The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

They stepped inside.

The air was warm, carrying the scent of old books, polished wood, and faintly spiced coffee. A small fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light across a cozy but unremarkable hotel lobby. There were no chandeliers, no grandeur—just worn leather couches, a mahogany counter lined with numbered key boxes, and an atmosphere that felt almost too normal considering the circumstances.

An elderly man sat on one of the couches, his plump frame settled comfortably as he half-heartedly tried to read a yellowed newspaper. His round face was lined with age, and every so often, he let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, as if bored with whatever he was reading but unwilling to put it down. As Harry, Ron, and Hermione entered, the old man made a show of rustling his paper noisily, peering over the top with open curiosity.

Near the reception desk, a broad-shouldered redhead was mopping the floor, his posture radiating pure grumpiness. His clothes looked too neat for a janitor, though—the dark uniform vaguely resembling something a doorman might wear. What threw Harry off the most, however, were the horns. Small, ridged, poking from beneath his messy hair. Fake? A weird fashion statement? Either way, the man looked absolutely miserable as he shoved the mop across the floor.

“This is a bloody joke,” he grumbled to himself, scowling at the bucket like it had personally wronged him. “I’m a doorman. A porter. Not some bloody housekeeper! Why the hell can’t they just hire a damn janitor?”

He aimed a frustrated kick at the bucket—only to yelp in pain as his foot met solid resistance. The bucket didn’t budge an inch. Not even a wobble. Harry blinked. Huh. It must be filled to the brim with water, heavy enough to stay firmly in place. Either that, or it was somehow bolted to the floor.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged uneasy glances.

And behind the reception desk stood a man who, unlike the other two, actually looked the part of a hotel employee. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties, dressed in a well-fitted but practical suit, the kind that was nice without being extravagant. His smile was welcoming, friendly, maybe a bit too casual considering three exhausted, paranoid teenagers had just barged into his lobby unannounced.

Harry had the distinct feeling this place didn’t get a lot of visitors.

The old man lowered his newspaper completely now, openly staring at them with blatant curiosity.

Ron swallowed hard. “I, we…” he started, then stammered into silence.

What were they supposed to say?

The people here were clearly Muggles—weren’t they? The man at the desk looked normal. The janitor—doorman—whatever he was looked like a particularly disgruntled convention-goer.

What were they supposed to do? Explain that they had followed a magical golden ball across London, a Snitch left to Harry by Dumbledore himself? That they were fugitives on the run, being hunted by the Dark Lord’s followers?

Harry muttered a very quiet curse.

And then—he saw it.

Behind the man at the counter, settled in one of the numbered compartments on the wall, was the Snitch. Its wings fluttered slightly, as if adjusting itself, before going still.

And beneath it, the brass plate read:

Room Three.

Harry’s stomach tightened.

Hermione, ever the fastest thinker, spoke first.

“Could we have a room for the night?” she asked smoothly, her voice casual, polite, utterly unbothered. “One with two double beds?”

The man at the desk brightened immediately, like someone who had just received an unexpected but welcome surprise.

“Yes, of course!” he said, already reaching for the keys.

Harry forced himself to focus, but his mind kept circling back to the Snitch. Was this what Dumbledore had meant for him to find? Why was this Hotel so special ?

Hermione continued, her tone light, almost indifferent. “Actually, we were hoping to take Room Three—if it’s available?”

At this, the man paused, looking mildly apologetic. “Ah,” he said, his lips pressing into a small frown. “I’m afraid that one’s already occupied.”

Harry barely contained his frustration. Should they…use magic on this muggle ? But he looked nice ! And he was nice with them — they were not exactly looking like they were rich or trustworthy, but he did not bat an eye and proposed them a room! Hermione, bless her, didn’t miss a beat, her nod perfectly measured, her tone light and indifferent. “Ah, well. That’s fine,” she said, as if the matter barely interested her. “Could we have another room, then? And—just out of curiosity, who’s in Three?”

The man gave a casual shrug. “Oh, just a guest.”

Hermione tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression shifting just enough to encourage elaboration. “Oh? What’s she like?”

The man hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to decide how much to say. “Young woman. About twenty-five or so. Punky.” He waved a vague hand, as if that was all there was to it. “Pretty normal.”

Hermione’s brows lifted just a fraction, her expression still polite but expectant.

The man shifted uncomfortably, his ears reddening. “Uh… she’s cute, I suppose,” he admitted, clearing his throat, his face reddening and his voice taking on an awkward edge. “Really cute, actually.” He coughed, suddenly very interested in adjusting the papers on the desk.

From behind them, there was a sharp rustle of paper. The old man who had been reading his newspaper—a newspaper that, now that Harry took a closer look, seemed to be written in Greek—made a sound like he had just choked on his own spit. He noisily turned a page, eyes fixed studiously downward, but there was no mistaking the fact that he had been listening.

“But, you know, that’s about it. Nothing else particularly interesting about her. Cute girl, cool job — she's a ferryman of some kind, I think. Never asked — maybe I should ?”

Hermione only smiled, as if it had been nothing more than idle curiosity. But Harry knew better. He had seen the flicker of sharp calculation in her eyes, the way her mind was already spinning, connecting dots none of them could yet see.

Still, she acted as if nothing was amiss, adjusting the strap of her bag and nodding at the receptionist. “We’ll take a room, then.”

The man—James, according to his name badge—brightened at that, clearly pleased to have guests. “Great! Let’s see… I’ll give you room 1671.” He plucked a key from one of the compartment behind the counter —Too 1671 —  and set it down with a practiced ease, as though he had done this a thousand times before.

Ron, still distracted, took it without thinking before glancing down at the number. His brow furrowed. “Wait—there are that many rooms in this place?” He turned, looking around the cozy but hardly massive lobby, like he expected a hallway to suddenly stretch into infinity.

Hermione rolled her eyes — wizards — and sighed. Without hesitation, she swatted him lightly on the back of the head. “Don’t be dumb.”

James just chuckled, clearly amused rather than offended. “Oh, no, not quite. Let’s just say the numbering system here is… unique.” He smirked slightly, like it was some kind of private joke. “But don’t worry. Just take the stairs behind me. Room 1671 is actually the first door on your right once you hit the second floor.”

Harry wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on the counter behind James, on the numbered key slots lining the wall. And nestled neatly into the slot marked Three, as if it had always belonged there, was the Snitch.

His hand curled into a fist. Why? Dumbledore had given him that Snitch. Left it to him in his will. It was supposed to hold a clue, something important. And now it had led him here and settled itself like a key into a lock.

He leaned slightly toward Hermione and muttered under his breath, “We need to get it back.”

She barely glanced at him, her voice just as low when she responded, “We will. But later. When there aren’t people around.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to James and the old man still pretending to read his paper in the corner. “I don’t want to have to Obliviate muggles if we can avoid it.”

Harry exhaled sharply through his nose, but nodded. She was right, of course. They had drawn enough attention today. They climbed the stairs in silence. The hallways of the hotel were eerily quiet, not in a sinister way, but in a way that made Harry’s ears ring with the absence of noise. The air was warm, comfortably so, and the dim sconces cast a golden glow against the deep wood-paneled walls. It felt old, lived-in, but not abandoned.

Their room was just as cozy. The soft lighting illuminated a neat space with two beds, thick blankets folded carefully on top. A small fireplace flickered in the corner, filling the room with a gentle warmth that made the exhaustion in Harry’s bones settle even deeper. Ron let out a low groan of relief. “Merlin’s saggy pants, a bed.” He didn’t even hesitate before dropping his bag with a dull thud, kicking off his shoes, and throwing himself onto one of the mattresses.

Hermione was already eyeing the bathroom. “I’m taking the first shower,” she announced, her voice brooking no argument.

Harry barely registered their words. He sat down on the edge of the second bed, staring at his hands, his mind still spinning. Why here? Why this place? Dumbledore had left them with riddles, breadcrumbs scattered through the dark, but this was the first time one had led them to something concrete. And yet… for the first time in weeks, he felt safe.

His body betrayed him before his mind could fight it. The weight of exhaustion, the adrenaline crash, the warmth of the room—it was too much. Despite their best intentions to stay alert, within minutes, all three of them had drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

— — —

Master Kaecilius stood before the café, golden eyes narrowed as he observed the quaint little building. At a glance, it was nothing—a modest establishment tucked between dull, mundane shops, no different from the dozens of others littering this city. And yet, despite its unassuming appearance, he could feel something beneath the surface, something that prickled at the edges of his perception, like a whisper just out of reach.

For days now, the balance of power had shifted, and none of his calculations made sense. Dormammu—his Master, the one who had promised him eternity—was silent. No, worse than silent. Absent. No matter how many spells he cast, no matter how deeply he reached into the Dark Dimension, there was nothing where Dormammu’s presence had once been. Yet the Ancient One, who had drawn from that power for so long, had not weakened. She had thrived. She had become something more, something beyond even his understanding.

And then, there was the decree. The absurd, laughable command from her lips that no magi were to set foot in a coffee shop or a hotel, as if such things posed a threat. At first, Kaecilius had dismissed it as nonsense, another piece of misdirection to keep the weak-willed fools of Kamar-Taj in line. But he had watched. And he had seen. The Ancient One came here often, lurking in the shadow of this place, her visits too deliberate, too frequent, too purposeful. There was something inside this café. Something that even she feared.

If she had found a new power, then he would claim it for himself.

He stepped forward, intending to enter unnoticed, but an obstacle blocked his path. A man crouched before the entrance, clad in a crisp uniform, arms resting lazily over his knees. He looked unremarkable—broad-shouldered, tall, but utterly mortal. His head was bowed, messy red hair falling over his face, his entire posture radiating exhaustion. There was nothing about him that suggested strength, nothing that warned of danger. He was simply a doorman, loitering outside a place far beyond his understanding.

Kaecilius sneered, his lip curling in contempt. The fool would be dead before he even realized he was in the presence of something greater. Lifting his hand, he summoned a killing spell, a quiet, elegant twist of magic that would snuff the man’s life out in an instant. There would be no pain, no resistance, just a seamless erasure from existence. He released the spell, already preparing to step over the body and enter the café—only to pause.

Nothing happened.

The air around the doorman did not waver. There was no shift in energy, no flicker of reaction. The man did not clutch at his chest, did not falter, did not so much as twitch. Kaecilius’ frown deepened. He had felt the spell leave his fingers, had watched reality bend to his will, and yet—this mortal remained unchanged.

Irritation flared in his chest. Perhaps a stronger spell was required. If subtlety would not work, then force would. He gathered raw energy into his palm, twisting it into something destructive, something designed to tear through flesh and bone, something that had ended the lives of countless magi who had dared to stand in his way. He released it, a silent death sentence hurtling toward the fool in front of him—

And then the doorman sighed.

Not a sigh of pain. Not a gasp of fear or the final exhale of a dying man. Just… tired. As if Kaecilius had not just tried to kill him, but rather, had simply inconvenienced him at the end of a long day. The casual dismissal sent something cold slithering down Kaecilius’ spine. And then—he moved.

Not rose. Not stood. But expanded.

Limbs stretched in ways that should not be possible, bones did not break but shifted, and flesh unraveled like mist dissolving into the air. Kaecilius staggered back as shadows twisted unnaturally, bending inwards, folding upon themselves as the figure before him ceased to be human. His senses screamed, magic recoiling within him as the space around them seemed to shudder.

And then the wings erupted.

A massive pair of crimson appendages tore through the air, unfolding with a force that sent dust and debris howling down the street. They were not merely large—they were colossal, spanning wider than buildings, glowing with molten veins of gold, shifting like living fire. The weight of something ancient settled upon the world, pressing against reality itself. A heat seared the air, suffocating, thick with the scent of brimstone.

Kaecilius’ breath faltered. The arrogance that had burned so bright within him flickered in the face of something unfathomable. His instinct screamed through his veins, demanding that he flee, that he get away, that he never should have come here. He turned, feet scrambling against the pavement, magic surging at his fingertips in a desperate attempt to teleport—

And the dragon struck. A shadow blotted out the sky as the jaws descended. Teeth, each larger than his body, gleamed for only a fraction of a second before everything went dark. There was no pain. No time for a scream. Just the crushing weight of an unstoppable force, the sudden, dizzying loss of movement—And then Kaecilius was gone.

The massive dragon exhaled, huffing slightly as the taste of sorcerer lingered unpleasantly in his mouth. He rumbled in mild annoyance before folding his wings, his immense form shifting—collapsing—shrinking until the doorman once again crouched lazily before the café.

With a sigh, he rubbed his temple and muttered under his breath.

“Fucking wizards…"

And he smiled.

"Hehe, I still got it”