The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 13

Chapter 13

“Where are the Horcruxes?”

The woman stilled, then let out a quiet chuckle, her dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Ah,” she murmured, almost to herself, “James really does find the interesting ones.”

She tilted her head, studying him, as if seeing beyond flesh, beyond bone, past every lie he had ever told himself. Then, with a slow, easy breath, she exhaled a plume of smoke—dark and writhing, shifting into shapes that almost formed faces before dissolving into nothing.

“Alright, kid,” she said, tapping her cigarette against the palm of her hand.

She raised a single finger. “First—the Diary. Gone. You killed it already. Basilisk fang. Good job, by the way. Pretty metal way to go about it.”

Harry’s breath hitched. He had expected her to know, but the casual way she said it, like it was common knowledge, sent a shiver down his spine.

She lifted a second finger. “Then there’s the Ring. Marvolo Gaunt’s nasty little keepsake. Dumbledore got to that one. Dunno if he told you, but—” she wiggled her fingers dramatically, “—cursed the hell out of his hand. Should’ve let it be, but, you know how he was.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He did know.

The woman smirked, then raised a third finger. “Now, the Locket. Oh, you’re gonna love this one.” Her eyes glinted with something wicked. “Dolores Umbridge has it.”

Harry froze. “What?”

“Oh yeah.” The woman leaned back, stretching like a cat. “She took it off some poor bloke in the Ministry. Thought it looked fancy. Has no idea what she’s actually got.” She exhaled another wisp of smoke, smirking as she saw the revulsion on Harry’s face. “You’re gonna have to break into the Ministry to get it, by the way. Should be fun.”

Ron was going to love this.

Before he could dwell on it, she lifted a fourth finger. “The Cup. Hufflepuff’s, to be precise. That one’s locked up in Bellatrix Lestrange’s personal vault at Gringotts.” Her grin widened. “Dragon included.”

Harry swallowed hard. The Ministry. Now Gringotts. It was like every impossible, suicidal idea was just stacking up.

The woman lifted a fifth finger. “Diadem of Ravenclaw? That one’s easy. Hogwarts.”

His heart stuttered. “Hogwarts?”

She nodded. “Room of Requirement, actually. Hidden in a mess of other forgotten things. If you go looking for somewhere to hide something, it’ll lead you right to it.”

Hogwarts. Their old home. Could they even get back inside?

She lifted a sixth finger. “Nagini. Voldemort’s pet. That one…” she hummed. “That one you’re gonna have to kill last. If he’s still got his snake, he’s still anchored to this world.”

Harry barely breathed. That meant—

And then, with almost lazy amusement, she raised her seventh finger. “And the last one… you.”

The woman watched him with an odd expression, tapping her cigarette against her palm, as if considering something beyond his understanding. Her gaze, sharp and unreadable, lingered for a beat too long, then flicked away with an exhale of curling smoke.

Harry bowed.

Not deeply. Not dramatically. Just enough to show gratitude.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

For the first time, something flickered across her expression. A hesitation. A shadow of thought passing behind those dark, endless eyes. She sighed, ruffling a hand through her messy curls, her lips pursed like she was debating something. Then, she clicked her tongue.

“You wanna know how to not die, Harry?”

His breath caught.

It was such a simple question. It should have been easy to answer. Of course he wanted to live. Didn’t he?

But—

Did he have the right to survive?

He was a Horcrux. Part of Voldemort. A parasite clinging to his soul. If he lived, did that mean Voldemort could, too? Would it make him just as monstrous?

The woman tilted her head, watching him with something like amusement. Then she huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Damn, kid. You really think too much.” She cracked her neck, rolling her shoulders before giving him a lazy grin. “Tell you what—let’s make a deal.”

Harry’s wariness sharpened, his posture tensing. “What kind of deal?”

She smirked, rolling the cigarette between her fingers as if it were a coin. “I’ll get back my Cloak and Stone—trinkets, really, but mine—tonight.” She paused, watching his face, watching for his reaction. “But… there’s another. The wand of Voldemort. The Elder Wand. Swear you’ll bring it back to me once you kill him, and I’ll give you a favor.”

His stomach twisted. Harry hesitated. It was a fair deal. A trade. She was offering him something. A way to survive, maybe. But this was his mission, his war. Could he really bargain with something like this?

And yet—What choice did he have?

“…Alright,” he said quietly. “I swear.”

The woman’s smirk widened. Without warning, she reached out and patted him on the head, ruffling his hair like he was some kind of pet.

“Good boy.”

Harry stiffened, scowling, but she just chuckled, her cigarette burning low between her fingers.

“Once you’ve got it, bring it back to the Hotel,” she said breezily. “Just drop it off in the compartment of my room. Easy.”

Harry hesitated. The Hotel. His mind flashed to Dumbledore’s panic, the sheer terror in his eyes when Harry had mentioned the place.

His voice came out quiet. “…What is this place?”

The woman grinned, mischievous and knowing. “The Hotel and its owner are perfectly normal.”

She was lying. Harry’s gut twisted, but before he could press further, his lips parted on a final question. “And… the favor? You’ll tell me how to destroy the Horcrux without dying?”

Her smirk deepened.

The Raven moved. It did not leap, did not lunge. It descended, as if gravity had simply taken hold, as if it had always belonged there, in the filth, with the wretched thing beneath the bench. Its wings did not flap; they unraveled, dissolving into twisting, writhing tendrils of pure black, stretching out like living smoke.

And its beak—Merlin, its beak. It split. Not like a mouth opening. Not like something meant for flesh and bone. It cracked apart, stretching wide, wider, too wide, unhinging in a way that no living thing should. The edges curled backward, folding into themselves, the shape of it distorting until it no longer resembled anything of this world. Inside—there was nothing. No throat, no flesh, no bone—just an abyss. A void darker than the deepest ocean trench, where light went to die. The air around it warped, bending toward that terrible emptiness, as if reality itself was being drawn into the void of its maw.

And then the tendrils slithered out. They did not burst forward like striking snakes. They crawled, slow and deliberate, thick and pulsating, glistening as if wet. They stretched toward the Horcrux, curling around its trembling, malformed limbs, pressing against its raw, pink flesh as if tasting it.

The thing beneath the bench let out a sound. Not just a cry. Not just a scream. It was the sound of something being erased from existence. The tendrils tightened. And then—they pulled. The Horcrux screamed. It shrieked, a wail of pure, unfiltered agony—not one voice, but many, overlapping in a chorus of suffering. A sound so deep, so wrong, that it pressed into Harry’s skull, vibrating in his bones, curling around his lungs, dragging him down with it.

The station tilted. The air shuddered. The mist around him darkened. His scar burned. Not just burned—split open, as if something inside him was tearing free. Harry gasped, his body jerking, his hands clawing at his forehead. His vision fractured, the pain driving into his skull, white-hot and unbearable. The darkness reached for him—

"I'll take care of the Horcrux for you, kiddo…"

And then—

He woke up screaming.

Harry jerked upright, his body convulsing as a raw, animal cry tore from his throat. His heart pounded too fast, his breath ragged, his entire body drenched in cold sweat. The pain—it was still there. Real. Burning.

Across the room, Ron and Hermione were already awake, their faces pale with horror.

“Harry—!” Hermione gasped, scrambling out of bed, wand clutched tight in her shaking hands.

Ron was staring at him, frozen, his mouth slightly open, his eyes wide in a way that meant he was seeing something he didn’t understand. Harry barely heard them. Something was wrong. His scar —  It was leaking. Thin, oily smoke was curling from the lightning bolt carved into his skin, writhing like living shadow, dragging itself free from him. The tendrils coiled, twisting unnaturally, pulsing with something sick and wrong, stretching as if reluctant to let go.

Hermione let out a choked noise, one hand flying to her mouth, her eyes locked on the smoke with open terror. Ron took a slow, horrified step back. “Mate,” he whispered. “What the fuck is that?”

Harry couldn’t answer. He felt it. Felt it leaving him. And yet— It was familiar. Like something that had always been there.

"Let's leave this Hotel", he said.

He had Horcruxes to destroy and a wand to get. He took his bag — and did not need to look inside to know his invisibility cloak was no longer here.

— — —

The café had just opened below Saitama’s apartment, and honestly? It was fantastic. The coffee was rich, smooth, perfect. The air smelled like roasted beans and warm pastries, and the vibe was calm, relaxed. It wasn’t crowded either—just a handful of regulars, making it the ideal place for Saitama to laze around while Genos sat across from him, overanalyzing everything like usual.

The owner, James, was a pretty chill guy. Friendly, laid-back, always chatting about random stuff. He never made a big deal out of them being heroes, which Genos found incredibly strange, given that he, Genos, was literally one of the most famous heroes in the city. Not that he minded. It was just… odd.

There were a few other frequent customers—one was a wild-haired woman in monk-like robes, always sipping tea in the corner like she was contemplating the universe. Genos assumed she was another hero, though he didn’t recognize her. Then there was a punkish girl who came by often, a sharp grin always playing on her lips, and an old man with a bowler hat who read newspapers in Greek. But the one that really irritated Saitama?

The ridiculously beautiful guy. "Number 2", the punkish girl called him.

Saitama hated how handsome he was.

That dude walked in, flashed his dazzling, sparkling smile, and even the air around him seemed to sigh in admiration. His hair was perfect, his jawline perfect, even the way he sipped his espresso looked cool. Saitama slouched lower in his chair, scowling, as Genos diligently wrote something in his notebook. Probably analyzing his caffeine intake or some nonsense.

“Jealousy is unbecoming of a hero, Sensei,” Genos said without looking up.

“Shut up,” Saitama grumbled.

Right on cue, James strolled over with a tray, setting down two cups of coffee. “Here you go, guys,” he said, sliding the drinks onto the table before joining the conversation mid-sentence like he hadn’t just been working. “—Anyway, so I tell my ex-boss, the previous owner, ‘Buddy, you can’t just unexist the health inspector because you don’t like paperwork.’ But does he listen? Nooo, of course not—”

Genos sipped his coffee politely, nodding, while Saitama flipped a page of his manga, barely listening. James was always rambling about weird stuff, but his coffee was too good for them to question it. Halfway through a tangent about some Hotel he apparently ran, James blinked, distracted. “Huh. Did I forget something?” He frowned for half a second, then shrugged and wandered off, still muttering about eldritch bureaucracy.

Genos glanced at the tray still sitting on the table. “Ah,” he said, reaching for it. “James, you forgot your—”

The tray didn’t move.

He frowned, gripping it properly this time, putting more force behind his grip. It still didn’t move. Not even an inch. Curious. Genos adjusted his stance, fingers tightening around the edge. He increased his strength significantly, expecting the tray to lift with ease. It did not.

Now really curious, he activated the servos in his arms, engaging a fraction of his battle mode. His cybernetic muscles hummed as he increased the force behind his grip. Still—nothing. The tray remained completely still, as if it were fused to the table itself.

A single bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He should not be able to sweat.

That… was not normal.

Saitama finally glanced up from his manga, watching as Genos gritted his teeth, arms flexing with increasing effort. “What the hell are you doing?”

Genos released his grip, shaking his head. “Sensei, this tray. It—it does not move.”

Saitama squinted. “What?”

“The tray,” Genos said, voice serious, eyes locked on the unmoving object. “It will not budge.”

Saitama closed his manga, setting it aside. “Dude. It’s a tray.”

Genos nodded grimly. “Yes.”

Silence.

Saitama sighed, reaching over. “You’re probably just overthinking it—”

He grabbed the tray.

It did not move.

He blinked.

Gripped it harder.

Still nothing.

His fingers pressed into the surface, veins barely twitching in his forearm. The table beneath it should have snapped in half by now—but the tray did not move.

“…Huh?”

Saitama’s brow furrowed. He adjusted his grip, this time putting real strength into it.

Still, the tray refused to budge.

The café felt weirdly quiet now, as both men stared at the innocuous metal tray sitting between them, an ordinary object radiating impossible resistance. Saitama narrowed his eyes. No way. No way. Genos watched, fascinated, as his master—the man who could end anything with a single punch—adjusted his grip again, his expression shifting into one of slow, dawning confusion.

He pulled harder.

Still, nothing.

Saitama’s fingers twitched. His grip tightened. The world itself seemed to tense.

He pulled harder.

And still—

The tray did. Not. Move.

Saitama let go, staring at it like it had personally offended him. “What the hell.”

Genos was utterly bewildered. “This—this defies all logic.”

Both men stared at the tray, their combined strength utterly meaningless against its existence.

Saitama’s eye twitched. He reached for it again, serious this time, muscles coiling as he poured real strength into his grip. A force that had obliterated meteors, that had ended world-ending threats in an instant— The tray still did not move. The sheer impossibility of the situation made Genos’ processors lag. His mind whirred at high speed, scanning through every possible explanation. Was it enchanted? No, there were no visible runes. Gravity-altered? No, his sensors detected no shifts in spatial density. Fixed with an advanced molecular bonding agent? Impossible, given its casual placement.

“What kind of tray—?” Saitama muttered under his breath, glaring at it.

And then—

“Oh, thanks, guys!”

James walked past, effortlessly grabbing the tray with one hand, spinning it onto his palm like a waiter performing a casual trick. He strolled back behind the counter, setting it down without a second thought before continuing his conversation with the monk woman about timeline singularities or something.

Silence.

Saitama and Genos did not move.

The café around them went on like normal. The old man in the bowler hat turned a page of his newspaper. Saitama slowly turned his head toward Genos. Genos turned his head toward Saitama.

“…What,” Saitama said, voice flat.

“I do not know, Sensei,” Genos whispered, eyes still locked on the tray now resting harmlessly on the counter.

They sat in absolute, stunned silence.

Saitama squinted at James, who was casually wiping down the espresso machine, humming to himself.

“…What the hell is that guy?”

Saitama tightened his fist.

"And…He has a perfect hairline…"