*Warning: the story will be mostly AU now, Vincent destroyed the plot when he killed voldemort, thank you for reading.*
(Vincent POV)
Back at the "Normal" part of King's Cross Station I stood near a column next to the exit, backpack slung over my shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort. The 5906, nestled snugly against my hip beneath my shirt. Dumbledore had confiscated it, but it was my property, he had forbidden me from bringing it back to Hogwarts and reluctantly gave the pistol back. A wizard's wand might be his greatest weapon, but I knew the value of a good firearm. Especially in a world where nobody expected one.
Ten minutes past Turner's scheduled arrival. I checked my watch again, the rhythmic tick-tock a counterpoint to the chaotic pulse of the station. The prickling at the back of my neck intensified, a familiar warning. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
I considered waiting, playing the dutiful grandson, but the unease wouldn't let go. It wasn't like Turner to be late. Not unless…
"Fuck," I muttered, hailing a cab.
I didn't bother with pleasantries. "The Van Doren Estate. Quickly." The driver, eyes lingering on my backpack, didn't need any further encouragement.
The drive was unnervingly silent, the city's usual cacophony replaced by a stillness that felt like a held breath. My mind raced, sifting through possibilities, scenarios. Had I missed something? Underestimated someone?
The gates of the estate stood ajar, Roberts, the gatekeeper, nowhere in sight. Another bad sign.
I paid the driver, a hefty tip silencing any potential questions, and stepped out of the cab.
I walked toward the manor, its looming silhouette a dark monolith against the fading light. No welcoming glow emanated from the windows, no sounds of bustling staff. Just silence.
The front door swung open with a soft click. Unlocked. The foyer was empty, the air heavy with the scent of…blood, I knew that scent, not good.
I moved cautiously, the floorboards creaking beneath my boots, the silence amplifying every sound. My gaze swept over the familiar furnishings, searching for… something… anything… that might explain this unsettling stillness.
Then I reached the dining room.
The sight that greeted me stopped me dead in my tracks. A tableau of horror, meticulously arranged like a grotesque feast for the eyes. The staff, their bodies sprawled around the massive mahogany table, their faces contorted in masks of agony, eyes wide with a terror that lingered even in death. Some of the faces were contorted in such a way that you could see teeth marks, probably some sort of torture ritual.
And at the head of the table, their bodies propped up in high-backed chairs, as if they'd been enjoying a final, macabre meal, were my grandparents.
Their eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at me, accusing. Their faces… I looked, to register the details, the brutality. Their lips had been sewn shut with thick, black thread, a crude attempt to silence their screams. Their throats were slashed, the crimson stain stark against the pristine white tablecloth. Their hands… their fingers… had been meticulously severed, arranged on silver platters like a grisly house of horrors.
It was a message, It was revenge.
They wanted me to see this. To understand the depths of their hatred, They wanted me to fear them.
They hadn't counted on one thing. I didn't fear death. Not anymore. Not after what I'd seen, what I'd done.
But this… this was a violation.They hadn't just killed my grandparents. They'd desecrated their memory, turned their final moments into a grotesque spectacle designed to break me.
I felt a flicker of… something… deep within my being. Not grief. Not sadness. It was something colder, harder, more primal. A cold fury, a thirst for vengeance that would not be quenched until those responsible paid in blood.
My hand tightened around my wand, The runes hummed beneath my skin
This wasn't just about Voldemort anymore. This was personal.
And they would pay. Every last one of them.
The staff, their faces frozen in silent screams, offered no answers. I checked for signs of a struggle, for any trace of the attackers, but they'd been meticulous, leaving behind nothing but the stench of death and the lingering echoes of their cruelty.
I reached my grandfather. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared at me, accusing. I looked closer, to examine the details. It was then I noticed it, carved into his chest with a precision that spoke of both skill and sadistic intent, was the Dark Mark. It glowed faintly, a sickly green against his ashen skin, a brand of ownership, a testament to their twisted loyalty.
My gaze swept over the table, the meticulously arranged severed fingers, the blood-soaked tablecloth. Rigor mortis hadn't settled in yet. This has happened recently. Hours, maybe less, If only I had.
No, I couldn't think like that. It was my fault they were dead of course. I hadn't planned things completely through, I had left a gaping hole in my plan and they took advantage of it.
The Death Eaters.
I'd been so focused on Voldemort, on the ritual, on the grand scheme of his resurrection, that I'd overlooked the obvious. He had followers. Loyal, fanatical followers. And they of course would want revenge, they're tried getting to me at hogsmead but they had failed, and in my fucking blindness I had forgotten about my grandparents.
But how the hell did they find this place? My grandparents were borderline reclusive, their social circle carefully curated. They valued privacy, discretion. How had those bastards pierced that veil, found their way into this fortress of wealth and privilege"
The letters I sent where through owls, they did not have an address on them.
I would find out. I swore it.
I scanned the room once more, taking in the carnage, the obscene display of their power. This wasn't a crime for the Muggle authorities.
I had to contact the Ministry. The Aurors.
I couldn't apparate to the Ministry due to the wards, even Hogwarts I could only apparate near not inside the fucking castle,
I focused and apparated near the ministry building.
The Ministry of Magic, even at this hour, buzzed with a frenetic energy. Wizards and witches hurried through the cavernous atrium, their robes swirling, their hushed conversations echoing against the polished marble floors. I ignored the stares, the whispers, the weight of a thousand eyes upon me.
"I need to see Amelia Bones," I said, my voice a flat command that brooked no argument. "Now."
The witch at the reception desk, her face paling as she recognized me, didn't hesitate. She practically tripped over her own robes as she summoned a junior Auror, who, after a quick glance at the fire in my eyes, hurriedly led me through a maze of corridors towards Amelia Bones' office.
The door swung open, revealing Amelia Bones seated behind a mahogany desk, her expression a mix of weariness and sharp intelligence. She looked up, her gaze meeting mine, her brow furrowing slightly in surprise.
"Mr. Van Doren," she said, her voice brisk, businesslike, "To what do I owe the… unexpected… pleasure?"
A girl sat on a small sofa in the corner, her attention absorbed in a thick book. Susan, Amelia's niece. I'd briefly met her on the Hogwarts Express. She looked up, startled by my arrival, her gaze widening as she recognized me.
I ignored her, "My grandparents were murdered by Death Eaters," I said, my voice flat, "I need your assistance."
The words hung in the air, their impact amplified by the sudden silence that had descended upon the room. Amelia's composure, usually unyielding, faltered. Her eyes widened, her hand instinctively reaching for her wand, which lay on the desk beside a stack of parchment.
"What… what in Merlin's name are you talking about, Mr. Van Doren?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"They're dead," I said, my gaze fixed on hers, "They were tortured, murdered, their bodies… desecrated. The Dark Mark was carved into my grandfather's chest."
Amelia's face drained of all color. The book slipped from Susan's grasp, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. I recounted the gruesome details, my words painting a chilling picture of the carnage that awaited them at the Van Doren estate.
Amelia, to her credit, recovered quickly. Her initial shock gave way to a steely-eyed determination that I'd come to respect. She rose from her desk, her movements brisk, efficient.
"Aurors!" she barked, her voice ringing with authority.
Two Aurors materialized within seconds, their wands drawn, their faces grim. I recognized Tonks, her bright pink hair a beacon in the dimly lit office, her gaze sharp and assessing. The other Auror, a tall, muscular man with a scarred face, remained impassive, his hand hovering near the holster at his hip.
"We're going to the Van Doren estate," Amelia said, her voice a clipped command. "Mr. Van Doren will guide us."
"And Susan?" Tonks asked, glancing at the girl, who'd risen from the sofa, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and curiosity.
"I ask someone to take her home," Amelia said, her voice firm. "Where we are going isn't a place for children."
I didn't argue. I was already halfway out the door.
"Ready, Mr. Van Doren?" Amelia asked, her voice sharp as we exited the Ministry onto a deserted side street.
I nodded, my gaze fixed on the cobblestone street, my mind already calculating the angles, the possibilities.
And then, with a familiar twist of disorientation, a sickening lurch in my gut, we were gone. Apparated.
(Amelia Bones POV)
The Van Doren estate materialized around us in a dizzying swirl of Apparition. clinging to my senses. I steadied myself, wand already in my hand, my gaze sweeping over the grounds. The unnatural silence that had pressed down on us at the Ministry now blanketed the estate, a suffocating weight.
"Stay sharp," I said, my voice a low command. "This isn't a training exercise."
The other Auror remained impassive, his hand hovering near the holster at his hip. I'd chosen him for this assignment for his experience.
We moved towards the manor, our footsteps crunching on the gravel drive, the silence amplifying every sound.
Vincent, his expression a mask of cold detachment, led the way. It unnerved me, his impassiveness. No hint of grief, no flicker of anger, no trace of the horror I'd expected. He walked with the measured stride of a predator, his gaze sharp, calculating, as if assessing a battlefield rather than mourning a loss.
He pushed the front door open, and the stench hit us like a physical blow. Blood, bile, and something else, I steeled myself, and stepped into the foyer.
He stood in the doorway, a silent silhouette against the darkness that seemed to cling to him like a shroud. I could feel his gaze on us.
"The dining room," he said, his voice flat, emotionless.
He led us down a hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath us, the silence amplifying the pounding of my own heart.
And then we saw them.
Tonks gasped beside me, her hand flying to her mouth. Even Dawlish, his face a weathered map of countless Auror raids, flinched, his jaw tightening.
I'd seen my share of gruesome scenes in my time as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. But this… this was different. The sheer brutality of it, the meticulous cruelty, the obscene display of power… It was more than just murder. It was a message. A declaration of war.
And Vincent Van Doren was at the center of it all.
The staff. The grandparents. Laid out like grotesque offerings, their bodies desecrated, their faces frozen in silent screams. The stench of blood and decay filled the air, a sickening sweetness that made my stomach churn.
"What the fuck" Tonks breathed, her voice barely a whisper.
I forced myself to approach the table, to examine the carnage. I'd seen my share of dark magic, of ritualistic killings, but this… this had a chilling precision, a calculated cruelty that spoke of a deep-seated hatred, a thirst for vengeance that went beyond mere bloodlust.
"When did you find them, Mr. Van Doren?" I asked, my gaze fixed on him, my voice carefully neutral.
"A few hours ago," he said, his expression unchanging. "Turner didn't arrive to pick me up at King's Cross. I took a cab. When I got here…" He gestured to the scene, his voice flat, as if he were describing a minor inconvenience rather than the brutal slaughter of his family.
"Why didn't you Apparate back here?" Tonks asked, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Once you knew something was wrong…"
"My grandparents were the only ones who knew about the wizard stuff," he replied, his gaze shifting to her, "How would I explain showing up here out of thin air in front of all the staff?"
I scanned the room, taking in the details, the Dark Mark carved into the grandfather's chest.
The Death Eaters.
It didn't take a genius to see this was revenge, they already had attacked him at Hogwarts sending those feral dogs, and when he had crushed the dogs they turned into his weak link.
I looked at Vincent, his face still a mask of impassiveness, his presence a chilling counterpoint to the horror that surrounded us.
"Dawlish," I said, my voice brisk, my gaze fixed on Vincent, "Secure the perimeter. Tonks, gather evidence. Anything that might lead us to the perpetrators. I'll speak with Mr. Van Doren… alone."
The silence in the living room was thick with the ghosts of the recent carnage. I'd directed Tonks and Dawlish to focus on the dining room. Vincent and I stood near the fireplace.
"They were sending a message," Vincent finally said, his voice a low rumble that echoed the emptiness of the house. "They tried to kill me at Hogwarts but they couldn't. Since they couldn't get me…."
He paused, and then, with a sudden shift in his demeanor, as if a calculating mask had snapped into place, he asked, "Does the Ministry keep a registry of student addresses?"
I was taken aback by his question. The abrupt shift from cold grief to sharp, analytical thought was jarring. It was as if a switch had been flipped, a different part of his mind activated.
"Yes," I replied, my curiosity piqued, "The Ministry keeps records of all Hogwarts students, including their addresses. It's a necessary precaution, for emergencies, for…"
"Then start there," he interrupted, his voice brisk, efficient. "Find out who accessed those files recently. Someone wanted to know where to find me. Where to find my… home."
"That's… a good lead, Mr. Van Doren," I admitted, my voice laced with a grudging respect. "We'll look into it immediately."
He nodded curtly, his gaze drifting back to the windows, his expression unreadable.
"One more thing," he said, his voice low, a touch hesitant. "Those… objects… the Horcruxes. What's the progress?"
I was taken aback by his question. His grandparents lay dead, their bodies desecrated just hours ago, and yet, his focus was already shifting, returning to the grand scheme, the ongoing battle against Voldemort's legacy. It was unsettling, this cold detachment, this single-mindedness.
"The cup... Hufflepuff's cup… is destroyed," I said, choosing my words carefully. "But Barty Crouch Junior… He didn't know anything about the snake. Nagini."
He nodded, absorbing the information, his expression unchanging. It was as if he were processing a strategic report, rather than news that could impact the fate of the wizarding world.
I watched Vincent pace the length of the living room, his steps measured, his gaze distant.
"What happens now?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that echoed the emptiness of the house.
"Now," I said, my voice firm, "we investigate. We gather evidence. We find those responsible."
He stopped pacing, his gaze fixing on me, those blue eyes as cold and sharp as shards of ice. "And the Muggle authorities? My grandparents were reclusive most of the time…but people knew who they were prominent figures. Their absence will be noticed. There will be questions."
He was right, of course. The Van Dorens were wealthy, influential. Their disappearance wouldn't go unnoticed.
"We'll handle the Muggle authorities," I assured him, my mind already working through the complexities, the ethical implications, of such a task. "We have ways of… ensuring their discretion."
He considered my words for a moment, then shook his head, his lips curling into a chillingly familiar smirk. "No, that won't work. How will you explain their bodies in this state? The torture?" he said, his voice a quiet certainty. "There's a more… efficient… solution."
He crossed the room, his gaze sweeping over the ornate furnishings, the antiques, the pictures, the remnants of a life brutally extinguished.
"We burn it down," he said, his voice a flat declaration. "Let the flames consume everything."
I stared at him, a wave of unease washing over me. The ruthlessness of his suggestion, the cold logic that underpinned it, was both terrifying and… undeniably effective.
"Burn it down?" I echoed, my voice barely a whisper. "But… the house… your grandparents'…"
He turned to face me, his gaze unwavering. "They're dead, Madam Bones," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "This house… these walls… they're stained with their blood. Let the flames cleanse them."
He paused, his gaze meeting mine. "It's the only way to ensure that people don't ask too many questions."
I knew, deep down, that he was right. A fire, a tragic accident, would be easier to explain to the Muggle authorities than a brutal, ritualistic murder. And the flames would consume any lingering traces of magic, any evidence that might expose the wizarding world.
"We can change the memories of the firefighters, the police" I said, my voice a hesitant murmur, the weight of the ethical implications pressing down on me. "Implant false memories. A tragic accident. A faulty fireplace. We can make them believe…"
"That I was… abroad," Vincent finished for me, his voice a low whisper. "Unaware of the tragedy until… it was too late."
I nodded slowly.
"Very well, Mr. Van Doren," I said, my voice resigned. "We'll do it your way."
He nodded, a flicker of something that might have been… satisfaction?... crossing his face.
I watched as Tonks and Dawlish moved through the house, their faces grim, their movements efficient. They documented the carnage, their magical cameras flashing, capturing the gruesome details for posterity, for the official records. They gathered evidence, carefully bagging and labeling each item – a shattered vase, a bloodstained napkin, a stray Dark Mark pendant that had slipped from one of the attacker's robes.
It felt…wrong… to be so meticulous amidst such barbarity. But evidence was crucial. We needed answers. And those responsible for this atrocity would pay. I swore it.
Vincent disappeared upstairs, his footsteps echoing through the silent house. I could feel his absence, a void in the oppressive atmosphere. He returned a few minutes later, carrying a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his expression unchanging.
He met my gaze, his blue eyes cold, unwavering. "I'm ready."
I nodded curtly, my heart heavy. We gathered in the living room, the air thick with the lingering scent of blood and a strange, cloying sweetness that I couldn't quite place. Vincent stood near the fireplace.
"Stand back," I said, my voice a firm command.
Vincent raised his hand and said, "If I may madam bones, this is my home I will do it."
I lowered my wand and nodded.
(Vincent POV)
I raised my hand, my wand a familiar extension of my will, the runes on my arm thrumming with a barely perceptible warmth. No need for whispered incantations, not this time. My intent was a searing white fire, a promise of destruction.
Incendio.
The spell erupted from my wand, a torrent of raw power that blasted from the hearth, engulfing the nearby curtains in a roaring inferno. The flames, hungry and eager, quickly spread, licking at the ornate furniture, the velvet drapes, the antiques, consuming everything in their path.
A wave of heat washed over me, but I didn't flinch. I watched as the fire consumed the room, its orange glow a macabre dance against the darkening sky.
"We need to go," Amelia Bones said, her voice a sharp command that cut through the roar of the flames.
I nodded, my gaze lingering on the inferno. "I'll be right behind you."
They left, their figures disappearing into the shadows of the night. I stayed for a moment longer.
"I'm sorry, Mikael, Mary," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the roar of the inferno. "I failed you guys."
The words felt hollow, meaningless against the backdrop of their brutal deaths, the obscene violation of their memory. I had underestimated the enemy. Allowed my focus to narrow, to blind me to the obvious.
I'd been so consumed by Voldemort, that I'd forgotten the most basic rule of survival – protect your flanks.
Never again, I swore silently, my hand tightening around my wand. Never again.
The flames roared, a symphony of destruction that cleansed the house, consumed the memories, and left nothing but ashes and smoke.
I turned away, my gaze hardening, my footsteps echoing on the gravel drive as I joined Amelia and her Aurors in the shadows.
We would wait for the eventual firefighters and police to arrive.
I stood with Amelia and her Aurors, hidden in the shadows of the surrounding woods, watching the spectacle unfold with a detached fascination.
From our vantage point, I could see the curtains twitching in the windows of neighboring manors, curious eyes peering out at the conflagration. The distance between the estates offered a degree of privacy, a buffer against prying eyes. But the sheer scale of the fire, the towering flames that licked at the night sky, was impossible to ignore. Even from this distance, I could feel the heat radiating from the inferno.
"They'll be here soon," Amelia said, her voice a low murmur against the backdrop of the fire's roar. "The Muggle authorities. We need to be ready."
It took them almost forty-five minutes to arrive, precious time for the flames to consume everything, to erase any trace of the truth. The firefighters battled the inferno. But it was a losing battle. The manor was already beyond saving.
I watched as Amelia, Tonks, and Dawlish moved towards the gathered crowd of firefighters and police officers, their wands concealed beneath their robes, their expressions carefully neutral. The subtle flicks of their wrists, the barely perceptible whispers of incantations, were lost in the chaos, their magic weaving a tapestry of deception, planting false memories, erasing the truth.
5 minutes after the Aurors had altered the firefighters and the neighbors memories
It was time to "act" again but this time there was a bit of truth in it.
"My grandparents! My God… the fire… what happened?"
The officials, their faces etched with a mix of pity and professional detachment, moved to intercept me, their words a comforting murmur of "There, there, son" and "We've got it under control."
I let them guide me away from the inferno, my performance a convincing blend of shock, grief, and gratitude for their efforts. They wouldn't remember the truth. They'd only remember the tragic accident, the faulty fireplace, the unfortunate absence of the grieving grandson.
They took me back to a police station to do the normal procedures. I had called my grandparents lawyer and informed him of what had happened. He was shocked of course.
The next few days went by fast, my grief had settled down, my meeting with the lawyers avoiding the media was annoying after all it wasn't everyday a manor burned to the ground with their billionaires owners inside.
My meeting with the lawyer was a long one, Not surprisingly my grandparents had left everything to me as I was their only living relative, Of course I wasn't in full control of the their business and other interests until I turned 18 but I had an VERY good "Allowance" of sorts, and if I wanted to invest I could talk to him.
The Funeral was quiet, they did not have that many friends, I had of course paid for the funerals of the staff that was killed in the fire and even more gave their families compensation.
I was currently staying in an apartment that my grandparents owned. If I wasn't rich I would be sent to an orphanage.
The silence of the apartment was almost unnerving. No bustling staff, no faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of London traffic filtering through the double-glazed windows.
It had been one week since the "Fire".
I was at my desk, looking at the old copy of the daily prophet that was talking about the murder of my grandparents, I got letters from almost everyone, even Dumbledore I ignored him, I was set on what I would do, I was going to do what the fucking fool wouldn't, I will erase death eaters from the wizarding world.
An owl, landed softly on my windowsill, a rolled parchment clutched in its talons. I recognized the seal – the official crest of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Amelia Bones.
I untied the parchment, Mr. Van Doren, Amelia's note was brief, to the point. I request your presence at my office tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. We have much to discuss. A. Bones.
I reread the note, a flicker of something that might have been… anticipation?… stirring within me.