The light was too bright.
Harry stirred beneath tangled sheets, one arm wedged between his chest and the wall, the other pressed numbly to the side of his face. His robes were twisted around his waist, sticking uncomfortably where the fabric had soaked through with sweat during the night. His mouth tasted like parchment and old metal. His eyes burned.
He hadn't slept. Not really. But his body had given up at some point, collapsing under the weight of something it couldn't name. Not rest. Just a shutdown.
His breath hitched as memory slammed back in. The letter.
He sat up too fast. One hand darted beneath his pillow, fingers sweeping over coarse linen, then the familiar edges of folded paper. Still there.
The relief was hollow. It didn't loosen his shoulders. It only confirmed how fragile the line was, how easily it could have been taken. His heart pounded with a memory that belonged to this room, but not this year.
Second year. Ginny. The diary.
He hadn't even noticed when it went missing. It had been in his bag for days, zipped inside with his notes and ink bottle. Then one evening, it was just gone. She must have come up to the dorm while they were at Quidditch practice. Quiet as a whisper. No one had seen her. No one had asked why she'd been there at all.
Now here he was again. The letter was folded inside his pillowcase. Eyes closed. Trusting the people who slept five feet away not to reach into his life and take something he couldn't afford to lose.
And he didn't even want to think about the fact that Pettigrew, the man who helped murder his parents, had slept in this room too. Two years of shared air and quiet footsteps and borrowed trust, and no one had known. Not until he escaped.
He was back in the same place. A letter from the most wanted man in Britain, hidden under his pillow. Trusting the people who slept five feet away not to take what little safety he had left.
He looked around the dormitory like a hunted thing. Ron's trunk was cracked open, a shirt sleeve drooping out like a question. Seamus's boots were pushed too close to his bed. Neville's books were stacked on the floor beside his bag. Dean's curtains were drawn, but the faint rustle told Harry someone was still breathing behind them.
It didn't matter if none of them meant harm. They had hands. That was enough.
The dorm wasn't safe for his belongings.
He unfolded the letter slowly. His thumb ran over the crease with the same care he used for wand polishing, for patching broken quills. Each word had already etched itself into him. He didn't need to read it again. He did anyway.
You're not imagining it.
Someone put your name in.
You're in danger.
I'll be in touch through the fire.
November 22nd. One in the morning.
His throat tightened. It was too much. Not the letter, but the promise in it. The reality of something that might still break. A thread pulled taut across days.
He moved like a sleepwalker, stepping off the bed in silence. His feet found the cool stone, his wand the inside pocket of his robes. The common room was empty, but the embers in the hearth were still smoldering.
Incendio.
The coals flared, soft and gold. He held the letter above them for a moment, just long enough to feel the heat brush his knuckles.
Then he let go.
The parchment blackened, curled, and sank into ash without a sound. No pop of fire. No flash of magic. Just the smell of burning ink and old paper and something older.
He stood there long after it was gone, staring into the fire. There was no point going back to bed now.
Once the letter was gone, there was no pretending the day hadn't already soured. The common room remained empty, but the silence pressed in. Not restful. Not even quiet. Just empty, in that way Gryffindor Tower sometimes felt when it wasn't angry with you so much as tired of pretending you belonged.
He dressed without looking in the mirror. The shirt was pulled over his head wrong. Tie stuffed into a pocket. Robes creased from the floor. He didn't bring his bag. He had no intention of going to class, and as a Champion, he didn't have to.
The cloak went on. The map unrolled. Hermione would already be searching.
He didn't want to see her. Not today. Not with the way she looked at him lately, like she was trying to forgive him for things he hadn't said yet. Like every question was a test, he was failing just by breathing.
The first encounter came outside the Great Hall.
He had only just turned the corner toward the front steps when she stepped through the archway, a book pressed to her chest. Her eyes swept the corridor like they always did when she was expecting something. Or someone.
Her gaze caught on his foot. A fold of the cloak had slipped. The tip of his shoe flashed in the light.
"Harry!"
Her voice cracked the hallway like a spell, quick and sharp. He didn't stop. He pulled the cloak tighter, turned his head down, and pivoted toward the marble staircase without a sound.
"Harry, wait!"
His shoes hit the first step too hard, but the staircase began to shift. The middle landing peeled away from its lower tier, carrying him toward the third-floor split. She was still behind him.
He didn't look back.
The platform groaned beneath them. She was gaining ground.
"Please just talk to me!"
He cut across the next flight sideways. A railing passed too close to his elbow, but he ducked and moved faster. The top platform jolted left. A stone gap opened ahead. He took it.
She followed through. Her voice chased him around the corner.
"Harry!"
He pulled out the map again. Her name was close. Still too close. His fingers tightened on the parchment.
One turn. One hallway. He darted right, skirts of his cloak snapping in the windless corridor. A tapestry ahead twitched at the bottom, just barely. He slid behind it.
The shortcut passage was narrow. Cold stone pressed both shoulders as he moved. No sound but breath and paper. When he emerged, she was gone from the map, but her voice wasn't.
"Harry, I know you're there!"
His feet didn't slow.
Another corridor. A door. The boys' toilet. He stepped in, locked the nearest stall, and sat down on the closed lid. His chest rose, then steadied. He smoothed out the map on his knee.
She was just outside the door now. Standing still. Her name hovered, unmoving.
He raised his wand. One quick tap against his ribs.
"Silencio."
Then the latch.
A second spell. The air shifted. The noise fell away.
He drew the cloak back over himself and waited until her pacing paused. When she turned away, he eased the stall door open and crept out as slowly as his breath allowed.
She didn't hear him. He passed just a few feet away, invisible, silent on his toes.
She stepped forward and spoke to the closed door.
"Harry, come out. I know you're in there."
She crossed her arms. Waited. Then raised her voice, low and deliberate, each word selected like she was building a case she had no intention of losing.
"You came into the girls' bathroom to save me from a troll. You brewed Polyjuice in Myrtle's. You've broken more school rules in bathrooms than anyone I've ever met. So don't stand there and act like I'm not allowed in here too."
She stepped closer, voice steady now.
"If you think I won't walk through that door just because it says boys on the front, then you've forgotten who you're dealing with."
He believed her. That was the worst part. If any girl in the castle would cross that line, it was her. But belief didn't mean safety.
But he kept walking. Her voice followed him only halfway down the corridor before it fell quiet.
This wasn't hiding.
This was control. His freedom. The only other time he had felt like this was during that summer in Diagon Alley, just before third year.
And maybe Hermione didn't need to know things anymore.
She meant well, but her voice carried. She named what should stay unnamed. She talked like the paintings weren't listening, like the ghosts didn't repeat what they heard. And if Peeves had been nearby…
He didn't finish the thought. He just moved faster through the castle like smoke. Hours passed. He didn't check the time. He didn't need food. He didn't want to speak. He just walked, searching for something he couldn't name.
By mid-afternoon, he found himself at the top of the northern staircase on the seventh floor. The light here was dimmer. The windows were clouded with age. Dust coated the rails in thin patterns like fingerprints.
He stood across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy and looked at the stretch of wall where he had seen the door just last night.
This had been the place.
The Defence classroom. The broken one. He had stumbled into it yesterday, searching for a place to throw spells without anyone watching. A classroom that felt abandoned on purpose.
He paced the corridor. Once. Then again. A third time, trying to find a door that he remembered.
I need that room again. The old Defence classroom. A place no one can find me.
The wall melted inward. A door appeared.
He didn't blink. He stepped through.
The air inside hit differently. The shape of the room was the same, but the corners had sharpened. The desks were gone. Dueling dummies stood in their place, scorched and bowed in the middle. The floor was dusty stone, smeared with old spell burns. A few books lay near the far wall, curled from the heat. An iron-framed bed sat in the back corner, mattress plain but clean.
The fireplace stirred as he entered. No flames yet. Just the faintest shimmer in the coals, like it was waiting for his permission.
This was the room. The one that had once disguised itself as a forgotten classroom. Now it had changed somewhat.
Harry didn't question it. This was the Room, answering him for real.
He closed the door. Locked it with a quick, firm charm.
"Colloportus." The latch sealed with a faint click.
He didn't stop there. He pointed his wand at the door and muttered, "Silencio." The wood dulled under the spell, like it had gone slightly deaf.
Then, just to be sure, he whispered a Hiding Charm he'd practiced on his trunk once. Not perfect, but it helped.
The door sealed behind him with a soft click. No footsteps followed. No voices called his name. For the first time all day, no one was trying to make him talk.
Harry crossed the room like someone underwater, each step heavier than the last. He didn't light the fire. The sconces along the wall gave off enough heat, sharp and yellow. They cast jagged shadows across the floor, making the spell burns look fresh.
He didn't bother pacing. Just turned toward the dummy and raised his wand.
"Stupefy."
The bolt hit center mass. Too hard. It rebounded. His shield wasn't up in time. The impact knocked him off balance, sent him stumbling sideways with a curse caught between his teeth.
He shoved himself upright again, breath ragged. Wand up.
"Protego."
The shield surged too wide. Dust exploded from the floor. A shelf in the corner trembled. The dummy rocked back on its base.
"Expelliarmus."
This one cracked the air. It flung the dummy's wand out of its grip and scorched the fabric where its chest should have been. The recoil shivered through Harry's wrist. He didn't lower his arm.
Again. And again.
His shoulder ached. His sleeves clung to his arms, soaked with sweat. His wand hand trembled. His mouth tasted like copper and old dust. He cast until the dummy stopped reacting and his vision blurred around the edges.
When he dropped onto the bed, it wasn't to rest. His legs had simply stopped obeying him. He lay flat on the mattress, staring up at the high ceiling. The sconces had dimmed since he arrived, as if the Room had exhaled.
He hadn't asked for silence. But the Room gave it anyway.
And the quiet didn't feel empty.
It felt aware.
He didn't know how long he had stayed like that before the pop came.
It was soft and familiar.
Dobby stood at the foot of the bed, holding a napkin-wrapped bundle in both hands. Roast chicken. Pumpkin bread. A neat square of treacle tart.
The elf bowed low enough that his ears brushed the stone.
"Harry Potter is hurting," Dobby said quietly. "But Hogwarts is listening. She sent me to help Harry Potter."
Harry didn't answer. He took the food slowly, hands dull with fatigue. He set it beside him on the mattress, tore a piece of bread without tasting it. The tart stayed wrapped.
He looked over, voice low. "You sent my letter."
Dobby nodded solemnly. "Yes, Harry Potter. Dobby was careful. No one saw."
Harry's throat closed. "Thank you."
He meant it. Dobby had done what no one else could.
Dobby beamed for half a second, then looked down again. "It was Dobby's honor. Dobby would send a hundred more if Harry Potter asked."
Harry shook his head slightly. "No. No more owls from him. Especially not strikers. That bird draws too much attention."
Dobby's ears twitched. "Yes, sir. Dobby understands. No more birds with red beaks and shrill cries."
Harry let out the smallest breath of air. Not quite a laugh. More like his body remembering how to breathe.
"Just… next time you go, tell him I got the letter. And tell him…" He trailed off, eyes flicking back to the ceiling.
Dobby leaned forward, ears up.
"Tell him I'll be waiting by the fire," Harry said. "One in the morning. November twenty-second."
Dobby placed a fist over his chest. "Dobby will tell him. Dobby will whisper it if there are ears nearby. Dobby will not let the Ministry catch Master Black again."
Harry gave the smallest nod. "Good. And if you can… maybe bring him food? Something hot. And clothes. Nothing flashy, just clean."
"Dobby will take chicken. And wool jumpers. And the tart if Harry Potter says so."
Harry didn't smile, but his voice was gentler now. "Yeah. The tart, too."
Dobby stood straighter, as if the task itself had added inches to his height. "It shall be done, sir."
Dobby turned to leave, magic already rising at his fingertips.
"Wait," Harry said suddenly.
Dobby froze mid-bow. "Yes, sir?"
Harry looked around the room, at the spell-burned floor, the dummies still slightly steaming, the bed that had appeared clean and cold without being asked for.
"This room," Harry said slowly. "What is it?"
Dobby's ears twitched. "Ah. Yes, sir. Dobby was told of this place by an old elf, very old, sir, they say he is even older than the great Headmaster with the half-moon glasses."
He shuffled a little closer, lowering his voice. "It is called the Come and Go Room. Or the Room of Requirement, by some. It comes when someone is in need. When they are lost, or hiding, or hurting."
Harry didn't speak. He just listened.
"It listens to magic, sir. Old magic. Wild magic. The elves do not speak of it much. Only a few of us know."
Dobby looked around, eyes shining like he could see more than Harry could.
"Dobby came here with Winky. She was… not well. We needed butterbeer, so the Room gave it. Big glasses, very heavy."
Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
Dobby tilted his head. "Sometimes the Room hides things. Dangerous things. Broken things. Things the castle wants forgotten. Sometimes it hides people, too."
He lowered his voice further. "They say Professor Trelawney hides her cherry brandy here when she's told not to bring it to class."
Still, Harry gave no response.
Dobby's shoulders sank just slightly. "This is what the Room has become for you, sir. A place to train. It knows what you need."
Harry glanced at the fireplace, now burning low, its coals red and quiet.
"It's changed," he murmured. "Since yesterday."
Dobby nodded. "It listens, sir. It listens to you. It knows what Harry Potter cannot say."
Harry didn't move. He just stared ahead, as if the walls were waiting for something more.
Then: "Will you come back tomorrow?"
"If Harry Potter wants Dobby, Dobby will come."
Harry didn't say yes. He didn't have to.
Dobby bowed again, a little softer this time, and disappeared with a quiet shimmer that faded into the dim firelight.
Harry finished what remained on the plate, then curled sideways on the bed. As he slumbered for the third day in a row.
---
If you're into slow-burning smut, it only gets darker, filthier, and more unhinged as the story progresses. Just as Shanks is important to Luffy as one piece, Luna Lovegood will be that someone for Harry in this fic.
A full crossover with Hazbin Hotel and Helluva Boss will begin after the First Task. If you have ideas you'd like to contribute, feel free to comment. Right now, 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.
Read 5 chapters and 20.7k 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 18.2k words of this fic!