Title: The Difference Between Us
Author: Sar'Kalu
Summery: Those icy green eyes swept along the man's body with clear disgust, seemingly able to pierce the mans flesh with the cold knowing in them. "The difference between Tom and I, Professor, is that Tom doesn't know the difference between right and wrong, good and bad. Me? I simply don't care."
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and/or any of its affiliates is the strict property of J.K Rowling and Warner Bros.
Rating: 15+; dark themes and character death.

Part One (July, 1999)

"We should forgive our enemies, but not before they are hanged"
― Heinrich Heine

The moors were quite, the rolling green hills were weathered and framed against a weeping grey sky; the tips of the silvery grass dipped and roiled beneath the cold wind from the north. It had stopped raining hours ago, and still the ground remembered the downpour, like the sky had been weeping for what was still to come. On the tallest hill stood an old man dressed in brilliant and archaic red robes, gaudily etched with heavy gold thread, an eyesore for traditional wizarding fashion; behind him in a rough semi-circle stood the assembled forces of his beloved and famous Order of the Phoenix. The sky was darkening with the promise of a second downpour, and as the man looked up into icy green eyes, he knew the bitter taste of betrayal and defeat. It was a strange and sad sight to see the famed Defender of the Light to be so tired and weary, his very body drained of the cheerful exuberance that had so characterised his life before this distressing and unpalatable moment. Weary blue eyes weighed the youth before him from beneath white eyebrows as his feet scrambled and scrabbled along the ground, his heels marking the trail of tiny rivulets that traced the girth of the hill he stood on, even as he shuddered from the chill north wind, and his entire face was seamed with exhaustion.

His defeater if that was even the correct term, —for had he even stood a chance against this most tragic of deeds?— was the woman he had once considered his staunchest ally, a girl who he had trusted above all others. The Bringer of Light she had been named —for how could she not?— she had such a ready grin and cheerful green eyes, always laughing even in the face of doubts and vicious words. And now, the man supposed that the girl would be renamed by the Daily Prophet, once this debacle was over, —betrayal was always a particularly bitter pill to swallow, one that chokes even the most steadfast of men— She stood in front of him, her green eyes no longer lit with that cheerful exuberance that had so characterised her behaviour until now. He felt the fool for trusting her. Tall and proud she stood above him, that cursed wand in her thin fingers, a cruel smile —taunting him— upon those thin lips and her midnight dark hair brushed her shoulders in a wild and fey manner, tangling down her back like a waterfall of midnight darkness. So beautiful, so broken, —how had he not noticed?— he dropped his eyes, ashamed for what he'd done; —the Greater Good— how great and good she was now, a monster of his making, just as her predecessor before her.

There was no doubting that the girl was dark, dangerous and far beyond anything that the man had ever thought, but she had seemed so sincere, so faithful to the cause —was it any wonder he felt confused and betrayed now?— and despite the constant warnings, the whispers of Darkness about her, he had decided to trust her. To give her a second chance. To believe in her. But it had been too late —already she had fallen— and in the House of Masks, she had learnt everything there was to know about deception and falsities. And now, for the first time since his youth, —when his limbs had been strong and his hair the colour of ruddy gold— the man cursed his inattentive manner towards his students dressed in green and silver; he had been warned about that as well, —"you can't play favourites as a teacher Albus, you must treat everyone equally," the pot bellied colleague said, his bright eyes gleaming with enthusiasm—, how he had failed them. Then there was his ridiculous and very personal decision to grant second chances, and third chances, and even fourth chances—for what could be gained from granting infinite chances?— when he'd been younger, little more than a teenager with bright eyes and a head full of ideals, Gellert had laughed at him, —"so naive, Albus, you're such an innocent, and that will be your downfall"— how truthfully his ex-lover had spoken, and the man despaired as he slid down the slippery slope, unable to look at the girl, his second and greatest failure in the eye.

"Why? Why have you done this?" The man asked, his voice frail as he stood stooping against the darkening backdrop of the shadowed moors.

The young woman sneered. "Poor Albus, The Betrayed Leader of the Light. You trusted me so foolishly, ignoring all the reasons not too, all efforts to persuade you that I was not as I seemed. Even when your when beloved spy came to you, telling of my despicable actions, you remained firm in your belief of me."

The young woman laughed coldly; her voice was no longer that high, fluting sweetness that he remembered, instead it was cold and cruel; unpleasantly so. "How wrong you were, Albus."

The man shuddered and staggered further backwards, down the incline, his footing unsure and unsteady; he scrabbled for purchase on the treacherously slippery grass, tearing great chunks from the ground with his pointy-toed boots, miring their shiny surface with mud. The man sighed heavily, the sound dragging from his throat like a mournful cry halted by the immense pressure of saddened loss.

"How could you do this to us? We trusted you." The man groaned, falling to his knees, no longer able to find purchase on the slippery slope and his old hands, weathered, knotted and worn, tore tufts of grass in his fight to remain at least partially upright.

The young woman sneered. "No, you trusted me. They never did."

"And that makes it right to do this?" The man asked incredulously, uncaring that his robes muddied and wet as he stared up at the young woman who stood on the crest of the hill looking down upon him as though from a great height.

"No, I don't suppose it does." The young woman agreed, her expression amused. Those icy green eyes swept along the man's body with clear disgust, seemingly able to pierce the mans flesh with the cold knowing in them.

"The difference between Tom and I, Headmaster, is that Tom doesn't know the difference between right and wrong, good and bad. Me? I simply don't care."

The man let out a choked sob and bowed his head, resting its weary weight upon the ground as he knelt before his betraying conqueror. Such a difference meant that neither had been brought up well, a fact he'd known well; although any indication at the time had been steadfastly ignored at the time. He had played favourites, and now he was paying the price.

"Then I have failed you." The admission was dragged from his throat, tearing and rasping free like a bird with a broken wing.

The young woman regarded the man with weary impatience and knelt beside him, her voice the cold of the Arctic wind and as implacable as a stone rushing down a mountain. "You never had a chance. You failed Tom and I from the very beginning, Albus."

His name was a curse upon those thin lips and her eyes were like poison barbs, digging into his soft fragile skin. "You left us alone, scared and hated in those godforsaken places, our very own personal hell, and you never once thought to check on us in all the years we were there, you forgot about us and left us!

"Yes, you have failed, but never think for one second, that you could have won. This would always have happened, it just took a little time for you to realise." The words were venomous in their intensity, the hissing quality of parseltongue dragging out the sibilants and making the sentence one insidious proclamation of damnation.

The young woman stood once more, spelling her dark robes clean and crested the hill once more. He watched her, and finally understood the price of playing god; the death of his sister seemed so feeble in comparison to living a life filled with hatred, fear and terror, how they must have felt, knowing that someone could help them escape, only for that person to refuse and walk away. The woman's icy green eyes swept over the quiet battle field and, upon dispelling the thick mist and fog, fell upon the waiting crowd of her and Tom's followers. The man stared in shock and horror —how many there were and not a whisper had reached him— and she raised her thin pale wand and shot up a series of coloured sparks and with a gigantic roar, the crowd —army— surged forwards.

The order had been given, the battle was already pre-decided, all that remained was the subjugation of the rabble that made up the pathetic Light side; and as the first curse was hurled towards his disbelieving followers, Albus Dumbledore, Defeater of the Dark Lord Gellert Grindlewald,Defender of the Light, Headmaster of Hogwarts and owner of half a dozen useless titles, knelt at the feet of a young woman with cold green eyes and wept; knowing that there would be no mercy, there would be no salvation and all he would know soon would be the bite of the cold, the sting of hunger and the all encompassing feeling of terror in the night.

Lilith Dorea Potter sneered down at her old Headmaster who wept so pathetically at her feet, his tears running thick and fast down his seamed cheeks as he understood far too much, far too late, and shivered in delight as the dark aura of her partner enfolded her. Tom had as much right to this moment as she did, after all, he had waited close to sixty years for Albus Dumbledore to repent his mistakes and crimes; and here, upon a desolate hilltop to the despairing cries of his beloved Order of the Phoenix, he wept and feared.

Tom Marvolo Riddle stood beside the cold eyed young woman, forty years his junior, and admired her work. Dumbledore knelt before him, their revenge carried out and the wizarding world bowed in homage to them. It was intoxicating this feeling of victory, of triumph, of vengeance earned and exacted; and Tom threw his head back in joyous abandon and laughed, loud and long. Beside him, Lilith smirked with cold victory written all over her gorgeously beautiful face and Tom —having observed her for the past three weeks, having been bossed around by her, having been taunted by Antonin and Theodore about her— whirled around, catching her arms and pulling her into him, —firm against his body, revealing in her curves and soft skin— and proceeded to kiss —devour— Lilith deeply, thoroughly and sinfully; while their army savaged the Light and blood drenched the already waterlogged ground mixing with the blood with the mud into a thick soup.

"...And so it was that under a cold grey sky where it wept for the Light which fell and lightning heralded the rise of the Dark in a roaring triumph of thick spell-fire and muddied, bloodied bodies; and there upon the tallest hilltop stood the leader's of the Dark. The Dark Lady and her Dark Consort. And at their feet knelt the vanquish leader of the pathetic Light, his head bowed in shame, his spirit broken from truth and his reputation tarnished by his actions; while the Dark Lady and the Dark Consort revelled in the destruction of their enemies and their exultant and glorious ascendancy..."
—Arcturus Malfoy, the Dark Return

A/N: And so ends Part One; please review and let me know what you think,

Kind regards, Sar'Kalu