The Ghost Prince

Chapter Six

Wayward Son

"Draco," Hermione said in a quiet voice, her expression gravely serious, "I think I know why that Cultist used a gun when he tried to assassinate you." Her voice trembled as she spoke – she had nearly lost him far too many times to count and every time he survived made it seem to her, more and more, that they were simply daring fate.

The constant worry she felt for her husband sometimes made her yearn for the days in which their love had been simply a torrid affair, hidden from the public eye. Before she could delve deeper into the bottomless pit that was her concern for her family's welfare, Draco had sunk into the seat beside her and leaned in to kiss her wrinkled cheek.

"Do tell," he urged when she remained silent, content to simply blush like a schoolgirl whilst his kisses made her feel, as they always did, as if she was seventeen and not in her early seventies.

"I had to look in some of the darkest spellbooks, Draco," she replied, a stony look crossing her face as she remembered what it was she had discovered.

"I had to use Bellatrix's old grimoire," she added, "the one that . . ." she choked up a little, looking away as Draco supplied the words that she couldn't.

"The book that led Albus to summoning his first Shadow," sighed Draco, slinging an arm around her.

She relaxed into his hold, but that did not stop the ever-present guilt which had plagued her for the past few decades. The grimoire had been in Malfoy Manor – and for what it was worth, she and Draco may well have given him the book themselves.

It haunted her, that had they perhaps been more vigilant, the world would not have fallen to shadow. Shaking her head, she turned back to face him, blinking back the tears as drew herself back into the matter at hand.

"The gun," she cleared her throat, "It's a common make. It's the bullet that holds the true danger."

"The Sorting Hat made the right call in putting you in Gryffindor over Ravenclaw," chuckled Draco, "I would have never guessed that the bullet was more dangerous than the gun."

"Shut up, you tosser," she scolded, though the light curve of her lips betrayed her attempts to conceal her amusement.

"It's a named bullet," she continued, lifting a picture of the bullet up from the table and showing it to him, pointing out the initials carved into the metal.

D.M

A named bullet was old magic . . . old, dark magic. Once named and enchanted, the bullet would not miss when fired, and would always guarantee that the person it struck would die if the initials matched. Of course, the spells were tricky – Hermione distinctly remembered that the spell, if improperly cast, could lead to devastating consequences for all those involved. There had been two other bullets in the magazine, and two of them had chilled her to the bone.

S.M

He might not have been her son by blood, but damn it all if she didn't love Scorpius as if he were her own, having been his stepmother since he had been eleven.

"Aunt Bella always was fond of pruning the family tree," sighed Draco, frowning as he read the initials on the last bullet, and the large red writing across the picture.

H.G – Reported Missing from Evidence

She feigned a smile at her husband as his face grew ashen, the realisation sinking in as his mind made the connection.

Hermione may have been a Malfoy for over twenty years and a Weasley for another twenty, but she had been born a Granger. . .

And there truly was no fooling a named bullet.

(*)(*)(*)

Blood splattered across the wall as Scorpius pulled back his fist, glaring at the man bound to the chair in front of him. A few flecks of scarlet stained his crisp suit, and his knuckles were already bruising from delivering such a slew of beatings to their suspect. So far, all that he had managed to find out from the man had been his name – Jack Rhodes – and that he had just been doing "his job."

Naturally, such a lack of co-operation had only served to piss both his brother and himself off more than they already were. Scorpius lashed out again when Jack sneered at him, striking him on the mouth and breaking a few more of the man's teeth.

It had been a simple matter to transport the Cultist to this location after his father had dealt with the man. Scorpius and Hugo, the Malfoy Brothers, were arguably the two most powerful men in Wizarding Britain, one standing as Minister for Magic whilst the other reigned as director for their world's leading conglomerate. With James assisting them, pulling strings as only he could, they had encountered no obstacles at getting the deplorable man to their interrogation chamber.

"If you keep that up," scowled James from the corner of the room, frowning at the two Malfoy men standing on either side of the suspect, "He'll be dead before he talks."

"Not really our concern," snapped Hugo, wiping his knife on a damp cloth to clean off the dried blood. Scorpius bit back a retort, there really was no point in arguing amongst themselves and letting the little bastard succeed in riling them up.

"You hear that," snarled Scorpius, leaning in so that he was inches away from the man's face, a wicked gleam in his silver-grey eyes as he spoke, "We don't give a rat's arse about you living and dying, that's why we're here where nobody can hear you scream. So why don't you do yourself a favour and spill?"

He could see the frantic whirring of the man's mind behind his eyes, deliberating whether or not to confess or to keep his silence. Scorpius had made a valid point – they weren't on Ministry premises, nor where they on Order premises. They were in one of the cosy little interrogation rooms Malfoy Holdings had built specifically for the Outcasts to use – deep underground and buried with more wards than Hogwarts.

There was no escape.

There truly was nobody to hear the prisoner scream.

"What's to stop you killing me anyway?" Jack asked thickly, his mouth full of blood and broken teeth, "I did try to kill your father, after all."

He was about to respond when James spoke from his position against the wall, his voice cooler and more cynical than he had ever heard before in all his years of knowing his brother-in-law.

"On my honour as a Potter, as a father and as the Director of the Order," he said clinically, "I will not let them kill you."

"Your honour means shit to me," scoffed the man, coughing and spraying Scorpius' suit with blood and saliva. Damn, this meant he would have to head to the office to change before heading home – no cleaning spell could undo so much damage to Italian silk.

"I'll make you an Unbreakable Vow," offered James, holding out his hand with a raised eyebrow and nodding at Hugo. The younger man frowned before undoing one of their prisoner's shackles and letting him grasp James' hand.

Scorpius frowned when asked to be their bonder, eyes widening at the knowing look in James' eyes. Nodding imperceptibly, he touched his wand to their clasped hands.

"Do you, James Sirius Potter, swear to not let myself or my brother kill this man?"

"I do."

The golden thread of energy flowed from his wand, twisting serpentine around their held hands before fading into their skin. James smirked as he pulled his hand away, and asked:

"Why doesn't Veritaserum work on you?"

"We Cultist's are not fools – we treat ourselves with a liberal dosage of the antidote to truth serum before leaving on a mission."

Scorpius frowned and exchanged a look with Hugo. The antidote to veritaserum was rare and Malfoy Holdings was the only organisation to produce and store it in their vaults. The recipe had been developed by their sister, Cassiopeia, years ago and the news that the Cultists had access to this did not bode well – it was becoming evident that there may be a mole within the Outcasts.

"Who sent you to kill Draco Malfoy?"

"The Dark Lady," admitted Jack, "she knows that he's one of the biggest threats to her plans because of his power."

"How did you get into the Ministry?"

"I can't answer that," replied Jack, "They'll kill me if I do."

"Bear in mind that my protection lasts only as long as you co-operate," snapped James, and Scorpius had to admire his brother-in-law's almost Slytherin cunning. He was leading their Cultist prisoner through a maze by using a little block of cheese, nonchalantly extracting every little kernel of information from the man whilst doing so.

Jack's eyes flickered to the two Malfoys, widening at the vicious looks they both wore before falling back upon James' indiscernible expression. Scorpius could only smirk as the man spilled his innermost secrets . . . obviously they should play good cop, bad cop more often.

"One of the master keys had been kept safe by a member of the Dark Lady's inner circle," Jack yelped when Hugo took a menacing step forward, his silver knife gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

"Who kept this key safe?" prodded James.

"I don't know her name, I swear! I just know that they call her the Temptress," he spluttered in response.

"Is that all you know?"

"Yes, so you can let me go now, right?"

James chuckled darkly before smirking, causing their prisoner to tremble whilst Scorpius watched in grim fascination. This wasn't a side of James Potter that he was familiar with – but it was one that he quite liked. Somehow, the almost feral look in the man's hazel eyes reminded him of Albus, his late best mate and brother in all but blood.

"You gave me your word that I would survive!" Jack yelled, straining against his bonds as James turned away from him.

"I swore that I wouldn't let Scorpius or Hugo kill you," explained James, not looking at the pitiful man in chains, "I said nothing about myself."

James whirled before his words could be processed by those in the room around him, the knife cutting a red arc through the air as it opened Jack's throat from ear to ear, causing the prisoner to slump as blood spewed from the gaping wound. Breathing deeply, James dropped the knife with a clang, raising an eyebrow at the surprised look on Scorpius' face.

"I thought you hated killing," Scorpius frowned at the older man, Hugo staring at them both with a slightly confused look on his face. He was sure that, like him, his brother was stunned by the fluid manner in which James had taken a life, almost mechanical and with no emotion whatsoever.

"That was before they went after my family," shrugged James, wiping his bloody hands across his jeans.

(*)(*)(*)

"One. Two. Three," she muttered to herself, slipping into a steady rhythm as she chopped the vegetables for dinner, forcing herself to think of nothing else other than the numbers. It was a trick she had picked up during her long months of recuperation – the best way for her to be freed from her trauma was to focus on anything but.

Sometimes, she chose to hum under her breath and other times, she would recite her old school notes, as if she were still in Hogwarts. It was a distraction, one that served to keep her mind clear of the lingering memories of her torture. Despite all her choices though, Kat often found herself counting, falling back into the old routine she had perfected when taking Arithmancy to NEWT level.

She found it oddly soothing, to lose herself in the numbers and dispel her debilitating spasms or shivers for a time. Loathe as she was to admit it, the Cultists had succeeded in breaking her, and her only blessing – one that she held close to her heart – was that she had escaped the fate of those driven insane by the cruciatus.

"Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen," she counted, the knife cutting through the carrots as if they were butter. She could, of course, have done the dinner preparations with magic but she had found that doing things manually were often much more therapeutic.

The oven chimed, letting her know that it was hot enough for her to pop in the chicken, but that little sound was all it took to throw her off balance, causing her to lose count.

"Twenty nine," she mumbled, "thirty nine?" She felt her fingers begin to tremble as she panicked, struggling to search her fragmented mind for the missing number. Kat was sure that there was a nine involved – in fact; the unit had definitely been a nine. What had the ten been though? A twenty, a thirty or had she already passed forty?

"You okay, mum?" she heard Riley ask from the door, slurping at a juice-box as he stared at her through widened eyes. Not wanting to worry him, she nodded, not daring to turn around and face him as it simply would not do for her son to see the panic in her eyes.

"I'm fine," she stuttered, trying to focus on the numbers, her crutch whenever Xavier wasn't around to support her. Nineteen? Ninety nine? Fifty nine?

What had it been?

Her fingers trembled violently as she fought back the memories, not wanting to relive the experiences. The Cultists had gone to great lengths in their quest to shatter her grasp on sanity, and the cruciatus had been just the tip of the iceberg.

They had ripped her teeth from her gums, cut her skin in half a hundred places and then doused her in salt. She had been burned by boiling oil, branded by hot metal, had her fingernails torn away from her body. Bones had been broken; she had gone days without food or water, left suspended from the ceiling by rusted chains till her shoulders screamed in pain.

Such torture damaged more than the body . . . it desecrated the mind.

She had endured, the thoughts of her sons being all that had kept her alive, the urge to see them again burning within her even as they had scorched her flesh with acid. Matthew and Riley . . . they were her boys, the only children she would ever – could ever – have. The Cultists knives had been brutal and Francesca had delivered the news when she was first under her cousin-in-law's care at St. Mungo's.

"Mum!" yelled Riley, dashing across the room. The loud sound yanked her down deeper into her forbidden memories, the sound of the chair tipping over sounding eerily reminiscent of her bones being shattered by hammers.

The Cultists had enjoyed doing things manually as well.

Idly, she was aware that she had cut her hand, that the pile of evenly sliced carrots was slowly being covered by blood. The sluggish warmth spreading across her skin was torture; she could see it welling in other places, dripping from her every pore as they made her bleed again.

The knife fell from her hand, clattering against the wooden chopping board and causing the growing puddle of blood to splash across her. Kat cried out in alarm, screaming as she felt them begin to cut into her with their jagged blades.

"Mum!" Riley shook her, making no difference as she shivered bodily, clutching at the counters and begging for her phantom torturers to leave her alone.

The next minute he was gone and she heard the roar of fire in her ears, echoing through her home, and whilst the rational part of her recognised it as the sound of the floo, she screamed at the feeling of molten lead being tracked across her skin.

"Get away," she shrieked as strong arms closed around her, just as she was about to crumple. Her eyes watered, bloodshot as she clawed and slapped at her attacker, kicking at his shins and struggling to get free.

"Let me go," she screamed, bile filling her throat as she remembered the feel of a line being run down the length of her spine, the blade coated with salamander blood.

"No," he whispered into her ear, his voice soft and reassuring, and she felt herself relax almost instantaneously, his voice serving to draw her back to reality.

"I will never let you go, Katherine," he continued as the tears trickled down her cheeks, cool against her skin as she buried her head into his shoulder.

"Xavier," she sobbed, "I . . . I'm so sorry, Xavier. I can't . . . broken inside."

Her words were incoherent but he seemed to understand, drawing them both down to the floor with her enveloped in his arms. Xavier rocked her back and forth in his arms, whispering into her ear that it would all be okay, promising her that nothing would ever happen to her again.

That he would keep her safe.

A smaller pair of arms closed around her and she lightened considerably as she felt her youngest son hug her, enclosing her between his father and himself. Her breathing slowly returning to normal, she turned to press a kiss into Riley's forehead.

Her boys.

(*)(*)(*)

His heart hammered in his chest as he knocked on the door, his eyes narrowed in distaste as he surveyed the dingy motel. For the life of him, he did not know why his son would choose to come here of all places – surely there were several other options for accommodation that were less seedy. Then again, his boy was walking a dark road, one that Teddy wished that he could walk for him.

The sound of a young man cursing was evident on the other side of the door, so he knocked again, firmer this time.

"Open the door, Remy," demanded Teddy Lupin, "I know you're in there."

"You have the wrong room," a woman's voice, soft and sensual wafted through the half-rotted wood. Had the circumstances been different, Teddy was sure that he would have laughed at his son's last ditch effort to avoid him. The boy seemed to have forgotten who it was that had taught him how to control his abilities.

"Daddy!" squealed the four year old boy, dashing across the living room and flinging himself onto his father, succeeding in knocking the wind out of him on impact. Teddy gasped, quickly composing himself before grabbing the child and spinning him through the air, beaming at his son's delighted peals of laughter.

"How's my little man?" grinned Teddy, balancing Remy in one arm and leaning in to peck his wife on the lips. She smiled at them both for a few minutes before returning to the kitchen, from which wafted the delicious aroma of roast beef.

"I'm doing awesome, daddy," declared Remy, "I managed to turn my hair blue today."

"Really?" Teddy asked in disbelief. It had taken him years to be able to consciously change his hair colour from its usual turquoise when he had been a child. To be honest, he had still been having difficulty keeping his hair from shifting up till his first year of Hogwarts and here was his boy, morphing at age four.

"Really," grinned Remy, and Teddy recoiled at the sound of his voice coming from his son's lips. The little boy screwed up his nose in concentration and within seconds, streaks of azure were appearing through his shock of neon-green hair.

"Who taught you how to change your voice?" he asked, frowning because his job as a parent had just become a lot harder. Voice manipulation had allowed him to pull a fair few pranks in his youth, in addition to him being able to imitate his godparents' voices and tell the other to do something that would benefit him.

"I watched you do it," Remy shrugged his tiny shoulders, "And I wanted to be just like you because you're the bestest."

"I swear I'll blow this damn door down if you don't open it," barked Teddy, his patience at an end, "I'm just here to talk."

The door swung open to reveal his son, a heavy scowl upon his lean face.

"Then talk," snapped Remy, but all Teddy could do was stare. Whilst his son had always been lithe, he now appeared to have lost pounds he couldn't afford to have lost, and his muscles were taut against his skin. His knuckles were bruised and scraped as if from a brawl with a particularly violent brick wall, his eyes more haunted that they had been the last time he had seen him. The neon-green hair was still present, his son's signature colour, but there was no mistaking the bloodshot eyes and stubble.

Nor could Teddy overlook the strong stench of Firewhiskey that invaded his nostrils.

Nevertheless, before daring to say a word he had pulled his son into the tightest hug he could muster. For the first time in weeks, the whorls of grey faded from his hair, as did the wrinkles from his face. The senior metamorphmagus bit back a sigh when his son stiffened in his embrace, but some part of him refused to let go until a dry, hacking cough escaped Remy's mouth.

"Dad," a fifteen year old Remy cleared his throat, causing him to look up from his desk. Quickly seeing the nervous look on his son's face, he pushed aside the textbook he had been using to plan his next lesson and gestured to the seat across from him.

"This is a pleasant surprise," he smiled, "I was beginning to think that the only time I ever see you is in my classes." Remy had the decency to blush at the comment, a slight jab against him not visiting his father as often as he should have. Teddy understood that his son wanted his independence and as such preferred to spend time with his peers, but he could at least take the time to have tea with his old man every now and then.

"I need some help, dad," he stammered after a short pause, "Promise you won't laugh though?"

"I won't laugh," agreed Teddy, "You don't have to be nervous, Remy. You can tell me anything and I'll never laugh at you."

"You know how we can't morph different aspects of our hair into different colours at the same time?" Remy asked, his face pale and Teddy could very well hear his young heart thumping in his chest with anxiety as he spoke. Despite the urge to laugh – because he knew where this conversation was going now – he had made a promise and so he just nodded.

"Well this never bothered me before," pointed out Remy, "Quidditch showers and the dormitory bathrooms weren't much of a bother because they're me mates and I can't be embarrassed by them because they know me but I may have a girlfriend and I'm really nervous that she'll be turned off to find out that I . . . That I . . . That I . . ." he trailed off uncomfortably, and Teddy has to once more suppress a chuckle at his son's ramblings.

"That you have neon green pubic hair?" supplied Teddy.

He didn't know what it had been that had triggered that particular memory; he just knew that it was one that could never fail to make him smile.

"How'd you find me?" asked Remy, moving aside to let Teddy walk into the room. He wrinkled his nose at the sight of the filthy room, littered with freshly crumpled beer cans and burned out cigarette stumps. It hurt him, worse than any curse he had taken during his auror days, to see his son on a downward spiral of self-destruction.

"I know you," he shrugged, "It took me a few weeks to put the clues together, but I found you and that's what matters."

"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts?"

"It's a Saturday."

"Why are you here?"

"Because you're my son and I can't see you like this. I've been worried sick for weeks, no months, ever since you came back from that godforsaken mission. Your mother is tearing her hair out with worry. Andrea, I don't even know how to get through to her any more, she's become so reclusive and isolated from the world. Merlin, Remy, do you have any idea how it's hurting us to not know whether you're alive or dead?"

"AND WHAT ABOUT WHAT I'M FEELING! What about the fact that I didn't go into that hellhole alone. That I lost someone in there! That a piece of me fucking died in that dungeon!" Remy was on his feet. The young man yanked a chain off his neck and held it to Teddy's face, causing his heart to plummet more than it already had as he caught sight of the two rings dangling from the silver links.

"One of these is her signet ring. The other was the one I was going to propose with as soon as we got home from that mission."

"Remy, ple–"

"What would you do if you were wearing my shoes right now and it had been mum who had died?"

Teddy felt as though he had been slapped, and his jaw hung agape as tears burned in his eyes. If he had found himself in his son's position then there was no denying that he would destroy the entire world rather than live in it without Victoire. As much as he hated to admit it, his son had raised a fair point. Remy had loved the Pierce girl with all his heart.

His son just needed closure.

But he couldn't just let his son die because of a girl whose heart no longer beat.

"Remy," he sighed, "Please . . . Don't make me have to bury my son . . . Please."

"You won't bury me," replied Remy, his eyes flashing and darkening to an inky black, his bruised knuckles trembling, "I have to do this, dad. I'll come home when I'm done. I need to avenge her."

"They say that when you go seeking revenge, you must be prepared to dig two graves," Teddy said softly, his voice breaking as he clasped a hand on his son's shoulder, "I cannot stop you in your quest but please, promise me that you will prove them wrong and come home when this is all over."

"I promise."

(*)(*)(*)

A/N: First of all, I'm sorry about the delay in getting this chapter to you all. University has been a real bitch to me, to be honest, and my courses are taking a hell of a lot of my time. Regardless, I will try my best to update this on a regular basis.

Secondly, because of the divulging plot arcs, one taking part in Hogwarts with Leo, Aurora and the gang whilst the other arc is taking place with the adults, the chapters are now going be set in an alternating pattern, one with the kids and one with the adults, till they eventually merge.

Thirdly, I'm moving The Ghost Prince from a T-rating to an M-rating due to the heavy violence that's been showcased so far. It's been pointed out to be, and I've been suspecting, that concepts like Remy's revenge arc, Kat's torture and such aren't conducive for a younger audience and I just want to warn future readers better because this series is a rather dark one.

Finally, from this chapter on, The Lord of Shadows will be beta'd by the amazing TwilightMoonbeams (Check out her stories, 'Picking Up the Pieces' is one of my favourite canon compliant pieces ever) and this is, once again, just to ensure that the chapters uploaded are off the utmost quality.

Thoughts on this chapter?