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 15 – The Brother-Who-Never-Was
~ Daphne Greengrass ~
The scent of old parchment and the dusty, comforting aroma of thousands of books usually served as a balm to Daphne Greengrass's soul. The Hogwarts library was her sanctuary, a place where the intricate dance of pureblood politics and the exhausting expectations of the Sacred Twenty-Eight could be silenced by the scratch of a quill.
Today, however, the silence was not peaceful. It was filled with a tension that felt thick enough to choke on. The late afternoon sun, filtering through the high arched windows, painted the long wooden tables in stripes of amber light and shadow, but for Daphne, the world seemed to have narrowed down to the thrumming of her own pulse in her ears.
She sat at her usual secluded table near the Restricted Section, her posture perfect—spine straight, chin level—a habit drilled into her by her mother since she could walk. Before her lay an open copy of Advanced Potion-Making, the text dense with instructions on the brewing of Draught of Peace. A fitting topic, she mused darkly, given that for the last forty-eight hours, she had felt as though she were waking from one nightmare only to find herself living in a fever dream.
To her left, Tracey Davis was ostensibly working on a Transfiguration essay, though Daphne could hear the rhythmic scritch-scratch of her quill moving in a way that suggested sketching rather than writing. Tracey, with her half-blood heritage, quite uncaring nature and irrepressible humor, was the grounding wire to Daphne's high-voltage pureblood upbringing.
To her right sat Vera Black.
Vera was a portrait of aristocratic women. The heiress to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black stared blankly at a Charms textbook, her grey eyes—usually so sharp, so full of the Black family brilliance—glazed over with a distant, haunted look. Her quill hovered over an inkpot, the black liquid having long since dried on the nib, threatening to drip a coalesced blob onto the wood of their desks that would surely invite a scolding from Irma Pince, the unpopular Hogwarts librarian.
Daphne sighed, the sound escaping her lips before she could check it. She closed her book with a soft, deliberate thud. The noise was small, but in the hush of the library, it sounded like a gavel being struck by the Minister.
She wasn't Hermione Granger. She didn't possess the Gryffindor's frantic need to prove her existence through raised hands and memorized paragraphs. Daphne was a Greengrass. Excellence wasn't an aspiration; it was an expectation. Her academic prowess would bring more renown to the Greengrass name, thus inviting more business for when she eventually took over. Yet, staring at the instructions for scarab beetles and ginger roots, she realized she couldn't care less about Snape's upcoming test.
Her mind was not on potions. It was on green eyes.
His green eyes.
Haunting, radioactive emerald eyes that burned with the cold intensity of a killing curse, yet held a strange, protective fire that had pulled her back from the brink of the abyss.
"You're doing it again," Tracey whispered, not looking up from her parchment.
Daphne blinked, turning her head slightly. "Doing what?"
"Occluding. Or trying to," Tracey murmured, finally glancing up. Her eyes darted between Daphne and Vera. "You both look like you're at a funeral for a pet kneazle. The test isn't until Tuesday. Snape won't actually flay us, despite his threats."
"It isn't the test, Tracey," Vera said, her voice raspy, as if she hadn't used it in hours. She finally dropped her quill, abandoning the pretence of studying.
Daphne looked at Vera, and she didn't need Legilimency to see the reel of memories playing behind her best friend's eyes. It was the same reel playing in her own head.
Two days ago. The ambush in the Great Hall. The rough, callous hands of mercenaries who didn't care about their blood status, only the ransom price—or worse. The damp, mouldy smell of the cellar they had been thrown into. The terror had been absolute, a cold, slimy thing coiling in Daphne's gut, stripping away the Ice Queen mask until she was just a frightened girl realizing that no number of galleons could stop a slicing hex or a wart-covered cock from taking her bound form.
And then, he had arrived.
Sebastian Gray.
The walking enigma. The bodyguard of the French Veela. Up until that moment, he had just been a curiosity—a dangerously handsome fixture in the background. But in that cellar, amidst the screams of their captors, they had seen his true capabilities.
He hadn't fought like a wizard. He had fought like a force of nature. Daphne remembered the way the shadows seemed to cling to him, the brutal efficiency of his spell work. There were no wasted movements, no flourishes. Just distinct, fatal bursts of magic. He had moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, dismantling five grown men as if he were tidying a room.
And when the silence had fallen, heavy with the copper tang of blood and the putrid smell of dark magic, he hadn't puffed out his chest. He hadn't demanded a reward. He had looked at them with those devastating green eyes, checked they were unharmed with a clinical detachment, and simply... existed.
"The debt," Daphne whispered, the words tasting like ash and honey. "It... it keeps replaying in my mind. The implications."
"Life Debts are serious magic, Daph," Tracey said, her tone sobering. "Old magic. If he wanted to, he could ask for anything. Your magic. Your service. Hell, by the old laws, he could ask for your hand."
Vera flinched, a flush rising high on her pale cheekbones, an identical one warming her on cheeks. But Daphne, who knew Vera better than she knew herself, saw that it wasn't fear causing the blush.
And it wasn't for Daphne either.
"He won't," Vera said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. "He... he isn't like that. He didn't even wait for us to thank him properly. He just made sure we were safe and vanished into the shadows like some... dark knight."
"A dark knight," Tracey snorted, grinning again. "Is that what we're calling him now? I thought it was 'Dream Boat' or 'The walking sinful thought'."
Daphne felt the heat rush to her own face, cracking her composure. "Tracey!"
"Oh, come off it, Ice Queen," Tracey teased, leaning in. "I saw you two in the dorms last night. Whispering under the silencing charms. You weren't talking about the political ramifications of a Life Debt to a chaotic neutral mercenary who is so obviously fancied by the Veela daughter of the French Minister. You were talking about his hands."
Daphne's breath hitched. She couldn't deny it. The image of Sebastian's hands—scarred, large, capable of such violence yet surprisingly gentle when he had sent them away—had been plaguing her dreams. The gratitude she felt was becoming dangerously intertwined with a visceral, thrumming attraction that terrified her.
She was Daphne Greengrass.
She rejected heirs for sport. She did not swoon over mysterious bodyguards with eyes like death and a jawline carved from granite.
And yet...
"He saved us," Vera murmured, her eyes distant and glassy. "He walked through hell for us, Daphne, even if it was because Fleur was with us. We owe him everything. And... gods, did you see him? The way the blood looked on his shirt? The way he didn't even flinch?"
"I saw," Daphne admitted, her voice dropping to a hush. "I saw."
The air at the table grew heavy, charged with the unspoken fantasies of two high-born witches who had tasted danger and found they liked the saviour a little too much.
"Well," Tracey's voice cut through the haze, sudden and sharp. "Speak of the devil, and he shall appear."
Daphne's head snapped up. Vera spun in her chair so fast her spine audibly cracked.
"Where?" Vera demanded, breathless.
"Twelve o'clock," Tracey pointed with her quill, a smirk playing on her lips. "Your hottie. Target acquired."
And there he was.
Sebastian Gray prowled through the doors like a predator in his natural habitat.
He entered the library's main thoroughfare with a stride that was deceptively lazy, yet ate up the distance with efficiency. He wore the Beauxbatons uniform—the powder blue silk that looked effeminate on most, but on him, merely highlighted the terrifying breadth of his shoulders and the corded muscle of his arms. He had discarded the outer robe, leaving him in a fitted shirt and trousers that clung to him like a second skin, gliding over his corded muscles.
The library, usually a place of hushed whispers, seemed to quiet even further. Heads turned. Quills stopped scratching. Sebastian Gray was an anomaly at Hogwarts—foreign, dangerous, and possessing a raw, masculine magnetism that made the Hogwarts boys look like children playing dress-up.
He moved with a bored, detached expression, his emerald eyes scanning the room for anything out of place, anything that could be a possible annoyance. It was the look of a soldier in a garden.
Before Daphne could consult her etiquette training, before she could construct the mask of indifference she wore like armour, she was moving. She stood up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor, and turned toward him. She heard the rustle of robes behind her and knew Vera and Tracey were right on her heels.
"Sebastian," she breathed, the name tumbling out before she could stop it.
She hurried toward him, her books left abandoned.
Sebastian paused mid-stride as they approached. He didn't look startled. He turned slowly, his expression shifting from boredom to a faint, crooked smirk that made Daphne's knees feel like jelly.
"Ladies," he greeted. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "I see the library is the social hub of the afternoon."
Daphne stopped a few feet from him, fighting the urge to close the distance completely. Up close, he was even more overwhelming. The faint scent of musk, expensive leather, and something uniquely him washed over her.
"We... we didn't see you at breakfast," Daphne managed, trying to inject some Greengrass steel into her voice and failing miserably.
"I had business," Sebastian replied smoothly. His gaze flicked over Daphne, assessing her in a way that made her feel both exposed and entirely safe. He looked at Vera, then Tracey. "And sleeping in seemed like a better option than listening to the chatter of the Great Hall."
"We wanted to thank you," Vera blurted out, stepping out from behind Daphne's shoulder. Her soft, pale skin was stained with a vibrant crimson blush, but her grey eyes were fierce, locking onto his. "Properly. For... for the other day. We haven't had the chance."
Sebastian's expression softened, just a fraction. The dangerous edge dulled, replaced by a devastating, roguish charm. "I told you, Miss Black. No thanks are necessary. I dislike thieves who take what isn't theirs. And scum like that deserve the fate dealt to them. Dealing with them was my pleasure."
"It was more than that," Daphne insisted, taking a step closer, lowering her voice to an intimate whisper. "You saved our lives, Sebastian. House Greengrass and House Black acknowledge the debt. It is... substantial. If there is anything..."
She trailed off, the weight of the offer hanging between them. A Life Debt from two of the Sacred Twenty-Eight was a blank check of immense power.
Sebastian arched a dark eyebrow. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—a look that promised trouble. "Anything?"
The single word was laden with suggestion. The air between them crackled with sudden, intense heat. Daphne felt her breath catch in her throat. Vera looked as though she might spontaneously combust into dust any second.
"Anything within reason," Daphne choked out, clutching her composure with white-knuckled desperation, ignoring the sinful thought in the back of her mind that wished for him to acknowledge those debts and have her... pay him back.
Sebastian chuckled, a rich, dark sound. "I'll keep that in mind. Though right now, the only thing I require is a quiet place to read without being ogled by the entire female population of Hogwarts and handle the jealousy of the male ones."
Tracey snorted from behind them. "Good luck with that, Gray. You're fresh meat in a tank of sharks. And looking like that? You're doomed."
Sebastian's grin widened, revealing a glimpse of white teeth. "I suppose I'll have to rely on my new friends to protect me, then." He gestured toward their table. "May I?"
"Please," Vera squeaked, sounding incredibly eager.
They walked back to the secluded table, Sebastian taking the corner seat—the strategic position, Daphne noted, back to the wall, eyes on the exits. For the next twenty minutes, the Potions test was forgotten. Daphne found herself captivated. Sebastian was witty, sharp-tongued, and incredibly knowledgeable, yet he spoke with a cynical edge that hinted at a life far older than his years. He flirted with them—subtle, dangerous teasing that had Daphne fighting to keep her wits and Vera practically melting into the wood of the table.
It was perfect. A bubble of fantasy amidst the stress of war and school.
And then, the bubble popped.
"Well, well. Look who it is."
The voice was grating, loud, and utterly unwelcome.
Daphne's face hardened instantly, the Ice Queen mask slamming back into place with the force of a portcullis. She turned slowly to see the Golden Trio standing at the end of the aisle.
Ron Weasley stood with his arms crossed, a sneer twisting his freckled face, his robes dishevelled. Hermione Granger stood beside him, clutching a stack of books to her chest like a shield, her eyes darting nervously between Sebastian and the Slytherin girls.
And in the centre stood Adam Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.
He looked like a carbon copy of James Potter—messy dark brown hair, round glasses, and an air of assumed importance that Daphne had always found grating. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never been told 'no' without a parade following shortly after.
"Greengrass. Black," Adam nodded, his tone stiff. He glanced at Sebastian with a mixture of suspicion and blatant jealousy. He looked as if he wanted to say something to Sebastian, but the git held his tongue.
Beneath the table, she saw Sebastian wave his wand, a bubble covering their area as the outside world was warded away from their ears.
"Potter," Daphne acknowledged, her voice dropping twenty degrees. "We were having a private conversation. Do you mind?"
"It's a public library, Greengrass," Ron spat, stepping forward. "We can stand where we want. Unlike some people, we actually come here to study, not to fawn over foreign slimy snakes."
"Ron!" Hermione hissed, elbowing him. The fact that Sebastian was not even in Slytherin was probably a fact that went over the ginger buffoon's head.
Adam ignored Ron, his hazel eyes fixing intently on Vera. His expression shifted, the arrogance melting away into something pleading, something desperate that made Daphne's stomach turn.
'Oh dear, not this again,' Daphne thought as she concealed an eye-roll with a sigh.
"Vera," Adam started, taking a step toward the table. "I... I need to talk to you. Please."
Beside Daphne, Sebastian went perfectly still. He didn't reach for his wand, but the atmosphere around him changed. It grew cold. The playful flirt was gone; the protector was back.
Vera didn't look at Adam. She stared at the grain of the wooden table, her hands clenched into fists so tight her knuckles were white. "I have nothing to say to you, Adam. Go away."
"Vera, please," Adam persisted, his voice taking on a whining edge. "It's been years. Can't we just... can't we talk? I miss you. I miss my best friend."
"You lost the right to call me that a long time ago," Vera hissed, finally looking up. Her grey eyes were swimming with unshed tears and a rage so potent it felt like magic itself.
"It was a mistake!" Adam argued, throwing his hands up in a gesture of frustration. "We were kids! I was jealous! You know I didn't mean it!"
"Didn't mean it?" Vera stood up, her chair screeching back against the stone floor. Her voice rose, would have possibly drawn the attention of the entire library and gotten them detention by Pince if not for the bubble of silence. "You mocked him! You mocked a dead boy! You stood there, in the backyard of the house where you lived like a prince while he rotted, and you called him weak! You called your own brother unwanted!"
The silence that followed was absolute. It was a vacuum.
Hermione looked horrified, her hand flying to her mouth. Ron looked confused, his brow furrowing as he tried to process the accusation.
Sebastian was looking at Adam Potter. His face was a mask of blank, terrifying emptiness. His green eyes were dull, void of light.
"Vera..." Adam whispered, his face paling. "I was a child..."
"I never wish to speak to you again," Vera said, her voice shaking with venom. "Every time I look at you, I see the boy who spat on his brother's memory. The more you stay away from me, the better. You disgust me."
"Oi! You can't talk to him like that!" Ron shouted, his face turning a brilliant shade of crimson to match his hair. He stepped forward aggressively. "He's the Boy-Who-Lived! You're just some dark pureblood bint who—"
"Quiet."
The voice was soft, melodic, and carried the weight of a guillotine blade.
Every head turned toward the entrance of the aisle.
Fleur Delacour stood there. She was a vision in her powder-blue uniform, her silver-blonde hair cascading down her back like moonlight flowing down a waterfall. But her deep blue eyes were burning with cold fire.
She glided toward them, and the air grew heavy. The Veela allure rolled off her in suffocating waves. It wasn't the pleasant, seductive allure she usually projected to charm teachers or students. This was weaponized. It was heavy, crushing, designed to cloud the mind and buckle the knees.
She stopped beside Sebastian's chair, placing a possessive, manicured hand on his shoulder. She looked down at the Golden Trio with utter, unadulterated disdain.
"You are making Mademoiselle Black uncomfortable," Fleur stated, her French accent thick and sharp as broken glass. "And you are interrupting my friends. Go away. You are not welcome 'ere."
Ron Weasley's anger evaporated instantly. His jaw went slack, his eyes glazed over, and a thin line of drool began to escape the corner of his mouth. He stared at Fleur with slack-jawed stupidity, swaying on his feet.
"Uh... buh... wuh..." Ron stammered, his face turning a blotchy purple as he stumbled where he stood, Hermione and Adam catching him before he landed face-first on the concrete floor.
"Pathetic," Fleur sneered. She looked at Adam. "Take your drooling friend and leave, leetle boy. Before I decide to make zis… unpleasant."
Adam, to his credit, seemed less affected by the allure—likely due to his own magical strength or perhaps his preoccupation with Vera—but he looked defeated. He looked from Fleur to the furious Vera, and then to the impassive Sebastian.
"I... I'm sorry," Adam whispered to Vera, his voice cracking. "I really am. I'm not that git anymore. I just... I wish things could go back to how they were."
He looked at her with longing one last time, a pathetic puppy kicked by its owner. "I hope you'll think about it."
He grabbed Ron by the robe, dragging the stumbling redhead away. Hermione gave them a frantic, apologetic look before scurrying after them, clutching her books.
As they left, the tension at the table broke like a fever. Vera sank back into her chair, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
Sebastian reached out, placing a large, warm hand on Vera's arm. "You alright?"
Vera nodded against her palms, sniffing. "I just... I hate him. I hate him so much."
"Hate is a strong fuel," Sebastian murmured, his eyes dark, staring at the spot where Adam had stood. "But it burns the engine if you hold it too long."
He stood up, looking at Fleur. The Veela looked at him, her expression softening into something warm and intimate. She laced her arm through his, something that made Daphne feel as if her heart was being picked apart.
"We should go, Sebastien," Fleur said softly. "Maman is asking for you."
Sebastian nodded. He looked at Daphne and Tracey. "Ladies. Until next time."
He allowed Fleur to lead him away, leaving Daphne and Tracey to comfort a weeping Vera Black. None of them knew that the man walking away was the very ghost they had been arguing about.
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
Hours later, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the Scottish sky in bruises of purple and deep indigo, its orange hue shining through the colours. The castle was quiet, the dinner feast currently underway in the Great Hall, leaving the corridors echoing with silence.
Sebastian Gray stood alone in a stone corridor on the seventh floor, staring out of a high arched window. Below, the Black Lake was a sheet of obsidian, reflecting the first stars, the Giant Squid in the lake rising up occasionally to blow bubbles.
He was waiting. Fleur had ducked into the bathroom to freshen up before they returned to the carriage. She had squeezed his hand and promised to be quick, leaving him to his thoughts.
Or rather, leaving him to the voice in his head.
'Why is he here?'
The voice of Wrath rumbled in the back of his mind, sounding like stones grinding together in a deep, sunless cavern. His oldest companion preferred to stay in these days, the act of his lord and master playing school was not something that excited him.
'The brother. The 'prized' prince. Why does he seek you out?'
"He doesn't seek me," Sebastian murmured to the glass, watching his own reflection. The glamour held strong, showing the sharp jaw, the scar on the cheek, the harsh features of Sebastian Gray. But beneath it, he felt the pulse of Harry Potter. "He seeks redemption."
Footsteps echoed on the stone. Hesitant. Soft.
Sebastian didn't turn. He watched the reflection in the dark window as a figure approached. Messy brown hair. Round glasses. Gryffindor robes.
Adam Potter stopped a few feet away. He looked nervous, wringing his hands, stripped of the arrogance he displayed in front of crowds. He looked small.
"Gray," Adam said softly. "Or... Sebastian. Is it okay if I call you that?"
Sebastian turned slowly, leaning back against the cold stone sill, crossing his arms over his chest. He gazed at his twin brother with bored, half-lidded eyes. "We aren't friends, Potter. But I suppose 'Sebastian' is fine. What do you want? I assume you aren't here to admire the view."
"I wanted to apologize," Adam said, stepping closer. "For earlier. In the library. Ron... he's an idiot sometimes. He doesn't know when to shut his mouth. And I shouldn't have caused a scene in front of you and the Miss Dealcour."
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for an apology. I don't care about your domestic squabbles. You and the Black heiress can scream at each other until your lungs give out for all I care."
"It matters to me," Adam said, lifting his chin, a flash of Potter stubbornness appearing. "I'm... look, I'm putting my pride on the line here. And my honour as a Potter. I wanted to ask for your help."
Sebastian blinked.
'The audacity,' Wrath chuckled darkly, the sound rippling through Sebastian's veins like ice water. 'He begs the wolf to help him herd the sheep.'
"Help?" Sebastian drawled, letting a cruel smirk play on his lips. "With what? Your potions homework? I hear Snape is particularly vicious this year."
"With Vera," Adam said, his voice earnest, stepping into the moonlight. "You... you seem to have an 'in' with them. Daphne and Vera respect you. They actually listen to you. I saw the way Vera looked at you. Like you are the bloody second coming of Dumbledore."
Adam took a deep breath, his frustration leaking into his words at the end of the sentence, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so like James Potter it made Sebastian's teeth ache. "I want to make things right. Vera was my best friend. And I ruined it. I want to fix it, but she won't even let me speak. If you could... I don't know, maybe put in a good word? Or just tell me how to get her to listen?"
Sebastian stared at him. The irony was suffocating. The brother who had replaced him, who had lived the life of luxury, of flying broomsticks and chocolate frogs while Harry starved in a cupboard under the stairs with frequent beatings, was now begging Harry to help him fix a friendship he had broken by mocking Harry's death.
"Why would I do that?" Sebastian asked coldly. "I have no context for your quarrel. And frankly, from what I saw today, she has every right to hate you. You sounded like a petulant child."
"You don't understand," Adam pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice. "It's complicated. It started years ago. With our fathers... James and Sirius."
Adam moved to lean against the wall, looking out the window, seemingly unable to meet Sebastian's intense gaze. He was standing next to the ghost of his past, and he didn't even know it.
"Do you know the story about my brother? Harry?" Adam asked softly.
Sebastian felt his heart stop for a beat, then restart with a heavy, thudding rhythm against his ribs. "I've heard the rumours," he said, his voice steady. "The Squib who died in a fire."
"He wasn't a Squib," Adam corrected quickly, pain flashing across his face. "Not really. His magic levels were just... low. After Voldemort attacked us that Halloween, my parents... they were scared. Dumbledore ran tests. He told them that Harry was practically a Squib, that his magic was fragile, barely there. They didn't want him to be burdened by the legacy of the Potters. They didn't want him to grow up in the shadow of the 'Boy-Who-Lived'."
Adam took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "So, they sent him away. To my mum's sister. Petunia. A muggle. They thought he would be safer there. Happier away from the war and the fame. They thought they were giving him a normal life."
'Lies,' Wrath hissed, the voice spiking with sudden fury. 'They discarded us like leftovers. They threw us to the dogs to protect their golden calf.'
Sebastian's face remained impassive, but his fingers twitched.
"When the news came..." Adam's voice trembled. "The fire at Privet Drive. Dumbledore found out first. The wards collapsed. My mum... she collapsed. She blamed herself. Still does. My dad... he just drank for a year. They only wanted us both to be happy. One stupid decision, and it blew up in their faces. My brother died alone."
Adam put his glasses back on, looking at Sebastian with wet eyes. "Sirius... Vera's dad... he went mental. He punched my dad in the face the moment the news got out. Blamed him for Harry's death. Called him a child murderer. It broke the Marauders apart. Remus, Sirius, my dad... they barely speak now, only when it is Ministry or Family business. It destroyed everything."
"And you and Vera?" Sebastian pressed, his voice tight, like a wire pulled to the breaking point.
"We were kids," Adam said miserably. "Playing in the backyard at Godric's Hollow. It was a couple of years after the fire. Vera was sad. She was talking about Harry. She missed him. She kept saying how he used to make her laugh, how he used to make flowers bloom in her hand."
Adam looked down at his dragon-hide shoes. "I was... I was a jealous, stupid kid. I had a crush on her. And I hated that she was crying over a ghost instead of playing with me. So I said it. I said Harry was weak. I said he was unwanted and that he deserved to die because he didn't have magic like us."
Sebastian's hands gripped the stone windowsill behind him. The ancient stone cracked under his fingers, a spiderweb fracture spreading silently in the shadows as Wrath felt his rage and responded with equal agitation within his mind.
"She slapped me," Adam whispered. "Hardest hit I ever took. She ran away crying, flooing back to her house. My parents heard... Mum screamed at me for hours. Dad wouldn't look at me for days. That was the end of it. She hasn't spoken to me since."
Adam looked up, his hazel eyes pleading for understanding. "I regret it. Every single day. I regret the words. I regret that my brother is gone. If I can't bring Harry back... I at least want to fix my family. I want to bring the Blacks and Potters back together. I just want things to go back to how they were. Before the fire. Before that wretched day Voldemort came for us."
He looked at Sebastian with hope. "So... will you help me?"
Sebastian looked at the Boy-Who-Lived. He saw the regret. He saw the genuine pain etching lines into a face that was identical to his own beneath the glamour.
And he felt absolutely nothing but a cold, frozen abyss.
Regret didn't un-burn skin. Regret didn't fill an empty stomach in a cupboard under the stairs. Regret didn't erase months of torture at the hands of the Dursleys, or the brutal, soul-shattering training under Grindelwald that was required to survive being the master of his Obscurus.
'Ouch,' Wrath commented at this last thought, his humour as dry as ever, yet Harry remained unbothered.
Adam Potter wanted redemption. He wanted his happy ending. He wanted to stitch the wound closed without cleaning out the infection.
"You want the impossible, Potter," Sebastian said softly.
Before Adam could respond, the heavy oak door down the hall creaked open. Fleur stepped out, looking radiant, her hair re-braided, her uniform smoothed. She spotted Sebastian and smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes—a smile she reserved only for him.
"Sebastian!" she called out, ignoring Adam completely.
She walked over, the click of her heels echoing. She slid her arm through Sebastian's, pressing her side against his, grounding him. She glanced at Adam with a sneer. "Still bozering 'im, leetle boy?"
"I was just leaving," Adam said stiffly. He looked at Sebastian one last time. "Just... think about it? Please."
Adam turned and walked away, his shoulders slumped, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.
Fleur watched him go, then looked up at Sebastian, her brow furrowing as she sensed the tension radiating from him. "What did 'e want?"
Sebastian looked at his brother's retreating back. He felt Wrath shifting inside him, a purring beast of darkness settling down after a meal of resentment.
'No mercy,' Wrath whispered. 'Let them rot in their guilt. Let them drown in it.'
"He wanted something he can never have," Sebastian replied, his voice devoid of emotion, cold as the grave. Forgiveness.
He turned to Fleur, flashing a charming, hollow smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Ready for dinner, my dear?"
"Toujours," Fleur beamed, leaning her head on his shoulder.
As they walked toward the Great Hall, Sebastian Gray made a silent vow. No number of tears, no amount of sob stories, and no amount of regret would ever be enough. The House of Potter had made their choice years ago when they left Harry Potter on a doorstep in the middle of the night, sending him away to face horrors that no one would ever wish on a child.
Now, they would live with the consequences.
Author's Note
Leave your thoughts down below. Subscribe to my patreon for advanced chapters.
Until then, peace.