The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Ddraig turned.

The woman standing before him was deceptively simple in appearance, yet there was something unnervingly deliberate about every detail. She was dressed in black—nothing extravagant, just a tank top that clung to her slender frame and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into combat boots. A silver ankh hung from her neck, resting against her collarbone, catching the dim light with an almost playful shimmer. Her hair was dark, slightly messy, curling at the edges like it couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to be straight or wavy. Wide, dark eyes held an unsettling depth, not because they were menacing, but because they weren’t. They were warm. Too warm. The kind of warmth that didn’t belong to any mortal thing. She had a casual ease to her, a certain slouch in her stance that made it seem like she had just wandered in from the street, maybe from a concert, maybe from a night out with friends. Except… she hadn’t.

And her body…She was built like temptation itself, a thing sculpted to make mortals stupid and dragons reckless. Her waist was tight, made for hands to grip, and her hips were wide, the kind that promised fertility, the kind that lured conquerors into burning cities. Her ass was a masterpiece, round and high, straining against those tight jeans in a way that made it impossible not to look. Her thighs were thick, pressing together with just enough softness to taunt, and her breasts—perky, full enough to be perfect without being cumbersome—rose and fell with each lazy breath. She moved with an absentminded sway, not trying to entice, not needing to. There was no artificial allure, no conscious effort to seduce—she simply was. And that, somehow, made it worse.

And yet—she was wrong.

Not in the way James was. James was a storm of unknowing, a void too vast to comprehend. This woman was worse. Looking at her was like standing in the heart of a dying star, knowing that the pull of gravity had already claimed you, that light itself could not escape. It was the certainty of an executioner’s blade, the realization that the guillotine had already dropped, and you were only waiting for your body to catch up. She wasn’t a void—she was inevitability. Every instinct in Ddraig’s soul, every ounce of draconic pride, rebelled and lost. He was a predator, a being of fire and war, and yet every fiber of his being screamed at him to submit. And she wasn’t doing anything. She was just there, smiling with the easy patience of something that had seen his kind rise and fall before the first star had ever burned. And would see it happen again.

“So James finally hired someone?” she mused, tilting her head.

Ddraig couldn’t speak. His throat had dried up.

The woman sighed, seemingly taking pity on him, and reached into her pocket, pulling out a cigarette. She flicked it between her fingers, lighting it with a snap of her thumb. Smoke curled from the tip, but it wasn’t normal smoke. It was shaped. It twisted unnaturally, forming brief, writhing skulls that screamed in silence before dispersing into the air. Faces contorted in agony, their mouths stretching, their eyes hollow and vacant, only to vanish as more took their place. It wasn’t an illusion. It wasn’t a trick of the light. It was simply… what happened when she smoked.

She took a drag, exhaling another wisp of spectral horror before glancing at him again.

“Strange to see a weakling working for the Hotel,” she said, almost conversationally. “But, I guess? James is really not like Nyarlathotep. That much has been obvious for a while. And James himself was a weakling when he started a few centuries ago. Nobody really understood why Nyarlathotep picked him at the time…” She smirked, exhaling another plume of tormented souls. “And look how he turned out.”

Ddraig barely heard her. Weakling.

Anyone else who dared to call him that would have been obliterated on the spot. It wasn’t in his nature to tolerate insult, let alone from a mortal-looking woman in a tank top. But his body—his very soul—refused to move. His hands were clenched into fists, yet he realized, too late, that they were trembling. His teeth clacked together, and not from anger.

What… is she?

She watched him with amusement, one brow raised as if she could see his every thought unraveling in real time.

“Chill, man,” she said, tapping her cigarette, sending another wisp of screaming smoke into the air.

Then, without warning, she exhaled directly into Ddraig’s face.

The smoke hit him like a tidal wave of suffering. It did not simply curl into his lungs—it poured in, thick and choking, pressing against his ribs like grasping hands. It carried no scent of tobacco, no earthly burn of nicotine. Instead, it reeked of endings, of the last breath stolen from a billion throats at once. The sound came next, seeping into his ears, into his skull—screams, endless, raw, layered so thickly that they became a single howling dirge. They were not distant. They were here, trapped in the smoke, writhing, clawing, their agony fresh, as if each one had just died this very moment. He could hear the gasps of children, the choked wails of the betrayed, the wet, gurgling sobs of the drowning. Some begged. Some cursed. Some only shrieked, their voices shredding against time itself. And then he felt them reach. The smoke did not simply pass through him—it touched him. He felt spectral fingers drag along his arms, his throat, his face, as if the dead themselves were trying to pull him into their abyss. His vision darkened at the edges, his heartbeat stuttering, his breath shuddering in his chest as the sheer weight of mortality, of a trillion, trillion deaths, pressed upon him like a collapsing star.

It was only when she spoke again, voice light and careless, that the tide receded. The smoke drifted away like it had never been, leaving behind only silence and the sickening certainty that, somewhere in the dark, those voices still screamed.

“So…Hi, I guess.” she said, her tone infuriatingly casual. “I’m… well, I can’t exactly tell you my real name. You’d die. Not in a fun way.” She flashed a grin. “I’m Number Four—that’s the number of my room, by the way.” She took another slow drag from her cigarette, then exhaled right into his face again, watching in amusement as he barely kept himself from flinching.

“I’m one of the Six,” she continued, stretching like a cat, unconcerned with the way the air around her felt wrong. “One of the Old Timers. You know—those of us who were already guests before Nyarlathotep left. Way before James took over. Hell, for Old Four, me and Old Two, we were already here when James was still just a doorman, scurrying around opening doors for people. Ah! For us, even!” She smirked, watching for his reaction. “And Old Two? Rumors has it they were here before James. Before this place even thought about him.”

Her eyes flicked over him, amused, thoughtful. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, huh? Even though you seem to be stuck in linear time. That’s gotta suck.” She tilted her head, considering. “Well—maybe James has a reason for that. Or maybe he just thinks it’s funny.”

She winked. “See you around, cutie.”

And then she was gone, leaving nothing behind but the weight of her presence and the faint scent of smoke, thick with something he refused to dwell on.

Ddraig stood frozen, staring at the space where she had been. His body trembled. His hands shook. He touched his chest, then his throat, as if making sure he was still here. And for the first time in his long, fire-blooded life—through wars, through gods, through destruction and power—he wept.

Because he was alive.

— — — —

Harry clenched the Snitch in his palm, his fingers absently running over the cool, smooth gold. His mind was racing—Dumbledore had left this to him for a reason. A final clue. But what was he missing? His head ached with exhaustion, and the fear of being constantly hunted made his thoughts sluggish.

They had barely escaped the attack at the café. The Death Eaters had come out of nowhere, their wands already raised, curses flying. The blast had shattered glass, upended tables, sent Muggles screaming into the streets. Harry could still hear the ringing in his ears, the way Hermione had barely managed to Stun Rowle and Obliviate Dolohov before they made their escape. Now, the three of them trudged through the streets, cold and disoriented, their nerves still raw.

“This is madness,” Ron muttered, wrapping his arms around himself. “I mean, where the bloody hell are we supposed to go? We don’t even have a plan—just this stupid tent and—” He shot a look at the Snitch. “—a ball.”

Hermione exhaled sharply, the tension in her voice unmistakable. “We have a plan, Ron. We find the Horcruxes, we destroy them, and we stay alive in the meantime! What do you want, a bloody map? Dumbledore gave us what he could! I’m sorry it’s not comfortable enough for you, but—”

“Enough,” Harry snapped before Ron could retort. His patience was wearing dangerously thin. His jaw tightened, his grip on the Snitch so tight his nails dug into his palm. He knew he shouldn’t snap, shouldn’t let the frustration get the better of him, but Merlin, he was tired. Tired of running, tired of arguing, tired of carrying the weight of a war they barely understood—

The Snitch twitched.

Harry startled, his breath catching in his throat as the tiny golden sphere shuddered in his grip. Then—it moved.

The delicate wings unfurled with a soft, mechanical hum, and the Snitch pulled free from his fingers, lifting into the air. It hovered in front of them, spinning in place, before looping into a lazy figure-eight—a path, a signal, a message.

They stared.

“What the—” Ron started.

“It wants us to follow it,” Hermione whispered, her voice uncertain, wary.

The Snitch pulsed, as if impatient, then darted forward. Not far—just a few meters ahead. It hovered again, waiting.

Harry didn’t think. He ran.

“Harry, wait!” Hermione’s voice was sharp. “It could be a trap! We don’t know—”

Ron was already moving. “Oh, come off it, Hermione! Dumbledore left it to him! It’s got to mean something! This could be the break we need!”

The Hotel

Harry’s breath came fast and sharp, his feet slamming against the pavement as he sprinted after the Snitch. The golden sphere flitted through the narrow, twisting alleys, weaving through the dim glow of flickering streetlamps, always just out of reach. His fingers stretched for it—so close—only for it to dip lower, skimming just above the cobblestones.

He nearly tripped over a pile of discarded crates, barely managing to catch himself against a wall before pushing off again. The Snitch darted right, down an even darker street, past shuttered shops and buildings with their windows boarded up. Harry dodged a broken lamppost, his foot catching on loose gravel—he stumbled, his fingers brushing the Snitch’s surface—

And then it shot forward.

It wasn’t a gentle increase in speed. One moment, it was within reach, hovering like it was teasing him, and the next—it was gone. Not disappearing, not vanishing into thin air—just faster. Faster than any Snitch he had ever seen in a Quidditch match. A streak of gold, slipping through the narrow gap between two buildings before—

It flew through a door.

Harry skidded to a halt, nearly crashing into the steps leading up to it. His hands landed on his knees as he hunched forward, gasping for breath, his heart hammering in his chest. The building in front of him loomed tall, its entrance plain yet oddly… unsettling. The door was old, heavy-looking, but polished like it was well-maintained. There was no sign, no indication of what kind of place this was, and yet—the Snitch had gone inside.

Behind him, Ron and Hermione came stumbling onto the street, both panting, their faces red from exertion.

“Bloody hell—” Ron wheezed, bending over and bracing his hands against his thighs. “What—the hell—was that—?”

Hermione didn’t even speak. She was too busy shooting him a glare, her curls wild from the wind, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Harry didn’t answer.

Instead, he just stood there, staring at the door.

They had all seen it. The Snitch had gone inside.

Slowly, he glanced at Ron. Then Hermione.

No one spoke.

But after a moment, as if they had reached the same decision at the same time—they stepped forward and entered.