Sovereign of Wrath and Sin - Chapter 10

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 10 – Security Breach

~ Fleur Delacour  ~

Mornings in the Great Hall of Hogwarts were a circus of sensory overload, a complete contrast to the setting of its French counter-part. For Fleur Delacour, accustomed to the refined, crystal-chime elegance of Beauxbatons, the morning meal at Hogwarts was an assault on the senses. The air was thick with the scent of fried sausages, heavy oats, pumpkin juice, and the underlying aroma of hundreds of hormonal teenagers vibrating with magical energy. The enchanted ceiling mirrored a grey, sullen Scottish sky, threatening rain that seemed to seep into the very mood of the stone walls.

Fleur sat at the Slytherin table, her posture perfect, her spine straight under the silk of her blue uniform. She was a point of light in the sea of dark green and silver, her silver-blonde hair a beacon that drew eyes from every corner of the room. Beside her, the rest of the Beauxbatons entourage ate with delicate manners, but Fleur’s attention was not on her crepes, nor on the whispered gossiping of the Slytherin students around them.

Her sapphire eyes were fixed on the man sitting across from her.

Sebastian Gray.

He was eating a slice of toast splattered with a small omelette; a casual, almost languid deliberation in his mannerisms that made Fleur’s teeth grind together. Just yesterday, he had been a coiled spring, a vessel of raw, potent magic, annoyance and pent-up sexual energy that had nearly decimated Draco Malfoy in the corridor for insulting her. She had felt his tension then, a feeling that she was becoming intensely familiar with the more they stayed here, a humming vibration of violence and desire that had sung to the Veela within her. It had been intoxicating, frightening, and alluring all at once.

But today? Today he was... empty.

Not empty of magic—his power was still there, a dark, heavy ocean beneath the surface—but empty of that jagged edge. The tension was gone. The hunger that usually darkened his emerald eyes when he looked at her, a hunger he fought with admirable iron will, was simply not there. He looked like a predator that had just gorged itself on a kill and was now content to lie under the sun and spread his paws on a rock.

Fleur’s fork scraped, screeching against her golden plate.

'He is calm,' the Veela inside her hissed, rattling the cage of her mind. 'Too calm. The fire is banked. Why?'

She knew why. Or at least, her instincts screamed the answer. A man like Sebastian, a man with that much virility and magical potency, didn't just "calm down" after a night of sleep.

He had found release.

The thought sent a spike of hot, acidic jealousy through Fleur’s chest. It wasn't the rational jealousy of a lover—they weren't lovers, not yet regardless of how hard she tried, despite the electric tension that crackled between them constantly—but the territorial fury of a creature denied its prize. She had been working on him, teasing him, using her allure in subtle waves to break down his erected walls, and now, someone else had reaped the benefits?

'Who?' She scanned the hall, her eyes narrowing.

It couldn't be a student. Her allure would have picked up the scent of another female on him, the lingering trace of perfume or the subtle shift in a girl’s aura when she looked at him. She checked the Ravenclaw table, where a few girls were casting longing glances at him. Nothing. She looked at the Gryffindors, the same story here. Nothing.

'It wasn’t a student,' she deduced, her grip on her goblet tightening until the metal groaned. 'He is too professional to sleep with a charge, and too paranoid to sleep with a random girl from the castle.'

So, he had left the castle. Where could he have gone? Her mother? Another lover hidden close-by?

"You are staring, Fleur," Sebastian said, not looking up from his breakfast. His voice was a low rumble, devoid of the tight strain it held yesterday. It was smooth, rich, and irritatingly satisfied.

"I am merely observing," Fleur replied, her French accent clipping the vowels sharply. "You seem... different zis morning, Sebastien. Less... volatile."

Sebastian finally looked up. His green eyes met hers, and for a second, a flicker of amusement danced in them. He took a sip of his pumpkin juice. "A good night's sleep does wonders for the mind, Miss Delacour. You should try it. You look... tense."

Fleur bristled. "I slept perfectly fine."

"If you say so," he smirked, biting into a green apple. The crunch was loud in the sudden lull of conversation.

Before Fleur could retort—and perhaps demand to know exactly where he had 'slept'—the air beside her shifted. The bench creaked slightly as two figures sat down, flanking her on either side.

Fleur stiffened, her eyes narrowing at the interruption to their conversation. She turned her head sharply to the left, then the right.

To her left sat Daphne Greengrass. The 'Ice Queen' of Slytherin looked as immaculate as ever, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves, her expression one of polite, aristocratic boredom. However, there was a faint flush high on her cheeks, and her green eyes were fixed intently on Sebastian.

To her right sat Vera Black. The dark-haired beauty was less composed. She was fidgeting slightly, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, her grey eyes darting between Sebastian and the table.

"Good morning," Daphne said, her voice cool and melodious. She reached for a pitcher of pumpkin juice, pouring herself a glass as if she sat at this table with the French delegation every day.

Fleur narrowed her eyes. "To what do we owe zis... intrusion?"

"Hardly an intrusion," Daphne replied, glancing at Fleur with a faint, challenging smile. "This is the Slytherin table, is it not? Technically, you are the guests here."

"Besides," Vera added, her voice a little breathless as she looked at Sebastian. "We... we wanted to ensure there were no hard feelings after the... incident in the corridor. With Malfoy."

Sebastian leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. The fabric of his robes stretched over his biceps. Vera’s eyes dropped to his chest and the bulge of his arms, then snapped back up, her blush deepening.

"No hard feelings," Sebastian said, his tone amused. "You ladies did me a favour, tackling me before I could curse the heir of Malfoy into a fine red mist saved me a lot of paperwork."

"We noticed," Daphne purred, leaning forward slightly. "You seem to have a talent for spell-work, Mr. Gray. It’s quite... distinct from the usual wand-waving we see here."

"I'm a distinct kind of person," Sebastian replied, his gaze holding Daphne’s. There was a spark there—a recognition of the game. Daphne Greengrass was a political creature, and she was probing him. But there was also a very obvious, very visceral interest radiating from her.

Fleur felt a growl building in her throat. These witches were circling him. They had felt his power in the pile-up in the corridor, felt the hard reality of his body, and now they were back for more.

'Mine,' the Veela hissed.

"We were wondering," Vera spoke up, finding her courage. "The end of October is approaching. The champions shall be selected soon. Are you... are you entering? You're of age, aren't you?"

"I am your age, Miss Black," Sebastian said. "Unfortunately, I will have to pass over this opportunity and let someone else be crowned."

"Our age? Pardon me, but aren't all Beauxbatons student from 7th Year?" Daphne questioned, her eyes sliding over Sebastian’s form. "I assume you must be quite a talented fellow if you have been allowed to join your delegation? Additionally, I believe it must get quite lonely for you."

"Something like that. As for being lonely here, I find other ways to keep myself entertained," Sebastian said, his eyes darkening slightly. The subtle double entendre hung in the air, heavy and thick.

Daphne’s lips parted slightly. Vera swallowed hard.

Fleur had heard enough. "Sebastien is quite busy," she interjected, her voice icy. “’E ’as no time for schoolgirl fantasies.”

Daphne turned to Fleur, her expression hardening into a mask of polite disdain. "I assure you, Delacour, my fantasies are far from 'schoolgirl'. And as for busy... even a guard dog needs to be let off the leash occasionally."

“’E is not a dog.” Fleur snapped.

"Ladies," Sebastian warned, his voice dropping an octave. It wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension like a knife. "Play nice. I'm trying to enjoy my breakfast."

The table fell into a somewhat strained silence, filled only by the sounds of cutlery and the murmur of the hall. Daphne and Vera didn't leave, however. They stayed, engaging Sebastian in small talk about the castle, the curriculum, and the differences between French and British magic.

For a Black, Vera was surprisingly subdued, Fleur noted. She had the heavy, dark beauty of her lineage—the high cheekbones, the storm-cloud eyes—but she lacked the manic energy associated with her father’s house. She seemed... hungry. Repressed. Every time Sebastian moved, Vera flinched slightly, her body reacting to his presence.

Daphne was more calculated. She used words as probes, trying to find a crack in Sebastian’s armour. She asked about his family (he deflected), his school experience (he lied), and his opinions on the Ministry (he rolled his eyes).

As the breakfast wound down and the owls began to swoop in with the morning post, the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall banged open.

The sound echoed like a thunderclap, silencing the chatter nearest the entrance. Heads turned.

A group of six wizards strode in. They were dressed in the distinctive navy-blue robes of the French Ministry Auror Office. Gold braiding adorned their shoulders, and they wore the hardened, grim expressions of men on serious business. They moved with purpose, ignoring the professors at the High Table, heading straight for the Slytherin table.

Straight for Fleur.

Fleur frowned, setting down her goblet. "Aurors?" she whispered. "What is zis?"

Sebastian didn't move, but Fleur saw his muscles tighten. The relaxed predator was gone; the mercenary was back. His eyes scanned the approaching men, cataloguing details in a split second.

The leader of the group, a tall man with a scarred jaw and a thick moustache, stopped a few feet from where they sat. He looked at Fleur, his expression sombre.

"Mademoiselle Delacour," he said, his voice grave, heavy with a thick accent. "We must speak with you. Immediately."

Fleur stood up, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs. "What is it? What is wrong?"

The man took off his hat, clutching it to his chest. "There has been... an attack. On the Delacour estate in Provence."

The blood drained from Fleur’s face. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "Papa?" she gasped. "Maman? Gabrielle?"

"Your father has been gravely injured," the Auror said, his voice dripping with sympathy as Fleur's eyes widened. "He is alive, but barely. He is asking for you. We have been sent by Minister Fudge, in coordination with the French office, to retrieve you immediately via emergency Portkey."

"And Gabrielle?" she demanded, her voice shrill. "My sister?"

The Auror looked down at his boots, then back at her. "She is... critical. Mademoiselle, please. Every second counts. You must come with us."

Fleur felt a sob choke her throat. She swayed, her hand grasping the table for support. "No... no, zat cannot be..."

Fear, cold and paralyzing, washed over Fleur. She swallowed her emotions, forcing them down into a tight ball in her stomach. She needed to be strong. She needed to go to them.

"I am ready," she said, stepping out from the bench.

"Wait."

The single word cracked like a whip.

Sebastian hadn't stood up. He was still sitting, leaning back, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. But his eyes... his eyes were fixated on the leader of the Aurors with a terrifying intensity.

The Auror turned to him, annoyed. "This is a family emergency, Monsieur. Do not interfere."

"If you wanted to kidnap someone," Sebastian said, his voice conversational, loud enough to be heard by the surrounding students who had gone silent to listen, "you really should have come up with a better plan. And perhaps... checked the damn schedule."

The Auror blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion—or perhaps panic—crossing his face. "Kidnap? You are mad. I am Captain Besson of the—"

"You're a liar," Sebastian interrupted, setting his cup down with a sharp clink. "Because if your story was true, Apolline Delacour would have informed me."

Fleur froze, looking down at Sebastian. "Sebastien? What are you saying?"

Sebastian stood up slowly, unfolding his height. He stepped between Fleur and the men. "I spoke to Apolline Delacour twenty minutes ago via two-way mirror," he bluffed smoothly. "She wanted to know if you had received the dress robes she sent. She was having tea in the garden with Jean. Your father is fine. Your sister is fine. And there was certainly no attack."

It was a bluff. A complete and utter fabrication. Sebastian hadn't spoken to Apolline in days. He had been with Fleur all morning, and before that, he had been buried deep inside Madam Rosmerta.

But the effect of the bluff was instantaneous.

Fleur saw the shift in the leader's expression. The mask of the grieving messenger slipped, replaced by a flash of panic, and then, a sneer of cold, hard disdain. His hand twitched toward his belt.

"Abort," the man hissed.

Fleur took a step back in caution, her wand dropping from her holster, but she was too slow.

The man didn't draw a wand. He lunged.

With supernatural speed, he closed the gap, his hand grasping Fleur’s upper arm in a vice grip. "Now!" he screamed.

At the same moment, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rusty key. A Portkey.

"No!" Sebastian roared, his wand flashing into his hand.

But the man had the element of speed and surprise. As he grabbed Fleur, two people moved faster than anyone expected.

Daphne Greengrass and Vera Black.

The pureblood princesses had been sitting right there, listening, their instincts for danger honed by years of snake-pit politics. When the man lunged, they didn't cower. They reached out.

"Let her go!" Vera screamed, grabbing onto Fleur’s other arm, trying to anchor her.

Daphne lunged for the man’s wrist, trying to break his grip.

It was a brave, foolish mistake.

The Portkey activated.

A blue hook of magical force yanked behind Fleur’s navel. Because Vera and Daphne were touching them, the magic seized them too.

The world dissolved into a swirl of colour and wind.

"Shit!" Sebastian’s cursing was the last thing she heard before the Great Hall vanished.

~ Albus Dumbledore ~

Albus Dumbledore sat at the High Table, his fork halfway to his mouth, frozen in a tableau of horror.

It had happened in seconds. One moment, a diplomatic delegation. The next, a kidnapping right under his nose.

He saw the girls disappear—Fleur, Miss Greengrass, Miss Black—whisked away by the man who was evidently not a French Auror.

"Wards!" he bellowed, standing up, his magic flaring with power that shook the plates on the table. "Seal the grounds!"

But he knew it was too late. He had lowered the Anti-Apparition and Portkey wards in the Great Hall specifically to allow the international delegations to send and receive high-priority messages and transport, a gesture of trust and convenience that had now backfired continuously.

Chaos erupted in the hall. Students screamed. McGonagall was already moving, her wand out.

But the remaining five kidnappers—the accomplices—were already retrieving their own escape routes. They pulled out various junk items: quills, old socks, stones. They were leaving.

"Stupefy! Impedimenta!" Professors fired spells from the High Table, but the distance was too great, the crowd of students in the way too dense. Their spells blocked with ease.

Then, Dumbledore saw him move.

Sebastian Gray did not cast a stunning spell. He did not cast a shield.

He moved like a blur of black lightning.

As the fake aurors activated their portkeys, Sebastian launched himself over the Slytherin table. He was in the air, his wand slashing down with an agility that was not taught in any school.

Two spells left his wand. They were purple, jagged, and hissed through the air with the sound of tearing canvas.

The first spell connected with the neck of the nearest kidnapper just as he began to spin. There was a sickening spray of crimson, a fountain of blood that painted the walls of the Great Hall nearby. The man’s head separated from his shoulders, his body crumpling, the portkey clattering uselessly to the floor.

The second spell hit the wrist of the man closer to the professor's table, midway to the long tables of the Great Hall—the one who had held back to cover the retreat.

His hand, holding a brass key, was severed clean off at the forearm.

The man screamed, a spray of blood oozing out of his stump of an arm. He fell down to the floor, thrashing in pain. 

But Sebastian wasn't done. He didn't stop to admire his momentary victory. 

He landed in a crouch amidst the screaming students, ignoring the blood, and sprinted. He sprinted toward the spot where the leader—the one who took the girls—had vanished. But the portkey was gone.

He pivoted, his eyes locking onto the severed hand of the last escaping man. The portkey the hand was clutching was glowing blue, fading fast.

"Mr. Gray, no!" Dumbledore shouted, realizing what the boy intended.

Sebastian didn't listen. He leaped, diving through the air like a goalkeeper. His hand snatched the brass key from the severed, bloody fingers of the kidnapper just as the Portkey began to activate.

With a crack that sounded like a cannon blast, Sebastian Gray vanished.

Silence—absolute, terrified silence—fell over the Great Hall. It lasted for a heartbeat, broken only by the wet sound of the headless body on the floor finally toppling over.

Then, the screaming started.

"Silence!" Dumbledore’s voice amplified magically, booming like thunder, shaking the dust from the rafters. "Prefects, lead your houses to the dormitories immediately! Staff, with me! Secure the school! Minerva, I need you to alert the Aurors. Now!"

He looked at the spot where Sebastian had vanished. His heart was heavy. He had failed to protect his students. But as he looked at the mess the young mercenary had left behind in mere seconds, Dumbledore felt a chill that had nothing to do with the Dementors.

He pitied whoever was waiting on the other end of that portkey.

~ Daphne Greengrass  ~

The sensation of a Portkey travel was always unpleasant, like being hooked by the navel and dragged through a rubber tube. But this time, it was violent. The magic was unstable, rough, designed for speed rather than comfort.

Daphne Greengrass hit the ground hard. The stone floor was cold and wet, smelling of mildew, rot, and stagnant water. She gasped, her lungs burning, bile rising in her throat.

Beside her, Vera groaned, rolling onto her side, retching dryly. Fleur landed with more grace, but even she stumbled, dropping to one knee, her hair falling over her face.

"Get them up!" a rough voice barked.

Daphne scrambled backward, her hand flying to her pocket for her wand.

It was gone.

"Looking for this, sweetheart?"

She looked up. They were in a large, dimly lit chamber. It looked like the dungeon of an abandoned manor house. The walls were weeping with moisture, and the only light came from flickering torches bracketed in rusted iron sconces.

Standing around them were men. A lot of them. Daphne counted quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. They were a motley crew of wizards—mercenaries, hobos, the thugs of the magical underworld. They wore mismatched clothes with dirty cloaks, and expressions of leering malice.

The man holding her wand was the one who had kidnapped them—the fake Auror Captain. He tossed the wand to one of his lackeys. "Bind them. Anti-magic cuffs."

Two men stepped forward. They were huge, smelling of unwashed bodies and cheap tobacco. Daphne tried to fight, kicking out, but a heavy hand backhanded her across the face.

The force of the blow sent her sprawling, stars exploding in her vision. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, her lip split as drops of blood oozed out.

"Feisty," the man laughed, grabbing her wrists and snapping cold iron shackles onto them. He did the same to Vera, who was thrashing and trying to get them off even as tears prickled around her eyes, and Fleur.

Fleur was fighting the hardest. "Release us!" she commanded, her voice vibrating with a desperate attempt to use her Veela allure. "You will let us go, now!"

The men paused, their eyes glazing over for a second as the magic washed over them.

The leader stepped forward and laughed. He pulled a small amulet from beneath his shirt. It glowed with a sickly purple light. "Nice try, bird. But we came prepared. Your little tricks won't work here."

He grabbed Fleur by the chin, forcing her to look at him. "You're a pretty thing, aren't you? Jean Delacour’s prize jewel. The Boss is going to pay a mountain of gold for you."

"Who is your boss?" Fleur spat. “My father will ’unt you down. ’E will flay you alive!”

"Your father is sitting in France, wondering where his little girl went," the leader sneered. He shoved her back. She fell against Vera, who wrapped her arms around the French girl.

The three of them huddled together against the cold stone wall: the Slytherin Ice Queen, the quaint Black heiress, and the Veela Princess. Their robes were torn, their hair messy, their faces pale with terror.

Daphne looked at Vera. Her friend was trembling violently. "Vera," she whispered, squeezing her hand. "Stay with me. Look at me."

"We're going to die," Vera whispered, her eyes wide and glassy. "They're going to kill us."

"No," Daphne said, forcing a bravery she didn't feel. "The professors will come. Have faith."

The men were gathering around, forming a semi-circle. They were laughing, clapping each other's back for a job well done. The atmosphere in the room shifted from professional kidnapping to something darker. Something primal and predatory.

"So," one of the men said, a wizard with rotting teeth and a lazy eye. He looked at Daphne and Vera, licking his lips. "The Boss said he wants the Veela untouched. Said she’s 'premium merchandise' for his collection."

He took a step closer, his eyes raking over Daphne’s form, lingering on the tear in her stocking. "But he didn't say nothing about the spares."

The other men chuckled, a low, ugly sound that made Daphne’s skin crawl.

"That’s right," another man said, stepping forward. He was short and wiry, playing with a knife. "Two pureblood fillies. Slytherins, by the look of the ties. High-class cunts."

"I've always wanted to break a pureblood," the leader grinned, leaning against a pillar. "Heard they're cold. I bet I can make her warm up. I bet I can make her scream."

Daphne pressed herself back against the wall, her chin trembling but held high. "If you touch us," she hissed, "The House of Greengrass and the House of Black will rain fire upon you. There will be nowhere you can hide."

"Ooh, I'm shaking," the rotting-toothed man mocked. He moved closer, reaching out a dirty hand toward Daphne’s face. "You're a long way from daddy, sweetheart. Down here, nobody hears you scream."

He looked at his friends. "I say we have a little fun while we wait for the transport. Break 'em in. Who wants the dark-haired one? She looks like she’s got some cushion to her."

Vera whimpered, even as she tried to put up a brave front.

The leader shrugged. "Go ahead. Just don't damage the Veela. The others... do what you want. They're just collateral."

The man with the rotting teeth grinned, a horrific expression of lust. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hiss. "You hear that, ladies? It’s party time."

He reached for Daphne, his hand grasping the front of her robes. "Let's see what’s under all this silk."

Daphne squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the violation, a scream building in her throat.

But before his hand could touch her skin, a voice echoed through the damp cellar.

It wasn't a shout. It wasn't a scream. It was a calm, conversational tone, carrying a weight of absolute, terrifying authority.

"I would not do that if I were you."

The men froze. The rotting-toothed wizard stopped, his hand hovering inches from Daphne’s chest.

They all turned toward the shadows at the far end of the cellar.

From the darkness, a figure emerged. He walked slowly, his boots making no sound on the wet stone. He was brushing dust off his shoulder as if he had just walked through a cobweb, not teleported into a hostile stronghold.

Sebastian Gray.

He held a severed hand in his left hand—the hand of the man he had maimed—and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. It landed with a wet slap.

"Disgusting way to travel," Sebastian muttered, wiping his hand on his trousers. His uniform was gone, replaced with a tactical set that made him look like a trained fighter. He looked up, his emerald eyes sweeping the room. He counted the men. Fourteen.

Then his eyes landed on the girls. He saw the bruise on Daphne’s cheek, her the smudged blood near the corner of her lips. He saw the terror in Vera’s eyes. He saw the shackles on Fleur and the girls.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and impending death.

"Who the fuck are you?" the leader demanded, drawing his wand. "How did you get in here?"

Sebastian didn't draw his wand immediately. He just stood there, his hands hanging loose by his sides. A small, cruel smile played on his lips—the smile of the wolf who has found the sheep pen unlocked.

"You took something of mine," Sebastian said softly. "Three things, actually."

He took a step forward. The torchlight flickered violently, casting long, monstrous shadows behind him.

"And now," Sebastian whispered, his magic beginning to bleed out of him, cracking the stone floor beneath his boots, "I'm going to take everything from you. Your lives. Your souls. And I'm going to make it hurt."

The rotting-toothed man laughed nervously. "Get him! He's just one kid!"

"Kid?" Sebastian tilted his head.

In a blur of motion, his wand was in his hand.

“Diffindo Maxima.”

The spell was a ribbon of purple light, razor-thin and horizontal. It moved faster than thought.

The rotting-toothed man didn't even have time to blink. The spell passed through his waist. For a second, he stood there, confused. Then, his top half slid slowly, agonizingly off his bottom half, hitting the floor in a fountain of gore.

The girls remained frozen in shock. The mercenaries roared.

Sebastian didn't stop. He began to walk forward, deflecting a dark curse with a casual flick of his wrist, sending it back towards the man who jumped out of the way, just barely.

"Lesson one," Sebastian roared, his voice booming over the chaos as he launched a blasting curse that turned another man into red mist. "Never touch what belongs to me."

Then, the slaughter began. 

Author’s Note

Things are heating up. Stay tuned for more. Suggest women for his harem.