" Mortimer asks, heavily irritated.
Dumbledore doesn't answer. Instead, a strange tingling sensation runs through mortimer's head. Almost invading, it became unpleasant that he began to look away.
Reinforcing the tension on his body, he's never experienced such violating discernment since – He didn't dare finish that thought. Mortimer didn't respond - could not - until Dumbledore asked.
"I take it she wasn't the most welcoming?"
The child knew very well the direction this was heading.
And he did not like it.
Not one bit.
Against his better judgement, Mortimer replies in somber. At the same time, attempting to reject the professor's deep stare. "No. No she was not."
"Your grandmother – She was religiously devoted. Was she not?" Dumbledore asked with a gentle tone as to not sound offensive.
"Mmm – No kiddin'." Mortimer drawled quietly.
His thoughts passed by Nana and her creaky worn-out bunk she called her home. The heavy wooded floorboards often made loud creaks with every step that made it futile to hide and sneak away. The walls were taped over by awful, dirty, crumbling roseate wallpaper; flower patterned. There was nothing but tattered furniture and smeared china displays that only achieved in gathering dust. Never has the sun's natural light entered the dark voided halls of the home.
Before realising it, mortimer's forehead furrow with tiny creases. Going forward as to remember his grandmother's shrilling voice. It was hard to forget her elongated, wrinkled face. Along with her long sharp nails that could have easily penetrated through any soft surfaces. Her banshee-like appearance was a stuff of nightmares. And there was no waking up.
Yes – That shrilling voice; going back to the previous topic. That horrible, loud, squalling pitch was capable of breaking glass. There was no stopping the loud utterances that often echoed through the den.
Mortimer didn't even need to concentrate. He could still hear her from beyond.
Heathen! Heathen spawn is what you are!
You were born out of sin and therefore will remain that way!
Sinful boy!
You evil infidel! To defy our Lord, is to worship the Devil!
Your dare question our Lord!? The time will come when all the unholy evils of this rotten world will be rid of!
Attic…
He had to stop himself; and quickly.
Retreating back to his reality, Mortimer recognizes the facial features that spelled pity. He was fairly sure that dumbledore was aware of something. The idea of him knowing was enough to anger the boy. The nerve of this old man... He knew nothing.
If mortimer were to talk now, he was positive they would send him to juvenile hall. That is until he could be fully charged as an adult. He didn't want that.
Mortimer was rather content in his own little box. Sure, things could have been better; a whole lot better. But then again, it could have been equally worse. At least here he was looked after. Fed, clothed, sheltered, most of all, he was left alone. The excuses he made was simply to avoid being placed in an orphanage.
It was the last resort for unwanted children. The boy frowns at that word. No one likes the idea of being 'unwanted', to mortimer, it was junk being thrown into a trash can. Him being the junk. He was being dumped in a bin with the rest of the 'unwanted' scraps of the world; the children. Better to be labeled a loon than an orphan; in his opinion.
Mortimer was adamant in avoiding the overcrowded place.
It's been a long time since he's felt this nervous – Truthfully now that he has, mortimer wants nothing more than to leave.
Except he was too stunned to say anything but sit in his presence as the old man studied him with great curiosity.
Dumbledore's mannerisms were no help either. It was like he knew the answers to his own questions. In turn, took the boy to an uncomfortable place. But soon, Mortimer's fearful thoughts became a reality as soon as Dumbledore announced bluntly.
"You murdered her." Dumbledore declared boldly. Not as question, but as a fact. "You burned her alive."
A horrible twisting feeling stabs mortimer in the gut. The whole room suddenly became small – Has it always been looked this way? The realisation of Dumbledore knowing could end disastrous for mortimer. He's tried so hard convincing everyone he was the victim; partly true. But he was in no way innocent either. His past action and disregard of another life left a stain in his moral. After his little ordeal, mortimer came to terms. What he did was in no way right.
Consequently it left him desensitized.
He couldn't explain it. A lingering prickling jab within his skull was thumping. Mortimer's quickly targeted on the old man. There was something off about his stare. At first glance, you might find it warm, almost comforting. It made you want to trust him. Mortimer was no fool. The further he glared, the more he could spot the deceiving illusions used to hide and trick him.
"A confession? You want a confession? Is that it? You came all this way – for a confession?"
"Are you confessing?"
Mortimer laughs. "I don't understand. Are you an old boyfriend of hers? That's what's gotten you riled up? An old dead woman?"
"That 'old dead woman' was the only thing keeping you from confinement. Yet, you seem oddly unperturbed by the situation." A narrow frown emerges from the bearded man. The boy's lack of empathy was starting to worry him.
"So what? It happened a long time ago – I had enough time to get over it."
"And for some reason you have not denied the accusation. If one were so innocent, the natural thing to do is go on the defensive. Wouldn't you agree?" Dumbledore shot back. A swift rush anger rose from the boy's core – made clear by his facial features.
Mortimer was fed up. His intuition was telling him to be done with it – To be done with him. What would the old man gain from one simple word? He wasn't sure – What was a sure thing, the amount of effort Dumbledore was putting in.
"Does it matter? You seem to have already known the answer before coming here. What do you want really? You an officer? A boyfriend? What?" Mortimer knitted his brows, bared small irate teeth. "What do you want from me? Why did you come here? What's the purpose of this whole thing?"
It became silent for a while. As it felt like hours more than minutes, Dumbledore took this moment to contemplate, creatively speaking. While he knew mortimer's mind was set to stay here. He was also aware because the boy felt as though he had no other options.
Having only seen a glimpse inside the young boy's mind, it was easily noticeable to see how much mortimer was holding back – how much he was hurting. Children his age tend to be far more expressive with their emotions.
Holding little to none, it was an open book. Easily sliding within the cracks of the young minds. It was fascinating to watch in person. For someone his age, Dumbledore was impressed by Mortimer's straiten behavior. Then again, this boy was no ordinary child.
Mortimer wanted to leave and even if he wanted to, it was clear that Dumbledore was well aware by now. The only question he head left. What was he waiting for? A confession? An invitation? Dumbledore hadn't technically accuse him – not yet – still, the indications were there and it was enough reason not to trust him.
Mortimer was bitter. Glaring on to his tied down wrists, he felt shame. He was stuck on a chair, crippled. Breaks were pumped downwards to stop him from moving around.
He was distressed, but wanted to end it. If saying 'yes' would rid this man off his sights than mortimer would not hesitate.
And so he did just that, without a pang of conscience. He airs. "I did." He nods meekly at his own admission. True to himself, he was surprisingly relived. Having found solace in his confession. He'd be lying if he didn't say he wasn't a little upset. Upset to have being caught. While still sitting here; guilt free from his actions.
"I did it – Yes – I did it." He repeated quietly. "I did it – And I don't regret it..."
The twinkle in the man's eyes were gone. Replacing it, was one that could be described as discontent. "I presumed as much."
Dumbledore's spectacles shimmered in the sunlight's gaze, watching the silent boy sitting back.
It was hard to tell what the old man was thinking. Unlike him, dumbledore hid his emotions well.
Unbeknown to Mortimer, Dumbledore was able to catch a glimpse of the boy's mind before silently slipping away.
There was anger, so much anger. There was a hint of scorn and contempt, most of which pointed towards his grandmother. It was understandable. The files he read on mortimer's previous home life could be described as… concerning.
Most of What Dumbledore read was based on pure speculation and second-hand information. The only person who is able to fill in the gaps has all but remained silent. A wall mortimer has built for himself. He refuses to acknowledge that it happened. Hardly uttering a word, mortimer never spoke about his time there. But surely, it must have been enough for him to devalue life.
The professor could effortlessly say he has seen this type of character once or twice before; maybe more. A great deal of darkness clouded these people horribly. Ultimately, it had never ended well for them. They were exceptional – yes – but faulty towards their insecurities.
It was similarly curious; he had to admit. The boy was very much like his father - even more so in appearance. It was close to staring at an old ghost, mixed with nostalgia. He felt as if he was re-living the same scene. A small piece of time that stuck with him. Indeed, it was uncanny that Dumbledore had to remind himself that mortimer was not him.
In regards, dealing with Mortimer, Dumbledore had to handle the matter delicately. What this boy needed now was a clean slate, guidance. Away from the bad influences that surrounded Mortimer. To steer him from the dark temptations of evildoing before it gets worse. As sad as it was, Mortimer has already taken a life, and that can never be undone – Any other actions he chooses forth will shape the kind person he will grow to be. Whether he becomes a fighter for light or shift into becoming something darker.
It was vigorous task. A task resting solely on how much the child was willing to allow and learn the values. Values such as family and love – something which his father never understand. Mortimer was not to blame. Of course, it was untouched territory, a foundation that the boy had no experience with.
It was why Dumbledore was determined.
It was monumental for mortimer to understand the importance of what it means to take a life; to taint one's soul.
Stepping forward, dumbledore spoke softly, conveying with warm intentions. "Your emotions cloud your judgement..."
To only then advise. "You seek revenge. Revenge can never be justified. If only – adds more damage to an already existing depredation. And sadly, my dear boy, you will only hurt yourself more by giving into these desires." His words weighing down with joyless nature.
There was a drawn out pause in the room.
Mortimer didn't reply at first. Rather resumed his already situated seat.
He could hardly believe the old man's foolish words. How dare he preach him about his actions. What the hell did he know about revenge? He has no right! The old man knew nothing about him, and yet he has the audacity to act like he does.
Mortimer's lips twitched. He resisted the urge to fight off the straps on his limps in order to rid those annoying twinkling eyes.
Unsettled, Mortimer resorted to his temper. "You know nothing old man." He ground out bitterly, raising his tone.
Dumbledore brushed off the boy's insult and proceeded to speak in a calm accent.
"Regardless, it has come to my knowledge that the woman who raised you from birth was by no means a blood relative. How you came into her possession, I am not so sure myself." There was a pause. "Your existence was unknown until your name turned up for the fall semester." Dumbledore admitted while simultaneously adjusting his tie slightly.
Irritation continued to contort Mortimer's young features.
His premeditated response was simple. "I'm not interested."
There was a heavy pause in the room. With both of them in the room, they both looked at the other. Mortimer was in source of vexation and Dumbledore in tranquil state.
"Personally, I think it would be an excellent opportunity for you to learn how to control yourself. A chance to explore further than the indoor grounds. Breathe air that is free from the smells of disinfectant and saturated alcohol. Meet children - Make friends who will listen, not to those who are paid to." He advised.
"Like you're any better." Mortimer snarled. "At least here they don't ask stupid question. O-Or lecture me on human morals. You don't know me old man. So stop pretending like you do. The only person who does – is me."
"You honestly believe that?"
"Yes! I do – in here, I'm free."
"Like you are now? Tied and bound. You can truthfully say, without a doubt, you're happy living this way?"
"Could be worse…" He shrugged.
"How so?"
"I could be living with nana…"
Exceedingly worse, Mortimer thought to himself. If he had to pick his own poison, he would rather live the rest of his life in a loony den – or anywhere – rather than having to set foot into that horrid place of a hovel. Abhorred the idea to be under her care, he tensed underneath the nylon straps. Shaking his head, mortimer wasn't ready to talk. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to. Not to the old man at least.
Frowning, there were still missing pieces to the puzzle that dumbledore had opened.
Mortimer opened his mouth to protest, but stopped midway. He shook his head. "Why are you here? You don't know me – and what do mean we aren't related?" He releases a loud sigh. "And what's this about a school on witchery? Are you mad? Is this a prank of sorts? What does this all mean… I'm so confused. I hate it."
Looking away, Mortimer emits out a sigh against his unpleasant position. "Keep your secrets Professor. Just leave me alone. I don't want to talk to you anymore." His hands tighten shut under the chairs grip.
The man stood there quietly for a time, mulling over his options. A parental trait, Dumbledore what was witnessing mortimer's patience. The boy's low tolerance had certainly derived from his mother. Yes – Dumbledore knew he wasn't dealing with just anyone's child. It was a child conceived out promising convenience. Sadly, to become a tool for his father to use, a pawn. And once Mortimer outlived his usefulness, will soon be thrown out like the rest.
"Yes. Understandable, you have not had a privileged life and for that, I apologize. Living in constant fear will make anyone distrustful. And you, are certainly doubtful. It was my mistake to have been so hopeful. But it is mistake I am determined to correct."
Grunting, Mortimer's dark piercing eyes took in the old man's expression. Appearing as if he had been caught; a motion of guilt - if you will - that burdened him.
About what? The boy could not answer. But that didn't necessarily mean he wasn't a bit curious as to why. Which begs the question, if dumbledore knew so much about him, did he know? Did the old man know about what happened behind closed doors of his home? Did he know the conditions he had been reduced to? Did he know the ruthlessness behavior that was known to be his grandmother?
I suppose none of it really matters.
It was clear that dumbledore wanted him to agree and come with him, going so far as being determined. Yet, seemed concern, reluctant to accept the damaged boy who lacked moral fiber.
Maybe the old man's disinclination was brought on by the fact Mortimer was not exactly the sanest at the moment. Which he sympathized. I mean who in their right mind would want to expose their children to a lag scilicet to him?
Though he would never admit it to anyone, mortimer was self-aware. He knew what he did was wrong, he just didn't care. A child like him mostly ignored the feelings of others and did not share in another person's experience, notably their emotions. It was a waste of time. The very reason why he had kept to himself. Why no one dare to befriend him.
Even then there was no guarantee that he wouldn't be infected by memories. Reliving the images that afflict him in a way because of how much he was robbed of a childhood.
He didn't like thinking about it.
Times where he would lay in his bed, reminiscing, the nightmares of her loud eerie footsteps that slowly made their way to him, plaguing him.
Mortimer hated the power she had over him. Shuddery at the retention spreading his whole body. He never felt so humiliated; so demoralized, it only helped to fuel his anger. The thought of even returning there caused nausea to his stomach. He had to resist showing the old man his true feelings.
But it was over now.
He would never have to be in her presence ever again. She was good and dead and all the boy had to look forward to is spending the rest of his youth under the care of his wards; until he was of age of course.
But if what the old man said was true - about him not being related at all – Then what did that make her? Who was nana really? Was he kidnapped? Stolen? Why was he there in the first place? Where did they find him? More importantly, who his parents were. Were they even alive? These who, what, where and how's only frustrated him more.
The child scowled inwardly, the sappy emotion he was conveying was starting to catch up to him; he didn't like feeling this way. Not a second more, Mortimer starts to notice the old man's intense stare again.
As though Dumbledore could see the boy's inner thoughts, the silver-haired man lamented in response. "Who are you… really…?" Mortimer hushed softly.
When Dumbledore didn't answer, another question was brought up. "Did you know my mum? My dad?" The daring child whispered.
There was a hint of desperation seeping in his tone.
At first, he thought Dumbledore wouldn't respond. He made it seem like he wasn't going to, on account of the pressuring silence that followed.
Taking off his sickle-shaped specs, the old man took it upon himself to settle down on the doctor's own soft oversize chair.
His hands resting on his lap, Dumbledore began to tell the tale. Carefully he explained. "Your father was a very gifted man; charming too. Top of his year. Teachers praised him for we all knew he would go on to do great things."
Stroking his beard, he continued. "But great does not necessarily mean good…"
Mortimer was still, eagerly listening when the professor proceeded to say.
"There was always a certain darkness that lingered where he walked. You could almost see it. Those who didn't were often times doomed. Knowing this, your father was good at masking his position. Quickly learning how to deceive and manipulate those around him. He uses it to his fullest advantage. But no matter how much he accomplished, it was never enough for him."
A weary smile stilled in his face – Regret, as Mortimer could tell. "I must confess... I feel moderately responsible. My treatment towards him is not one I am proud of." He nodded as he stared despondently.
The old man was watching him. Cold and unwilling, the boy only glared down in response.
With his eyes still glued to the ground, mortimer gritted before calmly bidding. "What about mum?"
The lad watched as the old wizard paused, an unpleasant cast on his face – Free from strife "Analogous to your father, your mother was powerful and fierce. Alas, she too lacked the importance of empathy. She had a short temper; dangerously violent – "
"Where are they now?" Mortimer's teeth bared when he intermitted with greed. Now more than ever, he wanted to know more – No. Needed to know more!
"Your mother currently resides in Azkaban – A prison. Your father…" The old man's voice stopped, reflecting. "As theatrical as the prospects may be, I believe he is still out there."
"Still out there? What's that supposed to mean? Is he dead or not?" Mortimer barked; his body jerked in his moderate seat. It was clear that the boy did not understand the context of his response.
"Depends on who you ask." Unruffled, he answered truthfully.
Mortimer's hollow eyes widened, reacting in the sense of betrayal. Free and dread started pouring over his shaky body. There was darkness wavering throughout his face. To then exhale a small sound of hurt.
It couldn't be. The professor had to be lying. There was no way he was telling the truth. It sounded too unreal, even for him. Impossible…
Mortimer only needed to look into Dumbledore's eyes to know he was telling the truth. His glistening eyes that spoke volumes. There was no denying it.
His parents were bloody alive.
They were alive.
They were alive…
They left him here.
They left him here…
Here to rot…
Words that kept repeating – Hammering inside his skull.
They were alive and they him here to rot.
Taking note, mortimer could see the old man's pity stare. It was absurd! Mortimer didn't need his charity. He didn't need him. He didn't need his parents. He didn't need anyone!
Mortimer wanted to shout and yell. To call him a liar. That every word he said was nothing but a made up tale to get under his skin.
Digging into his own skin violently, a hate-filled glare that had no target broadcasted in the room.
The way dumbledore had described his parents led him to believe they were full-fledged villains. With a father who sounded like a power-hungry tyrant. And a mother who fitted right in with the rest of the bloody-minded residents here.
It didn't make sense! How could they do this to him? To me… To be awfully selfish that they would just leave him behind. Did they even care that he existed at all? Would them knowing change anything? Sure his parent's will know but would they care enough to be actually be there?
To care and comfort when he desperately needed it; wanted it – Would he still be here if they were indeed alive? Mortimer wondered if having parent's could have changed anything. Better or worse, he was curious to know.
But the bitter anger, alongside blackness that filled his body, mortimer was quick to disregard and neglect the thought. Instead, his cross cloudy eyes became tense with rage that the old man noticed the sudden surge of magic he was emitting.
No sooner had Dumbledore expected, Mortimer began to vent in the only way he could – as any child would.
Hands grip tightly. The letter that formerly rested on his lap slips down on the velvet carpet. A momentary silence that followed signaled both parties in the room of what was to come.
Aggressively, Mortimer begins thrashing inside the restraint chair, breathing loudly as he battles against the contraption.
His legs strived in kicking but with little to no success. Arms pulling away from the heavy-duty nylon straps and of course, failing at it. Tossing and rolling like a wild animal without restrictions, only to be caged.
He curses both dumbledore and his parents, furious with every single one them. He was robbed of many things. What he wanted now was retribution for the years he was forced to endure with his grandmother – wait, no. That wasn't right. The old woman was no one. Like Dumbledore said, she was nothing but a complete stranger.
A stranger he was forced to live with. A stranger whose malicious antics were to be endured. To be ruled under her neglectful care.
Cursing once more, he felt betrayed. Whether it was true or not, it didn't really matter – What did was the wasted time that was spent there. Every second of everyday, living in nervy terror, worrying you pissed of the old hag to deserve discipline or pleased her enough to leave you alone.
The heavy-sound pounding carried on for a few more seconds.
His physical outburst progressively came to a halt slowly when he began to lose energy. He began to pant, breathing heavily as he lifted his strained head.
He settles down and only stops to catch his breath. It was a heartbreaking feeling. He was defeated.
The hidden truths and lies that were kept from him, it hurt. By the looks of it, Mortimer could see more in the man's eyes. Eyes containing valuable information.
But what else was there? What could be worse than finding out your parents were still alive? Or knowing your oppressing grandmother wasn't your grandmother; an unrelated stranger.
Staring at the ceiling, an immediate burning sensation forms in his body; knowing it was from the cuff's bounds.
But chooses to ignore it.
Dumbledore was concerned for him, at the same time inured with amid curiosity.
His meaningful glance met with Mortimer's glowered stare. "I apologize, it was not my intention to cause you distress."
"Of course, you didn't. You just meant to shove and tell me that everything I thought I knew was a complete lie! I have parents – a family that could have taken care of me. Instead, I was forced to live an old mad woman who isn't even related to me at all! Tell me professor how is this not meant to cause me distress!" Mortimer shouted, fighting back against these indefatigably straps that held him.
Minutes of silence from both, Mortimer breathed in deeply while Dumbledore sat back without so much as a word.
"I meant what I said." Dumbledore spoke, breaking the silence in the room.
"Wh-What?"
When mortimer finally did calm down,he now docile boy swatted off the apology and turns his attention onto dumbledore. "What do you mean by that?"
Suspending his reply, Dumbledore leans back in the sectional. His hands rested on the arms chair. "Sanctuary. I offer you sanctuary within Hogwarts – And should you decide, I can relocate you to your family."
"There's more of them?" Mortimer sounded surprised.
A nod was his only response.
"You mean it?" Mortimer jerked his head up and stared in disbelief. Family... The word itself was difficult to say, harder to believe, stranger to see…
Dumbledore understood and merely nods his head again.
He could see that Mortimer was greatly affected by his willingness to help the young boy.
Part of Mortimer wanted to accept. Still, this all sounded too good to be real. If he accepted, would dumbledore want something in return? Chances like this rarely happened to him, when it did, there was always a catch. A debt even. Mortimer however could not offer anything in return - not that he could think of.
Swallowing hard, mortimer averted his eyes away from dumbledore's as he asked. "What do you want – for your help that is."
To answer his question, dumbledore smiled at his acceptance and walked over to Mortimer's strapped body.
"What I want in return is simple my dear boy, patience. And a little effort in school would not be so bad."
Taking out what mortimer thought to be an ordinary stick. He was visibly shocked when his mouth opened to realise it wasn't what he thought it would be.
Dumbledore's wand became visible. And soon, waved his hand over Mortimer's tightly buckled hand.
Instant simultaneously, the couplings that once ensnared the boy's small limbs had unlocked itself, freeing mortimer at last.
There was exhilarating joy upon hearing the sounding clanks of the bindings. He couldn't help but laugh to himself. It felt so right.
Dumbledore watches the child massaging his wrists. He kneads them to rid of the ache.
Offering the boy his hand, dumbledore presented. "Are you ready my dear boy?"
Mortimer will never look back.
He quickly recovers. The excitement of finally leaving made him smile with relief.
Mortimer was more than ready.
For the first time in years, mortimer felt happiness.
Taking the elderly wizard's hand into his own, mortimer answers with glee. "Yes."
Becoming obsolete, they disappeared from the secured building without a trail. Almost as if Mortimer never existed.
The long silence that followed in the area; they were gone.