Hellbound

Great Hall – Whispered Reactions and Rising Storm

The Goblet of Fire still flickered with unnatural flame, its fourth scroll long since gone, but its magic lingered—sour and disturbed.

Students across all houses and schools leaned close, whispering with a mixture of fascination and fear:

“A fourth name—how’s that possible?”

“Hadrian? That’s the Hellhound.”

“Is it even legal?”

“Why would the Goblet choose him?”

From the Gryffindor table, Elias Potter stared with wide, pale eyes. Hermione whispered furiously to Ron. Even the Durmstrang students were frowning now—not with jealousy, but with wariness.

Back at the staff table, Dumbledore rose and spoke with strained calm.

“Hadrian… if you would kindly follow me to the antechamber. This… must be addressed.”

Hadrian stood without a word, expression dark as thunder. Loona stood too—but he gave her a subtle shake of the head.

“Stay. I’ll call you if needed.”

Daphne’s grip on her goblet tightened—but she stayed seated.

Students parted as Hadrian walked the aisle. Even the Goblet flared one last time as he passed, casting his shadow long and crooked behind him.

Dumbledore, James, Professor McGonagall, and several others waited in the stone-walled chamber off the Great Hall. The door sealed behind Hadrian with a soft click.

“Explain yourself,” Dumbledore began. “How did your name get into the Goblet? This is not a matter to play with—”

“I didn’t put my name in,” Hadrian growled, cutting him off. “But someone—or something—wanted me chosen. The Goblet obeyed.”

James stepped forward. “Then why did it respond to you? Why not one of the other students?”

Hadrian didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out a sleek, glowing phone from his coat.

The professors blinked, unfamiliar with the device.

He tapped quickly and raised it to his ear.

“Stolas. I need your insight. The Goblet just selected me. Ancient artifact, bound by age magic… I didn’t enter.”

A pause.

Then, a faint, distorted voice answered, rich and calm:

“That shouldn’t be possible… unless something older than the Goblet reached through its flame.”

Hadrian’s eyes narrowed.

“Can you come?”

“For you, my son, of course. I’ll step out of the shadows.”

Just as he ended the call, a faint sound behind them—the hum of static.

Alastor, who had lingered in the Great Hall doorway like a fading memory, let out one last distorted laugh.

“Ohhh, this is going to be fun. Call me if someone dies!”

And with a flick of smoke, the Radio Demon vanished, leaving only dust and silence in his place.

A moment later, the room shifted.

Shadows bent backward as a portal of swirling star-fire opened—and out stepped Stolas, tall, regal, glowing with calm authority, his four eyes blinking slowly.

The professors recoiled.

Dumbledore’s voice faltered. “You… you are—?”

“Stolas of the Ars Goetia,” the Owl Demon said serenely. “Hadrian is my son. And I’m here to discuss this violation of magical law.”

The air in the room was thick with tension.

The swirl of Stolas’s magic still glowed faintly around the Goblet of Fire, illuminating its jagged edges. The owl-demon's long fingers hovered over the artifact, his four glowing eyes narrowed in concentration as arcane symbols shimmered in the air above it—signatures written in soul-ink.

The Ministry officials present—two from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, one from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement—stood frozen, visibly pale. Their quills had stopped scratching. Even Dumbledore’s usual composure wavered.

Stolas’s voice was calm, regal, but each word dropped like a stone into still water.

“There are four magical imprints burned into the Goblet. Three are clean—your champions: Krum, Delacour, Diggory. Their magical threads align with proper submission.”

He glanced at Hadrian.

“His, however, was forced in. It carries his resonance—yes—but it was dragged, not given.”

A glowing thread curled upward like smoke from the Goblet and lingered in the air, pulsing red.

Stolas tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

“And here… we find the spell signature of the wizard responsible. Ancient, meticulous, cloaked in layered illusion.”

His talons flared slightly.

“But not flawless.”

He turned slowly, gaze settling on the gathered officials and professors.

“Does the name… Barty Crouch Junior mean anything to you?”

The room fell dead silent.

Dumbledore’s breath caught.

James Potter’s eyes widened. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

“He isn’t,” Stolas replied plainly. “His soul-stain is fresh. Very much alive. And he tampered with this artifact of power to bind my son to a contract.”

McGonagall whispered, “Dear Merlin…”

One of the Ministry witches choked on her own breath. “Barty Crouch Jr. was a Death Eater. He died in Azkaban.”

Stolas turned toward her.

“He didn’t. He hid. And now, he's returned to finish what his master began.”

The Owl Prince looked to Hadrian.

“This wasn't a random curse. It was targeted. Precise. And meant to draw you into something very old, very dark… and very dangerous.”

Hadrian’s expression was stone.

“Then I’ll burn whoever’s behind it.”

The glow of Stolas’s magic still hovered in the air like a low storm, threads of arcane light weaving from the Goblet to his extended talons. The name Barty Crouch Jr. had just dropped like poison into the chamber.

Everyone stood stunned.

Until—

Stolas’s eyes shifted—his head turning slightly, the feathers along his neck rising.

“Someone here doesn’t belong.”

His voice turned sharp.

Hadrian tensed.

Stolas’s wings pulsed open just slightly, his four eyes locking onto the far side of the room—on Alastor Moody.

The man in the corner, scarred, grizzled, and silent, hadn’t moved. But something beneath his skin… twitched.

Stolas extended a hand, palm glowing with violet light laced in golden infernal threads.

“I see you, pretender.”

With a sudden pulse of magic—a shockwave of burning cold—the spell broke.

Moody’s form twisted as glamours shattered, revealing a younger man with sunken eyes, ragged breath, and the madness of fanaticism written across his face.

Barty Crouch Jr. stood exposed.

Gasps erupted. Wands were drawn. Dumbledore reeled back.

“Impossible—” James started.

But Hadrian was already moving.

With no hesitation, he crossed the chamber in a blur of cloak and fury.

His clawed hand closed around Barty’s throat.

“You tried to bind me. Tried to use me.”

He lifted him bodily.

Barty choked, a grin still plastered to his face.

“He’ll rise again…”

Hadrian snarled.

And then he threw him—headfirst—into the stone wall.

The crack of bone echoed like thunder.

Barty’s body crumpled, his neck snapped clean, blood trickling down from the shattered stone.

Dead.

Silence.

The room froze.

Dumbledore’s voice was stunned. “Hadrian—”

“He was already dead the moment he stepped into that skin,” Hadrian growled. “He was going to kill students. Use the Tournament. Maybe worse.”

Stolas stepped beside his son, one hand calmly adjusting his sleeve.

“A fitting end. Efficient.”

One of the Ministry officials choked out, “You… you just murdered him—”

Stolas’s voice turned cold.

“No. We delivered justice. He broke infernal law. Touched what was not his. You all failed to stop him—again.”

Dumbledore’s eyes narrowed. “Still, this sets a dangerous precedent.”

“Then prepare your excuses,” Hadrian said as he walked out, “because I don’t plan to let the next one live, either.”
And with that, he disappeared into the hall, heading straight for the only place that made sense—his mates.

Hadrian gave one final glance to the twisted, broken body of Barty Crouch Jr. before turning to Stolas.

“Thank you… father.”

Stolas, proud and composed, gave a soft nod.

“You acted justly. Walk tall.”

Hadrian turned and swept from the room, his footsteps vanishing down the corridor like a shadow that had delivered judgment.

The silence remained thick.

Stolas folded his hands behind his back and regarded the others—Dumbledore, the Ministry officials, James Potter, and the three champions, who were all still visibly shaken.

“Now then,” he said in a smooth, unhurried tone, “shall we discuss what comes next?”

James Potter stepped forward cautiously, his voice low and uncertain.

“If I may… if you’re willing, I’d like to know more. About… Hadrian. His upbringing. What kind of life he had in your realm.”

There was a pause.

Stolas turned his four eyes toward James. The look was not unkind—merely unreadable.

“You abandoned him once. And now you want the story of who picked up the pieces.”

James flinched.

But Stolas relented.

“Yes. I will speak with you, in time. But know this: he was raised as a prince. Taught, tested, and forged into something your world neither understands nor deserves.”

He turned to Dumbledore.

“And on the matter of guests—my daughter, Octavia, has expressed interest in seeing where her brother resides. She will be arriving tomorrow.”

Dumbledore blinked. “Your daughter?”

“Yes. She will arrive under guard. She is to be treated as a noble, with every courtesy extended to her. The same level of respect afforded to Hadrian.”

A sharp look passed over the Ministry officials.

“Failure to do so,” Stolas continued, “will be seen as an insult to the House of Ars Goetia. I trust Hogwarts understands the weight of such matters.”

Dumbledore bowed his head slightly.

“We will be ready.”

Stolas straightened his coat.

“See that you are.”

With that, the Owl Prince turned, feathers gliding as he strode calmly into the dark corridor beyond.

Harry’s walk back to Slytherin dorms....................................

The stone corridors beneath Hogwarts were quieter after curfew, the torchlight flickering lazily along the walls. Most students had already retired for the evening, but the hushed tones of two sixth-year boys echoed near one of the stairwells that led toward the private quarters reserved for the Triwizard guests and “special arrangements.”

Hadrian walked alone, his cloak trailing behind him, the collar up, tail swaying with calm control—until he heard it.

“You see the tits on that Hellhound girl?” one boy snorted. “Bet they’re just as wild as she looks—bet she’d ride like a cursed Thestral—”

The second boy laughed, but it was short-lived.

Because a growl rolled through the corridor.

Low.

Deadly.

Hadrian stepped out of the shadows.

He didn’t run.

He didn’t raise his voice.

He just walked toward them, slow and purposeful.

Both boys froze as the golden glow of his eyes cut through the dim torchlight like sunlight on broken glass.

“Repeat that,” Hadrian said, voice calm—too calm. “Say it again. I want to make sure I heard your last words right.”

The taller boy stammered, “W-we were just joking—”

“Joking about Loona, my bonded?” Hadrian’s voice dropped into a snarl. “Joking about touching something that doesn’t belong to you?”

The second boy tried to back away, but Hadrian snapped his fingers.

A burst of hellfire chains erupted from the floor, slamming into the walls beside them, sealing them in.

“Do you know how long it takes a soul to burn in Lust’s Pit?” Hadrian asked, fangs now fully bared, his voice laced with barely restrained wrath. “Do you know what it means to disrespect a Hellhound’s mate?”

The air grew heavier, thick with infernal pressure. The boys began to sweat, eyes wide in panic.

“Look at me,” Hadrian commanded, voice ringing like a verdict. “Say her name with reverence—or I’ll make sure you never speak again without gagging on smoke.”

They stammered apologies, shaking.

Hadrian stepped closer, eyes level.

“Next time… I won’t speak first.”

He turned, the chains melting back into the stones with a sizzle, and walked away—leaving the two trembling and wide-eyed, too afraid to move.

As he rounded the corner toward his quarters, his fury simmered lower—but not gone.

Loona was his.
Daphne was his.

And the school was going to learn—Hell doesn’t tolerate disrespect.

The two boys who had made crude comments about Loona stood pinned by fear and by the residual heat of the hellfire chains that had sealed them in moments ago. Their backs were to the wall, eyes flicking wildly, unable to flee.

But Hadrian wasn’t finished.

From beneath his cloak, he tapped a sigil-etched rune. The air shimmered faintly.

“Draco,” he said, voice resonant and low. “Come to me. Now.”

A moment later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Draco Malfoy appeared, panting slightly, his platinum hair tousled, robes half-clutched in one hand as if he'd rushed from somewhere private. His golden-tinted eyes darted to Hadrian, and his posture immediately changed—shoulders lowered, chin dipped, hands relaxed and open.

“Alpha,” he said softly, head bowed in full submission. “What do you need?”

Hadrian didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Strip to your undershirt and boxers.”

There was a flicker of hesitation—but only a flicker.

Draco nodded once and obeyed.

The outer layers came off with careful hands. When the robe fell to the floor, followed by his school shirt and slacks, it revealed the truth Draco had been hiding:

His form had begun to feminize.
His waist tapered inward.
His hips flared slightly, the fabric of his boxers too tight around the curve of his thighs.
His undershirt clung to a subtly softer chest.

The boys watching gasped.

Hadrian looked at them with cold gold eyes.

“This is what happens when you play games you don’t understand.”

He stepped toward them, towering in his Hellhound form.

“Draco insulted me once—just once. With arrogance, disrespect, and desire that didn’t belong to him.”

He gestured to Draco, who stood still, trembling slightly but obedient.

“Now he’s changing. Claimed without even a bite. Because submission to power… leaves a mark.”

The two boys dared not blink.

“So the next time any of you think about speaking about my mates—Loona or Daphne—like they’re objects, remember this moment.”

He stepped back, the floor beneath him still warm from the hellfire.

“Or I’ll rewrite your souls in ways you’ll never escape.”

Draco quietly began re-dressing, not even sparing a glance at the others.

Hadrian gave one final look to the two sixth-years, eyes glowing like molten gold.

“Hell doesn’t ask. It takes.”

Then he turned, his cloak flowing behind him as he walked back into the shadows.

The silence was suffocating.

The two sixth-years were frozen in place—pale, wide-eyed, their earlier arrogance shattered completely. Hell had walked into their world… and left a mark.

Draco, now standing in his undershirt and ill-fitting boxers, waited, his eyes lowered. His transformation was visible—subtle curves, softened lines, vulnerability worn like a second skin. He didn’t resist. He didn’t flinch.

Hadrian turned to him one last time, voice quiet but commanding:

“Show them your place, Draco.”

Draco looked up, lips trembling just slightly.

“Yes… Alpha.”

He stepped forward, slowly, and pressed a soft kiss to Hadrian’s cheek, nuzzling against him with a trembling reverence. Then, in a voice that echoed off the cold stone—

“I love you.”

Hadrian didn’t return the kiss. He didn’t need to.

He simply looked at the boys—expression unreadable, glowing eyes burning gold in the torchlight.

“He belongs to me now. In body. In spirit. And in truth.”

Draco stepped back, silent and obedient, the confession hanging in the air like incense over flame.

Hadrian finally turned to leave, his voice drifting behind him:

“Let this be your warning: no one touches what’s mine. And those who try… will be broken.”

He vanished into the corridor's shadows, Draco quietly collecting his robes and following a few steps behind—submissive, silent, and remade.

The two boys stood in the dark, shaking.

They would never forget.

The two sixth-years didn’t walk—they ran. Their footsteps echoed down the corridor, leaving behind only the scent of fear and scorched pride.

Hadrian stood still a moment longer, golden eyes glowing faintly as he watched them disappear. Then, with no change in expression, he turned to Draco—still holding his half-removed robes, shoulders hunched slightly in uncertainty.

“Come here.”

Draco did, immediately.

Without warning, Hadrian reached out, claws firm but careful, and lifted Draco off the ground—one hand curled around his waist, the other bracing under his thighs.

“A-Ah!” Draco gasped, his arms instinctively wrapping around Hadrian’s shoulders. “What—what are you—?!”

Hadrian’s grip was steady, and his voice even.

“You’re mine now. I carry what belongs to me.”

Draco’s cheeks flamed as he realized his position. Legs around Hadrian’s waist, face nearly level with his Alpha’s. His body—still morphing—fit too well in Hadrian’s arms. His hips, now noticeably wider, pressed against Hadrian’s sides.

He whimpered. Quiet. Submissive.

“W-Why are you doing this?”

Hadrian’s eyes flicked to him, unreadable.

“Because you need to remember who you belong to. And because I want you to feel the changes.”

He ran a claw along the small of Draco’s back—not cutting, but possessive.

“You’re not hiding your curves from me anymore.”

Draco buried his face in Hadrian’s shoulder, trembling but silent.

Then Hadrian’s tone changed—low, cold.

“Have you written to your father yet?”

Draco’s breath hitched.

“No… not yet.”

“He already knows. About the Sins. About what you said to me. What you wanted from me.”

Draco said nothing.

Hadrian stopped just before the portrait entrance to the Slytherin dorm and stared at him.

“Lucius committed his own sins. You’re paying for them now. The Blacklist isn’t just a threat, Draco. It’s a fate.”

He lowered his voice.

“But you can still earn your place… if you stay loyal.”

Draco nodded slowly, his breath warm against Hadrian’s neck.

“Yes… Alpha.”

Hadrian carried him the rest of the way in silence.

As the stone door slid open, revealing the dim common room beyond, students nearby looked up—shocked, confused, speechless—as their Alpha Hellhound stepped inside…

Cradling a Malfoy.

The enchanted door to Hadrian’s private quarters slid open with a hiss of magic and old stone, revealing the low candlelight flickering within.

Daphne sat on the couch brushing her silver-blonde hair, already dressed for bed in a black silk nightgown. Loona, still in her Hellhound form, lounged nearby on the plush rug, a fang-baring yawn escaping her jaw.

Both girls looked up—then froze.

Hadrian entered, tall and commanding, arms full.

Draco Malfoy, flushed, submissive, still half-dressed in his undershirt and tight boxers, lay in Hadrian’s arms—legs loosely draped around the Alpha’s waist, eyes glazed with confusion, fear… and something far deeper.

Daphne blinked slowly.
Loona raised an eyebrow.
“Alright,” Loona said, ears flicking, “what’s this about?”

Daphne leaned forward slightly. “You collecting strays now, Alpha?”

Hadrian set Draco down carefully onto the large bed and straightened up.

“He made the mistake of disrespecting what was mine. His punishment began the moment he submitted to me. Now his body reflects his submission… and I intend to make sure he doesn’t hide it anymore.”

He turned to Draco, who sat with his legs tucked close, still blushing and trying to avoid their eyes.

“He needs new clothes. Feminine ones. Something that fits his hips. Something tight. He will not be allowed to pretend he’s unchanged.”

Loona chuckled darkly, eyeing Draco’s softened figure. “Yeah… the curves don’t lie anymore.”

“He will also write a letter,” Hadrian continued, tone final. “To Lucius Malfoy. He will describe, in detail, what has happened. That he has submitted to a superior Alpha. That he denounces himself as heir.”

Draco whimpered slightly but nodded.

Daphne, crossing her legs elegantly, tilted her head. “Are you sure that’s wise? Lucius isn’t exactly known for being… merciful.”

Hadrian’s eyes glowed faintly.

“That’s the point.”

Loona stood and padded over, dragging out a trunk from under the bed. “I’ve got some stuff from Hell that might fit him. Tight tops. Leather. Fishnet. Gotta accentuate what’s blooming, after all.”

Daphne joined her with a smirk. “We’ll make him look adorable.”

Draco looked up helplessly, but neither girl showed pity. They just smiled—dangerous and beautiful.

“It’s time you learned what it means to belong, Draco,” Hadrian said, arms folded. “You may not burn in Hell yet, but you’ll dress like you’re halfway there.”

And in that room—surrounded by fangs, fire, and unrelenting dominance—Draco Malfoy began to truly change.

The atmosphere in the room was thick with heat and silence.

Draco sat cross-legged on a velvet stool at the writing desk, a scroll unrolled before him, quill trembling in his hand. The candlelight cast soft shadows across his features—features that had already softened with his ongoing transformation.

Hadrian stood behind him, arms folded, watching every movement.

Loona lounged on the bed, sharpening one claw against the hilt of her dagger, while Daphne leaned against the bedpost, arms crossed, silently observing Draco with calculating eyes.

“Begin,” Hadrian commanded, voice low but absolute.

Draco’s hand twitched—but he dipped the quill in blood-red ink and began to write.

To Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,
From your former heir, Draco Lucian Malfoy.

I write not as a son, nor as a Malfoy—but as a broken servant who now belongs to one far greater.

Today, my soul was laid bare. My arrogance crushed. My bloodline’s pride turned to ash.

I disrespected a noble of Hell, an Alpha above all. And in doing so, I invited his wrath.

Hadrian of House Ars Goetia—the Hellhound Alpha—has claimed me. Not through words or blood, but through dominance. My body has begun to change in submission. I am no longer what I was. I will not hide it.

I denounce my claim as heir to House Malfoy. I swear fealty to Hadrian and accept the punishment for my bloodline’s sins. I will obey, and I will serve where I am placed.

If you seek to undo this… don’t. You would only find your own ruin.

This is not a request.
It is a declaration.

Your former son,
Draco

Draco set the quill down, hands trembling. His cheeks were flushed, but he didn’t cry. He didn’t look away.

Hadrian leaned forward, reading the scroll over Draco’s shoulder. He gave a short, cold nod.

“Seal it.”

Draco poured a bit of black wax and stamped it with the infernal sigil Hadrian provided—a stylized version of his Hellhound crest, flanked by fangs and fire.

“Deliver it by owl tonight,” Hadrian said, “with no delay.”

Daphne stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Welcome to submission.”

Loona smirked. “And welcome to Hell’s orbit, princess.”

Draco said nothing.

But he didn’t resist.

The sealed scroll to Lucius Malfoy had been sent.

Draco now stood behind a folding privacy screen, the shadows of his silhouette barely visible in the soft candlelight. His voice was a faint, nervous mumble.

“Do I really have to… wear this?”

On the other side of the screen, Loona laid out the first outfit across the bed with an almost gleeful grin. “Yes. And if you ask again, I’ll pick something tighter.”

Daphne smirked, holding up a pair of black lace-trimmed shorts and a silk blouse. “You need to embrace the changes, Draco. You're not hiding those hips anymore.”

Draco’s pale fingers reached over the screen, accepting the garments one piece at a time with reluctant grace.

“They’re snug,” he admitted quietly.

Loona called back, “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Daphne handed him a soft mesh undershirt next. “You were the one who submitted. Now you wear what fits your role. And that role is no longer heir to Malfoy. It's the pretty little thing learning her place under Hadrian’s protection.”

Draco didn’t argue.

A moment later, the screen creaked as he slowly stepped out.

The blouse clung to his shoulders and slimmed torso, the sleeves sheer and elegant. The shorts flattered his now-curving hips and exposed just enough pale leg to draw the eye. His frame was softer. Delicate. Feminine in the making.

Loona whistled. “Damn. He’s halfway to a makeover montage.”

Daphne walked a slow circle around him, adjusting a hem, brushing off lint, and tilting her head in silent approval.

“You’ll turn heads in the common room,” she said with a touch of amusement. “And not for your wandwork.”

Hadrian, seated with legs crossed, finally gave a nod.

“This is how you’ll present yourself from now on. You’ll carry yourself as you are—claimed, reshaped, and bound to my house.”

Draco stood still.

Blushing.

Breathing shallow.

But he didn’t run.

Morning light filtered in through the enchanted windows, casting soft gold across the ancient green stone of the Slytherin common room.

Draco Malfoy stepped out from the private quarters.

Gone were the stiff school robes, the sharp collars, and the prideful stride.

Instead, he wore a soft, figure-hugging ensemble chosen by Loona and Daphne—a black blouse with sheer sleeves, lace-trimmed shorts, and soft-heeled shoes that clicked gently against the stone.

His walk was tentative.

Eyes turned immediately. Conversations stopped.

The murmurs began.
“Is that… Malfoy?”

He’s wearing… are those heels?”

“Bloody hell, look at his waist.”

Draco kept his head high—barely. Behind him, Hadrian followed calmly, towering, imposing, and watchful. He radiated ownership. Power.

And no one dared to laugh.

Because the last person who crossed him had vanished from the social circle completely.

Daphne and Loona flanked him on either side—an infernal entourage.

“Let them look,” Daphne whispered to Draco. “You’ve already survived the worst of it.”

Loona smirked, bumping her hip into his. “You’re lucky I didn’t put you in a crop top.”

Entrance Courtyard – The Arrival of Octavia Ars Goetia

Later that morning, the enchanted sky above Hogwarts shimmered from grey to lilac as a faint whistle echoed from above.

A ripple of cosmic energy shimmered across the castle wards.

Students and professors gathered at the front steps as a portal of silver starlight tore open midair. Through it descended a sleek infernal carriage drawn by shadowy winged beasts, glowing faintly with Hell's signature sigils.

At its center, stepping down in boots of polished obsidian and a skirt lined with void-threaded embroidery—

Octavia Ars Goetia.

Tall. Lean. Regal.

Her owl-like eyes scanned the crowd with noble calm.

She carried herself like someone who didn’t care who watched—because everyone would.

Hadrian stood near the front, flanked by Loona and Daphne.

His eyes lit up.

Octavia smiled—only slightly—and walked straight into his arms, wrapping him in a hug without care for who saw.

“You look healthy,” she said softly. “Still dangerous.”

“You look taller,” Hadrian teased.

Loona tilted her head. “So this is the little owl sister.”

Octavia pulled back and gave Loona a small nod. “And you’re the other bonded. The fierce one.”

“You know it.”

Daphne extended a hand politely. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

Octavia shook it, the gesture formal and full of poise.

Dumbledore approached from the crowd, his face composed, and bowed his head.

“Lady Octavia. Welcome. The castle is yours.”

Octavia looked past him, eyes narrowing briefly.

“It better be.”

A New Presence at the Table

The enchanted ceiling was bright and clear, the floating candles drifting lazily through the air. Lunch had just been served—platters of roasted meats, fresh breads, and warm stews covered the long house tables.

The students, still abuzz from rumors of Draco’s transformation and Hadrian’s terrifying justice the night before, were barely focused on their food.

Then the doors of the Great Hall opened.

A hush swept across the room like a sudden gust of wind.

Hadrian entered first, cloaked in infernal grace, flanked by Loona in her gothic attire, tail swaying with each step, and Daphne, refined and composed in her black and silver Slytherin ensemble.

And behind them—

Octavia Ars Goetia.

She glided in with the poise of a princess, dressed in a dark feathered skirt lined with embroidery that shimmered with subtle cosmic magic. Her black corset bodice was regal yet elegant, and a royal crest pinned to her collar glowed softly with power.

Dumbledore stood.

“May I have your attention.”

Silence.

“We are honored today by the presence of a guest from the Infernal Realm. Octavia of House Ars Goetia, daughter of Stolas, heir of noble blood.”

A collective ripple of awe and confusion passed through the students.

“She is here under my personal invitation and will be afforded every courtesy due her station.”

Heads bowed across the staff table. Even Professor McGonagall inclined her head slightly. Professor Snape’s eyes lingered coldly but respectfully.

The group walked to the Slytherin table where space had already been cleared near Daphne’s usual seat.

Hadrian pulled out the bench for Octavia himself. She sat without a word, legs crossed, and began serving herself as though she'd eaten among humans a hundred times before.
“So…” Loona smirked. “What do you think of the school so far?”

“Smells less like sulfur than I expected,” Octavia replied dryly.

Several students at nearby tables gawked openly. One younger Gryffindor leaned over to his friend and whispered, “Is that another Hellhound?”
“No,” Hadrian said without turning. “She’s royalty. Be smart and eat your food.”

The boy paled and sat back instantly.

From the Gryffindor table, Elias Potter watched, lips tight.

From the Durmstrang side, whispers began again—several students who had stared at Loona before now dared glance toward Octavia.

Hadrian caught one glance too long and met it with a subtle growl. The whisperer immediately looked away.

The clatter of silverware and cautious whispers fell silent again as Octavia rose from her seat at the Slytherin table.

The shift in the air was immediate.

She didn’t raise her voice—but every student, every professor, every house-elf paused to listen as her calm, eerie poise filled the space like a shadow across moonlight.

“I understand many of you are confused by my presence here,” she began, her tone regal yet razor-sharp. “So allow me to clarify.”

Her fingers laced together in front of her, posture straight as a blade.

“I am Octavia Ars Goetia, heir to the House of Stars and Owls, daughter of Stolas, Prince of the Ars Goetia and ruler of Hell’s Astral Dominion.”

Gasps whispered through the room. Even a few professors leaned forward.

“I am an owl demon, and when the time comes, I will inherit my father’s Grimoire, his legions, and his dominion. I am here not as a guest—but as a noble representative of the Infernal Realm.”

Her four glowing violet eyes flared, just slightly.

“Any slight against me will be seen as a slight against my House, and by extension… my father.”

There was no threat in her voice.

Only fact.

Octavia turned, sat back down between Hadrian and Daphne, and picked up her fork with the same delicate grace as before.

The Great Hall remained dead quiet for several seconds after.

Then slowly, uncertainly, students began to eat again—more carefully now.

Daphne leaned over and whispered, “I think they got the message.”

Loona chuckled, popping a piece of meat in her mouth. “I think you just won Slytherin a whole new level of respect.”

Hadrian, ever unreadable, simply smiled to himself—his pack, his power, his House… growing stronger by the day.

A short flashback the same morning with Draco.................

Morning light crept through the green-tinted windows of the dormitory, casting eerie ripples of light across the stone walls. The other students were still stirring, the room hushed and filled with the quiet rustle of waking robes and sleepy yawns.

But Draco Malfoy was already awake—and frozen before the full-length mirror that stood in the corner of his room.

He had removed his sleepwear and now stood in only his boxers and a loose undershirt. His silver-blonde hair had grown longer overnight, brushing his jawline softly.

But it wasn’t the hair that held his attention.

It was the curves.

His waist had narrowed, giving way to noticeably flared hips. His thighs had filled out, soft and round. The boxers clung awkwardly, no longer fitting properly, especially with the discomforting sensation of absence beneath the waistband.

He reached up slowly and cupped his chest.

There were definite buds forming—breasts, small but unmistakable.

And then his face.

His sharp cheekbones had softened. His chin was finer. His lashes longer. He looked… pretty. Feminine.

A quiet gasp escaped him.

> “What am I becoming…?”

There was a soft knock at his dormitory door, and he jolted, scrambling to throw on his robe over his body.

Draco had just stepped out into the hallway, dressed but clearly shaken. The altered uniform hung differently on him now. Even his gait had shifted subtly, hips swaying with a grace he didn’t mean to show.

He didn’t make it five paces before a familiar cold voice snapped:

“Mr. Malfoy.”

Professor Snape stood in the corridor, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He looked Draco up and down, his eyes catching the curve of Draco’s waist, the flushed face, and the almost embarrassed way he tugged at the hem of his robes.

“What is the meaning of this attire?”

Draco froze. “I… I dressed as I was told…”

Snape stepped closer, voice low.

“If you insist on displaying these changes publicly, you’ll only cause further whispers. You are to wear your male uniform—cloak buttoned, tie straight. Do not give them more reason to speak.”

Draco nodded quickly, not meeting his godfather’s eyes.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Snape stared at him for a beat longer, as if trying to figure out whether to shield him—or disown him.

Then he turned and stalked away.

Draco stood there in silence, his heart pounding, eyes burning with shame… and strange clarity.

This wasn’t something he could undo.

In the quiet corridor outside the Slytherin dormitory, after Draco’s unsettling transformation and Snape’s stern intervention, Draco sat alone on the edge of his narrow cot. His face was ashen, and the letter that Snape had shown him earlier still burned in his mind. The letter—sent by Snape to his father, Lucius Malfoy—contained a harsh command: Lucius was livid at Hadrian’s claim over Draco, demanding that his son shake off this submission and prove himself a man.

Draco’s hands trembled as he reread the final, scathing lines in his head.

“You must rid yourself of this debasement, Draco. You are a Malfoy. Stand as a man—reject this abomination before you destroy yourself, or your father will take drastic measures.”

The words echoed like a death sentence in his mind. Draco knew that defying Hadrian—the Alpha who had changed him so completely—would not only shatter the delicate transformation he’d been forced to accept but might also risk his very life or his father’s wrath.
He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the worn stone wall before him, and made a decision.

A silent vow formed: he would remain submissive to Hadrian, accepting his role as dictated by the raw, infernal magic that now ruled his body.

The Great Hall – Breakfast Confession.................................

Later that morning, the Great Hall buzzed with the low murmur of whispered conversations and the clink of silverware. The mood was heavy with the knowledge of recent events. At the Slytherin table, Hadrian, Daphne, and Loona sat in their usual dignified manner, while Draco’s eyes darted nervously between his new form and the other students.

When the clatter of plates faded into a lull, Draco finally leaned close to Hadrian, voice barely audible over the low hum of conversation.

“Alpha,” he began, words quivering, “my father… he sent a letter—Lucius is livid. He demands I shake off this… submission. He wants me to be a man.”

Hadrian’s golden eyes narrowed, and he reached across the table to steady Draco’s shaking hand.

“And what did you say, Draco?”

The boy’s voice came out small and broken, but resolute.

“I—I couldn’t fight it. I know if I do, it’ll destroy me… or him. So I… I’m staying as you command.”

Loona and Daphne exchanged glances—one mix of pity and cold approval—while Hadrian’s jaw set hard.

“Good,” Hadrian said in a low tone. “You know your place. It is not for you to decide your worth against the fires of Hell.”

Draco’s eyes lowered, full of shame and reluctant relief. The room around them buzzed with the everyday life of Hogwarts, but in that moment at the Slytherin table, the weight of infernal destiny pressed heavily upon them all.

Hadrian’s tone softened just a fraction, as if acknowledging the pain behind the submission.

“We all have sins to bear. Today, you bear yours openly. Remember, the alternative is far worse.”

Draco nodded silently, feeling the cold truth of Hadrian’s words settle deep within him.

Across the table, the murmurs of other students subsided into a respectful hush. Even the professors watching from a distance—Snape among them—could only exchange troubled glances, aware that the storm of power and punishment had only just begun.

Headmaster’s Office – The Tournament Questioned

The air in Dumbledore’s office felt heavy, almost reluctant to move. The silver instruments on the shelves ticked and spun slower than usual, their rhythmic hum muffled under the pressure of mounting uncertainty.

Hadrian sat calmly in one of the high-backed chairs across from the Headmaster, his tail lazily swaying over the polished stone floor. He hadn’t removed his cloak—his glowing eyes gleamed from beneath the hood like molten amber.

Dumbledore stood behind his desk, hands folded behind his back, eyes stormy beneath half-moon spectacles.

“You know why I called you, Hadrian.”

“Because the Goblet spoke my name,” Hadrian replied calmly, “and that wasn’t supposed to happen.”

The silence hung for a beat too long.

Dumbledore turned slightly toward the Goblet of Fire, still pulsing faintly in its resting basin.

“Under the magical contract of the Goblet,” Dumbledore began carefully, “those whose names are drawn… are bound. But the magic never accounted for someone like you.”

Hadrian tilted his head. “You mean someone already bound by another kind of contract.”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said. “You're not a Hogwarts student. You aren’t affiliated with any school. You're… something else entirely. Which raises a dilemma.”

“You’re trying to decide whether the binding magic will still hold,” Hadrian said. “Whether I’m a Champion… or an anomaly.”

“Yes,” Dumbledore admitted, frustrated. “And whether the Tournament itself might unravel as a result. There are rules—deep ones. Ancient ones.”

Hadrian leaned back.

“Then you have two options,” he said coolly. “Release me, and you challenge the Goblet’s contract—possibly drawing fire from the ICW… or force me to stay and risk what it means when Hell’s heir plays your game.”

Dumbledore didn’t reply.

From the corner of the office, James Potter, arms folded and face tight, spoke at last.

“He killed Barty Crouch Jr. in cold blood. What happens if one of the other champions crosses him?”

Hadrian’s eyes flashed.

“Then they’ll learn what it means to disrespect royalty.” The room fell quiet again.

Madam Bones had arrived earlier and stood to the side, arms crossed. Her eyes, unlike Dumbledore’s, were pragmatic—calculating.

“Regardless of what he is, the Goblet accepted him,” she said. “That makes him a Champion. The ICW will demand we treat him as such, even if it means placing protections around the others.”

Dumbledore sighed, clearly displeased.

“So be it. You’ll remain. But be warned—your presence already bends the rules. Try not to break them entirely.”

Hadrian stood, cloak sweeping behind him.

“That depends on who tries me next.”

He turned and left without another word.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, the portraits on the wall whispered among themselves—and Dumbledore leaned heavily on his desk.

“What have we invited into this school…?”

The Tension Builds – Aurors on the Hunt.............................

Hadrian, still cloaked in the darkness of his own mystery and infernal power, returned to his quarters with Loona, Daphne, and Octavia. The night was growing late, and the students were finishing up their evening activities. Hadrian settled in quietly, making sure to avoid drawing attention. He needed to think, to strategize, but deep down he knew that his actions—specifically the brutal killings of Barty Crouch Jr. and the Ministry’s corrupted officials—wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.

But nothing could have prepared him for the storm brewing in the Ministry.

Ministry of Magic – A Warrant Issued

In the heart of the Ministry, Lucius Malfoy, still reeling from the loss of his son’s dignity and the undeniable submission to Hadrian, stormed through the corridors, demanding immediate action.

“You have no choice, Minister. This cannot go unpunished,” he spat, his face twisted in fury. “That Hellhound has killed my son’s future. He has killed our future.”

Minister Fudge reluctantly nodded, already knowing what had to be done.

“The Wizengamot will be convened. We’ll charge him with murder, manslaughter, and bloodline theft. He’s a danger. All of you know that.”

Lucius’s eyes gleamed, but there was a cold, calculating edge behind his rage.

“Do it. Now. I will not let that demon taint our world further.”

Within hours, Aurors had been dispatched, forming a line between themselves and the entrance of Hogwarts. They were there on official Ministry business, a warrant for Hadrian’s arrest.

They had orders from Lucius Malfoy—not just to bring Hadrian in, but to make a public example of him. The crimes they planned to charge him with were enough to send shockwaves through the wizarding world.

Hogwarts – The Arrival of the Aurors....................................

Hadrian, unaware of the chaos unfolding outside his quarters, was talking quietly with Loona and Daphne, reflecting on the conversation he had with Stolas earlier. They were discussing plans for the upcoming tournament when the door to their private room suddenly slammed open.

Professor McGonagall stormed in, breathless, a grim look on her face.

“Hadrian, there’s a matter we must discuss. The Ministry... the Aurors are here.”

Hadrian’s golden eyes flashed. He stood immediately, his usual calm demeanor shifting into something colder. Something more dangerous.

“The Ministry is always full of surprises. What do they want now?”

“They’ve come to arrest you,” McGonagall said with a grave expression. “There are charges—murder, manslaughter... bloodline theft.”

Hadrian’s lips curled into a smile that was equal parts amused and chilling.

“Ah. So Lucius Malfoy has decided to play his hand.”

Loona raised an eyebrow, but her tone was steady. “Is it really murder if they deserved it?”

Hadrian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked to the window, staring out across the darkening grounds of Hogwarts.

“They’ll come for me, but it’s not just about me,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “They’re afraid. They’ve seen what happens when someone like me steps onto their turf. I’m not just a Hellhound—they fear what I represent.”

“And they’re sending Aurors to stop you?” Daphne asked, a touch of incredulity in her voice. “It’s like they want you to retaliate.”

Hadrian turned, his eyes flashing gold in the dim light.

“I will not back down. But it’s more than just retaliation, Daphne. This is about control. They’ll never have control over me—or Hell.”

McGonagall stood stiffly, her face set in an expression of both concern and respect.

“The Ministry won’t back down, Hadrian. They will demand a Wizengamot trial.”

Hadrian’s lips twisted into a dark smile.

“Then let them try.”
Hogwarts Grounds – The Arrest of a Hellhound

The sun was high over Hogwarts when the Aurors arrived in force. Robed in black with silver bands marking their rank, they marched with wands at the ready, flanking the stone steps leading to the castle entrance.

Students gathered at the windows. Whispers turned into murmurs. Fear and fascination danced through the air.

Hadrian emerged from the castle doors, cloak fluttering behind him, his face impassive.

Loona and Daphne stood close, neither speaking. They didn’t need to. Their silence was a wall—unyielding and dangerous.

Octavia, arms crossed and expression sharp, watched the scene unfold from the shadows of a pillar.

“Trouble always finds you,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Or maybe you invite it in for tea.”

The lead Auror stepped forward, reading from a scroll. His voice trembled slightly, though he masked it behind official tone.

“Hadrian, heir of House Ars Goetia, you are under arrest by the order of the Ministry of Magic for the crimes of murder, manslaughter, and bloodline theft. You will be taken into custody to await trial before the Wizengamot.”

Hadrian didn’t flinch.

He held out his hands.

“Try not to waste your cuffs. I won’t resist.”

Silver shackles with enchantments designed to suppress magical energy clicked into place around his wrists. They hissed faintly—but didn’t burn him.

They respected power.

As he was led away, Daphne and Loona shared a silent glance, and without a word, turned sharply and left the courtyard.

They had one destination: the Department of Mysteries.

Ministry of Magic – Holding Cells, Level Nine......................

Hadrian sat alone on the stone bench inside a dimly lit cell. He hadn’t spoken to anyone. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept.

But before they took his phone, he had sent one final message.

A simple one.

To a contact marked 666.

“Ministry has moved. Trial set. Time to make the world burn brighter.”

He smirked after hitting send.

They took the phone. They locked the door. They thought they’d caged him.

They had no idea.

In a grand obsidian chamber deep within Hell, where infernal flames curled gently through silver-edged mirrors, Lucifer Morningstar lounged on a velvet throne, legs crossed, a wine glass balanced between two fingers.

A faint chime echoed.

The room went still.

Lucifer’s red eyes slid to the floating message rune that flickered into existence beside him.

He smirked as he read Hadrian’s words aloud:

“Ministry has moved. Trial set. Time to make the world burn brighter.”

He chuckled darkly and sipped his wine.

“Ah, my favorite Hellhound… finally stirring the proper pot.”

He rose from the throne, adjusting his elegant blood-red suit and brushing a hand through his silver-white hair.

“Time to crash a party.”

But not yet.

He would wait. He always made a better entrance when everyone thought they were in control.

Department of Mysteries – The Greengrasses Take Action

In the blackened halls of the Department of Mysteries, Lord Cyrus and Lady Elara Greengrass moved with purpose. Their badges of rank glowed faintly as they passed through security wards unhindered.

Inside a sealed conference room, they sat across from two Ministry officials and demanded access to the holding level.

> “We represent House Greengrass, bonded in soul and magic to Hadrian,” Elara said coldly. “You’ve made a mistake.”

> “He’s facing serious charges,” one Unspeakable replied cautiously. “Even if he is a Hellborn—”

> “He is not a criminal,” Cyrus interrupted, his voice thunderous. “You call it murder. We call it justice. You allowed corruption to flourish. He merely cut the roots.”

The official looked nervous.

> “We want to speak to him. Now. You will grant it,” Elara added. “Or you will answer to more than just a noble house. You’ll answer to Hell.”

---

Scene: Ministry Holding Cells – Stillness Before the Storm

Down on Level Nine, deep beneath the Ministry’s golden atrium, Hadrian sat in silence.

His wrists remained bound in enchanted cuffs. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark.

Outside the cell, footsteps echoed.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t move.

He was waiting.

Because when Lucifer arrived—when the Wizengamot assembled and dared to pass judgment—

The wizarding world would never forget what fire truly felt like.

Ministry of magic...................................................................

The towering Wizengamot Chamber, built of ancient dark stone and inlaid with glowing runes, echoed with hushed voices and the clinking of heavy robes and jeweled rings. The magical torches that ringed the chamber flared brighter as each group entered, acknowledging the presence of power.

One by one, the Lords and Ladies of the Most Ancient and Noble Houses of Britain filed in.

House Black, seat held by a pale and grim-faced Sirius Black.

House Longbottom, with Augusta Longbottom sitting ramrod straight.

House Greengrass, both Cyrus and Elara Greengrass dignified and unreadable.

House Malfoy, with Lucius striding in like he owned the court, cold and calculating.

House Potter, James and Lily entering with tight jaws and downcast eyes.

The seats of the Light Faction, including Houses Bones, Prewett, and Clearwater, assembled quickly, their expressions wary.

The Neutral Faction took position silently—observers, judges of balance.

Then came the Dark Faction, heavier cloaked, their voices low and conspiratorial.

Above them all, the High Bench of the ICW—a half-circle of aged witches and wizards—settled into place with floating scrolls before them.

Minister Cornelius Fudge, robed in deep green trimmed with gold, stood at the central podium.

“This emergency session of the Wizengamot is now in order,” he declared, his voice carrying unnaturally across the chamber through amplification charms.

“We are here to discuss the charges brought against the being known as Hadrian of House Ars Goetia, referred to in public records as Hadrian Potter—though that is a title he has not recognized in over six years.”

A magical scroll unfurled in the air beside him.

“The charges are as follows:
Murder – of Barty Crouch Jr. and three Ministry officials.
Manslaughter – in relation to deaths that occurred during an investigation into corruption.
Line Theft – the mystical violation of magical lineage through soulbonding and transformation of Draco Malfoy, heir to House Malfoy.”

A wave of murmurs spread through the chamber at that.

“Today, we will hear arguments for and against conviction. The defendant will be brought forth shortly.”

From her seat, Lady Elara Greengrass leaned into her husband's ear and whispered, “Let them set their stage. The main act hasn't even arrived.”

Above it all, Dumbledore sat at the advisory bench, his expression unreadable—but his eyes sharp.

As the official charges were displayed on the floating scroll, the air inside the grand chamber grew tense. The glow from the torches flickered, casting long shadows over the old stone.

A Light Faction representative—Lord Edwin Clearwater, elderly and draped in cream robes embroidered with phoenix feathers—rose from his seat.

“Before we proceed with testimonies or defense,” he said in a clear, practiced voice, “we would like to address the utter absurdity of the rumors spreading among our families.”

He turned in place, arms wide, addressing the chamber.

“Children are writing home about monsters at Hogwarts—about a Hellhound Champion, infernal creatures roaming the halls, and now… this so-called Hadrian.”

A few nods of agreement followed from other Light-aligned houses.

“Are we really to believe that a demon, possibly multiple, walks freely in our most sacred magical institution? Where is this Hellhound? Why hasn’t he come forward? If he is innocent, why does he cower behind mystery and shadow?”

Lady Prewett raised a fan to her face but nodded in agreement.

“We don’t even know what this ‘House Ars Goetia’ truly is. No creature outside of wizardkind should have such power within our world.”

There were scattered hums of support. A few of the more nervous neutrals shifted uneasily.

Lucius Malfoy, in his dark velvet, remained quiet, watching.

Cyrus Greengrass gave a subtle glance toward the main chamber doors, and a slow smile played across Elara’s lips.

“They really don’t know what they’re calling upon,” she whispered.

In the stone corridor leading to the chamber, Hadrian, shackled at the wrists, stood completely still.

Flanked by two nervous Aurors who couldn’t meet his glowing eyes, his posture was relaxed, but the magic pulsing off of him made their hair stand on end.

The iron cuffs were melting, slowly, the metal hissing with faint smoke.

He was waiting.

And behind him, stepping out from nothing but a ripple of shadows—

Lucifer Morningstar.

Elegant. Smiling.

“They’re ready for you, my dear Hellhound. I do believe it’s time we reminded them that monsters don’t cower.”

Hadrian gave a soft exhale and nodded.

“Let them see what Hell has raised.”

The enchanted chamber doors opened with a slow, ominous creak, ancient magic acknowledging the arrival of something that did not belong to this world.

Hadrian entered in full Hellhound form.

He was tall, his ash-grey fur groomed and sleek, powerful muscles moving with unnatural grace beneath a perfectly tailored black suit. No horns adorned his head, but his perked ears stood tall, heightening his already imposing stature. His eyes, burning gold, scanned the chamber with a cool and calculating fire.

Each step echoed in the silent courtroom as he passed beneath the floating house banners and came to a stop in the center of the ancient circle of judgment.

The whispers rippled immediately.

“He’s… magnificent.”

“That’s the Hellhound they’ve spoken of?”

“It looks like something out of the old grimoires.”

Even the stone beneath his feet felt warmer, reacting to the aura of infernal nobility that rolled off him like smoke from a slow-burning fire.

The Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, paled slightly as he stood. His voice, amplified by the courtroom enchantments, still wavered with discomfort.

“The court now formally recognizes the accused—Hadrian of House Ars Goetia—summoned to answer for the charges levied by this body.”

A glowing scroll unfurled overhead, listing the accusations:

Murder

Manslaughter

Lineage Theft

Murmurs ran through the chamber, even from the more hardened members of the Dark and Neutral factions.

Hadrian’s ears flicked forward.

His golden eyes focused not on Fudge, but on the surrounding Lords and Ladies.

“You summoned me here in chains. You call me accused. You whisper ‘monster’ behind closed doors.”

“Then let me answer in the open.”

He stood tall, voice steady and sharp:

“Barty Crouch Jr. was not a victim. He was a traitor, a murderer, and a vessel of dark magic. I ended him.”

“The others? Corrupt wretches feeding off your laws. Their sins called for fire. I provided it.”

He stepped forward once, the sigils under his feet flaring faintly.

“Lineage theft?” He scoffed. “The boy surrendered. His soul knew what it wanted long before his father’s pride tried to strip it away.”

“I am not here to be forgiven. I am here to be heard.”

Hadrian’s declaration echoed off the ancient stone walls of the Wizengamot like a thunderclap, leaving silence in its wake.

But only for a moment.

Then came the uproar.

Voices from all factions rose at once—some in anger, some in fear, others in disbelief.

Lord Pritchard of the Gray Faction stood, his voice stern.

“This creature shows no remorse. He admits to murder as if it were sport!”

Lady Clearwater of the Light Faction snapped her fan shut with a sharp clap.

“He sits before us with blood on his hands and arrogance in his voice. If he is not punished, we condone this madness!”

Minister Fudge, red-faced and sweating now, banged the head of his staff for silence.

“The prosecution moves for capital punishment,” he declared loudly. “If not death, then immediate transfer to the Department of Magical Advancement and Science—for study, regulation, and control. A being like this cannot be allowed to roam free.”

Gasps. Murmurs. A few faces turned pale.

In the middle of it all—

Hadrian sat quietly, uncuffed, in the defendant’s box.

He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, and with a lazy flick of his clawed hand, summoned a sleek, polished black guitar.

It shimmered with infernal runes—Hell-crafted, sharp and haunting.

He strummed a slow, eerie melody, completely disinterested in the chaos around him.

The notes echoed in the chamber like whispers from another world. Melancholy. Beautiful. Mocking.

“You can debate my fate,” he murmured, not looking up, “but if you believe I’ll bow to men who lock children in closets and worship gold over justice... then you haven’t been paying attention.”

The Lords and Ladies stared in varying degrees of disgust, fear, or awe.

Dumbledore, sitting amongst the high jury—removed from leadership, but still called to cast vote and insight—watched with narrowed eyes. He said nothing, but his silence was thoughtful, cautious.

Some whispered accusations:

“He's mocking us…”

“This is unprecedented…”

“He should be restrained!”

But the guitar kept playing, the rhythm haunting, pulsing with the slow heartbeat of Hell’s patience.

The chamber had descended into a cacophony of judgment and fury. The Lead Prosecutor, a gaunt wizard with steely eyes and trembling hands, stepped forward holding a magically preserved artifact in a transparent case.

> “Your Honors,” he declared, “I present evidence of ongoing contact between the accused and infernal mercenaries. Here—on this Muggle device—is a network used to organize hits on wizarding officials.”

He held up Hadrian’s phone like a holy relic turned unholy.

“Clear signs of coordination with assassins from Hell!”

The room gasped. Murmurs turned to gasps of horror.

And as if summoned by irony itself—

The phone rang.

A soft, crystal-clear tone echoed across the chamber.

Then came the voice.

Smooth. Smug. Immortal.

“Looks like you could use some help
From the big boss of Hell himself…”

Everyone turned. Eyes wide.

“Check out daddy's glowing reviews on Yelp
Five stars! Flawless! Greater than great!”

Hadrian sat back, relaxed, fingers laced behind his head, the faintest smirk on his fanged lips.

“Oh, with the punch of a pentagram
I wap-bam-boom, alakazam…”

The Prosecutor dropped the phone as if it burned his hand. It clattered to the floor, still singing.

“Usually, I charge a sacrificial lamb
But you get the family rate…”

A swirl of gold, red, and white magic erupted in the center of the chamber.

The torches dimmed. The chamber silenced. The stone walls hummed in fear.

From the circle of ancient runes—he stepped forth.

Lucifer Morningstar.

Dressed in a flawless white infernal suit, its threads glowing subtly with gold embroidery. His tie bore the seal of Pride. On his tall, elegant hat sat a snake and apple pin, shimmering like molten ruby. His pale skin glowed faintly, flawless as porcelain, and his hair—platinum blond—shone like divine silk.

He smiled.

It was the smile of a god who had never once doubted his power.

Pointed teeth gleamed beneath that grin.

He casually reached down, picked up Hadrian’s phone, and pressed “End Call.”

Then he turned to the assembled Wizengamot with his hands behind his back.
“Good morning,” he purred. “Or is it afternoon? Forgive me. I’m not usually summoned to courtrooms without my cigar and a stronger drink.”

Gasps broke out.

Several Lords and Ladies rose from their seats.

Fudge fell back into his chair, his mouth open in stunned silence.

The seal of Pride flared faintly on Lucifer’s coat as he stepped forward.

“You called my adopted son a criminal. You dare claim him a monster.
Let me assure you—monsters don’t walk like this.”

The entire chamber watched in stunned silence as Lucifer Morningstar, glowing with infernal nobility, stepped with regal ease to the center of the courtroom. His shoes echoed like gavel strikes against the ancient stone, and every magical ward hummed beneath his presence.

He stopped beside Hadrian, placing a hand casually on his son’s shoulder as if he owned the chamber—because, in truth, he might as well have.

Hadrian gave him a nod, content to sit back and let the Devil speak.

Lucifer turned slowly in place, flashing his charming, predatory grin to the assembled Lords and Ladies.

“Now then,” he began, voice velvet-smooth, “let’s talk about these delicious little charges, shall we?”

He summoned the scroll of accusations into the air with a snap of his fingers. The parchment rolled open, hovering as glowing letters shimmered.

“Murder. Manslaughter. Line theft.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned toward the scroll.

“Murder—sure. Can’t argue that one. The boy’s efficient. Makes father proud.”

Gasps. A few Lords stood, appalled.

Lucifer grinned wider.

“Manslaughter? Possibly. I mean, it’s Hell—things get… messy.”

He waved dismissively, then tapped the final line.

“Ah, and line theft. My personal favorite.”

He turned to the assembled Wizengamot, smile sharpening to something unnervingly precise.

“Draco Malfoy, poor dear, gave himself freely. My son didn’t steal a line—he secured it. He preserved what could have been lost… and claimed it for future use.”

Lucifer’s grin faltered, just long enough to drop into something colder.

“You see, once Hadrian defeats your precious Voldemort—”

The name hit the room like a thunderclap.

People flinched.

A few screamed.

At least three Lords dropped their quills.

Lucifer looked around with false innocence.

“Oh? Still afraid of a name? No wonder you needed a boy to save your world the first time.”

“You speak of controlling him. Dissecting him. Studying him. He doesn’t belong in your little ministry box, my Lords and Ladies.”

He stepped forward, his voice low and honeyed.

“He is nobility. He is blood-bound to Hell itself. And should you dare to lay claim over him, you risk a war far beyond your comprehension.”

“After all…”

He turned to Hadrian, smile softening just slightly with something akin to affection.

“…he’s not merely my heir, but my chosen for the sin of Pride.”

The court sat frozen.

The seal of Pride shimmered once more on Lucifer’s lapel.

And then, softly—Hadrian strummed a single chord from his summoned guitar.

The room flinched again.

Lucifer gave a little bow.

“Now, then. Shall we continue pretending this is a fair trial, or shall I end the farce here?”

He cast his glowing crimson eyes toward Hadrian with a wink.

“They raise their heads… and rule kingdoms.”

The room buzzed with panicked whispers. After Lucifer's searing statement, the judges and Lords began murmuring among themselves—some demanding punishment, others asking for retreat, many frozen in fear of offending the Prince of Hell.

But Lucifer, standing with perfect posture and patient menace, leaned toward Hadrian with a smirk.

> "My boy... I think it’s time you presented our dear Draco."

Hadrian, still seated, gave a slight nod.

He placed one clawed hand on the marble edge of the defendant’s box and whispered a sharp, infernal incantation under his breath.

There was a flicker of magic—silver heat mixed with red shadow—and with a pulse of power that made nearby magical instruments shatter, Draco Malfoy appeared.

Right in the center of the court.

---

Scene: The Reveal of Draco Malfoy

Gasps rang out. Quills dropped. Several witches from the Light Faction screamed.

Draco stood trembling, his body clad in soft black and green fabrics suited to a feminine figure. His hips flared, waist slender, chest rising softly beneath the fabric. His face had smoothed with unmistakable femininity, his silver-blond hair falling slightly longer around his jawline.

He instinctively dropped his eyes—and then, as he saw Lucifer Morningstar before him, he fell to his knees.

One hand clutched the hem of his altered robes. The other pressed to the floor in a posture of complete submission.

The reaction was instantaneous.

“Submission magic!”

“Is that—Draco Malfoy?!”

“The Malfoy heir!”

Lucius Malfoy, standing tall near the Dark Faction bench, went rigid. His face contorted with rage and shame as his lips curled into a sneer.

“You… twisted him. You—corrupted my bloodline!”

He stepped forward, wand drawn.

“I invoke the Ancient Rite—duel to the death! You and me, Hellhound! No interference. No protections.”

The entire chamber fell into stunned silence.

Even the ICW High Bench leaned forward.

Hadrian slowly stood, rising to his full height. The light caught on the silvery tips of his claws. His golden eyes bore into Lucius’s with calm contempt.

“You already lost your son, Lucius. What more are you willing to gamble?”

“Everything!” Lucius bellowed. “You will not walk out of here with my name hanging from your leash!”

Lucifer chuckled behind him, low and amused.

“This will be amusing.”

“Order! Order!”

Minister Fudge banged his staff against the stone floor, panic thick in his voice.

“This—this courtroom is not a place for dark rituals! The Malfoy heir must be restored immediately. This… perversion must be reversed!”

The gallery erupted—some shouting in agreement, others stunned into horrified silence.

Lucius Malfoy, still on the chamber floor, stood shaking, wand clenched in white-knuckled fury. His face was pale, but his fury burned hot behind his cold gray eyes.

But before anyone could move further—

Lucifer stepped forward.

Every eye snapped to him.

He approached Draco, still kneeling respectfully—one knee bent, his silver-blond hair falling gracefully over his downcast face. There was no fear in him—only peace.

Lucifer gazed down with faint amusement, then gently lifted a pale, gloved hand and laid it upon Draco’s head.

“Something wrong?” Draco asked softly, voice smooth but clearly shifting, trembling under its own changes.

“Not at all,” Lucifer said, lips curling with indulgent cruelty. “I simply think it’s time you stopped pretending you’re something you never were.”

A faint chime echoed through the chamber—angelic and horrifying all at once.

A pulse of power washed over Draco, so thick and divine that it made several members of the Wizengamot cry out and recoil.

The transformation accelerated.

Draco’s spine arched, the soft crack-pop of bones realigning beneath flesh and muscle echoing off the marble. His chest swelled—round, soft, unmistakably feminine—beneath his robes. His waist cinched tighter, hips flaring.

“Ah…!” A soft, startled moan slipped from Draco’s lips.

His voice broke higher.

His skin took on a glowing, healthy sheen. His Adam’s apple vanished. His limbs smoothed.

The entire chamber could hear it—the breathless gasps, the finality of flesh surrendering to truth.

Some Lords and Ladies turned pale, hands to mouths, trying to keep from fainting.

Others looked away, terrified to watch but unable to deny what was unfolding.

And through it all, Lucius Malfoy stood trembling, his face locked between disbelief and utter fury.

“Stop it! That’s my son! You’re turning him into—into some creature!”

Lucifer turned toward him, unbothered.

“He never was what you molded him into. I merely freed the truth.”

Draco—no, the girl she now was—looked up, her eyes bright and shimmering with peace.

She whispered:

“Thank you… my Lord.”

The chamber was stunned into absolute silence.

Not a whisper.

Not a breath.

Lucifer turned his piercing crimson gaze on Lucius Malfoy, his tone soft, but unforgiving.

"You should be proud, Lucius. Not of the son you tried to shape in your image, but of the daughter she has always been. She has been blessed—not cursed—by the touch of the Fallen. A gift I do not give lightly."

Lucius opened his mouth, but no sound came. His hands trembled at his sides, wand still clenched but forgotten. His pride, his legacy, his line—all undone in a heartbeat by the very forces he feared most.

And then—

Draco moved.

With no hesitation, she rose from her kneeling posture and stepped directly to Hadrian’s side. Her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders, and she leaned in without fear or shame.

She kissed him—not timidly, not hesitantly, but deeply, just where his Hellhound snout softened near the muzzle. The room gasped.

Hadrian, for a moment, blinked.

Then his arms wrapped around her lithe, curving form, lifting her effortlessly off the floor. Draco’s legs locked around his waist, elegant and assured. Their connection was undeniably bonded—soul-deep and fierce.

“I’m yours,” she whispered against his ear, her voice soft and feminine, but rich with infernal strength. “Now and forever.”

Even Lucifer raised an eyebrow, amused.

The court, however—erupted.

Some shouted in horror, others in confusion, and a few—those from ancient families—in awe. No illusion, no spell, no potion could counterfeit such a transformation or the soul-deep submission and desire that Draco now displayed.

Fudge fainted.

The ICW representatives sat frozen, unable to process what they were witnessing.

And Lucius?
He fell back into his chair, staring at the floor as if he no longer understood the world he had helped build.

Still holding Draco, her arms clinging to him, Hadrian turned his gaze toward the broken figure of Lucius Malfoy. His golden eyes shimmered, not with rage—but with a terrifying calm.

“You challenged me to a duel,” he said, his deep voice carrying over the silence. “But I decline.”

Gasps. Murmurs.

Hadrian gently set Draco back onto her feet, but didn’t look away from Lucius.

“Because it’s only a matter of time now. I already know of your Lord’s resurrection—the rituals are moving. The rot is crawling back into this world.”

He stepped forward, tail flicking once behind him like a striking viper.

“So here’s what will happen, Lucius. I will let you crawl back to him. I want you to. Because when he rises—when you and your so-called Dark Lord make your move—I’ll be there.”

He bared his teeth just enough to show his fangs.

“And I won’t need a courtroom. I’ll kill you where you stand.”

The statement landed like a divine judgment.

Lucius didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Above the chamber, the ICW judges, visibly shaken, turned to Minister Fudge—still slumped unconscious—and to the assembled Wizengamot.

> “Due to… unprecedented supernatural intervention and uncertain magical sovereignty, this session is suspended until further notice.”

“We will reconvene once… circumstances can be better understood.”

Lucifer chuckled quietly, stepping back from the center of the room, satisfied.

Hadrian turned to him, voice low but sincere.

“Thank you—for standing with me.”

Lucifer gave him a warm, wicked smile.

> “Any time, my son. Always. This world still doesn’t know what it’s dealing with.”

Then, with a wink toward the gallery, he vanished in a swirl of crimson mist.

Dumbledore, who had remained silent but observant throughout the chaos, finally stepped forward toward Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne, all waiting together at the edge of the room.

“It’s time we returned to Hogwarts,” he said, his tone quieter than usual. “We’ll need to… prepare.”

Hadrian nodded once, calm again now that the fire had passed.

Draco, now standing proudly with the three, didn’t hide her identity or new form.

As the four turned to leave the chamber, the stunned silence of the Wizengamot followed them out.

The world of magic had just shifted.

And it would never be the same again.

Later that evening in Hadrian’s quarters with Loona and Daphne

The castle was quiet.

Hogwarts slept under a blanket of silver moonlight that poured gently through the high windows of the private quarters reserved for Hadrian, Loona, and Daphne. The only sound in their chamber was the soft crackle of the enchanted fireplace and the rustle of bedsheets.

They were alone.

Hadrian sat at the center of the massive bed, his Hellhound form partially relaxed—fur smooth, fangs retracted, and golden eyes softer now in the dim light. His shirt was open, exposing the toned muscle beneath, the heat of his body radiating out like a protective flame.

Daphne, in a silk nightdress of deep green, lay beside him with her legs draped across his lap. Her cheeks were flushed with warmth, her hair tousled, her blue eyes alight with mischief and affection.

Loona straddled him from behind, her arms draped loosely around his shoulders, her breath teasing his ear. The pink streaks in her hair glowed softly in the firelight as she leaned forward, her fangs brushing his neck with playful intent.

Hadrian turned first to Daphne, lifting her chin with a clawed finger. Their eyes locked.

And then they kissed.

Deep. Unhurried. The kind of kiss where time forgot to move.

Daphne’s hands slid up his chest as she moaned softly into his mouth, her fingers curling against his shoulders. She melted into him, her hips shifting closer with each breath.

Behind him, Loona growled low—not from jealousy, but need.

She leaned in and nibbled gently at the curve of his neck, her fangs barely grazing his skin. He shivered at the contact, his tail twitching at the edge of the bed.

Daphne broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “You’re ours now…”

Loona replied with a whisper against his other ear, “Always were.”

Hadrian let out a low, rumbling growl of contentment and tilted his head to give Loona more room, her lips trailing down his throat as her hands explored the lines of his abdomen.

They shifted as one, tangled together beneath the silken sheets, a mess of limbs and heat and quiet gasps. Daphne leaned over Hadrian’s chest, leaving a trail of kisses along his collarbone, each press of her lips sending a pulse of warmth through him.

Loona grinned, her eyes gleaming as she slid one hand around Daphne’s waist, pulling her closer so both girls pressed against him.

It wasn’t just passion.

It was trust. A pact. A bond stronger than soul or fire.

Hadrian closed his eyes, holding them both tight, letting himself be lost in their presence.

In that room, wrapped in each other’s arms, they didn’t have to be a prince of Hell, a noble witch, or a wild Hellhound.

They were simply theirs.

The sunlight filtered softly through the enchanted curtains, casting a gentle gold glow over the private room the three shared. The fire had burned low in the hearth, but the warmth between them needed no flames.

Hadrian stirred first, his arm still draped around Daphne’s waist, her body pressed closely against his. She murmured something in her sleep, burying her face against his chest, the soft rise and fall of her breath warm on his skin.

From behind him, Loona stretched with a satisfied hum, her legs tangling around his beneath the covers. The slight shift in weight and the drag of her claws along his side brought him fully awake.

He let out a slow breath.

There was a heaviness in his body—not fatigue, but something softer. Contentment. Fulfillment.

His fingers gently traced the curve of Daphne’s hip through the sheets, her skin smooth and warm beneath his touch. She smiled in her sleep.

Behind him, Loona leaned in, brushing her nose along the back of his neck before speaking in a low, teasing whisper.

> “Morning, Alpha…”

Her voice was husky and lazy, still rich with satisfaction. She trailed a slow kiss over his shoulder before nestling closer again.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she added with a wicked little grin, the hint of heat still lingering in her tone.

Hadrian gave a quiet chuckle, his tail twitching beneath the blanket.

“Consider me… reinvigorated,” he replied, his voice deep and rumbling with quiet amusement.

Daphne finally stirred at the sound of their voices. She blinked up at him, then leaned in and kissed his jaw softly.

“Don’t hog him,” she whispered to Loona, though the smile in her voice betrayed no real complaint.

“I shared last night,” Loona replied smugly. “And I’m still tasting it.”

Daphne giggled and nuzzled against Hadrian, her laughter soft and sleepy.

“You’re impossible,” she murmured.

“And you love it,” Hadrian replied, pulling them both closer.

They lay in a quiet, tangled mess of limbs and warmth—not just bonded by magic or ritual, but by choice, by love, and the kind of intimacy that reached beyond the physical.

Outside the castle walls, politics stirred and danger loomed.

But in this room?

They had peace.
And each other.

The warmth of the shared bed still lingered, and the slow rhythm of breathing in the room was peaceful—until the door creaked open.

Octavia, wrapped in a velvet travel cloak and holding a fresh notebook, stepped through the threshold.

> “Hey, Hadrian? Stolas said I could—”

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Her sharp owl-like eyes scanned the room in an instant. The scent hit her first—a blend of Hellhound musk, sweat, and lingering arousal.

Her gaze dropped to the bed.

Hadrian was half-sitting up, bare-chested, his toned infernal form catching the slant of morning light. The only thing covering him was the thick, dark quilt loosely draped over his hips.

Draped against him were the unmistakable shapes of Loona and Daphne, both clearly unclothed beneath the sheets, the bare curves of shoulders and thighs just visible.

Their clothes were scattered across the floor—Loona’s ripped black tank top, Daphne’s green silk, and Hadrian’s coat and trousers hung off a nearby chair like discarded armor.

Octavia’s face went scarlet.

“OH—BY LUCIFER—”

She whipped around, nearly dropping her notebook.

“I didn’t see anything! I didn’t mean to—! I swear!”

Hadrian blinked, still a little dazed with sleep and tangled limbs.

“V, wait—”

But she was already halfway out the door.

“Nope! You’re disgusting! I don’t need to see my brother like that—ever again!”

The door slammed.

Silence returned.

Then Loona let out a snort, muffled against Hadrian’s side.

Daphne laughed softly, half under the covers.

“Well, she knows now…”

Hadrian just groaned and flopped back onto the pillow.

“She’s never going to let me live this down.”

The bedroom door flung open with a burst of infernal energy as Hadrian bolted out—barefoot, wearing only his black boxers, his tail flicking behind him in a rush.

Students in the hallway froze.

Several dropped their books.

A few girls (and at least one seventh-year Ravenclaw boy) openly stared.

Hadrian’s sculpted, broad chest and defined abdomen gleamed faintly in the torchlight. His golden Hellhound eyes glowed as he scanned the corridor.

“Octavia! Wait!”

He caught up to her at the end of the hallway, just before she rounded a corner.

Octavia stopped, arms crossed, her face still flushed but now twisted in full dramatic teenage irritation.

“No.”

Hadrian skidded to a halt.

“Look, I’m—”

“Nope.”

She turned to face him fully and narrowed her four glowing eyes, her nose twitching.

“You reek of sweat, pheromones, and—ugh—musk. It’s literally clinging to your aura.”

She pulled out a rolled-up newspaper from under her cloak—one of the imported Hell dailies—and smacked him across the shoulder with it.

THWACK.

> “Bad dog!”

A passing Hufflepuff choked on their pumpkin juice.

Hadrian winced and raised his hands in mock surrender.

“I didn’t ask for the scent profile—!”

“Then wash it off! You’re not bringing that post-bonding fog anywhere near me before breakfast.”

She turned away, nose high, wings fluttering with indignation.

Hadrian let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck, tail lowered just slightly in embarrassment.

From behind him, a pair of third-year Slytherins whispered:

“Did she say… bad dog?”

“I’m telling you, he’s definitely part demon. Look at those abs.”

The morning air in the Great Hall was heavy with anticipation—today was the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Students buzzed with speculation and excitement, though one corner of the Slytherin table was unusually tense… and far more blushed than normal.

Hadrian, now fully dressed in a crisp black button-down and tailored trousers, hair slightly tousled and still drying, sat between Daphne and Loona, both of whom wore faint smirks and warm flushes on their cheeks.

Across from them sat Octavia, primly sipping tea with a flick of her silver-spotted wings and her four eyes locked sharply on Hadrian.

She hadn't said much since the hallway incident—until now.

She set her teacup down with purpose.

“So,” she began slowly, tilting her head, “since I got to walk into a literal sauna of Hellhound hormones this morning…”

Hadrian groaned softly.

“Please don’t—”

“No no, I’m curious.” She grinned and leaned forward. “Does he actually manage to keep up with both of you? Or does one of you fall asleep while the other takes a turn?”

Daphne choked on her juice.

Loona smirked, cheeks red but eyes defiant.

“He’s… thorough.”

Daphne nodded, still recovering.

“And tireless.”

There was a long silence.

Then someone two seats down from them said quietly:

“Bloody hell… stamina for two?”

A collective wave of blinks and sidelong glances spread down the table.

Hadrian just buried his face in one hand, muttering:

“This is why we close the door.”

Professor McGonagall, passing nearby, cleared her throat sharply.

Everyone immediately sat straighter.

And then the hush returned as Dumbledore stood at the staff table, tapping his goblet with a silver spoon.

“Champions, the time has come. Please report to the tent near the Forbidden Forest. Your First Task begins shortly.”

Hadrian’s expression shifted—from embarrassment to quiet, dangerous focus.

Loona placed her hand on his thigh, Daphne gently squeezed his shoulder.

Octavia gave a sly smirk.

“Go make a scene, big brother.”