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 16 – A Twisted Lunch
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was unlike the oppressive dungeon-like atmosphere of the potions classrooms where the very air felt heavy. It was located in the East Tower, decorated with chandeliers, large windows and even a dragon's skeleton hung from the ceiling. It smelled of ancient magics, mixed with the sharp tang of the unmistakable, metallic aftertaste of dark enchantments that had been cast and absorbed into the ancient stone walls over centuries. The dust motes dancing in the light seemed to freeze in mid-air every time Alastor Moody stomped across the floor.
His wooden leg carved a rhythmic thud-clack, thud-clack into the stone—a beat accompanying his paranoia that hammered relentlessly against the nerves of the both the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students alike.
Sebastian Gray sat near the middle of the room, his posture a picture of negligent ease that completely contradicted the tension humming beneath his skin. He did not flinch at the sound of the wooden leg. He had been trained by Gellert Grindelwald; he had faced nightmares that would have made the scarred Auror weep.
Yet, Moody was an annoyance, primarily because of the magical eye.
The prosthetic whirled like a trapped blue hornet. It vibrated in its scarred socket, zooming through the heavy oak desks, piercing through thick winter robes, and—Sebastian was absolutely certain—staring right through his own skin. He could feel the invasive prickle of the magic scanning him, attempting to peel back his layers. The eye paused, fixing on Sebastian's chest, trying to peer into the pulsing, ink-black void of the Obscurial energy that was coiled around his heart like a parasite.
'The old cripple is staring again, my liege,' the deep, grinding voice of Wrath echoed in the cavernous vaults of Sebastian's mind. 'Shall I blind him? It would only take a fraction of my power to shatter that glass bauble into dust.'
'Stand down, Wrath,' Sebastian replied internally, fortifying his Occlumency shields until his mind was a fortress of diamond and ice. 'Let him look. He'll see nothing but shadows.'
"Vigilance!" Moody barked suddenly, his voice a gravelly roar that made half the room jump out of their skin. A fine spray of spit hit the front row of students, causing a Gryffindor boy to flinch violently backward. "Constant vigilance! The dark does not wait for you to finish your tea! You have to always be prepared!"
Beside Sebastian, Fleur Delacour remained entirely unfazed by the ex-Auror's theatrics. Instead, she leaned in closer, a deliberate, slow movement that invaded Sebastian's personal space with the precision of a cougar on the hunt. Her silver-blonde hair, unbound and radiant, cascaded over his shoulder like a silken curtain, the heavy strands brushing against the sensitive skin of his neck.
Instantly, the suffocating, delicious weight of her presence enveloped him. The scent of sweet vanilla and jasmine washed over his senses, intermingled heavily with the raw, pheromones launched into the air by her Veela allure. It was a potent, intoxicating technique designed by nature to bring men to their knees, to melt their thoughts until all that remained was a desperate, clawing need to please her.
Sebastian's jaw tightened. He felt the pull of it, the heat rising in his blood, but his mind remained entirely his own.
While Moody's back was turned, his wand raised to scrawl a jagged, glowing curse on the blackboard with an aggressive shower of sparks, Fleur made her move. Her hand, soft and impeccably manicured, slid beneath the heavy wood of their shared desk. She bypassed the fabric of her own skirt and moved directly to him.
Her fingertips grazed the inside of his knee, and even through the thick dragon-hide blend of his tactical trousers, her touch was a branding iron. She traced the hard, ridged muscle of Sebastian's thigh, moving upward with a bold, predatory heat that completely ignored the sanctity of the classroom and the dozens of students around them. Her touch was deliberate, her fingers pressing into his flesh, inching dangerously close to the place where the ridge of his cock being aroused pressed against the fabric of his trousers.
She leaned close to his ear, her chest pressing against his arm. Her breath was a hot, moist invitation that made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, testing the boundaries of his control.
"Zis man…" Fleur whispered, her French accent wrapping around the vowels like liquid velvet. "'e is a foul beast, non? I sink I prefer my beasts a little more… refined. A little more like you, mon loup."
Sebastian didn't flinch. He didn't shift his gaze from the blackboard. But his blood began to simmer with a familiar heat, a swirling mixture of his own unmatched libido and the primal lust she was so desperately trying to provoke. He let her fingers travel an inch higher, enjoying the absolute audacity of the Veela, before he reacted.
With a speed that defied regular wizards, Sebastian's hand shot beneath the table. He caught her wrist mid-glide, his fingers wrapping around her delicate bones. His grip was bruisingly firm, lacking any gentle hesitation.
He slowly turned his head to look at her.
The distance between their faces was negligible. He could see the slight widening of her sapphire eyes, the sudden hitch of her breath. His own emerald eyes—shadowed, cold, and crackling with a suppressed power—met her dilated pupils.
"Focus, Fleur," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone that vibrated directly into her marrow, skipping her ears entirely. "Unless you want the man with the glass eye to see exactly how much of a slut you're being for your bodyguard under a desk."
He felt her pulse jump beneath his fingers, her heart hammering a frantic, aroused rhythm against the cage of her ribs.
"Or," Sebastian continued, his thumb pressing deeply into the erratic pulse point on her wrist, his eyes darkening with a promise that made her core clench. "Perhaps you'd prefer I show him myself? I'm sure the entire class would enjoy the demonstration."
Fleur's breath caught in her throat. She let out a tiny, hitching moan that was swallowed by the ambient noise of Moody's lecturing. Her tongue darted out, slick and pink, to lick her bottom lip in a slow, provocative arc. The blush that stained her cheeks was a brilliant, flushed crimson of genuine arousal and absolute submission to his command. She pulled away just enough to look innocent, slipping her hand back to her own lap, though her chest continued to heave with shallow, rapid breaths for the remainder of the hour.
When the bell finally tolled, a heavy, tolling chime that echoed through the dungeons, the collective sigh of relief from the students was palpable. They scrambled to pack their parchment and quills, eager to escape the stifling paranoia of Moody's domain.
As the students filed out, Sebastian and Fleur walked side by side. He offered her his arm, playing the role of the dutiful, polite escort, though the heat radiating between them could have melted solid ice.
As they navigated the winding, torch-lit corridors of the Eastern Tower, the air began to feel noticeably thinner. The usual chatter of the student body seemed to die away as they approached a particular intersection.
Waiting for them by a towering stone gargoyle were two figures who looked like they had stepped straight out of a painting to represent the absolute pinnacle of pureblood elegance.
Vera Black and Daphne Greengrass.
They stood together, a study in contrasts. Daphne was wrapped in the crisp green and silver of Slytherin, her blonde hair pristine, her posture rigid and perfect. Vera, her dark hair tumbling in thick waves over her shoulders, looked softer, yet carried the heavy, undeniable beauty of the Ancient and Noble House of Black.
It had only been a few days since Sebastian had walked into that blood-soaked cellar to pull them out of hell. The memory of the carnage he had unleashed to save them still hung over the three of them like an invisible, unbreakable tether.
As Sebastian approached, Vera's grey eyes—so strikingly similar to Sirius's, yet holding a vulnerability and softness that must have been inherited from her mother—fixed on him. There was a mixture of absolute awe in her gaze, layered thickly with something far rawer. It was the look of a woman who had seen the monster hiding beneath the man's skin, and found herself inexplicably drawn to its teeth.
"Sebastian," Vera said, stepping forward. Her voice was steady, refined by years of etiquette training, but it held the undeniable hint of a tremor. Her eyes flicked to Fleur for a brief, polite nod before zeroing back in on him. "My father and the Greengrasses are hosting a lunch tomorrow at our property in Hogsmeade. They… they wish to thank you properly for the rescue. To show the gratitude of the Ancient Houses."
Her fingers twitched at her sides, a nervous gesture that betrayed how desperately she wanted him to say yes.
Daphne stepped forward to join her friend. The famous 'Ice Queen' mask, usually so flawless and impenetrable, slipped just enough to reveal a flash of genuine, hungry interest. Her green eyes swept over the breadth of Sebastian's shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, and the subtle, dangerous smirk playing on his lips.
"We'd like you to be there," Daphne said, her voice a cool, melodic purr that held an underlying demand. Her gaze shifted to Fleur, acknowledging the Veela with a polite, stiff nod. "Both of you. It would be our honour."
Deep within the fortress of Sebastian's mind, he felt Wrath stir, the entity letting out a low, rasping chuckle of dark amusement that sounded like grinding stones echoing in an empty tomb.
'The sheep want to feast with the wolf, Liege,' Wrath purred, utterly delighted by the tangled web of lust and pureblood politics forming around them. 'How quaint. Let us go. Let us see how they tremble when you look at them.'
Sebastian's emerald eyes flickered between the two pureblood heiresses. He saw the way Vera's breath hitched under his scrutiny. He saw the way Daphne's chin tilted up, fighting her own trembling instincts. And beside him, he felt Fleur's grip on his arm tighten possessively, her Veela magic rising to meet the challenge of the British witches.
It was a dangerous game, stepping into a room full of the families who thought Harry Potter was dead and buried.
But Sebastian Gray was not a man who ran from the fire.
"We'll be there," Sebastian said smoothly, his voice dropping into that dark, hypnotic register. His lips curved into a smile that was devastatingly handsome, yet sharp enough to draw blood. "It would be impolite to refuse such a gracious invitation from the Ancient Houses."
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
The weekend arrived with a biting chill that swept down from the Scottish mountains, coating the thatched roofs of Hogsmeade in a light layer of snow dust. Despite the chill, the village was alive, bustling with Hogwarts students and locals seeking refuge in the warm, butterbeer-scented havens that lined the cobbled streets.
Sebastian Gray navigated the crowded thoroughfare with the effortless, predatory grace that had become his trademark. He wore a tailored, charcoal-grey overcoat that fell to his knees, the collar turned up against the biting wind, his posture rigid and impossibly alert. Fleur Delacour walked beside him, her arm looped intimately through his. She was a vision in a sweeping, fur-lined cloak of powder blue, her silver-blonde hair catching the pale winter sunlight. The Veela allure rolled off her in subtle, controlled waves, drawing the awestruck, glassy-eyed stares of nearly every male they passed.
But Fleur paid them no mind. Her sapphire eyes were fixed firmly ahead, her touch possessive, anchoring herself to the solid, unyielding heat of the mercenary at her side.
They stepped out of the freezing wind and pushed through the heavy, wrought-iron detailed doors of the Three Broomsticks. The blast of heat that hit them was immediate, thick with the scent of roasted nuts, spilled ale, and the sharp, spiced tang of Ogden's Old Firewhisky.
Behind the polished mahogany bar stood Madam Rosmerta. She was wiping down the counter, her ample, magnificent cleavage straining against the laces of her bodice. As the door shut, she looked up. Her green eyes locked onto Sebastian's.
For a heartbeat, the noise of the tavern faded. A heavy, carnal memory flashed between them—the violent, sweat-slicked passion against the glass window, the guttural moans, the taste of her skin. A deep, flush of crimson bloomed rapidly across Rosmerta's chest, rising up her neck. She offered him a slow, wicked smile that promised a dozen sinful things, her gaze lingering heavily on the bulge of his trousers before she discreetly gestured toward a heavy oak door at the back of the pub.
'The tavern wench remembers her master well,' Wrath purred darkly in the recesses of Sebastian's mind, the Obscurus vibrating with dark amusement. 'Her scent spikes even from across the room. A pity we must play politics when the flesh is so willing.'
'Silence, Wrath. Focus. And how many times must I tell you that I do not enjoy your voyeuristic habits,' Sebastian chided internally, guiding Fleur past the crowded tables and toward the back corridor as the Obscurus snickered uncharacteristically.
They slipped through the heavy oak door and out in front of another estate, the raucous noise of the pub instantly silencing as the wards washed over them. The sight of a well-maintained modern villa, crafted out of marble white as the snow covering itself, made itself known to the couple.
Lunch was at a property that the Black family owned in the village of Hogsmeade, something Sirius had purchased if a situation where he needed to be close to his daughter or if Vera wished to live here arose. The dining room they entered was expansive, lined with dark, polished mahogany panels and illuminated by a roaring fire in a grand marble hearth. The air was thick, heavy with the mouth-watering smell of roasted meats, rich gravies, and the sharp, peaty bite of expensive Firewhisky breathing in crystal decanters.
Sebastian's emerald eyes swept the room in a fraction of a second, calculating the exits, the sightlines, and the potential threats, before settling on the occupants.
Alaric Greengrass, a man who looked like he was carved from marble and old money, sat near the centre of the sprawling table. He possessed the same aristocratic, patrician features as Daphne—high cheekbones, pale skin, and an aura of absolute, unwavering superiority. He sat beside his wife, Anastasia, a woman whose beauty was as sharp and dangerous as a drawn blade. Her calculating green eyes missed nothing, taking in the exact way Fleur clung to Sebastian, the precise cut of Sebastian's coat, and the lethal stillness of his posture.
Sirius Black sat at the head of the table. He was leaning back in a heavy, velvet-upholstered chair, looking more like a lord than Sebastian had ever seen him, though the mischief still danced vibrantly in his aged grey eyes.
It was a jarring, bitter sight.
This was the man who was supposed to have raised him. The godfather who had been forced to realise that Harry Potter turned to ash while he played doting father to the beautiful, dark-haired girl sitting to his right.
Vera Black and Daphne Greengrass were seated across from their parents, both dressed in immaculate, high-end winter fashion. As Sebastian entered, Vera's breath visibly hitched, a rapid flush rising to paint her porcelain cheeks, while Daphne's spine snapped completely straight, the 'Ice Queen' fighting a losing battle against the sudden, dilated hunger in her own eyes.
Sebastian smoothly guided Fleur to the remaining seats. He deliberately chose the chair with its back to the solid stone wall, affording him a full view of the room and the door. Fleur sat immediately to his left, her thigh brushing his beneath the heavy linen tablecloth, staking her physical claim for every witch in the room to see.
"To Sebastian Gray," Sirius toasted, breaking the momentary hush as he raised a heavy, crystal glass filled with a generous measure of Ogden's best. The liquid caught the firelight, glowing like liquid amber. "For having the stones to do what the Ministry couldn't. You saved our daughters, lad. That's a debt the House of Black doesn't forget."
He tipped the glass back, swallowing the burning liquid with a grimace of pure satisfaction, his grey eyes locked onto Sebastian with genuine, unbridled respect.
"I was merely doing my job, Lord Black," Sebastian replied, his tone perfectly polished, the gravelly bass of his voice devoid of any boastful arrogance. He sat perfectly still, his hands resting lightly on the table, the mask of the mercenary never slipping for a fraction of a second. "The contract dictates the safety of my charge. I do not leave loose ends."
Fleur's hand slid onto his lap, hidden by the table, while her other hand rested possessively on his forearm above it. Her presence was a silent, suffocating challenge to the British witches, her chin tilted up in a display of supreme, Veela arrogance.
Alaric Greengrass let out a low, refined chuckle, setting his own glass down. "You know, Sebastian," Alaric said, a playful, sharp glint in his eye as he glanced at Daphne, who was uncharacteristically flushed, her knuckles white as she gripped her linen napkin. "My daughter hasn't stopped talking about your… decisiveness. It's a rare trait in boys these days. Most of the boys at Hogwarts are rather damp squibs compared to a man of your calibre."
Daphne's eyes widened in sheer mortification. "Father!" she hissed, the tips of her ears turning brilliant red.
"Oh, Alaric, don't tease the poor girl," Anastasia added, her voice a smooth, silken purr that held a dangerous edge of amusement. She leaned forward slightly, her own gaze lingering appreciatively on the sheer breadth of Sebastian's shoulders, tracing the tailored lines of his shirt. "Though I must admit, Vera and Daphne have been rather inseparable since the rescue. One might think they're competing for the hero's attention."
Vera choked on the sip of water she had just taken, coughing violently into her hand, her face burning with profound embarrassment. She shot a desperate, wide-eyed look at her father.
Sirius barked a laugh, a loud, booming sound that echoed off the mahogany walls. He leaned back, thoroughly enjoying the chaos. "Competition? I'd put my gold on Vera. She's got the Black fire in her veins. Though, Sebastian, I must warn you—if you can handle both of them and a Veela, you're a better man than I."
The tension in the room spiked, suddenly thick enough to carve with a blade.
Fleur's grip on Sebastian's arm tightened dramatically, her perfectly manicured nails digging slightly into the fabric of his sleeve, pressing against the hard muscle beneath. Her allure spiked violently. It wasn't the soft, pleasant hum of seduction anymore; it was a wave of territorial, blistering heat that washed over the table, making the flames on the candles flicker and dance wildly, casting long, monstrous shadows against the walls.
"Sebastien is quite occupied with my protection, Lord Black," Fleur said, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register, sounding like silk wrapped tightly over steel. She levelled a glare at Sirius, then turned her piercing blue eyes onto Daphne and Vera. "I do not zink 'e 'as room on 'is plate for schoolgirls."
Vera's spine stiffened, the Black temper flaring to life, her grey eyes darkening into thunderclouds. Daphne's lips thinned into a razor-sharp line, the Ice Queen bristling at the sheer, unadulterated disrespect.
'Look at them,' Wrath hissed gleefully, delighted by the entertainment he could glimpse from the dark corners of Sebastian's mind. 'Ready to draw wands and spill blood over who gets to warm your bed.'
Sebastian found the banter intensely amusing, though he remained stoned-face. He only cracked a small, crooked smile, a terrifyingly handsome expression that made both Vera and Daphne's breath hitch despite their rising anger. He picked up his own glass of Firewhisky, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully.
"Lord Greengrass, Lord Black," Sebastian said, his voice suddenly dropping the playful edge, resonating with a serious, gravelly tone that commanded absolute silence. The banter instantly died. The sheer weight of his presence pressed down on the room, suffocating and vast.
He leaned forward, placing his glass deliberately on the wood.
"I know the weight of the words spoken today and the exact implications my actions carried," Sebastian continued, his emerald eyes locking onto Sirius, then Alaric. "Life Debts are powerful things in your world. They are leverage. They are chains forged in blood and magic. I know exactly what I could demand from the Noble Houses of Black and Greengrass for pulling your heirs out of that cellar."
Anastasia's eyes narrowed, her political instincts flaring to life. Sirius's easy smile vanished, replaced by the guarded, calculating look of a man who had survived a war.
"But let me be clear," Sebastian said, his gaze sweeping over the table, cold and absolute. "I do not collect leashes."
Alaric blinked, a rare crack in his pureblood composure. "Excuse me?"
"You owe me nothing but the gold agreed upon in my contract with the French Ministry," Sebastian stated, his words ringing with finality. "I give you my word, here and now, that I will not call upon these debts for personal gain or for political leverage. Consider them settled completely by the pleasure of seeing your daughters returned to you unharmed."
Silence fell over the dining room. It was a heavy, stunned silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the hearth.
Vera and Daphne stared at him, wide-eyed and completely unmoored. In the world of pureblood manoeuvring, such a gesture was utterly unheard of. A Life Debt from two of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was a blank check that could buy a man an estate, a seat on the Wizengamot, or a marriage contract that would elevate his bloodline for centuries. To cast it aside as if it were a meaningless trinket was a display of either immense, unfathomable arrogance, or staggering, terrifying nonchalance.
Alaric and Sirius exchanged a long, weighted look across the table. They were men who dealt in favours, in backroom deals and political blackmail. They looked at the young mercenary sitting before them, trying to find the angle, trying to see the invisible strings.
But there were none.
Sebastian Gray's eyes were pools of emerald ice, completely devoid of deception.
Sirius slowly lowered his glass, his expression shifting from guarded suspicion to a profound, genuine awe. He stared at the man sitting across from him—at the scars, the lethal grace, and the unbreakable will.
"A man of his word," Sirius murmured, his voice hushed, genuinely impressed. He shook his head slowly, a wry, almost fearful smile touching his lips. "Dangerous and principled. A terrifying combination."
"Indeed," Alaric agreed softly, his respect for the young man skyrocketing. He raised his glass again, this time with absolute solemnity. "To Sebastian Gray. A man who stands apart."
Anastasia's eyes glittered with a new, much darker kind of interest, while Vera and Daphne looked at him as if he had just pulled the moon from the sky and placed it on the table.
Sebastian picked up his glass, tapping it gently against Fleur's, who was looking at him with a mixture of immense pride and burning, unadulterated lust.
'They look at you as if you are a god, Master,' Wrath whispered, the darkness churning with satisfaction. 'If only they knew they were toasting the very boy they threw away.'
Sebastian took a sip of the burning Firewhisky, the liquid searing down his throat. He set the glass down, his mask perfectly in place, the ghost of Harry Potter buried deep beneath the cold, calculating exterior of the mercenary who had just gained the upper hand in room of seasoned politicians without casting a single spell.
"Now," Sebastian said smoothly, breaking the heavy tension with a casual flick of his wrist. "I believe there was mention of a roast. It would be a crime to let it grow cold."
The heavy, oppressive tension that had previously strangled the dining room evaporated, replaced by the clatter of fine silver against porcelain and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of roasted pheasant, spiced winter vegetables, and heavy, dark gravy. The house-elves of the Black family had outdone themselves, providing a feast that rivalled the sprawling banquets of Hogwarts, but with a level of intimate, perfectly seasoned refinement that only old gold could buy.
Sebastian allowed the rigid, militant posture of the mercenary to melt away, just a fraction. He leaned back into his velvet-upholstered chair, the sheer, undeniable confidence of his persona filling the space left by the vanished tension.
"The wine is exceptional, Lady Greengrass," Sebastian noted, rolling the deep crimson liquid around the bowl of his crystal glass before taking a slow, appreciative sip. "Elf-made, I presume? The vintage has the distinct, heavy notes of the southern Bordeaux vineyards, yet the finish is undeniably magical."
Anastasia Greengrass's eyes lit up, a genuine, delighted smile gracing her sharp features. The Ice Queen's mother was a creature of refined tastes, and having them acknowledged by a man who had just dismantled a room full of killers was evidently intoxicating. "You have a discerning palate, Sebastian. Indeed, it is a private reserve from our estates in France. I am thoroughly impressed. Most young men your age can barely distinguish between firewhisky and pumpkin juice, let alone identify a regional elf-blend."
"My travels have afforded me certain... educational opportunities," Sebastian replied with a smooth, roguish smirk, setting the glass down.
"And where exactly have these travels taken you?" Daphne inquired. The Slytherin heiress had finally managed to corral the furious blush that had previously stained her cheeks, her composure returning as she leaned forward, genuinely captivated. "Your spell-work in the cellar... it was not Beauxbatons standard. It wasn't standard anywhere."
"The world is vast, Miss Greengrass," Sebastian answered, his tone dropping its guarded edge, turning casual and flowing as he spun a story about his travels, a milder version of what actually transpired. "I spent a considerable amount of time in the Black Forests of Croatia, tracking down certain... rare artifacts for private collectors. The magical enclaves there do not rely on wands as heavily as we do. They believe magic is a muscle. If you rely too heavily on a piece of wood to channel it, the muscle atrophies."
Vera Black, sitting across from him, rested her chin in her hand, her grey eyes wide and sparkling with unabashed fascination. "That sounds terrifying," she breathed, a soft smile touching her lips. "To face the creatures of the Black Forest without a wand? Were you not afraid?"
Sebastian's gaze drifted to Vera. Looking at her now, stripped of the terror of the dungeon and the furious indignation she had aimed at Adam Potter in the library, he saw the echoes of the little girl he had once known. The girl who had chased fireflies in the gardens of Godric's Hollow.
He felt no anger toward her.
"Fear is a useful tool, Vera," Sebastian said gently, using her first name with a casual, warm intimacy that made her breath hitch. "It keeps you sharp. It keeps you alive. The trick is not to let the fear make your decisions for you. You acknowledge it, you use the adrenaline it provides, and then you push it aside. Besides, I did have my companion with me and they carried their wand."
Sirius barked a laugh, slicing into his pheasant. "Spoken like a true Gryffindor, lad! Or a seasoned Auror. You sure you don't want a job at the Ministry? We could use men who don't flinch when the shadows bite back."
"I think the Ministry and I have vastly different opinions on the definition of 'acceptable collateral damage,' Lord Black," Sebastian replied dryly, drawing a hearty chuckle from Alaric Greengrass.
Fleur, sitting close enough that the heat of her thigh was a constant, searing brand against his own, hummed in agreement. "Sebastien is far too expensive for your Ministry, Lord Black. Besides, 'e belongs to France for ze foreseeable future."
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
The lunch proceeded with an easy, flowing camaraderie. Sebastian navigated the intricate web of pureblood politics and casual banter with an effortless grace that left Alaric and Sirius thoroughly impressed, and the women at the table utterly charmed. He was neither the stiff, silent bodyguard nor the blood-soaked butcher; he was a charismatic, worldly young man who held the room in the palm of his hand.
But as the plates were cleared and the heavy, crystal decanters of port and aged firewhisky were brought out alongside cigars, the atmosphere in the room began to thicken once more. The gratitude, the heavy, suffocating warmth of the parents' relief, began to press against the edges of Sebastian's Occlumency shields.
He was sitting at a table with Sirius Black. He was sharing a meal, laughing at the man's jokes, watching him dote on his daughter. It was a twisted, agonizing mockery of the life he should have had. The Obscurus within him, Wrath, was uncharacteristically silent, sensing the precarious, fragile state of its master's emotional control.
As Alaric leaned in to ask Sirius a question regarding the upcoming Wizengamot session, Sebastian took the opportunity to stand.
"If you will excuse me for a moment," Sebastian murmured, offering a polite nod to the table. "I find myself in need of a brief walk to stretch my legs."
Fleur immediately began to rise, her blue eyes filled with a sudden, protective instinct, but Anastasia Greengrass reached out, placing a gentle hand on the Veela's arm. "Oh, do stay, Fleur, dear. I simply must know who designed that magnificent cloak. The stitching is utterly divine."
Sebastian offered Fleur a reassuring, silent glance, silently telling her to stay put. He turned and slipped through the heavy mahogany doors, leaving the warmth and the noise of the dining room behind.
The air in the hallway was significantly cooler, smelling of old dust, the smell of roasted seasoning wafting through the house, the vibration of powerful warding magic. The floorboards, covered in thick, woven runners of emerald and silver, creaked softly under the weight of his dragon-hide boots.
As the lunch concluded behind the closed doors, Sebastian found himself wandering the upper hallways of the place, seeking a moment of silence away from the suffocating gratitude. The lighting up here was sparse, provided by flickering magical sconces that cast long shadows against the dark, oak-panelled walls.
He needed to breathe.
He needed to lock Harry Potter back into the iron-clad box in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind before the ghost managed to tear its way out completely.
He turned a corner, the corridor narrowing as it led toward the gardens at the back. He walked without destination, letting the silence wash over him, until a faint, almost imperceptible scent caught his attention.
Leather. And roses.
Sebastian stopped. His heart gave a violent, sickening lurch against his ribs. It was a scent he had not smelled in over a decade, a scent that belonged to a time before the cupboard, before the pain, before the fire.
He turned his head slowly.
He stopped abruptly in front of a gilded frame tucked into an alcove.
The picture was old, the oil paints cracked perfectly to give the subject a lifelike, breathing texture. The woman in the portrait was beautiful, with blonde, wild hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a chaotic cascade of curls. She wore a leather jacket over a simple, elegant gown, a startling contrast that perfectly captured her essence. But it was her eyes—stormy, brilliant grey—that sparkled with a fierce, untameable joy. Her name rested beneath the portrait in a plate of gold.
Marlene McKinnon.
She was laughing, her painted hand resting delicately on her lap as she looked at something to the side, forever frozen in a moment of absolute, unburdened happiness.
Sebastian stared at the canvas, his breath hitching in his throat. The walls of his Occlumency, the fortress that Grindelwald had spent years helping him build, developed a hairline fracture. He could see it so clearly—the way she used to scoop him up in her arms, spinning him around the nursery of Potter Manor. He remembered the silver sparks she would conjure from the tip of her wand, making them dance in the air just to hear his high-pitched, toddler giggles. He remembered her warmth.
"You have your mother's eyes," the portrait spoke suddenly.
The voice was a soft, melodic chime, carrying the faint, echoing resonance of paint and magic. But the sound of it hit Sebastian like a physical blow. It was like a bludger to the chest, driving the air from his lungs.
Sebastian froze, his hand hovering inches from the canvas, his fingers trembling violently.
'Do not engage, my liege,' Wrath hissed, the darkness within him swirling with sudden absoluteness. 'It is paint. It is a memory. Do not let it shatter you.'
Sebastian swallowed hard, forcing the iron mask of the mercenary back onto his face, though his jaw ached with the effort.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Lady McKinnon," Sebastian said, his voice tight, gravelly, and entirely stripped of the smooth charm he had wielded downstairs.
The portrait of Marlene leaned forward in her painted chair, the fabric of her dress rustling with the motion. Her painted eyes, so full of life and an ancient, motherly wisdom, searched his heavily scarred face. She didn't look at the glamour; she looked right through it.
"Don't lie to a dead woman, little pup," Marlene said, her voice dropping to a tender, reprimanding whisper. "I saw you through the frames in the hallway. I recognize that scowl. You were always a moody little thing. It might have been years for you, but I still remember you clearly."
The nickname—little pup—was a dagger twisted directly into his heart.
Sebastian closed his eyes, his breathing turning ragged. He could feel the magic humming beneath his skin, the Obscurus reacting to the profound, shattering grief that was bleeding through his mental shields.
"Marlene," Sebastian whispered, the name tearing from his throat like a jagged piece of glass. A visible crack appeared in his Occlumency, the emotion flooding his emerald eyes. "You're… you're just a memory."
"And you're a ghost who's grown much too tall," she replied, a sad, incredibly gentle smile touching her painted lips. She reached out, her hand pressing against the boundary of the canvas, as if wishing she could smooth the blonde, messy hair from his forehead. "Whatever happened to you, whatever path you've walked… there's still a heart in there. I can see it beating under all that shadow."
Sebastian stared at her, a single, treacherous tear burning the corner of his eye. He wanted to scream. He wanted to ask her why she had to die. Why she had to leave him to a world that didn't want him.
"She was the best of us."
The new voice was like a whip-crack in the oppressive silence of the hallway.
Sebastian didn't jump. The training ingrained into his very muscles took over. He slowly closed his trembling hand, schooling his features into a mask of blank, unreadable stone, and turned.
Sirius Black stood at the end of the hallway.
He had shed the outer layer of his formal robes, standing only in his waistcoat and trousers, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. The jovial, laughing Lord Black who had toasted Sebastian downstairs was completely gone. The man standing in the shadows was stripped of all pretence, his expression unreadable, heavy with the ghosts of a war that had taken everything from him.
"Lord Black," Sebastian acknowledged, the title feeling like a piece of hot coal on his tongue. He forced his voice to remain steady, the deep, resonant baritone of the mercenary.
Sirius walked forward, his boots making no sound on the runner. He didn't look at Sebastian immediately; his hollow, grey eyes were fixed entirely on Marlene's portrait.
"She was brave, loyal, and far too good for this world," Sirius said, his voice thick with a decade of unshed tears, the raw, agonizing grief spilling into the quiet corridor. He stopped, staring at the painted face of the woman he had loved. "Vera has her heart, you know. That's why I'm so grateful to you. If I'd lost her…"
Sirius stopped a foot away from Sebastian.
The physical proximity was suffocating. The jovial Lord Black was gone. In his place was the Marauder, the man who had survived a war, the loss of his wife, and the devastating loss of his best friends' firstborn.
Slowly, Sirius turned his head. He looked at Sebastian.
He didn't look at the tactical dragon-hide clothes. He didn't look at the silvery scars that marred Sebastian's cheeks and neck. He didn't look at the Beauxbatons blue peeking out from the collar.
He looked straight into the emerald depths of Sebastian's eyes.
The silence grew heavy, suffocating. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken, pressing down on Sebastian's shoulders with the weight of a collapsing mountain.
Wrath stirred violently in Sebastian's mind, the Obscurus too waiting in anticipation, coiling like a struck viper, unsure of where this conversation was leading, ready to unleash devastation if the man before them posed a threat.
Sirius's face twitched. It was a minuscule movement, a sudden, sharp tightening of the muscles around his jaw and his eyes.
A look of agonizing, soul-shattering recognition broke through his weathered features. It was as if a physical blow had struck the older man. The pieces of the puzzle—the exact, impossible shade of those green eyes, the precise age of the boy standing before him, the raw, visceral, and utterly unyielding protective instinct he had displayed for Vera—slammed together in Sirius's mind with the force of a colliding train.
Sirius's breath hitched, a ragged, tearing sound.
"The eyes never lie, Marlene always said," Sirius whispered.
The words were barely audible, his voice trembling violently with a decade of grief suddenly, violently ignited into an impossible, terrifying hope.
"Even with all that darkness in you…" Sirius continued, a solitary tear spilling over his lower lash line, cutting a clean path through the faint wrinkles developing on his cheek. "…even with whatever pain you have gone through to reach here."
Sirius took a step closer, erasing the final boundary of personal space between them. His hand reached out from his pocket, his long, scarred fingers shaking uncontrollably as they hovered mere inches from Sebastian's face, afraid to touch him, afraid that the boy would shatter into mist if he made contact.
He looked at the boy he had once called his 'pup.' The child he had bounced on his knee. The child he had grieved as ash and bone, crying until his lungs bled in the ruins of a muggle house in Surrey.
"It's a hell of a thing, coming back from the dead just to save your childhood best friend and your godfather's daughter," Sirius said, a ghost of a smile—fragile, broken, and impossibly beautiful—touching his trembling lips, though his grey eyes were brimming, overflowing with hot, desperate tears.
His voice dropped to a low, intimate rasp that cut through Sebastian's last remaining defences like a hot knife through wax.
"Isn't that right, Harry?"
Sebastian froze.
The world ceased to turn. The ambient hum of magic in the house, the faint, distant laughter from the dining room below, the grinding whisper of Wrath in his mind—it all vanished.
The air in his lungs turned to shattered glass.
For the first time in thirteen years, the man who had butchered fourteen mercenaries without a flicker of remorse, the protégé of Gellert Grindelwald, felt the icy, terrifying grip of total, paralyzing fear.
He was no longer Sebastian Gray, the lethal mercenary.
He was a six-year-old boy, locked in the suffocating darkness of a cupboard under the stairs, clutching a thin, threadbare blanket, dreading the heavy, thudding footsteps to reach the door.
And the monster had finally found him.