Call Me Home
Chapter Five
Penance of the Damned
A gaunt man lay upon the rough stone floor; breathing in short, ragged breaths of the musty air that permeated the Black Cells of Azkaban. He had just woken from his tormented sleep which had as usual been plagued by the nightmares and ill dreams that left him soaked in sweat and shivering. His hair fell to his waist in matted tendrils, so unlike the dishevelled mop he had once been famous for.
He scratched at an itchy spot on his neck with claw-like fingernails, not even flinching at the dried blood upon his filthy skin. It was not his own blood, rather it had been the blood of his dinner. The Dementors often forgot to feed the inhabitants of the prison and he mostly feasted on the lichen and rats which filled the dank cavern.
The Black Cells, hewn from the rock themselves, often filled with seawater when the tide was high and those who called these bleak caves their home would be forced to find purchase on one of the higher shelves that clawed their way out of the rock near the ceiling.
It was that or be drowned; and Harry, no matter how miserable his life had become, chose to live. He had died once and whilst he had seen the peace that the afterlife held, he no longer held any illusions that he would be permitted to enter the fabled paradise that lingered beyond the veil.
No, he knew that he would suffer for his crimes. Eight years in these cells had made his follies so very clear to him. He had been so blinded by his own prejudices that he had torn his own family apart – it was he who had caused the devastation that had befallen the Potters, not Albus. His boy had been an innocent casualty of his own deranged vendetta.
Family shouldn't leave each other unless they had to, it was what he had preached but not been able to put into practice. He had wanted a family all his life and then when he had them he had been so terrified of losing them that he had driven them all away.
He would never be able to make amends to Albus, not now that his son was dead and cold in the warm embrace of the earth. Albus would know the joy of Heaven for he was pure . . . purer than Harry could ever hope to be. There was no doubt in his fragmented mind that he would suffer in the darkest pits of the abyss for what he had done.
He had thought that Slytherin had taken his son, he had let his own childhood perceptions colour his personality to the point where he had been the one to take his son out of his life! The first time he had hit Albus, he had been drunk and unable to rein in his anger at the House of Green and Silver. He had been appalled when he had woken the next morning, bent over the toilet to throw up his dinner of firewhiskey and birthday cake when he had glimpsed his son cast the glamours over his bruised face.
Then later that holiday he had hit him again because strangely enough he had thought that it had given him a semblance of control. He had believed that he was breaking the evil out of Albus, beating out the inherent darkness that he himself had known and had been terrified had passed into his son. Because of all his children, Albus had been the most like him.
He hated himself for it but over time the hate had become directed at his son, because the blows to his ego just kept coming. First, he had become a Slytherin. Then he had flooded their home with his Slytherin lackeys. Then he had taken up smoking and begun dabbling in dark magic.
Then he had fallen in love with a Malfoy.
Harry only realised that his son had been pushed into dark magic and abusing cigarettes by him. He had been convinced he was breaking the darkness within his son – instead he had only succeeded in breaking his boy.
Now that he languished before the Dementors and was forced to relive his memories he could see how wrong he was. He was a cancer who had blighted his entire family. Hermione, who had been his sister in all but blood, was but one of those he had hurt in his malice. He had been too blinded by his hate for Malfoy the boy to realise that Malfoy the man was a completely different person . . . he loathed himself for not trusting Hermione's judgement.
He had been amongst those who had pushed for Ron and her to be married. By doing so he had not only broken the man who was incarcerated in the cell beside him, but he had denied his best female friend in the world nearly twenty years of happiness.
Ginny, James, Lily, Teddy, he had hurt them all in more ways than he could count but there was nothing that made him feel guiltier than the way he had treated his son. He deserved this punishment, he deserved to suffer in this hell on earth.
He had taken from Albus his son.
He had killed his own grandchild in his perverse desire to protect their world . . .
Harry Potter wished that he could die, if only so that he would know true punishment for his crimes.
(*)(*)(*)
"Daddy, can you read me another bedtime story?" asked Teddy Lupin with a hopeful grin on his face as he scurried into his godfathers lap.
"Teddy," said Harry in a cautious tone as he surveyed the five-year -old in his lap, "I love you like a son, you know that right?" Teddy nodded quickly, still pushing his copy of 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard' at Harry.
"But I'm your godfather, not your dad," continued Harry, cringing when the boy's hair shifted to a drab, mousy brown.
"But . . . But . . . But you are my daddy," he said, his lip trembling as he clung to his godfather, "YOU ARE!"
"Teddy," whispered Harry as he stroked the boy's back. He thought for a few minutes, would it really matter if he let Teddy call him, daddy? Would Remus mind? No, he decided after a while. Remus wouldn't mind that Teddy referred to Harry as his father, just as long as the boy knew who his real father was.
"Son," said Harry with a faint smile, "How about I tell you a story about a werewolf?" Teddy brightened instantly, clapping his hands in excitement.
"Werewolves are cool!" he exclaimed, causing Harry to chuckle because he knew that his godson was well aware of his hybrid lineage.
Harry woke with a start, coughing dryly as he felt the cold sweat on the back of his grimy neck. Reaching out an emaciated arm, he cupped a handful of seawater from a lingering pool and washed, trying desperately to cleanse himself of the memories and the filth at once.
It didn't work.
He knew that he would have no respite. He would never have a respite from the anguished pain he so rightfully deserved. His only wish these days was to go back in time so that he could change things, or failing that have the opportunity to Avada the younger version of himself. Yes, that would leave Albus, James and Lily fatherless but it would also have spared his children so much torment. Not to mention Teddy, who had been his son in all but blood.
He felt his heart tighten as another memory gushed to the surface of his mind, brought forward by the dreams of his godson. He felt himself wince at the thoughts.
"Harry," said Teddy in a cool voice as he answered the door, his smile dropping as soon as it fell onto his godfather.
"Hey, Teddy," replied Harry in a casual voice – inwardly cursing Albus' name for fracturing the relationship between him and his godson – and gave the young metamorphmagus a brief smile. Teddy frowned in response before speaking, not bothering to hide the bite in his tone.
"Why are you here?"
"I haven't seen you in weeks," pushed Harry, "I want to see how big my grandson has gotten."
"I don't think that's a good idea, Harry," replied Teddy.
"Why not!"
"I don't want a person like you around my son," Teddy snapped, feeling some slight sense of vengeance for his god-brother Albus, whose abuse inflicted bruises he had seen that year at school.
"I'm his grandfather!" protested Harry as his jaw threatened to drop.
"No you are not," said the half-werewolf succinctly, "His grandfather's name was Remus Lupin."
Harry sighed before rolling onto his side to try and get back to sleep. At least when he slept he was free from the gnawing hunger that was always present in his belly.
Harry had never felt so alone in his life than he had at this point in time.
He closed his eyes, praying fervently that he would not suffer another dream. His prayers where in vain. . .
(*)(*)(*)
"Daddy!" yelled a four-year- old James, running up to his father and holding his broken broomstick in his hand. It was a just a toy and would fly just high enough to allow his toes to skim the grass but James treasured his broomstick. It was his most prized possession, right after his two-year-old brother, Albus. Harry was thrilled about the relationship between his boys, Albus idolised his older brother just as James was fiercely protective of him in turn. Harry didn't even point out how odd it was for James to refer to Albus as "his."
It was something Harry had always craved in his youth, the joy of having a sibling and he brooked no arguments on the subject, going so far as to throw Ron out of Grimmauld Place for a week when the other man had suggested his boys were becoming co-dependent.
He hoped they would always be that close.
"My broomstick broke!" the toddler held up the splintered wood to his father, teary eyed and nibbling at his lip. It was a habit he had taken up in place of sucking his thumb or biting his nails – Harry blamed Ginny's great cooking leaving residual flavour on their lips.
"What happened, Jamie?" asked Harry, dropping to his knees beside his son.
"The tree is mean," explained James, his childish innocence and naivety colouring his choice of words. Harry sighed, knowing this probably meant James had been trying to impress his brother and ended up flying into the beech they had growing in their small back garden.
A few hours later, a father walked out of a crowded store in Diagon Alley with two sons. The eldest boy was carrying a brand new broomstick and the youngest was being entertained by his new toy snitch. Harry smiled as he led his boys back to the Leaky Cauldron to floo home before Ginny returned from work, knowing his wife would be very unhappy that he had replaced the expensive toy without disciplining James first.
"I love you, daddy," said James once they got home, hugging his father's knee as tightly as he could.
"Wuv daddy more," protested Albus as he hugged his father around the neck so tightly he nearly strangled him.
Harry woke screaming, because the memories hurt more than the hunger and thirst that existed in these Black Cells.
(*)(*)(*)
The days blurred as they past, as they always had for the past eight years, ever since he had been cast into this hell on earth for his sins. The Black Cells of Azkaban made Golgotha, Place of Skulls, seem like a biblical paradise by comparison. There was not a single part of his body that did not ache, he only ate once every three to four days.
If only he was brave enough to bring one of the sharp, salt-stained rocks to his wrists . . . or remain below the rising tide so that he could just die. But he was terrified of the judgement that he would be then faced with. The fear, in addition to the bitter knowledge that he deserved this fate, was all that stayed his hand.
He didn't want to have to face his son's spirit in the afterlife, if by some chance miracle he got the opportunity to meet him. Nor did he think he could face his parents who had died for him and then seen him become a hero before descending into the world of monsters and becoming their king.
A dull shriek split the air, raspy and torn from the cell beside him and Harry cringed at his best friend's pain. Ron had always been accustomed to the comforts of home and hearth, a doting mother and a substantial bank balance to help him indulge in his luxuries. Even when Ron had been in Azkaban after killing Claire Williams, his cell had been on the same level as one of those muggle hotel suites Hermione had modelled The Rose with permanent patronus charms cast on it to stave off the Dementors. His prison sentence had been made to appear rough to the public eye but was more along the lines of a six month vacation.
The Black Cells had changed Ron's idea of incarceration but from what Harry could hear of his deranged ramblings; Ron had not made peace with his sins as he had. Whilst Harry now knew that they both deserved what they got, Ron still screamed out at empty air that he was innocent and that he would get revenge.
Harry pitied him. Harry envied him.
His miserable life with be so much easier if he could still blame others for his failings rather than be confronted by the vestiges of memories from a happier time in contrast to how perverse they had become.
Teddy, the son he had never asked for but loved all the same, the son who had disowned him.
James, the son who had symbolised all that he had ever wanted, a family of his own, who had punched him the stomach till he vomited blood as payment for the pain that had been inflicted on their family because of Harry.
Albus, the son he had promised to always love who he had killed. Yes, James may have been forced to pull the trigger but it was Harry whose name was engraved upon the bullet.
Lily, the daughter who had always run to him for protection from the big bad world before growing up into a strong, fiery young woman. The daughter who had fled the country because she had been afraid of him.
His children whose names were carved into him by the slate that littered his chamber, he had cut them into his torso so often that the scars had long become permanent. He needed no reminder when it came to Ginny though, her name still bled fresh across his heart, still raw from the day of his trial when she had looked at him with such revulsion that he had felt the urge to curl up and die. His ex-wife had never looked at anyone with that much loathing, not even Bellatrix and Voldemort during the final battle.
He sighed and rolled over, hoping for a dreamless sleep. What else was there to do in this wasteland.
(*)(*)(*)
Three weeks passed before it happened, a warm white light seeming to grow from the lingering darkness of the cavern. Harry looked up curiously from his meal, a rare treat of raw fish that had been washed into the cell by the last tide, wondering if this was perhaps another torture devised by the Malfoys. The family had been hurt badly by his actions, perhaps worse than his own had, and new trials were often added to The Black Cells to remind the prisoners that they did not forgive those who had hurt them.
His mouth went dry as he saw the light take shape, fiery red hair falling over a heart shaped face as sorrowful, emerald eyes gazed at him. The darkness and chill seemed to recede, filling the air around him with soothing warmth as the woman approached.
He had seen her twice before in his life, excluding his first year upon this world when she had still been alive. The first time had been in the Mirror of Erised, the second had been with the help of the resurrection stone in the Forbidden Forest before he had died to kill Voldemort.
The thought amused him, he was the Master of Death, having united the three hallows and look at him now . . . a fiendish bastard who deserved to rot in the blackest pits of Hell. It seemed there was some irony in the world, so much like the tale of the Three Brothers who had been corrupted by Death in the beginning.
"Do you hate me?" he asked the woman, his voice crackling like shards of ice crashing to the floor.
"No," she said in a soft, sad voice as she came to sit beside him upon the floor, her spectral body radiating with the heat and serenity he had only known once before, in that brief time when he had died.
"I do not hate you, Harry," Lily Evans continued, "But I am so disappointed in you."
Her words stung him worse than he had expected, her hate and scorn he could deal with. But to know that he had disappointed the mother who had given her life for him . . . that was just another dagger through his rotting heart.
He didn't even bother contemplating how his deceased mother had manifested within The Black Cells of Azkaban; he had seen much stranger things in his life. At the very least she did not appear to be a Shadow and he absurdly wished he could have paid greater attention in History of Magic so as to better understand what his mother had become.
"I am a Daemon," she said, plucking the thoughts from his head and answering them. She was strong, not as powerful as The Dark Lady but still strong enough to engage in telepathy and mild telekinesis. Lily knew that she would not be able to thwart The Dark Lady on her own for she was but a harbinger from behind the Veil, sent back to prepare the world for the coming conflict.
"A Guardian Spirit," said Harry in wonder as he reached out to try and touch her, wincing involuntarily as his hand passed through her as if she was made of mist and light. He opened his mouth to speak again but she silenced him with a look.
"Sleep now, son," she said, "We will talk in the morning."
(*)(*)(*)
Lily Evans stared at her sleeping son, sorrow and pity flooding her essence as she took in his skeletal frame and scarred skin. Her boy had destroyed himself, had destroyed his family but she could not hate him.
As his mother she could never bring herself to hate him, she may feel ashamed of his actions but in the end she would always love him.
His role in the coming war was fast approaching. He was the Master of Death and Lily knew that only he could bring back the one would the power to vanquish The Dark Lady. To battle something so dark and depraved their side would need a paragon of innocence and purity to lead them into the apocalyptic fight.
The tides of war were rising faster than she had initially predicted, the Doors of Death hung on by just a single hinge as the Cultists prepared for their ritual. For just as Death had a Master, it also had a Mistress . . . and the Cultists would no doubt use her to bring back their darkest weapon. Lily prayed with all her heart and soul that that may be averted but she knew that lest she acted quickly, what had been foretold would come to pass.
She couldn't fail her family again.
Two sides were vying in a fight that would determine the fate of the world. Both had champions that needed to be brought back from beyond the Veil and it was this that made Lily look at her son with such sadness. Yes, she was sad to see what he had become but her sorrow stemmed from knowledge that ran far deeper than her familial pain.
Harry would have to give life to their side's hero . . . but only death can pay for life.
(*)(*)(*)
A/N: Sorry for the late update my good readers, this officially begins Arc 2 of Call Me Home and is a shade darker than Arc 1.
Please do leave me your thoughts in your reviews; I do look forward to reading them. The next chapter will be up within the next three days.
Oh yes, just another reminder that Arc 2 has a two year time jump from the moment of Scorpius and Lily's reconciliation.