From the Abyss
The Trip Home
By Ruskbyte
Chapter Two
~ The Trip Home ~
I hardly recognise myself.
It's true. Standing here, in front of the mirror, I cannot see any resemblance to the young and innocent boy that once attended Hogwarts. Gone is the short little midget that my housemates used to tease me of being. I'm a good foot taller now. It was easy to will myself to shoot up like a rocket in the space of a minute. I haven't measured or anything, but I'm probably around six and a half feet.
Imposing.
I enjoy no longer having to look up at people.
Instead they now have to look up at me.
I have to duck when I go through doors.
Unfortunately I learned that the hard way.
My scrawny underfed orphan look is gone too. I definitely don't look like Hercules or anything, but I have that lean muscled appearance of a professional athlete. I like the way it causes my shirt to stretch tightly across my chest and shoulders. A vast improvement to Dudley's cast-offs which hung from me like skinned elephant hides.
The most noticeable change, primarily to hide my appearance, is my face. The unruly mop of raven black hair that I inherited from my father is gone. As are the bright and intense green eyes that I was always being told were carbon copies of my mother's eyes. My hair is now a dark blonde, straight and neat as a pin, professionally and tastefully combed back. My eyes --no longer hidden behind those horrible round glasses-- are as black as the night. They are just as I remember Hagrid's eyes being.
He was a true friend.
Unlike others.
He never doubted me, regardless what was said about me.
Unlike others.
And now he's dead.
Unlike others.
My face is also different. Not much, but enough. Squarer chin. More definition around the cheeks and nose. Harder lips and a distinct lack of laugh lines around my eyes and mouth. Frown lines and scowl lines though. Lots of them. Leftovers from an unrelenting life of hardship and three years of insanity in the world's most terrible prison.
I could out glare Snape if I tried.
I turn around to see my scar. My famous scar. That accursed scar, which I loath almost as much as Voldemort and all the other witches and wizards in the world. I can't get rid of it. Even with my powers I cannot remove its blight from my body. I cannot properly hide it either. Instead I have contented myself with shifting it from its place on my forehead.
Now, staring over my shoulder to my naked body in the mirror, I appreciate what it has become. My scar now rests on my right shoulder blade. It is almost completely disguised from view by the tattoo I imagined there. A phoenix rising from the ashes on a dark, stormy and thundering night. My scar blends in seamless with the stylised lightning flashing across the background.
Surprisingly it looks very professional. I have trouble drawing stick figures, but this looks like some renaissance painting. That is if Leonardo ever tried to smoke pot and paint the Mona Lisa at the same time. Pot. Weed. Tried it last week. Good stuff. Made me forget for an hour or two. Looking at my scar, hidden as it is, I can't help but remember. The golden tan of my skin and slightly faded colours make the image look far older than the three months it has been there.
Three months.
Three months of wonderful and glorious freedom.
Three months of food, drink and sex.
I'll admit, the food cannot truly match the feasts at Hogwarts. But after three years trapped within Azkaban --and my own mind-- even gruel would be a delicacy to me. The drinks are not really for taste either, but mostly the effects the alcohol produces, the pleasant buzz in my brain and the warmth in my gut.
The sex...
It's just that. Sex. Fucking. It has been wild and passionate and feral and crazed and harsh. All that and more. But no love involved. None. It was just sex. Fucking. I chuckle under my breath, not wanting to wake the sleeping girl in my bed, at the feeling of power it has given me. I'm positive that I've shagged more women in the past three months than my so-called "friends" have during the three years I was trapped in Azkaban.
Heh. Probably more than they'll ever get in their lifetimes, even if they live to be three hundred.
How many?
I don't know. I don't care.
Fifty? A hundred? More? Around that I'd hazard. I honestly don't care. Care? Careful? Why should I be careful? I'm a wizard. No. I'm beyond a wizard. If it didn't sound so conceited I'd declare that I was a god.
I am.
A hundred women in three months. At least one a day. Sometimes more. Some I let them spend the night with me, bringing them back to the hotel I'm staying at. Expensive hotel. Grand. Big bathtub. The other women I was content to shag wherever I happened to find them. In the manager's office. In the mens' room. In the ladies' room. In the back seat of a car. In the parking lot. Their husband's bed. Anywhere I felt like it.
They were all Muggles of course.
Amusing, wouldn't you agree? The famous and much celebrated Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who saved the wizarding world while still a baby, losing his virginity to a Muggle girl rather than a witch. And yes, she was merely a girl. Her name was Sarah. Princess. I didn't bother beyond that. She was fifteen and happened to be walking past the first pub I had stopped at when she caught my eye. Her eyes were brown as was her hair, which was curly. Somewhat bushy. She was a bit shorter than I would have been had I not altered my body. She didn't even reach my new shoulders. Reminded me a bit of Hermione.
That's probably why I was so rough with her.
I simply drew her to me, using my magic to make her follow me without complaint behind the bar. She will never realise that she was not acting of her own free will. I could have used the Imperious Curse. I don't need to. She will never believe that everything that happened wasn't her idea. It was mine. She will never know.
It was the same with all of them.
They will never know what I really did to them.
Does that make me a coward?
I don't know. I don't care.
Once we were alone in the pub's storeroom, I briefly questioned her. Just her name, age and the fact that she too was a virgin, nothing more. I wasn't really interesting. I'm still not. There were no preliminaries in my actions when I started. All I wanted was to fuck her.
And I did.
Not totally heartless, not yet anyway, I made the experience a pleasurable one for her. For all of them. By the time I came inside her, after pounding relentlessly for long minutes, she had come more times than I could count. She was quite willing to service me again after that, never realising that her pleasure had only existed because I used my magic to induce it.
And she did service me again.
I took her from behind. Then I sodomised her.
I altered her mind so she enjoyed it.
Can it still be called rape if she did?
I don't know. I don't care.
I left her lying face down in the storeroom, barely conscious, her clothes scattered around her, her slender legs spread wide and her battered and bruised holes dripping with a mixture of her juices, her blood and my sperm.
With the others, except the ones I brought to my hotel room, I didn't even bother to learn their names. The ones I brought back? Not really important, I'm not even sure I remember the name of the well satiated blonde that I am watching sleep in my bed now that I've left the bathroom. She's fairly tall for a woman, slender too. Older than me, probably in her early thirties and married to a bloke called Jeremy (funny how I can remember his name but not hers). Lucky bastard, she's a great lay. Quite a screamer too.
So... three months of unrelenting and shameless self indulgence.
I could live like this forever.
But yesterday was the last day.
For now.
Yesterday I felt it.
My scar.
I had forgotten.
You-Know-Who.
Our bond.
Voldemort.
My blood.
Tom Riddle.
His blood.
Blood.
Ours.
I had been hoping that with the destruction of Azkaban that my part in all that would finally be over. Harry Potter was, as far as anyone knew, dead. Dead. Unmourned as well, no doubt. I go back into the bathroom, dip my head in the sink and turn on the tap. The cold water pouring over my head is refreshing. Relaxing.
Thank God my scar's no longer on my forehead - no more splitting headaches whenever my dear old friend is in a foul mood.
Thank God?
Thank god?
Thank me?
Am i a god?
A god can to do anything. I can also do anything.
--and more--
When I return to the wizarding world--
which will be soon
--will they hail me as a savour?
A prodigal son returned?
Somehow I don't think so.
I'm sure Jesus also had days like this.
Of course, he only had one Judas to betray him.
Does this mean I have a messiah complex?
Or a god complex?
Enough.
Enough.
Enough.
Enough.
Enough.
I wonder why I haven't felt anything before now. Has Voldemort been inactive for three years? Doubt it. Why would he stop? No. Was I too crazy to feel the burning pain that used to shoot through my head? Could be. Probably helped keep me insane that. Insaner than I was anyway. Insaner than I am? Am I still insane?
I must be.
I'm going back.
to hogwarts
That's nuts.
I shake myself out of my aimless wanderings of thought and turn back to the matter at hand. I think I'm drowning. I pull my head out of the sink and close the tap. The water is overflowing and dripping onto the floor. I walk back into the bedroom. Water is dripping down me. My shoulders, my chest, my back are wet. Lauren (I remember her name now) has shifted about and is now lying on her back, sprawled across the bed.
Beautiful knockers. I can see bite marks --mine-- around her nipples.
Her flesh is bruised and discoloured. I can see a little blood as well.
I clearly remember the taste and her loud cry when I pierced her skin.
Can't waste time admiring the view though. I have to leave.
Pity.
I was planning to shag her again this morning as a wakeup call.
The thought is making me hard.
I'm still horny after last night.
No time.
Still a pity.
Water's gone. I'm dry. Lauren's wet. Between her legs. I remember the taste of her on my lips. She's frigging herself. Must be a nice dream. I don't dream. Three months I've been free from Azkaban. I haven't had a dream. Not that I can remember at least. The last dream I remember was before I was imprisoned. It was about Hermione. It wasn't sexual in nature. Just pleasant. Comfortable.
I should've fucked the snotty bitch when I had the chance.
I run my fingers over my left cheek.
Scars. Three of them. Parallel slashes across my face. Hermione gave them to me. After the trial, when the Aurors were dragging me away. She slapped me. Harder than she slapped Malfoy in our third year. I felt the sting. A little blood too. Her nails must have scratched me. Was it an accident or on purpose?
I don't know.
I never got a chance to see the scratches before I arrived at Azkaban. I don't think they should have left scars. Not such obvious ones any way. It must have been the prison. They got infected and didn't heal properly. I was quite surprised when I saw them for the first time, after getting out of the hot bath --with pink bubbles-- that I had drawn after taking the room.
I kept them. As a reminder. She doubted me. She didn't trust me when I said I was innocent. They all doubted me. None of them trusted me. I was innocent. And they let me be destroyed.
But I'm better now.
Gone now. I can't keep them if I'm going back. Someone might suspect. Especially the whore that gave them to me. Hermione's a smart witch, rhymes with bitch, even if she abandoned me. I wonder who she ran to afterwards? Ron? Probably. I imagine they were going at each other like rabbits before I'd even been gone a day.
My clothes. Scattered around the bedroom. Shorts. Trousers. Shirt. Hmm... where the bleeding shit have my socks gotten to? Socks. Dobby... will he recognise me? He's a house-elf, not a human so I don't know. I'll have to see. Ah. There they are. How'd they get there?
Lauren's moaning. She must be getting close.
I'm dressed. The room's paid for.
I leave.
London.
Big city.
Small world.
I'm outside the Leaky Cauldron. It's still early. Not a lot of Muggles on the streets. Not too many cars out either. Perfect. I never liked crowds. I still don't. Even less than before.
Hmm...
Place doesn't seem to have changed. Not on the outside anyway. Okay. Okay, the inside is clearly a different story. Practically deserted. Two hags in a corner. Smoking. Not fags. Not cigars. In between. Drinks. Fire whiskey? One wizard in dark brown robes. Pipe. Eggs and bacon. Toast. Tea? Coffee. Who's this? Not Tom. I don't really like the look of him. Tom at least knows how to smile.
"Can I help you, sir?" he asks. No, I don't like him.
"Where's Tom?" I ask back, scanning the nearly empty room.
The man looks puzzled for a moment. "Tom? I'm sorry, but the previous owner was killed in the Death Eater attack on the alley two years ago."
Two years ago. One year into my insanity.
"Pity." I liked Tom. He was always helpful to me.
Welcome back, Mr Potter, welcome back.
I'm leaving, heading out back to the entrance. I ignore any further attempts the new bartender tries to make in talking to me. Ah, here I am. Interesting. The arch into the alley is being guarded. Two Aurors. I hate Aurors. The ones guarding me during my trial beat the crap out of me. I was barely conscious for when the verdict was finally announced.
Two men. One fairly young, the other a bit older. Mid twenties and late thirties I'd say. Doesn't really matter. Don't know them. Don't want to. They're looking at me. Clearly suspicious. Damn. Forgot to transfigure my Muggle clothing into appropriate robes.
Talk my way out? my way in? Whatever.
Too much of a hassle.
The younger Auror obediently taps at the necessary bricks. The older one resumes his watch for those evil Death Eaters that are going to be waltzing in through the front door. Right. Neither of them were difficult to manipulate. Curious. I'd thought magical folk would be harder to control than Muggles. Guess not. They're as easy as the Muggle women I forced myself on.
I step through the stone archway.
Diagon Alley.
Diagonally.
Horizontal.
Vertical.
Free fall.
Falling.
I'm falling.
I've fallen.
A fallen angel?
--A broken angel--
I can remember my first visit here, with Hagrid as my guide, as if it had happened yesterday. It had been a world of wonder to me. So young back then. Still so innocent. A boy that had spent a decade living in a cupboard under the stairs. Sometimes I wish I'd never left that cupboard. It's not a world of wonder anymore.
Hagrid's gone.
Almost as empty as the pub. Most of the shops aren't open yet. Closed? Temporary? Permanent. Aw, no. Quality Quidditch Supplies. Ruined. If I find the dumb fuck that burnt down what was once my favourite shop I'll rip his tonsils out - through his arsehole! Then I'll tear his head off and shit down the bleeding stump--
No.
Save that for whoever framed me.
Revenge.
Focus.Focus.Focus.Focus.Focus.Here.Now.
It's almost scary, how quiet this place is now. Used to be alive with chatter and talk and loud, argumentative (but playful) bargaining. Feels like a tomb. Chamber of Secrets. Tom. Diary. Ginny. Malfoy. Lucius. Draco. Wonder what happened to him? Maybe I'll be lucky and find out that he seduced that little redhaired bitch, made Ron an uncle and gave the entire dickless family heart attacks.
Malfoy never betrayed me.
He hated me. I hated him.
We understood each other.
Hmm... nice bum that one has. Slender but somehow ample. Very fuckable. I'm such a horny bastard these days. Maybe I'll put off my return for another day, have a taste of some witch pussy before getting back in. Certainly like to get in her pants. Fine arse and her tits are nice and perky too... fuck... is that... fuck.
Katie Bell? Hardly recognised her. Haven't seen her since I was betrayed. She was in her last year, I was in sixth. Hair's longer than I remember. Blonder. Wilder. Outdoor life? Outdoor job? Interesting the way she's walking. Very purposeful. Outdoor job.
Wonder which side she chose.
Dumbledore?
Voldemort?
Fucker Fudge?
I'll lay odds on Dumbledore. Katie was always the more cautious of the three girls. Our old team. We were the best. I miss those days. Me, Oliver, Fred, George, Alicia, Angelina and Katie. We were the best Quidditch team Hogwarts had ever seen.
Until I was cast out.
She's looking at me. Seen me watching her. I'm right outside my destination. Good. She's got a glare on her this one. Checking me out - not in a friendly fashion either. Probably thinks I'm a Death Eater. Fuck, I still forgot to put robes on. Oh well. I smirk at her, something I learned from Malfoy. Visibly look her over - like a side of beef. Cute, she's blushing.
I nod politely, smirk broadening. Step inside. See you around, Katie.
Ah. At least this place hasn't changed. Still crammed full of boxes. From floor to ceiling and all the way into the musty depths of the back. Lots of dust. Doesn't Ollivander ever bother to clean this place?
"Yes?"
Yep. Hasn't changed. The sly old bugger still creeps me out. Must be the knowing smile. And the eyes. That pale blue. Like moons. Moons. Moony. Remus Lupin. He's a werewolf. Has the Ministry, the world, persecuted him unjustly as it did me? He's looking at me funny. Seems puzzled. Of course - he remembers every wand he's ever sold. Every customer as well. He can't recognise me.
"I need a wand," I tell him.
"But of course, Mister..." he trails off. He's expecting a name.
Hmm... Hadn't really thought about it. Match his stare. I'll worry about it later. For now, I'll just keep my mouth shut. Wizards pay far too much attention to names. It's annoying. Eventually Ollivander seems to realize I will not be forthcoming. He wants to know which is my wand arm.
"Whichever I need it to be."
He blinks at my answer. Pulls out his tape measure. It works over both my arms while he potters (I hate puns, so why'd I think that?) around. He's trying to get me to talk. Going on about wands and their cores and other shit. Not really interested. I don't need a wand to do magic. I'm only getting one because people will expect me to have one.
I wonder what happened to my old wand? Dumbledore took it away when I was arrested. Did he snap it in half? They're supposed to do that if you get expelled. Did it to Hagrid. Or maybe he kept it. After all, it's the brother wand to Voldemort’s. Same phoenix, Fawkes, gave the feathers. He no doubt thinks he might find a use for it in the future.
He won't. It's mine.
Maybe I'll reclaim it. For sentimental reasons.
"Typically an Ollivander's wand used to contain one of three possible types of magical cores."
He's still talking.
"Dragon heartstring, Unicorn hair and Phoenix feather. In recent years, since the second rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, I have begun experimenting with other magical substances."
Curious. I wonder, "Why?"
Ollivander pierces me with those pale eyes. A sharp look. "These are dangerous times, sir. People may have a need for more powerful, more robust wands than before."
He has a large assortment of boxes in his arms. He drops them on the counter and rummages through them. Pulls out one box and opens it. I accept the wand he holds out to me.
Twelve inches. Jacaranda. Griffin hair.
No.
Ten inches. Blue gum. Triffid stem.
No.
Eleven and a half inches. Maple. Veela hair.
No.
Nine inches.
No.
Willow.
No.
Sphinx feather.
No.
No.
No.
No.
No.
For crying out loud, I'm sure it didn't take this long the last time I was here. He's gone through a hundred wands. At least. Shit, I think he's actually enjoying himself. Yes, he's having a good time of it. Muttering something about a tricky customer again. I should have just gone to a Muggle pool hall and swiped a cue. Made myself a wand from that.
"Yes, yes. Perhaps. This one? I wonder."
Something about that look in those pale eyes of his. It seems familiar. It's that same look he gave me nine years ago, when I first came here. The look he gave me just before he handed me my wand. My first wand. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.
"Holly and phoenix feather," he says.
My heart stops.
"Eleven inches, nice and supple."
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Shit and piss!
Does he know?
Will he tell?
"It is a unique wand. Only one other like it in the world," his eyes are almost glowing. "Just the one... and that other's brother. I remember that brother well. Yew. Thirteen and a half inches. Very powerful. Much like its twin, upon which this wand is based. Different core unfortunately."
I take the damn wand.
My fingers can feel a comfortable warmth as I hold it. The air around me swirls and ruffles my now blonde hair. A light seems to envelop me, centred around the wand. Red and gold. Sparks stream from the wand's tip. Just like last time.
"That will be twenty Galleons, sir." I arch an eyebrow at the price. Last time it was only seven. He looks faintly apologetic as he shrugs. "These are hard times, sir."
I reach into the pocket of my Muggle coat, I have to remember to change it to wizard robes, and pull out a small bag which is heavy with gold and silver coins. Just as I took money from the Muggle machine upon arriving in Aberdeen, I took a fair bit of Galleons and Sickles from one of Gringotts' vaults when I entered Diagon Alley.
Not my own, of course. Malfoy's.
I take revenge where I can.
Even if he didn't betray me.
"Take care, sir," Ollivander tells me as I'm leaving. "The last owner of such a wand, did many terrible things with it."
I look back at him and say, "Terrible, yes, but great."
He's smiling.
He knows.
I leave the shop.
He isn't smiling.
He doesn't know.
Hopefully my Memory Charm will work better than Lockhart's did.
'Allo 'allo 'allo...
It would seem Katie has decided to hang around and keep an eye on me. She's trying not to be too conspicuous about it. Standing outside Madam Malkins and peering into the window at the robes displayed there. She's watching my reflection off the glass. I want to fuck her. I wonder how she'd react if I went over and propositioned her.
Hey, want to grab a room in the Leaky Cauldron and have a quick shag?
I'm tempted to try, but I need to restrain myself. If she works for Dumbledore, which I suspect she does, I might get a chance to meet her when I go to Hogwarts. Maybe then I'll see if witches are as fun to play with under the sheets as Muggle women are. Still, no reason why I can't be a bit of a flirt right now though.
I need wizards robes. She's outside Madam Malkins. Perfect.
I brush past her as I enter the store. I lightly stroke my hand over her tight buns, earning a surprised squeak. Oh, she'll be a fun one in the sack. A squeaker, not a screamer. I'm inside before she can recover from her shock. I walk into the racks of robes, moving deep into the shop until I'm out of sight. She can't see me leave.
Ottery St. Catchpole.
Seriously fucked up name that.
Seriously fucked up village for that matter.
Looks like an army of Death Eaters marched through here. Probably just what happened. The Burrow is in about the same condition as Quality Quidditch Supplies. Didn't happen recently either, the smell of smoke and burnt wood has faded away. Must have happened around the same time as the attack on Diagon Alley. Two years ago.
I wonder if anyone died?
Did the Death Eaters kill them? Was it Avada Kedavra?
Or where they crushed by the house when it collapsed?
Perhaps they were burnt alive in the fire afterwards.
I don't know. I don't care.
With a lazy wave of my hand (I'm feeling extravagant) the Burrow is repaired. It's perfect in everyway. Just as it was. Just as I remember it being in the summer before my sixth year. Before my adopted family threw me aside and let me rot in Azkaban. I just rebuilt an entire house from the ground up in less than a second. I'm not tired. I can't even detect any sign of strain or exertion.
Another wave of my hand (I'm feeling very extravagant) and the house is even better. The skew lines and angles and walls are now straight. Almost machined to exactingly perfect standards. My standards. Not just outside, but inside as well. The Burrow no longer looks in imminent danger of falling on its side. Maybe I should visit the Leaning Tower of Pisa as well.
Pizza. I'm hungry.
Thirsty too.
I want a stout.
There's nothing left for me to do here. I couldn't be bothered going inside and looking things over. Too many memories, happy memories, reside inside this house. If I went inside I'd be forced to remember them. Besides, I have to go to Hogwarts. I'm not even sure why I came here in the first place.
To see the Weasleys?
Why?
They betrayed me.
The house falls into ruin again.
Like a house of cards collapsing.
Cards. Exploding cards. Exploding snap.
I used to play that with Ron.
On the train ride to Hogwarts.
In our common room at Hogwarts.
Hogwarts.
I'm outside the doors of Hogwarts. The castle is looming up in front of me. I'm surprised there aren't any guards visible. I look back and can see four wizards, Aurors probably, standing watch by the main gates. Of course. You cannot Apparate or Disapparate on Hogwarts grounds. They wouldn't expect me to bypass the gates entirely. After all, I don't Apparate.
Nobody else can do what I do.
I'm better than I was before.
better. stronger. faster.
I don't know why. I don't care either.
I just am.
I study the castle for a minute. Nothing seems to have changed since I was here last. According to my watch --a Rolex I acquired during my stay in Aberdeen-- I've arrived just in time for breakfast. Perfect. I don't care about the breakfast. I'm hungry though. I ignore it. Still, it does give me a perfect opportunity to make an entrance. It will be fun to see everyone's reactions when I burst in on them. Interrupt their pleasant little lives with the chaos that follows my every move.
Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who was betrayed and abandoned by those he trusted, is back at Hogwarts after a three year absence. I'm going to rock their world and turn their reality inside out and outside in. And they'll never know it's me doing it. I'm not going to tell them until I know the revelation will destroy them. Or until I destroy them myself. Maybe I won't ever tell them. Maybe they'll never know who it is that will finish them.
Sad really.
And I still need to transfigure myself some robes.
But you know what the worst of it is?
I'm still fucking horny.
TBC....