Harry Potter: Dragonborn comes

Dren and plains

Deep within a place long forgotten by the gods, only crimson fire torches pierced the absolute darkness. Their flickering light cast violent, sickly shadows upon the black stone walls, tinting the air with a bloody, violet hue—as if every corner seeped cruelty. The heat was unbearable, suffocating, a scorching wave that would have incinerated any ordinary human the moment they stepped inside.

Through the halls of that hell, walked a man. Or, more accurately, a creature. Two long, twisted horns protruded from his forehead, like those of a crowned demon. His skin was matte black, marked with intricate red patterns that glowed faintly—like magma beneath a volcanic crust. He wore a flawless butler's uniform, black as the void, seemingly unbothered by the grotesque contrast between his refined appearance and the monstrous place around him. This wasn't just any dungeon.

It was his home.

He stopped before a thick, heat-warped metal door. From behind it came the echoes of moans, muffled screams, and pleas barely human—drifting through the cracks like a chorus of the damned.

Without a hint of emotion, Dren—a dremora of the highest rank—pushed the door open and stepped inside with the ease of someone inspecting his garden. He looked around with disdain at the figures chained to the walls. What were once men were now twisted shadows of themselves—bodies covered in wounds, burns, and mutilations, held together by sheer agony.

Among them were a notorious assassin, a treacherous pseudo-noble, and a cowardly former headmaster from one of Europe's three magical schools. Upon seeing Dren, their eyes widened in desperation, terror, and dying hope.

Dren studied them with cold contempt. He walked to a corner and picked up a metal bucket filled with a thick, dark liquid that shimmered as though it contained corrupted blood and mana. Without a word, he tossed it through a barred window. Instantly, grotesque shrieks from wild creatures rang out beyond the walls. The feast had begun.

Next, he took a small vial of dark red potion. With calculated precision, he dropped a few drops into the mouths of each prisoner. Their wounds began to close slowly, bodies regenerating… but this wasn't mercy.

It was a sentence.

Normally silent, Dren allowed himself to speak this time, his deep, calm voice resonating with an eerie serenity.

"It's true… my master has become rather soft since arriving in this world," he commented while rummaging through a table covered in rusted tools, many deformed by repeated use or crusted in dried blood. "Before, he would've taken down the entire government in a heartbeat, beheaded their leader without a second thought. But I understand… it's because of the mortal whelps he's started to care for. The same thing happened back in Nirn, when he met his little ones."

He picked up a long dagger, its blade chipped and rusted, and raised it like an artist choosing his brush before the first stroke.

"Many would think a dremora like me would despise that weakness." He smiled—but it held no joy, only cruel delight. "But I couldn't be happier. Because it means all the dirty work… is left to me. Murder, torture, destruction. All of it—under his blessed permission. Ah, you have no idea how happy it makes me to be allowed to inflict pain, ruin, corruption… death!"

And without further warning, he drove the blade into Karkaroff's chest. The scream was strangled. Blood gushed forth, and the man's eyes turned glassy in seconds.

"Oh… seems I got a bit carried away," Dren said casually, watching the life drain from the body without hurry. Meanwhile, he continued arranging his tools.

Several minutes passed. Once everything was laid out with meticulous precision, Dren turned back. Karkaroff lay dead, pale, hollow…

But not for long.

The dremora's hand glowed with an unnatural white radiance. A cold light fell upon the corpse, which began to twitch like a broken puppet. The dead man's eyes snapped open, wide and filled with horror, and his body rose again… if it could still be called a body. Upon seeing Dren before him, he simply gave up, completely broken.

"I must admit, I'm quite excited to receive that Archmage as well," Dren murmured with satisfaction, picking up a jagged, rusted saw. "But his punishment… will be far, far worse than death."

…

After finishing his "task" of preparing food for his pets—a cruel euphemism for the prisoners' fate—Dren left the chamber calmly, wiping his hands on a dark cloth stained with old marks. His footsteps echoed crisply as he walked toward another room—one far quieter, but no less impressive.

This chamber was a vast armory, arranged like a fusion between a war museum and a sacred shrine. Weapons and armor of all kinds rested upon enchanted shelves, magical pedestals, and rune-protected display cases. The entire arsenal belonged to Einar—though, in truth, the Dragonborn owned so many pieces that he had long since entrusted their upkeep to Dren. And like any devoted infernal servant, the dremora treated that duty with fanatical discipline.

Every item held a story, a death, a battle behind it. Dren himself had cleaned and recovered many of those relics after tearing them from the corpses of his enemies. His master had a habit of collecting anything useful—and many things that weren't—during his adventures. So much had been accumulated, that the room alone could arm an elite army.

Dren began his usual routine of sorting and inspecting, as he always did when Einar was away. He enjoyed it: dismantling, polishing, re-enchanting. Not just out of duty—but as a quiet way of proving his worth… and of feeling part of his master's purpose.

As he moved through the room, the dremora's eyes scanned the treasures surrounding him.

Auriel's Bow hung imposingly above a white stone shelf, its elegant shape standing in stark contrast to the brutality of the room. Wuuthrad rested in a place of honor, its blade still stained with the blood of ancient enemies. The Mace of Molag Bal gave off a faint magical tremor, as if it still hungered to devour souls. Near it, Mehrunes' Razor remained sheathed in its slender scabbard—dangerous and lethal, even in slumber.

The armor sets were no less striking: a Daedric set, black and crimson, gleamed with a sinister glow beside a Dragonbone Armor, as heavy and unyielding as a mountain. Miraak's Armor, with its alien design and otherworldly textures, seemed to gaze back at anyone who dared approach.

Accessories were displayed in a hand-carved case, protected by multiple sealing runes. There rested Hircine's Ring, the Ebony Crown, the Amulet of Talos, Miraak's Ring, and many other enchanted trinkets. Some were divine artifacts. Others were mere magical junk… though even that junk could be lethal in the right hands.

In a more secluded corner stood seven small tables, each one bearing a Black Book of Apocrypha. Relics of Hermaeus Mora—brimming with forbidden knowledge and pure corruption. Dren stopped when he noticed one of them beginning to release a thin wisp of black smoke, as if it were trying to open a portal to another realm.

"Oh… that's a problem," he murmured calmly, and in the blink of an eye, rushed toward the book, casting several spells in rapid succession. Magical shields layered one atop another, interlaced like a golden fortress. Concealment runes activated, sealing any arcane signature that might leak out. Slowly, the smoke dissipated, and the threat was contained.

"Perhaps I should reinforce the seals on all our princes' weapons… We don't want to be found too easily." He paused, glancing toward the back of the room, where one particular object rested with arrogant defiance.

The Wabbajack.

One of the most powerful and unpredictable Daedric weapons ever created. The only artifact that had managed to escape the sealed room, breaking through every magical barrier with almost insulting ease.

"Fuuu… well, he's special," Dren said with a resigned tone, though his voice carried a mix of respect, annoyance, and fear. Then, without further delay, he resumed his duties, returning to the order and cleaning of that dangerous collection.

…

Einar walked calmly through the castle corridors, his steady footsteps echoing against the stone. He was on his way to his next class with the third-year students when a shrill voice—one that had been testing his patience all week—rang out once again.

It didn't seem directed at him this time, but it immediately caught his attention.

"No, no, no! You can't just walk around with those… things roaming free! You could endanger the students!" shrieked the high-pitched voice of Umbridge, utterly scandalized.

In front of her stood a young blonde girl with a confused expression. Around her, six wolves of varying sizes and types surrounded her in silence. Bright eyes, pelts of frost, flame, mist, and stranger elements still. All of them stared at Umbridge with a clear, predatory intent.

"Why?" Luna asked in her usual serene tone, as if she didn't quite understand the issue.

"What do you mean, why?! It's dangerous! I cannot allow you to put the students at risk, absolutely not! Who was the idiot that taught you that spell? Where did you learn it? Are you a necromancer?! That's dark magic! It's illegal! Surrender the spell this instant and undo the summoning or I'll have you sent straight to Azkaban!" Umbridge bellowed, every word laced with disdain and exaggerated outrage.

A deep, cold voice cut through her tirade.

"I'd prefer you didn't threaten my student."

Umbridge froze. She turned slowly and found herself face-to-face with Einar's green eyes, staring at her with an expression as severe as it was unreadable. His presence alone made the air grow heavy. A primitive fear began to take root in the woman's chest, and she instinctively took two steps back.

"S-she's using illegal and dangerous magic!" she stammered, trying to justify herself.

"Magic is only dangerous in the hands of idiots," Einar replied with absolute calm, though each word struck like a hammer. "And summoning magic is not illegal. The fact that you confuse it with weak, unstable dark magic from your pitiful world only proves why I'm a professor… and you're just a fool following orders, risking your life without even knowing it."

His tone never rose, but the weight of his words left Umbridge breathless. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Her whole body trembled. A moment later, a foul liquid pooled at her feet.

Einar looked away from her with disinterest.

"Luna. You may continue on your way."

The young girl smiled sweetly upon hearing her name, as if the entire scene had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. She waved cheerfully to Einar and skipped away, her enchanted wolves following her loyally with silent, imposing steps.

Einar watched them go for a moment, then gave Umbridge one last glance—still trembling and frozen in place. At last, he turned and walked away without another word.

Perhaps Umbridge's plan had failed.

Or perhaps Einar had simply used too much force in his words.