The bed was cold and narrow, and Harry woke without the confusion of dreams. His body felt like it had sunk into the mattress without ever falling asleep properly. His eyes opened to the grey light of a castle that had already moved on without him.
He didn't need a watch. With a quiet flick of his wand, he whispered, Tempus. Pale numbers hovered in the air for a moment, sharp and still. Just past eight. Morning, but barely. He watched the time dissolve before turning away.
The Room had dimmed since yesterday. The fireplace gave off a low amber glow, enough to see the edges of the stone floor, the training dummy, the streaks of soot still clinging to the wall from his final spell.
He dressed without thought. No tie. No mirror. Just a muttered Tergeo to clear the sweat from his face, and a clumsy Scourgify for his robes where the dust still clung.
He didn't check if it worked. He didn't care. The Cloak wrapped around his shoulders. The Map slid into his pocket. Then he stepped into the corridor without letting the door fully close behind him.
The castle had already filled with students. Voices carried up the staircases, clustered in pockets near doorways. Someone was laughing too loudly in the Arithmancy corridor. Somewhere near the Great Hall, Peeves hurled something ceramic.
Harry walked through it all unseen.
He opened the Map only once, to confirm what he already knew. Hermione was awake. Already moving. Her name hovered near the first-floor landing, back and forth, back and forth.
She was looking for him.
Of course she was. He hadn't gone back to Gryffindor Tower. His bed had stayed empty, and she would have noticed. She always did. He had to give it to her, his most persistent friend.
In Charms, Harry answered when called upon. His voice was clear and flat. The wand movement was exact. The spell landed perfectly.
Professor Flitwick blinked when Harry finished the spell. His quill, which had been hovering midair, paused. Then he frowned, not at any mistake, but at the accuracy itself. Something about the precision seemed to bother him.
Harry lowered his wand without reacting. A few chairs scraped against the floor. Parvati leaned toward Lavender and whispered something under her breath. Neither of them looked at him again.
He noticed the shift in the room, but didn't let it touch him. It wasn't a surprise anymore. It was expected. He waited until the bell rang, packed his things methodically, and walked out without speaking to anyone.
The corridor was briefly crowded, then cleared as students turned toward different staircases and classrooms. Harry kept to the left and made his way toward the greenhouses.
He heard Hermione behind him after about six steps. Her shoes clicked too hard against the stone floor. She had always walked quickly, but this was different. This was the kind of pace that meant she didn't want him slipping out of reach again.
He didn't look at her. He didn't slow down. She caught up at the second-floor landing. She didn't greet him. She just moved into step beside him like it was something they still did by habit.
"You didn't write down notes," she said, watching him.
"I didn't need to."
"You still should."
"I won't forget anything."
They kept walking. The corridor curved ahead of them. The light dimmed as they passed under one of the narrower arches near the library wing.
"You haven't been to the library since Friday."
"I haven't needed to."
"You always need to go to the library."
He didn't answer.
She adjusted the strap of her bag. "People are still talking."
Harry shrugged. He didn't change pace.
She stopped trying to sound neutral. "You can't act like this isn't happening."
He kept walking.
"Skipping meals. Avoiding classes. Sitting alone." Her tone was still even, but it was fraying. "You're isolating yourself."
"I went to Charms."
"You left before anyone else."
"That's not illegal."
Hermione hesitated. Then, more carefully, she said, "I told Ron you didn't put your name in the Goblet."
Harry didn't look at her. "He said you were choosing sides, didn't he?"
"He did."
"You are."
"No," she said quickly. "I'm not. I just believe you."
He stopped walking.
The hallway ahead of them was long and empty. One narrow window lit the floor with a stripe of pale light. Far ahead, past the final arch, the greenhouse doors were visible.
"You believe me," Harry said, "but you're still defending him."
"I'm not."
"You're explaining him. That's the same thing."
Hermione stepped in front of him, trying to hold his attention. Her expression was pinched, like she was weighing something and losing hold of it.
"Harry, you can't keep doing this."
Her voice rose. It echoed down the corridor. The sound bounced off the stone in pieces, too loud in the quiet, too sharp to take back.
Harry reached into his bag and pulled out the Invisibility Cloak. He didn't pause. In one smooth movement, he pulled it over himself.
Hermione flinched. Her head turned quickly as if she might still see him standing beside her.
"You can't keep hiding from people who believe you."
This time her voice was quieter. It broke slightly at the end.
Harry kept walking. Three steps. Four. His footfalls were silent under the Cloak, but he knew she was still listening.
He stopped.
Then turned back.
He pulled the Cloak off. It slipped down his shoulders, and he stood in front of her again, visible.
Hermione froze. She didn't speak.
Harry looked at her, his face unreadable. "Do you believe me," he asked, "or Ron?"
She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
She tried to answer. He could see her trying. Her lips parted. She started to speak. But no words followed. The pause wasn't hesitation. It was indecision. It was uncertainty layered under loyalty, the kind that left her caught between the two of them.
Harry didn't look away. He had seen enough. She meant well, but that had never stopped anyone from doing damage. One friend was acting like Remus had measured, rational, supportive, until it became inconvenient. And the other, for all his noise, had folded the moment things didn't go his way. The parallel sat uneasily in Harry's chest. Remus and Pettigrew. This time with different names.
He still didn't understand why he hadn't been given a friend like Sirius. Someone who would tear a path to Azkaban just to stand beside him. Someone who didn't flinch at doubt or wait for permission.
The thought didn't make him angry. It just made him tired.
He turned and walked toward the greenhouses. He didn't say anything else. He didn't put the Cloak back on.
His footsteps echoed as he went.
Hermione didn't follow.
He took the long route to the greenhouses and only entered Herbology ten minutes into the lesson. Professor Sprout didn't blink. She was halfway through explaining soil acidity and magical root absorption, and she never acknowledged him. She didn't assign him a partner. She didn't ask why he was late.
He worked alone. His gloves were too big.
Lunch was already half over by the time Harry stepped into the Great Hall.
He felt the shift the moment he passed through the doors. Not loud. Not sudden. Just a subtle turn of attention, like a draft of cold air that followed him across the threshold. Heads didn't snap up all at once. That would have required interest. Instead, the atmosphere altered without anyone needing to speak. As if the room had collectively agreed he was no longer worth reacting to.
The badges were part of the background now.
Hundreds of them. Flashed across robes and cloaks in green and silver or black and sickly yellow, rotating through a cycle of insults that had grown sharper overnight.
POTTER STINKS
GLORY THIEF
THE BOY WHO WHINES
Each word blinked once, then disappeared, then returned in sequence like an incantation with no end. The effect was rhythmic.
He passed Padma Patil, who had hers clipped high on her collar like jewelry. It flickered out of time with the others, the spell slightly corrupted, stuttering between "STINKS" and "THIEF." She didn't look at him. She passed the salt across the table and went back to eating. Like it wasn't personal. Like it never had been.
Justin Finch-Fletchley had his pinned high and straight, right where a prefect's badge would go. It didn't flash like the others. The enchantment was faint, almost apologetic, as if he hadn't meant to wear it at first. He had clapped for Cedric like everyone else. But at some point, without ceremony, the badge had changed. Now it said what the rest of them said: Potter Stinks.
Harry didn't stop. Didn't glance at either of them. His feet carried him down the Gryffindor side of the hall, every step heavier than it should have been. He hadn't eaten breakfast. Couldn't remember if he'd even spoken since the last class. His fingers itched, but not with nerves. It was something else. Something slower. A residue of being watched too long without anyone really seeing him.
He reached the far end of the Gryffindor table.
Ginny sat there. Not alone, exactly. But isolated in the way that only someone surrounded by others could be. Her shoulders were hunched forward. Her hands rested on either side of her bowl like she had forgotten what to do with them.
The badge on her chest blinked with muted insistence.
POTTER STINKS
Pause.
POTTER STINKS
It looked as though someone had handed it to her, and she hadn't refused. The pin was crooked, half buried under the fold of her robes, as if worn more out of obligation than belief. But it was there. That was the only part that mattered.
She didn't lift her head when he walked past. Didn't flick her gaze toward him. Didn't try to hide the badge. She stared into her porridge like it held the answer to something she had already decided she wouldn't ask.
Harry sat two places down from her. He didn't speak. Didn't look at her directly. There was no point.
A knife clinked against a plate nearby. Somewhere further down the hall, laughter burst from a cluster of Ravenclaws. It didn't reach the end of the table. Here, the air felt close. Too many things unsaid.
He reached for roast beef and bread. Added carrots. Ate without pause, not hurried but with the focus of someone who hadn't eaten since yesterday. Two helpings, then a third. He stopped before he felt full, just enough to steady the ache in his stomach.
Across the table, Hermione looked at him once. Her fork hovered above her plate. She didn't say anything.
The badge on Ginny's chest blinked once more. Then again.
He stared past it, into nothing.
He had been right to burn the letter.
He left the Great Hall with the others, but a few paces behind. The next class was Transfiguration. He didn't care where he sat.
McGonagall kept her instructions short. She didn't glance his way when assigning the pages.
"Page one hundred and twelve, Mr. Potter."
Harry didn't bother responding. He packed his bag more slowly than necessary, waiting until the classroom thinned. Hermione lingered by the door, her mouth half-open, like she might say something. But she didn't. She left with her shoulders tight and her hands balled into her sleeves.
Harry stepped into the corridor after the last student filed out. He turned right without thinking, staying close to the wall. His hand brushed the hem of his cloak, more habit than caution. That was when he saw Ron.
Ron was leaning against the stone between two faded tapestries, arms folded, one boot scuffing the floor in slow, even passes. He wasn't scanning the crowd or pretending to wait for anyone else. He was just there.
When Harry drew close, Ron pushed off the wall and started walking beside him, no greeting, no glance.
"You've got detention," he muttered. His voice was low and flat. "Snape. Dungeons."
Harry's brow twitched. "What for?"
Ron gave a shrug that barely lifted his shoulders. "Skipping class."
Harry didn't ask if Ron had detention, too. The question felt pointless. They walked in silence, neither slowing for the other, neither walking ahead.
Snape was already waiting when they arrived. He stood beside a crooked table, arms behind his back, eyes cold as iron filings. There was no sarcastic greeting, no malicious flattery, nothing that might have passed for civility. Just the twitch of one finger toward the basin near the cauldrons.
The cauldrons were black with residue, stacked like they'd been abandoned mid-explosion.
"No magic," Snape said. His tone was neutral, but his eyes lingered on Harry like a curse. "Use your hands. Begin with the ones that smell like troll bile."
Ron moved to the far end of the basin without pause. He didn't look at Harry, didn't offer to split the work. Just dipped his brush and began to scrub. The strokes were tight, rhythmical. Angry, but quiet about it.
Harry rolled up his sleeves. The first cauldron he dragged toward himself let out a metallic rasp that rang through his molars. He dipped the brush. The steam caught his face, opening every scab on his knuckles from yesterday. The water burned.
He welcomed it.
"Why are you even here?" he asked, voice low.
Ron didn't answer. The scrape of his brush was the only reply.
Snape circled them once like a judge measuring body weight, his footsteps dry and slow.
"Some students crave attention the way others crave air," he murmured near Harry's shoulder. "And some," he added, pivoting to Ron, "cannot produce anything worthwhile without someone else to think for them."
Ron kept scrubbing. His jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Harry didn't flinch either. His brush hit the inside seam of the cauldron hard enough to splash the front of his robes. He didn't wipe it off.
The grime worked itself under his fingernails. His blisters broke one by one. The pain was clean.
Ron finished first. He set his brush down, wiped his palms on his jumper, and walked out without a word. His footsteps echoed only once before the door sealed behind him.
Harry stayed. Not out of spite but out of duty.
Just long enough to make sure no one thought he had followed.
When he did finally leave, the water in the basin had gone dark, the brushes soaked and wilting. His sleeves were damp to the elbows, and his fingers had stopped bothering to sting.
The corridor outside was empty. The cold stone felt like paper under his steps.
He walked slowly, not to delay but because his thoughts were louder than the castle.
Wasn't he a good friend?
He didn't mean to think it, but the question rose anyway. Hadn't he tried? Hadn't he gone down the trapdoor in the first year with Ron and Hermione to stop Voldemort from getting the Stone? Hermione had solved the potions riddle. Ron had nearly been killed on the giant chessboard. And Harry had faced Quirrellmort alone.
Hadn't he flown to Hogwarts with Ron in their family car? Didn't they follow the spiders in the second year when Hagrid got arrested? Didn't they drag Lockhart down to the Chamber to save Ginny, even after the man tried to hex both and erase their memories? He had faced the basilisk alone. Fought it. Saved Ginny. Killed the monster, nearly died, and destroyed the diary.
And the third year return of Sirius from Azkaban. The truth about the rat. Pettigrew, hiding in Ron's pocket for years. Harry remembered the shrieking shack, the way it all unraveled. How he'd been ready to kill Sirius until he learned the truth. Ron had a broken leg. Hermione had stood in front of him. And still, they had listened to him. They had believed in him when he gave Remus and Sirius a chance.
Had none of that mattered?
So what was all of that worth?
What did all those adventures mean if one name in a Goblet erased it all?
He passed two Ravenclaws who didn't look up. Their laughter faded as soon as they saw his robes. The staircase ahead shifted late, forcing him to wait at the landing. He didn't speak. The portraits didn't either.
By the time he reached Gryffindor Tower, his thoughts had quieted, but only on the outside.
Students were gathering things for dinner. Books closed. Bags slung over shoulders. Shoes scraped over stone.
No one spoke to him. Harry kept walking.
Gryffindor Tower had already emptied somewhat by the time he returned. Students had begun their shuffle to dinner. The common room was full of movement, but no one spoke to him.
Fred and George were playing a muted game of chess. Their expressions didn't shift when Harry entered. Seamus looked up from a textbook, leaned toward Dean, and said something low. Dean laughed. Quietly, but not quietly enough.
Hermione was by the fire. When she saw him, her lips parted like she meant to say something. Then her shoulders settled. Her gaze dropped back to her book, unread now.
He didn't speak.
He climbed the stairs to the dormitory, opened his trunk, and gathered the things he needed. The trunk shrank to a neat block at his touch. His wand returned to his sleeve. The rest remained untouched. The trunk in his pocket knocked softly against his leg.
When he turned, Neville stood near the door. His hands were clenched, not in anger but uncertainty.
"Where are you going, Harry?" he asked.
Harry gave him a small, lopsided smile. Not sharp or kind. Just something.
He walked past him.
Hermione looked up again as he re-entered the common room. Her face shifted with that same tension she always wore now, like she wanted to believe in him and didn't know how to say it without sounding like a teacher. He held her gaze for a second, nodded, then stepped through the portrait hole.
He didn't look back.
The castle had stopped trying to hide from him. He walked through it like it was hollow. The Cloak stayed draped over one arm. The Map was already handy. No one followed.
He reached the Room of Requirement and entered with a breath too deep to be a sigh.
The fire had burned low. The dummy leaned in the corner, half-split and crooked. The bed was made. The plates from yesterday were clean and stacked. He set the trunk in the corner. It didn't look out of place.
He whispered to the empty air, just loud enough for the stone to hear.
"Think about it."
Then he left again.
Later, when classes ended and the castle began to settle, he returned.
The door appeared with no hesitation.
Inside, nothing had changed. The blue fire flickered. The dummy stood where it had been. No dust had gathered. The Room was waiting for him.
He walked to the sink and let the water run cold before cupping it to his face. He didn't need to see himself. He just needed to feel awake.
Pop.
"Harry Potter is not eating again," said a voice beside the sink.
Harry didn't flinch.
Dobby stood there, clutching a napkin-wrapped bundle. The smell of roast chicken and bread filled the corner like a memory.
The elf held out the parcel without ceremony. "Dobby brought food. Roast legs. Pumpkin bread. Tart too, if Harry Potter wants."
Harry took the bundle. His hands were steady. He sat on the edge of the bed and unwrapped it slowly. Steam curled up from the chicken. The bread was still warm.
Dobby lingered.
"I gave your message to Master Black," he said, voice lower now. "He is going to the islands. Says he can help better from there. He told Dobby to warn Harry Potter."
Harry looked up. "Warn me?"
Dobby nodded solemnly. "He says trust no one. Not even your friends. Especially the ones who ask questions."
Harry didn't speak. He tore a corner of the bread and chewed without tasting.
Dobby vanished with a faint shimmer of magic.
The fire gave a quiet sigh.
Harry finished what remained on the plate, then curled onto the bed still in his robes. The third night in a row. And he didn't dream.
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A full crossover with Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss will begin after the First Task. The fic is set just before the First Task in Goblet of Fire, and Stolas has already commissioned Blitzo to hunt Harry. If your idea fits the direction of the story, I'll do my best to integrate it. Smut will be part of every chapter from the next one onward. After all, how long can a man sit alone in a room without a little… violin practice?
Read 5 chapters and 26.7k words ahead now on p*treon.c*m/OmniNymph or buy it from my K*-fi shop at k*-fi.c*m/omninymph. By the way, you've already read 18.3k words of this fic!