Hellbound

The cold wind bit Harry’s bare arms as he curled tighter against the stone wall. His oversized shirt was soaked through, and his ribs ached with every breath. He hadn’t eaten in three days—not since Dudley took the last sandwich from him and Uncle Vernon locked him in the cupboard for asking for more.

Now, ten years old and barely alive, Harry ran. Far from Privet Drive. Far from the fake stories of a twin brother hailed as a hero.

He found the ruins by accident—deep in the woods, ivy-choked and rotting. He would’ve kept moving… if not for the flicker of light and chanting echoing from below.

Crawling to the edge of a broken staircase, Harry peeked down into a hidden crypt. Hooded figures surrounded a glowing sigil, chanting in languages that didn’t sound human. Candles burned in colors Harry had no names for.

Then—everything snapped.

A vertical gash opened in midair, glowing red and gold like a tear in the world. Fire didn’t spill out. Grace did. Cold, beautiful, and terrible.

The cultists gasped in ecstasy as the figure stepped through.

Tall, with a crisp black-and-red suit, shoulder-cape fluttering like bat wings. His long blond hair shimmered silver at the edges, eyes burning behind rose-tinted glasses. His cane tapped once on the floor, echoing like thunder. Every movement was deliberate, theatrical.

Lucifer Morningstar.

"You summoned me," he said, voice velvet-smooth, laced with disdain. “To this dump?”

One of the cultists fell to his knees. “My Lord! We offer ourselves—”

“I’m flattered,” Lucifer replied, pulling off one glove. “But I already have better toys.”

He snapped his fingers.

The man exploded. No fire. Just gone. Blood mist hit the ceiling.

A woman screamed. Shadows impaled her from the floor.

The others tried to flee, but invisible strings pulled them back. Some were ripped apart midair. One began to pray—and his jaw snapped open far too wide, until his own scream shattered his skull.

Harry was frozen. Not from fear. From awe.

Lucifer adjusted his cuffs, stepping through the carnage like it was spilled wine.

Then—he stopped.

His eyes found Harry.

“Well,” Lucifer said, smiling. “Aren’t you a curious little stray.”

Harry tried to speak. Failed. His throat trembled with the effort.

Lucifer crouched gracefully, cane balanced on his shoulder, glasses gleaming red.

“You’re not one of them,” he murmured. “You watched. And you endured. Tell me your name.”

“…Harry,” he whispered. “Harry Potter.”

Lucifer’s smile flickered. “Potter, you say? Hm. A name wrapped in prophecy and tragedy. And yet they left you in a cupboard, didn’t they?”

He touched Harry’s scar. It sizzled.

A scream tore from Harry's lips as a foul, black mist wrenched from his forehead—Voldemort’s soul shard, writhing in agony.

Lucifer caught it between two fingers. "Oh, this thing. Filthy."

He crushed it without effort.

Harry slumped, breath catching, the pain gone—but so was something else. The weight. The burning. For the first time… he felt clean.

Lucifer stood, brushing off ash.

“Your world has discarded you. Even your soul was shared like scraps. But I can give you freedom, Harry. From pain. From weakness. All it costs is your humanity.”

Harry looked up, eyes wide. “What… would I be?”

Lucifer smirked.

“A Hellhound. Loyal. Deadly. Raised by nobility—my peers. You’d never be powerless again.”

“…Will it hurt?”

“Like hell.”

Harry paused. Then nodded.

“Good,” Lucifer said. “Because Heaven never wanted you. But Hell? Hell sees your worth.”

He clicked his cane.

The crypt erupted in red light as the world tore open once more.

And Harry Potter was gone.

Awakening in Hell....................................................................

Hadrian awoke with a gasp.

The air was warm. Not oppressive, like a furnace, but laced with something metallic and electric—like old blood and ozone. The bed beneath him was soft, black sheets stitched with arcane thread. The chamber was large, circular, and surrounded by walls carved with demonic runes that pulsed faintly. Above him, the ceiling shimmered with constellations—stars slowly moving as if the night sky itself was alive.

And then—the noise.

Outside, through an arched window, came the distant honking of infernal carriages, the screeches of beasts not found in Earth’s forests, and somewhere farther… screaming. So much screaming. Not chaotic—structured. Like symphonies of pain played on an eternal loop.

Hadrian sat up groggily, blinking away the last grip of sleep.

And froze.

His hands—no, his paws—rested on the sheets. Fur-covered, claw-tipped. He reached up instinctively and felt his face: elongated, with a twitching damp nose and sharp canines.

"No…"

He rolled off the bed and landed hard, claws clicking on the marble. His legs no longer bent quite the same. Powerful hind muscles tensed as he stumbled forward, catching himself on all fours before struggling upright.

His eyes caught the tall, gothic mirror across the chamber.

He walked toward it.

A new creature stared back.

Tall, dark, and elegant in a way that screamed both menace and nobility. His thick fur was charcoal with silver highlights, his mane unkempt yet commanding. Bright green eyes glowed with inner fire—still his eyes, but sharper. Older.

His ears twitched. A ring glinted from one, and his collar was studded, engraved with sigils of pride, protection… and possession.

He wore black ceremonial armor etched with Hell’s language, and a long coat bearing the mark of his new House. The coat shimmered with enchantments and was laced with infernal bone and silver chain. Hanging from his neck, bound with obsidian string, was a medallion shaped like a pentagram fused with a magical seal.

“Hadrian…”

He whispered the name, and it fit. More than "Harry" ever had.

Lucifer had remade him. Not just in body—but in spirit.

He wasn’t weak anymore.

He wasn’t forgotten.

He was a Hellhound—noble-born in the Infernal Courts, chosen not by prophecy, but by the will of the King of Pride.

And the world above?

The world that threw him away?

It would learn.

Starting at thirteen, Hogwarts would open its gates to the next generation of witches and wizards.

And when Hadrian arrived… the screams of Hell would follow.

The Manor and the Royal Welcome.......................................

Hadrian stood at the arched window, his clawed fingers resting against the cold glass.

Outside, Hell stretched endlessly—towering skyscrapers etched with infernal runes glowed under a red-streaked sky. Vehicles roared through the streets—cars and buses, yes, but also monstrous chariots pulled by skeletal beasts, floating platforms, and winged demons in flight. The roads were lined with Hellborn nobility, towering Sin-class demons, and flame-kissed Sinners in tattered suits. There were even open-air markets, clubs pumping music like heartbeats, and looming statues of forgotten gods.

It was chaos wrapped in civilization. And it was alive.

Hadrian’s ears twitched.

A shadow stirred behind him.

Then came the voice.

“Ah… finally awake now.”

It was smooth, masculine, and touched with noble amusement.

Hadrian turned as a tall figure emerged from the shadows—a towering owl demon draped in flowing black and crimson robes, lined with stars and eldritch stitching. His four glowing eyes blinked in perfect harmony. Despite the regal bearing, his smile was oddly… genuine.

“I am Stolas Ars Goetia,” the owl said with a light bow. “Lucifer told me how he found you… poor thing. And—well—he told me you are to be raised as one of us. A Goetia noble. I simply couldn’t argue. It’s not every day the King of Pride makes demands.”

Hadrian stared, unsure whether to speak.

Stolas continued, wings folding behind his back. “You’ll be under my care, young one. And I take such responsibilities very seriously. You’ll live here, with my daughter Octavia, and you'll be enrolled in her private academy. I expect your Hellhound instincts won’t interfere too badly with education…”

He leaned forward slightly. “Lucifer mentioned you have magic, too. From the mortal plane. Wizardry, I believe?” His eyes glittered. “Fascinating. I shall personally oversee your magical development. Hell has much to offer a creature like you.”

Hadrian’s green eyes narrowed slightly. “Why? Why me?”

Stolas smiled.

“Because,” he said gently, “Lucifer sees something in you. Power. Not just the kind that breaks bones—but the kind that rules kingdoms. And because you were wronged. He doesn’t tolerate waste… and you, dear Hadrian, were nearly thrown away.”

“Thrown away by your world,” Stolas added, his voice cool now. “But not ours.”

He gestured with a clawed hand.

“Come, I’ll give you the tour.”

The manor was vast—vaulted ceilings, spiraling staircases that twisted in impossible directions, rooms that whispered in languages only demons knew. Hadrian followed Stolas silently, drinking in every detail. Paintings came alive when stared at. The chandeliers wept molten crystal. Servants—mostly imps and lesser demons—bowed as the Hellhound passed, eyes wide with fearful respect.

They reached the main corridor when a sharp, venom-laced voice cut the air.

“Why is that thing in our home?”

A tall, thin demoness stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed. Stella. Elegant, cruel, and seething with disdain.

Stolas didn’t even flinch. “He is not a thing, Stella,” he said smoothly. “He is the newest addition to our family. Lucifer himself declared him to be raised as an Ars Goetia.”

Her eyes narrowed. “He’s a Hellhound.”

“He’s royalty now,” Stolas said with finality. “And if you have an issue with that, I suggest you write to His Highness yourself.” He turned away from her without another word and continued walking.

Hadrian followed, tail low but heart racing.

Royalty.

He’d been hated, ignored, broken… and now Hell had made him something more.

His time would come. And the world would regret what it threw away.

"That thing? You expect that to be a noble?"

Hadrian froze.

Stolas's usual mirth drained from his face. “Stella—don’t start. He’s a child. One blessed by Lucifer himself.”

“He’s a Hellhound,” Stella snapped, striding forward, heels clicking like a metronome of judgment. “If he’s to be paraded around as a noble, I will teach him how to act like one. Like I did with Octavia.”

Hadrian instinctively stepped behind Stolas.

Stolas’s smile flattened. “Stella, no. He needs time. He will be attending the private academy with Octavia. It’s already arranged.”

“I will not allow it,” she hissed. “He’s to be sent to a public institution. Let him learn what Hell is really like. Let him be reminded of what he is.”

The air grew thick with tension.

And then—

A soft voice spoke from behind the stairwell.

“Why are you yelling?”

All three turned.

Octavia, in a black tunic and spiked headband, stood with her arms crossed. She looked at her parents, then to Hadrian—her sharp eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Is that the new one? The young hound?”

Hadrian stood straighter, his ears twitching. “I… I’m Hadrian. Just Hadrian. Um, it’s nice to meet you.”

She blinked once. Then extended a hand.

“Octavia.”

He took it gently, his clawed fingers barely curling around hers.

Stella’s gaze dropped, her snarl simmering down. She crossed her arms but said nothing further. Even she knew better than to escalate in front of their daughter.

Stolas, ever quick to seize peace, smiled again—genuinely this time.

“Wonderful,” he said, clapping his hands. “Now that we’ve had proper introductions, how about a tour of your new rooms, Hadrian? Octavia, perhaps you’d like to show him?”

Octavia gave a faint shrug. “Sure. Whatever.”

She walked ahead, tail swishing lazily behind her. Hadrian followed, glancing once back at Stella. Her face was unreadable, her gaze sharp and cold.

But she said nothing.

As the children disappeared down the corridor, Stolas leaned toward his wife.

“Stella, behave,” he said coolly. “He’s part of this house now. And in time… he may be more than any of us expect.”

The manor twisted and turned as Octavia led him through halls adorned with elegant portraits, glimmering chandeliers, and quiet whispers from unseen rooms. Though she walked with her usual moody distance, Hadrian noticed she would glance back to make sure he was still behind her. It wasn’t kindness, exactly. More like… curiosity.

They stopped outside a thick, silver-trimmed door with a glowing sigil near the handle.

“Lucifer’s mark,” Octavia muttered. “Means it’s locked to everyone but you.”

Hadrian reached out and the symbol pulsed warmly under his paw. The door creaked open.

Inside…

The room was cold. Stone floor, walls of dark metal and polished obsidian. A bed sat in the corner—neatly made but unwelcoming. No shelves. No books. No toys. No color. Just a wardrobe, a simple desk, and the full-body mirror from before, now relocated to stand silently in the corner.

Hadrian stepped in slowly, the soft click of his claws echoing through the quiet space.

Octavia lingered in the doorway.

“You can decorate it. Eventually,” she said. “Father’s rooms looked like this when I was little. He says Hell gives you a shell, and it’s up to you to make it a home.”

Hadrian didn’t answer. He just sat on the bed, tail curled around him, staring down at his claws.

Octavia tilted her head. “You look like you’re about to cry.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. But his voice cracked just slightly.

She stepped in, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked, sitting across from him on the desk chair.

Hadrian nodded.

“…Were you really raised by humans?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“What were they like?”

His silence stretched long. Then, softly:

“My mum and dad didn’t want me. They had another son. Called him the hero. Sent me away to… people who hated me. My aunt and uncle. I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eight.”

Octavia blinked. “…Like. An actual cupboard?”

He nodded.

“They didn’t let me eat sometimes. Said freaks didn’t deserve food. They’d hit me if I asked questions. My cousin beat me up for fun. And no one cared. No one ever came for me.”

Octavia stared at him. Her expression didn’t change, but her posture shifted. She leaned forward slightly, feathers ruffling.

“That’s not normal,” she said. “That’s Hell-level messed up. And I live here.”

Hadrian gave a short laugh that didn’t sound happy. “Lucifer said I was thrown away. Guess that’s true.”

Octavia looked around the empty room, then back to him.

“…We should get you some posters.”

“What?”

“Posters. Books. I dunno. Stuff. Otherwise it’s just another cage. You need your own stuff if you’re gonna live here.”

Hadrian looked at her for a moment. Then nodded. “Thanks.”

She stood, brushing off her skirt. “I’m not gonna be nice all the time. Just so you know.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“…But maybe you’re not completely awful.”

That, surprisingly, made him smile.

She left, tail flicking behind her like punctuation. Hadrian stayed seated for a while longer, staring at the room that was his now. Still hollow. Still cold.

But not completely empty.

The First Week at Hell’s Academy..........................................

Hadrian had never seen a school like this.

The campus floated above a burning canyon, suspended by massive chains and anchored by magic older than sin. Spires twisted into the sky like claws, and the courtyard was filled with noble children—many winged, horned, multi-eyed, and dressed in fine uniforms sewn from enchanted silk.

The moment Hadrian stepped through the main gates beside Octavia, whispers ignited like wildfire.

“Is that a Hellhound?”
“At our school?”
“Must be Stolas’s new pet.”
“He smells like ash.”

Some didn’t even whisper.

By the end of the first day, Hadrian had been tripped, shoved, had a spell slipped under his desk that made his tongue swell up like a sponge. The teachers didn’t intervene. Some even laughed quietly.

He tried to ignore it. To focus on his infernal history lessons, on magic classes where he was behind the others, and on flying drills where his lack of wings made him fall flat on his face.

Octavia sat with him at lunch. She didn’t say much. But she sat there. That counted.

By the end of the week, Hadrian didn’t cry. He wouldn’t. He just stared out the window of the manor’s library until Stolas came to find him.

The tall owl demon walked in softly, his robes whispering with each step. “So,” he said, with his usual pleasant tone. “How was your first week, my dear?”

Hadrian didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “They hate me.”

Stolas’s smile faded.

“They shove me, they hex me, they call me mutt, stray, beast. And the teachers? They see it. They do nothing.”

Silence settled like smoke.

Stolas’s four glowing eyes narrowed.

“They mock you… for being a Hellhound?”

Hadrian nodded. “They think I don’t belong because I’m not born noble.”

Stolas turned, wings twitching, and his voice became ice.

“That,” he said softly, “is unacceptable.”

He swept across the room, his cane clicking like a countdown to doom. “Prepare yourself, Hadrian. We are going to school tomorrow. Together.”

Hadrian blinked. “Wait—what?”

Stolas turned back with a calm smile. “If the staff won’t enforce respect, then I will. And I will bring Lucifer’s word with me.”

The Principal’s Office..............................................................

The next morning, the doors to Hell’s most prestigious infernal academy slammed open.

Every student in the courtyard froze.

Stolas Ars Goetia strolled through, trailing magical mist and deadly grace. Beside him walked Hadrian—straight-backed, armored lightly in formal wear, tail tucked but chin high.

Whispers rose. Then stopped.

In the headmaster’s office, the principal—a squat, spiny demon with sagging horns—stammered to his feet.

“L-Lord Stolas! What an honor—”

“I do not have time for your bootlicking,” Stolas said smoothly, voice echoing with restrained fury. “You will listen.”

The headmaster nodded rapidly.

“This child,” Stolas gestured to Hadrian, “was personally placed under my care by Lucifer Morningstar himself. He bears the mark of the Ars Goetia. He is, by decree of the King of Pride, to be respected as noble blood.”

The principal looked like he wanted to melt through the floor.

“If I hear even whispers of continued harassment… If this school permits its students and faculty to treat him as less…”

Stolas leaned forward.

“I will drag you before the Royal Court myself. And Lucifer will ask why you failed to obey his word.”

The principal paled. “I-I-I understand, Lord Stolas. I assure you—it won’t happen again. I’ll make… announcements.”

Stolas straightened. “See that you do.”

He turned to Hadrian, nodding once. “Walk proudly, my boy. You are not the one who should be ashamed.”

That day, the whispers turned to silence.

And the silence turned to stares.

Because Hadrian wasn’t just the Hellhound anymore.

He was the Hellhound that Lucifer claimed.

And soon, the nobility of Hell would remember exactly why that mattered.

The day after Stolas’s visit, things changed.

Not immediately—but definitely.

The headmaster’s voice rang out through the crystal loudspeakers during morning assembly: “By order of Lord Stolas Ars Goetia and under decree of His Highness Lucifer Morningstar, all faculty and students are hereby reminded that Hadrian of House Goetia is to be treated with the respect his title demands.”

No one dared mock him openly after that.

The bullies? Gone. Quiet. Avoiding eye contact like his green eyes burned.

But Hadrian didn’t gloat.

He simply focused.

In Spell Theory, he memorized full glyph chains after seeing them once.

In Infernal History, he corrected a teacher on the timeline of the Treaty of Wrath when they misspoke—and proved it by citing a source no one else had noticed on the syllabus.

By the second week, students no longer whispered about the “mutt in noble robes.”

They whispered about the boy who finished the Void Math exam thirty minutes early—and still got the highest score.

“He’s smart. Like, scary smart.”
“He read all the library’s beginner spellbooks already.”
“He helped me with my rune alignment and didn’t even brag.”

Octavia noticed too.

At lunch, they started talking more—about star maps, rune weaving, the magical properties of demon blood. She never smiled much, but her eyes lit up when she challenged Hadrian with obscure celestial trivia and he answered correctly every time.

“You’re weird,” she said once, handing him a book of Goetia family lineages. “But you’re smart. Way smarter than most of the idiots here.”

He looked at her with one of his rare soft smiles. “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself.”

Their conversations grew longer. Late-night studying became a ritual. Quiet walks through the black gardens after class turned into real friendship.

And it wasn’t just Octavia anymore.

Over the weeks, Hadrian had quietly gathered a small group of others—outcasts, thinkers, and those who had been silently enduring Hell’s nobility games just like him.

Tavion, a bat-winged demon boy with insomnia who shared his love for potion-making.

Rysa, a red-scaled serpent girl who barely spoke, but followed him everywhere and listened to everything.

Maris, a cyclopean girl with a knack for protective magic who admired his calm during dueling class.

Varrik and Nyxa, twins from a minor noble house, who’d seen what he'd done to the bullies without lifting a claw.

He didn’t just gain followers.

He gained trust.

Because Hadrian didn’t chase attention. He didn’t act superior.

He simply was.

And in a world where power was usually loud, cruel, and brutal… Hadrian’s quiet strength stood out like silver against soot.

One evening, Stolas found Hadrian reading under a starlit dome, books stacked around him like a fortress.

“You’ve been busy,” the owl demon said, perching nearby with his wine glass.

Hadrian nodded without looking up. “I have to catch up. I’m still behind in Hellcraft geometry.”

“Yet,” Stolas said, “I heard three instructors praise you this week. One said you grasp summoning theory better than some third-years.”

Hadrian blinked. “…Really?”

“You’re exceptional,” Stolas said with a small smile. “Lucifer didn’t choose wrong. I’m proud of you.”

Hadrian didn’t know how to respond to that.

No one had ever said they were proud of him before.

He looked down, ears flicking back slightly. “…Thanks.”

In the fires of Hell, respect wasn’t given—it was carved, earned, and defended.

Hadrian hadn’t just survived.

He was becoming something more.

A Hellhound noble with a mind sharper than his fangs.

And the world above still had no idea what was coming.

The sky above the manor shimmered with layered galaxies—Hell’s own version of a night sky, painted in reds and deep purples. Hadrian lay on the balcony tiles, a few spellbooks beside him, his tail lazily sweeping across the floor. Octavia had already gone to bed. The air was quiet.

Stolas approached with silent steps, his robes barely whispering against the stone. “Another late night?” he asked with a gentle hum.

Hadrian didn’t answer right away. His eyes were focused on the artificial stars above, green irises glowing softly in the reflection of Hell’s shifting constellations.

“…Is there a way,” Hadrian asked suddenly, “to go back? Not forever. Just… sometimes.”

Stolas tilted his head, curious. “Back to the mortal world?”

Hadrian sat up, brushing fur from his eyes. “Yeah. I don’t want to live there again. But… sometimes I miss the forest. The real kind. Where the trees don’t whisper in Latin and the moss doesn’t try to bite you. Just… fresh air. Birds. Wind in the leaves. It helps my mind stop racing.”

Stolas was quiet for a moment, his four glowing eyes blinking in sync.

“That reminds me of my greenhouse,” he said softly. “Gardening does that for me. The plants… they’re alive, but not demanding. Peaceful.”

Hadrian nodded. “Exactly.”

Stolas smiled. “You’re wiser than many demons twice your age.”

He tapped his beak with one finger. “I do have a grimoire. And my position grants me passage to the mortal realm for research and duties. If you wanted to… wander the forests occasionally… it might be arranged.”

Hadrian perked up slightly, ears twitching.

“But,” Stolas added, tone shifting to something stricter—though still amused, “I can’t just open a gate to the human world for you at random. You’re still being educated. Your mind is a treasure, but it must be refined.”

Hadrian raised an eyebrow. “You mean…”

“If you bring me your next report card with straight A’s,” Stolas said, smiling mischievously, “I’ll speak to Lucifer and arrange a visit. You’ll go under protective charm, of course. A brief trip. Just you and the forest. Deal?”

Hadrian gave a small huff of amusement. “A deal’s a deal.”

“Good,” Stolas said, resting a clawed hand gently on Hadrian’s head. “I’m glad you still care about things that breathe. It means you haven’t lost what makes you you. Even here.”

Hadrian didn’t reply.

But he looked up at the sky once more, tail flicking gently behind him.

The stars burned red.

But now… they burned for him.

Two years had passed since Hadrian had entered Hell through blood, fire, and ash.

Now eleven years old, he stood straighter, his coat darker, his eyes brighter. His voice still held the softness of youth, but his tone carried the weight of someone who had earned his place. His spellwork was sharp. His dueling had precision. And his grades?

Flawless.

Stolas held the parchment with pride, rolling it between his talons. “Straight A’s,” he hummed. “Demonic theory, spell weaving, summoning arts, infernal politics, and interdimensional ethics… I’m impressed.”

Hadrian grinned, tail wagging once before he caught himself and straightened again. “Does that mean…?”

“Yes,” Stolas replied. “A promise is a promise.”

He stood and gestured for Hadrian to follow.

They descended into the spellcasting sanctum beneath the manor—a place layered in ancient enchantments, where the air vibrated with potential. Grimoires floated lazily between shelves. A mirror-like pool reflected visions of other worlds. The floor was inscribed with a massive, glowing summoning circle, traced with a blend of celestial glyphs and demonic sigils.

“This,” Stolas said, placing his grimoire on a pedestal, “is your next step. I will teach you the portal sigil. It connects this plane to a specific place in the mortal realm—a forest of your choosing.”

Hadrian tilted his head. “I get to pick?”

“You’ve earned that right,” Stolas said with a smile. “But keep in mind: this isn’t a toy. The spell is keyed to you and your blood. Once you anchor it, only you can open it.”

Hadrian's green eyes locked onto the swirling energy around the sigil. “I’m ready.”

The spell was complex—but Hadrian absorbed it like rain into thirsty roots. With each careful gesture and spoken word, the symbols responded. His claws drew the last curve across the air—and with a flash of violet flame, the portal shimmered open.

Beyond it, the forest.

Green. Alive. Earth.

He could hear the chirping of birds, the wind in the leaves, the scent of pine and soil drifting through like a whisper from another life.

Hadrian stepped close, placing one paw on the threshold. He didn’t cross yet.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Stolas nodded. “You may stay no longer than six hours. After that, the spell will pull you back. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Hadrian…” Stolas’ tone softened. “I’m proud of the young noble you’ve become. And I think… even Stella has noticed.”

Hadrian blinked. “Really?”

Stolas chuckled. “She won’t say it out loud, but I’ve seen it. She even asked about your classes the other day. That’s practically affection.”

Hadrian gave a cheeky grin. “I did out-argue her in demonic contract theory.”

Stolas smirked. “You did. And she’s never quite forgiven you.”

They both shared a rare laugh before Hadrian stepped through the shimmering doorway.

The forest greeted him with silence.

Real silence. No screaming, no infernal chariots, no burning skies. Just rustling leaves and the scent of living earth.

Hadrian breathed it in like it was his first breath ever.

The trees didn’t move. The shadows didn’t whisper. It was… peace.

He walked barefoot through the underbrush, claws sinking softly into soil, feeling a breeze that kissed his fur instead of slicing it. For six hours, he didn’t train, didn’t study, didn’t defend himself.

He just was.

And when the portal flared again behind him, he turned only once.

“I’m not running anymore,” he whispered. “I’m just visiting.”

Then he stepped back through the light.

Back to Hell.

Hadrian was now twelve.........................................................

Taller, stronger, sharper—his fur had thickened along his shoulders and tail and his voice was gaining that deep undertone that echoed with controlled power. He wore more refined noble robes now—stitched with runes of House Ars Goetia, lines of silver thread laced down his sleeves, and a charm in his collar to suppress his demonic scent when on the mortal plane.

He had grown—not just in strength, but in status.

Stolas had begun training him in the true game of noble life: diplomacy, etiquette, and how to wield power without ever drawing a blade. Court presence. Infernal contracts. Formal addresses to demon lords and dukes. He was learning to smile while outwitting nobles four times his age.

And in secret?

He’d begun reading forbidden texts—dark magic that only those of noble blood were allowed to see. Magic that twisted reality. Magic that whispered when no one else was listening. He didn’t trust it yet. But he knew it.

Still, once a month, Hadrian took a break from all of it.

He returned to the forest.

His portal opened into the heart of Britain, deep in the Midlands, where the trees grew dense and the human presence was distant. His robes shifted into a darker, plainer cloak to blend into the shadows, and he kept to the edges—no lights, no trails, no contact.

Stolas had warned him: “Stay hidden. The mortal world may not be safe for what you’ve become.”

He always obeyed.

Until the night of the full moon.

The forest was hushed under the silver light of the moon.

Hadrian moved carefully, his paws silent against damp earth. He had been walking among the trees, letting the calm restore his thoughts, when the feeling struck him. That primal tension in his spine. He wasn’t alone.

Then—

A scream.

Sharp. Real. Human.

Hadrian’s body moved before his mind did. He bounded through the brush, slipping between trunks and shadows, his instincts blazing. His emerald eyes glowed faintly under his hooded cloak as he crept to the edge of a rocky clearing.

There, beneath the moonlight—

A massive werewolf, its grey fur slick with saliva, teeth bared as it lunged toward a small, shivering girl backed against a tree. Her black hair clung to her face, and her blue eyes were wide with terror.

Hadrian stopped.

Twelve. Just like him.

She wasn’t screaming anymore. Just staring, frozen.

He didn’t know her name.

Didn’t know why she was there.

But his blood surged with that same cursed instinct—the need to protect the helpless. He couldn’t walk away.

“Damn it…” he growled quietly to himself.

He dropped his cloak.

His claws flexed.

And with a snarl that ripped through the trees, Hadrian leapt.

He struck the werewolf mid-lunge, slamming it to the side with inhuman strength. The beast yelped, but spun back, growling low and furious. The girl gasped and fell to the ground, watching wide-eyed as two monsters faced off.

Hadrian’s fur bristled, his tail lashing as he stood between the girl and the beast. His green eyes locked with the creature’s glowing yellow ones.

“Not tonight,” he growled, his voice low and distorted with Hell’s edge.

The werewolf lunged.

Hadrian didn’t back away.

He met the charge head-on—claws flashing, biting through fur and flesh. The fight was brutal, primal, fast. He used everything he’d learned: infernal strength, Hellhound speed, and just a touch of forbidden magic crackling through his claws.

With one final roar, Hadrian drove the creature back into the trees, bleeding and limping, until it vanished into the dark.

Silence fell.

His heart pounded.

And behind him… the girl stared.

Hadrian turned slowly, his hood back, his glowing eyes softening as he looked at her. “Are you hurt?”

She blinked. “N-No… You… you’re…”

“Not here to hurt you,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”

She slowly stood, brushing leaves from her torn dress. “Who… what are you?”

Hadrian paused.

“…I’m a friend.”

She tilted her head. “You saved me.”

He nodded once.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Hadrian.”

“Mine’s Daphne,” she replied, still watching him with those icy blue eyes. “Daphne Greengrass.”

The name clicked in his mind, but he said nothing.

They stood in the moonlight, two children who shouldn’t have met—one shaped by Hell, the other marked for pain.

Hadrian looked up at the moon.

He knew this would change things.

But maybe… it was time for the world above to change too.

Truth Under Moonlight............................................................

The clearing still crackled faintly with magical tension, but the werewolf was gone.

Daphne stood several feet from Hadrian now, eyes wide, breath still shaky from the encounter. Her gaze flicked over his claws, his fur, the runes pulsing faintly in his armor. She hadn’t run yet—but her expression had shifted.

“…What are you?” she whispered.

Hadrian looked at her for a long moment, then spoke without flinching.

“A Hellhound,” he said softly. “Raised in Hell. By nobility. By the Ars Goetia.”

Daphne took one step back, her hand hovering near her waist where a wand might have been.

He saw it. And he didn’t blame her.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said gently. “I just… couldn’t let it happen. Not to someone like you.”

Daphne didn’t speak, but her breathing hitched.

“You would’ve been cursed forever,” Hadrian said. “Torn up. Turned. I knew what that thing was. And I couldn’t let it ruin your life.”

He reached into a pocket hidden beneath his cloak and pulled out a black obsidian rune etched with glowing silver. He held it out in his palm.

“This is a contact rune. Don’t use it unless you’re truly in danger. But… it’ll reach me.”

Daphne stared at it, her hand trembling slightly. “Why would you give that to me?”

Hadrian offered a tired smile. “Because I think we’re both more alone than we want to admit.”

Silence stretched.

Then, without warning, Daphne rushed forward and hugged him—tight.

Hadrian froze. His arms hovered for a second before slowly closing around her.

“Thank you,” she whispered against his chest.

And then—just like that—she turned and ran, her black hair streaming behind her as she vanished through the trees.

When Hadrian returned through the portal, the manor was quiet—but he wasn’t surprised to find Stolas waiting in the sanctum.

He looked pissed.

“You intervened,” the owl said, arms crossed, robes still elegant despite the tension. “You revealed yourself to a mortal. A witch.”

Hadrian lowered his head slightly. “I had to.”

“She now carries a life debt,” Stolas said, voice dangerously calm. “To a Hellhound. That is going to cause a cataclysm of bureaucratic backlash, Hadrian.”

“I didn’t hurt her. I saved her.”

“You broke protocol,” Stolas snapped. “Do you understand the diplomatic chaos this could spark if the Ministry finds out? And she’s a witch, Hadrian. A powerful one—probably from a prominent family.”

Hadrian went still. “How do you know?”

Stolas’s eyes flared. “Because the rune you gave her responded to magical lineage. You left a Goetia-marked artifact in the hands of a British witch!”

Hadrian paled.

“I’m grounding you,” Stolas said flatly. “Three months. No mortal travel. No spell library access outside your core curriculum. You’re lucky Lucifer himself didn’t hear about it first.”

Hadrian clenched his fists but nodded. “Understood.”

Stolas sighed, his anger cooling only slightly.

“…You did the right thing,” he said at last, softer. “But sometimes the right thing still has consequences.”

Hadrian didn’t argue.

But deep inside, a part of him knew…

This wasn’t the end.

The Greengrass Manor..........................................................

Daphne burst through the massive manor’s floo entrance, robes torn, breathing hard.

Her parents—elegantly dressed in midnight-black Unspeakable robes—were on their feet instantly.

“Daphne?” her mother gasped. “What happened?”

“I was in the forest,” Daphne said quickly. “A werewolf tried to attack me. I should’ve died. But something—someone—stopped it.”

Her father narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

Daphne held up the obsidian rune.

“I think… I think I owe my life to a Hellhound.”

In the deep chamber beneath the Greengrass Manor—warded and soundproofed by Unspeakable enchantments—Daphne sat quietly, her rune now pulsing faintly in her hand.

Her parents, Orion and Selene Greengrass, stood at the central table, preparing the Pensieve-like device they used to review raw magical memories. It was older than Hogwarts. A relic of the Unspeakable network—used only in times of crisis.

“We won’t judge you,” her mother said gently. “We just need to see what happened.”

Daphne nodded and focused.

The rune shimmered faintly at her neck as her father extracted the memory—silver and glimmering—and poured it into the basin.

Together, the three of them leaned in.

What they saw… left them silent.

The werewolf lunging. The Hellhound, cloaked in darkness, intercepting with speed no human could match. The strength. The claws. The magic. The deliberate precision of each move—and then, the moment he turned back to her with those glowing green eyes.

Her hug.

His stillness.

The name: Hadrian.

---

Scene: Revelation

When they returned to the chamber, Orion paced in silence while Selene leafed through an ancient, rune-bound tome—the Greengrass Family Grimoire, passed down through countless generations.

“I don’t understand,” Daphne said quietly. “He saved me. He didn’t ask for anything.”

Orion finally spoke. “That’s the part that worries me.”

“But he didn’t feel like a demon,” Selene added softly. “And yet—he clearly is.”

Then her fingers stopped on a page.

“…Here.”

A hand-drawn sigil matching the shape of Hadrian’s rune shimmered faintly beneath her touch.

“This isn’t just a life debt,” she said carefully. “It’s evolved into something else. A soul thread.”

Daphne blinked. “What does that mean?”

Orion’s tone turned low and deliberate. “It means that because of the circumstances—the proximity of magic, your age, the intensity of your emotions, and his nature—your life debt is evolving into a potential soul bond.”

Daphne paled. “Soul… like… forever?”

“Not yet,” Selene said. “But the thread exists. If it strengthens—if he accepts it—it could become permanent.”

Orion sighed heavily. “The wizarding world will be relentless if they find out. You’re already of interest to half the noble families. Suitors and allies are pushing hard.”

Selene gently took the rune and, with a whispered spell, transfigured it into a silver necklace that shimmered around Daphne’s neck. The stone pulsed once, like it recognized her heartbeat.

“Wear it always,” she said. “We’ll wait a few weeks. Then… we’ll ask you to summon him.”

Daphne nodded slowly. “He deserves to choose too.”

Hogwarts, Year 1 Begins.......................................................

Hogwarts bustled with fresh robes and chatter. The Great Hall shone as the first-year students filed in, the Sorting Hat waiting patiently atop the stool.

But one name was absent.

Hadrian James Potter.

The name wasn’t even called.

Dumbledore noticed the gap in the lists immediately. “Where is—?”

Before he could finish, Professor Lily Potter, dressed in warm browns with a hint of quiet anxiety behind her spectacles, stood and stepped to his side.

“Albus…” she said slowly. “Why isn’t Hadrian here?”

The Headmaster’s face darkened.

He didn’t have an answer.

He hadn’t even checked in two years.

He’d assumed Hadrian was still with the Dursleys. Still quietly suffering. Still forgotten.

A mistake.

One that now carried a weight no spell could undo.

The Sorting Ceremony was well underway.

Candles floated above, casting golden light on polished wood and stone. Lily Potter stood at the staff table, hands folded tightly, forcing herself to smile. It faltered only once—when her son, Elias Potter, was sorted into Gryffindor with a proud grin and thunderous applause.

Her other son… hadn’t arrived.

Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged uneasy glances when the name Hadrian James Potter was never called. The train had been searched. There was no record of his ticket being used. And the Dursleys… unreachable.

Lily’s heart sank.

Where was her firstborn?

Daphne Greengrass stood beneath the flickering green torchlight of the Slytherin common room. The sorting hat had barely touched her head before calling her House—clever, composed, full of quiet ambition.

But her mind wasn’t on the feast or the gossiping first-years.

It was on him.

Hadrian. The Hellhound who had saved her life.

The rune around her neck pulsed faintly giving her comfort from home.

She stepped away from the other girls and moved to the dormitory balcony. She closed her eyes, held the rune tight, and whispered the activation spell her parents had taught her.

Flashback ....... The Greengrass Manor — The Summoning

The portal shimmered in the private summoning chamber. Blue fire licked the walls as Hadrian stepped through.

Taller. Dressed in formal infernal robes. His eyes sharp, glowing green. His voice calm.

“You called.”

Orion and Selene Greengrass stood with grace and noble posture—an Unspeakable couple known in secret circles but rarely in the public eye. Behind them, Daphne sat quietly, dressed in fine school robes, watching him with open curiosity.

“Hadrian,” Orion greeted. “Thank you for coming.”

“You allowed the rune,” he said. “I honored it.”

Selene offered a small bow of respect. “You saved our daughter’s life. That cannot go unrecognized. We wanted to speak with you personally.”

“I assumed that much,” Hadrian said. “But I also assume there’s more.”

Orion nodded. “The life debt has… evolved. Your connection with our daughter may form a soul bond. We wished to ask: do you want anything in return? We won’t bind our daughter’s fate without consent.”

Hadrian blinked, thoughtful. “I appreciate that.”

Then he turned slightly, reaching into his coat, and pulled free his own personal summoning token.

“I want my father’s opinion.”

He whispered a phrase in the tongue of Hell.

The portal glowed again.

Stolas Ars Goetia stepped through.

His entrance was fluid and commanding—eyes glowing, regal robes trailing behind him. “My son,” he said, tilting his head to Hadrian. Then he turned to Orion and Selene. “I’ve been briefed. May we continue?”

Orion nodded with calm professionalism. “We wished to offer Hadrian the choice. The soul bond is only potential, but our daughter’s feelings matter. If he were to court her—it would need to be mutual.”

Stolas looked down at Hadrian. “It’s your choice. But remember—bonds like these carry legacy. Influence. Power. And responsibility.”

Hadrian looked at Daphne.

She stood slowly. Her blue eyes met his.

“I don’t like boys,” she said bluntly. “They’re loud, stupid, and clingy.”

Hadrian raised a brow.

“But you’re… reasonable,” she added. “And you saved me. I don’t owe you romance. But if you want to court me—I’m willing to let you try.”

Hadrian tilted his head thoughtfully, tail flicking once behind him.

“…I would like that,” he said at last. “I accept. I’ll court you properly, with honor. No tricks.”

Daphne folded her arms. “Good. I’ll hex you if you lie.”

Selene chuckled quietly. “Well then. I suppose a contract will be drafted.”

Stolas smiled at Hadrian with quiet pride.

And in that moment, in a candlelit chamber in the world of men, a bond was forged between a Hellhound prince and a witch born of ancient blood.

The wizarding world wouldn’t know it yet.

But this changed everything.

In the deep stone corridors of Hogwarts, Professor Severus Snape stood in his office, arms crossed, expression unreadable as Selene and Orion Greengrass finished speaking.

“A Hellhound noble?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” Orion said calmly. “Bound to House Ars Goetia. A title recognized not just in the circles of Infernal magic, but… higher places.”

Snape narrowed his eyes slightly.

“He wears a hood in public,” Selene continued. “He will not interfere in her schooling, nor draw attention. But he may send gifts. Letters. Perhaps... more.”

Snape folded his hands behind his back. “And your daughter?”

“She gave consent,” Selene said simply. “And she doesn’t give that lightly.”

Snape’s lip curled into something that might have been respect. “Very well. I will not interfere. But if this... entity causes trouble—”

“He won’t,” Orion said. “In fact, he may elevate her.”

Snape gave a faint nod. “Then I’ll expect the girl’s marks to rise accordingly.”

The Slytherin common room was abuzz with whispers.

Daphne sat elegantly on the emerald green velvet sofa, a black velvet box open in her lap. Within it, nestled in shimmering stardust fabric, lay a pair of earrings shaped like crescent moons forged from obsidian glass, and a necklace made of threads of silver that shimmered as if woven from moonlight itself.

They were not from this world.

The magic clinging to them whispered of starlit towers, forgotten kingdoms, and infernal flames beneath silken restraint.

Every girl nearby stared.

“…Is that enchanted?” one whispered.

“Those earrings are divine-class...” another gasped.

Daphne lifted a small folded note, elegant and written in fine black ink.

*To my future,
For each moment I didn’t know your name,
May these shine with the light I now see you in.

H*

Daphne snorted, then laughed—short and unexpected.

Some girls stared harder.

She looked up, eyes twinkling.

“What? It’s charming. In a slightly dramatic, hell-spawned sort of way.”

None of them dared argue.

In Dumbledore’s office, the mood was anything but charming.

Lily Potter stood tense and furious, her hands clenched at her sides.

James Potter paced behind her in full Auror uniform, jaw tight.

Sirius Black leaned against the desk, eyes narrowed, and Remus Lupin sat in silence, watching Dumbledore with more disappointment than words could capture.

“You left him there,” Lily said coldly. “With them. You told us—assured us—it was best.”

“I believed—” Dumbledore began.

“You didn’t check!” Lily snapped. “For years!”

James growled, “You monitored Elias like royalty. But Hadrian? You let him rot.”

Sirius slammed his fist on the table. “We trusted you.”

Remus finally spoke, voice low. “Do you even know where he is now?”

Dumbledore looked away.

“No,” he admitted.

The room fell silent.

Lily’s voice cracked as she said, “Then we will find him. With or without you.”

In the depths of Hogwarts, Dumbledore stood before the shimmering surface of the Headmaster’s Watch, a magical scrying mirror designed to locate students by name across Britain.

He spoke clearly.

“Hadrian James Potter.”

The surface rippled.

Then went still.

Nothing.

He tried again. Same result.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. “Every child in this land is traceable.”

Behind him, James Potter entered the chamber, face grim. “That’s why I told Madam Bones. She’s issued a quiet investigation. We need to find the Dursleys. They’re not at Number Four anymore.”

Dumbledore paled. “What?”

“They vanished. Months ago. No record. No trace.”

James’s jaw tightened. “My son is missing. And I want him back.”

Hogwarts, Slytherin Common Room....................................

It was one month into the new school year. Dinner had ended. The dungeons were warm with firelight, and the emerald-and-onyx glow of the Slytherin common room danced against the lake-lit glass.

The room was quiet—until several students entered through the portrait gate and froze.

On the long leather couch before the fireplace sat a hooded figure, unmoving, tall for a student’s age. They couldn’t see his face. Just the long black cloak, faint sigils sewn into the hem, and the unmistakable sense of otherness that clung to him like smoke.

A few older students—sixth and seventh years—immediately reached for their wands.

Until Gemma Farrow, a seventh-year prefect, barked, “Wands down. Snape warned us. If he’s here, it’s allowed.”

Cautiously, they obeyed, murmuring among themselves.

Then—Daphne Greengrass stepped through the threshold.

Her steps were sure. Unhurried. She passed by her classmates without a glance, her hand brushing over the back of the couch as the hooded figure rose silently to meet her.

They embraced.

Not a dramatic gesture—but familiar. Comfortable. Private in public.

Mouths hung open.

“…Is that him?” someone whispered.

Daphne smiled faintly, stepping back to speak with the figure in low tones. “You came.”

“You called,” Hadrian answered. His voice was low, smooth, and controlled—but with an unnatural tone that hinted at something not human.

They sat, side by side now. The fire lit the shadows just enough to show faint claws on his fingertips. A flicker of movement revealed a tail, barely hidden beneath his cloak, twitching gently across the rug.

And when he shifted slightly, one of his bare paws hit the floor with a soft pad of flesh against stone.

Someone gasped quietly.

No one dared interrupt.

They just watched as Daphne leaned her head gently against his shoulder.

He turned his hood slightly toward her and asked, “How was class?”

“Fine. We’re already ahead in runes,” she muttered. “Professor Binns is still a floating dust bag.”

He chuckled. “I’m not shocked.”

“I missed talking to you,” she said quietly.

“I missed you too.”

The common room remained silent. As if a myth had stepped into the mundane.

He didn’t stay long—just long enough to speak with her, share warmth, and brush a clawed hand gently against her silver-stitched necklace before rising once again.

And with a quiet pulse of infernal magic, he disappeared through a shadow-stitched portal, leaving the scent of ash and starlight in his wake.

The next morning, the Slytherin dorms were alive with speculation.

“They say she’s being courted by a demon prince.”

“No—he’s a cursed Animagus.”

“He has a tail!”

“Did you see the way he looked at her?”

But Daphne just tucked her necklace beneath her collar, finished her tea, and said nothing.

She didn’t need to explain him.

He was hers.

And soon… the world would understand exactly who Hadrian was.

The Ritual Site.........................................................................

A heavy fog clung to the trees deep in the wilderness where the Midlands met the old forgotten trails—land that had been left to rot, that wizards avoided by instinct and muggles dismissed as “haunted.”

James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin stood at the edge of a blackened clearing, wands drawn, Auror wards flickering at their shoulders.

“We got the coordinates from a Muggle tracker,” James muttered, brushing a branch aside. “Said there were… burnt stones and strange remains. Same area Hadrian vanished.”

Sirius stepped forward into the ruin.

There, in the center of the clearing, was a charred summoning circle, scorched into the earth—almost erased by time, but still powerful enough to leave a taste of wrongness on the air.

Human bones lay scattered—dozens of them. Burned into ash and fragments. The remains of a ritual long finished.

Remus knelt at the edge of the central glyph.

“…No magic,” he whispered. “It’s like… the magic was drained dry. Like something came through and burned the rest out.”

James’s jaw tightened as he scanned the faint, faded sigils. The blood on the stone wall—old and flaking—spoke of willing sacrifice. Fanaticism.

And then he saw the scorch marks at the base of the circle.

Claw prints.

Sirius’s voice was quiet. “Whatever happened here… Hadrian was in the middle of it.”

James didn’t speak. He just gripped his wand tighter.

The Hellhound Prince at Study..............................................

While they searched the ruins of his past, Hadrian stood at the center of a floating ritual ring in one of Hell’s most secure study towers.

Twelve infernal glyphs pulsed around him, rotating slowly midair as he effortlessly controlled their alignment.

Across the room, Stolas Ars Goetia watched with quiet pride.

“You’ve learned the rotating chain spell faster than I expected,” the owl lord said, flipping a page of his personal grimoire. “You know, Hadrian, you’re bordering on being… intimidating.”

Hadrian smirked, his tail flicking once as he manipulated the spell’s weaves with only two claws. “I take that as a compliment.”

“It is,” Stolas replied. “Most demons your age would still be struggling with basic summoning control. And humans… well, they’d be running in circles.”

The chains locked into place with a faint hum, hovering above the glowing sigil circle.

Hadrian stepped back, letting the spell stabilize.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “About balance. Between my power… and my place.”

Stolas raised a brow. “Meaning?”

Hadrian turned, green eyes steady. “The wizarding world doesn’t know who I’ve become. But it will. I want to be ready—not just with spells and strength. But as someone they can’t ignore.”

Stolas nodded. “Then you’ll need more than power. You’ll need presence.”

Hadrian’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Then teach me that too.”

The ritual sight under examination........................................

The reconstruction site was locked down under Department of Mysteries jurisdiction within a day.

Madam Amelia Bones stood at the edge of the old summoning circle, arms crossed as translucent magical projections floated above the blackened earth. They flickered—distorted silhouettes of chanting cultists, ancient symbols igniting, and then… something stepping through. The moment before obliteration.

“We believe the entity summoned was infernal in origin,” said one Unspeakable. “There was no magical trace left, but the psychic burn still clings to the air. Whatever came through, it destroyed everything in a controlled, precise manner.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes. “And the boy?”

“Based on Muggle reports… he was here. That’s where the trail ends.”

She turned to the assembled Ministry officials, eyes hard. “We bury this. No press. No leaks. The public cannot hear about a successful summoning of a Hell entity on British soil. If the truth gets out, we’ll have panic—and worse.”

There was no argument.

Just fear.

And quiet.

The Alley in Hell.......................................................................

Hadrian was on his way back from academy training, walking through the edge of the lower noble sector, robes flowing in the heat of the neon-lit streets. His bag was heavy with grimoires, but he was relaxed—until the smell of blood reached his nose.

Sharp. Copper. Recent.

His ears twitched.

Down the alley, he heard snarling. Kicks. Whimpers.

Three older Hellhounds—smaller horns, brutish builds—surrounded a white-and-grey furred girl barely standing, her clothes torn and blood dripping from her jaw. Her snout was bruised, and her eyes glowed dimly in pain.

Hadrian’s calm faded. His eyes flared.

No.

He stepped forward slowly, silent.

They didn’t see him until it was too late.

The first fell with a solid crack—knocked clean across the alley by Hadrian’s paw slamming into his ribs. The second turned, mouth open to shout—but Hadrian grabbed him by the jaw and flung him backward, straight into a wall. Bricks shattered.

The third tried to run.

He didn’t get far.

Hadrian tackled him, pinned him by the throat, and let his claws hover near his eyes.

“I see you again, hurting someone smaller?” His voice was low. Cold. “You won’t have eyes to see with.”

The Hellhound scrambled away, dragging the others with him, whimpering and bleeding.

Hadrian turned.

The girl was on her knees, clutching her side. Her fur was white and ash-grey, one ear torn, eyes red and wide.

“You alright?” he asked softly.

She looked up at him. “Y-Yeah… I think. I was just walking home. They didn’t like that I barked back.”

He offered her his hand.

She hesitated, then took it.

He pulled her gently to her feet, tail flicking once to steady her balance.

“I’m Hadrian.”

“…Loona,” she mumbled. “Thanks. For saving my ass.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, well. Guess I’m lucky you showed up.”

He nodded, then peeled off his shoulder cloak and draped it gently over her.

“Let’s get you patched up.”

Loona blinked at him. “You some kind of noble or something?”

Hadrian smirked faintly. “Something like that.”

Loona blinked awake in soft candlelight.

Silken sheets rustled under her as she sat up slowly, groaning at the pain in her ribs. Her torn clothes were gone, replaced with a loose black tunic that smelled faintly of lavender and ash. Her wounds had been cleaned, bandaged, and treated with infernal salves.

She looked around in disbelief.

The room was elegant, refined—walls painted in deep obsidian, shelves of ancient books, magical runes carved into the archways for privacy and security. At the far end, beside a smoldering fire pit, sat Hadrian. Quiet. Reading.

“You brought me to your house?” she asked, voice gravelly.

“My room,” Hadrian said, not looking up. “Stolas is fine with it. You were bleeding.”

Loona blinked, sitting back against the pillows. “This is your room?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like a royal tomb.”

He glanced at her with a smirk. “Welcome to nobility.”

She chuckled faintly, then winced. “Still hurts. But… thanks. For not letting me die in an alley.”

“You’re a Hellhound,” he said, more softly. “That matters to me.”

She studied him quietly. “You’re not like the others.”

Hadrian shrugged. “That’s kind of the point.”

The Greengrass Drawing Room.................... ........................

Back in the mortal world, the Greengrass family had received their weekly private correspondence from Daphne—a sealed enchanted letter she wrote late at night in green ink with magical flair only a Slytherin could master.

Selene unrolled it, reading the first few lines aloud.

“Hadrian visited again. He looked tired—but that’s just how he is sometimes. He helped someone. Another Hellhound. A girl named Loona. Brought her to his manor to heal. She’s staying in his room.”

Orion raised a brow. “Another girl?”

Selene glanced at her daughter, who sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping tea.

Daphne didn’t blink.

“Are you upset?” Selene asked carefully.

Daphne smiled, just slightly.

“No,” she said. “Hadrian doesn’t do things by accident. He helped her. She probably needed it.”

“And you’re not jealous?” Orion asked.

Daphne looked up, blue eyes calm. “Should I be?”

They shared a look. She added, more thoughtfully, “Besides. I want to meet her.”

A Knock at the Door................................................................

Back in Hell, Loona was up and walking slowly. Hadrian sat across the room, idly sharpening one of his practice claws with a silver file when a knock echoed through the outer chamber.

He opened the door and found Stolas waiting, a letter in one hand.

“From Daphne,” the owl lord said smoothly. “She sends her regards… and a request.”

Hadrian unfolded the note. It read:

Heard you saved another girl. I’m not mad.
But I want to meet her. Soon. Play nice, my dark knight.
—D

Hadrian blinked, then let out a soft laugh.

Loona, who was halfway through a cup of tea, gave him a curious look. “What’s so funny?”

He turned to her with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You’re going to meet my girlfriend.”

Loona froze. “…What?!”

The Meeting — Manor of Fire and Frost................................

The Greengrass Manor shimmered with layered enchantments, draped in silent elegance and ancient pride. Though it was a peaceful evening, a summoning circle had been prepared in the family drawing room—not out of fear, but because Stolas had politely requested a controlled space for travel.

The moment the circle flared red and violet, the flames parted and Hadrian stepped through—cloaked in black infernal silk, his hood low, runes etched into his cuffs.

Beside him?

Loona.

She wore a sleeveless tunic, her white and grey fur brushed and tied back. Her tail flicked uneasily, and her ears were low. The manor was far too fancy for her liking.

At the far end of the room sat Orion and Selene Greengrass, composed and attentive. To their right, Daphne, dressed in silver-accented emerald robes, rose as Hadrian approached.

She stopped just in front of Loona, lips pressed in a thoughtful line.

“…You’re the one he saved?” Daphne asked.

Loona shifted slightly. “Uh… yeah. Guess I owe him too. Didn’t mean to crash your fancy vampire-castle thing.”

Hadrian cleared his throat. “She was beaten in an alley. Bleeding. I wasn’t going to leave her.”

Daphne tilted her head, studying Loona with cool, calculating eyes.

Then she smiled slightly.

“Fair,” she said simply. “You have good instincts.”

Loona blinked. “Wait, you’re okay with this?”

Daphne turned to her, arms crossed. “He saved my life too. I suppose that makes us… connected. So no—I'm not jealous. But I am curious.”

Selene cleared her throat softly, reminding them of the adults present.

“Miss Loona,” she said, “you’re welcome in our home. We value those Hadrian protects, though it is… unusual to host a second bonded soul.”

Loona looked panicked. “I’m not bonded! I swear—I’m not trying to—like—steal him or anything!”

Orion raised an amused eyebrow. “Relax, girl. You’re not on trial.”

Hadrian sighed. “This is why I don’t do introductions.”

Daphne gave him a knowing smirk. “And yet you’re here.”

The Trail Grows Warmer........................................................

Elsewhere, far from the comfort of noble drawing rooms, Sirius Black and Remus Lupin walked the cracked road near the ritual site once more—wandlights sweeping across the overgrown path.

“Been tracking residual magic all week,” Sirius muttered. “Most of it’s dead, burned out.”

“But this isn’t,” Remus said, crouching beside a stone covered in old ash.

It bore the faint shimmer of infernal glyphs, nearly erased but still detectable with the right enchantments.

Sirius squinted. “Is that Hellscript?”

“I think so,” Remus said. “And look here—claw marks.”

They stood up slowly.

Sirius’s voice was low. “What if he’s not just missing? What if he’s somewhere… else?”

Remus didn’t answer.

Because deep down, he feared Sirius was right.