Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sweltering haze of a Surrey summer pressed down on Privet Drive like a shroud woven from the Dursleys' perpetual disdain, turning the neat suburban facade into a stifling tomb where secrets festered behind lace curtains. In the cramped confines of Number Four's upstairs hallway, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter trudged toward his bedroom, broom in hand after another endless round of chores, his scar prickling faintly under the mop of black hair as if sensing the storm brewing in the mundane world. Dudley Dursley, that lumbering oaf of a cousin, lounged against the banister like a bloated sentinel, his piggy eyes narrowing with the kind of petty malice that thrived in the heat. He'd pilfered Harry's wand earlier that morning—snatched it from the desk while Harry scrubbed the garden shed—driven by a mix of boredom and the twisted thrill of wielding something forbidden.

Dudley's fat fingers wrapped around the holly wood, the wand humming faintly with latent magic that made his skin crawl, but he didn't drop it. Instead, he pointed it at Harry's retreating back, lips curling into a sneer as fragments of overheard Latin from some trashy horror flick bubbled up in his mind—words that sounded filthy, laced with an undercurrent of forbidden desire. "Mutatio corporis voluptuosa," he muttered under his breath, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a perverse incantation, evoking images of writhing bodies and shadowed ecstasies. A faint, shimmering haze of indigo light snaked from the tip, coiling silently toward Harry before dissolving into his skin like venom seeping into a vein. Dudley snorted, shoved the wand back into his pocket for later disposal, and waddled downstairs to raid the fridge, the act already fading from his dim thoughts like a half-remembered wet dream.

Harry felt nothing at first—just the usual ache in his muscles from Aunt Petunia's endless demands, the weight of another isolated summer pressing on his fourteen-year-old frame like the invisible chains of his Muggle prison. He slammed his door shut, collapsing onto the narrow bed where Hedwig eyed him curiously from her cage, her feathers ruffled in the stagnant air. The room reeked of neglect, dust motes dancing in the slanted sunlight that pierced the grimy window, casting elongated shadows that seemed to mock his fragile hold on normalcy. 'Fucking Dursleys, always grinding me down—Voldemort's a distant nightmare compared to this hellhole.' But as minutes ticked into hours, a subtle warmth began to stir low in his abdomen, a slow-burning ember that spread outward with insidious patience, teasing at nerves he didn't know could ignite like that.

By midday, the sensation had deepened into a persistent throb, making his skin flush and his breaths come shorter, as if the air itself had thickened with unspoken urges. Harry paced the room, wiping sweat from his brow, attributing it to the heat wave rolling through Surrey like a curse from the wizarding underbelly. His chest tingled oddly, nipples hardening against his threadbare shirt in a way that sent unwelcome jolts southward, his cock stirring unbidden, half-hard and insistent. 'What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Just pent-up from this isolation, yeah?' He tried to ignore it, burying himself in an old Quidditch magazine, but the warmth persisted, coiling tighter, reshaping him from within with a languid cruelty that whispered of darker magics.

As the afternoon dragged on, the changes crept further—his hips ached with a dull pressure, bones subtly shifting beneath the skin, widening by imperceptible degrees into curves that felt alien yet inescapably feminine. His waist cinched inward, carving a nice, defined line that altered his balance, making every step a reminder of the violation unfolding. Breasts began to bud beneath his chest, small and tentative at first, low cups swelling with each passing hour, sensitive mounds that brushed against fabric and ignited sparks of confusion-laced heat. Harry stripped off his shirt in frustration, staring down at the emerging forms—pert, no larger than modest handfuls, but undeniable, nipples pebbled and aching under his tentative touch. The pleasure was sharp, unwelcome, stirring his arousal further even as horror gnawed at the edges of his mind. 'This can't be real—some prank from Dudley? Fuck, it feels too good, too wrong, like my body's betraying me for sport.'

Desperate for relief from the building fever, Harry slipped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut like a finality in the empty house. The Dursleys had gone out for one of their insufferable garden parties, leaving him alone in the echoing silence. He cranked the shower to scalding, steam filling the air like the fog of a dementor's approach, and stepped under the spray, water pounding against his changing skin like accusatory fists. Soap slicked over his body, hands roaming in a mix of inspection and denial—tracing the narrowing waist, the flaring hips that screamed femininity in a world where he was meant to be the unbreakable boy hero. His cock, still present but throbbing with an intensity that bordered on pain, hardened fully under the cascade, the warmth of the spell urging it onward even as the first hints of retreat flickered at its base. 'God, why won't it stop? Feels like it's building to something catastrophic.' He rinsed away the sweat and confusion, but the alterations lingered, etched deeper with every drop that traced his new contours.

Toweling off roughly, Harry dressed in baggy clothes that hung awkwardly on his evolving frame, the shirt tenting slightly over the small breasts, hips straining the waistband of his trousers. Aunt Petunia's shrill note on the kitchen table demanded milk from the corner shop—another errand to underscore his servitude—and with a curse under his breath, he ventured out into the blistering streets of Surrey. The neighborhood sprawled like a labyrinth of conformity, manicured lawns hiding the rot beneath, much like the wizarding world's veneer over its blood-soaked undercurrents. Harry wandered the pavements, the slow pulse of the transformation thrumming through him, each step amplifying the sway in his hips, the subtle bounce in his chest that drew furtive glances from passersby. 'They see it, don't they? This freakish shift turning me into something I'm not—Voldemort would laugh his arse off.'

The corner shop loomed at the end of the block, its fluorescent lights buzzing like angry hornets in the dimming afternoon. Harry pushed inside, the bell tinkling mockingly, and grabbed a carton of milk before drifting to a quiet aisle stocked with dusty tins and forgotten sweets. The warmth surged again, fiercer now, centering between his legs where his cock stiffened abruptly, pressing against his fly with insistent demand. He froze, breath catching, the pleasure coiling like a serpent ready to strike, making his thighs clench and his mind fog with unwanted haze. 'Fuck, not here—not now, in this shithole shop with Muggles staring.' But the stiffness peaked, throbbing with a finality that heralded the end, and then it began to wane—not soften, but shrink, retreating slowly inward with excruciating deliberation, flesh folding and reshaping in waves of sensation that blurred agony and ecstasy.

Panic clawed up his throat as he felt the diminution, the once-familiar hardness yielding to a slick, opening void that pulsed with alien wetness. Discreetly, heart pounding like a war drum in the shadowed aisle, Harry glanced around—no one nearby, just the distant hum of the clerk's radio—and fumbled with his fly, unzipping just enough to peek inside, hand shielding the view from prying eyes. There it was, his member diminishing before his horrified gaze, inch by torturous inch, skin smoothing over as folds emerged, sensitive and swollen, the transformation's climax drawing a muffled gasp from his lips. 'No, no—stop this shit, reverse it, you bastard spell!' The horror deepened, shivers racking his frame as the last vestiges vanished, leaving only the feminine core, wet and aching in the public hush, a dark violation in the heart of mundane Surrey where Voldemort's shadow felt closer than ever.

The Surrey dusk bled into bruised purple shadows as Harry stumbled out of the corner shop, the milk carton clutched like a fragile shield against the chaos unraveling inside her skin. The bell's tinny chime mocked her retreat, the door swinging shut with a finality that echoed the irreversible shift between her thighs—slick folds now pulsing with a traitorous ache, wet and exposed beneath the loose fabric of Dudley's hand-me-down trousers. The transformation had surged crueler in those final moments hidden among the dusty shelves, her chest swelling with relentless insistence until the modest buds bloated into heavy C-cup breasts, straining against the baggy shirt, nipples stiff and hypersensitive, rubbing raw with every panicked breath. 'Fucking spell—it's carved me into some twisted wet dream, these tits bouncing like a curse I can't shake, drawing eyes I don't want.' The weight of them shifted her center of gravity, forcing an unfamiliar sway into her steps, hips flared wider, ass rounding into soft curves that screamed vulnerability in the fading light.

Privet Drive's orderly streets stretched ahead like a gauntlet of judgmental windows, lace curtains twitching with the ghosts of nosy neighbors, but Harry's legs carried her sideways instead, veering into a narrow side street—a forgotten alley choked with overflowing bins and graffiti-scarred walls, the kind of shadowed vein where Surrey's polished veneer cracked to reveal the rot beneath. The summer heat clung thicker here, stale and suffocating, mingling with the distant rumble of traffic and the faint stink of rotting rubbish, amplifying the feverish throb in her core. She pressed a palm to her chest, trying to still the jiggle of those newfound swells, the touch igniting sparks that raced straight to the empty, aching heat below. 'Need to get home, lock the door, figure out how to undo this nightmare before it devours what's left of me—Voldemort's scars feel like child's play compared to this violation etched into my flesh.'

Footsteps echoed behind her—heavy, deliberate, not the casual shuffle of a passerby but the predatory stalk of something feral emerging from the gloom. Harry quickened her pace, heart slamming against the cage of her ribs, those full breasts heaving with the motion, but the alley twisted deeper, cutting off the main road's illusory safety. A rough hand clamped over her mouth from behind, yanking her backward into the bulk of a man reeking of cheap booze and unwashed desperation—broad-shouldered, face shadowed under a hood, eyes gleaming with the hollow hunger of a career thug who'd long ago traded conscience for quick scores. He was a ghost from the underbelly, the kind of criminal who haunted these forgotten corners, preying on the isolated, and tonight her transformed body broadcasted an invitation she never meant to send.

"Easy now, pretty little cunt," he growled low against her ear, voice gravel-rough and laced with menace, his free arm snaking around her waist to pin her flailing limbs, fingers digging into the soft give of her widened hips. Harry thrashed, elbow jabbing backward into his gut with the remnants of Quidditch-honed strength, a muffled snarl ripping from her throat—'Get the fuck off me, you bastard'—but the spell's lingering warmth had sapped her edges, leaving her frame softer, lighter, those heavy tits crushing against his forearm as he slammed her spine against the brick wall. Pain exploded across her shoulder blades, grit scraping skin through the thin shirt, while his knee forced between her thighs, prying them apart with brutal efficiency. The milk carton tumbled forgotten to the grime-slick ground, splitting open in a white puddle that mirrored the terror flooding her veins.

He didn't waste words on threats—his kind never did when the prize was this ripe. One hand mauled upward, ripping at the shirt's neckline until fabric tore with a sharp rend, exposing the pale swell of her C-cup breasts to the cooling air, nipples peaking instantly under the assault of exposure and unwanted stimulation. 'No—fuck, not like this, not out here where anyone could see the Boy Who Lived reduced to this helpless slag.' Rough fingers pinched and twisted, drawing a choked gasp that blended revulsion with the spell's treacherous betrayal, sparks of heat coiling despite the horror, her new cunt clenching slick and empty. He ground his hardening bulge against her thigh, breath hot and ragged, the other hand fumbling at her waistband, yanking trousers down just enough to bare the smooth, hairless mound and the glistening slit beneath.

Harry bucked wildly, nails raking across his cheek to draw blood, a savage kick aiming for his balls that grazed but didn't connect fully—he snarled and retaliated with a backhand across her face, stars bursting behind her eyes, copper taste flooding her mouth. Pinned harder, legs forced wider, she felt the blunt press of him freeing his cock, thick and veined, shoving forward without preamble into the virgin tightness the spell had forged. Agony tore through her, a burning stretch that blurred with the dark magic's insidious pleasure, walls fluttering around the invasion as he thrust deep in one merciless drive, grunting like an animal claiming territory. 'It hurts—gods, it burns, but why the fuck does it feel like it's pulling me under, drowning me in this filth?' Tears stung her eyes, smearing vision as he rutted brutally, hips slamming against hers, breasts bouncing with each impact, the alley's shadows swallowing her stifled cries while Surrey's oblivious world carried on beyond the walls.

The alley's grit ground into Harry's back like shards of broken wands, each savage thrust driving deeper into the slick heat the spell had cruelly gifted her, walls clenching around the intruder's girth in spasms that mingled searing pain with the dark magic's venomous ecstasy. Blood trickled from her split lip, mingling with tears that carved hot trails down flushed cheeks, while those heavy C-cup breasts jolted with every brutal impact, nipples scraped raw against the torn shirt's remnants. The criminal's grunts echoed low and animalistic, sweat-slick skin slapping against hers in a rhythm devoid of mercy, his fingers bruising her flared hips as he pounded relentlessly, chasing his release in the tight grip of her violated core. 'Make it stop—please, someone, anyone— this filth is tearing me apart, turning my body into a vessel for his sickness while Voldemort's laughter rings in my skull.' She clawed at his arms, nails drawing crimson lines that only fueled his frenzy, a snarled curse escaping his lips as he slammed harder, burying himself to the hilt in a final, shuddering climax that flooded her with hot seed, marking the depths with his claim.

He didn't pull out immediately, lingering buried inside the trembling aftermath, breath ragged against her neck as aftershocks rippled through her traitorous flesh, forcing unwanted pulses of lingering heat that shamed her deeper than the assault itself. But satisfaction twisted into something darker in his shadowed eyes—paranoia flickering like fiendfyre—as he muttered about loose ends and witnesses in this godforsaken corner of Surrey. His hand shifted upward, thick fingers wrapping around her slender throat, squeezing with deliberate cruelty, cutting off protests before they formed. Harry's vision spotted black at the edges, lungs burning for air that wouldn't come, legs kicking futilely against the wall as strength ebbed from her transformed limbs. 'No—not like this, not strangled in some Muggle alley after everything—Dursleys, Voldemort, the wizarding war... reduced to a corpse in the dirt.' Panic surged one last time, nails scraping at his wrists, but the pressure intensified, cartilage crunching under inexorable force, darkness swallowing the world in a final, suffocating void.

Consciousness fractured into oblivion, then ignited anew in flames that weren't fire but the searing brimstone of an infernal realm, rebirth clawing through the ashes of a life snuffed too soon. Harry awoke—or whatever fragment remained—with a yelp that emerged as a high-pitched whine, tiny paws scrabbling against cold metal bars in a dimly lit kennel reeking of sulfur and despair. Her body was furred now, sleek black and gray coat matted from birth fluids that lingered in memory alone, tail tucked instinctively as crimson eyes blinked against the harsh red glow filtering through barbed wire windows. She was small, juvenile—a hellhound pup, barely weaned, with oversized ears and a muzzle that twitched at unfamiliar scents bombarding her senses in this cacophonous underworld. 'What the fuck—dream? No, this feels too real, too primal, like I've been shoved into a beast's skin after that bastard's hands crushed my windpipe.'

The pound echoed with yowls and barks from countless cages stacked in labyrinthine rows, imps and sinners prowling the aisles with clipboards and prods, selecting or discarding the orphaned litters of Hell's damned canines. Days blurred into a haze of instinctual survival—nurses, grotesque hellborn creatures with multiple arms and vacant stares, scooping her up for feedings from bottles filled with acrid, nourishing sludge that sustained her growing frame. They changed the nappies wrapped around her hindquarters with mechanical efficiency, wiping away messes without tenderness, cooing in guttural demonic tongues that translated roughly in her foggy mind: "Good little bitch, grow strong for adoption—or the fights." Memories of Privet Drive surfaced only in fevered dreams—flashes of green light, a scar's phantom ache, the alley's choking grip—fading upon waking into the relentless cycle of hunger, warmth from huddled siblings, and the pound's oppressive clamor.

Loona—that name whispered by the caretakers when they thought pups couldn't understand—curled tighter in the corner of her enclosure, juvenile form trembling from nightmares she couldn't fully grasp, the wizarding world's hero reduced to a nameless orphan in Hell's merciless underbelly, waiting for whatever cruel fate the rings of damnation decreed next. The air thickened with the cries of the forsaken, a symphony of suffering that drowned out echoes of a boy who once lived, leaving only the pup's instinctive whines in the eternal crimson twilight.

The crimson haze of Hell's eternal twilight seeped through cracked windows as years bled into one another in the pound's unforgiving cages, each cycle marked by the gnashing teeth and snarls of growing hellhounds clawing for dominance in the shadowed pits of abandonment. Loona—the name etched into her like a brand from those first guttural coos of the caretakers—shot up from helpless pup to a lanky adolescent terror, her sleek black-and-gray fur bristling with perpetual rage, crimson eyes glowing like embers in the abyss. By her fifth year, the fights erupted without warning; any male pup daring to crowd her corner earned shredded ears and bloodied muzzles, her jaws snapping with a ferocity born from buried nightmares—flashes of a suffocating grip in a Surrey alley, the crushing weight of violation that twisted trust into venom. 'Fucking stay back, you pricks—touch me and I'll rip your throats out before you blink.' She lunged first, always, isolating herself in the furthest reaches of the kennel, tail lashing like a whip as she growled warnings that echoed through the sulfur-choked halls.

The caretakers learned quick—prods and muzzles became routine for feedings, whispers spreading about the "psycho bitch" who turned play into carnage, her antisocial venom poisoning any attempt at pack bonding. Males approached with hesitant sniffs, drawn by the emerging curves of her lithe frame, the subtle swell of hips and the piercing allure of those narrowed eyes, but she met them with bared fangs and raking claws, leaving gashes that scarred and stories that warned others away. Hot-headed fury simmered constant, exploding in tirades of demonic barks whenever imps dragged her for baths or vaccinations, her struggles drawing blood from unwary handlers who muttered curses about the unadoptable savage wasting space in their overcrowded inferno.

Relocations came like curses from the higher rings, each move stripping away fragments of meager comfort as her age climbed toward seventeen. From the initial pound's relative order—stacked cages with minimal filth and scheduled slop—she was shuttled downward after a particularly brutal mauling that left three males whimpering in pools of ichor, transferred to a mid-ring facility where the air reeked thicker of despair, bars rusted and food scraps fought over in frenzied melees. Luxury eroded further with every infraction; by twelve, another relocation dumped her into a lower-ring hellhole, concrete floors cracked and stained with old blood, overhead lights flickering like dying souls, where the weak were culled quietly in the night.

Adolescence sharpened her into a stunning nightmare—tall and athletic, fur glossy despite the grime, body honed from endless scraps into lethal grace, breasts full and prominent beneath the anthropomorphic shift that marked mature hellhounds, drawing leering gazes from guards and inmates alike that only fueled her explosive anger. She paced her shrinking enclosures with restless fury, snapping at shadows, dreams haunting her sleeps with fragmented horrors: a boy's scar prickling, green curses flashing, rough hands choking life away in mundane darkness. 'This shithole eternity—better to fight alone than let any bastard near me again.' By fifteen, yet another downgrade plunged her into the dregs, a ramshackle outpost in the deepest slums where luxury was a forgotten myth—leaky roofs dripping acidic rain, meals irregular and rancid, the constant howl of damned winds rattling chain-link fences.

At seventeen, Loona towered over most, a volatile storm of beauty and wrath trapped in the pound's most decrepit wing, her reputation preceding her like a death knell: the untouchable female who shredded any male foolish enough to test her boundaries, antisocial to the core, anger a perpetual blaze that scorched all who ventured close. The caretakers barely bothered anymore, tossing scraps through slots and avoiding eye contact, leaving her to brood in isolation amid the crumbling ruins of Hell's forgotten orphans, crimson eyes staring through bars at the chaotic sprawl beyond, waiting for the spark that might finally shatter her cage.

The final months in the deepest slum-pound dragged like chains across scorched stone, the air thick with the stench of despair and unwashed fur as Loona's seventeenth year crawled toward its brutal conclusion. Crimson warning signs were nailed to every rusted cage: AGING OUT – NO ADOPTION PROSPECTS – STREET RELEASE IMMINENT. Caretakers no longer bothered with prods or muzzles; they simply tossed rancid meat through the bars and muttered about the “unbreakable bitch” who had clawed her way through every potential owner, every halfway-house program, every forced labor assessment Hell’s bureaucracy could devise. She was too violent for guard work, too antisocial for domestic service, too prone to mauling clients for any brothel or fight pit that valued repeat customers. The verdict was carved into her file in dripping red ink: UNSUITABLE FOR PLACEMENT – RELEASE TO PRIDE RING STREETS UPON AGE-OUT.

They gathered the soon-to-be-released in a concrete yard ringed with barbed wire, a sneering imp with a clipboard barking the truth like venom. “Out there it’s eat or be eaten, fuck or be fucked, freeze or burn. No food drops, no cages, no second chances. Most of you cunts won’t last a week before some sinner uses your pelt for a coat or your corpse for target practice.” Loona leaned against the wall, arms folded under heavy breasts, tail lashing slow arcs of contempt while crimson eyes bored holes through the imp’s skull. 'Let them come. I’ve survived every shithole they shoved me into. The streets can bleed me dry before I bow.' The other hounds whimpered and huddled; she stood apart, radiating threat like heat from fresh brimstone.

Two months earlier, during one of the pound’s rare “showcase days” for potential adopters, the gate screeched open and a lanky imp strutted in—tall for his kind, red skin striped with white, horns curled like broken crowns, grin sharp enough to cut glass. Blitzo. He moved through the aisles with theatrical swagger, boots clicking on cracked tile, yellow eyes scanning cages as though shopping for a weapon instead of a pet. Most hounds pressed forward, tails wagging in desperate bids for attention. Loona stayed in the shadowed back corner of her cell, lips peeled in a silent snarl, claws flexing against concrete.

Blitzo stopped dead in front of her enclosure. She met his stare without blinking, hackles rising, a low growl vibrating in her chest. The pound keeper—an obese, multi-eyed demon with a voice like grinding gravel—sidled up, wiping sweat from his jowls. “That one? You don’t want her, sir. Name’s Loona. Real nightmare. Bites anything that breathes wrong, kicked a full-grown male clear across the yard last week—broke three of his ribs. No training sticks, no leash holds. We’re dumping her on the streets come age-out; save yourself the rabies shot.”

As if on cue, a scrawny adolescent male from the next kennel over poked his muzzle through the bars, whining for attention toward Blitzo. Loona’s ears flattened. Without warning she exploded forward, shoulder slamming the dividing fence hard enough to rattle the bolts, then drove a vicious kick through the gap. Her boot connected with the smaller hound’s chest; he flew backward in a yelping heap, slamming into the far wall with a wet crunch before sliding down whimpering, ribs visibly caved. Silence fell like a guillotine. Even the other caretakers froze.

Loona straightened slowly, chest heaving, crimson eyes blazing defiance as she wiped a smear of blood from her knuckles. A single, almost inaudible whimper escaped her throat the instant after—raw, quickly swallowed, born from some buried fracture she refused to name. Blitzo’s grin only widened, manic and delighted, like he’d just found the perfect loaded gun.

“Her,” he declared, pointing a clawed finger straight at Loona. “I’ll take that one.”

The keeper’s eyes bulged. “Sir, she’ll kill you in your sleep—”

“Kid, I run an assassination business. I need someone who’ll kill people while I’m awake.” Blitzo’s gaze never left Loona’s, something unreadable flickering behind the showman’s mask. “Open the cage. She’s coming with me.”

Loona’s lip curled higher, fangs glinting, but beneath the rage a treacherous spark stirred—curiosity, maybe even the ghost of desperate hope she’d long ago tried to strangle. The gate groaned open, and for the first time in seventeen years of Hell, the bars no longer stood between her and whatever waited beyond.

----

The rusted gate clanged shut behind them like the final nail in a coffin, sealing the pound's sulfurous reek inside while the Pride Ring's chaotic sprawl erupted outside—neon veins pulsing through smog-choked skies, distant screams mingling with the blare of infernal billboards hawking sins in glittering excess. Blitzo strode ahead with that manic bounce, tail flicking like a faulty fuse, chattering nonstop into the heavy silence Loona wrapped around herself like barbed wire. She trailed several paces back, arms crossed tight under the weight of her full breasts, crimson eyes narrowed to slits as she scanned every shadowed alley and leering sinner for threats, claws flexing instinctively at her sides. The new collar around her neck—cheap leather stamped with I.M.P. in tacky gold lettering—chafed like a brand, a reminder that freedom came with fresh chains in Hell's twisted economy.

Blitzo didn't seem to notice her mute hostility, or if he did, it only fueled his one-sided ramble as they navigated cracked sidewalks littered with broken bottles and discarded souls. "Look, kid, you're gonna be my receptionist—answer phones, scare off assholes who waste my time, maybe growl at clients who don't pay up. Perfect gig for someone with your... vibe." He shot her a sideways grin sharp as shattered glass, yellow eyes gleaming with unhinged enthusiasm. "I don't give a flying fuck about the attitude. Hell, I like it. Seen enough broken bitches pretending to be sweet to know real strength when it bites back. You're not some simpering lapdog; you're a goddamn weapon on legs. That's what my company needs."

Loona's ears twitched at the words, a flicker of something raw slicing through the perpetual rage—confusion, maybe suspicion—but she clamped her jaws shut tighter, refusing to give him even a grunt in reply. The streets blurred past in a haze of crimson lights and predatory stares, her mind drifting to fractured dreams that haunted her fits of sleep: a lightning-bolt scar throbbing on a human forehead, green curses flashing in a graveyard, the suffocating grip of rough hands in a mundane alley long ago and far away. 'What's happening up there now? Years gone—has that scar-headed boy faded into myth, or is the wizarding world still bleeding from wars I left behind? Voldemort rotting, or risen again?' The mortal realm felt like a half-remembered nightmare, distant and irrelevant in Hell's brutal now, yet the ache lingered, a ghost in her hellhound veins.

Blitzo kept talking, undeterred by the wall of silence, gesturing wildly at the towering headquarters looming ahead—a ramshackle office building wedged between a porn studio and a cannibal diner, windows cracked and graffiti-scrawled with threats and obscenities. "Place is a shithole, yeah, but it's our shithole. Got two other employees you'll meet—Moxxie and Millie, married maniacs with more kills between 'em than most rings see in a decade. They'll either love you or fear you; either way, works for me."

He yanked open the door with theatrical flair, the bell jingling like a death knell as stale air and the faint tang of gunpowder wafted out. Loona hesitated on the threshold, tail lashing once in defiance, before stepping inside, the weight of new eyes already prickling her fur. Blitzo spun toward her, horns catching the flickering fluorescent light. "Almost forgot—gotta know what to scream when you're pissing me off. What's the name, tall, dark, and murderous?"

The question snapped her out of the brooding haze, crimson gaze locking onto his with venomous intensity. "Loona," she snarled, voice gravel-rough from disuse and fury, the word spitting out like a curse. "And if you scream it too loud, I'll make you regret it."

Blitzo's grin stretched impossibly wider, delight sparking in his eyes like fresh brimstone. "Loona it is. Welcome to the family, you glorious psycho bitch." He clapped her on the shoulder—quick, testing—and when she didn't immediately rip his arm off, he laughed, a sharp, unhinged bark that echoed through the empty lobby as he led her deeper into the madhouse he called a business.

The elevator rattled upward like a coffin on frayed chains, spitting them out onto a dim hallway that reeked of stale smoke, cheap takeout, and the metallic tang of old blood baked into the carpet. Blitzo fumbled with keys at the scarred door of apartment 666, humming some off-key circus tune while Loona loomed behind him, arms folded tight, crimson eyes flicking to every shadow as if expecting an ambush. The lock finally gave with a defeated click, and he shoved the door wide with exaggerated pride.

“Welcome to the palace, your highness,” he drawled, sweeping an arm through the cramped living room that doubled as kitchen, office, and armory. Pizza boxes teetered in towers beside overflowing ashtrays, a cracked flatscreen flickered with silent porn on mute, and weapons hung from nails like grotesque decorations—rifles, flintlocks, a flaming sword still dripping ichor from last week’s job. The couch sagged in the center, springs exposed like broken ribs, blankets strewn across it in a nest that screamed insomnia and bad decisions.

Blitzo kicked a path through the debris, tail flicking. “Kitchen’s there—if the fridge growls, don’t open it after midnight. Bathroom’s down the hall, hot water lasts exactly four minutes unless you sacrifice a virgin, which I’m fresh out of. And this—” He shouldered open a door at the end of the short corridor, revealing a small bedroom that smelled only of dust and disuse. A narrow bed with an actual mattress, a chipped dresser, one bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. “—is yours. Mine’s the couch till I figure something better. Don’t thank me all at once.”

Loona didn’t answer. She brushed past him hard enough to jostle his shoulder, stepped inside, and slammed the door with force that rattled the thin walls and sent plaster dust drifting down like ash. The lock clicked—sharp, final.

Inside the sudden quiet, she stood rigid, claws digging into her palms, breath coming in shallow snarls. The bed loomed, sheets faded but clean, pillow indented from some long-ago tenant. She stalked to it, dropped her weight onto the edge, and the frame groaned under her tall frame. For a long moment she simply stared at the cracked ceiling, tail curled tight around her ankle, every muscle coiled for a fight that wasn’t coming.

Then the first tear slipped, hot and traitorous, carving a path through the fur on her cheek. Another followed. Then a silent flood she couldn’t choke back, shoulders shaking with sobs she refused to voice. Nearly eighteen years in Hell—pounds, cages, fists, teeth, blood, and never once had she let herself crack like this. Not when they muzzled her. Not when they hosed her down with freezing acid. Not when the nightmares dragged her back to that Surrey alley and the hands around her throat.

'Why the fuck now? Because some manic imp gave me a room? Because he looked at the monster and didn’t flinch?' She curled forward, forehead pressing to her knees, claws raking through her mane as silent tears soaked the faded quilt. 'Harry Potter died choking in Muggle filth. Loona survived every circle of this shithole by never breaking. And now one locked door, one shitty bed, and I’m falling apart like a weak little bitch.'

The sobs tore deeper, raw and ugly, muffled against her own arms so Blitzo wouldn’t hear through the thin walls. Outside, the muffled clatter of him clearing space on the couch drifted in—cursing under his breath, kicking boxes aside, the creak of springs as he flopped down with a tired grunt. He didn’t knock. Didn’t pry. Just let the silence stretch.

Loona finally unfolded, wiped her face with the back of a trembling hand, and dragged the threadbare blanket over herself like armor. The mattress dipped under her weight, foreign and soft compared to concrete floors and wire mesh. Exhaustion crashed over her in waves, dragging her down into uneasy sleep where green lights flashed behind her eyelids and a lightning scar burned phantom pain across a forehead she no longer possessed.

In the living room, Blitzo stared at the ceiling, cigarette glowing between his claws, listening to the faint hitch of breathing from behind the closed door. He exhaled slow, smoke curling toward the flickering bulb.

“Sleep tight, you glorious disaster,” he muttered to the empty air. “Tomorrow the real fun begins.”

----------

The Surrey alley stank of damp brick and old piss even before the blood joined the chorus, but now the metallic reek hung thick under the fluttering yellow tape that cordoned off the narrow throat between two crumbling walls. Dawn had barely clawed its way over the rooftops when the first uniformed constable arrived, torch beam catching on the pale, sprawled form half-hidden behind an overflowing skip. Naked from the waist down, legs splayed at broken angles, bruises blooming like dark roses around throat and hips. The girl's black hair fanned across the grime in a tangled halo, and even in death those vivid green eyes stared upward, glassy and accusing, a thin lightning-bolt scar cutting pale across her forehead like a signature from some forgotten god.

Detective Inspector Hargrove ducked under the tape, boots squelching in the congealing puddle that had once been milk. He’d seen worse in his twenty years, but something about the deliberate cruelty here turned his stomach harder than usual. The medical examiner, Dr. Patel, knelt beside the body with gloved efficiency, dictating quiet observations into a recorder while photographers’ flashes bleached the scene bone-white again and again.

“Strangulation, manual, severe crushing of the larynx and hyoid,” Patel murmured, fingers gentle as she tilted the chin. “Multiple contusions to thighs and pelvis consistent with forceful intercourse. No defensive wounds under the nails; she fought, but not for long. Death occurred between twenty-hundred and twenty-three hundred hours yesterday.”

Hargrove crouched opposite, gaze lingering on the scar. “Runaway? Prostitute?”

Patel shook her head. “No track marks, no older scarring. Breasts fully developed, but pelvic structure suggests recent… drastic physiological change. Almost like a rapid secondary puberty. I’ll know more after the post-mortem.”

A constable unfolded a white sheet; it settled over the small, broken frame like surrender. The zip of the body bag sounded obscenely loud in the hush. They lifted her—light, too light—onto the stretcher and wheeled her out past the growing cluster of neighbours pretending not to gawk from behind curtains.

By late afternoon the mortuary slab held what had once been Harry Potter. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Patel made the Y-incision, peeling back skin and muscle with practiced care. Samples taken, photographs logged, clothing—what little remained—bagged and labelled. The anomalous chromosomal shift baffled her: XX configuration, yet certain skeletal markers screamed prior male phenotype. She scribbled “possible intersex condition or experimental hormonal assault” and scheduled toxicology that would, ultimately, find nothing but common semen and the faint, untraceable residue of magic long dissipated.

That evening the local news ran a brief, grim segment between weather and sport. A sombre anchorwoman intoned over grainy stills released by police: “Surrey Police are appealing for witnesses after the body of an unidentified teenage girl was discovered in Little Whinging early this morning. The victim, believed to be fourteen or fifteen years old, had distinctive green eyes and a lightning-shaped scar on her forehead.”

The photograph flashed on screen for four seconds: pale face smudged with alley dirt, black hair plastered to cheeks, but those eyes—too large, too knowing—and the scar unmistakable even through death’s pallor.

In a quiet flat above a Diagon Alley bookshop that no longer existed in the Muggle world, Hermione Granger sat frozen on the sofa, tea cooling forgotten in her hands. The television—enchanted to receive both wizarding and Muggle broadcasts—flickered in the firelight. She had been skimming Ministry reports on residual dark curses when the news bulletin caught her ear.

Four seconds.

But four seconds was eternity when the dead girl staring back wore Harry’s eyes and Harry’s scar on a face that was almost, heartbreakingly, his—softened, feminised, but undeniably the same.

The cup slipped from her fingers and shattered against the hearth. Tea soaked into the rug like fresh blood.

“No,” she whispered, voice cracking in the empty room. “No—no—no—”

She lunged for the remote, rewound the Muggle recording charm, froze the frame on that impossible face. Tears blurred the screen, but the scar burned clear, a lightning brand across delicate feminine skin.

'Harry… what did they do to you?'

The Burrow's kitchen smelled of burnt toast and old grief by the time Hermione apparated into the yard with a crack that startled the gnomes into scattering like black confetti. September 1994 had barely begun, yet the air already carried winter's bite, as if the world itself mourned what Hermione carried in her chest. She was still fourteen, uniform half-packed in her trunk upstairs at her parents' house, Hogwarts letters and booklists scattered like fallen leaves, but none of that mattered now. The Muggle television image had seared itself behind her eyelids: Harry's face—softened, feminine, bruised, dead—staring sightless from a Surrey alley with that unmistakable lightning scar cutting across the forehead.

Molly Weasley opened the door before Hermione could knock, flour-dusted arms reaching instinctively to pull the girl into a crushing hug that smelled of cinnamon and worry. Inside, the clock on the wall ticked ominously; Harry's hand, long stuck at "mortal peril," had finally swung to "lost." Ron sat hunched at the table, freckles stark against ashen skin, staring at nothing while Ginny clutched a soggy handkerchief in the corner. Arthur paced, wand twitching between his fingers like a nervous bird.

"It's him," Hermione said without preamble, voice raw from hours of silent screaming. "It's Harry. The girl on the news. Those eyes—his eyes—and the scar. I know it's impossible, but it's Harry."

The words detonated. Molly's wail cracked the teacups in the rack. Ron made a sound like a wounded animal, chair scraping backward as he bolted upright. Ginny simply folded in on herself, small and broken. Arthur stopped pacing, face collapsing into lines deeper than Hermione had ever seen.

"Some kind of dark curse," Hermione continued, forcing steadiness into her cracking voice. "Polyjuice gone wrong, or a transfiguration hex, or—something. But it's Harry. He's… she's… dead. Murdered. Strangled after—" She couldn't finish. The police photographs she'd glimpsed in her mind's eye (bruises on pale thighs, torn clothing) flashed again, bile rising sharp.

Ron punched the table hard enough to splinter wood. "That bastard Dudley? Or Snape? Or—"

"We don't know," Hermione cut in, trembling. "But I'm not letting the Muggles bury him in some pauper's grave as Jane Doe."

She'd already acted. While the Weasleys reeled, Hermione had slipped away to the nearest telephone box in Ottery St. Catchpole, feeding Muggle coins into the slot with shaking fingers. The Surrey police switchboard had transferred her to Detective Inspector Hargrove himself.

"This is Hermione Granger," she'd said, voice steady through sheer will. "The girl you found in Little Whinging—I'm a dear friend. Practically family. Her name is Harry Potter. She's been missing from our… community… for weeks. I can identify her formally. Please, I want to arrange the funeral. We'll take care of everything."

There had been a long silence on the line, then cautious questions about guardianship and next-of-kin. Hermione had lied smoothly about being emancipated through a private trust, about having adult representatives who would follow up. The detective promised to hold the body from release until proper identification could be made.

Now, back in the Burrow's sudden mausoleum of grief, Hermione sank into a chair opposite Ron. His eyes were red-rimmed, fists clenched so tight the knuckles shone white.

"They'll want a wizard viewing," Arthur said quietly. "Dumbledore's already on his way. Fawkes brought word an hour ago—he felt something snap in the blood wards around Privet Drive."

Molly was rocking now, keening softly. "My boy… my poor boy…"

Hermione reached across the table, gripping Ron's wrist hard enough to bruise. "We're going to bury him properly," she whispered fiercely. "With magic. With honour. And then we're going to find whoever did this and make them scream for a thousand years."

Outside, the sky bruised toward evening, wind rattling the mismatched windows like restless ghosts. Somewhere in Surrey, Harry's transformed body lay cold under fluorescent lights, waiting for the wizarding world to claim what was left of its saviour.

-----

The Surrey morgue’s fluorescent lights buzzed like dying insects over stainless-steel drawers, casting a sickly pallor across the tiled crypt where forgotten bodies waited for names or graves. Night had fallen thick outside, rain lashing the windows in furious sheets, as if the sky itself raged against what lay within. Hermione arrived first, soaked trench coat dripping onto the linoleum, flanked by Albus Dumbledore—his half-moon spectacles reflecting the cold gleam—and Madam Amelia Bones, Director of Magical Law Enforcement, her monocle glinting with grim purpose beneath the severe bun of iron-grey hair.

Detective Inspector Hargrove met them in the corridor, exhaustion etched deep into his Muggle features, clearly unsettled by the late-night visitors who carried an authority he couldn’t quite place. Hermione’s voice had cracked only once on the telephone, but it had been enough; the wizarding world moved swiftly when its saviour lay nameless on a slab.

Drawer 14 slid open with a metallic sigh that echoed like a death rattle. The sheet peeled back, revealing the small, broken form—pale skin mottled with lividity and bruises, throat ringed in purple-black fingerprints, the lightning scar stark against feminine delicacy. Hermione’s hand flew to her mouth, a strangled sound escaping as her knees buckled. Dumbledore’s arm steadied her, but his own face had drained of colour, ancient eyes dimming behind the glass.

“Merlin’s blood…” he whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of refrigeration units. “Harry.”

Madam Bones stepped forward without hesitation, wand already drawn and concealed within her sleeve. She murmured diagnostic charms under her breath, faint silver threads weaving through the air, invisible to Muggle eyes. The spells sank into cold flesh, probing deeper than any scalpel could reach.

Her monocle flashed once, sharply. Bones froze.

“There is residual magic,” she said, tone clipped and dangerous. “Transfigurative. Human transmutation—crude, amateur, but deliberate. Latin incantation, poorly pronounced. Traces linger in the bone marrow and reproductive tissue.” She traced her wand in a slow arc over the pelvis and chest, lips thinning. “The phrase was Mutatio corporis voluptuosa. A perverse little hex meant to force sexual characteristics—female, exaggerated, rapid onset. Cast with intent to humiliate and arouse. The wand signature is… weak. Childlike. Inexperienced.”

Hermione’s head snapped up, tears tracking furious lines down her cheeks. “Dudley,” she snarled, the name venom on her tongue. “That fat bastard cousin. He must have taken Harry’s wand. Harry would never—”

Dumbledore’s hand tightened on her shoulder, but his gaze remained fixed on the body, sorrow carving deeper trenches into his face. “A Muggle boy wielding a wizard’s wand by accident or malice. The magic took hold because Harry’s own core recognised the holly and phoenix feather. A tragic, cruel irony.”

Bones’ expression hardened to granite. “This changes the case from Muggle murder to magical assault resulting in death. I will obliviate the necessary personnel and transfer jurisdiction. The body comes with us tonight. We bury our own.”

She flicked her wand; the bruises faded under illusion, the throat marks softened to mere shadows. To Muggle eyes, the girl would appear to have died peacefully—heart failure, perhaps—once the paperwork was adjusted. Hermione leaned over the slab, fingers trembling as she brushed a lock of black hair from the cold forehead, tracing the familiar scar with a reverence that bordered on agony.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she whispered, voice fracturing. “We failed you. But I swear on every drop of magic in my veins, Dudley Dursley will answer for this.”

Outside, thunder rolled like distant dragon wings as the wizards prepared to vanish the body into the night. In Hell’s distant crimson gloom, Loona stirred in her sleep, crimson eyes flickering beneath lids, a phantom scar burning across a brow that no longer existed, while the rain over Surrey washed blood from alley stones that would never confess their secrets.

----

The crimson light of Hell’s perpetual dawn leaked through the cracked blinds like fresh blood seeping under a door, painting the tiny bedroom in bruised reds and sickly violets. Loona woke with a snarl already coiled in her throat, the unfamiliar softness of the mattress beneath her tall frame feeling like a betrayal after years of concrete and wire. Nightmares clung to her fur: phantom hands crushing a throat that wasn’t hers anymore, green lightning cracking across a sky that didn’t exist here. She lay rigid, claws digging into the pillow, until the pounding on the door started.

“Rise and shine, princess of darkness!” Blitzo’s voice punched through the cheap wood, bright and grating as a chainsaw. “First day on the job! Clients to terrorise, phones to growl at, coffee to—”

“Shut the fuck up! I’m awake!” Loona roared, the words ripping out raw and venomous, rattling the flimsy walls. She threw off the blanket, swung her long legs over the side of the bed, and stalked to the door in three furious strides. The knob cracked under her grip as she yanked it open, looming in the frame like a storm made flesh—black-and-grey fur bristling, crimson eyes blazing, full breasts straining the too-small pound-issued tank that barely reached her midriff, hips and ass filling out the threadbare shorts in dangerous curves.

Blitzo stood there in a rumpled circus-master robe, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, grin wide and oblivious. “There she is, my beautiful ball of rage. Hungry? I got—”

“Food,” Loona cut in, voice flat and lethal. “Real food, not whatever radioactive slop you keep in that fridge. And clothes. These rags are ripping at the seams. I need shit that actually fits this body, or I’m going naked and scaring off every client before they even open their mouths.”

She snatched the nearest mug from his hand without waiting, brought it to her lips, and drained half the scalding liquid in one long pull. Bitter, cheap, perfect. Blitzo opened his mouth to protest—“Hey, that was mine, you thieving—” but the words died as the mug left her claws and hurtled straight into his face.

Ceramic shattered against his forehead with a satisfying crunch. Hot coffee exploded across his red skin, dripping down his horns in dark rivulets. He staggered back a step, yelping, tail lashing in shock while shards rained to the carpet.

“Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick,” he hissed, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robe, eyes watering. A fresh cut bled above one brow, but the manic grin crept back almost immediately. “Okay. Message received. Not a morning person. Noted. Capital N, underlined, circled in blood.”

Loona leaned against the doorframe, arms folded under her chest, tail flicking slow arcs of irritation. The scent of coffee and his blood mingled in the stale air, sharp and metallic. “You think?” she growled, voice low and dangerous. “Now get me breakfast and something to wear before I decide your face makes a better target next time.”

Blitzo chuckled, wiping more coffee from his chin, the pain already forgotten in the thrill of having recruited the most beautifully broken weapon he’d ever laid eyes on. “Welcome to the team, Loona. This is gonna be fun.”

The pipes groaned like tortured souls as Loona twisted the shower knob all the way to scalding, steam billowing up in thick crimson clouds that turned the tiny bathroom into a haze of brimstone heat. She stripped off the threadbare pound rags with vicious tugs, fabric tearing at the seams rather than cooperating, and stepped under the spray naked, water pounding against her sleek black-and-grey fur like punishing rain. Claws raked through her mane, scrubbing away the lingering stench of the pound, the dried tears, the phantom grip of nightmares that still choked her throat in the dark. The heat soaked into muscle and bone, easing knots she hadn’t realized were there, but it couldn’t touch the deeper rot—the memory of hands that weren’t hands, an alley that wasn’t an alley, a life snuffed out in Muggle filth while she woke up caged in Hell.

'Let it burn,' she thought, tilting her face into the stream until her lungs ached. 'Burn every trace of weakness off me.'

Outside, Blitzo slipped through the front door with the stealth of a practiced thief, coffee cut still stinging on his forehead, and ducked into the goth-punk clothing store wedged between the apartment block and a cannibal bakery. The place reeked of leather, incense, and stale lust; mannequins posed in spiked collars and fishnet, neon signs buzzing “SINFUL THREADS” overhead. He moved fast, claws snatching items off racks with manic precision: black crop tops thin enough to cling like sin, one with a bleeding pentagram across the chest; distressed denim shorts cut so high the pockets would hang lower than the hem; a ripped mesh shirt that would do nothing to hide the swell of her full breasts; a couple of dark hoodies for the rare moments she pretended not to be a walking weapon.

He lingered in the lingerie section longer than necessary, grin sharpening as he selected a few bras—black lace, deep crimson satin—cups sized for the heavy curves he’d glimpsed when she loomed in the doorway. Matching panties followed: thongs mostly, a couple of boyshorts in case she decided to play at modesty. Last, he plucked a thick velvet choker from the display, silver ring dangling at the front like a promise or a leash—whichever she wanted it to be. A gift, he told himself. Not a claim. Definitely not a claim.

Bag swinging from one claw, he paid with a wad of crumpled souls and was back before the water heater gave up. The shower cut off with a final death-rattle cough. Loona emerged wrapped in a towel barely large enough to circle her hips, fur still dripping, steam curling off her skin like hellfire mist. She froze in the hallway, crimson eyes narrowing at the black plastic bag he held out like an offering.

“Bought you some threads,” Blitzo said, voice carefully casual. “Figured you’d rather not scare the clients with your tits out. Or do. Honestly, either works for business.”

Loona stalked forward, snatched the bag, and upended it onto the couch. Fabric spilled across the sagging cushions—dark, tight, deliberately provocative. The shorts would ride low on her flared hips and barely cover the curve of her ass. The tops would stretch across her chest, nipples ghosting through thin material if she breathed too deep. The choker landed last, velvet dark as fresh bruises.

She held it up between two claws, studying the silver ring with unreadable eyes.

“Trying to collar me already, imp?” Her voice was low, dangerous silk.

Blitzo shrugged, grin unrepentant. “Call it a welcome gift. Looks better on you than the pound’s cheap shit ever did. Wear it, burn it, shove it up my ass—I don’t care. It’s yours.”

Loona’s lip curled, but she didn’t throw it. Instead she turned on her heel, bag gathered against her chest, and disappeared back into the bedroom. The door didn’t slam this time—just shut with deliberate quiet that somehow felt heavier.

Minutes later she stepped out again, transformed into walking midnight. Black crop top clinging to every breath, pentagram stretched tight across her breasts. Denim shorts riding scandalously low, frayed edges brushing the tops of powerful thighs. Choker fastened snug around her throat, silver ring glinting like a challenge. Water still beaded in her fur, catching the neon glow from the window and making her look freshly forged from some erotic circle of Hell.

Blitzo’s yellow eyes tracked her movement, appreciation and something sharper flickering across his face before he buried it under his usual manic mask.

“Breakfast?” he asked, voice only slightly rougher.

Loona leaned against the counter, tail flicking once. “Make it quick. And if you stare any harder, I’ll gouge those eyes out and wear them as earrings.”

He laughed—high, delighted, already moving toward the kitchen. “Noted, princess. Coffee’s still hot. Try not to break the next mug with my skull.”

The kitchen reeked of scorched bacon and cheap gun-oil as Blitzo slapped strips into a pan that had seen more blood than grease, the sizzle rising like angry whispers in the cramped apartment's crimson haze. Loona prowled the edge of the counter, tail lashing slow arcs that threatened to sweep mugs to their doom, her new gothic attire clinging like a second skin—crop top stretched taut over the heavy swell of her breasts, denim shorts riding low enough to expose the velvet choker’s silver ring glinting against her throat fur. Water droplets still clung to her mane, catching the neon bleed from the window in wicked sparks, making her look like some freshly summoned succubus ready to devour souls instead of breakfast.

Blitzo flipped the bacon with theatrical flair, grease spitting like venom, before sliding a chipped plate across the counter toward her—piled high with blackened strips and scorched eggs that looked more like battlefield casualties than food. He didn't sit, just leaned against the opposite cabinet, yellow eyes tracking her every predatory shift with that unhinged grin that never quite reached caution.

"Figured you'd need this too," he said, fishing a sleek black smartphone from his robe pocket and setting it deliberately in front of her plate like an offering to a volatile goddess. The screen lit up at the touch, Sinstergram icons pulsing in lurid reds alongside the usual demonic apps—Hellflix, GoreHub, ImpChat—pre-loaded and hungry for chaos. "Brand new. My number's already in there under Blitzo—capital B, heart emoji I couldn't figure out how to delete. Use it whenever. Text, call, send me dick pics of enemies you want dead, whatever floats your murderous boat. Full internet, no restrictions. Scroll Sinstergram if you wanna see what fresh horrors the Pride Ring's serving up today."

Loona paused mid-reach for the bacon, crimson eyes narrowing to slits as she snatched the phone instead, claws tapping the screen with surprising delicacy that belied the fury simmering beneath. Notifications already pinged—welcome messages from apps that sensed new prey in their webs, Sinstergram suggesting follows for fight pits and underground clubs where hellhounds bared fangs and more for thirsty crowds.

'Contact him? Like I'd need some manic imp on speed dial in this shithole eternity. But internet... real connection to whatever passes for the outside down here.' She thumbed through the apps without comment, the glow reflecting in her eyes like fresh blood under moonlight, tail flicking once in guarded curiosity.

Blitzo watched her absorb it all, grin sharpening as he plated his own food. "Don't throw this one at my face. Costs more than your choker. Though if you do, aim for the horns—less bleeding."

Loona's lip curled in a silent snarl, but she pocketed the phone deep in her shorts instead of hurling it, the weight of it pressing against her thigh like a new weapon or a leash she hadn't decided to snap yet. She tore into the bacon with fangs that crunched bone-easy, grease slicking her muzzle, the apartment's shadows coiling thicker around them as Hell's morning traffic screamed distantly below—another day in the abyss dawning for its most beautifully broken receptionist.

The elevator cage rattled downward like a condemned soul descending into deeper torment, the cables groaning under the weight of Blitzo's manic energy and Loona's brooding silence as they plunged toward the I.M.P. office buried in the Pride Ring's grimy underbelly. Neon signs flickered past the grated walls—ads for lust potions and assassination services bleeding crimson light across her fur—while Blitzo bounced on his heels, tail whipping excitement into the stale air thick with gunpowder residue and old coffee stains.

"You're gonna love the crew," he babbled, claws drumming against the rail. "Millie's a goddamn whirlwind with an axe, and Moxxie's the little prick who keeps the books straight. We kill topside assholes for cash—humans mostly, cherry on top. Your desk's prime real estate: right by the door so you can scare off window-shoppers before they waste my genius."

Loona leaned against the back wall, arms crossed tight under the heavy curve of her breasts, crop top riding up just enough to flash toned midriff scarred from pound fights. The choker hugged her throat like a velvet noose, silver ring catching stray sparks from passing signs. She didn't reply, crimson eyes fixed on the descending numbers, the new smartphone burning a hole in her shorts pocket like forbidden knowledge waiting to unravel Hell's secrets.

The doors screeched open onto the office—a chaotic den of cracked plaster walls plastered with wanted posters, blood-splattered maps of the living world, and a flickering "I.M.P." sign that buzzed like a dying insect. Weapons racks gleamed in the dim light, knives and rifles arranged like lovers in a violent embrace, while the air reeked of sulfur, cheap booze, and the faint metallic tang of fresh kills.

Millie burst from behind a desk piled with axes, her wide grin splitting wide as she launched forward, tail swishing like a scythe. "Oh my Satan, Blitz! You actually adopted one? She's gorgeous! Look at them curves—could crush a sinner's skull between those thighs!"

Moxxie trailed behind her, smaller and twitchy, bowtie askew as he adjusted his glasses, eyes widening at Loona's towering frame filling the doorway like midnight incarnate. "Indeed! Quite the striking addition to the team. Very... intimidating beauty."

Loona's lip peeled back in a silent snarl as she stalked past Millie—ignoring the enthusiastic wave—and loomed over Moxxie, crimson gaze boring down like hellfire drills. "Say that shit again, short-stack, and I'll make you choke on your own tongue before breakfast digests."

Moxxie's face flushed deep crimson, a strangled cough hacking from his throat as he backed up hard enough to knock over a stack of files, papers fluttering like startled bats. Millie cackled, clapping delightedly, while Blitzo howled with laughter, slapping Loona's shoulder hard enough to jolt but not budge her.

"See? Instant chemistry! Loona, your throne awaits."

He dragged her to the reception desk shoved in the corner—a battered slab of wood scarred by bullet holes and knife gouges, topped with a ancient computer monitor flickering to life under dust and cobwebs, phone coiled like a serpent beside a stack of yellowed invoices. The chair creaked ominously as she dropped into it, the gothic attire stretching taut across her body, shorts riding higher on powerful thighs.

Blitzo hovered a moment, grin manic. "Computer's got full access—portal schedules, client lists, whatever. Answer calls with threats, book hits, ignore the rest. You're the gatekeeper now, babe."

He sauntered off toward the meeting room, dragging Millie and a still-coughing Moxxie with promises of fresh contracts, leaving Loona alone in the buzzing quiet. The screen glowed to life under her claws, browser opening to a blank page that felt like a void staring back.

She pulled the smartphone instead, thumbs flying across the screen with predatory focus, diving into forbidden searches that peeled back Hell's layers like flayed skin. Sinstergram flooded with images of the Seven Rings—Pride's neon sprawl of overlords and sinners clawing for power; Greed's golden casinos stacked on broken dreams; Wrath's volcanic farms where imps toiled under demonic overseers; Gluttony's endless feasts rotting into orgies of excess; Lust's sapphire towers pulsing with eternal seduction; Envy's toxic seas eroding ambition into madness; Sloth's lethargic haze where nothing ever burned bright.

News feeds scrolled deeper: recent turf wars in Pride, a cannibal uprising in Gluttony, overlord Vox's latest tech empire crushing rivals under screens and static. 'This shithole's got layers worse than the pound—rings stacked like torture devices, everyone eating everyone to climb or fall.' Phantom memories flickered at the edges—green eyes in a mirror that wasn't hers, a scar burning on skin turned to fur—but she shoved them down, scrolling faster, absorbing the infernal geography like armor against the unknown.

The phone buzzed in her grip, Sinstergram notifications pinging from thirsty demons sliding into DMs already, but she ignored them, crimson eyes reflecting the screen's glow like fresh blood under moonlight, the office's shadows coiling thicker around her isolated desk as Hell's vast, vicious machinery hummed on without mercy.

The briefing room stank of stale gun-oil, cheap whiskey, and the faint copper tang of old blood baked into the cracked plaster walls, a cramped chamber lit by a single flickering bulb that swung like a hanged sinner overhead. Loona shoved the door open with her shoulder, the hinges screaming protest as she stalked in, tail lashing sharp arcs that sliced the thick air, her gothic crop top clinging damp to the heavy swell of her breasts from the office's stifling heat, denim shorts riding scandalously low on flared hips that screamed lethal promise with every predatory step.

Blitzo spun from the whiteboard scrawled with crude stick-figure murders, grin splitting wide and manic as he clapped claws together. "Perfect timing, my glorious hellbitch! Gather 'round, family—time for Portal 101." He yanked a thick, leather-bound tome from under his arm—the Goetic Grimoire, pages yellowed and stained with what looked suspiciously like dried ichor and other bodily fluids—its cover embossed with a glowing crimson sigil of interlocking thorns and thrusting horns, the personal mark of Stolas, Prince of the Ars Goetia.

Millie perched on the table's edge, legs swinging, axe balanced casually across her thighs, eyes sparkling with violent delight. Moxxie stood rigid beside her, arms crossed tight over his bowtie, expression already twisting into professional disapproval.

Blitzo slammed the book open on the table, pages rustling like whispering damned souls, revealing intricate diagrams of swirling portals ringed in arcane script. "This beauty's our golden ticket topside. Borrowed—permanently—from a certain feathered owl prince who owes me favors." His tongue flicked across sharp teeth, voice dropping to a sleazy purr. "Favors I earned on my knees, on my back, bent over his throne while he screeched my name like a banshee in heat. Let's just say I dicked down royalty so hard he still limps when he thinks about it."

Millie's laugh exploded sharp and delighted, tail whipping excitement as she leaned forward for a better look at the sigil pulsing with stolen power. Moxxie choked on his own spit, face flushing deep crimson, eyes bulging behind his glasses as he jabbed a trembling finger at the book.

"That's—that's Stolas's personal grimoire! From an actual prince of Hell, one of the Ars Goetia!" His voice cracked high with incredulity, pitching toward hysteria. "You dicked down a demon prince? Are you completely fucking nuts, sir? That's not borrowing, that's suicidal theft wrapped in reckless sodomy! One wrong incantation and we'll be flayed across his palace walls for eternity!"

Blitzo's grin only sharpened, yellow eyes gleaming with unrepentant pride as he traced a claw along the sigil's throbbing lines. "Nuts? Baby, I'm the whole goddamn orchard. And worth every feather-plucking minute. Now pay attention—this is how we punch holes into the living world and paint it red with human blood."

Loona leaned against the doorframe, arms folded under her chest, crimson gaze flicking between the grimoire's obscene glow and Blitzo's manic theatrics, the silver ring on her choker catching the light like a drop of frozen blood. 'Royal fucktoy with a stolen spellbook—figures this circus runs on cum and chaos. Better than the pound, but only just.' She didn't speak, didn't move closer, but her ears twitched forward despite herself, absorbing every dangerous detail of the portal ritual that promised escape—even temporary—from Hell's suffocating rings.

The grimoire’s pages rustled like dry skin as Blitzo flipped to a dog-eared section stained with suspicious crimson fingerprints, the sigil of Stolas throbbing brighter under the swinging bulb, casting obscene shadows across the briefing room walls scarred by old bullet holes and knife gouges. Millie leaned forward on her axe handle, eyes gleaming with bloodlust, while Moxxie fidgeted with a clipboard, still flushed from his earlier outburst. Loona lingered in the doorway, arms folded tight beneath the heavy weight of her breasts, crop top straining with every slow breath, crimson gaze locked on the book as if it might bite—or offer escape.

“First job of the day, kids,” Blitzo announced, voice dripping theatrical venom. “Some deadbeat human topside—cheating husband, embezzling prick, raped his secretary then threw her off a balcony when she threatened to talk. Wife down here in Lust paid good souls for us to make him disappear slow.” He tapped a grainy photo pinned to the board: a smug, balding man in his forties grinning beside a yacht. “We go in quiet, carve him up messy, leave the pieces for the fishes. Classic I.M.P. signature.”

He traced a claw along the portal incantation, Latin words writhing like living things across the vellum. “Spell’s simple once you’ve sold your dignity to an owl prince. Blood circle, sigil, chant the dirty poetry Stolas likes, and boom—hole in reality straight to the living world.” Blitzo sliced his palm without flinching, dark ichor welling as he smeared the sigil on the floorboards. The air split with a wet, tearing sound, ozone and brimstone flooding the room as a swirling vortex of violet-black flame yawned open, revealing a glimpse of mortal night beyond—rain-slick streets, distant car horns, the mundane heartbeat of Earth.

Loona’s breath caught sharp in her throat, ears flattening as forgotten memories surged unbidden: the scent of Scottish pine and lake water, stone corridors echoing with laughter, green eyes in a mirror that once were human, friends calling a name that no longer belonged to her. 'Hogwarts… the castle still stands up there, doesn’t it? Hermione’s sharp voice, Ron’s stupid jokes, the Great Hall at Christmas. If I step through one of these portals alone… maybe I could find them. Tell them I didn’t die, not really. Just… became this.' The thought burned hotter than Hell’s ambient flame, a desperate ache beneath the rage, the possibility of seeing familiar faces again, even if they screamed at the monster wearing Harry’s ghost.

Blitzo snapped the portal wider with a flourish, then glanced at her, yellow eyes narrowing as if reading the hunger in her stance. “Not this time, sweetheart. You’re staying put.” He jerked a thumb toward the office. “Man the phones, scare off the window shoppers, take messages in blood if you feel artistic. First day tradition—newbies hold the fort while the pros paint the town red.”

Disappointment knifed through her gut, sharp and cold, but she masked it behind a curled lip and a low growl that promised future violence. “Whatever. Don’t get your asses possessed or some shit. I’m not cleaning up your corpses.”

Millie blew her a kiss as she hefted her axe and hopped through the portal with a gleeful whoop. Moxxie followed, muttering about proper reconnaissance. Blitzo lingered last, shooting Loona a crooked grin that held something almost gentle beneath the mania.

“Hold down Hell for us, Loona. We’ll bring you back a souvenir—maybe the cheating bastard’s tongue.”

The portal snapped shut behind him with a wet pop, leaving only the lingering scent of ozone and the faint echo of mortal rain. Loona stalked back to her desk, claws digging grooves into the scarred wood, crimson eyes fixed on the blank wall where the vortex had been. The office fell into oppressive silence broken only by the buzz of the flickering neon sign outside.

'One day,' she promised the empty room, fangs bared in a silent snarl. 'One day I’ll steal that fucking book and rip my own door topside. Back to the castle. Back to whatever’s left of Harry Potter’s life.'

Until then, she dropped into the creaking chair, tail lashing slow arcs of barely contained fury, and waited for the phone to ring with fresh damnation.

The office fell into a suffocating hush after the portal snapped shut, leaving only the low buzz of the neon sign and the distant howl of Pride Ring traffic bleeding through the cracked windows like a wounded animal. Loona remained frozen at the briefing table, claws hovering over the abandoned Grimoire, its leather cover still warm from Blitzo’s blood and the lingering pulse of royal magic. The book breathed, pages fluttering faintly as if eager to be touched by new fingers.

'Temptation wrapped in owl feathers and cum stains. Just one look. One try. If any part of Harry Potter’s spark survived the alley and the rebirth… it’s in these veins now.'

She dragged the heavy tome closer, the sigil of Stolas flaring crimson against her black fur as she cracked it wider. Runes crawled across vellum like spiders, incantations written in Latin, Enochian, and older tongues that tasted of brimstone on her tongue. Simple cantrips first—light, levitation, minor illusions. She traced the glyphs with a claw, whispering the words under her breath, feeling for that old lightning in her blood.

Nothing at first. Then a faint crackle, like static before a storm. Her ears twitched. She turned to a page marked with a snarling flame glyph, the spell for raw hellfire shaped wandless. The instructions were brutally simple: will, fury, release. Loona closed her eyes, dragged up every buried shard of rage—the alley, the choking hands, the pound cages, the scar that no longer marked her skin—and forced it into her palm.

A spark. Then a roar.

Scarlet fire erupted above her claws, a fist-sized orb of writhing flame that painted the room in hellish reds and blacks, heat warping the air, singeing stray papers into ash. Loona’s crimson eyes widened, breath catching sharp in her throat. 'Holy fuck… it worked. I still have it. Magic. Real fucking magic.'

The fireball pulsed, hungry, feeding on her concentration. She tried to shape it smaller, tighter, but the memories surged harder—green light in a graveyard, a woman’s scream, rough fingers crushing windpipe—and the flame swelled dangerously, licking toward the ceiling.

The front door exploded open with theatrical flair.

“Blitzy, darling, I’ve brought you a delicious new—”

Stolas strode in on long taloned legs, feathers glossy midnight blue, all four eyes glowing with aristocratic amusement, a rolled parchment clutched in one clawed hand. The words died in his beak as he took in the scene: the towering hellhound standing rigid over his stolen grimoire, a wild sphere of hellfire dancing above her outstretched palm.

The fireball winked out with a hiss as Loona’s focus shattered, smoke curling from her singed fur. Fear—raw, animal—slammed into her gut like a blade. Royal demon. Ars Goetia. The owl prince whose book she’d just violated. Whose sigil now stared at her like an accusation.

Stolas tilted his head, crown of horns catching the light, voice silk over broken glass. “Well, well. What have we here?” He stepped closer, feathers rustling, the air around him thick with ancient power that pressed against her skin like invisible chains. “A hellhound pup playing with fire. Literally.”

Loona backed up until her hips hit the table, tail tucking despite every instinct screaming not to show weakness. Claws flexed, fangs bared in a snarl that trembled at the edges. 'He saw. He fucking saw. One word to Blitzo and I’m back in a cage—or worse, flayed for sport in his palace.'

Stolas’s lower eyes narrowed with predatory curiosity while the upper pair gleamed. He extended one elegant talon, gesturing lazily. “Do it again, hound.”

The command wrapped around her throat tighter than any choker, royal compulsion threading beneath the words. Loona’s heart hammered against her ribs, the silver ring at her neck suddenly cold as ice. Fire sparked anew between her claws—smaller this time, trembling—but undeniably alive, casting Stolas’s regal features in flickering bloodlight.

His beak curved in a slow, dangerous smile that promised delights and torments in equal measure.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, voice dripping midnight honey. “Blitzy’s new pet has teeth… and a spark I wasn’t informed about.”

Loona stood trapped between terror and defiance, hellfire dancing in her palm, the Grimoire open like a confession beneath her, while the Prince of the Ars Goetia watched her with the patient hunger of something that had all eternity to play.

The office air thickened into something viscous and predatory as Stolas’s four crimson eyes fixed on Loona, the flickering bulb overhead casting his shadow across the scarred table like spreading wings ready to enfold prey. The lingering smoke from her extinguished fireball curled between them, acrid and accusing, while the Grimoire lay open beneath her claws like a confession she hadn’t meant to make.

Loona’s hackles rose sharp along her spine, lips peeling back from fangs that gleamed wet in the hellish light. “I’m nobody’s fucking pet,” she snarled, voice gravel and broken glass, the words ripping out low and lethal. “And I’m sure as shit not some toy you get to push around, bird. What the fuck do you want?”

Stolas did not flinch. With languid grace he folded his long legs and settled into the opposite chair, feathers rustling like silk over steel, the rolled parchment of his new contract forgotten on the table. The silver ring at Loona’s throat suddenly felt like a brand, the choker too tight against her pounding pulse.

“You have magic, Loona,” he said softly, the name rolling off his tongue with deliberate savour. “Real magic. Wandless, raw, potent. That is… a problem.” His upper eyes narrowed while the lower pair glowed brighter, dissecting her. “Hellhounds do not cast spells. They cannot. Their blood is barren of it. So tell me, girl—where do you truly come from?”

Loona’s claws dug grooves into the wood, tail lashing once in defiance before coiling tight around her ankle. “Pounds,” she spat. “Cages. Fights. Runes carved into my hide from teeth and claws every goddamn day since I was a pup. That’s where I come from.”

Stolas leaned forward, talons steepled, the air around him humming with ancient pressure that pressed against her ribs. “Before then.”

The question landed like a blade between bones. His stare pinned her, royal and relentless, stripping fur and flesh until she felt flayed raw. Memories surged unbidden: Surrey rain, milk splitting on alley stones, rough fingers crushing windpipe, the wet pop of cartilage and the long dark fall afterward.

Loona’s breath hitched. Her shoulders trembled, powerful frame shrinking inward as the rage cracked and something smaller bled through. Tears welled hot in her crimson eyes, spilling over without permission, tracking silver down black fur.

“I was… murdered,” she whispered, voice fracturing into something small and human that hadn’t existed in seventeen infernal years. “Up there. In the living world. I was a wizard. A human boy with a scar and a wand and friends who—” Her throat closed. Pain twisted sharp behind her ribs, old grief and fresh terror braided tight. “Then someone strangled the life out of me in a filthy alley and I woke up here. Like this. Trapped in this body, in this place, with every memory of who I was burning like acid.”

The confession hung in the smoke, naked and bleeding. Stolas regarded her in silence, head tilted, the predatory amusement gone from his features, replaced by something colder—calculation, perhaps, or recognition.

Tears kept falling, silent and furious, soaking into the crop top that clung to her heaving chest. She hated them, hated the tremor in her limbs, hated the owl prince who had peeled her open with nothing more than a stare.

The office shadows deepened into bruised violet as Stolas rose from his chair with fluid, predatory grace, feathers whispering like midnight silk against the scarred floorboards. Loona flinched when he moved, claws scraping backward until her hips struck the table edge again, trapped between royal power and the raw wound she’d just torn open. But he didn’t strike. Instead, long arms unfolded and enveloped her in an embrace that smelled of starlight and old libraries, of ozone and sorrow older than Hell itself. His feathers were warm, surprisingly soft against her trembling fur, one taloned hand cradling the back of her head while the other rested between her shoulder blades, careful, almost gentle.

“I have a daughter too,” he murmured against her mane, voice stripped of its usual theatrical lilt, low and aching. “Octavia. I know the cruelty of a universe that rips pieces from you and leaves the rest to bleed. What was done to you… unheard, unseen, unforgivable. No child should carry that weight alone.”

The terror in Loona’s bones cracked, just a fracture, under the unexpected kindness. The shaking eased, breath by ragged breath, until she no longer felt like prey pinned beneath an owl’s gaze. She didn’t hug back—couldn’t, not yet—but she didn’t shove him away either. Tears still tracked hot paths down her muzzle, dripping onto his velvet cloak.

When he pulled back, his four eyes were softer, centuries of loneliness flickering behind aristocratic poise. Loona wiped her face roughly with the heel of her palm, voice hoarse. “Is it… possible? Could I go back? Just once. See my friends. Let them know I didn’t vanish into nothing.”

Stolas chuckled, a low, velvet sound that held no mockery—only promise and something darker, hungrier. “Yes, little witch. Portals bend for those who know the words. But I will not let such rare talent rot answering phones and snarling at clients.” He plucked the smartphone from her pocket with elegant fingers, long talons tapping across the screen with practiced ease. A new contact appeared: Stolas ♔, followed by a string of numbers that shimmered faintly with residual magic. “For when you need guidance. Or company.”

With a theatrical flourish of his free hand, crimson sigils flared in the air, coalescing into a slim, black-leather volume that dropped gently onto the table beside the Grimoire. Gold lettering gleamed across the cover: First Steps in Infernal Sorcery. The book smelled of brimstone and parchment, pages whispering as they settled.

“Begin here,” Stolas said, tapping the cover. “Quietly. Keep it secret for now. Blitzy has his uses, but he panics prettily when magic exceeds his bedroom repertoire. I will tell him when the moment is ripe.”

Loona stared at the book, then at the prince who had just handed her the first real weapon she’d held since waking in Hell. Fear still coiled in her gut, but something fiercer burned alongside it—hope, sharp and dangerous.

Stolas stepped back, cloak swirling like living shadow. “Practice, my fierce little witch. Hell has devoured softer souls than yours and spat out only bones. You will not be one of them.”

The air rippled, and he was gone—only the faint scent of starlight and the new weight of forbidden knowledge left behind. Loona sank into the chair, claws tracing the embossed title, tears drying into salt tracks on her fur. For the first time since the alley, since the pound, since the rebirth in flame and despair, a door had cracked open—not to escape, but to power.

'Hermione… Ron… I’m coming back. And this time I won’t be the boy you lost. I’ll be something Hell itself will fear.'

The new book glowed faintly under her touch, hungry for the spark that still lived in her blood. Outside, the Pride Ring screamed on, oblivious to the witch awakening in its shadows.

-------

The vaulted chamber deep beneath Gringotts reeked of old gold and older secrets, torchlight flickering across marble walls carved with goblin runes that seemed to writhe like living wounds in the dim glow. December wind howled far above Diagon Alley, but down here the air hung thick and still, heavy with the weight of legacies about to be torn open. A long obsidian table dominated the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs occupied by figures cloaked in grief and suspicion.

Albus Dumbledore sat at one end, face drawn beneath the half-moon spectacles, ancient eyes shadowed by the loss that had carved fresh lines into his skin. Beside him, Hermione Granger—barely fifteen, cheeks still blotched from silent tears—clutched Ron Weasley’s hand so tightly his freckled knuckles blanched. Ginny stared at the sealed parchment as if it might bite. Madam Bones, ramrod straight in her Ministry robes, flanked Minister Cornelius Fudge, whose jowls trembled with barely concealed panic. A dozen goblins in sharp crimson uniforms lined the walls, but only one approached the table—Griphook’s successor, Ragnok, Director of Estates, his yellowed fangs glinting as he unrolled the Potter will with deliberate ceremony.

The reading began in guttural Goblin, translated beneath by a charm that echoed cold and metallic through the chamber. Bequests to the Weasleys, to Remus Lupin, to Hogwarts, to Hermione—each name struck like a hammer on iron. Then came the final clause: the bulk of the Potter fortune, vaults, properties, and ancestral titles to pass to Harry James Potter, should he survive his parents, or to designated charities upon proof of his death.

Ragnok paused. His claws lingered on the parchment, nostrils flaring as he inhaled the scent of ink and blood-magic woven into the document. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

“There is an anomaly,” he rasped, voice like grinding stone. “The blood clause remains active. Harry James Potter is not deceased.”

Silence detonated, sharp and absolute. Hermione’s chair scraped backward as she surged to her feet. “What?”

Ron’s mouth worked soundlessly. Fudge’s face drained to parchment white. Dumbledore leaned forward, fingers steepled, but even his legendary composure cracked, eyes widening behind the lenses.

Madam Bones found her voice first, sharp as a Stunning Spell. “Explain. His body lies buried in the Potter estate cemetery. We attended the funeral. The grave is warded. The corpse was identified.”

Ragnok’s yellow eyes swept the room, gleaming with predatory satisfaction at wizarding shock. “The body is dead. The soul is not. The blood clause binds to life, not flesh. Harry Potter lives—changed, but alive—in the infernal realm. Currently nineteen cycles of that plane’s reckoning. Female. Hellhound.”

The words landed like Fiendfyre in dry grass.

Hermione swayed, Ron catching her elbow before she collapsed. Tears spilled anew, but this time laced with something feral—hope twisted into horror. “Nineteen… five years down there. Alone. As a—as a hellhound?”

Fudge sputtered, sweat beading on his brow. “Preposterous! Goblins playing tricks—trying to withhold the vaults—”

Ragnok’s snarl silenced him, fangs fully bared. “Accuse Gringotts of fraud again, Minister, and your tongue will decorate my desk. The blood does not lie. The boy’s soul burned through death’s veil and took root below. Transformed. Bound to infernal bloodlines now. We cannot retrieve him. The treaty forbids interference beyond the mortal veil.”

Dumbledore rose slowly, robes whispering against stone, voice soft but carrying the weight of centuries. “Then he suffers still. In a place of eternal torment. Because we failed him here.”

Hermione’s fists clenched, nails drawing blood from her palms. “We have to get him back. There must be a way—portals, summons, anything—”

Ragnok’s laugh scraped like knives on bone. “Hell does not surrender its prizes easily, witchling. And the longer a soul remains, the more it becomes what the pit forges. Your Harry Potter may no longer answer to that name… or that shape.”

In the suffocating quiet that followed, torch flames guttered lower, shadows stretching like claws across the table. Above them, snow fell thick over Godric’s Hollow, blanketing an empty grave where lilies froze upon cold earth. Far below, in crimson rings of torment, a nineteen-year-old hellhound with ancient green fire buried deep in crimson eyes practiced spells in secret, unaware that her name had just been spoken again in the world that abandoned her to die.

The goblin chamber's torches guttered lower, flames licking shadows across the obsidian table like tongues tasting fresh despair, the air thick with the metallic tang of old blood oaths and the sharper bite of wizarding panic. Ragnok's claws scraped deliberate lines across the will parchment, yellow eyes gleaming with the cold satisfaction of a predator guarding hoarded gold from grasping hands. Minister Fudge mopped his sweating brow with a trembling handkerchief, face puffed and purple as if strangled by his own incompetence, while Madam Bones gripped her wand beneath the table, knuckles white with restrained fury.

"The Potter vaults remain sealed," Ragnok rasped, voice grinding like millstones over bone. "The estate lands, the ancestral manor in Godric's Hollow, the hidden properties warded since the bloodline's ancient pacts—none may be sold, transferred, or bequeathed away. The soul clause binds them unbreakable. Harry James Potter's essence lingers yet, active beneath the veil, though dormant in the infernal depths."

Hermione's breath hitched sharp, tears carving fresh paths down cheeks already raw from hours of silent screaming. Ron's hand crushed hers harder, freckles stark against skin gone bloodless, while Ginny whimpered low in her throat like a wounded animal denied its kill.

"Dormant?" Dumbledore echoed, voice soft as falling ash, ancient eyes piercing the goblin director with a gaze that had felled darker foes. "Explain this slumber. The boy—Harry—suffers in Hell's rings, transformed into some beastly form, and yet you claim his soul merely sleeps?"

Ragnok's fangs flashed in a sneer that promised centuries of grudges nursed against wizard kind. "The blood sings true. Active, yes—burning with infernal fire now twisted through its core. But dormant in ties to this realm. The boy-who-lived clings to fragments of mortal magic, perhaps. Or awaits a catalyst to claw his way back through the veils. It is only a matter of time before he may return—manifest, show himself in flesh anew, or drag his cursed form topside to claim what remains his birthright."

Fudge spluttered, spittle flecking his lips. "Return? As a—as a she-demon from the pits? Preposterous! The Ministry cannot allow—"

Bones cut him off with a glare sharp enough to draw blood. "The Ministry will abide by treaty and blood law, Cornelius. Or risk Gringotts declaring war again." Her voice carried the weight of executions ordered and dark cells filled. "If Harry's soul endures, the vaults stay locked. The estate untouchable. We wait."

Hermione surged forward, leaning over the table until her shadow fell across the will like a curse. "Then we prepare," she whispered fiercely, eyes burning with a madness born of grief sharpened into obsession. "Wards reinforced. Portals researched. If Harry fights his way back from that abyss—as a hellhound, as anything—we'll be ready. He'll come home bloodied and changed, but he'll come home."

Ron nodded grimly beside her, jaw clenched against the horror twisting his gut. Ginny's tears fell silent now, hardening into something vengeful.

In the suffocating hush that followed, Ragnok rolled the parchment with deliberate care, sealing it once more in blood-red wax that smoked faintly. Far below in Pride Ring shadows, nineteen-year-old Loona traced infernal runes in secret, crimson eyes flickering with green ghosts, unaware that her vaults waited untouched, her grave empty beneath winter snow, and the wizarding world held its breath for the monster wearing Harry Potter's soul to finally tear free of Hell's embrace.

------

The office's crimson gloom pressed closer as Loona hunched over the forbidden tome Stolas had summoned, its black leather warm under her claws like living skin hungry for secrets. Pages whispered as she turned them, infernal runes glowing faint scarlet against the vellum, each glyph a razor promising power sharp enough to carve her way out of Hell's suffocating rings. The first exercises burned simple: focus intent, channel rage, bind will to flame without scorching her own fur. She traced a basic sigil in the air, crimson eyes narrowed to slits, and a coil of shadow writhed into existence around her wrist—cool, obedient, lethal.

'This isn't wand magic. It's rawer. Hungrier. Like pulling teeth from the abyss and making them bite for me.' The spark that once lived in holly and phoenix feather now roared infernal, twisted through hellhound blood, answering her call with vicious delight. Sweat beaded along her mane, dripping down the curve of her neck into the choker's velvet embrace, the silver ring cold against pulsing veins.

The phone on the desk shattered the silence with a shrill demonic ringtone—some obnoxious circus jingle Blitzo had no doubt set himself. Loona snarled, snatching it up mid-ring. "What?"

"Open the fucking portal, babe! Job's done, target's in pieces, and Moxxie's whining about blood in his bowtie again!" Blitzo's voice crackled manic through the speaker, distant screams and wet thuds echoing behind him like applause.

Loona slammed the infernal sorcery book shut, shoving it deep into the bottom drawer beneath yellowed invoices and crusted knives, heart hammering against her ribs. She stalked to the briefing room, claws scraping floorboards as she smeared Blitzo's dried blood circle anew with a quick slice across her palm—pain sharp and grounding. The Grimoire lay where Stolas had left it, sigil pulsing like a heartbeat. She chanted the portal incantation low and vicious, voice gravel over brimstone, violet-black flames tearing open reality with a wet rip.

The vortex yawned wide, vomiting the team back into Hell's stale air. Millie tumbled through first, axe dripping crimson, laughter high and wild as she landed in a crouch. Moxxie followed, face splattered, muttering curses while wiping his glasses on a torn shirt sleeve. Blitzo sauntered last, grinning ear to ear, a severed finger twirling between his claws like a trophy.

"Miss us, princess?" he crowed, portal snapping shut behind him with a thunderclap that rattled the walls.

Loona leaned against the doorframe, arms folded under heavy breasts, tail lashing slow arcs of irritation to mask the adrenaline still thrumming from stolen magic. "Your owl fuckboy stopped by," she growled, voice flat and dangerous. "Dropped off a new hit—some topside asshole denying climate change or whatever bullshit sinners obsess over. Paid in full. Contract's on the desk."

Blitzo's grin faltered for a heartbeat, yellow eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air—ozone, starlight, royal feathers. "Stolas was here? Alone? With you?"

Millie whistled low, wiping gore from her cheek. Moxxie adjusted his bowtie, suddenly fascinated by the floor.

Loona met Blitzo's stare without flinching, crimson gaze steady as fresh blood. "Yeah. We talked. He left the job and fucked off. Problem?"

The silence stretched taut, thick with unspoken accusations and the lingering scent of princely power. Blitzo's tail flicked once, sharp, before his manic grin crawled back into place.

"Nah," he said finally, tossing the severed finger onto the pile of unpaid bills. "Just means we got rent covered. Good girl."

Loona's lip curled, fangs glinting, but she didn't snap. Not yet. The drawer with her hidden book burned at her back like a secret heartbeat, promising portals wider than Blitzo's stolen grimoire ever could. One day soon she'd tear her own door to the living world, step through as Hell's own witch, and make the wizarding scars remember her name.

Until then, she turned away, tail flicking dismissal, the taste of shadow magic still sweet on her tongue.