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 13 – A Changed Bodyguard
~ Fleur Delacour ~
The morning light that filtered through the velvet curtains of the Beauxbatons carriage was not the harsh, grey assault of the Scottish Highlands she had come to expect. Instead, it was a soft gold, a testament to the warming charms woven into the very fabric of their temporary home. Fleur Delacour lay still for a long moment, the silk sheets cool against her bare legs, listening to the rhythmic, soft breathing of her own, her chest rising and falling with each second as she opened her eyes.
Usually, her mornings began with a mental checklist of her appearance, her duties as a representative of Beauxbatons, and the ever-present weight of her family's expectations. But today, the first thought that bloomed in her mind, unbidden and vivid, was the memory of a heartbeat.
His heartbeat.
She brought a hand up to her cheek, tracing the skin where Sebastian's chest had pressed against her the previous evening by the Black Lake. The memory of his arms around her—solid, unyielding, and terrifyingly safe—sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the temperature. He had held her while she wept, stripping away the composure of the Veela princess to reveal the frightened girl underneath, and he hadn't looked away. He hadn't mocked her. He had simply been there, a lighthouse in the storm that threatened to consumer her whole.
But there had been something else, too. A shift.
When she had looked up at him, just before the sleep charm took her, she had seen it. The walls of the stoic mercenary had cracked. The green ice of his eyes had thawed, revealing a fire beneath that mirrored the one burning in her own.
A fire glowing with desire.
"Enough daydreaming," she whispered to the empty room, throwing the duvet aside.
She moved with a newfound purpose. The fear of the dungeon, the lingering scent of blood and damp stone, was still there, lurking in the corners of her mind like a shadow. But instead of paralyzing her, it fuelled a different kind of fire.
She was Fleur Isabelle Delacour.
She was not a victim. She would learn, thrive and make sure that she would not be caught off-guard again. And she was done dancing around the tension that had defined her relationship with her bodyguard.
She moved to her wardrobe, bypassing the standard blue silk of her uniform. Today required something… different. She selected a set of training gear she had purchased in Paris on a whim—a fitted top of breathable, dark red fabric that clung to her curves like a second skin, leaving her midriff bare, paired with high-waisted leggings that offered maximum mobility and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
She pulled her silver-blonde hair back into a severe, high ponytail, exposing the long, elegant line of her neck. Unlike others, her Veela heritage allowed her to bypass the need for makeup, her natural blush and the flush of determination on her cheeks being adornment enough.
Stepping out of the carriage, the morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and pine from the Forbidden Forest. The castle loomed in the distance; a silent giant whose halls housed a few hundred souls. Fleur didn't head for the Great Hall. She knew where he would be.
The training chambers of the French delegation were his sanctuary. He spent every waking hour that he was not in her company there, and even though she had been asked to not come for training this morning, Fleur was not one to obey so easily. As she walked, her boots clicking rhythmically on the flagstones, she felt the hum of her own magic rising, eager for a release. Eager for his touch.
She pushed open the heavy oak doors.
He was there.
Sebastian Gray stood in the centre of the duelling platform. He was not meditating. He was not stretching. He was simply standing, staring at the far wall, twirling his wand between his fingers with a dexterity that bordered on hypnotic. He wore a simple black t-shirt that strained against his shoulders and loose training trousers.
He didn't turn when the door opened. "As expected, you're late, Delacour."
Fleur paused. His voice… it was different.
Usually, his tone was flat, professional, laced with a boredom that infuriated her. Today, there was a texture to it—a richness, a vibration of underlying amusement and confidence that sent a jolt straight to her core.
"I needed my beauty sleep," she retorted, stepping onto the platform. "Recovering from a kidnapping takes time, you know."
Sebastian finally turned.
Fleur's breath hitched.
He wasn't scowling, nor was he poker-faced. He wasn't looking through her. He was looking at her. His emerald eyes swept over her form, taking in the tight leggings, the bare strip of skin at her waist, the flush of her neck. And for the first time, he didn't occlude the appreciation. He let a slow, wolfish smirk curve his lips.
"It seems the recovery went well," he drawled, his gaze lingering on her hips for a fraction of a second too long to be polite. "You look... elegant."
"I am ready for you," she said, the double entendre slipping out before she could check it. She felt a blush rise, but she refused to look away. "I want to know 'ow you did it. In ze cellar. Ze magic you used."
Sebastian chuckled, a low, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He walked toward her, his movements fluid, predatory. "That wasn't duelling, Fleur. That was life or death. You don't learn that in a classroom. You learn that by being in a field where every day is a battle, by surviving things that should have killed you."
He stopped a few feet away, invading her personal space. The air between them crackled with static electricity.
"But," he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, "I can teach you how to make sure no one ever puts shackles on you again."
"Show me," she challenged, raising her chin.
"Defend yourself."
He didn't bow. He didn't count down. He moved.
It was faster than any spar they had had before. He launched a non-verbal stinging hex, followed immediately by a leg-locker curse. Fleur deflected the first with a shield charm and sidestepped the second, her body moving on instinct.
"Good," he praised, circling her. "But you're thinking too much. Stop planning. React."
He lashed out with a whip of fire from his wand tip. Fleur gasped, ducking under the lash, the heat singeing the air above her head. She retaliated with a Bombarda, aiming for his feet.
He didn't shield. He leaped, vaulting over the explosion with a grace that was inhuman, landing silently behind her.
Fleur spun around, ready to cast, but he was already there.
He grabbed her wrist—her wand hand—stopping the motion mid-cast. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.
The impact knocked the wind out of her. She was pinned against him, her back arched, her face inches from his. She could feel the hard wall of his chest, the heat radiating from him, the solid muscle of his thigh wedged between hers.
"Dead," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.
Fleur shivered, her magic flaring wildly. The Veela in her roared, sensing the dominance, the power. She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned her head, her nose brushing against his jawline.
"You wouldn't kill me," she whispered back with certainty, her voice breathless.
"I'm considering my options," he teased, his grip on her waist tightening, his fingers digging into the soft flesh exposed by her crop top.
This was new. This was dangerous. He was teasing her. He was touching her not to hurt, not to correct, but to... possess.
"You are different today," she murmured, looking up into his eyes. The green was swirling, bright and alive. "Changed."
Sebastian looked down at her. The smirk faded, replaced by an intensity that made her knees weak. "I had a conversation with an old friend," he said softly. "He told me I was being an idiot. He told me that hiding from what I want doesn't make me strong. It makes me a coward."
Fleur's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "And what do you want, Sebastien?"
He released her wrist, but his hand on her waist didn't move. In fact, it slid lower, resting possessively on the curve of her hip. He brought his free hand up, his calloused thumb tracing the line of her lower lip.
"I'm done hiding, Fleur," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "As for what I want... I want everything this world has to offer. Magic. Riches. History. Women."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers. "But right now... the thing I want the most, is in my arms. And it is with difficulty that I control myself from staking my claim. Right here, right now."
Fleur couldn't process the words. She was too busy drowning in the sensation of his touch, the scent of him, his magic and his passion. He wasn't blocking her allure. He was drinking it in, and giving it back tenfold.
"Sebastien..." she breathed, her hands coming up to clutch his t-shirt.
He pulled back slightly, looking at her with a raw, naked hunger that scorched her soul.
"But not here," he said, glancing at the door. "And not yet. Your mother arrives tonight. We have appearances to keep."
He stepped back, the loss of his warmth hitting her like a physical blow. He smirked again, that devastating, arrogant tilt of his lips returning.
"Besides," he winked, "I like watching you squirm."
Before Fleur could recover, before she could question him, before she could grab him and drag him back, Sebastian turned and walked toward the exit.
"Shower, Fleur," he called over his shoulder. "You're flushed."
He left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.
Fleur stood alone in the centre of the chamber, her chest heaving, her skin tingling where he had touched her. She touched her lips, her face burning with a blush that reached her hairline.
He was done hiding.
A slow, victorious smile spread across her face. The game had changed. The predator had finally decided to hunt.
And Fleur Delacour couldn't wait to be caught.
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
The walk from the dungeons to the library was a blur of stone corridors and moving staircases, but Sebastian navigated it like an experienced sailor. His mind was elsewhere. It was still in the training room, replaying the feel of Fleur's waist under his hand, the way her breath had hitched when he pinned her.
Grindelwald had been right. Letting go of the restraint, acknowledging the desires that his mind, and Wrath had been whispering about for weeks... it felt like taking a breath of air after being underwater for months. The constant, grinding pressure in his chest was gone, replaced by a clarity of purpose.
He wasn't just a bodyguard. He wasn't just a weapon. He was a man who wanted things. And he was going to take them.
But first, he had appearances to maintain.
He entered the library, the hush of the room washing over him like a balm. The smell of old parchment and leather was grounding. He needed information. If he was going to dismantle the network that had targeted Fleur, he needed to understand the political landscape of the British pureblood families better than Grindelwald's old dossiers provided.
He moved to the Restricted Section. Being a guest "student" of sorts, representing the Beauxbatons Tri-Wizard contingent gave him privileges that students would kill for. Along with a neat little confundus charm.
He pulled a thick, serpent leather-bound tome from a high shelf.
History of the Sacred Twenty-Eight: An Account of Blood and Alliances.
He found a secluded table near the back, hidden behind a stack of dusty periodicals, and opened the book. He pulled out his wand, tapping the cover. The glamour he had placed on it shimmered. To anyone passing by, it would look like Advanced Charms for the Sixth Year.
He began to read, his eyes scanning the complex family trees of the Malfoys, the Notts, the Greengrasses. He was looking for connections to France, for debts, for feuds. The Malfoys were the most obvious culprit. But Sebastian Gray had a habit of looking underneath.
"Excuse me?"
The voice was small, hesitant, and agonizingly familiar.
Sebastian froze. He didn't look up immediately. He took a breath, steeling himself, fortifying his Occlumency shields until his mind was an unbreachable fortress.
He looked up.
Standing at the end of his table, clutching a stack of books to her chest, was Rose Potter.
She looked a little small for her age, her Hufflepuff robes fitting a little loose around her arms and shoulders. Her messy red hair was tied back in a chaotic bun, strands escaping to frame a face that was a softer, younger copy of Lily Potter's. But it was her eyes—James's hazel eyes—that bore into him with a mixture of awe and anxiety.
"I... I didn't mean to disturb you," she stammered, taking a half-step back when his green eyes locked onto hers. "I just... I saw you come in."
Sebastian slowly closed the book. He forced his muscles to relax, forcing a polite smile, something that was much easier to do for his long-lost little sister, onto his face. "You're not disturbing me, Miss Potter. Is there something I can help you with?"
Rose swallowed hard, shifting her weight. "I... I wanted to ask. About the other day. In the Great Hall."
"The kidnapping," Sebastian supplied, his voice neutral.
"Yes," she breathed. She took a step closer, her curiosity overcoming her shyness. "Everyone is talking about it. My brother... Adam says you're dangerous. He says you used Dark Magic. But... Vera—Vera Black—she told me you saved them. She said you were amazing."
She looked at him with wide, searching eyes. "Is it true? Did you really fight fourteen wizards by yourself?"
Sebastian looked at the girl. His sister. The girl who had grown up in the warmth of Potter Manor while he had slept under the stairs. He felt the old bitterness rise, the serpent of jealousy uncoiling in his gut. But then he looked at her hands—they were trembling slightly. She wasn't Adam, strutting around with his fame. She was just a kid, looking for answers in a scary world. Besides, it was not her fault that the people that bore them made stupid decisions.
He sighed, the bitterness being redirected away from the sweet child in front of him.
"It wasn't amazing, Rose," he said softly. "It was necessary. There is a difference."
"But were you scared?" she asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down without asking, her eagerness bubbling over. "I mean... fourteen of them! I get scared when Professor Snape looks at me wrong."
Sebastian chuckled despite himself. "Fear is a reaction. Courage is a decision. Yes, the situation was dangerous. But I had a job to do. And people I... cared about... were in danger."
"Like the pretty Veela lady?" Rose asked innocently. "Sirius was crying, you know. He never cries. He loves Vera so much. He said you brought his world back to him."
She paused, biting her lip. "I wish I was brave like that. I'm a Hufflepuff. We're supposed to be loyal and hard-working, but... I don't feel brave. The Boy-Who-Lived's sister being a 'Puff... it is not exactly celebratory."
Sebastian looked at her, seeing the insecurity etched on her young face. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to protect her, to crush whatever had made her feel small.
"Bravery isn't about charging into a fight with your wand blazing," Sebastian said, leaning forward. "That's stupidity. Usually Gryffindor stupidity."
Rose giggled, covering her mouth. "Adam is a Gryffindor."
"Exactly," Sebastian smirked. "Real bravery is doing what's right, even when you're terrified. It's standing by your friends when it's easier to run. Hufflepuffs understand and represent a very important lesson, Rose. Loyalty is a rarer currency than bravery these days."
He reached out, acting on an instinct he couldn't suppress, and patted her head gently. Her hair was soft. She froze for a second, then leaned into the touch, smiling brightly.
"Thanks, Sebastian," she beamed. "You're really smart. Do you... do you know anything about defensive theory? I'm struggling with the disarming charm. My magic just... fizzles."
"Show me your wand movement," he commanded gently.
For the next twenty minutes, the mercenary and the Hufflepuff sat in the quiet corner of the library. Sebastian walked her through the technique behind the Expelliarmus spell, explaining the intent required, correcting her wrist action with patient words. He watched her eyes light up as she grasped the concepts, her intellect shining through. She was brilliant, he realized. Sharper than Adam, certainly.
"You explain it better than Professor Moody!" Rose exclaimed, scribbling notes on a parchment.
"Don't let him hear you say that," a new voice interrupted.
Sebastian looked up. Standing a few feet away, watching them with a peculiar expression, was Hermione Granger.
The bushy-haired Gryffindor looked flustered. She was clutching a bag of heavy books, her cheeks dusted pink. She had clearly been watching them for a while.
"Oh! Hi Hermione!" Rose waved. "Sebastian was just explaining the practical movements behind the Disarming Charm! It makes so much sense now!"
Hermione stepped closer; her eyes fixed on Sebastian. There was admiration there, yes, but also a fierce curiosity. And something else... a girlish flutter that she was trying desperately to suppress under her facade of this being a purely academic interaction.
"I... I wanted to thank you," Hermione said, her voice slightly higher than usual. "For what you did. Saving those girls."
"Just doing the job," Sebastian repeated his mantra, leaning back in his chair.
"It was more than a job," Hermione insisted, stepping closer. "You risked your life. And... even if people are saying your methods were extreme... I think it was brave. To make the hard choice."
She looked down at her shoes, then back up at him through her lashes. "It's rare to see someone who is... capable. Truly capable. Most people just talk."
Sebastian held her gaze. He saw the intelligence in her eyes, the potential. And he saw the crush. It was obvious in the way she twisted her hands, the way she stood a little too straight.
"Capability comes at a price, Miss Granger," Sebastian said, his voice dropping to a lower register. "It costs you your peace of mind."
Hermione shivered slightly at his tone. "Maybe some things are worth the cost," she whispered.
The air grew heavy. Rose looked between them, oblivious to the tension.
Sebastian stood up, checking the clock on the wall. "I have to go. Duty calls."
He picked up his disguised book. He looked at Rose. "Keep practicing that wrist movement. No flourishing your wand too much."
"I will! Thanks, Sebastian!" Rose chirped.
He looked at Hermione. He offered her a small, enigmatic smile. "And you, Miss Granger... have a lovely day. And wear that gorgeous smile more often."
He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers lightly. He felt her hold her breath.
As he walked away down the aisle, he heard Rose whisper loudly, "He's so cool! And he smells really good."
"He's... intense," Hermione murmured back, her voice dreamy.
Sebastian exited the library, his face settling back into a mask of indifference. But inside, his heart was aching.
Rose.
His sister.
A brilliant, kind sister. And he could never be her brother. Not really.
He pushed the thought away. He had a job to do. The evening was approaching, and with it, the team from France.
~ Sebastian Gray/Harry Potter ~
The Great Hall had been transformed. The usual long house tables were still there, but the High Table had been extended, draped in silks of French blue and gold. The air was thick with anticipation.
Sebastian stood near the entrance, dressed in his formal tactical robes—black dragon-hide with silver fastenings, a cape of midnight blue draped over one shoulder. He looked every inch the lethal guardian.
Fleur stood beside him. She wore a dress of pale blue chiffon that seemed to float around her, her hair cascading in silver waves. She was radiant, her allure dialled up to a level that had most of the male student body staring with glazed eyes, drool trickling down their faces.
But she only had eyes for Sebastian. She stood close to him, her arm brushing his, deriving comfort from his solid presence.
"Zey are late," she whispered.
"They are French," Sebastian muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "Making an entrance is the national sport."
Fleur giggled, nudging him with her elbow.
Then, the doors banged open.
First came half a dozen French Aurors, moving in perfect synchronization, their eyes scanning the room. Then came the diplomats, men and women in expensive robes carrying stacks of parchment.
And then, she entered.
Apolline Delacour.
If Fleur was a princess, Apolline was the Queen. She swept into the Great Hall like a force of nature. She looked remarkably like her daughter, but where Fleur was the promise of beauty, Apolline was the fulfilment of it. She was taller, curvier, her presence commanding and ancient. Her blonde hair was pinned up in an intricate style woven with diamonds. Her robes were a deep, royal blue, cut low to display her ample chest and cinched tight to show off her devastating hourglass figure.
The entire hall went silent. The sheer power of her Veela aura hit the room like a physical wave. Boys dropped their forks. Girls glared with envy. Even Moody stood up, bowing his head in respect, his eye going haywire.
Apolline didn't look at the staff. She didn't look at the students. Her blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto the two figures standing at the front.
She moved toward them, the crowd parting like water.
"Maman!" Fleur cried, breaking protocol to run forward.
Apolline caught her daughter in a fierce embrace, burying her face in Fleur's neck. They spoke rapidly in French, words of comfort and love tumbling out.
Sebastian stood back, watching, his face impassive. But he felt Apolline's eyes on him even as she held her daughter.
Finally, Apolline pulled back, cupping Fleur's face. She kissed her forehead, then turned slowly to face Sebastian.
She walked up to him. Up close, the resemblance to Fleur was striking, but Apolline's eyes held a darker, more knowing light.
"Monsieur Gray," she purred, her voice carrying across the silent hall.
"Madame Delacour," Sebastian bowed his head slightly. "I trust your journey was pleasant."
"It was… anxious," she said. She reached out, placing a hand on his arm. Her fingers squeezed, testing the muscle beneath the fabric. "Until I 'eard what you did. Fourteen men."
She stepped closer, invading his personal space just as he had invaded Fleur's earlier. "My 'usband sends 'is deepest gratitude. 'E is… furious, naturally. 'E 'as declared zat zis attack is an act of war against our family and nation."
She turned to address the room, her voice hardening. "Jean 'as mobilized a task force. We 'ave brought investigators. We will find who funded zis. And we will rain fire upon zeir 'ouses."
She turned back to Sebastian, her expression softening into something more intimate. "But zat is politics. Zis…" She ran a hand down his lapel, smoothing the dragon-hide. "Zis is personal. You saved my 'eart, Sebastian."
"I did my job," he replied, though his eyes burned into hers.
Apolline smiled, a slow, secret smile that promised a thousand wicked things. "You did more zan zat. And ze 'Ouse of Delacour pays its debts."
She leaned in, ostensibly to kiss him on both cheeks in the French greeting. As her lips brushed his ear, she whispered, a sound meant only for him.
"Take Fleur away. I must speak wiz Maxime and zese… incompetent British officials. Take 'er to ze gardens. But ensure your room is unoccupied tonight, mon chéri. I 'ave a need to thank you properly. And I do not like to be kept waiting."
She pulled back, winking at him.
Sebastian felt a jolt of heat shoot straight to his groin. The audacity of the woman. In front of the entire school, in front of her daughter, she was setting up a tryst.
He looked at Fleur. She was watching them, her eyes narrowing slightly. She had seen the whisper. She had seen the look.
Apolline turned to Maxime. "Olympe! We 'ave much to discuss."
She waved a hand at Sebastian. "Go. Take my daughter. She needs fresh air."
Sebastian nodded. He offered his arm to Fleur. "Shall we?"
Fleur took his arm, her grip tight. She let him lead her out of the hall, away from the staring eyes.
As they walked into the cool evening air of the courtyard, the silence between them was heavy.
"What did she say to you?" Fleur asked, her voice sharp.
Sebastian looked down at her. He could lie. He could say it was about security protocols.
But he remembered his promise to himself. He was done hiding.
He stopped, turning her to face him. The moonlight bathed her in silver.
"She told me to make sure my room was empty tonight," Sebastian said calmly.
Fleur's eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a silent gasp of shock. The implication was clear. Her mother was intending to bed him again. Tonight.
"She..." Fleur choked on the words. "She intends to..."
"Yes," Sebastian confirmed.
Fleur stared at him, her face cycling through shock, humiliation, and then, finally, settling on a cold, burning fury.
"And you?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Will you?"
Sebastian looked at the beautiful girl in front of him. He saw the fire in her eyes, the jealousy, the want. He thought of the mature, commanding power of Apolline. And he thought of his own desires.
He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
"That depends," he murmured.
"On what?" she hissed.
"On whether you give me a reason not to."
He pulled back, leaving her stunned and blushing furiously in the moonlight. He turned and walked away toward the carriage, the sound of his boots echoing on the stone.
He was playing a dangerous game. He was going after everything he wanted, a mother and daughter together, something he had managed before but feelings were not involved there. This time however, they were shining bright, right in his face.
But he had made a decision and Sebastian Gray had never been afraid of the fire.
Author's Note
Smut incoming.
Until then, see you.