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He had been Chester King for most of his life- the first seventeen years or so notwithstanding.
The name still did not seem to fit.
Chester was fine- it was the name he remembered being called by his mother and father, his sister had called him 'Chess' for short- but King...
It just didn't sit right.
Not that it particularly mattered- no one had called him by name in over 50 years- but it was the principle of the thing. He'd been raised in a loving home, had been doted on by family and nannies alike, but when he turned 11 things had changed. Suddenly he was kept strictly to the manor's grounds, he wasn't allowed to go with Eileen to school, and the family visits had trickled to a stop by the time he was thirteen.
But even a squib had its uses in the family- the ability to carry on the family name, possibly pass down the magic that had skipped them; a placeholder for something better that had yet to come. He had spent his time researching the subjects in which he could be of use- politics mostly, something that magic was not entirely necessary for- in the hopes of being given the family seat in the Wizengamot. Endless hours were spent in the manor's library, and what he could not find there was found by asking the house elves to obtain copies Ministry texts.
Being a Prince held a fair bit of weight in the world, after all, and he was good enough at forging his father's signature to obtain what he needed. He had long since learned that no one was to know about the Prince Squib.
Just because he couldn't perform magic didn't mean that he couldn't experience it.
It wasn't that uncommon a practise, disciplining your children, and it certainly wasn't an unfamiliar one to Chester, but goodness knows that it had only gotten worse since Eileen left to Hogwarts. Things that had once resulted in stinging hexes evolved to blood-quilled lines, what had once been lines became minutes under the cruciatus curse.
But it was all worth it to still be amongst the magic. Anything was worth it.
Except even that couldn’t last. Good things always come to an end. Not that how he had been living was good, to be honest, but on he and Eileen's seventeenth birthday things officially went tits up. Eileen was given the Prince heir ring, and the pocketwatch usually saved for wizards, and he was given a stack of paper. Not parchment, but paper, detailing his new address and bank account. On the muggle side.
He put off leaving for as long as possible, slowly buying the magical things he knew he would have no access to but could use while in exile. An owl, parchemnt, quills, a chess set, some floo powder (just in case), and a set of gobstones. The latter was mostly sentimental; he and Eileen had played as children, and she had quickly ascended the ranks at Hogwarts- becoming both president of the club and champion. He doubted she would be visiting much (he did, after all, know all of the duties of the Heir of a pureblood house far better than she) but when and if she did have an opportunity... At least they would have this. He also purchased a set of wit-sharpening potions, and some pepper-up; the former would be to catch up on his muggle education so he could survive on his own, and the latter in case he came down with a cold. He'd heard the horror stories of muggle doctors, and would do most anything he could to avoid them.
Thank Merlin that potions didn't expire.
Chester Prince left the wizarding world for the last time on a Wednesday afternoon, having gone to see his sister off on the Hogwarts Express and aimlessly wandered Diagon Alley. Mourning the loss of something that had never truly been his to begin with.
Chester King left university to join the military on a Friday morning. The process of learning had been enjoyable, but he was restless. He had spent seventeen years among impossible things, and though he had been unable to participate fully it still had given him this need for excitement. Having no wand, and being unable to contact his family (his owls had always returned unopened) he had quickly given up the notion of returning to the wizarding world. He didn't order the Prophet anymore, because anything that really pertained to him was sent to him by his father- formal announcements, deaths in the family; he was kept informed in the barest sense. They were not the worst of parents, they simply worked with what tools they had, but society was far more important than keeping a squib child.
So Chester King joined the Royal Navy, excelled at it, and one day was approached by a finely dressed man who offered him the chance to be extraordinary. Well, that was how he’d presented it, talking of Kingsman as if it had been in place for as long an illustrious a time as the very nation they were standing in. Entirely false, of course, but the man believed that it was and Chester agreed to give this Kingsman group a try.
What man didn’t want to be a spy, after all? It was the kind of thing novels were made of, magical and muggle alike, and at least at this he could put the skills he had learned in the Prince manor’s library to use. Negotiation, after all, was just politics in a different skin.
Training was arduous, though nothing he had not experienced before. Gruelling hours of physical activity, tasteless food, weapons lessons, all of those had been a part of his Navy training, and what hadn’t happened there had been a part of his life with the Prince’s. The dog was new, something he hadn’t expected and didn’t much know what to do with outside of name it and keep it breathing, but Chester didn’t make connections easily so it was still just a thing. Shooting it had not been a problem, when Arthur had ordered him to it had been done without a second thought.
He was disappointed when it didn’t die.
Chester King became Lamorak on a Saturday evening surprisingly close to his twenty-second birthday. He thought briefly of his sister, the one that did not exist in his file, and envied the life she’d been handed. It was not enough to have gotten to this point, to have finally shed the name that did nothing but remind him of his loss, he needed to erase it completely. There were mistakes made, he was only human, but Lamorak quickly became an agent known for being effective and unyielding. He didn’t resort to seduction often, he preferred to keep his distance, but he was no less effective at it if the situation required. Flattery worked on all genders, after all, and he did whatever necessary to complete the mission.
Arthur was seated in his home reading, the same one he had been gifted by his parents all those years ago, when there was a tapping at the window late tuesday evening. It was not an altogether unfamiliar noise, though one that had not been heard in several years, and it startled him. He was tempted to ignore it, pushing the pang of longing that magic brought as far down as it would go, but opened the window anyways. Nothing good came from ignoring wizards, they only got more persistent and irksome, so he took the letter. But the owl didn’t leave, and instead perched itself atop his chair.
Gringotts Bank would like to inform you of the will reading for Eileen Snape nee Prince...
So his sister was dead. There were a thousand moments he wished he’d had more of, a million half-remembered instances, each more dissonant than the last like an echo several dozen times overdone. He could not recall her voice, or the timbre of her laugh, or even the feel of her embrace as they had parted for the last time; but he could remember the warmth of her acceptance. That she had not thought him less despite his lack of magic, that she had known that he would survive and thrive no matter the circumstance, that she had been passionate in her beliefs.
She had once promised to visit him, though that had never happened, but he had never truly hoped that it would. Hope was for the foolish- and love for the weak. Love could be used against you, love could be tainted by those who thought they knew better, love could be doubted through both action and inaction; love was fallible. Love was something he had quickly unlearned in his exile, and he had no desire to relearn it.
Superfluous had never been his style.
Arthur did not attend the reading of his sister’s will, and in fact never gave it a second thought. Had he attended the reading, he would have learned that the Snape fellow she had married (he had received an invitation, but did not attend) had been an altogether despicable man. He would have learned that the neighbourhood gossip about the domestic situation down the way was far closer than he had known. He would have learned that his talented sister had given up that which he coveted most for the sake of love- a love which had, in the end, consumed and killed her.
It was early on a Sunday morning that Arthur was called at home with an anxious sounding man on the other end of the line.
“Arthur?”
“Yes, Merlin?”
“There’s been a change in things that I think you should be aware of. Will you come, sir?”
“I’ll be right over.” The phone line clicked, and Arthur rose to his feet. He knew that it had to be something big to be called from the Office. The Office that only Merlins used, and was kept under a very strict set of guidelines of who was and was not to know of what happened within. The position of Arthur gave him a position on that small list of approved persons, which did nothing but worry him further.
What could possibly have happened in the magical world that warranted both Merlin and Arthur to hear it from the horse’s mouth?
He knocked at the door, only to be nearly dragged inside by Merlin. That was surprising in and of itself, he was not a small boned man and Merlin’s hands were more wrinkle than muscle, and entirely disconcerting. Not much could shake Merlin up, which was partially why he was so important- he kept a clear head when everyone else would run about like chickens with their heads cut off.
“Merlin, who is this?”
“Oh, this is their Merlin, Rufus Scrimgeour.” The man half smiled, obviously in a good mood but anxious to be on his way.
“Pleasure. Now then, what’s so important?”
“Well, you see, last night there was a bit of a ruckus down in Godric’s Hollow... And Voldemort is dead.”
“Well that’s good news, isn’t it?” There was no use in asking for more than that with Merlin present- wizards didn’t like sharing details with the common muggle.
“Well, yes, but there’s so much to do. There’s sure to be chaos and we must be prepared for it.” Merlin looked frightened, glancing warily at Scrimgeour though his hands and voice were steady.
“Thank you for the warning, Merlin,” Arthur dismissed, but did not move. “I believe that you should go back to your office and figure out what help we could give to our partners on the other side. I have a few questions for our associate, here.” Merlin left, obviously thankful to not have to be in the same room as the wizard for much longer, and Arthur made a show of visibly relaxing at his exit.
“Scrimgeour, I’ve not had the chance to properly introduce myself. Chester Prince- unfortunately a squib. However, I think you’ll find that having connections like mine here in the muggle world,” he spat the word as though cursing, “will be something useful to you.” Scrimgeour looked at him warily, but did not look as anxious to leave as he did when Merlin had been there. Arthur did not like using his full name, the one that was on a birth certificate somewhere unless it had been destroyed by his shamed parents, but to form an alliance here would be of more use to him than ignoring his heritage.
“What do you want? You’re not as bad as the muggle- he can barely look at me without pissing himself- but squibs don’t typically know their families. Let alone use their names as leverage- that’s a very Malfoy thing to do.”
“Well, the Malfoys had to learn it from somewhere, didn’t they? They’ve barely been in the country half a century, their history and name are valuable elsewhere, whereas the Prince line has several dozen generations of history right here. As for what I want, I want to know if you have heard whisperings of other families casting out squibs. It happens all the time, but I’d like to keep track of them- see if I can get more of the right sort within our ranks here at Kingsman. “
“They’re as good as muggles anyways, what’s the point?”
“Imagine if they had magical children, especially the ones who do not know their families. Imagine the lines that this war of yours- over as it is now- that have no heirs. Vaults going untouched, or worse turning over to the goblins! I wouldn’t dare presume the ministry would have the people or the desire to watch squibs on this side, but I have the means. They’d surely be more receptive of someone they’d see as one of their own explaining things than some wizard popping in and informing them of the way of things.”
“And what do I get out of it?” Tawny hair slicked back and yellow eyes piercing Scrimgeour pushed from the wall and approached him. “I don’t see much benefit for me in all of this.”
“Well, at the very least, you can continue to terrify my subordinates. More tangible, perhaps, would be access to fabrics that can block muggle weaponry- bullets, mostly- that you can take to a wizarding seamstress to make proper robes out of. I know you enjoy being in the field, think of it as a very specific set of armour. You’ll also get muggle garb made from it as well, of course, so that you can properly blend in. Knowledge of your enemies is half the war, is it not?” Arthur knew it wasn’t the best argument, but honestly there was not much you could offer a wizard. “I can also offer a plethora of rare and expensive wines and other drinks that could probably put elfin wine and firewhisky to shame.”
“See, now you’re speaking my language.”
Nearly two decades of relative silence ended with a pop, directly in front of him, on a Saturday afternoon. Scrimgeour had gotten a bit daring due to a hefty promotion before he had suddenly disappeared about a year ago, so it was not a surprising sound, but it was an unexpected one and not one that had ever happened in the Dining room.
“I know that you don’t enjoy being disturbed without warning- it’s in every note Scrimgeour gave Robards when he took over the Aurors- but this is urgent.” The man was an unfamiliar one, but one that obviously knew Arthur, and was brandishing a piece of parchment like a winning lottery ticket. Dark red hair was matted and messily pushed away from his face, revealing bloodshot eyes and a grim set to his lips.
“I should certainly hope so- this place may not be covered in an anti-apparition ward but goodness knows there could have been any number of unacceptable witnesses to your arrival. Now sit down and introduce yourself.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m Bill Weasley and this is one hell of a mix up but there was an enormous battle and the Ministry is in shambles but Wills and Inheritance are the business of Gringotts. We weren’t going to send over a goblin, they’re notoriously bad at imparting bad news and infinitely worse at giving the good.”
“Well thus far I’ve yet to hear any news at all so I don’t know how they benefitted from sending you instead. A battle? I’d heard that Voldemort returned somehow, but had assumed it was taken care of. A lack of news certainly added to that assumption. Awful things happening on this end all the time, no word from your lot I just took all the events as happenstance.”
“Yes well, he’s dead now. For good this time, there was a fair bit of Dark magic involved in his resurrection, and a lot of good people are dead.” There was a pause, and a ragged breath, before Bill continued. “My brother among them, sadly, but we must forge on and honour their sacrifice.”
“I’m sorry for your loss- I, too, have lost a sibling. Not to war- well, not as far as I know- but the loss was... unbearable. I am envious of your courage to be here so soon after his death.” It was a bald-faced lie, of the highest order, but it was expected.
“How can you not know how your sister died?”
"Could you honestly tell me that going to the will reading of my sister, who had been the head of a Noble house, would have been a smart thing to do? For me, a squib, in the middle of the first war with Voldemort? And it's not as if Gringotts is in the habit of revealing information via owl." Sarcasm was usually beneath Arthur, but if there had been anything less than plain logic in his explanation he would surely have been questioned further. As it was Bill looked sheepish, rubbing at the back of his neck and his mouth upturned in what could only be described as a saddened smile.
“Well, when you put it like that... Sorry. Anyway, I’m here because there was a very specific note in your sister’s Will carried out about eighteen years ago, naming you as an inheritor. The Noble House of Prince passed down to Severus Snape, your nephew,” Arthur started at this, he had not known that he had a nephew, “but he never touched the Prince fortune, and since he died last night... The title of Head of House now passes to you.”
This was everything he had longed for when he was a child, prestige and power and magic, but he was an old man now. He was well into his sixties, and well established on this side of the world, he couldn’t just up and disappear. Never mind the types of things that he simply could not do without magic.
“And what do you think I can do with that, being what I am? I am no more magical than I was all those years ago when my sister died, and thus no more capable to heading the Noble house of Prince. And that’s completely disregarding the fact that I am suck here in the muggle world- I’m a well known face, after all.”
“Well you could set up a proxy to handle things in the Wizengamot and the other magic-necessary portions of the title- Gringotts can send over files of candidates. Most of the duties as Head of House are paperwork intensive, so as long as you have some extra time and a connection to the floo network it’s feasible to keep both positions. I mean, if you can’t retire this is the next best option.”
“I would appreciate a set of files for possible proxies, as retirement is not an option in this line of work, and I have access to the floo network at my home. Rufus helped me set that up, as they don’t like squibs having easy ways to get to the wizarding world. Could you, if at all possible, send a message to Gawain Robards at the Auror office? I’d like to speak with him about where we go from here.” Bill looked altogether confused, but not overly so. It was entirely not unheard of for squibs to find friends in wizards, but without knowing the details of his job there was no reason for Robards, specifically, to be that connection.
“Yeah I can do that; there’s no guarantee that he’s going to be able to respond anytime soon, though. I’d suggest sending an owl, as well. And on that note,” Bill slapped his hands against his knees lightly and stood, “I am going to get out of your hair. Gringotts will be in touch with you within the next week, there’s an understandable influx of inheritance issues.” He turned on the spot, and with a pop was gone once again.
Arthur pulled open a hidden compartment in his desk, revealing parchment and ink, and sat down to write his first owl in nearly 40 years.
Gawain, I have great need of your expertise and I hope that you will be able to assist me...
“Charlie I have every confidence in your being our new Lancelot. You are precisely what I think this organisation needs more of.” Charlie Hesketh preened, knowing that his fancy schooling and immense amounts of money had proved themselves to be useful and coveted, before walking into the barracks.
It wasn’t as if Charlie needed to know that his great-great-grandfather had been of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Marius Black had been disowned, of course, for his lack of magic- but in the new climate of the wizarding world that wasn’t going to matter much. Especially considering that the current Head of House Black was Harry Potter- the current Wizarding Merlin, Kingsman’s Morgana- having more ties to the wizarding world was never going to be a bad thing.
But Charlie failed, he had betrayed him in the final moments in the worst of ways, and it was all Arthur could do to not throw the knife at the child. He settled for abandoning him on the tracks, still tied and vulnerable, dropping the knife in his line of sight but woefully out of reach. That evening he sent out a final owl from his home, asking for his replacement to be ready for him; no matter who became Lancelot he would be woefully disappointed. There was no reason for him to stay at Kingsman- not with what was waiting for him on the other side of things.
So when a put together man with golden hair walked in, holding himself in a perfect imitation of Arthur, it was surprising. He knew the man to be Gilderoy Lockhart, a man so superbly memory charmed that he couldn’t remember his own name and was confined to St. Mungos, but here he was.
“Isn’t he superb?” Gawain Robards was smiling, he could hear it, but all Arthur could think was of all the ways this could go wrong. What if he forgot to take a dose? What if the charms broke somehow? “I managed to weave together those memories of yours, the parts that are important to the job, seamlessly- even your prejudices among the agents. He’s already been given the Volubilis, permanent until he takes the antidote- which he won’t be. I’ve managed to put an undetectable extension charm on your flask, and filled it with just over a year’s worth of Polyjuice. At that point I’ll check in here and see how things are going- if they’re going well, I’ll leave him- and if they’re not, then I’ll dispose of him accordingly. Not one of your Kingsman will be able to tell the difference. No one’s going to miss him.”
“I’m impressed with your forethought, Robards. I assume that you’ve taken care of all suspicion on our side?” Goodness did it feel good to say that, though it was not wholly accurate. “I’m anxious to be leaving here for good. Arthur,” he addressed the body of Lockhart, “You’ll be sure to take your medicine every hour, on the hour, correct?”
“Yes, Mr. King, it’s vital to my staying healthy and in shape.”
“Yeah, in more ways than one.” Robards chuckled from his place beside Chester, one arm slung about his shoulders. “Come on, Chester, it’s time to get out of this shit hole and start to live. He’ll take care of things just as you would have done- or die trying.”
Chester Prince walked away from Kingsman on a Monday evening, greeting a home over sixty years lost to him, ready for his life to begin.