Warning: This story is rated M for graphic images, violence, and some mild language.
Format: This story is set up like Godric. Godric's POV first and then Hermione's; a line break signifies this switch. Godric is in the past leading up to when Hermione's POV takes place. It will be the same length as Godric with the addition of an Epilogue.
Disclaimer: Godric is mine; everyone and anything else related to the Harry Potter series is under the possession of one JK Rowling.
Summary: After seven years as a Death Eater, a young man ponders his crimes in Azkaban amidst torturous hallucinations, as a mother searches for the ability to forgive.
Liberation
Chapter 1
Azkaban. The stories I've heard about it are true. The dirt and grime, the smell of urine, blood, tears, the loathsome creatures hiding in the corners, seeking the scraps of meager meals. The blood curdling screams. They never stop. I saw a man pierce his own eardrums with an old chicken bone the other day. I'm considering it.
I've been here for a little over a month now. I'm scratching little ticks into my flesh for every day I'm here with an untrimmed finger nail. The walls are covered in tick marks from past occupants, little blood stains and remnants of broken fingernails imbedded in the stone, but my body seems to be the perfect canvas. It's practically destroyed as it is, and the pain is welcome. I deserve it, don't I? Forty two tallies now decorate the underside of my arm. Only twenty four more to go.
Bellatrix is muttering to herself again. I hear her, but don't look over. She will be dying with me in a few weeks. Our crimes are too heinous to even receive the Dementor's Kiss.
She's started screaming again. I finally look over at the cell across from me. She's writhing on the floor, pulling at her clothes and hair, clawing at her face and arms. She's trying to throw something off of her. It is evident the nightmares are back. They've penetrated her reality. I assume it is the rats. The rats are gnawing at her flesh, and she is trying to fend them off. I've never been attacked by rats. A single bird of prey prefers my flesh.
I want to reassure her, try to convince her that it is not real. That it is her frontal lobe betraying her. But I don't. I sit and I watch as the blood rushes to the surface of her bare skin from the deep scratches she has inflicted upon herself. Had I seen this a few months ago it would have turned me on. Such a sick bastard I've become.
She stops screaming. I think she has passed out. Her limbs are not moving any more, but her chest continues to rise and fall rapidly. I turn back to the wall in front of me. I close my eyes, try to ignore the corpse of a little girl that has appeared before me where there was once nothing. Nearly seven years I've gone without these damn hallucinations. Nearly seven years I've managed to keep them at bay, but here with the Dementors, without my wand, without a victim, I'm lost.
Godric wasn't there when the Dark Lord was vanquished. He wasn't there to see the final moments of his biological father and master's demise. Part of me feared he had died in battle, that when they carried out the dead there would be my son. The other part knew that would have been easier. But here he is seated in front of me, chained to a chair, nothing but skin and bones, scars and filth, beside Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, awaiting his death.
Harry and I had found the Horcruxes. Seven years we had done research, seven years we had left the safety of our home to track down the remaining Horcruxes. It was painful. I had to leave my children for a few weeks at a time, never more than a month, but still long enough for my heart to ache. Ginny was a huge help. Having no children of her own, she doted upon my little Rose and Hugo.
The last couple of years had been easier. Rose and Hugo had gone off to Hogwarts. I was so proud when I heard they had become Gryffindors. Between their father's death at the hands of their older brother and my frequent absence, I was so grateful that the last few years hadn't affected them the way it had myself. As much as it hurt to leave them, Harry was destined to destroy Lord Voldemort, and he had stood by me after Ron's death. I had to stand by him. I had to make the world safer for my two remaining children, even if it meant destroying the world of my estranged eldest.
The final battle had taken place at Hogwarts. The younger children had been safely evacuated to Hogsmeade before the wards had been taken down by the Death Eaters. Harry had amassed an army of his own, taking the death of Ron as an impetus to bring change to the Wizarding World. He had rallied the dying Order, had managed to bring international support to Great Britain. The Muggleborn community had suffered almost two decades of torment and abuse. So after the hidden Horcruxes had been retrieved, we overtook control of Hogwarts, made the Room of Requirement the new base for our operations. When Voldemort became aware of the coup, we had already summoned enough reinforcements to defend Hogwarts from his onslaught.
The Horcruxes had, of course, been disposed of before our coup. Nagini had proved the hardest to destroy, but we had managed with the help of Draco Malfoy. Draco had long sought to leave the Death Eaters, especially after his father's murder at his master's hands over ten years ago. Instead, he had turned spy after accidentally running into Remus Lupin outside of an old Order hideout. Instead of a duel, he had apparently pled for Order membership, and unexpectedly became a crucial asset to our movement.
I had been present at the final battle. I was locked in a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange at the time. The bitch had mentioned Godric, had complimented me for raising such an outstanding Death Eater. I had attacked her in rage. How dare she mention my son!
It wasn't enough to just kill Voldemort. Through research and discussion with the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, we had discovered that Harry was an accidental Horcrux. Harry had to die. I had to prepare myself to lose another friend, to lose another person I loved. I didn't want to accept it. But what was the price for Harry to continue to live? Who else would suffer at the hands of Lord Voldemort?
So I was forced to watch as Harry sacrificed his life for the Wizarding World. As soon as the Killing Curse left the Dark Lord's wand, I turned from Bellatrix and cast a curse of my own. It had been our plan. Harry was to die, and I would have to be the one to finally end it.
I've heard that in order to cast an Unforgivable, the caster must truly mean it, they must truly focus their hate on their target. But I did not kill Voldemort out of hatred. What made my curse strong enough to kill the Dark Lord was the amount of love I had for Harry, for Ron, for my children, for all of the other Muggleborns, witches, and wizards whose lives this man had destroyed. For my son who he had taken from me. In the end, it was love that killed Lord Voldemort, and I believe it is love that prevented Harry Potter from dying when the piece of Lord Voldemort's soul inside of him was destroyed.
Harry is seated beside me now, holding my hand, his other arm around his wife. We are here to watch an execution. My son is scheduled to die today, and I am forced to once again mourn. I wonder if it will ever become easier.
