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 6 – Sebastian or Harry?
~ Albus Dumbledore ~
The silence in the headmaster's office was usually a heavy, comforting blanket, woven from the soft whirring of silver instruments and the gentle rasp of Fawkes' breathing upon his perch. Tonight, however, the silence felt brittle, like spun sugar ready to shatter.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his steepled fingers resting against his chin. The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the portraits of past Headmasters who were currently feigning sleep, their eyes slitted open to watch the current occupant of the throne.
The Welcoming Feast had been a spectacle, certainly. The arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang had brought with it the expected pomp and circumstance, the currents of international competition already charging the air within the castle walls. But it was not Karkaroff's scowl or Madame Maxime's imposing stature that occupied Albus's mind.
It was the shadow that haunted him since that day he had walked into the room of Wool's Orphanage. And with the attack during the World Cup, it was only a matter of time.
Bang.
The door to his office didn't just open; it was thrown back with enough force to rattle the delicate instruments on the cabinets closest to the source.
Albus didn't flinch. He merely looked up, his expression adjusting from contemplative to a practiced, grandfatherly concern.
Lily Potter stood in the doorway. Her usually impeccable robes were dishevelled, her dark red hair escaping its pins. Her chest heaved, not from physical exertion, but from a panic so profound it seemed to suck the air out of the room. Behind her, James Potter looked like a man walking through a nightmare, his hand reaching out to grab her shoulder, to anchor her, but she was a ship unmoored in a storm.
"Lily," James pleaded, his voice hoarse. "Please, stop. You're—"
"Don't tell me to stop!" Lily spun on him, her eyes wild, before whipping back to face Dumbledore. She marched to the desk, her hands slamming down on the wood. "It's him, Albus. It's him."
Albus remained seated, his blue eyes softening. "Lily, my dear. Take a breath. Tea?"
"I don't want your damn tea!" she shrieked, the sound tearing through the dignified air of the office. "I want my son! I saw him. Down there. In the Entrance Hall."
James stepped up beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist, though she remained rigid. He looked at Dumbledore with eyes that were ancient with grief. "Albus... she thinks... the bodyguard. The one we were informed about. The one with the French delegation."
"I don't think," Lily hissed, tears finally spilling over, hot and fast. "I know. A mother knows, Albus. You can't tell me I'm wrong. I looked at him. I looked right into his eyes and it was like looking in a mirror. It was Harry."
The name hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Harry.
Albus sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of a century. "Lily... we have discussed this. For years, we have discussed this. The fire at the Dursleys..."
"There was no body!" Lily interrupted, her voice cracking. "There were only ashes! You told us the magical signature was gone, implying he was dead. But what if he wasn't? What if he ran? What if—"
"He was six years old, Lily," Dumbledore said gently, though his voice was firm. "The fire was... catastrophic. An uncontrolled burst of accidental magic, or perhaps something darker that found them. But the Aurors found nothing but scorched earth. An entire house razed to the ground because the two of you decided to send him there."
"He has my eyes," Lily whispered, her anger draining away, replaced by a heart-wrenching pleading, the last line drowning her in the guilt she was carrying since that day. "He has James's nose. He's tall... he looks just like James would have looked if..." She turned to her husband, grabbing his robes. "James, you saw him. Tell him. Tell him you saw it too."
James Potter swallowed hard. He looked at Dumbledore, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the grieving father slipped. There was a spark there—a dangerous, desperate spark.
"She showed me the memory, Albus. He... he did look like me," James admitted quietly. "The structure of the face. The hair, though he keeps it longer. And the eyes... they were Lily's. Exactly Lily's."
"Polyjuice?" Dumbledore suggested calmly. "A coincidence of genetics? The world is a vast place, and doppelgangers are not unheard of."
"It wasn't a coincidence!" Lily cried. "I called his name. I called out 'Harry' and he stopped. He froze, Albus! Every muscle in his body locked up. Why would a French mercenary freeze at the name of a dead English boy if it wasn't him?"
Albus leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking. This was the variable he had not calculated. The emotional volatility of the Potters had always been a risk, ever since they focused all their attention on Adam, the Boy-Who-Lived, leaving the spare to... drift. And then, the tragedy. The guilt had eaten at them, festered in the shadow of Adam's glory.
"Sebastian Gray," Dumbledore said the name slowly, testing its weight. "That is the man's name. He is in the employ of the Delacour family. His records are... sparse, but they exist. He has a history in the duelling circuits of Eastern Europe."
"Forged," Lily spat. "All of it."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore conceded. He looked at the two broken parents before him. He could not tell them the truth—that the fire likely consumed Harry because Harry was a Squib, or close enough to it, and his magic had imploded. Or that if Harry had survived, the sheer strain of using magic required to survive such an inferno would make him something unrecognizable to them.
But he saw the edge Lily was standing on. If he pushed her now, she would break, or worse, she would cause a diplomatic incident that would derail the Tournament.
"Very well," Dumbledore said, bowing his head.
Lily froze. "What?"
"I will look into it," Dumbledore promised, his voice deepening with authority. "I will speak with Madame Maxime. I will make inquiries regarding Mr. Gray's background. I will... observe him."
"I want to talk to him," Lily demanded.
"No," Dumbledore said sharply. "You will do no such thing. If he is not Harry, you will be harassing a foreign national and a dangerous man. If he is Harry..." Dumbledore paused, letting the implication hang. "If he is Harry, and he has stayed away for this long, confronting him with hysteria will only drive him further into the shadows. You must let me handle this."
James pulled Lily closer. "He's right, Lils. If it's him... we scared him off once. We can't do it again."
Lily sobbed, burying her face in James's chest. "It was him, James. I promise you. It was our baby."
Dumbledore watched them, his expression unreadable. "Go to bed. Rest. Your students will need you tomorrow. The champion selection is imminent."
As the Potters shuffled out, leaving a trail of sorrow in their wake, Dumbledore turned his gaze to the window, looking out toward the dark grounds where the carriage of Beauxbatons sat like giant blue pumpkins.
"Sebastian Gray," he whispered to the empty room.
The fire in the grate flared green, just for a second, as if mocking him.
~ Sebastian Gray ~
The interior of the Beauxbatons carriage was a true specimen of Extension Charms and Gallic aesthetic. It was less a vehicle and more a traveling palace, draped in silks of powder blue and cream, smelling of lavender and expensive perfume.
But in the private sitting room assigned to the Head Girl, the air was thick with tension.
Sebastian Gray—or the man that answered to that name—stood by the window, staring out at the dark, rippling surface of the Black Lake. He had removed the heavy dragon-hide cloak and his Beauxbatons uniform, revealing the fitted black tactical gear he wore beneath. His arms were crossed, his muscles coiled tight as steel cables.
Fleur Delacour sat on a velvet chaise lounge, her legs tucked under her. She had discarded her school outer robes, wearing only the thin silk slip she wore beneath, but she seemed unaware of her state of undress. Her blue eyes were fixed on Sebastian's back, sharp and inquisitive.
"She called you 'arry," Fleur said. It wasn't a question. It was an accusation.
Sebastian didn't turn. "People make mistakes, Fleur. Grief does strange things to the mind."
"She is ze mother of ze Boy-Who-Lived," Fleur countered, her accent thickening as her agitation grew. "She is not some random madwoman from ze street. She looked at you, and she looked like she saw a ghost."
"She saw what she wanted to see," Sebastian replied, his voice a low, bored rumble. "I have a generic face."
Fleur laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You? Generic? You are many things, Sebastian. A brute. A mercenary. A savage. But generic? Non." She stood up, the silk sliding over her hips, and walked toward him. She stopped just out of reaching distance. "You froze. I felt it. Your magic... it spiked."
Sebastian turned slowly. His green eyes were flat, devoid of the panic that churned in his gut. "My magic is my business, Delacour. Your business is getting a good night's sleep so you don't embarrass yourself in front of the Hogwarts crowd tomorrow."
"Don't deflect," she snapped, stepping closer, her chin raised. The Veela allure rolled off her in waves, a subconscious defence mechanism, trying to charm the truth out of him. "Who are you? My father hired you because you are a ghost wiz no past. But ghosts come from somewhere."
Sebastian looked down at her. He felt the tug of the allure—that insidious, sweet pull that made men want to drop to their knees and spill their secrets just for a smile. But he had darkness in him that ate allure for breakfast.
'Tell her,' A voice whispered in the back of his mind.
It wasn't his voice. It was a sound like the knights of old, like nobility.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. 'Quiet, Wrath.'
'She knows, Master,' the Obscurus confirmed, the presence uncoiling in his chest, a black, oily smoke that existed in the metaphysical space between his heart and his lungs. 'The woman... the Red One... she saw us. She recognised the boy.'
'She saw nothing,' Sebastian projected his thought inward, his inner turmoil evident to the one that called him his Master. 'I am wearing the glamour. Grindelwald himself wove this into my skin. I might as well be wearing another's skin. It is flawless.'
'Magic has flaws,' Wrath chuckled. 'Lord Grindelwald himself attests to that. Blood calls to blood. The glamour hides the flesh, but it cannot hide the soul. And your soul, master Harry, screamed when she called your name.'
Sebastian closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The Obscurus was his salvation and his weapon. The result of suppression, of being the 'Squib' brother discarded to the Muggles, of being locked in the cupboard while Adam was paraded around. When the fire came... when he had finally snapped... the Obscurus had been born. And Grindelwald, finding the boy in the ashes, had not destroyed him. He had forged him into the man he was now.
'He would not believe her,' Wrath whispered, soothingly now. 'The old man... Dumbledore. He believes you dead. The world believes you to be dead. They would simply regard this as the raving of a woman drowned in grief over her bad decisions.'
'I hope you're right,' Sebastian thought back. 'Because if they push... if they try to make me into 'Harry' again...'
'Then we shall escape once more, Master,' Wrath promised with delight.
Sebastian opened his eyes. Fleur was still staring at him, waiting.
"My name," he said, stepping into her personal space, using his height to intimidate her, to push back against the allure, "is Sebastian Gray. I am here to ensure you survive this tournament. I am not here to indulge in your soap opera fantasies about long-lost British wizards."
Fleur held his gaze. She was brave; he had to give her that. Most people flinched when he looked at them like this.
"You are lying," she whispered.
"Believe what you want," Sebastian said dismissively. "But if you lose focus tomorrow because you're wondering about my family tree, you'll be dead by the first task. And I don't get paid if you die."
He turned away, walking toward the door of her suite. "Training at 0600. Be ready. And Fleur?"
She paused, looking at his back.
"Stop projecting your allure. It's desperate."
He opened the door and left, the heavy click of the latch echoing like a gunshot.
Left alone, Fleur stared at the wood grain of the door. Her heart was hammering against her ribs. She was furious. She was insulted.
And she was wetter than she had been in her entire life.
~ Fleur Delacour ~
Fleur Delacour did not stomp. She glided with aggressive intent.
She moved to her dressing table, sitting down heavily on the padded stool. The mirror reflected a girl—no, a woman—who was used to getting what she wanted. Her hair was a sheet of silver-blonde perfection. Her skin was flawless. Men threw themselves into freezing lakes just to retrieve her handkerchief.
But Sebastian Gray looked at her like she was a piece of furniture. A particularly annoying piece of furniture.
"Desperate," she hissed at her reflection, her fingers gripping the edge of the vanity.
She hated him. She hated his arrogance. She hated the way he moved, with that lethal, efficient grace that made the boys at Hogwarts look like clumsy toddlers. She hated the scars that peeked out from his collar—silvery, jagged lines that hinted at violence she could only imagine.
And she wanted to trace every single one of them with her tongue.
She stood up and moved to her wardrobe. If he wanted to play the stoic soldier, fine. She would play the general.
She began to rifle through her training gear. Usually, for the morning sessions, she wore loose, comfortable cottons. Practical. Modest.
"Non," she muttered, tossing a grey shirt onto the floor.
She dug deeper. She found a set of duel-wear she had purchased in Paris. It was dragon-hide, dyed a deep, midnight blue. It was reinforced for spell impact, yes, but the cut...
She pulled it out. The trousers were skin-tight, designed to mold to the legs like a second skin. The top was sleeveless, high-necked but with a cutout in the back that would expose her shoulder blades and the dip of her spine.
She held it up against her body in front of the full-length mirror. It was functional, strictly speaking. But it left nothing to the imagination. Every curve of her hips, every shift of her muscles would be visible. And if she conveniently forgot to wear her underwear tomorrow...
"Let's see you ignore zis, Monsieur Gray," she whispered, a predatory smile curving her lips.
She stripped off her silk slip, the fabric pooling at her feet. Naked, she walked to her bed. The sheets were cool satin, inviting.
She slid under the duvet, the events of the evening swirling in her mind. The look on the Potter woman's face. The ice in Sebastian's eyes. The unsettling magic she had sensed inside him—something dangerous, something forbidden.
Most witches would be terrified. Fleur was a Veela. They were creatures of fire and air, but they were also creatures of instinct. And her instinct told her that Sebastian was the most powerful thing in this castle.
Winning the Triwizard Tournament was her goal. She wanted the glory. She wanted to prove that she wasn't just a pretty face to be gawked at.
But as her eyes grew heavy, the golden trophy of the tournament began to merge with another image.
She was standing on the podium. The Great Hall was roaring, chanting her name.
Fleur! Fleur! Fleur!
Confetti rained down. She held the Triwizard Cup high, the magical glow illuminating her triumphant face.
She looked into the crowd. She saw Krum, scowling in defeat. She saw Adam Potter, clapping politely but looking jealous.
Then, the crowd faded. The noise dampened. The Great Hall dissolved into mist, reforming into the private luxury of her bedroom in the carriage.
The trophy was on the mantelpiece, shining.
But she wasn't alone.
Sebastian was there. He wasn't wearing his tactical gear. He was stripped to the waist, sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, making the network of scars look like silver lightning strikes across his skin.
In the dream, she didn't speak. She didn't need to. She was still wearing her victory robes, the heavy silk hanging off her shoulders.
Sebastian walked toward her. His eyes were not cold now. They were burning. They were green fire, consuming her.
He didn't ask permission. In her fantasy, he never did. He reached out, his large, calloused hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force. He spun her around, pushing her chest-first against the vanity table.
"You won," his voice growled in her ear, rough and dark. "Now, let me reward you."
Fleur gasped in her sleep, her legs shifting restlessly under the duvet.
In the dream, he kicked her legs apart. She heard the sound of her robes tearing. She didn't care. She pushed back against him, presenting herself.
"Take it," she begged in the dream. "Take me."
He didn't hesitate. He gripped her hair, pulling her head back so she was forced to look at herself in the mirror—to look at him dominating her. He entered her in one powerful, devastating thrust.
Fleur let out a moan into her pillow in the real world.
The sensation was vivid. The feeling of being filled, of being stretched, of being owned. He pounded into her, relentless, animalistic. There was no gentleness, no romance. It was the raw friction of passion and victory.
"Mine," he snarled in the dream, his hand releasing her hair to grip her throat, pinning her against the table as he drove into her from behind. "You are mine, Fleur."
"Yours," she sobbed, the pleasure building in her belly, a tight, hot coil. "I am yours."
She saw his face in the mirror—the face of the man who had dismissed Lily Potter with unreal coldness. The face of a powerful wizard.
And God, she loved power.
As the dream crescendoed, Sebastian bit down on the junction of her neck and shoulder as he thrust inside her one last time and filled her up with his seed, marking her. Fleur arched her back, the phantom pleasure of her climax so intense it bordered on pain.
She woke with a start, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
The room was dark. The carriage was silent.
Fleur lay there, her heart racing, her body covered in a sheen of sweat. Her hand drifted down between her legs, finding herself soaked, her core throbbing with an ache that the dream had ignited but not satisfied.
She bit her lip, staring up at the canopy of her bed.
"'arry," she whispered into the darkness, testing the name. It felt forbidden. It felt dangerous.
She smiled, a slow, wicked curve of her lips.
Tomorrow, the training began. Tomorrow, she would wear the blue suit. Tomorrow, she would start peeling back the layers of Sebastian Gray, one by one.
And if she found a monster underneath?
Well, she would just have to tame him. Or let him devour her.
Either way, it was going to be a magnificent year.
Author's Notes
Story is picking up, stakes are rising.