Chapter Text
Harry Potter slipped through the shadows of the Hogwarts library like a ghost in Ravenclaw blue, his mind a storm of frustration that had been building since that cursed Goblet of Fire spat out his name. Why me? he thought bitterly, fists clenched around the edges of his robes. I didn't enter. I didn't want this. It's not like the last three years weren't enough—Voldemort, Dementors, a bloody basilisk. Now this Tournament? Another thing trying to kill me, and everyone acts like I cheated for the glory. As if I'd ever want to parade around like some arrogant Gryffindor show-off. The dorm's been hell—whispers, hexes in the corridors, even Padma avoiding my eye. Lonely doesn't even cover it. I'm supposed to be the smart one, the one who thinks his way out. Like Mum. If she were here, she'd tell me to use my head, not just survive by luck.
He'd always been cleverer than he let on—Ravenclaw suited him better than anyone knew—but the backlash from the other champions and the whole school had him seething. No friends to bounce ideas off. No one to trust. Just him, and the three tasks looming like executioner's axes. The first was dragons? Fine. He'd research, plan, outsmart them. But he needed more. An edge. Something no one else would dare.
His fingers trailed along the forbidden shelves in the Restricted Section, the air thick with dust and old magic. The usual tomes on hexes and ancient runes blurred past until one caught his eye: Summonings from the Ars Goetia. Bound in cracked leather that felt warm to the touch, as if it pulsed with something alive. Forbidden? Absolutely. But the hook on the cover—the rights to call from Hell itself—made his pulse race. If the professors won't help, if Dumbledore's just watching like it's all a game... why not? Knowledge is power. And I need every scrap to not die this year.
He flipped through the yellowed pages, heart hammering. There—Stolas, Prince of the Ars Goetia. Owl demon of knowledge, astronomy, and prophecies. Wise, ancient, bound by old laws to answer truthfully if summoned right. Perfect. No one's summoned a demon in centuries. No one would expect it from the "lucky" Potter brat. Harry memorized the ritual: circle of salt mixed with phoenix ash, candles aligned to the stars, the incantation in Latin twisted with infernal syllables. He pocketed the book under his invisibility cloak and slipped out, mind already mapping the highest unused classroom in the Astronomy Tower.
Hours later, under a moonless sky, Harry stood in the circular room at the tower's peak—dusty desks shoved aside, the air chill and silent except for the distant hoot of an owl outside. His hands shook as he drew the sigil on the floorboards with a trembling quill dipped in his own blood (just a drop, the book said). Frustration boiled over in a whisper: "This wasn't planned. None of it. Barty Crouch or whoever rigged it—doesn't matter. It's me against dragons, merpeople, who knows what next. And I'm done waiting to die. If Hell has answers, I'll take them."
He lit the candles, their flames flickering green, and began the chant: "Stolas, Prince of the Forty-Fifth, Owl of the Stars and Secrets—I invoke thee by the rights of the Ars Goetia. By blood and shadow, by knowledge unbound, come forth and grant audience to one who seeks only survival."
The air thickened, shadows pooling in the center of the circle like ink spilling from a quill. A low, resonant chuckle echoed—not menacing, but curious, laced with the rustle of feathers. From the darkness stepped Stolas himself: a towering fourteen-foot frame unfolding gracefully, his avian head crowned with a regal crest, crimson eyes gleaming with millennia of wisdom. Deep blue robes adorned with living constellations swirled around him—stars and planets drifting lazily across the fabric like a portable cosmos, the hem brushing the floor with ethereal grace. His tall, slender form loomed, yet his posture was that of a scholar interrupted mid-lecture, one taloned hand adjusting a monocle that appeared from thin air.
"Well, well," Stolas purred, voice smooth as velvet and twice as ancient, a faint Helluva Boss lilt to it—playful, aristocratic, with just a hint of theatrical flair. He tilted his head, feathers ruffling as he took in the scrawny fourteen-year-old wizard before him. "A little human whelp in a tower, calling on me? Not the usual desperate soul begging for riches or revenge. You smell of... frustration. And old prophecy. Harry Potter, is it? The Boy Who Lived—and apparently, the Boy Who Wants to Keep Living."
Harry straightened, refusing to flinch despite the demon's sheer height making the room feel tiny. Inside, his thoughts raced: Bloody hell, he's real. And massive. But if he's here, he has to answer. No backing out now. Out loud, his voice steady but edged with that Ravenclaw sharpness, "Yeah, that's me. Didn't ask for the Triwizard Tournament. Didn't put my name in. But it's trying to kill me anyway—dragons first, then gods know what. The school's turned on me, my own House thinks I'm a cheat. I need to know what's coming. The tasks. The traps. How to survive without luck this time. You know everything, right? Prophecies, stars, secrets from Hell itself. So... tell me. What's in store?"
Stolas's eyes sparkled with amusement, constellations on his robes twinkling brighter as he leaned down, folding his long limbs to meet Harry's gaze at eye level. A soft hoot of laughter escaped him. "Oh, you clever little starling. Straight to business—no groveling, no soul-bargaining. I like that. The stars whisper of fire and water and a maze of thorns for you, boy. But knowledge isn't free... though for one so delightfully defiant against fate's cruel joke? I might just share a few details. Ask wisely, Harry Potter. Hell's answers come with questions of their own."
He waited, talons tapping the floor, the shadows curling around him like eager students awaiting a lesson—ready for whatever the frustrated young Ravenclaw would demand next.
Stolas’s crimson eyes narrowed with sudden, genuine intrigue as he straightened to his full fourteen-foot height, the living constellations on his blue robes swirling faster, as if the stars themselves were whispering secrets he hadn’t expected. He began to circle Harry slowly, talons clicking like measured clockwork on the tower’s stone floor, head tilting in that scholarly, owl-like way.
“Before I hand over the answers you crave about dragons and mazes and whatever fresh hell this Tournament has planned for you,” he purred, voice smooth but laced with razor-sharp curiosity, “I must first reveal everything about you, little starling. To know how best to aid you… I must see who you truly are beneath that fragile mortal mask. No secrets. No lies. Just truth.”
Harry’s frustration boiled over into a sharp laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. Another game. Another person treating me like a puzzle instead of a kid who just wants to survive the year without dying. The backlash from the dorm still stung—Ravenclaws who should’ve had his back now glaring like he’d betrayed them. “Reveal?” he snapped, arms crossed over his torn school robes. “Fine. Do it. I’ve always been a normal wizard. Scar, bad luck, and a name that gets me hexed in corridors. Nothing more. Get it over with so we can talk about the actual things trying to kill me.”
Stolas chuckled, a low, hooting rumble that echoed off the rafters. “Oh, there is so much more beneath you than you know, my clever little whelp. We shall see…” He lifted one taloned hand, constellations flaring bright on his sleeve, and spoke a single, ancient syllable in the tongue of the Ars Goetia.
The spell struck like liquid fire poured straight into Harry’s bones.
Burning exploded across every inch of him—skin stretching, muscles tearing and reforming, a scream ripping from his throat as his spine lengthened with a sickening crack. Feathers erupted in a whirlwind of soft grey and white, his face pushing forward into a sharp, youthful beak, eyes shifting to deep crimson. He shot upward in a violent growth spurt, robes shredding into rags around his new eight-foot frame. Clawed feet burst through his shoes. His hands—now taloned—flexed in horror. He looked almost exactly like a teenage mirror of Stolas himself: same regal crest, same constellation-like markings faint on his emerging feathers, same aristocratic poise trapped in a body that was suddenly, impossibly not human.
Stolas’s smirk froze, then shattered into wide-eyed shock. The expression twisted further into pure dread and raw uncertainty as the last of the magic settled.
Harry staggered, staring down at himself—torn Ravenclaw blue hanging in pathetic strips over sleek owl feathers, claws scraping the floor. His new, deeper voice cracked with panic as he shouted, “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?!” Feathers bristled; his wings (small, adolescent, but unmistakably there) flared in terror. This isn’t real. I’m Harry Potter. I’m human. I’m supposed to be figuring out dragons, not—NOT THIS!
Stolas’s mind raced, centuries of memories slamming into place like falling stars. He stepped closer, voice trembling for the first time. “Your parents—what were their names, boy? Tell me now.”
Harry’s beak snapped open in fury and fear. “James and Lily! James Potter and Lily Evans—Potter! Why does that matter? Fix this!”
Stolas’s eyes widened further, glowing with sudden, horrified recognition. He remembered it all in a rush: a dingy mortal nightclub in the 1970s, Stella’s endless screaming still ringing in his ears back in Hell. He’d fled topside, drunk on mortal whiskey, desperate for silence. And there she was—Lily Evans, beautiful redhead with fire in her eyes and tears on her cheeks, arguing fiercely with her fiancé James outside the pub. One reckless, grief-soaked night. One moment of escape for both of them. He’d never known her name beyond that single whispered “Lily” or that she carried magic like starlight.
He stared at the eight-foot teenage owl demon trembling before him—the exact image of what their son would look like—and the words fell out in a stunned whisper:
“You… you are my son. I didn’t know. I never knew.”
Harry’s whole body recoiled, wings flaring, feathers puffing in pure panic. “No! I’m human! I’m Harry Potter—James and Lily’s son! You’re lying! This is some sick curse, some Tournament trap! Why would you even say that?!” His voice cracked, talons scraping grooves into the floor as he backed away. This isn’t happening. My parents would have told me. They were normal. I’m normal. I’m not— I’m not a demon prince!
Stolas reached out gently, voice soft but urgent. “Harry, listen—your mother and I— it was one night. She was angry with James, I was escaping my own nightmare of a marriage. I never knew she carried—”
“Stop!” Harry cut him off, voice rising into a frantic hoot, eyes wild with unacceptance. “Lily and James are dead! They never told me anything like this because it’s not true! This isn’t me! I’m not your son—I’m not a demon! I’m just a wizard who wants to survive this stupid Tournament without everyone hating me, without turning into… into this! Fix it! Change me back!”
Stolas’s expression crumpled with genuine sorrow. “I… I’m so sorry, my starling. I never meant—” He raised his hand again, this time with a gentler incantation. A soft wave of shadow magic washed over Harry, eyelids drooping instantly as sleep claimed him. The boy—his son—crumpled gently into Stolas’s waiting arms, feathers still trembling even in unconsciousness.
“I will take you somewhere safe,” Stolas murmured to the sleeping form, cradling him like something infinitely precious and terribly fragile. “Back through the shadows… perhaps to a friend who understands broken families and unexpected truths. We will figure this out together. And I will notify your father—James—though if what you say is true…” His voice faltered, constellations dimming with grief. “We will face that too.”
With a swirl of infernal smoke and drifting stars, Stolas vanished from the Astronomy Tower, carrying his newly discovered son into the night—leaving only shredded Ravenclaw robes and a circle of salt behind as silent proof that nothing in Harry Potter’s world would ever be the same.
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Stolas materialized in a swirl of starry shadows inside the cramped, graffiti-covered IMP office in Imp City, the air thick with the scent of cheap takeout, gun oil, and faint brimstone. In his arms, still deep in enchanted sleep, lay the eight-foot teenage owl demon—Harry—feathers soft and disheveled, youthful crest slightly askew, crimson eyes closed beneath heavy lids. No wings sprouted from his back, no horns crowned his head; he was sleek, avian, and unmistakably Stolas's bloodline in miniature—tall, elegant, terrifyingly vulnerable.
The portal snapped shut behind them with a soft pop. Stolas strode forward and gently laid Harry on the battered couch, careful not to snag the remaining tatters of Ravenclaw robes on the springs. The boy's long legs dangled off the end, talons curling slightly in sleep.
Loona, slouched at the reception desk with her phone, looked up mid-scroll. Her red eyes widened, then narrowed as she took in the towering owl prince and the oversized feathered kid he'd just deposited like fragile cargo.
"Stolas? What the fuck—" She stood, tail flicking irritably. "Who's the giant bird twink? And why does he look like... you had a one-night stand with a mirror?"
Stolas turned to her, expression deadly serious—no flirtatious lilt, no theatrical flair. Just raw paternal urgency. "Blitzy available? Now."
Loona jerked a thumb toward the office door. "In there, probably jerking off to his own ego again. But seriously, who—"
"My recently discovered son," Stolas said flatly, voice low and unyielding. "And if anyone so much as looks at him wrong while I'm gone, I expect you all to kill them. Slowly. Creatively. No questions."
Millie and Moxxie, who had been huddled over a weapons catalog on the floor, froze. Millie tilted her head, eyes wide. "Son? Like... yours-yours?"
Moxxie adjusted his bowtie nervously. "He does bear a striking resemblance, sir. The eyes, the beak structure—"
The door to Blitzo's office burst open. Blitzo sauntered out, coffee mug in one hand, phone in the other—until he saw Stolas standing over the couch like a guardian gargoyle. His yellow sclera eyes bugged out.
"Stols? What the—holy shit, is that a mini-you? Did you clone yourself or—"
Stolas cut him off, stepping close—close enough that Blitzo had to tilt his head back. The owl demon's voice dropped to something intimate, edged with steel and a flicker of the old heat that always simmered between them.
"Blitzy," he said seriously, one taloned hand cupping the imp's cheek with surprising gentleness. "This is my son. Harry. I didn't know he existed until tonight. A mistake from decades ago—a beautiful redheaded witch who needed escape as much as I did. He's been living as a human wizard, thinking his parents were James and Lily Potter. Now the truth's out, and he's going to wake up terrified, furious, possibly homicidal. I need you—you—on bodyguard duty. Watch over him. Protect him with that vicious little life of yours. Teach him gently, when he wakes, that yes, this is Hell, and no, it's not a dream or a curse he can just dispel."
Blitzo blinked rapidly, ears twitching. "Bodyguard? Babysitting? Stols, I run an assassination company, not a daycare! I don't do 'gentle'! And what about—"
Stolas pressed a finger to Blitzo's lips, eyes narrowing. "Shh. You'll do it because I ask. And because if anything happens to him..." He leaned in, breath warm against the imp's horn. "...I'll be very, very disappointed in my favorite imp. And you know how creative I get when I'm disappointed."
Blitzo swallowed hard, a flush creeping under his red skin despite himself. "Fuck. Fine. But this better not cut into business hours."
Stolas produced a sleek black credit card from thin air—embossed with a constellation pattern—and tucked it into Blitzo's breast pocket with deliberate slowness. "Expenses. Food, clothes that actually fit an eight-foot owl demon, whatever he needs. I'll try to make family matters brief—first, I report this to Paimon. My father will... have opinions."
He glanced back at Harry, expression softening with aching worry. "Tell him—when he wakes—that I will be back. That I'm handling the fallout at home so he doesn't have to face it alone. That this changes nothing about who he is to me now. My starling. My son."
Blitzo nodded slowly, glancing at the sleeping teen. "Yeah. Got it. We'll... keep the little princeling safe."
Stolas gave Blitzo one last lingering look—equal parts gratitude, possession, and promise—then turned to Loona. "You're on primary guard and babysitting duty, darling. Don't let him out of your sight."
Loona groaned, but there was a spark of reluctant curiosity in her eyes as she eyed Harry. "Great. Babysitting duty for Bird Jr. Just what I wanted."
Stolas didn't respond. With a final sweep of his cloak—constellations flaring like dying stars—he opened a portal to his father's palace and stepped through, vanishing into royal crimson light.
The office fell quiet except for Harry's soft, even breathing.
Blitzo pulled the credit card out, twirling it between his claws. "Alright, team. New priority: don't let the giant emo owl wake up and murder us. Loona—guard dog mode. Mox, Millie—figure out if we need to baby-proof the guns or something."
Loona flopped back into her chair, already scrolling her phone again—but her eyes kept flicking to the couch.
Blitzo muttered under his breath, "Never thought I'd be playing step-dad to Stolas's secret lovechild. Fuck my life."
On the couch, Harry stirred faintly—feathers ruffling—but sleep held him fast, for now. The I.M.P. crew settled in to wait, the weight of an unexpected prince settling over their chaotic little corner of Hell.
A few hours passed in the dim, flickering light of the I.M.P. office. Stolas’s portal had long since closed behind him, leaving only the faint scent of starlight and regret lingering in the air. The sleeping spell finally ebbed like a slow tide, its gentle hold unraveling thread by thread.
Harry woke to the distant blare of car horns—sharp, chaotic, nothing like the quiet nights at Hogwarts—and the acrid, sulfurous tang of brimstone seeping under the door. His head throbbed. Voices murmured nearby: low, casual, edged with boredom. Someone was watching a video on a cracked desktop monitor—explosions and canned laughter filtering through tinny speakers.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling above was stained, cracked in a jagged lightning-bolt pattern. But he saw it through two sets of eyes—sharp, overlapping vision that made the room feel too vivid, too real. His body ached like he’d been stretched on a rack. He tried to sit up. The couch groaned under his weight, then gave way as his longer limbs tangled. He toppled sideways with a heavy thud, crashing to the floor in a heap of feathers and shredded fabric.
Pain shot through his new joints. He scrambled, talons scraping linoleum, and looked down at himself.
Eight feet of sleek grey-and-white owl demon stared back—beak, crest, crimson eyes wide with horror. No wings. No horns. Just him, impossibly tall, impossibly wrong. The remnants of his Ravenclaw robes hung in pathetic ribbons across his chest and thighs, sleeves torn to nothing, tie dangling like a noose.
A low growl made him snap his head up.
Loona—massive hellhound, silver fur, red sclera glaring over the top of her phone—sat up from her chair, ears flicking forward. She looked him over once, unimpressed.
Harry’s beak parted in a strangled scream. He scrambled backward on all fours, back slamming into the corner beside a filing cabinet. His new height put him towering over her even crouched—yet he felt small, exposed, terrified.
“Stay back!” he shouted, voice deeper now, resonant with an avian edge that made him flinch at his own sound. “Don’t—don’t come near me! Where the hell am I? What is this place? Who are you?”
Loona didn’t move closer. She just sighed, long and done-with-this-shit, and leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Alright, drama bird. Chill. You’re in Hell. Imp City, specifically. I.M.P. office—Immediate Murder Professionals, don’t ask. Your tall feathery dad dropped you here like an unwanted package a few hours ago, told us to babysit your ass, and fucked off to deal with family drama. Said you’d wake up scared and pissed. Looks like he nailed it.”
Harry’s talons dug grooves into the floor. “He’s not my dad. James Potter was my dad. Lily Evans was my mum. They’re—they’re dead, and they were *human*. This—” He gestured wildly at his own feathered chest, voice cracking. “This isn’t real. It’s a curse. A really fucked-up curse. I need my wand. Where’s my wand?!”
Loona shrugged. “No idea. Stolas didn’t mention a stick. Probably left it back in your wizard school or whatever. Look, kid, denial’s cute and all, but you’re literally built like a knockoff Stolas. Same eyes, same snooty beak angle. Deal with it.”
The office door banged open.
Blitzo strode in first, horns gleaming, followed by Millie (bouncing on her toes, axe slung casually over one shoulder) and Moxxie (clutching a clipboard like a shield).
Harry’s gaze darted between them—red skin, horns, tails, all of them barely cresting five feet at most. Imps. Actual demons. His stomach lurched.
Moxxie cleared his throat, stepping forward cautiously. “Um, hello! You must be Harry. I’m Moxxie. This is my wife Millie, and that’s our boss, Blitzo.”
“Blitz-o,” Blitzo corrected with exaggerated emphasis, pointing both thumbs at himself. “With a silent ‘o’ at the end. Pleasure, princeling.”
Millie waved brightly. “Hey there, sugar! Don’t mind the mess—we weren’t exactly expecting company.”
Harry pressed harder into the corner, feathers bristling. “Stay back. All of you. I don’t—I don’t know you. I don’t belong here. This isn’t happening.”
Moxxie raised both hands placatingly. “You’re safe. We promise. Prince Stolas explained the… situation. We’ve been paid—quite generously—to protect you while he’s away. And, uh…” He glanced at the shredded blue-and-bronze rags barely clinging to Harry’s frame. “…possibly acquire some new clothes. Something that actually fits an eight-foot owl demon. We can do that. No problem.”
Harry looked down at himself again. The tie—Gryffindor red and gold, no, wait, Ravenclaw blue—had snapped at the knot and hung uselessly. His shirt was in tatters across his narrow chest. Trousers reduced to strips around his thighs. He was exposed, vulnerable, and the realization hit like a Bludger to the gut.
“I want to go home,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I want Hogwarts. I want my dorm. My books. My friends—except they hate me now anyway. But this—” His talons flexed, trembling. “This body isn’t mine. I’m not his son. I can’t be. My parents would’ve told me. They wouldn’t lie about something like… like this.”
Blitzo rubbed the back of his neck, looking unusually uncomfortable. “Look, kid… I get it. Waking up in Hell with daddy issues and a new species is a lot. But Stolas was dead serious. Dropped the ‘my son’ bomb like it personally offended him that he didn’t know sooner. And he left his shiny black Amex with me, so… we’re stuck with you till he gets back.”
Millie stepped closer—slowly, like approaching a spooked animal. “Hey. Breathe, hon. You’re traumatized. That’s okay. We’ve all been through shit. But you’re not alone right now. We’ve got your back. And hey—new clothes might help you feel a little less… naked.”
Harry’s crimson eyes flicked between them, wide and glassy. He didn’t move from the corner. His breathing came in short, ragged hoots.
“I just want this to stop,” he said quietly. “I want to wake up and be normal again. Just… Harry Potter. Not this. Not a demon. Not anyone’s son but theirs.”
Loona snorted softly from her chair. “Welcome to Hell, newbie. Normal left the building a long time ago.”
The room fell quiet except for the distant horns and the low hum of the computer. Harry stayed curled in the corner, feathers trembling, still denying, still breaking—while four mismatched demons watched him with varying degrees of awkward sympathy, waiting for the prince’s son to decide whether to fight, flee, or finally fall apart.
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Stolas emerged from the swirling portal into the grand, echoing halls of Paimon's palace—a sprawling edifice of obsidian and star-forged marble that loomed eternally under Hell's crimson sky. The air was thick with incense and the faint metallic tang of old power. Servants—imps and lesser demons—scattered like shadows at his approach, bowing low but keeping their eyes averted.
He strode straight to the throne room, talons clicking with purpose. The massive double doors groaned open of their own accord, revealing Paimon lounging on his elevated seat: a towering figure even among Goetia, cloaked in deep maroon and gold, multiple avian heads flickering in and out of focus like optical illusions. A butler hovered at his side, ever-present, ever-whispering reminders.
Paimon didn't rise. He merely tilted one of his primary heads, regarding his son with the bored detachment of someone inspecting a mildly interesting insect.
"Father," Stolas began, voice steady despite the storm inside him. He bowed—shallow, formal, the bare minimum protocol demanded.
Paimon waved a lazy talon. "Stolas. You've come all this way unannounced. Do make it quick. I have... matters."
Stolas straightened, constellations on his robes dimming with his mood. "I have discovered a second heir. One I was entirely unaware of until this very night."
A long silence. Paimon's secondary heads murmured among themselves before the main one spoke.
"A second heir?" He sounded almost amused. "Do elaborate, boy. Did you misplace another child in the mortal realm? Or is this another of your... impulsive dalliances bearing fruit?"
Stolas's beak tightened. "His name is Harry. Born to a mortal witch—Lily Evans—after a single night of... indiscretion. He has lived as a human wizard for fourteen years, believing James Potter to be his father. Tonight, in a summoning gone awry—my summoning—he was revealed. The bloodline is unmistakable. He transformed before my eyes. He is Ars Goetia. My son."
Paimon let out a low, rumbling chuckle that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "How delightfully dramatic. A hidden half-breed princeling, raised among mortals, now sprouting feathers in Hell. The court will positively buzz with this scandal. Stella will screech for weeks. The other houses will whisper about diluted bloodlines and your perennial inability to keep your robes closed."
Stolas's talons flexed. "He is not a scandal. He is my blood. And he is terrified—rejects the truth entirely. He screamed that I had cursed him, that his human parents would never lie about something so fundamental. He is traumatized, Father. He woke up in a body that is not his own, in a world that is not his home."
Paimon shrugged one massive shoulder. "Mortals are fragile. He'll adapt. It's normal for whelps to squawk at first. The important thing is the line is secured—twice over now, without even trying. Good for you, Stolas. Lazy breeding, but effective. The Ars Goetia endures."
Stolas felt something hot and sharp coil in his chest—fury, raw and familiar. "You speak of him as if he were livestock. A contingency plan. He is a child. My son. And you dismiss his pain as... normal?"
Paimon's eyes—cold, ancient—narrowed slightly. "Pain is irrelevant. Acceptance is inevitable. He carries our blood; the stars will remind him of that soon enough. The mortal side is dead and buried—literally, from what you say—so it concerns me not at all. No punishment for your meddling with the witch. Consider it a free pass. You've done your duty to the family, albeit belatedly."
He leaned forward, a faint smirk playing across his beaks. "I will acknowledge him as a second heir. Full Ars Goetia status. He will receive his own Grimoire on his fifteenth birthday—custom-bound, stars aligned, the works. Let the boy learn what power truly means. Perhaps that will quiet his hysterics."
Stolas's voice dropped, edged with barely restrained venom. "You see nothing beyond your own beak, do you? Not his fear, not his loss, not the life ripped from him tonight. Only the continuation of your precious lineage. Another pawn on the board."
Paimon's laugh was short, sharp, devoid of warmth. "And you, my starry-eyed fool, still cling to sentiment like a fledgling to down. The family endures because we do not waste time on tears. Enjoy telling Stella—she'll make it a spectacle. I look forward to the drama; it's been dull lately. Now, you are dismissed."
Stolas stood rigid for a moment longer, constellations flaring angrily across his robes like dying supernovae. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out, the doors slamming shut behind him with a resonant boom.
In the corridor, alone, he allowed himself one quiet, furious exhale. He doesn't care. Not about Harry, not about me. Only the name. Only the line. But beneath the anger flickered something softer—anticipation. Octavia would smile when she learned she had a brother. A real one. Someone to share the stars with, someone who might understand the weight of unwanted legacies without the bitterness Stella had poisoned everything with.
He would tell her first. Gently. And then... Stella. The argument would be volcanic.
But Harry—his starling—would have a place. A Grimoire. A family, whether he wanted it yet or not. Stolas vanished into a portal, heading back toward Imp City, determination hardening his gaze. The drama had only just begun.
Stolas stepped through the shimmering portal directly into the grand foyer of his Pride Ring estate, the familiar scent of polished marble and night-blooming star lilies doing nothing to soothe the knot of fury still twisting in his chest. The mansion loomed around him—tall obsidian pillars, velvet drapes stitched with constellations, the distant hum of enchanted chandeliers—but peace was already shattered.
From the east wing hallway came Stella’s voice, shrill and venomous, echoing off the walls as she screamed into her crystal phone.
“—and if that feathered idiot thinks he can embarrass me again, Andrealphus, I swear on every circle of Hell I will pluck him bald! He’s probably off whoring with another imp right now, the pathetic—”
Stolas’s beak tightened. Of course she’s already venting to her brother. He didn’t bother eavesdropping further. With a sharp snap of his talons he summoned the butler, a spindly imp in crisp black livery who appeared instantly, bowing low.
“Prepare the west wing,” Stolas ordered, voice clipped and cold. “Full cleaning, new furnishings scaled for an eight-foot occupant, star charts on the walls, and absolute privacy. A new family member is arriving soon. Best we stay in cover for a while—no gossip to the staff, no leaks to the press. Understood?”
The butler’s eyes widened only fractionally. “At once, Your Highness.”
Stolas strode past him toward his private study, robes swirling like a storm cloud. He sank into the high-backed chair behind his desk, constellations on his sleeves flickering erratically. How do I even begin? Gentle with Octavia—she deserves that. But Stella… she’ll tear into it like a harpy. Every approach I take, she’ll cut me down. “Before we were married,” “a mistake,” “the boy needs protection”—none of it will matter. She’ll make it about her humiliation. His talons drummed the wood. Three days. I’ll give her three days to adjust before Harry arrives. If she so much as hisses at him…
Soft footsteps at the door. Octavia slipped in first, earbuds dangling from one hand, her dark feathers slightly ruffled from whatever teenage brooding she’d been doing upstairs. She blinked at her father’s tense posture.
“Dad? You look like you swallowed a black hole. What’s going on? The butler’s running around like the palace is on fire.”
Stolas managed a small, weary smile and gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit, Via. I need to tell you something important before your mother arrives. It’s… good news. Mostly.”
She dropped into the seat, curious but wary. “Okay…?”
A moment later the doors slammed open. Stella stormed in, phone still clutched in one talon, her crimson gown billowing like blood. “Stolas! What the fuck is this about a ‘new family member’? The servants are whispering and I will not—”
“Sit down, Stella,” Stolas said quietly, but the steel beneath it made even her pause. She dropped into the second chair with a huff, arms crossed.
He took a slow breath, choosing his words like fragile glass. “Before our marriage… before the arrangement, before any of this… I had one night. One reckless, drunken night with a mortal witch. Her name was Lily Evans. She was escaping her own pain, just as I was escaping yours. The result of that night arrived today. His name is Harry. He is my son. Your brother, Via. A second heir to the Ars Goetia.”
Silence cracked like ice.
Stella’s face twisted. “You what?!” She shot to her feet, voice rising to a screech. “A bastard? A mortal bastard?! You couldn’t keep your pathetic cock in your robes for five minutes before you tied me to this miserable farce of a marriage, and now you drag some half-breed whelp into my house? How dare you! I have endured your imp-fucking and your stargazing and your endless whining for years, and this is how you repay me? I’ll have the courts dissolve every claim that thing has! I’ll—”
“Enough.” Stolas rose too, voice low and dangerous, constellations flaring white-hot across his robes. The room seemed to dim around them. “You will not harm him. You will not speak of him that way. He will arrive in three days. And I expect you to acknowledge him as my son, Stella—publicly, politely, or so help me I will file for divorce tomorrow and drag every sordid detail of our ‘marriage’ into the light. You know I can. And you know what that would do to your precious status.”
Stella’s beak snapped shut, eyes blazing with pure hatred, but the threat landed. She knew the leverage. She hissed through clenched teeth, “You threaten me? Over some stray you knocked up in the dirt?”
Octavia, who had been silent, suddenly leaned forward, eyes wide and sparkling with something dangerously close to delight. “Wait— I have a brother? Like, an actual brother? Not some political hostage, but… Dad, is he tall like you? Does he have the same eyes? Can he see the stars too? Is he coming here to live? What’s he like? Does he like music? Does he—”
Stolas turned to her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He smiled—small, genuine, exhausted. “He’s eight feet tall already, Via. Same crest, same crimson eyes, same sharp mind. He’s clever—Ravenclaw clever, he called it. Loves books, astronomy, outsmarting problems. He’s… been through more than any boy should. Raised believing he was fully human, with parents he adored who are now gone. He’s scared right now. Angry. Denying all of it. I didn’t tell him everything yet—the full weight of our family, the expectations, the politics. I’m… still hiding some of the harder truths until he’s ready. But he’s family. Your brother. And I think… I think he’ll need someone like you.”
Octavia’s face lit up despite the storm still crackling between her parents. “A brother who actually gets the stars… This is the best thing that’s happened in years.”
Stella let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Wonderful. Another disappointment for the family album. I hope you’re happy, Stolas. You’ve just invited chaos into our perfect little cage.”
Stolas didn’t flinch. “The cage was never perfect, Stella. And Harry is not chaos—he’s blood. My blood. Three days. Be civil. Or don’t. But remember my warning.”
The air in the study hung thick with fury and fragile hope. Stella turned on her heel and swept out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the star charts on the walls. Octavia stayed, already firing more questions, while Stolas sank back into his chair, mind already drifting to the terrified owl-demon boy currently hiding in an imp office across the city.
Three days. Then everything would change—again.
------------
The I.M.P. crew didn't waste time. After Harry had spent a good twenty minutes huddled in the corner, breathing in short, panicked hoots and refusing every offer of water or a blanket, Blitzo finally clapped his hands together with forced cheer.
"Right! Enough sulking in the corner like a kicked puppy. We're getting you clothes that don't look like they lost a fight with a shredder. Loona, grab the kid. Mox, Millie—flank duty. Let's move before someone decides to shoot up the building for fun."
Harry flinched at the casual mention of violence but didn't protest when Loona—grumbling under her breath—hooked a clawed hand under his arm and hauled him up. He towered over her, but she didn't seem to care; her grip was iron. "Come on, Bird Boy. Walking or I drag you."
They piled into the beat-up I.M.P. van—black, dented, with cartoonish devil horns painted on the roof. Harry crammed himself into the back seat between Moxxie and Millie, wings (still absent) instinctively trying to fold against a body that didn't know how to sit comfortably at eight feet. The engine roared to life, and Blitzo peeled out into Imp City's chaotic streets.
For the first time, Harry really *saw* Hell.
It looked... almost like a Muggle city at first glance. Skyscrapers of cracked red brick and neon, billboards flashing ads for soul loans and "Eternal Damnation Insurance," cars honking, pedestrians shoving past each other. But the violence was dialed to eleven. Demons brawled in alleys, gunfire cracked every few blocks, a succubus laughed as she tossed a Molotov cocktail into a storefront while imps cheered. A literal turf war erupted right in front of them—rival gangs of imps and hellhounds exchanging automatic fire across an intersection, bullets pinging off the van's hood like rain. Blitzo didn't even slow down; he just swerved through the crossfire, honking and flipping off both sides.
Harry pressed himself against the window, crimson eyes wide. "You—you're just *driving* through that? People are shooting! Actual bullets!"
Blitzo glanced in the rearview mirror, grinning. "Welcome to Imp City, kid. Tuesday afternoon special. Keep your head down if you're squeamish."
Harry's talons dug into the seat upholstery. *This is Hell. Not a nightmare. Not a curse. Actual, everyday Hell.* His stomach churned. "How do you live like this? It's... insane."
Millie patted his knee sympathetically. "You'll get used to it, sugar. Or you won't. Either way, it keeps things interestin'!"
They pulled into a cracked parking lot outside a squat, neon-lit shop called **Stylish Occult**—blacked-out windows, a sign flickering with a pentagram moon. Loona kicked the door open first. As soon as Harry's long legs unfolded from the van and he stood at his full height—feathers ruffling in the sulfurous breeze—every demon in the vicinity froze.
A group of imps mid-argument scattered. A hellhound smoking by a dumpster dropped his cigarette and bolted the other way. Even a pair of succubi whispering near the entrance turned tail without a word.
Harry blinked, beak parting. "Why... why are they running? I didn't even do anything."
Loona snorted, crossing her arms as she walked beside him. "Because you're giving off major Ars Goetia vibes, newbie. Royalty doesn't slum it in districts like this unless heads are about to roll. People see feathers like yours, eyes like yours—they assume you're Stolas or some cousin come to collect debts. Or worse."
Harry glared instinctively at a nearby hellhound who'd started to approach, then thought better of it and veered sharply down a side street. Loona smirked. "Welcome to being royalty. Enjoy the perks."
They pushed through the door. Inside, the shop smelled of leather, incense, and faint blood. Gothic racks lined the walls—spiked collars, velvet capes, ripped lace, chains dangling like jewelry. A succubus clerk with pink skin and a bored expression paused mid-nail-filing, looked up—and did a double take.
"Prince Stolas?" she purred, straightening instantly. "Your Highness, what an unexpected—how may I serve? New seasonal line just came in, very—"
Loona stepped forward, cutting her off. "Not him. His kid. Needs clothes. Ars Goetia account. We're picking. Don't make it weird."
The succubus's eyes widened, flicking to Harry's shredded remnants of Ravenclaw robes, then back up his towering frame. "Oh. Ohhh. Right this way, then."
Blitzo, Millie, and Moxxie fanned out near the entrance like bouncers—Blitzo twirling a pistol casually, Millie smiling sweetly with her axe visible, Moxxie clutching a clipboard but eyeing everyone suspiciously. No one dared come close.
Loona steered Harry toward the back racks, pulling items with practiced efficiency. "Okay, listen up. Hell fashion's all about edge, attitude, and not looking like you belong on Earth. You're built like a teenage Stolas—tall, skinny, fancy feathers—so we're leaning gothic with a twist. And you've got that British accent thing going, so... London mobster vibe. Three-piece suits, but make 'em demonic."
Harry followed numbly, still shaking slightly. "I—I don't even know what half this stuff is. And I still don't trust any of you. You kidnapped me—sort of—and now you're dressing me like... like some Hell version of a gangster?"
Loona rolled her eyes. "We didn't kidnap you. Your dad dumped you on us for safekeeping. Big difference. And relax—nobody here's gonna eat you. Yet."
She paused at a rack of long-tailed coats, then reached back and gently lifted a section of Harry's lower back feathers—long, elegant tail plumes he hadn't even noticed until now, nearly matching Stolas's in length and iridescent sheen. Harry jolted, twisting awkwardly to look.
"Those are... mine?" His voice cracked. "I didn't—I thought owls didn't have tails like that. Bloody hell."
"Part of the package," Loona said bluntly. "You'll get used to preening 'em. Or I'll do it if you keep looking like a molting disaster." She held up a charcoal three-piece suit—pinstripes in faint crimson, vest embroidered with subtle star motifs, long coat tails that would drape dramatically over his new tail feathers. "Try this. Mobster chic. Fits the whole 'mysterious prince' thing without screaming 'I'm royalty, murder me.'"
Harry stared at the outfit, then at her. "I have a sister too, you said? Octavia?"
Loona nodded, tossing him a black shirt to match. "Yeah. Stolas's daughter. Teen goth phase, loves space and music, hates her mum. She's probably losing her shit right now in a good way—finally someone her age who isn't a stuck-up prick. You'll meet her soon. She's... cool. For a princess."
Harry swallowed, clutching the hanger. "I don't want to meet anyone. I just want to go back. To Hogwarts. To... anything normal." His voice dropped. "The streets out there—people shooting like it's nothing. How do you not go mad?"
Loona shrugged, but her tone softened just a fraction. "You do go mad. Then you get over it. Or you don't. Pick your poison." She nudged him toward the changing curtain. "Now try the suit before Blitzo starts complaining about the bill. Move."
Harry hesitated, then ducked behind the curtain—still scared, still mistrustful, still reeling from a world where gunfights were traffic and royalty meant fear in strangers' eyes. But the fabric felt smooth against his feathers. And for the first time since waking up like this, he didn't feel quite so naked.
Outside, Blitzo yelled, "Hurry up in there, princeling! We ain't got all day before someone tries to mug us for fun!"
Harry exhaled shakily. Three days, Stolas had said somewhere in the haze. Then everything changes again.
He just hoped he survived until then.