a.n: the true beginning of this story is the end of the 1st episode and the beginning of run boy run (so chapter 7 and on) if you would like to skip ahead. It's a lot of build up and lore before then, but not necessary for reading. I understand this is a long fic but I hope you can stick with it and enjoy! Remember, this doubles as a "What if Viktor was never lied to" au!

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☂︎ 𝔱𝔰𝔲 | ❛ ᴀ ʜᴀʀɢʀᴇᴇᴠᴇꜱ ʜᴏᴍᴇᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ❜

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𝐕𝐈𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐒 the droplets of rain race across the foggy glass of the cab window. His journey back to the place he could hardly call home was filled with dread. And he wasn't quite sure if it was because of his father's funeral, or knowing he was to face the very place that he had tried so hard to forget.

He could see the cold and unforgiving walls that had surrounded Viktor his entire childhood in his mind's eye. The ones made of marble and the finest wood, decorated with "family portraits" but Viktor knew the only value they held to anyone was strictly monetary. The shrine of himself and his siblings hung like trophies, forever reminding him they were nothing but show dogs. They were their father's trophies.

Try as he might, his siblings were something he could never want far from his reach for long. He thought of them often, specifically when he played. The two of his five brothers he was certain he would never see again were the ones he thought of most.

Everything comes back to him faster than the raindrops that skitter across the glass, faster than the racing of his heart as the cab turns the final corner onto the street he grew up on. Viktor could hear his father's footsteps echoing off the granite floors, the very same that struck fear into the Hargreeves siblings' hearts when they heard him wandering around the house doing God knows what. The smell of his cigars that lingered all throughout the house, leaking directly from the study from which they were all forbidden. The taste of Mom's cooking that and how it always managed to cheer them up. His first taste of loss when his brother had disappeared at dinner all those years ago; which as it seems, was only an appetizer for the dark blanket of ice that imprisoned his heart when the Academy became five. Even the deep rumble of the floors and walls that shook the house from time to time that kept a certain mystery alive in their imaginations.

Before he can dwell on it any longer, the cab comes to a stop. Viktor stands before the Umbrella Academy, not so much his old childhood home. It towers over him in an intimidating matter, much like his father did all his life. The inside was no different. He expected the grand entrance to seem much smaller since his youth, but this was not the case as he stepped inside. The cast-iron chandelier did little to light the two-story entrance in comparison to the mosaic windows that dripped with golden sunlight. And much to his dismay, he felt just as small standing here now as he ever had.

His gaze journeys up the marble columns that support the second floor, his head rolled farther back as he takes in the details that hadn't seemed to change. Viktor stops suddenly when his eyes land on the petite figure seated at the hearth in the adjoining living room. The only sense of warmth in this place he would recognize anywhere, not that it was hard as it looked as if she had stepped right out of time. She was staring blankly ahead, not moving a muscle.

"Hey, Mom," Viktor says.

Grace does not respond. She remains fixed on the fire that roars in front of her. The light of the flames dances off her head of golden hair, and fifties-era clothing and pearls. Growing worried, Viktor inches closer.

"Mom?"

"Viktor?"

Viktor turns when the voice that responds is not his mother's, but his sister's. He's shocked to find Allison descending the stairs and with a welcoming smile no less. Their last exchange, after all, had not been a warm one.

"You made it," Allison breathes, sounding relieved.

Viktor gapes at the woman in front of him, shocked not by the changes in his sister he had caught on films and news articles from time to time, but the fact she was actually talking to him. At first, Viktor braces himself for an off-handed remark he is sure he will receive from his sister; that or disappointment. But to his surprise, Allison's saddened smile widens a bit just for Viktor as she approaches him.

"Hey, V."

Allison now towers over Viktor offering a somber and understanding expression before inviting her brother into a hug. He reluctantly accepts, still unsure as to how or why this was happening but this does not change the spark of warmth he felt at the gesture. As they break apart, they hear a gruff scoff from Diego as he passes them for the stairs.

"What is he doing here?" He does not bother to look their way as he throws his scorn. "You don't belong here. Not after what you did."

Allison's hands find a home in her pockets as she turns to glower after one of their grumpier brothers, Viktor suddenly finding the black and white tile beneath their feet very interesting. At least he had been expecting that.

"You're really gonna do this today?" Asks Allison, watching as Diego marches up the steps without another word in his usual crime-fighting attire. "Way to dress for the occasion, by the way."

Without skipping a beat - or sparing a glance in their direction - he throws back a remark as swiftly as one of his knives.

"At least I'm wearing black."

Wounded, but not surprised in the least, Viktor grimaces as he looks up at his sister. Worn from years of newfound isolation, he shrugs off any instinct of a fight. "You know what? I-"

He shakes his head, gesturing to the door. "Maybe he's right. And I shouldn't-"

"Forget about him," Allison says through a face of anger, though her eye held sympathy reserved only for Viktor. "I'm glad you're here."

Viktor manages a small smile when he searches his sister's eyes and finds no trace of sarcasm or pity. Instead, all he finds is genuine longing and remorse. This was not the sister he knew as a young boy, the one who was so quick to side with their father and brothers when he needed her most. The one that had cut him so deeply when both of them were already so wounded. And because of this very fact, Viktor had absolutely no idea how he felt. He was torn. So many unkind things had been said by both of them. Ben truly was the glue that held them all together, and without him, the academy crumbled; starting from its strongest bond.

And now? Now what, Viktor didn't know. He was still swept up in the whirlwind of recent events and now they were colliding with their past. But Allison's willingness - her sincerity, is what made Viktor hesitate.

Maybe, just maybe, with their horrible excuse of a father gone they'd have a decent chance. A decent chance at getting through one lousy funeral together.

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The floorboards cry out under Luther's weight as he paces his late father's room, a frown screwed onto his face. He does not dismiss a single detail he takes in in fear he will miss something crucial. Something about all of this, the thought of death defeating even the great Sir Reginald Hargreeves, defied all logic he had been force-fed since he was a boy. There just had to be more, Luther was sure of it.

His eyes are trained on one of several vials aligned along the windowsill near the locks when it happens again, another earthquake. The vials begin to wobble, each vial gently clashing with the other creating an almost bell-like sound. Luther counts the seconds until the earthquake ends; seven seconds. A bit longer than he remembered, but nothing too unusual.

"I can save you some time,"

Luther turns from the windows to find Diego watching him in the doorway, wearing the same cocky smirk he always did.

"They're all locked," Diego confirms. "No forced entry, no sign of struggle. Nothing out of the ordinary."

Diego steps into the soft blanket of light that coats the room, his face lighting up in curiosity at the sight of his brother.

"Oh, you got big, Luther," his voice comes out in a mocking drawl. "What's the secret, huh? Protein shakes? Low carbs?"

Having none of it, Luther attempts to brush it off, desperate to move on. "What do you want?"

Satisfied with himself for having gotten to his brother, Diego digs into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of parchment that crinkles in his hand as he offers it.

"The autopsy report," Luther grabs for it, and with another smirk, Diego pulls it away for gimmicks. "Ah,"

Luther rips it from Diego's hand, furthering Diego's satisfaction.

"And you have this why?" Luther asks hotly, unfolding the report.

"Well, that's because I..." Diego bows himself into the plush upholstered chair in the corner. "broke into the coroner's office. And surprise, surprise, Dad's death was... normal."

Luther's insistent glare scours the report as Diego confirms what it reads. "Just a boring, old heart failure."

Luther winces internally at the black and white photo of his father laying lifeless in the morgue.

"Yeah, so?" Luther chokes back.

"So," Diego drones, confused. "why are you in here, checking all the windows?"

Luther looks at him suddenly, and curiously. "Were you the first one on the scene?"

"Pogo found him."

"Yeah, I talked to Pogo," Luther answered, his suspiciousness shining through. "He said he couldn't find Dad's monocle."

Sensing what is coming, Diego battles an eye-roll. There's a glint of perturbance in his eyes, and as if testing his brother he asks the question he knows he is about to face.

"And your point is?"

"Can you think of a single time you saw Dad and he wasn't wearing that monocle? No. Which means someone took it. Which means there's a chance he wasn't alone when he died."

Diego stares at the floor in impatience, waiting for his brother's speech to finish. He launches himself out of the chair and stalks towards Luther eager to put his ideas to rest.

"There is no mystery here. Nothing to avenge." Diego says. "Nothing to solve, nothing like that. It's just a sad old man who kicked it, in a big, empty house. Just like he deserved."

A sound like thunder swallows the tension hanging in the air as the walls begin to shake. The vials on the window ring again, almost like an alarm system as the Hargreeves men wobble back and forth just ever so. Without breaking his threatening stance, Diego's eyes flicker around the room. A hint of intrigue flickers behind his eyes but is quickly extinguished in his distaste for his surroundings and company.

"A safety hazard is more like it," he says, looking around the room. "You telling me the old geezer never got that fixed?"

Luther doesn't answer, just steps forward to enunciate the staggering height difference between them. Diego still does not back down; his eyes light up instead, recognizing Luther's body language and he laughs when all clicks.

"Man, he never even told you what it is, did he?" Luther stands unblinking, his fiery glare fixed on Diego as he fuels the fire. "After all this time being Daddy's little lapdog? You threw your entire life away for that man, and he still couldn't bother to trust you?"

Luther was losing his fight against the anger rising, but instead of lashing out as he so wishes to do, he manages to spit a warning at Diego. "You should leave."

Diego throws out another dry laugh, his dark eyes settling on a seething Luther.

"Whatever you say," Diego says, voice low and threatening, his eyes never once leaving him. "brother."

Diego retreats into the hallway, his footsteps disappearing with him leaving Luther alone with his thoughts.

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Viktor finds himself entering the living room and bar, his eyes lumbering around the parlor as his legs do. Yet again, his eyes fall on one of many shrines dedicated to him and his powered siblings. A shelf of frames decorated with their faces, and front and center is the first of many comics that were made in their honor. It was a cartoon display of all of them in the infamous bank heist where they first made their public debut. Encircled in bold below, were the words, School Is In Session! Meet The UMBRELLA ACADEMY

On the lower shelves sat his father's favored articles; the academy's visit to DC, the seven of them posing in front of the White House as the title below dubs them the Wonder Kids, or, the eighth wonder of the world. And the other was a framed cover of 'tween hit' magazine, sporting the academy's smiling masked faces that looked right back at Viktor. It read, exclusive! getting real with UMBRELLA ACADEMY.

His eyes seem to find great difficulty unsticking themselves from the sight of him and Ben in the White House photo. He remembered that day clearly, how much pressure his father had put on him - put on all of them during that trip and how helpful Ben had been, as always. That picture was the first time the whole trip he had genuinely smiled, and all because Ben had made him laugh just as the photographer snapped the picture. His heart sunk, the sadness and overwhelming sense of guilt that had overtaken his life since... it happened again, tripling all at once.

As if experiencing it all over again, the world crumbled around him. Fearfully, his head whipped up to the shaking walls around him, immediately trying to reign in the powers he thought had spilled out. But his relief and great confusion, it was the same mysterious force looming over the house. Roughly 13.5 seconds, they had definitely gotten longer. And certainly more frequent. The thought of what could have been planting a seed of dread in his stomach that quickly sprouted as he remembered his father's words; his threat...

Viktor quickly shook his head, willing the memory away to the best of his ability. He manages to pull himself away from the sight, looking anywhere but. As he travels along the walls he comes upon one of his father's many bookshelves. His eye catches a familiar title, and curiously he pulls it from the rest to see his younger self staring back at him.

Extraordinary: My Life as The White Violin by Viktor Hargreeves

It was the copy he had sent him when he first published. He opened up the front cover where, sure enough, printed across the opening pages were his handwriting in permanent marker.

Dad,

I figured, why not?

V.

Try as he might, he couldn't quite picture him reading it. The only scrap of courage he had ever managed to scavenge to tell his father off; and here it was, sitting amongst his father's things.

"Welcome home, Master Viktor," comes a familiar accented voice.

He turns to find just who he suspects, though it is clear he has aged a deal since Viktor had last seen him. The old primate stands across the room in his usual formal attire, cane, and spectacles that somehow completed the ensemble perfectly. Perhaps it was because he always reminded Viktor a bit of his father - except he always wore a smile for himself and his siblings. Not to mention he treated them with kindness, though it never seemed to extend beyond the metaphorical leash Sir Hargreeves had him tethered on.

"Pogo," Viktor breathes.

He crosses the room, taking him into a hug that he gladly accepts with a warm hum. Pogo pats him gently on the back, and after a moment, he pulls away to see him smiling kindly at the young man.

"So good to see you," he says, eyes dropping to the book still in his hands. "Ah, yes, your autobiography."

"Do you know, um..." he swallows the lump growing in his throat, nervous to hear the answer he knows is coming. "Did he ever read it?"

"Hmm," Pogo hums, and he smiles sadly up at Viktor as he shakes his head. "Not that I'm aware of."

Viktor nods stiffly, brushing away the disappointment that strikes at his heart. He despises the fact that after all these years when he was no longer around, Viktor's father still managed to let him down. Figures.

Desperately wishing to change the subject, he scours the room for a change of topic though he does not have to look long. Another spike hits his heart, though this one is a dull ache. A crack in his heart that's been there for years, and the crack in the foundation of his family that would send it crumbling years later.

He and Pogo turn to face the portrait that hangs above the mantelpiece of a young boy.

"How long has it been since Five disappeared?" Viktor asks numbly.

"It's been sixteen years, four months, and fourteen days." He replies solemnly.

He looks at him curiously, not having expected an exact answer. Sensing this, Pogo nods in understanding.

"Your father insisted I keep track."

Viktor's eyes flicker to the ground in a moment of embarrassment - he was surprised to find that he felt the urge to share. Strangely, it felt as if it was keeping his memory alive.

"You wanna know something stupid?" He scoffs internally at himself at the many memories, now they were just pathetic in his eyes. "I always used to leave the lights on for him. I was scared that he would come back, it would be late, and the house would be dark and he wouldn't be able to find us, so he'd leave again. So, every night I'd make a little snack and make sure all the lights were on."

"Oh, I remember your snacks," Pogo says wistfully. "I'm pretty sure I stepped in half those peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches."

Pogo quickly recognizes the sullen look in Viktor's eyes and tries his best to ease his pain though he does not know what good it will do. "Your father always believed that Number Five was still out there somewhere. He never lost hope."

Bitterly, Viktor wonders aloud. "And look where that got him."

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The ornate wooden doors slide open with a deep rumble as they always had. Allison steps inside her father's study, marveling at all the trinkets that surround her. She is only a few steps inside and already it feels like a whole new room from this perspective. All at once, the memories come flooding back to her. Clear as day, she can see her father in the desk that sits before her. His upturned nose buried in that journal of his as he pours over it, never once breaking his concentration.

"The children are ready for bed, sir." Her mother would report with a gleaming smile. "They wanted to say goodnight."

Grace slides the door open unveiling all seven Hargreeves children in their identical pajama sets. They stare hopefully at their father who does not bother to look up from his journal. What little hope they had evaporates into thin air when he continues scribbling, the only indication he gives to acknowledge their presence is a curt shake of the head.

"Okay!" Grace chirps, turning to the children with a hint of disappointment. "Time for bed now, kids. Come along now."

Gently, she ushers them off into the hallway and they comply with a collective huff. All except Allison, who stands rooted to the wooden floors, a glare fixed on her father. Grace places a gentle hand on her back, sending her a gentle smile.

"Come along now, Allison, your father's busy."

Allison numbly allows her mother to guide her into the hallway, and before she follows her siblings she throws one last spiteful glare at the man behind the desk.

"He's always busy."

She stalks off down the hall, curiosity slowing her movements when she realizes their mother isn't behind her like she normally is. Allison turns her head to see her mother standing before her father's desk at attention; she can only see half of her father's face from where she stands but he had finally pulled his nose out of that stupid book. He says something to her mother that Allison doesn't quite catch, but she does manage to make out some of her mother's words;

"...at 79% capacity. Backup generators still in contact, but I would still recommend another maintenance check within the next 72 hours."

"Very well." He said, returning to scribbling in his notebook.

Allison's brows knit together, her attention now fully directed at her parents. What were they talking about? And why were they being so secretive? Well, Allison thinks, more secretive than usual.

Allison inched closer to the corner leading to her bedroom where she was farther out of sight, and that's when she noticed her mother was lingering even after having been dismissed. Something was... bothering her.

"Sir, if I may," she chirped, her smile screwed on extra tight. But all Allison could hear was the fear in her voice. She had been noticing a lot more of that lately. "Perhaps the -"

Thunder fell over the house again, the sound of it anyway as the usual rumble shook the house preventing Allison from overhearing her mother. Any hope of Grace repeating herself was quickly snuffed out in her father's anger; clearly whatever she had said to him had upset him, and he furiously dismissed her, without ever looking up from his journal.

Allison now watches confused as the worn-out leather chair begins to move on its own. Almost immediately, she understands why when she hears her brother's scattered voice amongst a series of clutter being tossed around behind the desk.

"Where's the cash, Dad?" Klaus mumbles, ruffling through the many drawers. "Where's the cash."

Allison crosses the room to peer behind the desk with a quirked brow. As she does so, the house shakes yet again, bringing her attention briefly to the mystery that hung over their house their entire lives as it continues for several lengthy moments. She can hear Klaus from under the desk, 'Come on, you useless pile of bricks, not now.' The rumbling stops as it always eventually did and she makes her presence known to her brother the same way she might address her daughter whom she caught with a hand in the cookie jar.

"Klaus?" He jumps. "What are you doing in here?"

Klaus's head pops up from underneath the wooden surface, a genuine bright smile lighting up his face at the sight of his sister.

"Oh! Allison!" He pulls himself up to his feet. "Wow, is that you?"

"Hey," he clicks his tongue, his face softening in a relieved whimper as he pulls her close. "come here. Long time. Too long."

She smiles knowingly, well aware of his previous antics that he now scrambled to hide. He broke the hug and began searching her eyes, pulling off a somewhat believable look of concern.

"Hey, I was hoping to see you, actually," her head tilts curiously at his words. Until he finished his sentence, which quickly prompted an eye-roll. "because I wanted to get your autograph."

He tucked his palms underneath his chin like a baby cherub and squealed happily. "Add it to my collection!"

Her face falls into a hard look of disappointment when she spots the white medical band around his left wrist. She gestures to it, asking pointedly.

"Just out of rehab?"

All too easily he slips into a feigned look of indifference and begins brushing it off with many lies that roll right off his tongue.

"No, no. No, no, no, no," he mutters dismissively, twisting the band around his wrist. "No, I'm done with all that."

He sighs, tucking it under his long sleeve to conceal it. He gestures around the room with exaggerated sadness.

"I just came down here to prove to myself that the old man was really gone."

Allison raises an eyebrow at him and he smirks, immediately switching back to his usual bubbly tone.

"And he is! He's dead. Yeah!" He cheered, jumping up and down as he clapped. "You know how I know? Because if he were alive, not one of us would be allowed to set foot in this room."

He does have a point about that, Allison thought.

"He was always in here, our whole childhood, plotting his next torment, right?"

Klaus throws himself into the leather chair, his sneaker-clad feet piling up on top of the desk next to Allison as she began sifting through a pile of their father's things.

"Remember how he used to look at us? That scowl?" Klaus mused, gesturing to the portrait of their father behind him above the hearth. "Thank Christ he's not our real father so we couldn't inherit those cold, dead eyes!"

Klaus pried both his eyes open with his hands, a squeaky exclamation leaving him suddenly as he looked at Allison. Using the same squeaky, now accented voice that was supposed to be their father he stared her down, coaxing a chuckle from her lips.

"Ahh! Number Three!"

"Get out of his chair," came a gruff voice across the room.

Both Allison and Klaus - eyes still pried apart - turn to find Luther had just entered the study, his expression worn with great agitation. Klaus's hands drop to his lap, and he rises from the chair shocked. He and his sister silently adjust to the drastic changes in their brother.

"Luther!" Klaus gaped, flexing his arms in gesture. "You really filled out over the years, huh?"

"Klaus--" Luther warned, but Klaus's hand flies up to quiet him.

"Uh, you can skip the lecture," his eyes flickered between Luther and Allison, and his voice began to lower in his discomfort. "I was just leaving."

He gestures awkwardly between the two, and he makes quick on his promise. He shuffles across the room, his hands swaying freely. "So you guys can talk amongst yourselves."

A gloved hand lands on his chest, stopping him where he stands, and he looks to Luther offended. He replies with a stern glare, his voice still in a low warning.

"Drop it."

"Ex-squeeze me?"

"Do it. Now."

He holds the man's gaze for a long moment before giving in, and hotly he rips himself away from Luther's hold and stomps towards the desk.

"Alright," he huffs, ripping one of his father's things out from inside his long overcoat. "It's just an advance on our inheritance!"

Several things drop to the rug on the floor in a muted clatter, and off to the side, neither Hargreeves boys catch the small amused smile flash across Allison's face.

"That's all it is!" Klaus continues, his voice falling into a mocking whine. "No need to get your panties in a bunch."

Allison and Luther watch with eyebrows raised as Klaus disappears through the door, his huffy pouts fading as he does.

Klaus stumbles out into the hallway, throwing a single glance behind his shoulder assuring he hadn't been caught. When he knows he's safe, he pulls the ornate wooden and gold box from the back of his trousers with a mischievous smirk. He examines it briefly, ignoring the chiding comments over his shoulder before he plants a quick kiss on the rim of the box that he knows will fetch him the money for his next deal.

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