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. All characters are aged up and are adults.
Chapter 11 – The Mercenary's Duty
The air in the damp cellar did not smell of rot anymore. It smelled of copper. Thick, metallic, and cloying.
Sebastian Gray stood amidst the carnage of his own making, his silhouette cast long and distorted against the weeping stone walls by the flickering torchlight. He had bisected the first man with a casual flick of his wrist, a display of power that had frozen the room for a singular, terrifying heartbeat.
Now, the heartbeat was over.
"Kill him!" the leader screamed, his voice cracking, scrambling back behind the meat-shield of his subordinates. "Kill the bastard!"
Twelve men roared—a sound meant to bolster their own courage more than intimidate their enemy—and raised their wands. The air sizzled as a dozen killing curses, blasting hexes, and cutters were incanted simultaneously. Green, red, and purple light illuminated the dungeon, converging on the lone figure in black.
Sebastian didn't dodge. He didn't even raise a traditional shield charm.
He pointed his wand down towards the ground as a glowing bolt of magic struck the surface.
The ground beneath him didn't just crack; it erupted. A shockwave of pure, telekinetic force blasted outward in a perfect 360-degree ring. The stone floor shattered, sending shrapnel flying away like Quidditch players in an open field. The incoming spells hit the wall of debris and magical pressure, fizzling out harmlessly three feet from Sebastian's body.
Dust and smoke obscured him for a split second.
Then, he moved.
He didn't run. He flowed. It was the same terrifying grace Fleur had witnessed in their training, but stripped of all restraint. He was a wraith in the smoke, a nightmare made flesh.
He appeared in front of the man who had threatened to "break" Daphne. The thug's eyes widened, his wand raising sluggishly.
"Too slow," Sebastian whispered.
He reached out with his free hand, gripping the man's face, as he pointed his wand in between the man's eyes. Dark magic, taught by the most knowledgeable wizard of the century, surged through Sebastian's magical core.
"Ossa Liquefaciunt."
It was a nastier variation of the bone-vanishing spell. The thug didn't scream—he couldn't. His jawbone liquefied instantly, turning to jelly. Sebastian shoved him backward, the man collapsing as his skull structure lost integrity, suffocating on his own tongue.
Sebastian spun, his wand slashing a complex rune in the air.
"Ferrum Flagellation."
The spell, invented by a man Sebastian hated but whose genius he acknowledged, a mercenary of old who assaulted children, tore through the air. It hit three men standing in a cluster. Their chests erupted as if whipped hard by an invisible sword. They dropped, clutching at ribbons of flesh, their wands clattering to the bloody floor, their minds overwhelmed by the sheer heat of the spell.
"Shields!" the leader bellowed, cowering behind a pillar. "Form a line!"
But Sebastian wasn't giving them time to think, let alone organize. He was a whirlwind of violence. He deflected a Killing Curse with a conjured slab of marble, then banished the stone shards into the caster's throat.
He turned his eyes—glowing with a radioactive green intensity—toward the corner where the girls were huddled. They were terrified, clutching each other, their eyes wide as they watched him slaughter these men.
He needed them safe. He needed them out of the crossfire.
With a sweep of his wand, he manipulated the ambient magic of the room. A dome of translucent, shimmering gold energy sprang up around Fleur, Daphne, and Vera. It was a physical barrier, anchored to the very core of his magic. It was a neat trick he had learned for protection of his clients. The shield would last for as long as he drew breath.
"Stay down," his voice projected into the dome, calm and commanding, contrasting wildly with the carnage outside.
Inside the shield, Fleur watched, her breath hitched in her throat. She had called him a brute. She had called him arrogant. But this… this was not arrogance. This was extermination.
She watched as a wizard tried to flank him. Sebastian didn't even look. He simply thrust his wand backward. A spear of black iron erupted from the floor, skewering the man through the stomach and lifting him into the air, writhing.
"Mon dieu," Fleur whispered, her hand covering her mouth as she watched Sebastian decapitate another man with a cutting curse so powerful it cleaved through the stone pillar behind him.
It was a massacre.
Sebastian was efficient. He wasted no movement. Every step put him in an advantageous position. Every spell ended a threat. He used Transfiguration to turn a man's blood into boiling acid. He used Charms to crush a man's windpipe from across the room. He used curses that hadn't been spoken in polite society for fifty years.
Within two minutes, thirteen men were dead or dying.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the wet gasps of the dying and the steady drip, drip, drip of blood.
Sebastian stood in the centre of the room. His tactical gear was soaked in crimson. His face was speckled with it. He wasn't panting. He wasn't shaking. He looked… bored.
He turned his gaze to the final man. The leader. The fake Auror Captain.
The man was backed into a corner, his wand shaking so hard he could barely hold it. He looked at the bodies of his crew—men who were hardened criminals, dismantled like toys—and then looked at the boy who had done it.
"Stay back!" the leader shrieked. "I'll kill you! I'm warning you!"
Sebastian tilted his head, walking slowly toward him. "You're warning me?"
"Avada—"
Sebastian flicked his wand.
"Diffindo."
It wasn't a lethal cut. It was surgical.
The leader's wand hand was severed at the wrist. The hand, still clutching the wand, dropped to the floor.
The man stared at his stump for a second before the pain registered. Then, he screamed. A high, thin sound of absolute agony.
He tried to run, scrambling sideways toward a dark tunnel exit.
Sebastian sighed. "I hate runners."
He slashed his wand horizontally, low to the ground.
The dark cutting curse swept through the air. It caught the leader just above the knees.
There was a wet thud as his shins and feet remained standing, while the rest of his body toppled forward, crashing onto the stone. The man hit the ground, screaming, clutching the stumps of his thighs as blood pumped rhythmically onto the dirty floor.
Sebastian walked over, looming above the thrashing man. He cast a cauterizing charm—not out of mercy, but to prevent him from bleeding out before the interrogation. The smell of burnt flesh joined the copper tang in the air.
"Quiet," Sebastian ordered.
He kicked the man in the ribs, flipping him onto his back. The leader lay there, sobbing, his face grey with shock.
Sebastian turned away, dismissing the man as a non-threat. He walked back toward the golden dome.
With a wave of his hand, the shield dissolved into sparkles of light.
The three girls stood there, frozen. They looked at him—at the blood soaking his tactical vest, at the gore on his boots, at the cold, empty look in his eyes.
Fleur was the first to move. She took a shaky step forward. "Sebastien?"
"Are you hurt?" he asked. His voice was jarringly normal. He sounded like he was asking if they wanted tea, not standing in an abattoir.
"We... no," Fleur stammered. "Whatever you did... zat shield... it protected us."
"Good," Sebastian said. He reached into one of the tactical pouches on his belt. He pulled out a small, metallic object—a spare bolt from a crossbow he had picked up during a job in Romania.
He held it in his palm. He closed his eyes, his face twisting slightly in concentration. The girls could feel the pressure in the room spike. It wasn't the violent, sharp magic of the battle. It was heavy, dense, and ancient. He was pouring his own magical signature into the object, twisting space and time to create a tether.
The bolt glowed with a fierce blue light.
"Portkey," Sebastian said, opening his eyes. He tossed it to Fleur. She caught it reflexively, her hands trembling.
"It's keyed to the Hogwarts gates," he explained, wiping a speck of blood from his cheek. "It activates in thirty seconds. Gather Daphne and Vera. Go."
Fleur stared at the bolt, then at him. The shock was wearing off, replaced by the adrenaline of the situation. "Go? Without you?"
"I have work to finish," Sebastian said, gesturing vaguely to the carnage and the sobbing man in the corner. "Someone sent these men. I need a name."
"I am not leaving you 'ere!" Fleur declared, her voice finding its strength. She stepped closer, ignoring the blood on his clothes. "You saved us. We fight togezzer. I am a Champion, not a damsel!"
"She's right," Daphne stepped up, her face pale but her jaw set. She looked at the bodies without flinching, channelling every ounce of her Pureblood upbringing. "They attacked a Greengrass and a Black. I want to hear who sent them. I want to see them pay."
Vera nodded, though she looked like she might be sick. "We stay."
Sebastian looked at them. For a moment, his expression softened. Just a fraction. But then, the walls slammed back down. His green eyes turned hard, cold, and terrifying.
He stepped into Fleur's personal space. He didn't use his wand, but the aura of power he projected was heavier than gravity.
"This isn't a debate, Fleur," he growled. "Look around you. This isn't a duelling tournament. This isn't school. This is butchery. And what I am about to do to that man..." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the legless leader. "...is not something you want to see. It is not something you want in your memories."
"I can handle it," Fleur insisted, though her voice wavered under his intense gaze.
"No," Sebastian snapped. "You can't. You are children playing at war. This is my job."
He grabbed Fleur's hand, the one holding the Portkey, and forced Daphne and Vera to grab onto it as well.
"Go back to Hogwarts. Tell Dumbledore the threat is neutralized. Tell him I'll be back when I have answers."
"Sebastien, please—" Fleur began, tears pricking her eyes.
"Go!"
The command was laced with magic. It wasn't a suggestion. It was an order from a superior predator.
Fleur flinched, silenced by the sheer force of his will. She looked at him one last time—at the blood, the scars, the terrible, beautiful power of him.
"Come back to me," she whispered.
The Portkey glowed bright blue. The hook behind their navels yanked.
With a swirl of colour, the three girls vanished, leaving the damp, blood-soaked cellar behind.
Sebastian stood alone in the silence.
He let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. The adrenaline of the fight was fading, replaced by the cold, calculated focus of the inquisitor.
He turned toward the sobbing leader.
"Now," Sebastian murmured, walking back to the corner. "Where were we?"
The man looked up, eyes wide with terror. "P-please... I'll tell you anything. Just don't... don't cut me again."
"Oh, I'm done cutting you," Sebastian said, holstering his wand. "But my friend? He hasn't been out in a while."
Sebastian stood tall, spreading his arms. He closed his eyes and reached deep inside himself, past the magic, past the occlumency shields, into the dark, repressed void where He lived.
"Wrath," Sebastian whispered. "Come out and play."
The shadows in the corners of the room didn't just lengthen; they detached.
The darkness pooled on the floor, swirling like ink in water. It bubbled, hissed, and rose. The temperature in the cellar plummeted to freezing. Frost began to creep across the blood-slicked stones.
From the pool of darkness, a figure rose.
It was colossal. Eight feet tall. A suit of armour made not of steel, but of solidified shadow and condensed magical hatred. It had no face, only a visor of darkness where two pinpricks of glowing white light served as eyes. A tattered cape of smoke billowed from its shoulders.
Wrath. The physical manifestation of Harry Potter's Obscurus.
The entity formed fully, stepping out of the shadow pool with a heavy, metallic clang that shouldn't have been possible for a being made of smoke.
"Milord," Wrath's voice echoed. It didn't come from a mouth; it resonated in the air, deep, sophisticated, and dripping with dry humour. "You do know how to make a mess. I assume you have not left any for me?"
"Focus, Wrath," Sebastian said, sitting casually on a transfigured wooden chair he conjured from a piece of rubble. "We have a guest."
Wrath turned his helm toward the legless leader. The man had stopped sobbing. He was catatonic with fear. He was staring at a nightmare—an Obscurus given form and sentience.
"Ah," Wrath said, stepping closer. The ground shook with his phantom weight. "The amputee. Does not look much like an Auror now that I can see him in person."
Wrath leaned down, his massive shadow-form looming over the man. "You have upset my Liege. He is a very private man, you see. He dislikes interruptions to his breakfast. And he absolutely loathes kidnappers and thieves, especially people who try to touch what he deems his."
"Who... what are you?" the man whispered, his mind fracturing.
"I am the consequence of your poor life choices," Wrath quipped. He extended a hand. A sword materialized in his grip—a blade of pure, jagged darkness, six feet long.
Sebastian leaned forward in his chair. "I shall ask this once. If you do not answer me truly, Wrath here will make sure you feel pain like never before. He can touch your soul, you know. He can fray it, thread by thread."
The man looked at the sword, then at the glowing white eyes of the monster. "I don't know the name!" he screamed.
"Wrong answer," Sebastian said coldly. "Wrath."
Wrath reached out with his free hand, grabbing the man by the throat. He didn't squeeze. He let the corrupted energy that shaped his being seep into the man's skin.
The man shrieked. It wasn't physical pain. It was the sensation of freezing, of being hollowed out, of every memory of his life being eaten alive.
"Stop! Stop! I'll talk!"
Sebastian raised a hand. Wrath pulled back, dropping the man.
"Speak," Sebastian commanded.
"It... it was a group," the man gasped, snot and tears running down his face. "French politicians. Some radicals who hate Minister Delacour's policies on creature rights. They wanted leverage. They hired me and two others to grab the girl."
"And the rest?" Sebastian gestured to the dead thugs. "These weren't professionals. They were gutter trash. Who sent them?"
The man hesitated. He looked more afraid of the answer than of Wrath.
Wrath raised his sword.
"A British noble!" the man blurted out. "I don't know the name, I swear! We communicated through proxies. But the gold... it was Gringotts minted. Old money. He... he wanted the Veela."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. "Wanted her dead?"
"No," the man sobbed. "As a prize. He said he wanted to break her. Wanted a breeding mare for his collection."
The air in the room grew still.
Sebastian stood up. The cold detachment was gone, replaced by a flash of pure, red-hot rage.
A British noble.
Someone who viewed Fleur not as a person, but as livestock.
He had a suspicion. Malfoy? One of his ilk? Or perhaps someone deeper in the shadows.
It didn't matter.
He would find them. And he would visit them.
"You have been helpful," Sebastian said softly.
He nodded at the shadow knight. "Wrath."
"A pleasure as always, Master," Wrath replied.
The great sword swung. It was a blur of darkness.
There was no resistance. The man's head separated from his neck before he could even blink. It rolled across the floor, the expression of terror frozen on his face.
The first thing he had been taught by Grindelwald was to never leave any loose ends. A rule he followed diligently in life.
Wrath dissipated the sword, turning back to Sebastian. "So, the French and the British conspiring together. How historically redundant. What is the next step, my Liege?"
Harry—no, Sebastian—looked at the headless corpse. He wiped a splatter of blood from his forehead.
"The next step," he said, a grim smile touching his lips, "is to send a message. If they want a war, I'll give them a war."
He stood up, vanishing the chair. "Let's go back to school, Wrath. I believe I missed dessert."
~ Albus Dumbledore ~
It had been twenty minutes since the girls were taken. Twenty minutes of absolute pandemonium.
Albus Dumbledore stood at the centre of the Great Hall, his wand raised, directing the flow of protective enchantments being woven over the castle. But his heart wasn't in the magic; it was heavy with dread.
Four children whisked away. Right from under his nose. Right from under the beard of the supposed greatest wizard alive.
The fireplace in the Great Hall roared green.
"Where is she?!"
Sirius Black exploded out of the floo network, ash flying from his auror robes. His eyes were wild, manic. Behind him, James Potter stepped out, his face pale, his glasses askew, holding his wand with a white-knuckled grip.
They were followed by a procession of Aurors, and two figures who looked like they were walking to a funeral—Alaric and Anastasia Greengrass.
"Sirius, please, calm down," Dumbledore began, stepping forward.
"Calm down?!" Sirius roared, marching up to the Headmaster. He poked a finger into Dumbledore's chest. "My daughter—my little girl—was just kidnapped from your 'safest place in the world'! You told us the wards were impenetrable! You told us they were safe!"
"The wards were lowered to accommodate the foreign delegations," Dumbledore admitted, his voice old and weary. "It was a calculated risk—"
"Calculated risk?" Alaric Greengrass stepped in, his aristocratic voice trembling with fury. "You gambled with our children's lives, Dumbledore! Daphne is gone!"
"Control yourself, Black," Snape drawled, though his dark eyes lacked their usual bite. Even he understood the gravity of the situation. "Unlike you, I have been attempting to trace the magical signature of the Portkey. While you bark, the adults are working."
"Shut up, Snivellus!" Sirius lunged, but James caught him by the shoulder.
"Sirius, stop!" James ordered, his voice cracking. "Fighting won't bring them back." He turned to Dumbledore. "Any luck with the trace? We'll deploy Aurors as soon as possible then."
"Minerva alerted the Ministry immediately," Dumbledore said. "But Portkeys can be masked. We are searching, James. But..."
"But nothing!" Madame Maxime shrieked from the side. She was pacing, wringing her massive hands. "Fleur! I 'ave informed ze French Ministry! If anyzing 'appens to 'er, it is war, Dumbledore! War!"
Karkaroff stood in the shadows, watching with a mixture of fear and opportunism. "Hogwarts security is... lacking, it seems."
"Shut up, Igor!" Moody barked from the sidelines.
The tension in the hall was suffocating. Students had been escorted back to their dormitories, terrified. The parents were on the verge of violence. The teachers were helpless.
Then, the air in the centre of the Great Hall shivered.
A loud CRACK echoed like a thunderclap.
Everyone froze. Wards were raised. Wands were pointed.
Three figures collapsed onto the stone floor in a heap of tangled limbs and torn silk.
"Daphne!" Anastasia Greengrass screamed, breaking the line of Aurors to run toward them.
"Vera!" Sirius shouted, sprinting forward.
Fleur Delacour disentangled herself from the group. She was pale, her uniform was torn, her hair was a mess and her lips had dried blood caked near the edges, but she was alive. She stood up, swaying slightly.
"Mother!" Daphne's voice cracked as her mother wrapped her in a bone-crushing hug. Alaric fell to his knees beside them, clutching his daughter's hand.
Sirius scooped Vera up into his arms. The girl buried her face in her father's robes, shaking violently. "Daddy... I was so scared..."
"I've got you," Sirius whispered, tears streaming down his face into her hair. "I've got you, sweetheart."
Fleur looked around, disoriented. Madame Maxime engulfed her in a hug that lifted her off her feet. "Oh, Fleur! Ma petite!"
The Hall erupted with cries of relief. The nightmare was over. They were back.
But amidst the reunions, one person noticed an absence.
Lily Potter pushed through the crowd of Aurors. She looked at the three girls. She looked at the empty space around them.
"Where is he?" she asked, her voice cutting through the noise.
People turned to look at her. James frowned. "Lily?"
"Where is Sebastian?" Lily demanded, looking at Fleur. Her eyes were desperate. "Why is he not with you?"
Fleur pulled away from Maxime. She wiped a smudge of dirt from her face. She looked at Lily Potter—the woman who had called her bodyguard as 'Harry' on the first day. Fleur had caught her staring at him quite a lot. And now here she was, asking about a complete stranger.
"'E stayed," Fleur said, her voice quiet but firm. "'E stayed to finish it."
"Finish what?" Sirius asked, looking up from Vera.
"The men who took us," Daphne whispered from the floor, her voice reverent.
Before anyone could ask what she meant, the air in the centre of the hall tore open again.
It wasn't a clean crack like a Portkey. It was a sound like a whip breaking the sound barrier.
A figure materialized.
Silence slammed into the Great Hall with physical force.
Sebastian Gray stood there.
He was no longer wearing the school uniform. He was in black tactical gear that looked like it was made for war.
And blood. There was so much blood.
It soaked his chest. It stained the ground he stepped on. It was spattered across his face like war paint. He reeked of copper and death.
He stood tall, unmoving, his green eyes sweeping the room. He saw the Aurors with their wands raised. He saw Dumbledore looking pale. He saw the parents clutching their children.
He saw Lily Potter, her hands covering her mouth, staring at him with a look of absolute horror and relief.
Sebastian didn't flinch. He didn't offer an explanation.
He simply reached up, wiped a streak of blood from under his eye, and looked at Dumbledore.
"Quite an eventful morning," he said.
His voice was calm. Conversational.
Then, he began to walk toward the gates of the Great Hall, as the crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, deeply shocked by the man who had walked out of hell and complained about the weather.