(Hermione's POV)
The familiar lurch of Apparition, the brief nausea, the disorientation as the world snapped back into focus. Hermione stumbled slightly, her hand instinctively reaching out to steady herself against a lamppost.
She was in London, a quiet side street just off Trafalgar Square. The air was thick with the exhaust fumes of passing cars, the distant sirens a jarring counterpoint to the frantic symphony of her thoughts.
I have to find him.
Vincent.
She had to warn him. Tell him about Brian. About the danger, the betrayal, the fury that simmered within their son.
It was her fault. All of it.
The years of secrecy, the lies, the choices she'd made… they'd come back to haunt her, a monstrous echo of her own mistakes. And now, her son was a terrorist, her other son his target, and she was caught in the middle.
She knew where Vincent lived. One of those sleek, modern towers that had sprung up like mushrooms after the integration. A symbol of his power, his wealth, his dominion over this new world he'd built. She'd seen pictures in the Prophet, read the articles detailing its security measures, its state-of-the-art wizarding and Muggle technology. It was a fortress, a testament to his paranoia, his need for control.
Irony twisted her gut. She was the one he needed protection from now. Her son.
She'd never been there, of course. Their affair, those stolen moments, had always been carefully orchestrated, clandestine encounters in hidden corners, never at his home.
"Cab!" she called out, waving her hand frantically as a black taxi cruised past.
The cab screeched to a halt, the driver leaning out the window. "Where to, love?"
"The Shard," she said, the words a breath.
Vincent's penthouse. The pinnacle of his empire. The place where it all had to end.
(Daphne's POV)
Daphne sat on the edge of the plush sofa, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the silk cushions, a futile attempt to ground herself, to anchor herself to some semblance of normalcy. Beside her, Daniela and Victor sat huddled together, their faces pale, their eyes reflecting the same hollow sorrow that mirrored her own.
Arthur.
The name echoed in the silence, a phantom pain that lanced through her, a wound that wouldn't heal. Just weeks ago, he'd been here, laughing with them, his blue eyes – so much like Vincent's – sparkling with life.
Now…
There was nothing left.
Vincent had told her the news himself, his voice a broken whisper, his face etched with a grief that had chilled her to the bone, It was the first time she saw tears running down his face. The Parliament attack. The explosion. Arthur had been in his office, the blast… instantaneous. There hadn't even been a body to bury, just ashes and a few fragments of bone, a chilling echo of the power those Fenrir bastards had unleashed.
The funeral had been a hollow formality, a picture in a silver frame a testament to a life stolen. She'd wanted to scream, to rage, to unleash the full might of Cerberus upon those who'd dared to take her son, her firstborn. But she couldn't. Not yet.
Vincent had forbidden it.
"Not yet, Daphne," he'd said, his voice cold, his blue eyes burning with an icy fury she'd never seen before. "We'll find them. We'll make them pay. But we have to be smart about this. We can't afford to make a mistake."
He was right, of course. But the waiting, the forced restraint, it was a torture in itself. She'd seen the rage in Vincent's eyes, the way he'd clenched his jaw, the knuckles white against the mahogany desk in his office. He was holding back, controlling the storm brewing within him. But for how long?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sharp ring of the phone, its insistent chime shattering the silence. Daniela, picked up the receiver. "Hello?" Her brow furrowed, her gaze shifting to Daphne. "It's… it's the doorman. He says… Hermione Granger is here. She wants to see Dad."
Daphne's breath hitched. Hermione? Here? After all these years? After everything that had happened?
She exchanged a look with Victor, a silent question passing between them. What was she doing here?
"Let her up," Daphne said, her voice a quiet but firm command.
Whatever Hermione's reasons, whatever secrets she carried, Daphne knew one thing with a chilling certainty.
It wouldn't be good news.
(Hermione's POV)
Hermione stood before the imposing double doors of Vincent's penthouse, her hand hovering hesitantly above the ornate brass knocker. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic rhythm against the backdrop of the muffled city sounds filtering up from the streets far below.
How could she possibly do this?
She'd known this was coming. The moment she'd apparated away from that Scottish cabin, the weight of her choices, of her secrets, had propelled her towards this confrontation.
But now, facing Daphne…
How can I tell her that I was sleeping with her husband, got pregnant, and now our son killed her firstborn?
"Oh, hello, Daphne. Just thought I'd pop by for a spot of tea and tell you about the son Vincent and I had back in the day. Funny thing, he's a bit of a terrorist now. Killed your son, by the way. Awfully sorry about that."
The absurdity of the thought, the sheer impossibility of finding the right words, made her want to turn and flee, to disappear back into the shadows of her own guilt and regret.
But it was too late for running. She had to do this. For James. For Lily. For Vincent. Even for Brian, if there was any humanity left in him.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked.
The door swung open, and there she was.
Daphne.
Hermione froze, her carefully constructed composure crumbling. Daphne looked… different. Older, of course. The years had etched fine lines around her eyes, a touch of silver streaked her blonde hair, but she was still beautiful, still radiating that aristocratic grace that had always set her apart. But it was the sadness in her eyes, the exhaustion that seemed to weigh down her slender shoulders, that truly struck Hermione.
"Hermione," Daphne said, her voice a soft but guarded murmur. "What… what are you doing here?"
"I… I need to talk to Vincent," Hermione stammered, her gaze dropping to the polished marble floor. How could she possibly utter the words?
Daphne's brow furrowed, a flicker of suspicion in those blue eyes that mirrored her husband's. "He's not here right now," she said, her voice cool.
"He's in a meeting. Probably plotting the downfall of humanity. Or maybe just enjoying a nice cup of tea with his mistress. Oh, wait…"
"It's… it's important, Daphne," Hermione said, her voice a desperate plea. "I need to see him. It's urgent."
Daphne hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside, her gaze lingering on Hermione with an intensity that made her shift uncomfortably.
"Come in," Daphne said, her voice tight.
Hermione stepped into the penthouse, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer luxury of the space. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city, art that looked… expensive… adorned the walls. She and Harry hadn't been poor, by any means, but this… this was a different level of wealth. A different world.
Daniela and Victor sat on a plush sofa near the fireplace, their faces a mix of surprise and wary curiosity. Hermione had seen them a few times during her time at the Parliament – glimpses of them accompanying their father to official events, always perfectly poised, their features a blend of Daphne's elegance and Vincent's… intensity. She'd always wondered why they hadn't attended Hogwarts, a question she now understood all too well.
"Can I offer you something to drink, Hermione?" Daphne asked, her voice carefully polite, but the tension in her posture was palpable.
"No… no, thank you," Hermione said, her gaze flitting between Daphne and her children.
"What brings you here, Hermione?" Daphne asked, her voice regaining a touch of its usual sharpness.
"It's about… Fenrir," Hermione said, her voice a low, urgent murmur.
The room went still. Daphne's eyes narrowed, a glacial glint replacing the sadness.
"You… you know about them?" she asked, her voice a barely audible whisper.
Hermione nodded. "But… I can only talk to Vincent."
Daphne's suspicion deepened. "He's not here," she said, her voice clipped. "He's at a meeting. In another location."
"Please, Daphne," Hermione pleaded, her desperation breaking through her carefully constructed composure. "It's… it's important."
Hermione hesitated, then said, "I… I can't explain. Not now. But I need to see Vincent. It's a matter of life and death."
Daphne stared at her for a long, tense moment, then nodded curtly. "I'll call him," she said, her voice tight. "He should be here soon."
The minutes that followed were a symphony of awkward silences and strained pleasantries. Daniela, her initial wariness giving way to a hesitant curiosity, asked about Hogwarts, about Hermione's work at the Parliament, about life in the non-magical world. Hermione answered as best she could, marveling at how much Daniela resembled both of her parents – the same blonde hair as Daphne, but with Vincent's piercing blue eyes.
And then, with a familiar twist of disorientation, a crackle of magic that made the air in the room shimmer, Vincent materialized in the center of the living room.
Hermione's gaze met his, the years melting away, the weight of their shared past, their secrets, their betrayals, pressing down on them with a force that stole her breath.
The air in the room crackled, a palpable tension settling over them like a shroud. Vincent's gaze swept over her, his blue eyes, once filled with a warmth that had set her soul aflame, were now as cold and sharp as shards of ice.
"Hermione," he said, his voice a low rumble that echoed the power he now wielded, "What is this about? Why are you here?"
She took a deep breath, her heart pounding against her ribs. The weight of their shared history, the tangled web of lies and betrayals, the monstrous shadow of Brian… it all pressed down on her, stealing the words from her lips.
"Can we… talk in private?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Vincent's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something that might have been… curiosity? … in those unsettling blue eyes. Then, his gaze shifted to Daphne, a silent question passing between them.
"Whatever you have to say, you can say it to me and my family," Vincent said, his voice firm. "Especially if what Daphne told me is true – that this is about Fenrir. They took something from all of us."
His words, laced with a chilling undercurrent of grief and rage, sent a shiver down Hermione's spine. He was right. Brian had taken something from them. But he had no idea… no idea of the true cost, the depth of the betrayal.
Hermione met his gaze, a sudden, desperate certainty settling over her. It was time.
He'll probably regret this decision, she thought, a bitter taste of irony on her tongue. But the truth had to come out. Now.
Hermione took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I know who the leader of Fenrir is."
Vincent's head snapped up, his body tensing as if he were about to launch himself across the room. Daphne, Victor, and Daniela all stared at her, shock etched into their features.
"His name is Brian," she continued, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound calm. She met Vincent's gaze, her heart pounding.
"His full name is Brian Hamilton," she said, the words a heavy weight on her tongue. "He… he's our son, Vincent."
The silence that followed was deafening. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind a vacuum of shock and disbelief. Vincent's face, usually a mask of controlled power, crumbled. His jaw slackened, his eyes widening, a flicker of raw, primal fear crossing his features. Daphne and the others were equally stunned, their expressions mirroring the shock that had seized Vincent.
"What?" Vincent whispered, his voice a broken rasp. "We… we didn't have a kid."
"Yes, we did, I just never told you" Hermione interrupted, her gaze unwavering. "It was back in 2002. Remember? I… I stopped seeing you for almost a year. Until I came back to work at the Ministry in 2003."
Shame washed over her, hot and suffocating. She turned to Daphne, her voice cracking. "I'm so sorry, Daphne. It was… it was the shame, the guilt… being the other woman… that made me hide the pregnancy. I… I put him up for adoption. And it was a mistake. A terrible mistake I can never fix."
She turned back to Vincent, desperation lacing her voice. "He somehow found out about us, Vincent. About you. And he… he resented it. He grew up with that hate. That's why… that's why he created Fenrir. That's why he's doing this, He wants to destroy you." Her voice cracked, a sob escaping her lips. "But we have to stop him, Vincent. Please."
Before Vincent could respond, before anyone could even draw breath, Hermione felt herself slammed against the wall, a crushing force that knocked the air from her lungs. Daphne, her face contorted with a fury that rivaled any curse, was on her, those blue eyes blazing, the runes etched across her arms glowing with a fierce, unnatural light.
"YOU FUCKING WHORE, YOUR BASTARD SON KILLED MY BOY!" Daphne roared, her voice a raw, primal scream of grief and rage.
Hermione gasped, her vision blurring as Daphne's fingers tightened around her throat, the pressure cutting off her air.
In a flash, Vincent was there, pulling Daphne away, his grip on her arms like iron bands. "Stop it, Daphne!" he roared, his voice a thunderclap. "Stop! It's my fault too!"
Daphne struggled against his grip, her fury undiminished. "I'll kill her! I'll kill the bitch!" She slammed her fist into Vincent's face, a sickening crunch of bone against flesh, and he staggered back, blood trickling from his split lip.
Daphne lunged again, but Vincent caught her, holding her tight, tears streaming down her face as she pounded against his chest.
Victor and Daniela rushed towards them, their faces pale with shock. "Dad! Mom!"
"Stay back!" Vincent's voice was a strained command. "I… I deserved that. I'm sorry, Daphne. There's nothing I can say… You can… You can kill me later. But now… we need to stop Fenrir. We need to stop… Brian."
Daphne didn't seem to hear him. She stared at him, her eyes filled with a blazing hatred. "I hate you," she whispered, the words a poisoned dagger. Then, with a sickening twist of air, she was gone.
Vincent watched her disappear, his hand instinctively going to his jaw, his fingers tracing the blood trickling from his lip. The pain in his eyes, the raw vulnerability… it was more devastating than any physical blow.
He turned to Hermione, his gaze piercing.
"Tell me everything," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Everything about this… Brian."