Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me.
Chapter 7 – A Veela's Games
~ Harry Potter/Sebastian Gray ~
The air inside the Beauxbatons carriage was always maintained at a perfect, spring-like temperature, smelling faintly of lilacs and polished mahogany. But in the chamber assigned to the students for duelling practice, the atmosphere was currently sub-zero and reeked of sweat and magic.
Harry Potter, known to the world and his employers as Sebastian Gray, stood in the centre of the magically expanded room. He was shirtless, his body a map of lean, corded muscle and silvery scars that told stories of a life he had survived rather than lived. Sweat glistened on his skin, sliding down the valley of his spine as he held a pose of absolute stillness.
"Again," he whispered, his voice rough with sleep and exertion.
From the shadows in the corner, shadows that were far too deep for the ambient lighting to account for, a figure detached itself. It was tall, looming at nearly eight feet, clad in armor made of shifting, black coalescence of magic that seemed to devour the light around it. The helm was a void, save for two burning pinpricks of crimson light.
Wrath. His Obscurus. His brother in arms.
Unlike the uncontrollable parasites that consumed other Obscurials, Wrath had been forged in the fires of Grindelwald's brutal tutelage. He was no longer a cloud of chaotic destruction; he was a knight, a guardian, a weapon honed to a razor's edge.
The entity did not speak, but the air vibrated with a low hum, a sound like a cello string bowed by a heavy hand. Wrath raised a jagged blade formed of compressed darkness and lunged.
Harry didn't blink. He moved.
To an outside observer, it would have looked like a blur. Harry sidestepped the vertical slash that would have cleaved a normal man in two, his movement fluid, like water flowing around a rock. As the blade slammed into the floorboards—which groaned but held, reinforced by heavy runic clusters—Harry pivoted on his heel.
His magic didn't require a wand for this; this was intimate. This was internal.
"Diffindo," Harry incanted voicelessly, his hand chopping through the air. A crescent of pure kinetic energy slammed into Wrath's chest plate.
The Obscurus barely rocked back. It dissolved into smoke, reforming instantly behind Harry, the blade sweeping for his neck.
Harry ducked, feeling the wind of the strike ruffle his messy, ink-black hair. He dropped into a crouch and swept his leg out, channelling magic across his wand as his shin lashed out.
"Depulso."
The kick powered by the magical spell connected with the armoured greaves of the shadow knight, sending the massive entity skidding backward. Harry didn't let up. He launched himself forward, flipping through the air, his wand glowing with an eerie violet light. He rained spells upon his oldest ally - curses, hexes, deadly charms - each piece of magic launched with a hunter's precision, meeting the unparalleled defence of the shadow's armour.
It was a dance of violence. A dance the two practiced every single morning.
"You're sluggish this morning," Harry grunted, panting slightly, the duel testing the limits of his endurance. "Is the Scottish air too thick for you?"
'The air is filled with ghosts, My Liege,' Wrath's voice echoed in his mind, the firm aristocratic voice pressed into his thoughts. 'It distracts you.'
"I'm not distracted," Harry snarled, shooting the knight a glare that would scare off mere humans. Wrath however, had become too used to this, and with the added benefit of being a purely magical construct, he couldn't be less bothered.
'Liar.'
Harry was about to retort, to say something that would wipe the smugness from his own subconscious manifestation, when the heavy oak door to his quarters clicked.
The sound was quiet, but in the heightened state of adrenaline, it sounded like a gunshot.
Wrath evaporated instantly, sucked back into the shadows around Harry's form, leaving only a lingering chill in the air. Harry stood straight, his chest heaving, his body slick with sweat, his magic still humming beneath his skin like a live wire.
The door swung open.
"Sebastian?"
The voice was melodic, carrying that distinct, throaty French accent that usually made men's knees weak. Fleur Delacour stepped into the room, and for a moment, Harry's brain simply short-circuited.
She was not wearing her school uniform. She was not wearing the loose, practical training gear she usually donned for their morning sessions.
Fleur was wearing a set of duelling leathers that must have been illegal in at least three conservative countries. The material was a deep, midnight blue, fitting her body so tightly it looked like it had been painted on. The top was sleeveless, plunging dangerously low in the front to showcase the creamy swell of her breasts, while the trousers hugged the curve of her hips and thighs with predatory precision. Her silver-blonde hair was tied back in a high ponytail, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck.
She looked like a sinful Valkyrie.
Harry felt the blood rush south with humiliating speed. He grabbed a towel from the bench nearby, scrubbing his face to buy himself a second to occlude.
"Fleur," he said, his voice tighter than he would have liked. He lowered the towel, resting it around his neck, though it did little to hide the defined abs and the V-line disappearing into his sweatpants. "You're early. And... dressed."
Fleur blinked, her large blue eyes widening with feigned innocence as she scanned his shirtless form. Her gaze lingered on the scars, then drifted lower, a small, knowing smile touching her lips.
"Am I?" She checked a non-existent watch on her wrist. "I could not sleep. Ze beds in ze carriage are... lumpy. Not like 'ome."
She stepped further into the room, the door clicking shut behind her. The air suddenly grew thick, heavy with the scent of wildflowers and ozone—her Veela allure. She was projecting it. It wasn't full force, not enough to turn him into a drooling idiot, but enough to make the air taste like honey.
"We agreed on seven," Harry said, walking over to his water pitcher and pouring a glass. His back was to her, but he could feel her eyes on him. He could feel her. "It's barely six."
"I am eager to improve," Fleur purred. She moved closer. He could hear the soft scuff of her boots on the floor. "You said my form was... lacking yesterday. I want to correct it."
Harry turned around, glass in hand. She was right there, deep inside his personal space. She looked up at him through her lashes, the height difference forcing her to tilt her head back.
"Your form was fine," Harry lied, taking a sip of water. "Your aggression was the problem."
"Zen teach me aggression," she whispered. She reached out, her cool fingers tracing the line of a particularly jagged scar on his bicep—a souvenir from a manticore in Greece.
Her touch sent a jolt of electricity through him. Harry stiffened.
"Fleur," he warned, his voice dropping an octave. "We have boundaries."
"Do we?" She stepped closer, her chest brushing against his bare stomach. The sensation of the leather against his skin was maddening. "You did not seem to 'ave boundaries with Maman."
Harry choked on his water, coughing violently. He wiped his mouth, staring at her with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"
Fleur laughed, a tinkling, bell-like sound. She stepped back, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Oh, do not look so panicked, Sebastien. I am not blind. I saw you. With 'er. And when I confronted her, she did not deny."
She bit her lip, her eyes darkening. "She is old, Sebastien. Experienced, oui. But old." She placed a hand on her own hip, posing. "I am in my prime. I am going to be a Triwizard Champion. Do I not... interest you?"
Harry stared at her. God, she was beautiful. Breathtakingly so. And she knew it. But beneath the bravado, beneath the sultry act, he could see the challenge in her eyes. She wanted to win. She wanted to prove she was better than her mother.
And Christ, he was hard. A raging, painful erection pressed against the fabric of his sweatpants. He thought of Apolline—the mature, commanding presence, the way she knew exactly what she wanted and took it without games. Then he looked at Fleur—fire and ice, bratty and brilliant, begging to be tamed.
"Start stretching," Harry commanded, his voice rough. He turned away abruptly, walking toward his gear pile to find a shirt. "If you're here to train, we train. If you're here to talk about your mother, you can leave."
"So touchy," Fleur teased, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She knew she had gotten to him.
For the next hour, the room became a torture chamber of Harry's own making.
They sparred. But it wasn't the clean, distant spell work of the previous days. Fleur was pushing him. She was using physical hexes, forcing him to engage in hand-to-hand deflection. Every time he blocked a punch or a kick, there was contact.
A number of times, she "slipped" and fell against him.
"Stupefy!" she cried.
Harry slapped her wand hand aside, stepping in to sweep her legs. She jumped over his sweep, landing gracefully, but momentum carried her forward. She crashed into his chest, her hands splaying over his pectorals.
For a moment, they froze. Heavy breathing filled the room. Fleur's face was inches from his, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide. She smelled of sweat and expensive perfume.
"Is my form better?" she breathed, grinding her hips subtly against his thigh. She definitely felt the hardness there. Her eyes widened, and a flush of victory stained her cheeks.
Harry grabbed her shoulders and set her firmly back, his grip bruising.
"Your guard is down," he said coldly, though his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Dead. You'd be dead right now."
Fleur smirked, smoothing her leather trousers. "Perhaps I would not mind dying... like zis."
She turned and sauntered toward the door, her hips swaying with exaggerated, hypnotic rhythm. She looked back over her shoulder, winking. "Breakfast, Sebastian? Or do you need a... cold shower?"
She left the room, leaving Harry standing there, panting, his knuckles white as he gripped his wand.
"Brat," he hissed to the empty room.
He looked down at his tented trousers and groaned, throwing his head back. He closed his eyes, summoning the image of Apolline Delacour—her elegance, her control, the way she didn't play these teenage mind games. He wished she was here. He wished he could apparate to the villa in Nice and bury himself in her until this frustration burned away.
'Careful, Master,' Wrath whispered, amusement colouring it's voice. 'The daughter plays a dangerous game. And you seem to be enjoying it.'
"Shut up," Harry grumbled, heading for the bathroom. "Just... shut up."
~ Lily Potter ~
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was a cathedral of noise and light. Thousands of floating candles cast a warm, golden glow over the four long house tables, laden with tureens of porridge, platters of kippers, and mountains of toast.
At the High Table, the staff sat in varying states of wakefulness.
Lily Potter sat near the centre, her hands wrapped around a goblet of pumpkin juice she hadn't touched. She looked tired. There were dark circles under her emerald eyes, and her red hair, usually vibrant, seemed dull in the morning light.
Dumbledore had told her to maintain her distance. 'It is not him, Lily,' the Headmaster had said, his voice gentle but firm. 'Do not torture yourself with ghosts.'
But Lily Potter knew her ghosts. She had lived with them for thirteen years.
Her eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the Ravenclaw table.
There, amidst the sea of blue silk and polite French chatter, sat Sebastian Gray.
He was eating methodically. Toast. Eggs. Black coffee. He didn't engage in the gossip the Beauxbatons students were whispering. He sat slightly angled away from the table, his back to the wall, his eyes constantly flicking around the hall, occasionally chiming into whatever conversation seemed to be going on.
Lily watched him reach for the salt. Her breath hitched.
He didn't just reach. He checked the shaker. A subtle twitch of his fingers—a wandless detection charm? Then he sprinkled it.
And the way he held his fork... slightly too tight, like a weapon.
Then, he laughed.
A girl—the beautiful Veela, Fleur—had leaned in and whispered something to him. Sebastian tilted his head back and chuckled. It was a short, dry sound, but the way his face crinkled... the way the corner of his mouth ticked up on the left side more than the right.
"James," Lily whispered, her heart squeezing in her chest.
It was the Potter charm. It was buried under layers of cold professionalism and hardness, but it was there. That smirk was James. That laugh was James.
But the scars...
Sebastian rolled up the sleeves of his blue robes to reach for a pitcher of juice.
Lily flinched.
His forearms were a tapestry of white lines. Faded burn marks. Slashes.
Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
'What happened to you?' she screamed internally. 'My sweet, beautiful boy. What did the world do to you while I was safe in our home?'
She looked at the scars and saw the map of her own failures. Every mark was an accusation. Every scar was a testament to the night she had chosen Adam over him. The night she and her husband had decided against their instincts and left her eldest son in a house of muggles who hated magic.
'I didn't know,' she pleaded with the universe. 'I thought you were safe. I thought the wards...'
Sebastian suddenly went still.
From across the hall, through the crowd of hundreds of students, he stopped eating. He turned his head slowly, deliberately, and looked up at the High Table.
His green eyes locked onto hers.
Lily stopped breathing.
Those eyes. They were her eyes. She saw them in the mirror every morning. But in the mirror, they were full of regret. In Sebastian's face, they were cold. Empty. Like looking into a frozen lake.
He saw her dried tears. He saw her shaking hand.
And he looked away.
He didn't frown. He didn't look confused. He simply dismissed her. He turned back to the French girl, said something that made her preen, and took a bite of his toast.
He ignored her.
The rejection hit Lily harder than a curse. It wasn't anger she saw in him. It was indifference. To him, she was nothing. A stranger.
"Lily?"
She jumped. Severus Snape was looking at her from the next seat; his dark eyes narrowed in concern. "You are gripping the goblet so hard it is about to shatter."
Lily looked down. Her knuckles were white.
"I'm fine, Severus," she lied, her voice trembling. "Just... tired."
"Stop looking at him," Severus murmured, barely moving his lips. "Dumbledore warned you. The man is a trained mercenary. Dangerous. Do not project your grief onto a stranger."
"He's not a stranger," Lily whispered, wiping her eyes angrily. "He's my son."
"Your son is dead," Severus said, his voice lacking its usual bite, sounding almost gentle. "Let the dead rest, Lily."
"He's here," she insisted, watching Sebastian stand up as the Beauxbatons students finished their meal. "And I will prove it."
She watched as he walked out of the hall, his stride long and confident, a predator walking among sheep. 'I am here now, Harry,' she vowed silently. 'I failed you once. I won't fail you again. Whatever darkness you're in... I will pull you out.'
~ Harry Potter/Sebastian Gray ~
The greenhouses of Hogwarts were humid, smelling of damp earth and dragon dung fertilizer. The morning sun filtered through the glass panes, creating a hazy, tropical atmosphere.
The Beauxbatons students were clustered around a table of Screechsnap seedlings, looking thoroughly unimpressed.
"Zis is... quaint," a boy named Luc sniffed, dusting soil off his pristine blue robes. "At Beauxbatons, ze greenhouses are climate-controlled by weather charms. Zere is no... humidity."
"And the plants actually try to kill you here," Harry muttered from his position by the door.
He was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, bored out of his mind. Being a bodyguard of a Veela in this school was mind-numbing. The biggest threat here was boredom and teenage hormones.
Speaking of hormones.
Harry's eyes narrowed.
Three Hogwarts boys—Gryffindors, by the red ties—were edging closer to Fleur's station. They were nudging each other, whispering, grinning like idiots.
"Go on, ask her," one of them urged.
"She's a Veela, mate. She's waiting for it."
Harry felt a spike of irritation.
'Waiting for it.'
The casual objectification made his skin crawl. He pushed off the doorframe, moving silently through the aisles of snapping plants.
The boldest of the trio, a tall boy with sandy hair, stepped up to Fleur. She was busy pruning a Screechsnap, her expression focused.
"Oi, Frenchie," the boy said, leaning his elbow on her table. "You got a partner for the Hogsmeade weekend yet? Reckon you need a guide who knows the good spots."
Fleur didn't look up. "I am busy. Go away."
"Aw, don't be like that," the boy sneered, reaching out to grab her arm. "Just trying to be friendly—"
Harry twitched his finger. He didn't need a wand for this.
Confundus.
The boy suddenly stopped. His eyes glazed over. He blinked, looked at his hand reaching for Fleur, and then looked at a pot of Dragon Dung fertilizer.
"I... I really love dung," the boy announced loudly.
The entire greenhouse went silent.
"I just... I want to rub it on my face," the boy continued, his voice dreamy.
Before his horrified friends could stop him, the Gryffindor plunged both hands into the pile of dragon dung and smeared it enthusiastically over his cheeks.
"Lovely," he sighed.
The greenhouse erupted in laughter. The boy's friends grabbed him, looking terrified, and dragged him toward the exit, shouting for Professor Sprout.
Fleur looked up from her plant. She stared at the retreating boys, then turned her head slowly to look at Harry.
He was leaning against a support beam, examining his arms, the picture of innocence.
Fleur's lips curved into a smile. It wasn't the seductive, predatory smile from the morning. It was genuine. Grateful. And devastatingly sexy. She bit her lower lip, holding his gaze, and mouthed a silent 'Merci'.
Harry felt a warmth bloom in his chest that had nothing to do with the humidity. He tipped his head in a barely perceptible nod.
Throughout the rest of the day, it became a game.
In Transfiguration, a Ravenclaw boy tried to slip a love potion-laced chocolate onto Fleur's desk. Harry discreetly banished the chocolate into the boy's own bag, where it melted all over his textbooks.
In the corridors, a group of Slytherins tried to corner her with jeers. Harry cast a silent tripping jinx that sent them toppling like dominoes down a flight of stairs. (They were fine, mostly. A few bruises build character).
Every time, Fleur noticed. She didn't say a word. She just flashed him those looks—smouldering, secretive glances that said 'I see you protecting me. I like it.'
By the time dinner ended, Harry was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. The constant vigilance, the suppression of his memories in this castle, the game with Fleur... it was draining.
"I am retiring," Fleur announced as they walked back toward the carriage. She stopped near the entrance to the courtyard. "You look... tense, Sebastien."
"Long day," Harry said curtly.
"Perhaps later..." She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. "You could come to my room? To... debrief? About training?"
The invitation was clear.
Harry looked at her. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to bury himself deep inside the comfort of the Veela.
"Go to sleep, Fleur," he said softly. "I have rounds to finish."
Fleur pouted, but she didn't push. "Bonne nuit, mon protecteur," she whispered, and glided away toward the carriage.
Harry watched her go, then turned on his heel. He couldn't go back to the carriage yet. The walls felt like they were closing in.
He needed space. He needed silence.
He headed for the library.
~ Harry Potter/Sebastian Gray ~
The Hogwarts library was exactly as he remembered it from his brief. It looked similar to what he had seen in Grindelwald's memories from when he used to visit Dumbledore.
Massive. Dusty. Filled with the hush of a million words waiting to be read.
It was late. The librarian, Madam Pince, was prowling the restricted section, leaving the main stacks mostly deserted.
Harry walked through the rows, trailing his fingers over the spines of books.
History of Magic. Advanced Arithmancy. Medicinal Potions.
He wasn't looking for anything specific. He just wanted the smell of old paper to drown out the smell of the past.
He turned a corner into the Potions section and nearly tripped over someone.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!"
Harry stopped, looking down.
A small girl was scrambling to pick up a stack of parchment she had dropped. she couldn't be more than thirteen or fourteen. She was tiny, wearing Hufflepuff robes that looked slightly too big for her.
She had messy, dark red hair that frizzed around her face. And when she looked up, Harry felt like he had been punched in the gut.
She had James Potter's hazel eyes.
It was Rose. His sister.
The sister he had never watched grow up. The sister who had been too young when he was cast aside.
Harry's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. 'Walk away,' his instincts screamed. 'She is a Potter. She is the enemy.'
But she wasn't. She was a child.
"Here," Harry said, his voice surprising him with its gentleness. He knelt down, helping her gather the parchment. "No harm done."
"I'm just so clumsy," Rose mumbled, her cheeks flushing pink. "My brother says I trip over air."
"Brothers say a lot of stupid things," Harry said, handing her the stack.
Rose looked at him, really looked at him, and her eyes widened. "You're... you're the Beauxbatons student! With the beautiful French woman!"
Harry chuckled. "Sebastian. Yes."
"I'm Rose," she said, straightening up and trying to look dignified. "Rose Potter."
"Nice to meet you, Rose," Harry said. The name tasted like ash and honey in his mouth. A name he had not taken or heard since he was six.
She looked at the high shelf above her, biting her lip. "Um... Mr. Sebastian? Could you...?" She pointed to a thick, leather-bound tome on the top shelf.
Potions of the 17th Century.
Harry stood up. He reached up easily, plucking the book from the shelf. He looked at the cover, then back at the first-year.
"Isn't this a bit advanced for a first year?" he asked, amused. "This is O.W.L level theory."
Rose blushed deeper. "I... I like Potions. It's like cooking, but with magic. The way the ingredients react... it's like a puzzle. My dad says it's boring, and Adam hates it because Snape—Professor Snape—is mean to him, but..." She stopped, looking horrified. "I'm sorry. I'm boring you. You probably don't care."
Harry stared at her. She was babbling. She was passionate. She was brilliant.
She was nothing like people he called parents, or the git he had for a brother. At least, back when he was still just Harry.
Harry felt a crack in his ice-cold exterior. A warmth, genuine and painful, seeped through.
"You're not boring me," Harry said softly. He handed her the book. "I think it's fascinating. Intelligence is a gift, Rose. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Not even your family."
Rose took the book, hugging it to her chest. She beamed at him. It was a smile of pure sunshine, innocent and sweet.
"Thank you, Sebastian!"
"You can ask me," Harry found himself saying. "If you ever need help reaching a book. Or... anything. You can just ask."
Rose's smile widened. "Really? Thanks! You're nice. A lot nicer than you look."
Harry laughed. A real laugh. "I get that a lot."
"I better go," Rose said, glancing at the clock. "Curfew. Bye, Sebastian!"
"Goodbye, Rose."
He watched her scamper away, her heavy book clutched tight, her red hair bouncing. She turned the corner and vanished.
The silence rushed back in.
And with it, the rage.
Harry stood in the empty aisle, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. The warmth from Rose's smile curdled, turning into a hot, toxic sludge in his veins.
She was sweet, and smart, and kind. She was his sister.
And they had kept her from him.
James and Lily. They had sat in their home, playing happy family with Adam and Rose, while Harry rotted in a cupboard. While Harry was beaten. While Harry was starved.
They had robbed him of this. They had robbed him of being a big brother. They had robbed him of protecting her, of teaching her, of laughing with her.
Why? Because he wasn't the Boy-Who-Lived? Because his magic had been quiet?
'My lord?' Wrath asked, sensing the inner turmoil in his liege's magic.
The shadows in the library began to lengthen. The candles flickered and dimmed, turning blue. The wind picked up, swirling around Harry, blowing drafts of air around the library.
Harry's eyes glowed with a feral, emerald light.
"I hate them," Harry whispered, the words trembling with the force of his magic.
It wasn't the petty hate of a teenager. It was the ancient, festering hate of a wound that never healed. It was the hate of an orphan who realized he never had to be one.
"I will never forgive them," Harry vowed to the darkness. "No matter what."
He turned and stormed out of the library, his magic rolling off him in waves of suffocating heat. The portraits on the walls cowered as he passed.
He needed a moment of peace alone, or else the storm raging inside of him, would consume the people who had caused it, whole.
Author's Notes
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See you soon.