Harry moved through the castle as though submerged in cold, heavy water. The echo of footsteps behind him eventually faded. Cedric had peeled off toward the Hufflepuff common room, offering no words of consolation. Professor McGonagall had vanished at the base of the first stairwell without so much as a glance. The rest of the school seemed to close in around him, quiet and watching, the stone corridors still and cold like the halls of a tomb.
The torches lining the walls flickered, their flames low and uncertain. Shadows stretched in odd directions, dancing across the stone in fractured patterns. He kept his gaze forward, his breathing even and slow, trying to focus on the movement of his feet rather than the pressure building behind his ribs.
It didn't help. The feeling broke through anyway, like water seeping through a crack in a dam.
He hadn't entered. He had said so, clearly, more than once. But the truth hadn't mattered. Not to Professor McGonagall, who had defended him in the moment but never truly challenged Dumbledore's authority. He didn't even want to think about Snape, whose accusations had come sharp and quick, as if he had been waiting for the chance. Moody had seemed all too eager to drag Karkaroff off in chains before a single fact had been confirmed.
Bagman had looked delighted, as though Harry's name coming out of the Goblet was nothing more than a thrilling twist in a game he couldn't wait to narrate. Crouch, by contrast, had treated it like a line etched in stone. A minor inconvenience, yes, but one the rules did not permit anyone to correct.
Karkaroff and Maxime had seen nothing but sabotage. To them, Harry wasn't a person, just a threat to their own champions.
And Dumbledore.
Especially Dumbledore.
The thought struck hard. It stopped him in his tracks.
His fists clenched, white at the knuckles, and he realized his jaw hurt. He had been grinding his teeth. There was a pressure behind his eyes, a familiar heat gathering in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
He replayed the moment over and over. The Goblet of Fire. The burnt parchment. Dumbledore's hand, moving smoothly to catch it, with no hesitation. Just calm acceptance, followed by a carefully blank expression.
And then the question. The one everyone always joked about now. But there had been no gentleness in it. No warmth.
"Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?"
Not once had Dumbledore said he believed him. Not once had he stood in front of the others to shield Harry from their judgment. That silence echoed louder than anything spoken aloud.
Harry began to walk again, but the feeling lingered. A cold thread of something unfamiliar. Suspicion.
He was trying not to think anymore. Trying to keep everything numb. But the thoughts wouldn't stop.
He had imagined it once. Not seriously. Just for a moment. The idea of his name coming out of the Goblet had flickered in his mind like a candle flame. It had made him laugh. It had felt so far away, so impossible, it hadn't even been worth entertaining. He hadn't meant it.
But no one seemed to care what he meant.
They had all decided already. He must have lied. He must have cheated. He must have wanted it.
No one asked why he looked pale, or why his hands shook. They didn't see the boy in him. They saw the name on the parchment. They saw the boy who lived.
And maybe that was the worst of it. That he was so small in all their eyes. His statement did not even matter.
They were ready to throw him into the tournament as if his opinion didn't matter at all. As if he hadn't spoken. As if he hadn't stood there, heart pounding, telling them again and again that it wasn't him.
But his voice didn't seem to count.
He wasn't strong enough. He wasn't important enough. And the truth didn't matter. After all, on Halloween, it wasn't innocent until proven guilty, but guilty until proven innocent. It felt like Sirius all over again. Like it was happening to both of them, again and again, as if the world couldn't resist repeating the same cruel joke.
They wanted a spectacle. Or they wanted rules followed. Or they wanted someone to blame. It hardly made a difference.
Only Hermione had looked like she still believed him. And Ron… he didn't want to think about Ron.
Harry's throat ached. His legs felt heavy.
It was a trap.
Someone had put his name in. To kill him.
Moody had said it out loud. The one thing no one else would. Someone wants Potter dead.
And Harry hadn't even needed to think about that.
Of course someone did.
He had grown up knowing it. Lived with it in the back of his mind since he could understand what his scar was. Since Hagrid told him the truth. Since he had seen Quirrell's face twist beneath Voldemort's voice. Since the graveyard dreams. Since his scar started to ache.
Voldemort wasn't dead.
And now Harry was alone again, almost like second year. Pushed forward like a pawn, no one even thought to ask.
He reached the final staircase and looked up.
Harry barely realized where his feet had taken him until he looked up and found himself facing the Fat Lady. The walk back had blurred together, one step after another, without direction. He hadn't meant to end up here so quickly, but the castle seemed eager to push him along, one cold stone corridor at a time.
The Fat Lady wasn't alone.
Violet, the pale and wrinkled witch from earlier, sat smugly beside her, cheeks flushed with excitement. She must have flown through every frame on the way here, just to be the first to gossip. They both looked down at Harry with matching expressions of nosy satisfaction.
"Well, well, well," said the Fat Lady. "Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been chosen as school champion, then?"
"Balderdash," Harry said flatly.
"It most certainly isn't!" Violet sniffed with indignation.
"No, Vi, it's the password," said the Fat Lady, sounding far too pleased with herself. She swung open.
The common room exploded.
Harry took a single step inside and was instantly pulled forward by a dozen hands. The sudden wave of sound hit him like a physical force. Cheering, laughing, shouting, all of it surging at once. He blinked as a blur of red and gold surrounded him.
Fred shoved through the crowd, half scowling and half grinning. "You should've told us you'd entered!"
"How'd you get past the Age Line?" George added, eyes wide with mischief. "No beard! That's brilliant."
"I didn't," Harry tried, but the words barely passed his lips before Angelina swept in and threw her arms around him.
"If it couldn't be me, at least it's a Gryffindor!" she beamed.
Katie Bell shouted over the din, "You'll finally get to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match!"
"I'm not hungry," Harry said as someone thrust a plate of food into his hands. "I ate at the feast."
No one heard him.
No one wanted to.
Lee Jordan emerged from somewhere with a Gryffindor banner and draped it around Harry's shoulders like a king's mantle. Another butterbeer was pressed into his hand. He barely noticed who handed it to him.
Questions were flying. How had he done it? How had he tricked the Age Line? What spell did he use? Who helped him?
"I didn't," Harry kept saying. "I don't know how it happened."
But he might as well have whispered into a storm. It didn't matter. None of them were listening. Not really. They had decided what the story was, and now they were too loud to hear anything else.
He tried to edge toward the staircase, but the crowd surged again and closed in tighter. Butterbeer, laughter, shouts of admiration. Someone shoved crisps into his hand. Another clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble.
He didn't want any of it.
Finally, after what felt like half an hour, he raised his voice above the din. "I'm tired!" he shouted. "George, seriously, I'm going to bed."
No one stopped him this time.
He forced his way through the crowd, nearly trampling Colin and Dennis Creevey in the process, and took the steps two at a time. The sounds of celebration fell behind him like a distant roar. His legs ached.
Harry slammed the door to the dormitory harder than he meant to. The sound echoed in the high rafters. His chest felt tight. For a moment, he stood frozen in the dim light, waiting for something, anything, that might feel normal.
Ron was sprawled across his bed, still in his school robes. He didn't look surprised to see Harry. Just tired and tense.
"Where've you been?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Oh, hello," Ron said, voice light in a way that didn't match his expression.
Harry suddenly remembered the Gryffindor banner still clinging to his shoulders, Lee Jordan's excited shout, the hands tugging at his robes, stuffing food and cheers into his silence. He tore the banner off and flung it into the corner, as if it burned.
Ron's eyes followed it, then flicked back to Harry. "So congratulations."
Harry stared. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Ron gave a half-shrug. "You got in, didn't you? No one else managed it. Not even Fred and George. Thought maybe you used the Invisibility Cloak."
Harry frowned. "The Cloak wouldn't have worked. It's a magical line."
"Right," said Ron, his tone sharpening. "So you found another way. Just didn't bother telling me."
"I didn't put my name in," Harry said, his voice low.
"Of course you didn't," Ron muttered, with that same disbelief Cedric had worn.
"I didn't," Harry snapped. "Why would I? Why would I want to be in some tournament where I could get killed?"
Ron gave a sharp laugh, bitter and humorless. "You tell me. Everyone else seems to think it's just what you'd do. Famous Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. Parselmouth. Triwizard Champion. Always the special one."
Harry's hands clenched at his sides. "You know what I said when they announced it? I told Hermione I didn't want any part of it. I said I wanted a normal year for once. I wasn't joking. I meant it."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, right. And then your name just magically appears."
Harry's jaw tightened. "You think I want this? That I enjoy having the whole school think I cheated?"
"You always say you hate the attention," Ron said, "but somehow you end up with all of it."
"Because of what?" Harry stepped forward now, voice cutting. "Because of my scar? Because my parents are dead? Is that what you want, Ron? The glory? You want the fame so badly you'd trade places with me? You'd let Voldemort kill them just so people would look at you the way they look at me?"
Ron flinched. Just slightly.
"I don't need the money," Harry went on. "I've got more gold than I know what to do with. And I never asked to be famous. I hate it. You think I wanted to speak to snakes? You think I wanted to be the freak?"
Ron's face twisted. "You're not just a freak. You're a slimy snake."
The words hit like a slap. For a second, neither of them moved.
Harry's chest rose and fell, his fists clenched at his sides. He stared at Ron, searching for something behind the anger, anything that looked like the friend he'd counted on.
But Ron was already yanking the hangings around his bed closed. The fabric fell shut with a swish, final and cold.
Harry stood alone in the silence. Again.
…
Harry woke to the rustle of sheets and the creak of bedsprings. Pale light filtered through the curtains, casting a gray hush over the dormitory. For a moment, he kept his eyes shut, hoping the night had somehow reset everything. That the Goblet had never ignited the fourth time. That the parchment had never landed in Dumbledore's hand.
But when he opened his eyes, the silence pressed back just as hard.
Neville stood near the foot of his bed, already half dressed. His shoulders were hunched. He seemed to be fiddling with the buckle on his shoe longer than necessary.
Harry sat up. "Neville," he said quietly, voice still rough with sleep. "Do you believe me?"
Neville froze.
He didn't look up. Didn't speak right away. He only gave a small, uncertain shrug, eyes fixed on the floor.
"That's fine," Harry said, more coldly than he meant to. "You can go."
Neville nodded once and left without another word.
Harry's gaze drifted across the room to Ron's bed. The hangings were parted, the sheets already pulled back. His bed was empty.
He dressed without thinking, movements automatic. The weight in his chest hadn't lessened with sleep. If anything, it had thickened. He moved to the showers and let the hot water pound against his skin until his fingers pruned, but the tension in his jaw stayed firm. There was no relief in warmth. No clarity in the mirror's fog.
When he finally descended the spiral staircase, the common room was nearly empty. Most students had gone to breakfast. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting long shadows across the floor.
Hermione sat curled in one of the chairs, a book forgotten on her lap. Her face lit when she saw him, but the light in her eyes didn't quite reach the rest of her.
"Harry," she said quickly, rising. "I told them. I told everyone you didn't put your name in. I told Ron, too."
Harry said nothing.
She stepped closer, her hands wringing slightly. "I believe you. I do."
But there was something in her voice. A hesitation. A flicker of doubt she couldn't hide, not even from herself.
Harry's stomach tightened.
"Do you?" he asked, voice flat.
Hermione blinked. "Yes."
He looked at her, long enough that she began to glance away. The silence between them grew heavy.
Hermione opened her mouth again, but Harry cut her off by sitting down without invitation, staring into the fire.
He didn't speak. There were things he could have said, but none of them would have mattered. Whatever faith he had left in being heard, being believed, had been thinned too far.
She was watching him, but he didn't return the gaze.
The space between them had never felt wider.
After a long moment, he stood and crossed the room without a word.
The portrait hole creaked shut behind him.
Hermione's voice followed, quiet but urgent. "Harry, wait," she called, but he didn't stop.
The corridor ahead yawned in silence, lit only by flickering torchlight. He kept walking, faster now, turning sharply when he heard Colin's voice echoing from a nearby staircase. Dennis was with him, their chatter too bright, too eager.
He ducked down a different passage and didn't look back. He didn't want to see their excitement, didn't want to meet Hermione's eyes, didn't want anyone at all.
By the time the walls around him blurred into sameness, Harry wasn't sure where he was. He found a niche behind an old tapestry and folded himself into the shadows. He stayed there until the castle grew colder and the torchlight thinner.
The morning passed without him.
Harry did not go to breakfast. He did not follow the others to their lessons. When the Gryffindors filed into Transfiguration, his seat remained empty. Professor McGonagall paused just long enough for people to notice before continuing the lesson.
He wandered instead. First to the Astronomy Tower, where the wind was cold enough to numb his face, then to the edge of the black lake. He stood there for a long time, watching the still water reflect the grey sky. Even the giant squid did not stir.
His feet carried him back inside only when the cold reached his bones. He did not look for a class to join. He was tired of being looked at. Tired of the whispers that always stopped the second he entered the corridors.
By the time midday bells rang for lunch, he was halfway down the third-floor corridor, unsure where to go next.
"Harry!"
He turned. Hermione was striding toward him, her school bag bouncing against her hip. She did not look relieved to see him. She looked furious.
"Where have you been?" she snapped. "I waited all morning. You missed Charms. And History of Magic. You didn't even go to Transfiguration."
Harry said nothing.
"Don't look at me like that," she said. "You vanished, Harry. No one knew where you were. The teachers noticed, but I… I didn't know if something had happened."
He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms.
"I didn't feel like being stared at."
The excuse tasted wrong as soon as he said it. It didn't even sound convincing to him.
"You think this will help? Skipping class? Hiding from everyone?"
"I'm not hiding," he said, though the words sat heavy in his chest. He knew better.
Hermione's voice softened, but her eyes didn't. "They're already whispering about you. Don't give them more reason. Please."
He looked past her toward the window. The sky outside had begun to clear, but it made no difference. Nothing felt lighter.
"They already believe what they want to," he muttered.
"That doesn't mean you stop trying. You think I'm not angry at Ron? I am. He won't even speak to me about it. But I still go to class. I still stand by you when you're there."
Harry's mouth tightened.
She took a step closer. "You're not alone. Even if it feels like it."
He wanted to believe her. But the memory of the Great Hall still burned. The way Ron had looked at him. The silence from Dumbledore. The pressure in his chest that had not eased, not even for a moment.
"Don't give them what they want," Hermione said again. "You're stronger than that."
Harry dropped his gaze.
"Come with me," she said. "There's something you need to do."
He didn't move at first.
She waited.
At last, he nodded.
She turned without another word, and he followed her. Not because anything had changed. Not because he believed things would get better. But because her voice had been steady, and he needed something to hold onto that didn't crumble when he touched it.
They climbed the stairs in silence.
The Owlery was cold and quiet, the high windows casting silver light across the straw-covered floor. Owls stirred in their perches overhead, blinking down with calm indifference. A few shifted their talons but made no sound.
Hermione stopped near the ledge and looked back at him. "You need to write to Sirius."
Harry said nothing, but he stepped forward and took the parchment she offered.
He crouched near the low wall and began to write.
Snuffles,
Something's wrong. I know that's vague, but I don't know how else to say it. My name came out of the Goblet. I didn't put it in. I didn't ask anyone to do it either. But it's like that doesn't matter.
Dumbledore looked right at me and still asked. He didn't say he trusted me. Not once.
Ron won't talk to me. Hermione's trying, but even she paused for half a second before she said she believed me. I can't unsee it.
Now they're saying I have to compete. That some magical contract makes it binding. Doesn't matter that I didn't put my name in. Doesn't matter that I never agreed to anything.
Moody says someone wants me dead. I think he's right. What scares me more is that no one seems interested in stopping it. They're all just...going along with it.
Please. If there's anything you can tell me, anything at all. Just to know someone out there still gives a damn.
—Harry
He stared at the parchment, then folded it in half and reached out toward the railing.
Hedwig landed beside him almost at once, feathers sleek and gleaming in the light. She stretched out her leg, then jerked it back. Her talons scraped across his hand, sharper than usual. It felt deliberate. It probably wasn't. But he still took it that way, and then she launched upward, circling once before disappearing into the rafters.
Harry watched her disappear into the rafters. The sting on his hand barely registered.
"Brilliant," he muttered. "Even she's upset."
He turned back to the rest of the owls. They looked down at him, feathers ruffling in the draft. None moved.
"Anyone else?" he asked, but his voice came out low and tired.
There was a loud crack. The air shifted, and dust drifted from the stone floor.
Dobby stood at the base of the nearest perch, wide eyes shining, his chest rising and falling as if he'd run there.
"Harry Potter called, and Dobby is coming. Dobby always comes when Harry Potter is needing him."
Harry blinked at him. "I didn't mean—"
"Harry Potter said he needed help. Dobby always listens for Harry Potter."
Harry hesitated, then reached into his pocket and held out the letter. "Can you take this to Sirius Black? It's important."
Dobby looked at the letter as if it might burn him, then took it carefully, like a gift.
Dobby's long fingers trembled slightly as he took the parchment. He nodded, holding it close to his chest. "Yes, Harry Potter. Dobby will deliver it. Dobby will be careful. No one will see."
Then, with another sharp crack, he was gone.
Behind him, Hermione shifted. Harry turned to find her standing near the doorway, arms crossed tightly.
"You gave it to Dobby?" she asked, too quickly. She looked like she wanted to yell, but didn't know where to aim it.
"He's the only one who showed up," Harry said.
Hermione looked at the spot where Dobby had vanished. She pressed her lips together.
"You should have waited," she said. "I know you're scared. But that doesn't mean you get to stop thinking."
"I didn't want to wait anymore."
She didn't answer right away. Her jaw tightened. Whatever she wanted to say, she swallowed it.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Hermione stepped up beside him at the railing.
They stood in silence. The owls watched from above. None stirred. None cared. Just like everyone else.
---
If you're into slow-burning smut, it only gets darker, filthier, and more unhinged from here.
This is more of a slow descent into hell, where a powerful hellhound version of Harry seeks revenge. A full crossover with Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss. If you have ideas you want to contribute, please comment. If the idea is compatible enough, I'll try to integrate it into the fic.
Read 4 chapters ahead now on p*treon.c*m/OmniNymph or buy it from my K*-fi shop at k*-fi.c*m/omninymph