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 5 – Hogwarts
~ Fleur Delacour ~
The enchantment on the mirror surface rippled like a stone tossed into a still pond, the silver glass dissolving into a high-definition image that was far too clear for comfort.
Fleur sat in the centre of her bed, her legs crossed, the silk of her nightgown pooling around her thighs. The room was dark, save for the ambient moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains and the unnatural, silvery glow emanating from the object resting on her duvet.
It was a compact mirror, no larger than a powder case, encased in tarnished silver. She had confiscated it three days ago from a pair of sixth-year boys at Beauxbatons—Henri and Luc—who had been giggling in the courtyard. They had enchanted it with a perverse little piece of charm work, linking it to a 'bug'; a glass beetle they intended to slip into the girls' changing rooms.
Fleur had been disgusted. She had taken points, threatened detention, and confiscated the device with a sneer of superiority, and informed Madame Maxime about this.
She had not, however, destroyed it.
Instead, earlier that evening, driven by a demon she couldn't name — a twisting, ugly coil of suspicion and jealousy — she had slipped the glass beetle onto the velvet canopy of her mother's four-poster bed.
Curiosity was a dangerous vice, especially for a Veela.
She had rolled the small glass beetle under the heavy oak door of her mother's suite just an hour ago. Now, the resulting image played out on the mirror that had been linked to the beetle.
The angle was low, looking up from the floorboards near the massive mahogany bed that dominated Apolline Delacour's private chambers. The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight.
"We leave at dawn," a voice rumbled. It was deep, gravelly, and stripped of any pretence.
Sebastian Gray sat on the edge of the bed. He was shirtless, his back to the camera, but the expanse of muscle and the roadmap of scars across his pale skin were mesmerizing. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head looking forward.
"I know ze itinerary, Sebastian," Apolline's voice purred.
Fleur's breath hitched. Her mother stepped into the frame. She was wearing a sheer silk robe that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. She moved with that terrifying, fluid grace that Fleur was still trying to master.
"My concern is ze Tournament," Apolline said, moving to stand between Sebastian's spread knees. She ran her fingers through his messy blonde hair. "Ze British Ministry is incompetent. Dumbledore is old. Ze schools are… unpredictable."
"I'll handle the threats," Sebastian said, his voice stern. "You're paying me a small fortune to make sure nothing touches Fleur. That is the contract. I am the wall. Nothing gets past the wall."
"I know," Apolline whispered. She let her robe fall open.
Fleur bit her lip so hard she tasted iron. Her mother's body was perfection—lush, ripe, and commanding. Apolline's heavy breasts, pale and blue-veined, swayed slightly as she moved closer to the mercenary.
"You are a man of your word, Monsieur Gray," Apolline murmured. "But contracts are so cold. I prefer... incentives."
Sebastian looked up. Fleur couldn't see his face clearly from this angle, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles coiled.
"Do not tease me, Apolline," he warned, his eyes looking at the sight most men, and quite a few women, would give their left arm for.
"Hush, darling," she commanded softly.
Apolline dropped to her knees. The sight sent a jolt of electricity straight to Fleur's groin. Her mother, the Headmistress of the Delacour household, kneeling before the hired help.
"You 'ave 'ad a long week training my daughter," Apolline said, her hands coming up to cup her own breasts. She squeezed them together, the pale flesh pressing tight to create a deep, inviting valley. "Let me reward you more 'andsomely zan gold ever could."
Fleur's hand drifted down to her lap instinctively. She watched, wide-eyed, as her mother leaned forward. Sebastian didn't pull away. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of surrender, as Apolline coated her cleavage in a liberal amount of scented oil from the bedside table, making the skin glisten in the candlelight.
"Fuck," Sebastian breathed.
Apolline didn't hesitate. She pressed her chest against his hardening length—he was already erect, straining against his trousers, which she quickly unfastened. With a practiced ease that made Fleur's stomach churn with jealousy, Apolline freed him.
It was massive. Thick, angry, and twitching.
Fleur let out a whimpering gasp, her fingers finding the wet heat between her own legs. She began to circle her clitoris, her eyes glued to the magical screen.
Apolline wrapped her oiled breasts around his cock, sandwiching the thick shaft between the soft, yielding flesh. She began to move. It wasn't gentle. It was a sloppy, wet, rhythmic slide.
Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.
The sound seemed amplified by the magic. Fleur watched her mother's head bobbing, her tongue darting out to lick the head of Sebastian's cock as it popped out from between her cleavage, only to be swallowed back down into the ravine of flesh.
"Is zat better zan gold?" Apolline teased, looking up at him, her eyes dark with lust.
"Shut up," Sebastian grunted, his hand tangling in her blonde hair, forcing her head down, driving his hips forward into the slide of her tits. "Just... fuck."
Fleur's hips bucked off the mattress. The image of Sebastian taking control, his large, scarred hand gripping her mother's hair, his hips snapping forward with animalistic need, broke something inside her.
It wasn't disgust. It was envy. Pure, corrosive envy.
"Yes," Fleur whispered to the empty room, her pace increasing. "Take 'er."
On the screen, Sebastian was losing his composure. He leaned back, bracing himself on the bed, watching the wet, frantic motion of Apolline's tits fucking him. The oil and saliva created a messy, decadent display.
"So tight," Sebastian growled. "You bloody Veela."
"Your Veela," Apolline corrected breathlessly, working him faster, harder.
'Imagine it,' her mind whispered. 'Imagine those scarred hands on you. Imagine him looking at you not with boredom, but with this ravenous need.'
She pictured the duel again. Him standing over her. 'Dead,' he had said. But in her fantasy, he didn't walk away. He dropped his wand. He grabbed her by the throat. He pushed her down onto the hot marble terrace and tore her robes open.
"Yes," Fleur gasped, her hips bucking. "Yes, you bastard."
She imagined those scarred hands gripping her hair, that growling voice cursing her name. She imagined the weight of him, the danger of him. Her mother was right. He wasn't a servant. He was a weapon, and weapons belonged to those strong enough to wield them.
Apolline was stealing him. She was taking the prize.
"Non," Fleur hissed, her fingers moving in a blur against her swollen nub. "Mine. You are mine."
On the screen, Sebastian tensed, his entire body going rigid. "Apolline, I'm—"
"Do it," she commanded. "Paint me."
He bucked one last time, a violent thrust that buried him deep between her breasts, and with a roar, he erupted. Fleur cried out in unison, her back arching, her toes curling as a shattering orgasm ripped through her body, mirroring the white spurts of seed coating her mother's chest and face on the screen.
Fleur collapsed back onto the pillows, her chest heaving, sweat cooling on her skin. She watched as Sebastian slumped forward, panting, and her mother licked a stray drop of semen from her own collarbone with a triumphant, predatory smile.
Fleur reached out and slapped the mirror face down, severing the connection.
The darkness of her room returned, but the fire in her blood didn't die. It hardened. Her mother thought she was a child?
Fleur wiped her hand on the sheet, her eyes narrowing in the dark. Tomorrow, they went to Hogwarts. Tomorrow, the game changed. Apolline had had her fun. But Fleur was younger, hungrier, and she was done playing with practice duels.
She would win the Tournament. And she would take the man for herself.
~ Hermione POV ~
The Great Hall of Hogwarts was a sensory overload of the highest order.
Hermione Granger sat near the centre of the Gryffindor table, a thick copy of 'Intermediate Transfigurations' open next to her plate, though she hadn't read a sentence in ten minutes. The noise level was deafening.
"I'm telling you; it's going to be brilliant!" Ron Weasley was shouting over a platter of roast potatoes, spraying crumbs in a three-foot radius. "They say the tasks are lethal. Actual danger!"
"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be excited, Ronald," Hermione muttered, though she didn't look up.
"I reckon they're bringing dangerous beasts," Ron Weasley said around a mouthful of roast beef. "Charlie said the tasks are going to be mental."
"They are not bringing them to the school, Ron," Hermione sighed, still not looking up from her book. "It's too dangerous. The Ministry regulations clearly state—"
"Forget regulations!" Seamus Finnigan interrupted, leaning across the table. "I heard Durmstrang is coming by submarine. A giant squid-powered sub!"
"I'm telling you, it's going to be Krum," Ron Weasley was saying for the hundredth time, spraying crumbs of bread roll as he spoke. "He's prime age. Best Seeker in the world. If he's coming, he's entering."
Hermione rolled her eyes. The rumour mill had been churning for weeks. Ever since Dumbledore had announced the reinstatement of the Triwizard Tournament, no one had talked of anything else.
Across the table, Adam Potter lounged about as if he owned the space. The Boy-Who-Lived looked remarkably like his father, James, with the same messy brown hair and the same air of effortless popularity. He was laughing at something Dean Thomas had said, looking every bit the golden hero, the Daily Prophet painted him to be.
Hermione respected Adam, he was a good friend, if a bit arrogant—but the worship he received exhausted her.
"You thinking of having a go, mate?" Seamus Finnigan asked, leaning in.
Adam grinned, a lopsided, charming expression that he had inherited from his father. "Me? Nah. Mum would have a fit. Besides, you have to be twenty-one. Dumbledore drew the line."
"Yeah, but lines can be crossed," Fred Weasley whispered, appearing suddenly over Adam's shoulder.
"And rules can be bent," George added from the other side.
Hermione rolled her eyes, turning a page. "The Age Line is an advanced charm," she said without looking up. "You can't just 'bend' it. Dumbledore will have ensured that no amount of Aging Potion will fool it."
"Spoilsport," George said, pouting at Hermione's comment.
"She's right, though," Adam said, his voice dropping a little. "Mum sent me a letter. Said the Ministry is taking security seriously this year. After the World Cup..."
"Attention, please!"
Dumbledore's voice didn't shout, but it resonated through the hall, silencing the hundreds of students instantly. He stood at the high table, his robes a violently bright shade of purple.
"The time has come," the headmaster smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin. Please join me in welcoming our guests."
The great oak doors of the Hall banged open.
First came the Beauxbatons contingent.
A collective sigh seemed to sweep through the male population of the hall. A couple dozen students dressed in light blue silk glided into the room. They didn't walk; they flowed.
They were stunning, ethereal creatures, their faces perfect, their hair perfect, lush and flowy like a waterfall. Even the boys looked like they had stepped out of one of those magazines Lavender loves to read.
At the front strode Madame Maxime, a woman of immense proportions, easily as tall as Hagrid, draped in black and glinting in opal jewellery.
Alongside their Headmistress, was a girl, no a woman, who looked like the moon personified. Most definitely a Veela. Hermione felt a pang of inadequacy looking at her. The girl radiated a faint, silvery light, her chin held high, her blue eyes scanning the Gryffindor table with a look that stated she was hardly impressed by any of them.
But it was the figure trailing behind the procession that caught Hermione's eye.
He didn't fit.
Amidst the silk, the grace, and the polished elegance of the French students, he was a shadow. He walked ten paces behind the students. Unlike the others, he wore a black cloak over his uniform, that seemed to be made out of dragon-hide, combat boots on his feet as he scanned the Great Hall for threats or anything that would be out of place.
He was tall, lean, and moved with a predatory command over his body. While the Beauxbatons students looked at the ceiling or the other students, this man's eyes were constantly moving, briefly stopping at the High Table, before resuming their vigilance.
"Who's that?" Ginny Weasley whispered, echoing Hermione's thought. "He looks... intense."
"He looks hot," Lavender corrected softly, a blush coating her face. Something that Hermione agreed with, even if she would never say it out loud.
The man paused as he passed the Gryffindor table. His eyes, a startling vivid green, a shade that seemed familiar to her, locked onto Adam Potter for a fraction of a second. There was no awe in that gaze. No recognition of 'celebrity.' Just a cold, analytical assessment, as if he were assessing the worth of the individual in front of him. Then, his eyes slid away, dismissing the Boy-Who-Lived as irrelevant.
The Beauxbatons students took their seats at the Ravenclaw table. The man sat right beside the Veela, the woman shifting closer to him.
Were they a couple?
Hermione felt a pang of jealousy and slight hurt; a man she had found attractive for the first time and he was already taken.
"And now," Dumbledore announced, "our friends from the North of Germany. Please welcome, Durmstrang!"
The mood shifted instantly. If Beauxbatons was air and water, Durmstrang was fire.
They marched in, stomping their heavy fur boots in a rhythmic, militaristic beat. They wore blood-red robes and heavy fur cloaks. They twirled bo staffs, striking them against the stone floor, creating sparks.
"It's him!" Ron hissed, grabbing Adam's arm. "Viktor Krum!"
And indeed, walking beside the tall, silver-goateed Karkaroff, was the sullen, duck-footed figure of the world's greatest Seeker. The hall erupted in whispers and awe.
It was going to be an interesting year.
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
Hogwarts smelled of parchment, old magic, and teenage hormones.
Sebastian Gray sat with the Ravenclaw students in Great Hall, his occlumency shields raised high, filtering out the sensory overload. To his left, the Beauxbatons girls were tittering, sipping pumpkin juice and complaining about the draft.
He chipped in occasionally, flashing a charming smile. Fleur sat to his right, glancing at him every few moments as she spoke to the girl next to her.
His eyes tracked the High Table. Dumbledore looked older than Harry remembered. Frailer. His face more wrinkled. But the magic rolling off the old man was still suffocatingly dense, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Beside him sat a woman Sebastian recognized instantly. Minerva McGonagall.
The two of them were people who he remembered from his childhood. They used to visit him when he still lived with his... with the Potters.
And speaking of the Potters...
He shifted his gaze to the Gryffindor table. There he was. The Golden Boy. Adam Potter.
He looked like James. The same jaw, the same arrogance in the way he sat. He was surrounded by sycophants. There was a ginger boy who had not stopped gawking at Krum and the girls form Beauxbatons. A couple others sat around, unassuming if he was being honest.
'So that is what I was worth,' Sebastian thought, his face an impassive mask. 'I was the price paid for him.'
It was a tactical assessment, not an emotional one.
"Silence!" Dumbledore called out.
The feast had concluded. The plates had been wiped clean. The moment was here.
"The Goblet of Fire!" Dumbledore announced.
With a wave of his wand, a wooden casket was brought forward. The lid creaked open, and Dumbledore pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It was unremarkable, until blue-white flames erupted from the brim.
"Anybody wishing to submit themselves for the Tournament need only write their name upon a piece of parchment and throw it into the flame before this time tomorrow night," Dumbledore explained, his voice grave. "Do not do so lightly. Once chosen, there is no turning back. The Goblet of Fire constitutes a binding magical contract."
Sebastian watched the flames. It was old magic. Dangerous magic.
Beside him, Fleur Delacour was staring at the Goblet. Her posture was rigid. She looked... different tonight. Usually, she carried herself with a breezy, somewhat vapid arrogance. Tonight, there was a tension in her shoulders. Her eyes were hard.
She glanced at him. It was a glare of challenge.
Sebastian raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"The students are dismissed," Dumbledore said. "Sleep well. You will need it."
The scraping of benches filled the hall as hundreds of students rose to leave. The noise was a chaotic din of chatter and footsteps.
Sebastian pushed himself off the table. "Form up," he murmured to the Beauxbatons students. "Stay close. No wandering."
Madame Maxime was busy talking to Dumbledore, so the herd was his responsibility as assigned to him by the headmistress. He moved to the rear of the group, ensuring no stragglers were left behind.
He fell into step behind Fleur, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead. The crowd was thick, students from all three schools merging into a bottleneck at the doors.
He felt eyes on him. Many eyes. The girls whispering about his looks, the boys assessing his level of threat if it came down to a brawl for the women they fancied.
He ignored them all.
He stepped through the heavy oak doors out of the Entrance Hall, the cool draft from the lake hitting his face.
And then, a voice cut through the noise.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't a shout. It was a hesitant, trembling sound, barely audible over the din of the crowd. But to Sebastian, it sounded like a thunderclap.
"Harry?"
Sebastian froze.
Fleur stopped a few paces ahead when she saw he wasn't beside her.
It wasn't a flinch. It was a total cessation of movement. The air around him seemed to drop in temperature. For a heartbeat, he didn't move, his back rigid.
But his body remembered what his mind tried to bury.
He stopped, his hand twitching instinctively toward his wand holster. The name hung in the air, a ghost summoned by a whisper.
Slowly, against his better judgment, against every protocol he had established for himself, Sebastian turned around.
Standing near the marble staircase, clutching a Charms textbook to her chest, was Lily Potter. Her face was pale; all the blood drained from her skin. Her green eyes, the same shade as his, were wide with a mixture of horror and impossible, desperate hope.
She was looking straight at him.
Sebastian held her gaze for a heartbeat. He looked at the woman who had birthed him, the woman who had abandoned him to those monsters and not checked on him once.
"You're mistaken, Professor," he said, his voice void of emotion, cold enough to freeze fire. "My name is Sebastian Gray."
He turned back around, grabbed a bewildered Fleur Delacour by the elbow, and marched her out of the Great Hall, disappearing into the night, leaving Lily Potter standing amidst the dispersing students, her hand outstretched toward a ghost that had just walked away.
Author's Notes
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See you guys soon.