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The Disowned Heir

AshiyyKii
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Morpheus Lestrange, born from a dark start, never wanted to be Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange's kid. Conceived in cruelty and raised amid hate, he was a reminder of what his mom hated most. To everyone else, he was just the Dark Lord's mistake. But Hogwarts had other ideas. When the Sorting Hat put Morpheus in Hufflepuff, shame took over. His mom kicked him out, pure-blood families laughed at him, and his classmates whispered about him. But this made him even more determined. He spent his time in the library, learning magic and pushing himself hard. What started as desperation turned into something he couldn't stop doing. What started as studying turned into expertise. As Morpheus got stronger, he had a choice to make: Would he give in to the darkness in his family… or become the wizard no one thought he could be? In a school where everyone's name means something, he'd make sure his would be remembered.
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Chapter 1 - Die, You Bitch

Bellatrix Lestrange wondered how such a situation occurred. How could he, the magnanimous Lord Voldemort, be here fucking her like a rabid dog. What had she done to deserve it? Maybe killing a few muggles and wizards, but those extras weren't important. But what she had to do now was kill this stupid, slimy being trying to rape her. Honestly, what the fucking hell got into him, she thought solemnly.

Who the fuck does he think he is to rape me, the great, the future of the world, the queen of evil, the duchess of madness, the one, the only Bellatrix Lestrange, she thought to herself.

His horrid face and flat-ass nose added to his unappealingness and unattractiveness, like he was the mixture of raw gnoll poop and the burning smell of charred muggles. And he dared to do this to her. His eyes disgusted her as he looked at her naked body lasciviously. Lust seemed to control him as he did his thing, leaving Bellatrix exhausted and suicidal.

She awoke in a room where she was greeted by the face of a man she now hated greatly.

"I'm sorry for what I did yesterday. I was under a spell," he lied voraciously.

I wasn't under a spell; it was your fault. You looked too appetizing in that red dress, he thought, but daring not to voice out these opinions—not in fear but in amusement.

"I understand, my lord," she said, undeniably believing him. "However, we need to make preparation against such a being that can control you, the Dark Lord himself."

"That's unnecessary. I used the spell back to the catacombs and controlled him to kill himself after killing his whole clan," he said, satisfied, with a smile on his face. He knew he was a smart and perfect liar; nothing ever contradicted himself.

"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry for doubting your ever-growing power," she said, appealing to his ego, a skill she had honed to near perfection over the years.

Four months later, Bellatrix noticed something strange: her belly was growing bigger, and the fucking shrinking spells weren't working. She needed to think clearly. Deep in her mind she knew she was pregnant, but she was afraid she was going to disturb the atmosphere of the castle. So she roared for the ritual spell to evoke such a restless spirit out of her body when she felt an infallible presence behind her.

"Leave it. It will be very useful in the future," he remarked synodically, and from here a word was never spoken.

On the 4th of February, a young boy was born. His hair ginger.

What the actual freak, Bellatrix thought, as Voldemort just grumbled, "I'm a natural ginger." She didn't understand why she even agreed to this shit, not like she had much of a choice. But back to the lovely boy, with clear heterochromatic green and blue eyes and skin so pale vampires would faint.

Voldemort grinned happily in his mind, already formulating numerous manipulation plans in order to resurrect him in case of failure. That's just how he was: always calculated and ready.

Morpheus Lestrange opened his eyes to see a stunning woman holding him next to a horrendous-looking man and a kind-looking lady. Little did he know these people were going to give him trauma, anxiety, PTSD, and abandonment issues.

But almost as soon as he saw the woman holding him, he was teleported into a nursery with other children. He saw with his drowsy eyes as the man with a wand suddenly said words he couldn't understand.

"Somnus Quinquennium," Voldemort said, and it all faded into black.

From now on, it's going to be in first person, because I can't really write in third person well.

Five years later, I woke. The spell faded like smoke, and I opened my eyes. My head felt heavy, and as I looked around the room, memories whispered details I didn't want to remember.

The air smelled like a mixture of blood and sweat, cloying and suffocating. The walls were a bland brown, and the sight made my stomach turn. The chandelier above was grand, almost mocking in its extravagance, but the single outlet in the room reminded me of how sparse this place truly was. The corners were decorated with skulls, their hollow eyes making my skin crawl. Unease coiled in my chest. This place looks horrible, I mused to myself, every nerve screaming.

I shifted, taking in the details with careful observation, my senses sharper than most. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath me, the faint metallic tang of iron lingering in the air. Shadows clung to corners, making the room seem alive. Every surface whispered of decay and power misused. I knew, even before opening my mouth, that this place would shape me, scar me, and teach me lessons I wasn't ready to hear.

"Cognitio Brevis," I saw a man with long silver hair and icy cold blue eyes say as he cast the spell individually on all the children.

"Morpheus, come with me," the man—whose memories that were implanted to him told him the name was Lucius—said as I followed the man.

"The way you walk is improper and disgusting. I even had the kindness to give you memories of all the necessary etiquettes and you still fail to use it," he said, as she glared at me coldly.

For some weird reason I could think independently. I do not know why, but I assume everyone else is implanted false memories of who this man—Lucius—was actually and his intentions. But I was smart enough not to voice my opinions loudly, as I remembered the correct way to walk in front of superiors: always five steps behind in perfect sync, footsteps low so as not to overshadow them. I had an underlying gut feeling that this was going to be bad.

"Now, I didn't implant this into you for reasons you don't deserve to know, but I must inform you that you are the son of the Dark Lord, and you will be most pivotal in resurrecting him. We already know how to resurrect him, and you will do that as the heir to Slytherin. When you go to Hogwarts you will receive your mission, but for known training," he told me as he dropped old books thicker than dragon flesh.

"What in the weird memory," I told myself as I saw the books that looked longer than the spire of Dark Whispers. "What the fuck has this information? It's so varied," I said. I think I also figured out how I'm so aware, but that's a whole another gnoll box.

"You will memorize and understand the content of this book in three days," he told me. "Food will be provided to you as I see fit, and if you do good, maybe you will be allowed to learn more about yourself."