(Hermione's POV)
The silence in the room pressed in on Hermione, the weight of Vincent's gaze a tangible force. She took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she recounted everything James had told her about Brian. His anger, his resentment, his chilling determination to destroy everything Vincent had built.
By the time she finished, her voice was hoarse, her throat raw. Victor and Daniela sat frozen on the sofa, their faces pale with shock, their eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and dawning horror.
Vincent, however, remained impassive, his gaze fixed on her,
"Why?" he finally asked, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me about him? About our son?"
The question hung in the air, a razor-sharp blade twisting in her gut. What could she say? What possible explanation could justify years of silence, of burying her secret, of allowing this monster to grow in the shadows?
Shame washed over her, hot and suffocating.
"I…" she stammered, her voice failing her. "I…"
She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, the weight of her guilt crushing her.
"How could you dad?" Victor's voice, sharp with accusation, shattered the silence. He stood abruptly, his face flushed with anger. "How could you do this to Mom? To us?"
Daniela, her eyes filled with tears, echoed her brother's outrage. "I thought you were better than this father"
"Not now," Vincent cut her off, his voice a sharp command that silenced them.
He turned back to Hermione, his eyes remained cold. "It's good you brought this to me, Hermione," he said, his voice a chillingly calm assessment. "Knowing he's our son. It also means I'll… show your other son some mercy. Because I know it was James who let Fenrir into the building."
Hermione's heart lurched.
"Please," she pleaded, desperation lacing her voice. "Let me talk to him. Just… let me try."
Vincent scoffed. "Talk to him? To say what? Apologize for giving him up? Beg for his forgiveness? He's past that, Hermione. Whatever guilt we carry, whatever mistakes we made… he crossed a line. And I will deal with him. As I see fit."
"Brian is a madman who has no problem killing people 'related' to him," Vincent interrupted, his voice flat. "He'll kill you, Hermione. Don't be naive."
He turned away, his gaze hardening. "I have a world to protect."
And with a sickening twist of air, he was gone.
(Vincent's POV)
The world twisted around him, the familiar lurch of Apparition depositing him back in the heart of Cerberus HQ.
Brian.
His son.
The word echoed in his mind, a chilling realization that sent a wave of icy fury coursing through him. Hermione had kept him a secret. All these years… A lifetime of choices, of carefully constructed walls, crumbled around him.
Maybe if she'd told him…
No. He pushed the thought away, the familiar ache of regret a useless distraction. There was no time for what-ifs. He had to focus on the present. On the threat.
"Adrian!" he barked, his voice echoing through the empty corridors.
Adrian appeared within seconds, his expression a mix of concern and anticipation. "Vincent"
Vincent wasted no time on pleasantries. "Fenrir. Their leader… I know who he is."
Adrian's jaw slackened, his eyes widening. "You do?"
Vincent ignored his shock.
"How… how do we find him?" Adrian asked, his voice a hushed murmur.
Vincent smirked, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. "If he's smart, he's buried himself deep. Gone to ground. But…" He paused, his gaze hardening. "I know a way."
"Prepare forty Hounds. Combat ready. Full gear. I'll meet you in the training room in ten minutes."
Vincent turned, his mind already racing, and strode toward a door marked with a single, intricate rune. A ward of his own design. Only he had access.
The room was small, dimly lit, the shelves lined with ancient tomes, their leather covers cracked and worn, their pages filled with secrets whispered in hushed tones, spells teetered on the edge of madness. He'd collected them over the years, a fascination with the darker aspects of magic, a thirst for knowledge that had fueled his rise to power.
His gaze fell on a particularly ancient volume, its cover bound in human skin. He opened it, the parchment brittle with age, the ink faded but still radiating a faint, malevolent energy. He found the ritual, its instructions a chilling symphony of blood and sacrifice, a spell designed to bridge the chasm between worlds, to connect blood to blood, no matter the distance, he was planning on using this spell to track Arthur back when he was kidnapped but Potter and Sirius were stupid enough to not destroy Arthur's phone.
He'd collected the ingredients over the years – unicorn blood, phoenix tears, a strand of Thestral hair, a heartstring from a Hungarian Horntail… Each one rare, expensive, a testament to his wealth and his influence.
He grabbed a crystal bowl, its surface etched with swirling runes, and carefully measured out the ingredients, his movements precise, his mind focused. From a cabinet, locked with multiple wards, he retrieved three potions: Edurus, for enhanced strength and resilience; Focus, to sharpen his senses and amplify his magical control; and a vial of Thunderbrew he would crush them.
He changed, trading his suit for tactical gear – a black vest, its pockets loaded with extra magazines, a holster strapped to his thigh, the familiar weight of the 5906 a cold comfort against his hip. He slung an M16 over his shoulder, its sleek black lines a promise of swift, brutal justice.
He paused for a moment, looking at his reflection in the dusty mirror, the years etched into his face, the weight of his choices a heavy burden. He was going to kill his son. His own flesh and blood.
He's crossed the line.
The thought, a chilling certainty, echoed the icy fury in his heart. Arthur's face flashed through his mind, fueling his resolve.
He's no different from Voldemort.
Vincent returned to the training room, the forty Hounds at attention, their black tactical gear a stark contrast to the sterile white walls. He placed the bowl on a table, its contents shimmering with a faint, otherworldly glow.
"This is a flash attack, " he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "We'll catch them by surprise. Use it to your advantage."
He drank the potions, the liquid fire coursing through his veins, sharpening his senses, amplifying his magic. He raised his hand, his wand a conduit for the power that surged within him. He made a cut on his palm, letting the blood drip into the bowl, the crimson liquid swirling, merging with the other ingredients.
He turned to the Hounds, his gaze unwavering.
"Today, we crush Fenrir," he said, his voice a promise of retribution. "Today, we end their pathetic existence."
He walked toward a steel door at the back of the room. It was unmarked, unassuming, but behind it lay a hidden chamber, a space he'd warded with ancient magic, a nexus of power. He knelt before the door, his hand hovering over the smooth metal.
"This ends now," he thought, his mind a whirlwind of fury and a chillingly familiar emptiness.
He dipped his fingers into the bowl, the mixture cold against his skin. And then, he began to draw.
Intricate runes flowed from his fingertips, glowing a sickly green against the steel. The air crackled with magic, the room growing colder as the ritual took hold. This wasn't a simple tracking spell, not a mere summoning charm. This was blood magic, a forbidden ritual that tapped into the primal forces of kinship, of shared blood, drawing him towards his quarry.
He closed his eyes.
"Brian," he whispered, his voice a low, guttural command.
The runes flared, their light intensifying, the air around them shimmering. The door pulsed with a sickly green glow. It was working.
Vincent grabbed the doorknob, his wand clutched tightly in his other hand. His Hounds moved closer, their weapons raised, their eyes reflecting the cold fire in his own.
He opened the door.
And stepped into the shadows.
(Brian's POV)
The flickering light of the fireplace cast long, dancing shadows across the dusty floorboards. Rain lashed against the grimy windows of the safehouse, a steady drumbeat that mirrored the restless pulse in my own veins. I sat on a threadbare sofa, a worn copy of The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts open on my lap.
It had been weeks since the Parliament bombing, weeks of hiding, of watching the world react with a predictable mix of fear and outrage. weeks of savoring the chaos we'd unleashed, the seeds of distrust we'd sown. But the thrill of victory had faded, replaced by a gnawing anticipation.
Vincent.
He hadn't made a move. Not yet. But I knew he was out there, lurking in the shadows, his fury a gathering storm.
He'll come for me.
The thought, a chilling certainty, wasn't fear, not exactly. It was more like… a challenge. A reckoning. A chance to finally prove myself. To surpass the father who'd abandoned me.
I'd reinforced the wards, doubled the security protocols. No one could find us here. No one…
The sharp click of the door opening sliced through the steady rhythm of the rain. I was on my feet in an instant, wand already in my hand, adrenaline surging. My gaze swept over the room – the other Fenrir members, scattered around the space, some dozing, others reading, their wands lying carelessly on tables.
"Who is it?" I called out, my voice sharp, already moving towards the door. "Didn't I say to be more careful?"
Silence.
Just the sound of footsteps, heavy, measured, coming closer.
Probably Gareth.
I moved to intercept whoever it was, a Confringo already forming on my lips. The hallway leading to the living room was dim, the single flickering lightbulb casting long, distorted shadows.
A figure emerged from the darkness, their silhouette broad, imposing, a sense of power radiating from them that made my instincts scream a warning. But before I could react, before I could even utter the incantation, a spell, red and angry, hurtled toward me.
"Stupefy!"
I twisted, throwing myself to the side, the spell searing the air inches from my chest. My heart hammered against my ribs as I slammed against the wall, scrambling for a defensive position.
"Who the hell…?" The words died in my throat as the figure stepped into the dim light, their face illuminated by the flickering bulb.
It was him.
Vincent Van Doren.
Years had etched lines into his face, but his blue eyes, those eyes that haunted my dreams the same eyes I had, burned with a cold fury that sent a shiver down my spine. And behind him, emerging from the shadows, a wave of darkness materialized – figures clad in black tactical gear, their wands and guns raised, their expressions grim masks beneath their balaclavas. I didn't know who they were, this private army, but the power radiating from them, the coordinated precision of their movements, sent a wave of icy dread through me.
He'd found me.
"Vincent?" I snarled, disbelief mixing with a surge of adrenaline. "How?"
He didn't answer. He just kept coming, a relentless force of nature, his wand already raised. "Protego!" I roared, throwing up a shield just as a jet of crimson light, a cutting curse, slammed into it. The force of the impact nearly knocked me off my feet, my shield shimmering precariously.
"You're going to pay for this, Vincent!" I yelled, unleashing a barrage of spells. Jinxes, hexes, curses – a chaotic symphony of magic aimed at slowing him down, at buying myself some time. But he was a whirlwind, deflecting my attacks with effortless ease, his movements fluid, precise, those damned runes etched into his skin glowing with a power that even my own runes couldn't match.
"You think those pathetic little spells can stop me?" His voice was cold, laced with a disdain that ignited a fresh wave of fury.
"They worked on the Parliament, didn't they?" I spat back, a wave of pride momentarily eclipsing the fear.
He didn't answer. He just kept coming, his spells now targeted, focused, each one aimed at breaking me, at punishing me. A bone-shattering curse slammed into my shoulder, sending me reeling, pain lancing through my arm. Another curse, this one targeting my legs, nearly buckled my knees.
A scream ripped through the air, a woman's voice, raw and filled with terror. Then, a gunshot. The sound, sharp and brutal, echoed in the hallway, a stark reminder of the weapon he'd used to bring down Voldemort, the weapon he wouldn't hesitate to use against me.
My followers. They were being slaughtered.
He pressed his attack, a relentless barrage of spells that forced me back, my defenses crumbling. I was breathing hard, sweat stinging my eyes, the pain in my shoulder a throbbing distraction. He disarmed me,the elder wand flying across the room, clattering against the wall. I lunged at him, fists clenched, desperation fueling my attack. He caught me, his grip like iron, and slammed me against the wall again.
"Is that all you've got, Brian?" he snarled, his face inches from mine, his eyes blazing. "Pathetic. You're a disgrace to magic. To our blood."
He slammed his fist into my stomach, a crushing blow that stole my breath, doubling me over. Then, he was on me, his fists a blur of motion, each blow precise, brutal, targeting my ribs, my jaw, my kidneys. Pain exploded, my vision blurring, my cries for mercy lost in the symphony of violence.
I crumpled to the floor, a broken, whimpering mess. He kicked me in the ribs, another wave of agony, and I rolled onto my back, my gaze meeting his.
He stood over me, his chest heaving, his knuckles bloody, the cold fury in his eyes now replaced by something… colder… a chilling emptiness that made me shiver.
"Why?" I whispered, the word a broken plea. "Why did you… abandon me? Why didn't you… want me?"
He stared at me, a flicker of something… surprise? … crossing his face. Then, his expression hardened again, his gaze as cold and distant as the stars.
"I didn't even know you existed, Brian," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Hermione… she never told me. Not until today."
The words hit me like a physical blow. All these years… the hate, the anger, the desperate need for revenge… all of it… misdirected.
I'd been wrong.
Vincent hadn't chosen to abandon me. He hadn't known.
The realization, a cold, crushing truth, sucked the fight out of me. I slumped back, my gaze dropping to the bloodstained floorboards, the remnants of my shattered dreams.
Vincent pulled the pistol, its sleek black lines a familiar harbinger of death. He aimed it at my head.
"In another world," he said, his voice a low, regretful murmur, "we could have been a family. But not in this one."
I only saw a flash and then complete darkness took me over.