Hellbound

Ministry of Magic — The Request That Shook the Foundation

The sealed envelope arrived with magical precision, bearing a triple-crest in deep infernal black wax: the insignia of House Goetia, the Greengrass sigil, and a Hellhound seal, scorched into the corner like a brand.

The letter was addressed to: Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge
Wizengamot Chairholders
Headmaster Albus Dumbledore

It read:

> To whom it concerns,

I, Hadrian of House Goetia, heir to the Infernal Court of Pride, formally request public recognition under the Interrealm Pact Clause of 1317 and the Ministry's Unified Binding Law.

The soulbond between myself and Daphne Greengrass, daughter of Unspeakables Orion and Selene Greengrass, is to be acknowledged as legitimate and active.

Additionally, I claim Loona, Hellhound of the Pride Ring, as my second bonded. Both are protected under my household’s infernal accords and will operate within mortal territory under my direct supervision.

As bonded partners, both shall appear publicly at Hogwarts. My presence on school grounds will be in Hellhound form, as is my right by lineage and station. The school’s protections must acknowledge me as a noble guest, not a threat.

This notice is not a request for permission—it is a declaration of status. Attempts to interfere will be interpreted as violations of interrealm neutrality.

Cordially,
—Hadrian, Heir of Pride

When Fudge finished reading, he looked as if he might pass out.

Dumbledore said nothing—his jaw was clenched too tightly to form words.

One elder Wizengamot member whispered:

"There’s going to be fire…”

Later that evening, in the garden pavilion beneath the dusk-colored sky, Daphne sat reading when Hadrian approached.

She looked up, sensing something weighty in his presence.

He said nothing at first, merely offering her a folded scroll—less official than the Ministry’s, but no less meaningful.

She opened it.

The header was burned into the parchment:

Declaration of Formal Courtship – House Goetia

She read the rest. It was short, bold, and absolute.

When she looked up, her usually calm eyes had widened slightly. “You’re… announcing this at Hogwarts?”

“I am,” Hadrian said evenly. “It’s time.”

“And… you’ll stay in Hellhound form?”

“Yes. No more hiding. I will walk beside you as what I am. Proudly.”

Daphne didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then she carefully set the parchment down beside her.

And she smiled—not with amusement, not with restraint.

“You really don’t hold back, do you?”

Hadrian tilted his head. “Would you want me to?”

She stepped forward and pressed her forehead gently against his, her Hellhound aura flickering into sight for just a second.

“No,” she whispered. “Not even a little.”

The door to Daphne’s room clicked shut with a soft hum of protective wards. The dim lighting bathed the space in a soft amber glow, and the scent of ashwood incense curled in the corners of the room like a sigh.

Hadrian stood near the edge of her bed, his Hellhound form flickering at the edges—shadowy paws, glowing eyes, a slight growl in his throat that wasn’t anger, just energy barely restrained.

Daphne’s eyes met his—sharp, glimmering.

No words passed.

She stepped forward and, with a soft shimmer of power, shifted into her Hellhound form—her white and grey coat catching the light, her golden eyes glowing with pride and something deeper.

And then she kissed him.

Not gentle. Not soft.

Fierce. Raw. Grateful.

For everything he’d just done—for the declaration, for the future, for claiming her without shame.

Hadrian didn’t resist. His claws tangled in her jacket, her hands buried in his dark coat as they lost themselves in the moment—two wolves caught in the same storm.

They collapsed onto the bed, still tangled up in each other, lips bruised, hearts racing.

Eventually, the fire softened. The urgency settled.

Daphne lay on top of him, her head resting beneath his chin, their forms half-shifted—tails lazily flicking, ears twitching slightly in contentment.

Hadrian’s arms held her close, his fingers tracing lazy circles along her back.

No more hiding.

No more pretending.

Just them.

Bonded.

The room was still now, filled only with the quiet sound of slowed heartbeats and soft, steady breaths.

Daphne, draped across Hadrian’s chest, her Hellhound form flickering at the edges, nuzzled into the space beneath his jaw. Her tail, silver-tipped and glowing faintly, curled possessively along his side.

His arms were around her—steady, warm, unbreakable.

For a long while, neither of them spoke.

Then Daphne stirred slightly, lifting her head just enough to meet his eyes.

There was no trace of her usual guarded composure. She looked at him like no one else existed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse from emotion, not exhaustion. “For all of it. For choosing me. For making it real.”

Hadrian brushed his fingers through the white streak in her hair, claws gentle.

“You were always real,” he said quietly. “I’m just making sure they can’t ignore it anymore.”

Daphne smiled, eyes glowing golden.

“Good. Because it’s time the rest of them back off. All of them.”

“No more posturing. No more gifts. No more arrogant boys thinking I’ll melt for attention.”

Her lips brushed his again—slow, deliberate.

“They’ll see me with you. With us.”

“And they’ll finally understand what it means to be claimed by a Hellhound.”

Hadrian grinned, his own eyes burning brighter.

“They’ll learn.”

The Ministry Responds — Recognition and Unease

The letter had arrived that morning, bearing the official seal of the Minister for Magic and four separate departmental approvals.

Daphne opened it carefully with Hadrian at her side, Loona leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and Astoria curiously peeking over the edge of the table.

The parchment was crisp, the ink glimmering faintly with Ministry-binding magic.

> To House Greengrass and House Goetia (Recognized Infernal Authority),

The Ministry of Magic acknowledges the legitimacy of the soulbond between Daphne A. Greengrass and Hadrian of House Goetia, heir to the Pride Ring of Hell, under Clause 227-B of the Cross-Realm Accord.

We recognize the presence of a second bonded, Loona, designated Hellhound under Hadrian's direct protection.
Their presence at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been noted and accepted under conditional terms of neutrality and non-interference.

We trust the school will make appropriate security preparations.

—Minister Cornelius Fudge

The parchment curled softly at the edges.

Loona scoffed. “Non-interference. Cute.”

Daphne glanced at Hadrian, who didn’t smile. “They’re afraid,” he said.

“Good,” Loona replied.

King's Cross Station — Departure Day.................................

The Muggle platform buzzed with the usual chaos: children running under luggage carts, owls hooting from travel cages, parents waving farewell with tears or sighs.

But tucked into the center of it, surrounded by the inconspicuous glamour of noble discretion, stood Hadrian, Daphne, Loona, and Astoria.

Hadrian and Loona both wore high-collared cloaks, hoods drawn low to obscure their features. Beneath the cloth, Hellfire flickered faintly in their eyes, suppressed but never gone.

Daphne was composed, dressed impeccably, her wand holstered at her wrist, her expression calm but alert. She held her sister’s hand.

Astoria, excited but well-behaved, wore a small satchel with charmed runes stitched into the sides—Greengrass protection runes mixed with one Hellhound sigil, gifted by Hadrian himself.

Selene and Orion stood nearby, their farewells brief but meaningful.

“You’ve made it this far,” her father murmured to Daphne. “Make sure they see you for what you are now.”

“I intend to,” she said.

Hadrian stepped beside her, their shoulders brushing through the layers of enchanted fabric.

Loona ruffled Astoria’s hair. “You’ve got my number. If anyone’s mean to you, I’ll bury them in their own trunk.”

Astoria grinned. “Promise?”

“Double.”

As the red steam engine of the Hogwarts Express gave its first whistle, the four of them moved toward the train.

Around them, whispers already began.

“Who are they?”

“Is that the Greengrass girl? Who’s with her?”

“Those two—are they in masks?”

Daphne’s voice was low as she leaned in toward Hadrian.

“Let them whisper. You’ll silence them soon enough.”

Hadrian didn’t answer.

But the growl in his throat was not unfriendly.

It was hungry.

The Hogwarts Express – Shadows in a Carriage

The train rocked gently as it rolled through the countryside, red steam trailing behind it like a warning flare across the sky.

In one of the middle carriages, Daphne Greengrass, elegant and composed, sat beside Astoria, who had her nose buried in a magical puzzle book. Across from them, two cloaked figures sat silent: Hadrian and Loona, hoods drawn low, neither speaking.

The runes on their collars pulsed softly—barely noticeable to most, but those sensitive to power could feel the weight behind them. The carriage felt warmer. Denser.

A knock came at the door.

It opened slightly—just enough for a familiar voice to call inside.

“Daphne?”

Tracey Davis, bright-eyed and always nosy, peeked through with two older Slytherin girls at her side.

“Is it true you’re traveling with your… uh, ‘bonded’?”

Daphne didn’t rise or flinch. She simply said, “Yes.”

Tracey hesitated, staring at the cloaked figures. “And who’s the other one?”

“A friend,” Loona replied coolly, not looking up.

The voice made Tracey pause. Something in it wasn’t human.

Hadrian finally lifted his head slightly—just enough for glowing gold eyes to flash from beneath the hood.

“Tracey,” he said calmly. “It’s good to meet you.”

The three girls stood stunned.

Tracey cleared her throat quickly. “We’ll just—um—see you at the feast!”

The door slid shut with a soft hiss.

Daphne smirked. “They’ll be gossiping by the next corridor.”

Loona stretched lazily. “Let them. We’re going to own the room anyway.”

Far ahead at Hogwarts Castle, Albus Dumbledore moved briskly through the stone corridors of the Ministry’s field office, the urgency in his step uncharacteristic.

“This arrival could cause panic,” he muttered. “We need additional safeguards. Aurors, trained eyes.”

Madam Bones stood by the fireplace, arms folded. “You’re lucky I was already considering security due to the Tournament. But this confirms it. I’ll authorize a team.”

“I want discretion,” Dumbledore insisted. “We don’t need to escalate—just manage.”

Bones narrowed her eyes. “Then you’ll be happy to know who volunteered.”

From behind her, stepping out of the shadow of the fireplace—

James Potter.

His robes were trimmed in Auror silver, his wand already sheathed at his side. His face unreadable.

“I’ll be there before the train arrives,” he said simply.

Dumbledore hesitated. “You’re sure about this?”

James nodded.

Before the Great Hall – Private Interrogation........................

The torches flickered in the entry corridor, their flames dancing in the cool evening draft as the castle doors closed behind the last students.

Just before the first-years were ushered in by Hagrid, Professor McGonagall stood in front of the three cloaked figures with a tight jaw and sharp eyes. Her wand hand rested at her side—not drawn, but ready.

Daphne stood calmly between them, her robes pristine, posture perfect.

Hadrian and Loona stood just behind her, their hoods still drawn, silent as statues.

“Miss Greengrass,” McGonagall said crisply, “these two companions of yours—do they plan to enter Hogwarts in disguise?”

“They do not plan to disrupt the ceremony,” Daphne answered politely. “They are here by formal Ministry acknowledgment. Their paperwork should have been filed.”

“It has,” McGonagall confirmed, not blinking. “Which is the only reason I am speaking to you calmly and not sounding an alert.”

She turned slightly toward the cloaked figures. “Names, please.”

Hadrian’s voice was quiet, but powerful enough to fill the corridor.

“Hadrian.”

Loona added coolly, “Loona.”

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed. “You two are to reveal yourselves only after the first-years are seated. Do I make myself clear?”

Hadrian nodded once. “Understood.”

McGonagall paused—her instincts prickling. There was something ancient about the boy’s voice. Something wrong and right at the same time.

“I expect order,” she said, steely. “Not spectacle.”

Daphne’s voice was soft but firm. “Order will be maintained, Professor. But change… is inevitable.”

McGonagall’s lips pressed into a line. “Very well. You may wait just inside the Hall’s arch until the Sorting is done.”

She turned on her heel, cloak sweeping behind her, and strode back to prepare the ceremony.

Hadrian glanced to Daphne, and she offered the faintest smirk.

“She handled that better than expected.”

The Great Hall was glowing with floating candles and the soft shimmer of starlight overhead. House banners swayed gently in a breeze that didn’t exist, and the long tables buzzed with whispers as returning students greeted each other across house lines.

At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass sat with her back straight, composed as ever.

To her left and right… two empty seats.

Elias Potter, seated near the center of the Gryffindor table, noticed immediately. He nudged Ron, eyes narrowing.

“She’s alone,” he muttered. “Weird.”

Across the room, Draco Malfoy had spotted it too. His eyes flicked toward Daphne, then to the vacant spaces beside her. His lip curled, but he said nothing.

Then the Sorting Hat was placed on the stool.

The Hall fell quiet.

The Hat opened its brim, and its deep, ageless voice filled the air:

“Once again we sort the brave, the wise,
The cunning, kind, and loyal ties.

But be you warned, young witches, wands and wits,*
This year brings more than student fits.*

For ancient flames now walk these floors,*
With fire from beyond your doors.*

So light your minds and steel your hearts,*
The Infernal Two shall play their parts.”*

The Hall was dead silent.

Even the staff exchanged tense glances. Professor Flitwick looked puzzled. Sprout frowned. Snape merely narrowed his eyes toward the empty seats beside Daphne.

And Dumbledore?

He sat still… but his knuckles were white around the arms of his chair.

At the Gryffindor table, Elias leaned forward slowly. “Infernal… two?”

Then the Sorting resumed—but the tone had shifted.

Everyone was listening now.

Everyone was watching.

And Daphne… smiled faintly to herself.

The last first-year was Sorted and seated. The enchanted ceiling above flickered with the silver of early autumn stars, while the hall hummed with the restless energy of something different in the air.

At the Gryffindor table, Elias Potter sat between Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, arms folded, brow furrowed. “She still hasn’t explained those empty seats,” he muttered, nodding toward Daphne Greengrass.

Hermione glanced that way. “Maybe her soulbond is finally arriving,” she said quietly, lips pressed in thought.

Ron just mumbled, “Probably some greasy seventh-year trying to show off.”

The murmurs fell silent when Dumbledore rose from his seat at the staff table.

His voice, though calm, carried a strange tension beneath the surface.

“Before we begin the feast, a few important announcements must be made.”

All eyes turned.

“As many of you are aware, this year Hogwarts is honored to host the Triwizard Tournament—a competition of ancient tradition and great challenge. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will join us shortly, and students above the age of seventeen may submit their names for consideration.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the Hall.

Then Dumbledore raised a hand, voice tightening ever so slightly.

“I must also acknowledge, by order of the Ministry and ancient magical law, the presence of two recognized infernal figures under soulbond with a Hogwarts student—Miss Daphne Greengrass.”

“These individuals have been reviewed, registered, and granted access to the castle and its protections. They are not to be provoked, harassed, or challenged. Their presence is not merely permitted—it is bound by law.”

A breathless silence followed.

And then Dumbledore added:

“They may now reveal themselves.”

The doors creaked open.

Hadrian and Loona stepped through.

Both were cloaked, tall, poised, silhouettes of contained storm.

They paused just inside the Hall, then in perfect synch, raised their hands and lowered their hoods.

Gasps echoed from every corner.

Glowing golden eyes. Shadow-born ears. The glint of clawed fingers and the unmistakable presence of something not fully human.

Two Hellhounds.

Walking side by side toward the Slytherin table.

They passed stunned students, wide-eyed teachers, and more than a few dropped forks.

They stopped beside Daphne, who was already watching them with open calm.

Loona sat on her right.

Hadrian on her left.

And together, the three of them stared forward—unbothered, unchallenged.

Elias leaned forward slowly, heart pounding.

“That's…”

“…not possible,” Hermione whispered.

Ron’s hand was halfway to his wand.

And Dumbledore, for the first time in years, looked like someone who had underestimated the fire he invited in.

The enchanted platters filled the long tables with roasted meats, charmed vegetables, and golden goblets brimming with pumpkin juice and spiced wine—but the students barely touched their food.

They were too busy staring.

At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass sat perfectly composed between two living shadows. On her left, Hadrian—Hellhound Prince, his wolfish snout and golden eyes glowing beneath the candlelight. On her right, Loona, relaxed but alert, every motion sleek and predatory.

Daphne looked small between them—human—but that only seemed to highlight the strange authority she carried. She was theirs, and they were hers, bound in flame and blood and law.

More than one whisper passed down the length of every House table.

At Slytherin, Draco Malfoy had gone visibly pale, fork clutched tightly in his fingers.

His eyes were locked on Hadrian’s face—on the white fangs, the black muzzle, the stillness. The kind of stillness you saw just before a predator leapt.

Across the hall, a group of seventh-year boys had their eyes on Loona—especially the way her Hellhound form curled over powerful limbs, how her striking curves and fierce energy made her look far older than her fourteen years.

Hadrian’s ears flicked.

Loona’s did too.

Neither of them looked. But they were listening.

And just visible under the folds of their collars were the glowing chokers—each one engraved with Lucifer Morningstar’s sigil, humming faintly with infernal energy.

Symbols of ownership. Of protection. Of power.

At the staff table, Lily Potter stared across the room, frozen in place. Her hand hovered over her goblet, untouched.

Beside her, James Potter leaned in, whispering tightly, “Do you think…?”

Lily didn’t respond.

Because her eyes were fixed on the male Hellhound. The one whose presence made the shadows curve around him. The one whose ears twitched at the sound of his name.

The one whose face, underneath the monstrous lines and infernal form…

The Great Hall had returned to its usual rhythm—at least on the surface.

Plates refilled, goblets shimmered, the Sorting Hat had been taken away—but the atmosphere had shifted. Students whispered behind their hands, stealing glances toward the Slytherin table, where three figures sat like something out of prophecy.

Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne ate quietly, unfazed by the eyes on them.

Loona tore into roast venison with sharp precision, her Hellhound form relaxed but watchful. Hadrian used his claws with surprising elegance, slicing and lifting his food with practiced, patient control. Daphne, ever composed, sipped her drink and let the silence grow thick around them.

And then—

“So… who are you, exactly?”

The voice came from across the table—sharp, curious, and far braver than most.

Tracey Davis.

Her tone wasn’t cruel. Just bold. Blunt.

All heads nearby turned, holding their breath.

Hadrian didn’t look up right away. He finished chewing, wiped his claws calmly on the napkin, and set it aside.

Then he lifted his gaze—golden and glowing, steady as moonlight on water—and replied in a tone so normal, it was unsettling.

“Name’s Hadrian.”

Tracey blinked. “Hadrian… what?”

He offered a slight, knowing smile.

“Just Hadrian. For now.”

A ripple passed down the table.

Someone whispered, “That’s not a real name.”

“Sounds more real than yours,” Loona muttered without looking up.

A few younger years stifled laughs.

Daphne cut in, voice like ice wrapped in silk. “He’s bonded to me. That’s all anyone here needs to know.”

Across the Hall, Lily Potter sat frozen.

She’d heard the name.

Heard the voice.

Felt something in her chest twist.

Beside her, James noticed the change.

“You alright?”

“I… I’m fine,” she said.

But she wasn’t.

And neither was Dumbledore, whose twinkling gaze had dimmed with something deeper—recognition.

The feast had ended, and the students were being guided to their dormitories under the watchful eyes of their Prefects and Heads of House.

But not everyone left the Great Hall.

At the staff table, Dumbledore stood, his face unreadable.

He turned to Professor McGonagall, who had remained tense through the entire Sorting and dinner.

“Minerva,” he said quietly, “would you escort Miss Greengrass and her companions to my office?”

She stiffened slightly. “You plan to question them?”

“I plan,” Dumbledore replied, “to understand them.”

A few feet away, James and Lily Potter had stepped forward.

“We’d like to be present,” James said, eyes flicking briefly toward the Slytherin table.

Lily didn’t speak—her focus was pinned on the cloaked boy who called himself Hadrian. Something about his voice had carved ice through her heart. Her mother’s instinct was screaming.

Dumbledore hesitated, but then gave a slow nod. “Very well. Quietly. No accusations.”

Back at the Slytherin table, Hadrian stood just as the hall began to clear.

Loona rose with him, her tail flicking slightly as she turned to glance over the shifting crowd.

Daphne remained seated, but her hand brushed his as he moved.

McGonagall arrived swiftly, nodding once.

“Mr. Hadrian. Miss Loona. The Headmaster would like to speak with you in his office. Now, if you please.”

Hadrian tilted his head slightly.

“Of course.”

He turned to Daphne. “I won’t be long.”

She nodded, watching them go with a look that said: Be careful.

The spiral staircase moved slowly, torches lighting with a dim glow as Hadrian and Loona followed McGonagall in silence.

Dumbledore, Lily, and James stood waiting as the doors opened.

Hadrian entered with calm steps, hood still down. His glowing eyes swept the room.

Loona followed, hands in her pockets, her stance alert.

“Thank you for joining us,” Dumbledore said, voice soft. “We only have a few questions, if you’re willing.”

Hadrian stepped forward until he stood across from them, only a few feet away.

Then, calmly:

"You already suspect who I am.
So ask.”

The fire flickered in the hearth, casting tall shadows against the curved stone walls. The phoenix in the corner stirred, letting out a single, low note as tension thickened in the air.

Hadrian stood across from Lily, James, and Dumbledore—Loona beside him, arms crossed and yellow eyes narrowed. Her presence made the room feel tighter. More dangerous.

James stepped forward first, hands slightly outstretched.

“Harry—”

“Hadrian.”

The correction was sharp, final. The air in the room shifted.

Lily’s throat bobbed. Her eyes—red-rimmed—searched his face. “We didn’t know what Dumbledore had planned. We were told it was best for the prophecy—”

Hadrian cut her off, his voice not loud, but impossibly heavy.

“You left me in a cupboard. With Muggles who starved me. Beat me.
I didn’t need a prophecy to tell me what that meant.”

Neither of them spoke.

He let the silence stretch before continuing.

“But I survived. Because he found me.”

Loona leaned slightly forward, her grin low and dangerous.

“Tell them who, Hadrian.”

Hadrian looked Dumbledore directly in the eye.

“I was there when a group of foolish men summoned the King of Pride. Lucifer Morningstar.”

“They died.”

“He looked at me—and gave me a choice.”

James paled. Dumbledore gripped the edge of his desk.

“I accepted. I left behind your world. Your war. Your games.”

“And I was raised—trained—by one of the most powerful noble families of Hell. I am the heir of Pride. I bear the mark of House Goetia.”

Loona smirked. “You should see the way Sinners scream when they hear his steps.”

Hadrian went on.

“I patrol the streets of Hell. I hunt the lawless.
I kill those who violate infernal law and bring order where demons fear to tread.”

His eyes glowed brighter, fire pulsing in his veins.

“I didn’t come back for you.”

He glanced to the side—just briefly.

“I came back because I saved someone. A girl. And in doing so, I bound myself to this world again.”

His tone softened only a fraction.

“Daphne.”

James looked shattered.

Lily whispered, “We wanted to say sorry…”

Hadrian stared at them.

“Apology accepted.”

Then his jaw set.

“But not forgotten.”

Dumbledore stood motionless behind his desk, fingers gently steepled, eyes no longer twinkling. For the first time in years, the old man looked uncertain.

Across from him, Hadrian met his gaze without hesitation, without fear. Loona leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed, exuding calm control beneath her sharp smirk.

The silence hung heavy.

“Why now?” Dumbledore finally asked. “Why return to us after so long?”

Hadrian's voice came low, steady, with the weight of prophecy in its edge.
“Because the world is cracking open again.”

“I spoke with Stolas before I came. He’s many things—but never wrong when it comes to the skies above or the darkness below.”

He stepped forward, just enough for the shadows to cling tighter around him.

> “He told me this year will mark the return of Voldemort —starting with the attack on the Quidditch World Cup.”

“That was the beginning. The rest… will be far worse.”

Dumbledore’s lips pressed together, his knuckles tightening on the desk.

“You believe this is prophecy?”

Hadrian’s eyes glowed faintly.

“No. I believe it’s a cycle. One that’s started again—and this time, I’m not watching from the sidelines.”

“I will walk the halls. I will sit in your classrooms. But not as your student.”

He let the fire behind his words crackle just a little brighter.

“I’ve already graduated. In Hell. Where my lessons burned and my teachers bled.”

Loona smirked. “He graduated top of his class, too.”

Dumbledore glanced her way—his voice wary. “And you?”

She pushed off the wall, golden eyes flaring.

“I’ll be staying. Watching over Astoria Greengrass. Sitting with her in lessons, shadowing her when I can. I won’t interfere with your teaching.”

Her gaze sharpened.

“Unless something tries to hurt her.”

The threat in her voice was soft—but unmistakable.

James shifted uncomfortably. Lily remained silent, torn between awe and guilt.

Dumbledore studied them both a moment longer, then gave a slight nod. “Very well. But understand—this school is still under my protection.”

Hadrian’s lips curved—not in amusement, but in something darker.

“Then protect it better than last time.”

Without another word, he turned and left, Loona right behind him.

The castle halls were quiet at night. Paintings watched in silence as Hadrian and Loona descended toward the Slytherin dorms.

As they reached the familiar dungeon corridor, Loona muttered, “You think he bought it?”

Hadrian’s voice was grim.
“He doesn’t have a choice.”

They reached the common room entrance. The door recognized them without a password—magic knew magic—and let them through.

Inside, Daphne was waiting, seated by the fire.

She rose the moment they stepped in.

Loona gave her a grin. “We didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yet,” Hadrian added under his breath.

Daphne crossed the room and took Hadrian’s hand.

“Welcome home.”

The fireplace in the Slytherin common room crackled softly, casting golden light over the deep green stones and glassy shadows. Daphne, Loona, and Hadrian sat near the fire, close together, speaking in quiet tones.

Loona leaned back lazily, one boot propped on the table’s edge. Daphne’s posture was refined, but there was a glint in her eye that hadn't been there before the summer. And Hadrian… Hadrian radiated stillness, the kind that made even the flickering flames seem to hesitate.

Then the heavy echo of footsteps.

Draco Malfoy.

He strode into the room like he still believed in his father’s name, in his status, in his right to judge the company of others.

He stopped a few feet from them, jaw tight, fists clenched.

“I don’t believe this. Daphne Greengrass, of all people, bonded to not one—but two infernal monsters. You’ve disgraced your name.”

The room stilled. Eyes turned. Whispers hushed.

Snape, standing with the house prefects nearby, didn’t move. But his shadow lengthened along the wall, watching.

Daphne slowly stood, but Hadrian rose first—elegant, dangerous, deliberate.

His Hellhound form shifted just enough for his eyes to glow, for his fangs to flash, for the heat of Pride’s fire to leak into the room.

“Funny,” Hadrian said coolly, “coming from a boy whose father danced on the graves of war victims and sold spells to Death Eaters.”

Draco’s face flushed. “You—!”

Hadrian stepped closer, his voice low but sharp enough to slice bone.

> “Lucius Malfoy—blackmailer, trafficker, blood bigot, and coward. Currently under infernal investigation for crimes against the realms.

Guess who’s already on the black list of registered sinners? You, Draco.”

Draco’s eyes widened, and something ancient stirred in Hadrian’s presence—Hell recognizing prey.

“You’ll be dragged down when your time comes. And down there, names mean nothing. Only power.”

The air cracked with infernal pressure.

“Now kneel, little heir. Before you embarrass your house further.”

Draco’s lips parted—whether to speak or protest, no one knew.

But his knees buckled.

Without a word, without a spell, his body moved, spine arching, head bowing low, trembling before Hadrian.

The room was silent.

Snape raised an eyebrow. The prefects took an unconscious step back.

Hadrian looked down at him—then flicked his gaze away, dismissive.

“Good dog.”

He turned back to his companions.

Daphne’s expression was unreadable.

Loona let out a soft snort. “That was hot.”

The fire crackled louder now, as if the flames themselves leaned in to listen.

Draco Malfoy knelt, trembling on the cold stone floor beneath the heavy weight of Hadrian’s gaze. The glowing golden eyes above him burned with something far older than anger—authority, born of realms Draco had never dared imagine.

Around the room, not a single Slytherin spoke.

Not even Snape moved.

Loona looked almost amused. Daphne, beside Hadrian, said nothing—letting him act without interference. This was his moment.

Hadrian’s voice was low, layered with something not entirely human.

“Draco Malfoy. What is your deepest desire?”

Draco lifted his head slightly, lips parted, as though pulled by invisible threads. His eyes moved slowly—from the Hellhound ears, to the fang-lined muzzle, down Hadrian’s powerful frame and coiled stance, tail flicking lazily behind him.

And then—he spoke.

“To… ravish you.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them—drawn from some exposed, trembling corner of his soul that Hell had peeled open like wet parchment.

Gasps broke across the room.

Even Snape blinked.

Draco's eyes widened a heartbeat later, realizing what he’d just said—out loud. His entire body flushed, ears burning crimson.

> “I— I didn’t—!”

Loona burst out laughing, sharp and feral.

Hadrian’s expression remained unchanged.

Draco knelt.

The weight of Hadrian’s presence bore down on him like a curse whispered from beneath the earth. Around them, the room had fallen silent, students frozen in awe or disbelief.

Hadrian tilted his head slowly, watching the shame and desire wage war on Draco’s face.

“To… ravish you.”

The words slipped from Draco’s lips—his truth laid bare.

The fire didn’t flicker—it flared.

Loona let out a sharp laugh. Daphne’s eyes narrowed. But Hadrian didn’t react with mockery or rage.

Instead, he stepped forward.

Power curled around his claws like smoke. The infernal magic of Hell’s judgment began to hum just beneath the surface.

“Then I will grant you your desire.”

Draco looked up, confused.

Hadrian reached forward—not with violence, but with command—and gently touched two fingers to Draco’s forehead.

A small rune, faint and red-hot, burned into the air for a moment.

And then vanished.

Draco gasped, falling back onto his heels, trembling as something inside him shifted.

His hands twitched. His breathing changed. His voice cracked as his magic flared briefly, uncontrolled.

Hadrian’s voice was calm. Icy.

“You wanted to be mine. But I don’t take male lovers.”

“So I gave you a path. One that aligns with what your desire revealed—one that reflects who you truly are beneath the mask Lucius forced you to wear.”

He turned away as Draco clutched his chest, skin tingling, hair lengthening ever so slightly, bone structure subtly adjusting in ways that no one else quite noticed—yet.

“Your changes will come slowly,” Hadrian added, “unless you resist. If you embrace it… you may yet become someone worthy of your own truth.”

Loona stared. “You’re giving him a gender shift spell?”

“Not a spell,” Hadrian replied, calmly taking his seat again. “A gift. And a warning.”

“In Hell, desire always comes with a price.”

Draco remained kneeling, dazed, body trembling—not in pain, but in a kind of awakening.

And every Slytherin who saw it would remember this night forever.

As the infernal weight lifted from the air, Hadrian returned to his seat beside Daphne, calm and composed. Loona smirked behind a cup of chilled cider, tail lazily flicking.

Draco, still kneeling, finally gasped and stumbled backward, clutching his chest. His breathing came sharp and shallow, and though no outward wound was visible, something was clearly wrong.

Whispers erupted from all corners of the common room.

A burst of laughter echoed near the fireplace. “Did he curse him?”

Another student whispered, “I think his hair got longer—did you see that?!”

Snape stormed forward like a thundercloud breaking loose.

He caught Draco under one arm and helped him upright, though the boy’s eyes were unfocused and his limbs slightly… off. His balance was strange. The weight of his body no longer aligned perfectly as it had moments before.

Snape's voice was a low snarl.

“What did you do to him?”

Hadrian didn’t look up.

“Gave him what he wanted. He should be thanking me.”

Snape’s nostrils flared. “This isn’t your domain, beast. You don’t get to tamper with my students.”

Loona stood slowly. “Careful with your tone, Professor.”

Daphne stepped in before tensions could spark.

“He’s under Ministry protection, Professor Snape. As is Draco, now—at least medically. I suggest you let Madam Pomfrey determine what was actually done… before making accusations you can’t afford.”

Snape’s glare lingered another second before he turned sharply and barked, “Everyone out of the way!”

He marched Draco toward the portrait, dragging the dazed Slytherin through murmurs, laughter, and widening eyes.

The sterile air of the infirmary buzzed with the hum of diagnostic charms.

Draco Malfoy lay motionless on the bed, his breathing shallow, his eyes locked on the ceiling. He hadn’t spoken a single word since being brought in by Professor Snape.

Madam Pomfrey stood at the foot of the bed, her wand held stiffly in hand. The magical chart hovering beside Draco flickered and shifted, glowing softly with arcane runes and analysis scripts.

She stared at the readout—once, then again—then blinked and looked more closely.

Then she paled.

“This… isn’t possible.”

Snape stepped forward, his voice low. “What did you find?”

Pomfrey hesitated, lips tightening.

“His vitals are stable. His magical channels are adapting to something infernal in nature—old magic.

But the diagnostic matrix… it’s flagged his gender listing as female.”

Snape froze.

“You’re saying…”

“Whatever the Hellhound did—it didn’t just punish him. It rewrote something fundamental. Slowly. Quietly. It’s not just a curse, Severus. It’s a transmutation tied to intent and desire.”

Snape stared at Draco—who still lay pale and silent, chest slowly rising and falling. Not crying. Not panicking.

Just… still.

And yet…

Pomfrey said softly, “He hasn't denied it. And he hasn't tried to resist it.”

Moments later, Snape entered the office with a bang of the doors.

“Draco Malfoy’s been changed,” he said, straight to the point. “And not just magically.”

Dumbledore stood slowly. “How bad?”

Snape, still pale from the shock, answered flatly.

“Pomfrey’s diagnostics list his gender as female.”

The room went utterly silent.

“Hadrian didn’t hex him. He touched his forehead. A symbol appeared. And now it’s rewriting him. All because the boy spoke his desire out loud.”

Dumbledore looked haunted, whispering:

“That wasn’t a curse… It was a sentence.”

The door slammed open as Snape stormed in with Draco just behind him—slightly hunched, pale, and oddly silent. His steps weren’t wrong, exactly… but they were different.

Eyes turned.

The common room hushed again.

And Snape was furious.

“What in Merlin’s name possessed you to make such a declaration in front of a Hellhound?! In front of a court-bound infernal heir?!”

Draco flinched but said nothing, just clenched his jaw and looked away.

Snape paced, his voice growing colder. “You don’t challenge something like him. You don’t provoke a creature whose magic is older than curses and tied to truth.”

His eyes flicked to Draco, voice lowering with sharp finality.

“He didn’t hex you. He judged you. And now you’ll live with what you’ve invited.”

Draco didn’t respond.

He just moved toward his dormitory—quiet, head lowered—under the watchful eyes of every Slytherin in the room.

In one of the sealed side chambers, now claimed for Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne, a large four-poster bed dominated the space. Dark green and black fabrics curled in enchanted patterns along the ceiling. Wards shimmered softly on the stone walls.

They’d been briefed already—Dumbledore’s rules. No wandering after curfew. No threatening students. No use of infernal power in common areas.

Loona had rolled her eyes at half the list.

Hadrian sat now with one leg stretched out, shirt off, running a clawed hand over one of the runes burned into his chest. Daphne sat beside him, brushing her fingers through his black mane, while Loona lounged with one leg over the side of the bed, tail flicking lazily.

A knock came at the door.

Then another.

Three prefects stepped in, hesitant.

“Um…” one of them began, “we’re not here to challenge anything—just… curious.”

The second girl added quickly, “What exactly did you do to Draco?”

Hadrian didn’t even look up.

“Gave him what he asked for.”

The third—a tall sixth-year—blinked. “But… he’s turning into a girl.”

“Desire has a price,” Hadrian replied flatly. “I didn’t force it on him. I reflected it back.”

Loona chuckled. “Hell’s magic doesn’t lie. If it’s changing him, it’s because there’s truth in what he said—whether he meant to say it or not.”

Daphne finally spoke, her tone even.

“He asked to dominate a predator. The magic made him submit to his own truth instead.”

The prefects glanced at each other, slowly processing that.

The first one muttered, “Remind me never to flirt with you.”

Hadrian smirked.

“Smart choice.”

The first rays of cold morning light filtered dimly into the Slytherin common room through the enchanted green-tinged windows. Shadows shifted with the tide outside, casting soft ripples of light on the stone floor.

On the common room couch, Hadrian sat alone, posture relaxed, arms resting across the backrest. His eyes glowed faintly beneath his loose hood, watching the dormitory entrance without moving a muscle.

He was already dressed, polished black coat buckled and adorned with subtle silver clasps. The Hellhound choker around his neck glowed faintly—resting against his collar like a royal seal.

He’d risen early. Loona and Daphne were still getting ready—there had been a moment of tangled limbs and quiet warmth just after dawn, but now they were dressing behind the privacy curtain in their shared chamber.

Draco walked by, silent.

Hadrian didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

He just watched.

And Draco, clearly still reeling from the night before, cast a glare at Hadrian—but said nothing. The subtle discomfort in how he moved, how he avoided eye contact with anyone else, spoke louder than anything he could’ve said.

Hadrian let him go.

“Soon,” he murmured to himself.

And then—

A sixth-year boy approached, hesitantly, like someone poking at the edge of a fire with a stick.

“Um—Hadrian?” he asked. “Sorry—don't mean to bother you. Just… curious.”

Hadrian turned his head slowly. “About?”

The boy scratched his neck, voice low.

“Hell. Is it really… burning pits and screaming souls? Or is that just old wizard tales?”

Hadrian leaned back a little more, resting one boot on the opposite knee.

“There are burning pits. And plenty of screaming. But not everything screams from pain.”

The sixth-year swallowed. “So it’s like a constant warzone?”

Hadrian gave a slow, quiet smile.

“It’s a kingdom. A society. A place of structure, chaos, law, and punishment. And pride.
The screaming? That’s just those who tried to cheat it.”

The boy was quiet for a moment, wide-eyed.

“That sounds… terrifying.”

“Then don’t break the rules,” Hadrian said simply.

The boy looked like he was about to ask something else when the door to the girl’s wing opened—

Loona and Daphne stepped out together.

Daphne wore her uniform with a tailored fit and confidence in her every step. Loona, in contrast, wore hers just wrong enough to look dangerous—tie loose, shirt untucked beneath her coat, pink streaks in her hair catching the low light.

The sixth-year took one look at them and backed away fast, mumbling a “thanks, good luck,” before disappearing into the stairwell.

Loona plopped onto the couch beside Hadrian, slinging an arm over his shoulders.

Daphne sat on his other side, cool as ever.

Hadrian didn’t say a word.

He just smirked—and rose when they did.

It was late in the evening, the moon hanging high over the castle. In a hidden chamber adjacent to the Headmaster’s office, the core Hogwarts staff sat in silence.

Dumbledore, arms folded.

McGonagall, sharp-eyed and furrowed.

Snape, coiled like a viper still recovering from a strike.

Flitwick, perched on a cushion, unusually grim.

Sprout, lips pursed.

Hagrid, unusually quiet.

The fire crackled in the hearth, the only noise.

Dumbledore broke the silence first.

“We are no longer hosting just a Triwizard Tournament… but a potential shift in magical balance.”

He looked at Snape.

“Tell them what happened.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Malfoy insulted the Greengrass girl. Challenged the Hellhound. And made… an indecent request.”

McGonagall blinked. “What sort of request?”

Snape ground his jaw. “He said he wanted to ravish him.”

There were gasps.

Flitwick muttered, “Oh dear…”

Sprout looked disturbed.

Hagrid, wide-eyed, whispered, “And he lived?”

Snape nodded. “Barely.”

Then with bitter precision, he added:

“Hadrian rewrote him. Not violently. But permanently. Madam Pomfrey’s diagnosis listed Draco Malfoy’s magical gender as female. No incantation. No wand. Just a touch and a word.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

Dumbledore stared into the fire.

“This is not a boy returning to find his home. This is a predator walking among prey—and choosing when, and if, to bare his teeth.”

The Great Hall – The Infernal Morning..................................

Morning at Hogwarts usually buzzed with breakfast chatter and clinking silverware.

But not today.

As students trickled in, the Slytherin table was already the focal point.

Hadrian, seated between Daphne and Loona, ate with casual elegance, Hellhound ears twitching occasionally at the chorus of whispers that buzzed through the Hall.

Their collars glowed faintly again—Lucifer’s sigils warm under their skin.

Loona drank from her goblet like a queen who’d just toppled a rival kingdom. Daphne, poised and radiant, barely acknowledged the attention. The soulbond between the three of them wasn’t just obvious—it was palpable.

Elias Potter entered with Hermione and Ron, his eyes instantly locking on the figure at the Slytherin table.

He had been told who Hadrian truly was.

But seeing it—the Hellhound, the power, the way the very air bent around him—made his throat tighten.

Hermione leaned over. “Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

From the staff table, James and Lily watched, stunned by how different their son looked. Taller. Sharper. Radiating an aura no fifteen-year-old should carry.

“We waited too long,” Lily whispered.

James couldn’t speak. He was too busy watching Hadrian look up—just once—and meet their eyes across the Hall.

The gaze held for a heartbeat.

Then Hadrian smiled.

It wasn’t friendly.

Gryffindor Common Room – The Broken Mirror the evening before breakfast.......................................................

The fire burned low, casting flickering gold across the walls of the Gryffindor common room. Most of the students had gone to bed. But Elias Potter sat stiffly in a chair by the fire, arms crossed tightly, foot tapping furiously.

Across from him sat his parents—James and Lily Potter. Neither looked relaxed.

Lily tried to soften her voice. “Elias… there’s something you need to understand.”

He didn’t answer, just glared into the flames.

James leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “The male Hellhound—Hadrian—that’s your brother.”

The room went still in Elias’s mind.

“What?”

Lily nodded slowly. “He’s Harry. Your older brother.”

Elias’s face twisted. “No. That thing? That… monster?”

“Your brother,” Lily said, firm now. “He didn’t die. He was taken. Or rather… he left. After we—after we left him with Petunia.”

James grimaced, ashamed.

Elias stood sharply, pacing.

“You said it was for the prophecy! That I was the Boy Who Lived! That he… he wasn’t needed anymore.”

Lily flinched. “It wasn’t right. Dumbledore—he said—”

“I don’t care what Dumbledore said!” Elias shouted, fists clenched.

“He’s back. And he’s terrifying. Everyone’s whispering. They say he turned Draco into a girl just by touching him!”

James was quiet.

Elias turned on them, bitter.

“You said I was special. That Hogwarts would be my legacy. And now he shows up and makes me look like a joke!”

Lily stood, reaching for his arm.

“Elias, we were wrong. But he’s still your brother. You could—”

Elias pulled away, voice cold.

“I don’t want a monster for a brother.”

He stormed out of the common room.

James slumped back in the chair.

Lily whispered, “We lost both of them, didn’t we?”

James didn’t answer.

The morning feast was in full swing, but one corner of the Gryffindor table buzzed with a hushed intensity. Elias, pale and brooding, leaned in across from Hermione and Ron, both of whom were still reeling from the revelation.

“It’s true,” Elias muttered. “The Hellhound. That’s Hadrian. My brother. The one who was gone.”

Hermione blinked. “But… I thought he was—”

“Dead. No, just… thrown away.”

Ron looked uncomfortable. “Mate, you don’t look thrilled.”

“He makes me look like a footnote,” Elias snapped under his breath. “Did you see how people stared at him?”

Across the Hall, Hadrian’s ears twitched under his hood. His golden eyes narrowed slightly.

He turned toward Daphne, who looked up from her breakfast, brow raised.
“I’ll be back in a moment.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, Hadrian stood, the hem of his coat brushing the stone as he walked toward the Gryffindor table.

Students went silent. Forks stopped mid-air.

He stopped right in front of Elias, whose face had drained of color.

Then Hadrian sat—right across from him.

No anger. No menace. Just stillness.

“So,” Hadrian said smoothly, “you’ve told them.”

Elias swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Hadrian said calmly. “They deserve the truth. Even if you’re choking on it.”

Hermione cleared her throat nervously. “So… you’re really Hadrian Potter?”

“I was,” Hadrian replied. “Now I’m Hadrian of House Goetia.”

Ron looked confused. “That’s a Hellhouse, yeah?”

Hadrian inclined his head.

Before more questions could follow, two grins appeared behind Elias.

Fred and George Weasley.

Fred leaned over.

“So what’s it like, being an heir of Hell?”

George added, “Do you get dental benefits? Do they let you smite people before or after breakfast?”

Hadrian smirked.

“I enforce infernal law. I hunt sinners. I judge souls.
I wear a crown made of fire when I need to.
And yes, I smite before and after breakfast.”

Fred looked delighted. “Excellent.”

George leaned to Ron and whispered, “We’re adopting him.”

Elias looked like he might explode.

Hadrian stood again, eyes never leaving his younger brother.

“You don’t have to like me, Elias. But you will respect the bonds I’ve forged. And you’ll stop speaking of me like I can’t hear you.”

His eyes flashed faintly gold.

“Because I always hear you.”

And with that, he turned and walked back to the Slytherin table—leaving silence in his wake.

After breakfast, the professors handed out timetables across the Great Hall, fluttering scrolls bearing class slots, rotating electives, and study periods. Students murmured to each other about workload and overlapping subjects.

At the staff table, Dumbledore quietly discussed arrangements with McGonagall when a shadow fell over them.

It was Hadrian, standing tall, calm, and for once—not radiating power.

Just… presence.

“Headmaster,” he said, “I’d like access to an unused classroom. One that can be sealed off with soundproofing charms.”

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “For what purpose?”

“Music.”

That drew attention.

Dumbledore arched a brow. “Music?”

Hadrian nodded. “I brought equipment from Hell. Instruments, speakers, soundboard—all enchanted. It helps me focus… gives me calm through the chaos.”

There was no trace of mockery or pride in his voice—only quiet honesty.

Loona approached from behind, arms crossed but smiling faintly.

“It’s true. All Hellborn creatures—demons, imps, hounds—we’ve got music in our blood. It’s part of our lineage. Lilith blessed it into us at the start.”

Daphne joined them, a soft smile on her lips.
“Hell’s got its own music industry. Nightclubs. Live arenas. Even enchanted record labels. It’s not just fire and brimstone.”

Loona nodded. “And Hadrian? He’s one of the best singers in our Ring. Stolas made sure he trained properly.”

There was a beat of silence at the table.

Then Professor Flitwick cleared his throat. “Well, I—erm—should like to hear it sometime.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened just a fraction. “Very well. Professor Vector will unlock the old Charms chamber on the fourth floor. It has strong silencing enchantments.”

Hadrian inclined his head. “Thank you.”

As he turned to leave with Loona and Daphne, Dumbledore added quietly:

“Hadrian… I’d like to hear you play too. One day.”

Hadrian didn’t stop walking.

But his ears twitched.

“Maybe.”

The hallways of Hogwarts echoed with the sounds of students settling into the rhythm of the new term. Books clutched, scrolls rattling, voices bouncing from stone walls.

Hadrian walked beside Daphne, his step smooth, measured. He still wore his black high-collared coat, the faint glimmer of Lucifer’s infernal sigil resting just visible beneath his throat. Daphne moved with equal grace, her expression calm, composed—but her eyes stayed alert, sharp.

> “Gryffindor in our first class,” she murmured. “This should be… loud.”

Hadrian smirked. “Let’s make it louder.”

They stepped into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, and silence fell.

The Gryffindors were already seated.

Elias, Hermione, and Ron sat together, and all three looked up immediately as the door opened.

Elias stiffened the moment he saw Hadrian, and Hermione whispered something sharp under her breath.

Hadrian didn’t glance their way.

He walked with Daphne to the front row—seating himself with a quiet grace that made every other movement in the room seem awkward by comparison. Daphne sat beside him, spine straight, completely at ease.

And then the door creaked again.

Professor “Moody” entered.

His magical eye spun wildly, locking onto Hadrian before it even scanned the rest of the classroom.

He stopped. His scarred face froze for half a second longer than necessary.

“Welcome to Defense Against the Dark Arts,” he growled, his voice rough and commanding. “I’m Professor Moody. I teach you how to stay alive.”

Hadrian didn’t react, but he watched—closely. Something in the man’s aura was… off.

Moody’s eye spun again, landing on Daphne… then snapping back to Hadrian.
“I hear we’ve got guests in our class. Infernal ones.”

A few Gryffindors snickered nervously.

Daphne’s smile was razor-thin.

Hadrian didn’t blink.

“That’s not a joke,” Moody continued. “Because the worst things don’t hide in forests or dungeons. They wear human faces. Smile like friends. Whisper like mentors.”

His words might’ve been for the class.

But his real attention was fixed on Hadrian.

Hadrian met the stare—unmoving.

“Then it’s a good thing,” he said evenly, “that I don’t smile very often.”

Some students tensed.

Moody barked a rough laugh. “We’ll see.”

The torches flickered dimly in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, casting long shadows along the stone walls. The air hung heavy with tension, especially among the Gryffindors—who were not used to Daphne’s eerie calm… nor the looming, unreadable presence of Hadrian.

At the front of the room, Professor Moody stomped over to the large desk, dragging a worn crate behind him. His magical eye spun in lazy arcs—though it seemed to constantly drift back to Hadrian.

“Right. Let’s talk about the Unforgivables.”

He slammed the crate open. Inside, a large spider-like creature twitched nervously.

“Three curses that will earn you a one-way trip to Azkaban.”

He raised his wand.

“First: the Imperius Curse.”

A flick of his wand—and the spider began dancing, hopping, flipping unnaturally.

A few students giggled uneasily.

Moody turned slowly, eye spinning.

“Seems harmless. Feels like floating. But it robs you of your will. Makes you a puppet.”

He snapped the spell and the spider collapsed.

“Second: Cruciatus.”

The room went still.

Moody cast it without hesitation. The spider convulsed violently, squealing in pain. Even Hermione winced.

“Pain. Pure, unfiltered agony. No injuries. Just suffering. It takes a certain… talent to cast this one properly.”

His eye slid toward Hadrian, hovering there for a beat too long.

Hadrian didn’t blink. His jaw didn’t clench. He simply watched, studying every flick of Moody’s wand.

Daphne, beside him, had gone still.

Moody moved on.

“And the final curse… the one that doesn’t leave second chances.”

He lifted his wand.

“Avada Kedavra.”

A bolt of green light.

The spider lay still.

The class was silent.

Moody turned, looking from Elias… to Hadrian.

“Two boys in this room have known more about curses than most Ministry trainees. One who was raised as a golden child…”

His eye locked on Elias, who flinched.

“…and one who doesn’t even blink at death.”

He turned to Hadrian.

“Tell me, boy. Ever cast any of them?”

Hadrian’s golden eyes glowed faintly.

“Not those.”

“But I’ve watched souls break under worse.”

The room chilled.

Hermione whispered, “What does that mean?”

Moody chuckled darkly.

“Means there’s more to magic than wands and Latin, missy.”

He clapped his hands once.

“Now pair off! Let’s see how many of you can fight back if someone tries to curse your spine into jelly.”

The class had split into pairs, wands raised, stances ready, while Moody patrolled the space between dueling students, barking critiques and praise in equal measure.

But Elias Potter wasn’t paying attention to his partner.

His gaze was fixed on Hadrian—who stood calmly beside Daphne, arms folded, not even holding his wand.

Elias’s jaw tightened. His grip on his wand twitched.

“You think you’re better than all of us,” he muttered.

Hadrian didn’t answer.

“You’re not a student. You don’t belong here.”

That made Hadrian tilt his head slightly. The class around them started to quiet.

“Prove it,” Elias said, louder now. “Face me. Right here. Let’s see what makes the Hellhound so special.”

Ron groaned. “Mate, don’t—”

But it was too late.

Hadrian stepped forward.

His wand never left his belt.

“Very well.”

The room fell into silence, and Moody—intrigued—gave a nod.

“No lethal spells. No mind control. Begin.”

Elias raised his wand and immediately sent a Stunner forward—fast and sharp.

Hadrian didn’t move.

Instead, a ripple of black smoke erupted around him. The spell vanished into the shadows with a hiss.

Elias blinked.

Hadrian raised a single hand—and with a quiet snap of his fingers, four shadow beasts rose from the cracks in the stone floor.

Twisting, spectral wolf-like shapes, each one with glowing red eyes and jaws full of smoke and hunger.

The classroom erupted in gasps.

Elias stepped back, trying to send a Blasting Hex toward them—but the shadows absorbed it, growing larger with each flicker of power he tried to push.

One beast leapt forward.

Elias shouted another spell—but he was too slow.

The second beast hit his chest like a crashing wave. Then the third wrapped around his legs. The fourth flickered across his vision like a blur of smoke—and everything went black.

He collapsed, unconscious, the shadows slithering back into Hadrian’s cloak like ink drawn into cloth.

Dead silence.

Even Moody stared.

Hadrian exhaled once. Calm.

“He challenged me,” he said softly. “I answered.”

The classroom was still silent as Elias Potter lay crumpled on the floor, chest rising and falling with short, drained breaths. His wand had rolled several feet away.

Hadrian stood over him—not triumphant, not cruel—just watching.

Then, quietly, he raised one clawed hand, palm outward, and placed two fingers against Elias’s chest. A low hum pulsed through the air as infernal magic flowed gently—not to harm, but to restore.

A soft red glow filled the space between them.

Elias’s eyes shot open.

He gasped.

Hadrian knelt slightly and extended his clawed hand.

“Get up.”

Elias stared, unsure if it was a threat or… something else. But he took the hand.

Hadrian pulled him to his feet without effort.

Their eyes locked—one gold and glowing, the other burning with confusion and pride.

“You're not weak,” Hadrian said low enough that only Elias could hear, “but your power is wild. Discipline it, or it will eat you alive.”

Before Elias could respond, Moody’s voice broke through the silence.

“Class dismissed. All of you—out.”

Students rushed out in a rush of whispers and sideways glances.

Daphne was already by the door, watching Hadrian. He walked to her side without another word.

Together, they turned down the hall toward Charms.

Elias, still rattled, was escorted by Hermione and Ron, heading down toward the dungeons for Potions.

None of them spoke.

Not yet.

But the whisper followed behind both groups down the stone halls of Hogwarts:

He looked at Moody.

“Was that against the rules?”

Moody’s magical eye twitched once. His mouth quirked.

“Not… technically.”

Hadrian turned and walked back to Daphne’s side.

The classroom was still silent as Elias Potter lay crumpled on the floor, chest rising and falling with short, drained breaths. His wand had rolled several feet away.

Hadrian stood over him—not triumphant, not cruel—just watching.

Then, quietly, he raised one clawed hand, palm outward, and placed two fingers against Elias’s chest. A low hum pulsed through the air as infernal magic flowed gently—not to harm, but to restore.

A soft red glow filled the space between them.

Elias’s eyes shot open.

He gasped.

Hadrian knelt slightly and extended his clawed hand.

“Get up.”

Elias stared, unsure if it was a threat or… something else. But he took the hand.

Hadrian pulled him to his feet without effort.

Their eyes locked—one gold and glowing, the other burning with confusion and pride.

“You're not weak,” Hadrian said low enough that only Elias could hear, “but your power is wild. Discipline it, or it will eat you alive.”

Before Elias could respond, Moody’s voice broke through the silence.

“Class dismissed. All of you—out.”

Students rushed out in a rush of whispers and sideways glances.

Daphne was already by the door, watching Hadrian. He walked to her side without another word.

Together, they turned down the hall toward Charms.

Elias, still rattled, was escorted by Hermione and Ron, heading down toward the dungeons for Potions.

None of them spoke.

Not yet.

But the whisper followed behind both groups down the stone halls of Hogwarts:

The halls of Hogwarts split in two directions after the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Stone corridors forked like choices in a maze.

Hadrian and Daphne walked side by side in silence toward the Charms classroom on the third floor. His stride was calm, measured, the infernal fire that had flared just moments ago now cool and banked. Daphne glanced at him from time to time, but said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

“That went smoother than I expected,” she murmured at last.

Hadrian smirked faintly. “I didn’t even burn the floor.”

“Pity. It might’ve improved the décor.”

He chuckled under his breath. The tension had faded—but not entirely. Eyes still watched them from around corners, whispers still followed their steps. But neither one flinched from it.

They entered the Charms classroom just as Professor Flitwick was setting out tiny enchanted lanterns for the lesson. He offered a cautious but sincere smile as they entered, giving Hadrian a curious look, then nodding in welcome.

Far below, the air grew colder as Elias, Hermione, and Ron descended toward the Potions classroom.

Elias walked in silence, stiffly, his pride still smoldering like a scorched log.

Beside him, Hermione finally spoke—sharp, but not unkind.

“That was reckless. Insane, even. Challenging someone like him?”

Ron nodded, hands in his pockets. “You’re lucky he didn’t rip your soul out.”

Elias didn’t look at them.

“I thought I could take him.”

Hermione scoffed. “He didn’t even use a wand. You realize that, right? That was something else entirely.”

Ron hesitated, then added quietly:

“Still… he healed you. Could’ve left you unconscious. Embarrassed. But he didn’t.”

Elias stopped walking.

That part hadn’t left his mind. Not for a second.

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. “Why would he do that?”

Hermione’s voice was gentler now.

“Maybe because he remembers. Even if you don't deserve it.”

Elias said nothing as they reached the dungeon door.

But something in his shoulders had changed—less defiance… more weight.

The Charms classroom buzzed lightly as students filed in and took their seats. Daphne claimed one near the front, and Hadrian sat beside her—earning a few cautious stares, but no open challenge.

Professor Flitwick adjusted a small lantern floating beside his head and turned toward the class with his usual polite enthusiasm.

“Welcome back, everyone! Today, we’ll begin with lantern levitation and light transmutation. A gentle start to the term!”

His eyes fell on Hadrian for a beat longer than the rest, his magical senses already humming.

He cleared his throat lightly.

“And I see we have a new… guest. Mister Hadrian, was it? A pleasure to have you with us.”

Hadrian gave a respectful nod. “Just Hadrian.”

Flitwick smiled faintly, though his eyes narrowed curiously. “You carry something unusual. Not wand magic… but something deeper.”

Daphne glanced sideways at Hadrian, but he offered only a simple shrug.

“Magic from where I’m from doesn’t use chants. Or wands. It’s older. Woven.”

Flitwick looked delighted. “Woven magic? How fascinating! Might I ask… would you be willing to demonstrate something harmless? Perhaps to give us all a glimpse?”

Hadrian nodded once.

Without reaching for his wand, he simply raised his hand and exhaled.

A thin, swirling line of crimson mist spiraled from his palm, rising up to the lantern above his desk. It touched the light—transforming it into a slow, orbiting constellation of miniature stars, glowing softly, orbiting like planets.

The room gasped.

Flitwick blinked, awed. “You did that with pure will?”

Hadrian tilted his head. “It’s how I was taught.”

The professor beamed. “Remarkable! Not many can command magic without a conduit. I do hope you’ll stay with us more often. Perhaps even speak at some point about your studies—assuming the Headmaster agrees.”

Hadrian offered a ghost of a smile. “We’ll see.”

The classroom had mostly filled now, students chatting quietly while preparing their quills and parchment. The scent of parchment, ink, and polished wood hung in the air.

On the professor’s desk sat a regal-looking grey tabby cat—poised, tail flicking, green eyes surveying the room with calm precision.

To the students, it was just Professor McGonagall in her usual animagus form.

But Loona sat in the back beside Astoria, watching the cat without blinking. Her arms were folded. One foot tapped lazily.

Her golden eyes narrowed.

Then—without warning—she spoke loud enough for the room to quiet.

“Professor?”

The cat’s ears twitched.

Loona leaned back casually in her seat, one fang poking just over her lip.

“You can drop the act now. I know what you are.”

Gasps rippled across the classroom. Astoria blinked up at her, wide-eyed.

The cat rose fluidly onto its paws… and with a flicker of magic, Professor McGonagall stood in its place—robes straightening as if by command.

Her expression was unreadable. Regal, composed. But her eyes—piercing.

“Miss Loona,” she said, voice cool. “How, may I ask, did you know?”

Loona shrugged, tail swaying behind her chair. “Cat behavior’s easy to read. You’re too still. Too focused. Watching us, not relaxing. Not feline.”

A pause.

“You didn’t smell right, either.”

The room fell absolutely silent.

McGonagall’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Fascinating.”

She walked slowly to the front of the class, her eyes never leaving Loona’s.

“I’ve taught here for decades. You’re the first to ever call me out like that while I was transformed.”

Loona gave a small grin. “I’m not like the others.”

“That much,” McGonagall said dryly, “is clear.”

She turned to the rest of the class. “Now that my cover’s been blown, let’s begin.”

With her usual commanding grace, Professor McGonagall turned back to the blackboard, chalk sketching elegant diagrams of wandwork in midair behind her. But her sharp gaze kept flicking back to Loona, seated near the back with Astoria beside her.

“Miss Loona,” she said, turning again, “you’re not listed as a registered Animagus… yet clearly your senses go well beyond those of a student. You seem… other.”

Loona stretched in her seat, casually popping her neck.

“That’s ‘cause I am.”

A few students leaned in, curious.

Loona gave Astoria a quick, reassuring wink, then stood up and—right before everyone’s eyes—shifted.

Her Hellhound form melted away like black smoke unraveling off her shoulders, curling around her body until what stood in its place was a teenage girl.

Slim. Pale. Gothic.

She wore a fitted black coat over a shredded tee, chain accents on her belt, and thick-soled boots. A streak of hot pink cut through her otherwise grey hair. One eyebrow was pierced, and her smirk came with undeniable attitude.

The class gasped.

Even McGonagall paused.
“Fascinating…” the professor murmured. “This isn’t glamour or Polyjuice. That was… full-body illusion bound by will.”

Loona gave a small shrug. “We call it a disguise form. Lots of demons can do it. Most of us in Hell use it when we need to blend in. Still got all my Hellhound senses, though.”

She tapped the side of her nose.

“I can still sniff out demons, bloodlines, lies. Anyone pretending to be something they’re not.”

McGonagall’s lips twitched.

“You may prove more useful than you realize, Miss Loona.”

Loona smirked. “I already do.”

Astoria clapped softly beside her, tail twitching with delight.

The Great Hall had been transformed for the mid-afternoon study period. The long house tables remained, but they were now dotted with books, parchment rolls, floating candles, and small study groups from every year.

For once, there were no walls of separation. Ravenclaws, Gryffindors, Slytherins, and even Hufflepuffs shared space under the enchanted ceiling, which reflected a warm, cloud-dappled sky above.

At one end of the Slytherin table sat Hadrian, relaxed in his usual composed posture, Daphne reading beside him, and Loona stretched out with her boots on the bench, twirling a quill between her fingers.

A few other Slytherins—and even a couple of bold Ravenclaws—had gravitated closer to them, slowly letting curiosity overcome unease.

“So…” a first-year asked hesitantly, “earlier in Transfiguration, you said you could sniff out people pretending to be something they’re not.”

Loona grinned. “Yup.”

“What does that… mean exactly?”

“Demons can smell lies,” Loona said simply. “It’s part of our magic. And part of our curse.”

One student from Ravenclaw shifted closer. “Do you mean curses as in… sin?”

Hadrian looked up slowly, his golden eyes catching the flicker of candlelight. The entire nearby group grew quiet.

He set his book aside.

“Yes. The Seven Sins aren’t just symbolic in Hell. They’re binding forces. Primal. They live in people, and they shape what becomes of them.”

A younger Hufflepuff whispered, “So if someone’s greedy…?”

Hadrian nodded.

“Greed corrupts the soul. Over time, that soul warps. And in death, the sin claims them. It carves their punishment into who they are.

It’s not instant. Not always. But every decision matters. Even ones you think no one sees.”

Loona added, “We track Sinners. We don’t hunt for sport. We hunt for justice.”

Daphne looked up from her parchment.

“People think Hell is just fire and torture. But Hell is a mirror. It gives you back exactly what you gave the world.”

The students were quiet.

One boy whispered, “So what about redemption?”

Hadrian answered with absolute clarity.

“Redemption exists. But it’s earned. And it hurts.”

Loona tilted her head. “Sometimes the only way to be free of your sins is to face the thing you’re most afraid of becoming.”

They let that hang in the air.

Around them, the Hall remained busy—but those seated nearby couldn’t stop looking at the three of them.

Not with fear.

But something else.

Respect.

The final minutes of the study period ticked away, students packing away books and organizing notes. The atmosphere had grown lighter after the intense discussion around sins and redemption.

Hadrian, Daphne, and Loona remained at their spot, heads close together as they went over a parchment with glowing runes drifting lazily above it.

And then—

It happened.

From somewhere deep within Hadrian’s coat, a loud, uncensored ringtone burst through the relative calm:

“You were the spicy little demon
With the bleach blonde hair
Fiendin' for some semen
When I caught your stare…”

Several students froze mid-movement.

A Ravenclaw dropped his quill.

A Hufflepuff blushed scarlet.

A seventh-year Slytherin choked on pumpkin juice.

“Thought it might be love
But you went too far—
Fucked all of my friends
And blew up my car!”

Daphne’s eyes widened.

Loona burst into laughter, nearly falling off the bench.

Hadrian, expression flat and deadly calm, patted down his coat like a man on a mission while the rest of the infernal ringtone echoed across the hall.

“Lit me on fire
Made me watch rom-coms—”

A loud, curt voice rang out from the staff table.

Professor McGonagall, looking both scandalized and stunned:

“Mister Hadrian—what on Earth is that noise?!”

Hadrian finally yanked the sleek black HellPhone from inside his coat and answered dryly.

“Blitzo. You idiot.”

He stood and turned, walking calmly toward the nearest corridor exit as the ringtone faded out behind him.

“Cut off my dick
When you shattered my heart—”

Daphne had her head down, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Loona had gone red with laughter, gasping, “You forgot to put it on vibrate?!”

Hadrian glanced back at them.

“First time I’ve needed to hide it from mortals.”

From the staff table, Snape looked like he might combust.

Dumbledore… just slowly covered his face with one hand.

The last echo of the song lyrics still lingered in the air like a forbidden spell.

“But it grew back twice as long… Mustang dong.”

And that’s when Sirius Black stormed into the Great Hall.

Clad in dark Auror leathers, wand already in hand, his eyes immediately locked onto the two figures seated at the Slytherin table.

A black-furred Hellhound male and a lean white and grey, pink-streaked hair female.

Without hesitation, Sirius shouted, “Stand away from the girl!”

His wand snapped up—aimed directly at Loona.

Students screamed.

A few others ducked under tables. Several prefects reached for their own wands.

Loona shot up with a growl, baring her teeth.

Hadrian, however, remained seated, phone pressed to his ear.

“Blitzo. Pause. I’m about to educate someone.”

He slowly turned to face Sirius, gaze glowing gold, calm as ever.

Lily stood abruptly at the staff table. “Sirius—NO!”

Sirius hesitated for only a second—but that was all Hadrian needed.

He rose from the bench in one smooth motion.

“Pointing a wand at my mate… at your peril.”

The magic around Hadrian rippled like waves of heat and ash, distorting the air. Infernal pressure pulsed outward in silent warning. His shadow twisted along the floor like living fire.

Loona growled deeply beside him, her hand now resting on her own concealed weapon—claws twitching.

Sirius faltered, recognizing—too late—that the Hellhound in front of him wasn’t a mindless beast.

“Wait—what?”

Daphne stood calmly, lifting a hand between them. “He’s not the threat, Sirius. He’s Hadrian.”

Sirius froze.

His wand dropped slightly.

“What…?”

Hadrian’s voice was ice over fire.

“Next time you draw on me, you won’t get the warning.”

He turned away, calmly putting the phone back to his ear.

“Go ahead, Blitzo. You were saying?”

The Great Hall was frozen.

And now, everyone knew—

Hadrian wasn’t just back.
He was hunting.

The echo of Hadrian’s Hellphone still hung in the air like smoke.

Sirius, wand out, had taken one step too far—only to be intercepted by a blur of red hair and urgency.

“Sirius, no!” Lily gasped, grabbing his arm and shoving it down.

“Loona’s one of them,” Sirius hissed, still glaring. “They’re demons!”

“And that one,” Lily breathed, her eyes fixed on the male Hellhound, “is Hadrian.”

Sirius froze.

At that exact moment, James entered through the side archway, his Auror robes still dusted from the Floo.

He halted the second he saw his wife and best friend mid-confrontation—then his eyes fell on Hadrian, who stood in the middle of the Great Hall, phone still pressed to his ear, surrounded by a wide berth of wary students and frozen staff.

His voice was low, sharp, and crystal clear.

“Blitzo, list them again. Slowly.”

From the phone came an excitable, static-tinged voice. Blitzo rattled off names—one by one.

Each one carried weight.

Ezekiel Thorne – Senior Undersecretary for International Law.

Lucinda Rowle – Head of Department of Magical Cooperation.

Reginald Burke – sitting member of the Wizengamot.

Archimedes Vaul – former ICW delegate.

Hadrian’s voice cut in.

“Confirmed ties to dark artifacts. Blood purity campaigns. Demon summoning. Torture of magical creatures. All within the last decade.”

Students nearby gasped.

Dumbledore, seated at the staff table, slowly rose to his feet, face pale. His eyes locked on Hadrian.

James stood as if rooted to the spot. He knew those names. All of them.

Important people.

Powerful people.

Untouchable—until now.

Hadrian paused, his voice sharp and clinical:

“Permission to remove them, Blitzo? Clean. No exposure to Muggle authorities.”

There was a pause on the line. Then a loud whoop of approval.

Hadrian nodded once and ended the call, sliding the phone back into his coat.

He turned, eyes glowing as he met Dumbledore’s gaze across the room.

“Consider this your warning, Headmaster.

Hell watches your world now. And we know your secrets.”

Silence.

Then slowly, deliberately, Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne walked out of the Great Hall—uncaring of the stares, the murmurs, or the authority they'd just shaken to its core.

Hogsmeade Field Office Interrogation of the Infernal Heir..

The room was cold and reinforced with runic wards etched into the stone. Deep within the Hogsmeade Auror Field Office, the air crackled with contained magic—defensive, reactive, and layered with protection.

At the head of the room stood Madam Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her monocle gleamed as she studied the seated figure across from her.

Hadrian, still in his black infernal coat, relaxed back in his chair, arms folded, eyes glowing softly like embers in the dark.

To her left stood Albus Dumbledore, expression grim but controlled.

To her right—James Potter, posture tense.

And beside him, Sirius Black, jaw locked tight, wand holstered but fingers twitching.

Amelia’s voice was even.

“Hadrian. We are not detaining you—yet. But what you said in the Great Hall… it warrants explanation.”

Hadrian raised a brow. “I said quite a bit. You’ll have to be specific.”

James leaned forward. “The list, Hadrian. The names. You said they were tied to dark magic—torture, blood rituals. And then you confirmed them as targets.”

Dumbledore’s tone was cold. “You effectively claimed responsibility for orchestrating assassinations.”

Hadrian didn’t flinch. “I confirmed Hell is aware of their crimes. What’s done with that information is determined by my superior.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Lucifer Morningstar.”

“Correct.”

She adjusted her monocle. “And Blitzo is…?”

“My contractor,” Hadrian replied simply. “An Imp with a license to hunt Sinners across planes.”

Dumbledore’s hands tightened on the edge of the table. “You are coordinating strikes on Ministry officials.”

Hadrian’s smile was cold. “Corrupt Ministry officials. Ones tied to slavery, murder, soul-binding rituals. You’re only upset because Hell got the evidence before you did.”

Sirius stepped forward. “And what if one of them fights back? What if innocent people get caught in the crossfire?”

Hadrian’s gaze sharpened.

“Then they’ll be spared. We don’t take unnecessary lives.
We’re not your Ministry.”

Madam Bones studied him carefully.

“And what of Daphne Greengrass? And the Hellhound girl—Loona? Are they involved?”

Hadrian’s eyes flashed.

“They are under my protection. If you try to touch them—if you even threaten them—
I’ll call down a lawyer so infernal your afterlife will beg to be erased.”

The room went still.

Even Amelia blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise.

Hadrian stood, slow and regal.

“I agreed to speak. I have spoken.”

He turned to the door—but paused.

“If you want real justice… start listening to the ones who don’t hide behind politics and robes.”

Then he left.

Leaving silence, and a slow-burning dread in his wake.

The cobblestone path leading from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts was quiet, lined with low mist that curled around the edges of Hadrian’s paws as he walked. The sky overhead had darkened slightly, clouds gathering as the sun began to dip toward the hills.

Lily Potter kept a respectful distance behind him, unsure of her place. After a moment, she spoke gently.

> “May I walk with you?”

Hadrian slowed, then gave a curt nod.

They walked in silence for a few steps before Lily tried again.

“I never imagined you'd be… raised by a prince of Hell.”

Hadrian’s tone was even. “He’s more than that. Stolas is a duke. One of the Ars Goetia—the governing body in Hell. A star-reader. A teacher of ancient magic. He took me in when no one else did.”

Lily looked down. “You were so young.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“I had to become more than a child. Hell doesn’t coddle weakness. You either learn fast, or you don’t survive.”

Her voice cracked slightly. “Did they hurt you?”

Hadrian’s glowing eyes turned toward her, unreadable.

“Only as much as was necessary to make me strong.”

Lily flinched, but didn’t look away. “Stolas… Octavia… Stella… What were they like?”

“Octavia’s like a sister. Quiet, sharp, lonely but strong. Stella… she tolerates me. She doesn’t like outsiders. Never has. But she’s softened. Slightly.”

He looked up at the looming towers of Hogwarts ahead.

“And Stolas… he raised me as his heir. Not just his son. I was taught magic older than your Ministry even remembers. Languages dead for millennia. Politics that operate across planes, not just nations.

Every move I make is watched in Hell. Every decision carries weight.”

Lily walked in silence beside him, her expression torn between sorrow and awe.

“It sounds like you’ve carried too much. Alone.”

Hadrian shrugged.

“I was alone before Hell. There, I found purpose.”

Lily bit her lip, her voice quiet.

“I’m sorry, Hadrian. For everything. I don’t expect forgiveness. I just… I want to understand you now. Even a little.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hadrian said, softly but firmly:

“Then don’t look at me like the boy you left.

Look at me like the man who survived it.”

Lily nodded, tears stinging the corners of her eyes—but she didn’t cry.

She simply walked with him, no longer behind… but beside him.

Hogwarts Courtyard – Old Habits and New Threats............

The evening sun cast long shadows across the castle grounds. A group of first-years scurried along the lower courtyard, books in hand—when a harsh voice rang out near the archway.

Draco Malfoy, still recovering from the magical embarrassment he'd suffered, stood with his usual entourage, cornering a younger Hufflepuff.

“Did your mother teach you magic, or a hippogriff? Pathetic spellwork—”

He didn’t finish the insult.

A heavy thud echoed behind him—boots on stone.

The crowd parted.

Hadrian stood at the edge of the archway, watching in eerie silence, golden eyes glowing faintly.

“Still picking on first-years, Draco?”

Draco straightened, immediately tense.

Hadrian took a slow step forward, the air cooling around him.

“You know… if you wanted attention, you could’ve just asked.”

He tilted his head, letting the ghost of a smile touch his lips.

“Or do you still want what you asked for last time?”

The Slytherins nearby froze.

Draco flushed—then went pale.

Hadrian stepped closer and whispered just loud enough for the others to hear:

“Would a kiss on the cheek be enough, or do you prefer to be ravished behind closed doors?”

Gasps. Laughter. A few stunned glares.

Draco stumbled back, words caught in his throat.

Hadrian leaned just slightly forward.

“Careful who you try to dominate, Malfoy. Some of us bite back.”

And with that, he turned and walked away—leaving Draco burning with embarrassment under the eyes of half the courtyard.

Meanwhile, high in the castle, the warm glow of Dumbledore’s office was darkened by tension.

Dumbledore, James Potter, and Minerva McGonagall stood over a spread of documents, floating maps, and magical portfolios.

The arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang was imminent. Preparations had been thorough.

But the fallout from Hadrian’s reveal, and his public targeting of Ministry officials, had thrown everything into uncertainty.

Dumbledore looked weary but resolute.

“The boy commands fear. Power. And now the foreign delegations will arrive to find him already here—untouchable, bonded, and armed with knowledge none of us expected.”

James paced near the window, hands behind his back.

“He mentioned names I’ve seen buried in sealed cases. Files even the Aurors avoid. He didn’t flinch. He spoke like he knew them.”

McGonagall’s voice was quiet. “He does.”

Dumbledore turned to James.

“We need to manage this. If Hadrian chooses to disrupt the Tournament—or worse, exposes truths we’ve hidden—there will be chaos.”

James looked grim.

“Then we’d better hope he doesn’t decide to play.”

Outside, the banners for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were already being hoisted.

And inside the castle, Hell’s heir was watching it all unfold.

Back with Hadrian and Draco.................................................

Laughter still echoed faintly through the corridor as the crowd lingered, but Hadrian raised a hand—calm but commanding.

“Leave us.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

Something in the way he stood—the way the shadows clung to him, the heat of his infernal magic simmering under his skin—compelled obedience. The students around them, even the Slytherins, fell silent and quickly scattered, giving Draco a few last amused glances.

Now it was just the two of them.

Draco Malfoy, standing rigid, unsure if he should bolt or bow.

And Hadrian, tall, his Hellhound form looming with quiet power. The faint glow of his eyes lit Draco’s pale face.

Hadrian stepped closer, boots clicking softly on the stone, until he was just a breath away.

He leaned down, slow and deliberate, his snout brushing the air beside Draco’s cheek.

His voice was low, dark, playful.

“I’m waiting for that kiss, Draco.”

Draco’s breath hitched. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Hadrian pulled back just slightly, golden gaze narrowing.

“Submit,” he murmured, not as a threat—but a promise.

Draco trembled. Then—gulped—and leaned forward.

He placed a shaky kiss on Hadrian’s cheek.

The contact was fleeting, but the silence afterward was heavy. Weighted.

Hadrian smiled faintly.

“Good boy.”

Then he turned and walked away—no cruelty, no satisfaction—just quiet, absolute control.

Draco stood alone, stunned, his world tilted on an axis he didn’t understand.

And somewhere deeper in the castle, the whispers of that moment would spread—another tale of the Hellhound who ruled through dominance, not destruction.

The torches lining the dungeon corridors flickered softly as Hadrian made his way back toward the Slytherin common room. The wards hummed gently at his approach, sensing his presence—and allowing him to pass without resistance.

Inside, Daphne sat curled in an armchair by the fire, legs tucked beneath her, flipping through a black-leather spellbook with etched silver corners. Loona lounged on the couch, boots kicked up on the table, chewing idly on a sugar quill Astoria had smuggled her earlier.

They both looked up as Hadrian entered.

Daphne's gaze immediately scanned his expression. “How did it go?”

Hadrian smirked faintly. “Draco finally learned what submission feels like.”

Loona raised a brow, amused. “What’d you do? Sit on him?”

“No. I asked for a kiss.”

Daphne blinked once.

Then burst into laughter.

Loona howled beside her, tail thumping against the cushion.

“You’re evil,” Daphne said between laughs, rising to wrap her arms around him.

“Only to those who ask for it,” Hadrian replied, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Loona grinned. “You just made half the common room switch from fear to obsession. You know that, right?”

Hadrian shrugged. “Let them fantasize. I’ve already got the only two who matter.”

Slytherin Boys’ Dormitory – Shattered Pride........................

Draco Malfoy slammed the door behind him as he stumbled into his dorm.

He ignored Blaise's curious glance, ignored Crabbe and Goyle’s clueless questions. He made his way to his bed, threw the curtains closed, and collapsed onto the mattress.

His heart still beat too fast.

His face still burned.

And worst of all… he didn’t know why he hadn’t run.

Why did I kiss him?

He gritted his teeth, fists clenched against the silk bedsheets.

It wasn’t humiliation. It was confusion. Something had wrapped around his mind, wrapped around his will—not magic, not coercion—just dominance. Ancient. Primal.

The Hellhound had taken everything Draco thought he understood about power… and redefined it.

And now Draco was left wondering:

“Why did part of me enjoy it?”

Hadrian, Loona and Daphne Room.......................................

The room was dim, lit only by soft magical firelight and the subtle pulse of the infernal sigils etched into the walls. The large bed they shared was a sanctuary of warmth and quiet—Hadrian in the center, Daphne curled against one side, Loona draped across the other.

Hadrian exhaled slowly, gazing up at the ceiling.

“Was it too much? What I did to Draco?”

Loona shifted, her tail brushing his leg. “Not even close. You didn’t break him. You just put him in his place.”

Daphne’s voice was softer, but no less firm.

“We’re bonded. We’re alphas. If he’s destined for Hell, he’ll kneel anyway. You just reminded him early.”

Hadrian gave a quiet, amused hum. “Strange… I never thought dominance would come so naturally.”

Loona smirked, resting her head on his shoulder. “You’re a Hellhound. It’s in our blood.”

Daphne kissed his jaw. “And you have us now. No need to doubt where you stand.”

Hadrian let the warmth of their presence settle around him.

“Then let the world tremble.”

The following day passed in a blur. Classes ran half-heartedly, students buzzing with rumors about the Hellhound heir, the cursed duel, and the strange magic now walking their halls.

As evening fell, the courtyard was cleared and lit with floating lanterns and banners representing the three great schools.

From the sky descended an elegant blue carriage, massive and pulled by twelve winged Abraxans, hooves striking sparks in the air.

Inside, the delegation from Beauxbatons arrived—poised, graceful, shimmering with cold aristocratic pride.

Moments later, the lake boiled, churning as the Durmstrang ship rose from its depths, its hull wet and steaming.

The foreign students marched off with strict discipline, led by towering instructors.

From his quiet perch in the upper hall, Hadrian watched them arrive, flanked by Daphne and Loona, cloaks billowing, golden eyes catching the torchlight.

Dumbledore stood below with the Hogwarts staff, smile strained.

He looked up once—and locked eyes with Hadrian.

The infernal heir simply nodded once.

The game had begun.

The Great Hall – The Hellhound’s Warning

The Great Hall dimmed under the illusion of twilight, stars twinkling overhead, casting silver light across a crowd of tense students and dignitaries. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegates had taken their places, curious gazes roaming the hall.

At the far end, the stage shimmered into being—dark metal and glowing runes humming low with infernal energy.

Hadrian stepped into the space like he belonged to it. His movements were fluid, assured, his cloak trailing behind him as he approached the obsidian mic stand. No wand. No spell.

Just presence.

Loona and Daphne stood behind him, silent and poised.

A low hum filled the air, then the first beat hit—dark, pulsing, almost like a heartbeat.

Hadrian's voice cut through the hall:

“Trouble, blood is in the rocky waters,
Hide away your sons and daughters, eat you alive…”

“Levels, better put your head on swivels,
Dancing with the very devil—butter to knife.”

Whispers rippled through the students. Some stiffened. Some leaned in.

His voice lowered, huskier—intimate yet dangerous.

“You think you're better than them…
You think they're really your friends…
But when it comes to the end—
You're just the same as them.”

The rhythm rose—beat sharpening like a predator stalking its prey.

“So, let it go, let it go—that’s the way that it goes.
First you’re in, then you’re out—everybody knows.
You’re hot, then you’re cold—you’re a light in the dark.
Just you wait and you’ll see…
That you’re swimming with sharks.”

A ripple of magic spilled from the stage. The runes glowed red. The torches flickered.
“Bubbles, drowning—you’re seeing doubles.
Don’t you let them see your struggles, hiding your tears…”

“Crisis, take advantage of your niceness,
Cut you up in even slices—prey on your fears.”

Even the most proud Beauxbatons students sat still, enraptured.

Durmstrang students exchanged glances, one or two looking… almost nervous.

“Every time my heart is beating, I can feel the recipe,
I wonder if my day is coming—blame it on the entropy…”

“My blood is pumping, I can see the end is right in front of me.
Don’t take it from me… I could be everything.”

When the last chorus hit, Hadrian’s voice rose—not in volume, but in intensity.

“He’s coming to get you…
My blood is pumping.
He’s coming to get you—
And you’re swimming with sharks.”

The final note echoed—carried not just by sound, but by magic laced with truth.

Then silence.

A beat.

Two.

Applause erupted.

Not polite, not hesitant—but stunned, raw, gripping applause.

From the Slytherins. The Ravenclaws. Even some Hufflepuffs.

Beauxbatons students clapped slowly, almost reluctantly—eyes still on Hadrian like they'd seen a weapon unsheathed.

Durmstrang's delegation didn’t applaud—but they watched him now with a flicker of something old.

Respect.

Dumbledore stood at the high table, hands folded tightly.

His face did not smile.

Hadrian stepped back, golden eyes sweeping the hall, and said only:

“Welcome to the tournament.”

And then he turned, disappearing into the shadows beside his mates.

As the applause from Hadrian’s haunting performance finally faded, the tension in the air didn’t. If anything, it deepened.

The Ministry officials in plum-colored robes made their way forward—led by Ludovic Bagman, all smiles and charm, flanked by a sterner witch from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Floating parchment banners unfurled overhead, inscribed with elegant lettering in three languages.

Bagman raised his wand and amplified his voice.

“Welcome, everyone—to the formal opening of the Triwizard Tournament!”

A round of applause followed, more enthusiastic among the younger years.

“As per tradition, three schools—Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts—will compete in three rigorous, life-defining tasks! Chosen by the Goblet of Fire, our champions must be over the age of seventeen. No exceptions.”

He smiled toward the Durmstrang students.

“The Goblet will be opened for submissions tonight, and sealed until All Hallows’ Eve.”

A tall Durmstrang boy with a shaved head whispered something in Slavic to his friend while staring directly at Hadrian and Loona.

The two sat at the Slytherin table, still and composed. Hadrian’s cloak draped neatly. Loona leaned back, one arm around Astoria, ears twitching, eyes alert.

Several Durmstrang students had seated themselves nearby, all quiet… all watching.

Beauxbatons, though seated with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, kept casting uncertain glances toward the Slytherin end.

Then Dumbledore rose.

The hall hushed immediately.

His blue eyes moved across the assembled students, and he gestured to the two cloaked figures seated beside Daphne Greengrass.

“Before we proceed further… a reminder.”

“The students you see before you—Hadrian and Loona—have been legally recognized by the Ministry and by ancient magical law. They are here under protection and purpose.”

A beat of silence.

“They are bonded. They are infernal. They are dangerous.

And I will say this only once: do not test them.”

The hall stayed silent, the weight of his words sinking in like an enchantment of its own.

“Now—eat. Drink. And prepare yourselves. The fire will be lit tonight.”

As he sat, murmurs picked up again, but they were quieter now. More respectful. More cautious.

Hadrian glanced sideways at Daphne, who simply gave his hand a squeeze beneath the table.

Loona grinned with fangs.

“Well,” she whispered to Hadrian, “nothing like a room full of enemies watching you eat.”

Hadrian smirked.

“Let them stare. The real games haven’t even started.”

Dinner was in full swing.

Golden platters refilled themselves with roast meats, root vegetables, and enchanted desserts that floated briefly before landing gently on plates. The hall buzzed with conversations in French, English, and Slavic. Laughter bounced off the walls. Goblets clinked.

Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne sat at the Slytherin table, several Durmstrang students seated nearby—tense, observant, but still proud. Their uniforms were red-trimmed, heavy with military precision.

Two of the older boys leaned toward each other, speaking in hushed Slavic, not realizing Hadrian was listening. Their eyes kept flicking toward Loona.

> “Her hips, brother—like a wolf in heat.”

“She wouldn’t last one night. I’d have her howling by midnight.”

Hadrian’s fork stilled midair.

He slowly set it down.

Then, in perfect, clear Slavic, voice low and cold as obsidian:

“Your tongues wag like dogs. I can rip them out just as fast.”

The two Durmstrang students froze.

A few others nearby turned their heads, confused by the sudden shift in energy.

Hadrian leaned forward just slightly, his golden eyes locked on the one who’d spoken first.

“Say one more thing about my bonded, and I will show you what happens to those who mistake Hellhounds for toys.”

Silence.

Even the knives on the table seemed to stop ringing.

One of the boys muttered an apology and looked down at his plate, face flushed.

Loona, who’d caught enough of the tone if not the words, raised a brow.

“What’d they say?”

Hadrian didn’t look away from the Durmstrang boys.

“Doesn’t matter. They won’t say it again.”

Daphne gave his hand a light squeeze beneath the table. “Still want dessert?”

Hadrian smirked faintly.

“Lost my appetite. But not my edge.”

From further down the table, Snape, who had been watching silently, gave a barely perceptible nod.

The room continued buzzing, students swapping food, stories, and subtle glances at Hadrian and Loona as the trio quietly finished their dinner.

Loona leaned back in her seat, relaxed but alert, cutting into a piece of charmed steak.

Hadrian’s ears twitched.

Just behind them, at the Beauxbatons table, two older French students whispered in their native tongue, their eyes locked on Loona.

“Regarde-moi cette taille… elle pourrait m’étrangler avec ses cuisses.”
(Look at that waist… she could strangle me with her thighs.)

“Elle a une gueule de chienne sauvage… exactement comme j’aime.”
(She’s got the snarl of a wild bitch… just how I like them.)

Hadrian stood up.

The motion was smooth. Cold. Intentional.

Loona blinked, tilting her head. “What’s wrong?”

Daphne looked up, her eyes narrowing as she caught the tension bleeding off him.

“Stay here,” Hadrian said calmly, voice flat.

He turned and walked up the length of the Great Hall, every eye drawn to the movement—his long coat trailing, boots striking the stone floor with purpose.

He headed straight for the head table.

Conversation died around him.

Even the Beauxbatons students stopped talking as he passed, recognizing the heat coming off him like an oncoming firestorm.

He stopped in front of Madam Maxime, her towering figure seated beside Professors Flitwick and Sprout. She looked down at him with a polite but cautious smile.

“Can I help you, Monsieur Hadrian?”

His voice was like steel pulled from flame.

“Your students are speaking like dogs in heat.”

A pause. Silence.

“The Durmstrangs got a warning. Now it’s your turn.”

She blinked, taken aback. “I—beg your pardon?”

“If another word about my bonded passes from the mouths of your boys,” he said clearly enough for all the staff and upper tables to hear, “I will not speak next time.
I will act.”

Dumbledore, already half-rising from his seat, froze.

Maxime frowned deeply. “If someone has insulted—”

“Not insulted,” Hadrian cut in. “Objectified. Threatened. Reduced.”

He looked past her, straight into the pale faces of the French boys who’d made the comments.

“If they want to keep their tongues, I suggest you muzzle them.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then Madam Maxime stood slowly, tall and imposing in her own right.

She gave a curt nod.

“I will speak to them immediately.”

Hadrian held her eyes a moment longer.

Then turned and walked back down the hall in silence—and not a single student dared meet his gaze.

As he reached the Slytherin table again, Loona leaned over, brow raised.

“...French this time?”

Hadrian sat, exhaling slowly. “They’ll be quiet now.”

Daphne smirked. “They’d better. Otherwise, I might start baring my teeth too.”

The Entrance Hall – Fire and Ambition..................................

The torches along the stone walls flickered low as the evening deepened. Students from all three schools gathered in the massive Entrance Hall, their voices low, eyes drawn to the pedestal at the front.

Upon it stood the Goblet of Fire.

Tall. Ancient. Cracked from time but still brimming with power.

Its blue flames roared high and steady, casting eerie light across the chamber. Magic thrummed from it—subtle but commanding. It pulsed with age-old sentience.

Dumbledore stood beside it, his robes darker than usual, eyes sharp beneath the candlelight.

“The Goblet has been prepared,” he said, voice echoing over the marble floor. “You have until All Hallows’ Eve to submit your name.”

He turned slightly toward the gathered crowd.

“Those wishing to participate must write their name and school clearly on a slip of parchment and place it into the flame. Be warned—it will burn away all but the worthy.”

A thin gold line shimmered around the pedestal—a warding ring.

“Only those of age may cross this line. Anyone younger will be repelled.”

Murmurs spread through the students. Durmstrang’s champion hopefuls stepped forward confidently. Beauxbatons students drifted forward more elegantly, parchment in hand.

Even a few Hogwarts upper years looked toward the Goblet with determined expressions.

But standing just outside the outer circle, off to the side, was Hadrian.

Cloaked. Still. Watching.

Loona stood beside him, arms crossed, tail flicking lightly. Daphne stood on his other side, calm and poised.

Several students glanced at them, whispering if he’d enter—though they all knew the age rule.

Yet Hadrian made no move toward the Goblet.

He didn’t need to.

The fire flared as if sensing him.

It burned a little brighter.

Hotter.

Aware.

Even as the first names were cast into the blue flame—burning instantly to ash and sparks—it was clear to everyone gathered:

This year’s tournament had already been cursed.

Because Hell was watching.

And waiting.

The next morning....................................................................

Early morning mist still clung to the windows of the Room of Wards, a sealed chamber adjacent to the staff quarters—used only for confidential matters of great consequence. The stone walls were carved with ancient sigils. Silencing charms layered upon layered ensured not a whisper would escape.

Albus Dumbledore stood at the head of a rounded stone table, hands folded behind his back, robes darker than usual. His eyes were sharp and guarded.

To his right sat Madame Olympe Maxime, tall, dignified, but visibly rattled by last night’s confrontation.

To his left, Igor Karkaroff, arms crossed, sharp-eyed and simmering with unease.

The mood was cold and tense.

“So,” Maxime began, her voice low, “you did not see fit to inform us that Hell’s nobility was here?”

Dumbledore responded calmly. “He is not a competitor. He is here under the protection of ancient magical law—recognized by the Ministry and older enchantments still.”

Karkaroff scoffed. “He walks like a predator. Talks like a prince. And has the eyes of something that should not be in a school.”

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment.

“Hadrian is not here to harm. But he is no longer the child we failed.”

Maxime leaned forward slightly. “That performance… the way he spoke. The power he carries—it is not human.”

“No,” Dumbledore agreed, “but neither is he fully demon. He is something else. Something forged. And he is not alone.”

Karkaroff’s lips curled. “Two bonded mates. One a girl from your own noble line. The other—another Hellhound. Do you not see what this looks like?”

“It looks,” Dumbledore said carefully, “like a political alliance more powerful than any of us anticipated.”

There was silence for a beat.

Then Maxime asked, almost hesitantly, “Will he interfere with the Tournament?”

Dumbledore’s gaze darkened.

“Not unless provoked.”

Karkaroff stood abruptly, voice low. “Let us hope none of our champions have reason to draw his ire.”

He left the room without another word.

Maxime stood more gracefully, casting one last glance toward Dumbledore.

“Albus… if the Goblet chooses him, whether by force or fate—you will not be able to stop what comes next.”

And then she left too, heels echoing in the stone hallway beyond.

Dumbledore remained still, staring at the sigils on the table.

He knew they were right.

And that the storm had only just begun.

Quidditch Pitch – Morning Rituals of the Infernal Pack

The rising sun cast long golden beams across the dew-covered grass of the Quidditch pitch. The world was quiet save for the soft wind rustling the stadium banners. No students, no staff—just silence, crisp air, and the pounding of disciplined feet against earth.

Hadrian stood at the edge of the pitch, already in motion—arms stretching overhead, breath steady, long coat cast aside for more practical training gear.

Loona yawned, already crouched low to the ground before breaking into a sprint on all fours, her Hellhound form tearing through the track with speed and ease. The wind blew her streaked hair wildly behind her.

Daphne, a little slower to start, stood beside Hadrian in her human form, exhaling slowly.

He gave her a nod.

“Shift. It gets easier the more you embrace it.”

Daphne closed her eyes.

The transformation was smoother now. Her bones didn’t crack, her skin shimmered with brief shadows—and then she stood in her Hellhound form, a beautiful mix of northern wolf features—grey and white fur, long limbs, glowing sapphire eyes.

Hadrian gave her a proud nod. “Much better.”

He motioned with his clawed hand toward the pitch.

“Three laps, run full stride. Keep low. After that—takedown drills.”

Daphne growled lightly, a smile in it, and bolted after Loona.

The two she-hounds sprinted across the field, claws digging into the turf, tails slicing through the air. The echo of paws and growls rang under the stands.

Hadrian watched them with calm satisfaction, his eyes glowing gold beneath the edge of his hood. This was their real strength. Not spells. Not charms. But movement. Unity. The bond of a pack.

After a full lap, Loona barked, “She’s faster than last time!”

Daphne growled back, “Because I train now.”

Hadrian chuckled.

“Keep that fire. You’ll need it.”

Breakfast in the Great Hall was as lively as ever—plates refilling, chatter echoing off the vaulted ceiling, and steam rising from cauldrons of tea and enchanted pastries.

At the Slytherin table, students began to take notice of something unusual:

Three Hellhounds were seated near the center.

Most recognized Hadrian and Loona—towering, composed, unmistakable. But the third Hellhound was unfamiliar to most. Sleek grey-white fur, poised posture, and glowing blue eyes that watched the hall with quiet confidence.

Whispers quickly spread.

“Is that… another one?”

“There’s three of them now?”

“Wait… is that… Daphne?”

Tracey Davis, wide-eyed and clinging to her pumpkin juice, leaned forward. “Hadrian, who’s that next to you? Is that a new Hellhound?”

Hadrian smirked, taking a casual sip from his mug.

“What? Don’t recognize your housemate when she’s dressed for war?”

Loona let out a bark of laughter. Daphne growled with amusement, flicking her tail across Tracey’s lap.

Tracey gasped. “Daphne?!”

The table burst into murmurs, astonished gasps, and outright stares.

Further down the table, Fleur Delacour, seated with several Beauxbatons girls, had turned to look—her Veela magic rolling off her in waves, eyes locked on Hadrian with quiet challenge and curiosity.

Hadrian’s ear twitched. His eyes narrowed.

He turned toward her without rising.

His voice was low, but it cut through the ambient noise like a spell.

“You’re flaring Veela magic at me, girl.”

Fleur blinked, surprised he noticed—then smirked subtly, head tilting.

Hadrian didn’t smile.

“Drop it. Or I will personally throw you into the Ring of Lust and watch what’s left crawl out screaming.”

A hush fell over the hall.

Fleur’s confident expression froze, her magic retreating immediately like a wave recoiling from flame.

Even Madame Maxime looked up sharply from the staff table, brows raised.

Loona snorted. “She’s lucky you’re in a good mood.”

Daphne, still in her Hellhound form, gave a soft growl of warning—and then resumed eating, utterly unconcerned.

The rest of the Great Hall went back to their breakfast… much more carefully than before.

The energy in the room had already shifted after Hadrian’s warning, but the tension hadn’t fully released.

Loona, however, hadn’t forgotten the looks.

Hadn’t forgotten what Hadrian told her about the French boys, the Veela stare, the whispers.

And when Fleur Delacour dared to keep watching him—Veela magic still lingering in the air despite Hadrian’s warning—it snapped something in her.

With a low, rumbling growl, Loona rose from the bench.

The scrape of clawed feet against stone made students turn just in time to see her bolt down the aisle, faster than anyone could react.

Fleur barely had time to stand before Loona was on her.

A clawed hand slammed into her collarbone, pinning her against the Beauxbatons table. Her goblet clattered to the floor.

Gasps erupted.

Loona’s muzzle was inches from Fleur’s face, lips curled in a furious snarl, fangs bared.

“Drop. The. Magic.”

Fleur stiffened, her Veela glow fading in a heartbeat as primal fear took root.

“You think a pretty face gives you rights? You think you can throw your scent at my bonded?”

The room was silent—too shocked to move.

Loona’s voice was deadly calm now, but her eyes blazed.

“Back off, you stuck-up bitch. He’s mine.
Try to crawl into his bed like a heat-struck peacock again…
and I’ll tear you apart so clean even your soul won’t remember what you were.”

Fleur choked on her breath.

Madame Maxime shot to her feet, wand half-drawn. “Mademoiselle Loona!”

Hadrian finally moved—walking slowly toward the center of the hall.

Not rushing. Not panicking.

Commanding.

“Loona.”

She didn’t look away from Fleur but eased her grip just enough.

Hadrian reached her side and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s done. She got the message.”

Loona snarled once more for good measure, then released Fleur and stepped back, tail lashing.

Fleur slumped into her seat, face pale, hand trembling as she reached for a glass of water.

Hadrian looked at Maxime.

“You should remind your students. Hell doesn’t share.”

Then he turned, walked back to the Slytherin table, and sat calmly beside Daphne, who offered him a sip of her tea like nothing had happened.

The hall slowly returned to motion—but the lesson was loud and clear.

Loona was not to be tested.

And Hadrian was not to be touched.

The Beauxbatons table had fallen quiet.

Fleur Delacour sat stiffly in her seat, eyes fixed on her untouched plate. The faint glow of her Veela magic had faded completely, leaving only cold embarrassment and a dull throb in her chest. Her hand trembled slightly as she gripped her silver goblet.

She had never been physically challenged before.

Never been grabbed, threatened, publicly shamed.

Especially not by another woman—one not cowed by her beauty or presence, but utterly indifferent to it.

Loona’s snarl echoed in her memory.

“He’s mine.”

It stung deeper than she expected.

Even her fellow students had stopped whispering. No one wanted to meet her eyes. And Fleur—for the first time—felt defenseless.

Not because of the Hellhounds’ power…

But because she knew she’d gone too far.

And worse—he hadn’t even looked at her.

Scene: Headmaster’s Office – Quiet Warnings

Later that morning, Dumbledore stood in the stone office with James, McGonagall, and a tense Snape, all reviewing the brewing chaos.

He spoke lowly, fingers steepled beneath his beard.

“We may have dismissed Hadrian’s… presence… as political. But I believe we are underestimating how deep this goes.”

McGonagall frowned. “You’re referring to the Veela incident?”

“That, yes,” Dumbledore replied. “But more… I’ve begun noticing a pattern. Do you recall the dorm incident with Mr. Malfoy?”

Snape stiffened. “It’s been… contained.”

James raised an eyebrow. “What does Malfoy have to do with this?”

Dumbledore leaned forward.

“Madam Pomfrey confirmed something… transformative is occurring in him. His magic is shifting. His body is slowly adapting to a new state—feminine traits, disrupted magical channels, even psychic submission patterns.”

McGonagall paled. “You think it’s infernal?”

Dumbledore nodded once. “I believe Hadrian didn’t just punish Draco. He altered his destiny.”

Back at breakfast, Hadrian sat relaxed between Loona and Daphne, enjoying a second cup of black coffee.

But his golden eyes flicked toward the far end of the Slytherin table.

Draco sat stiffly, his robes hanging awkwardly on his frame, sleeves too long, collar loose. His jawline had softened, and his features, once sharp and arrogant, were beginning to blur into something more delicate.

He kept his eyes down.

Until he risked a glance.

At Hadrian.

Their eyes met.

Draco blushed—clearly, visibly—and quickly looked away.

Hadrian’s lips curved just slightly.

Still fighting it. But the bond is forming.

Daphne leaned closer. “He blushed at you.”

Loona huffed. “You really broke him.”

Hadrian didn’t answer. But his eyes lingered on Draco a moment longer.

Because he didn’t need to fight him anymore.

Hell would claim him eventually.

The torches burned a shade dimmer as the final enchanted pumpkins drifted lazily through the air above the students' heads. Plates were being cleared away when a sudden crackle of static filled the chamber.

An old, dusty radio, the kind no wizard recognized, had appeared in the doorway—its casing chipped, the knobs spinning of their own accord, and a grainy, warped tune echoing faintly from it.

“Chhhhhhk—testing… testing…”

Several students turned to look, curious.

A few younger Gryffindors stepped forward.

Hadrian shot up instantly.

“No one touch that,” he growled, voice low but firm.

The hall paused.

Dumbledore, standing at the staff table, frowned deeply. “Hadrian? What is it?”

Before he could answer, the radio hissed again—and a voice oozed out, silk-smooth and eerie, laced with static and old-time cheer:

“Well, well, well… what a charming crowd of little candle flames. And here I thought this world had no taste for theatrics anymore.”

Gasps followed as the lights dimmed completely.

A swirl of black mist poured from the floor, coiling like smoke, and in its center rose a tall, spindly figure in a red pinstriped suit. His hands folded neatly behind his back. His smile was too wide. His antlers rose like a stag’s, and his glowing eyes fixed on only one person.

Hadrian.

“Ahhh, my dear boy. We meet again. And my, don’t you look dashing in the mortal realm.”

The Great Hall was silent.

James Potter’s hand twitched near his wand.
Professor Flitwick stepped off his chair.
McGonagall’s lips tightened.
Snape’s hand was already on his wand.
And Dumbledore stepped forward.

>m“Who are you?”

Alastor turned with that same smile, teeth gleaming.

“Why, how rude of me. I am Alastor. You may know me as the Radio Demon. Or, if you prefer titles, the Preyton Overlord of Echoes.

I was invited by… well, let’s say the flames of friendship.”

His gaze flicked once more to Hadrian, who stood calmly, arms crossed.

Dumbledore’s voice was sharp. “This is Hogwarts. Your kind—”

“Is bound by law, yes yes,” Alastor interrupted, waving a hand. “I assure you, I’ve broken none… yet.”

He looked toward the Goblet of Fire, flickering now in deeper, unsettling shades of blue.

“It seems I arrived just in time for the show.”

James stepped forward, tense. “What’s your business here?”

Alastor chuckled, twirling a finger in the air as faint radio static surrounded him like a halo.

“Oh, I’m merely here to observe. Perhaps offer a bit of insight… if things get entertaining.”

Dumbledore, still cautious, nodded slowly. “Then observe from the sides. Any interference—”

“And I’ll be gone in a blink,” Alastor assured, stepping back with an exaggerated bow. “I am, after all, just a humble guest.”

The Great Hall had darkened slightly under the weight of Alastor’s presence. His grin never faltered, though it made the hairs on most necks rise like frostbitten wire.

Dumbledore’s question still hung in the air:

“Who truly rules Hell?”

Alastor twirled his cane, tapping it to the floor as he answered like a twisted showman delivering a practiced pitch.

“At the pinnacle, of course, is the King of Pride—Lucifer Morningstar. The Morning Star himself. The first Fallen. The architect of the Infernal Order.

Beneath him sit the Seven Sins—each ruling their own domain, each a being of immense influence and ancient magic. Pride, Greed, Wrath, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, and Sloth.”

His voice carried like a broadcast, clear in every corner of the room.

“Each Sin has their own Legion. Their own capital. Their own laws.
Above them stands the House of Ars Goetia, nobility bound by infernal blood and cosmic contracts.
And below… you find creatures like me.” He bowed. “Overlords, like rats who clawed our way to power.”

A pause.

“And then the rest—Imps, Sinners, the broken, the damned.”

Snape, expression unreadable, muttered, “And Hadrian?”

Alastor’s grin widened.

“Ahh, the boy belongs to House Goetia, of course. Officially recognized. Blood-bound. But make no mistake…” He turned his burning red gaze on Hadrian.
“That one swims among Sins. He just hasn't chosen which throne to step on yet.”

Loona’s growl rumbled low. Daphne’s glare never wavered.

Then the Goblet flared.

One by one, it delivered the champions:

Victor Krum for Durmstrang

Fleur Delacour for Beauxbatons

Cedric Diggory for Hogwarts

The room settled, tension starting to fade.

But the Goblet burned again.

A fourth scroll—blackened, edges smoldering with hellfire—shot into the air and landed before Dumbledore.

He read it aloud:

“Hadrian.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

All eyes turned to the Hellhound now rising slowly from the Slytherin table. His cloak trailed behind him like smoke.

Daphne stiffened. Loona snarled. Even Fleur’s mouth opened slightly in shock.

Dumbledore looked at him, voice cautious.

“Hadrian… you didn’t place your name in?”

Hadrian’s golden eyes flared slightly.

“I wouldn’t have needed to.”

And Alastor laughed, the sound like warped jazz over static.

“Oh, delicious. Now this is a tournament I’ll stay tuned for…”