#wizardpunk

They stepped out—three adolescents, skeletal wings arching, canine bodies corded with muscle the color of old blood under velvet-black skin. White eyes, blind to anything but what death had taught them to see. The Thestral-Hound Hybrids moved like bad memories and perfect weapons.

Hermione’s voice carried. “Umbrahounds, Nott-Pattern,” she announced. “Named for Theodore Nott—first volunteer to drill their leash-whistles and survive a breach. Flight-capable at maturity. Two riders per mount. Silent, obedient to command tokens, immune to fear.”

Theo’s gaze didn’t flicker, but the acknowledgement settled on him like a coronet. Society inhaled. The politics of naming had been observed; honor had been paid. Approval followed like scent.

The nearest hound lifted its head and scented the air. Its wings flexed. Then it turned toward the iron pen at the wall. ........ "Do not feed the hybrids raw meat on mission. It confuses post-combat bonding. Do not bleed in the yard; they will track you. Do not cast at them, even a stray charm—friendly fire flags you as hostile.”

She lifted a small disc from the tray. “Control tokens keyed to Draco, Theo, Blaise, Severus, and me. Secondary whistles for field sergeants. If the Umbrahounds are compromised, three commands exist: heel, ground, extinguish. Do not guess which is which.” She let her eyes rest a beat too long on the Carrows. They looked away.

“And if you ignore any of that?” Draco asked, flatly.

Hermione nodded to Severus. He flicked a switch. The second prisoner was shoved into the trench. No mist this time. A gate opened.

One hound leapt, silent as gravity. The glass shivered but held; gore spattered it red-black from the inside. When the hound stepped back at Theo’s whistle, it did so like a good, happy dog. The prisoner moved in three fewer pieces than he had been meant to, and nothing in the room pretended to be surprised.