The Obsidian Phoenix

By Michael "candle" Mazzaferri

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Summary: Every thing has gone wrong. Voldemort survived the battle thought to have killed him, and has in turn killed Harry Potter's wife and children. Now Harry wishes only for death. After fulfilling his desire, he is given a choice, and decides to go back and try to correct a terrible mistake.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction based on the previous works of J.K. Rowling and Piers Anthony. Anything recognized from their respective fiction is owned by them and their publishers, not me. Any characters, events, or places elsewise are mine, and mine alone. This story was also inspired by the works of S'TarKan, Intromit, and Rasberry Jo, all of whom have derived their stories from J.K. Rowling.

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Prologue: Death's Gift

Harry Potter gazed out across the sea at the small chain of islands that had belonged to his family for generations. His wild black hair had been slicked down by the rain that trickled to the ground around him. Down the road at his back stood the village where his parents had been murdered when he was a baby. The particular island where Harry's emerald gaze fell had been home to his family for generations. He had even lived there with his wife and children after they thought the war was over. They were wrong.

Harry remembered all those that had died during the war. Sometimes, it seemed as if everyone he ever knew or loved ended up dead because of him. First Harry's parents had died to protect him from a sociopathic killer hell-bent on world domination and calling himself Lord Voldemort. Then a boy from school that he barely even knew died just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time when Voldemort was resurrected.

Not more than a year later, Harry's godfather, Sirius Black had died trying to rescue him from the Death Eaters, Voldemort's elite followers. After that was the death of Albus Dumbledore, one of the oldest and wisest men he had ever known and respected. Once Dumbledore fell, the world around Harry collapsed in on itself. No longer needing to fear Dumbledore, Lord Voldemort, was back in power.

The next two years brought nothing but pain and misery to Harry Potter as, one by one, his friends fell to Voldemort's wand. Harry's only weapon was a prophecy made before he was born – a prophecy Voldemort had never heard the full version of. It spoke of a child that could destroy him, and how neither could truly live while the other survived. Known by his lightning bolt shaped scar, Harry Potter was that child.

On the eve of the seventeenth anniversary of his parents' death, Harry Potter was faced with an incredibly tough decision. Voldemort's lackeys had captured one of Harry's closest friends, one who had stood by him even when the world turned its back. Hermione Granger was to be executed at the stroke of midnight unless Harry Potter gave himself up. Losing her was something Harry could not abide – even if it meant the end to the small resistance he led.

Somehow, just as Harry prepared to give himself up, Hermione escaped. But she no longer mattered as Voldemort sprang his trap. Harry had anticipated the ambush, however, and a large battle ensued. Of the two, Harry was the stronger, but Voldemort was far more experienced. For hours, Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort dueled, neither holding an obvious advantage. Raising him slightly from his depressed state of mind, Harry Potter remembered the surprise and joy he had felt at what happened next.

When Hermione learned that Harry had sacrificed himself to save her, she returned to Voldemort's stronghold to help him. Arriving on the battlefield in the nick of time, Hermione was able to distract Voldemort long enough for Harry to gain the upper hand. Together, they defeated Lord Voldemort and put an end to his reign of terror.

Anger filled his green eyes as Harry recalled the terrible events of the past few months. Lord Voldemort had somehow survived the battle, and his followers stumbled upon the little that remained of him nearly six years after the fact. Through the darkest of rituals, they revived him once more. The insane wizard was still filled with contempt for those who had triumphed against him. Voldemort knew that he had to rid himself of them all in one fell swoop.

When he and his followers were finally ready, they fell upon the island where Harry Potter and Hermione Granger lived now that they had been married. It had never fallen in the nearly fifteen hundred years it had been in the Potter family, but that was not the dark lord's plan. Instead, he and a select few would sneak in and destroy Harry's family in the only way they knew how - through terror and pain; through rape and violence. They caught the Potters at home eating a meal, and a new war had begun.

Like the rain, tears flowed freely from the Harry's face as he remembered that horrid night. His children had been tortured in front of his eyes. After the Death Eaters had had their fun, the children were forced to kill each other and the Voldemort's men moved on to his wife. Harry clenched his fists and rage flowed though him as he thought of what they did to her. When faced with the deaths of her children and her own plight, Hermione's mind had fled to try and save her from the terror. Her spine had broken while she writhed in pain and Hermione Potter was left for dead.

All through this, Harry Potter had been left bound upon the floor. He screamed and tried to tear at his bonds, screaming until nothing came. No sound, no thought, nothing. Knowing he had finally had his revenge, the Voldemort placed his archenemy in the care of the dementors – minions that would force Harry to relive every painful memory in vivid detail. He could scarcely remember the coming months. In truth, he did not want to. It was during his captivity that he had been forced to realize the truth.

The night his parents had died at Lord Voldemort's hands had been the cause of it all. When the stick of wood that took Harry's parents from him was finally turned on their baby boy, it had balked. Instead of killing him as intended, that little piece of wood had caused something both marvelous and terrible to happen. When the curse backfired, Voldemort's soul was ripped from his body, and a bond was formed between him and Harry. Indeed, part of the killer's soul had somehow found its way into the Harry's body.

This terrible truth – the fact that the only way for Voldemort to truly die was for Harry to die as well – had been the burden that finally killed his Albus Dumbledore. It was this train of thought that had brought the Harry to this lonely bluff. He had been rescued after just a few short months of captivity only to be forced back into this war he had thought long over.

Faced with no other options, Harry Potter, who had once been a hero, chose to die. He felt there was a certain poetry that it should happen here. Harry had escaped once again, this time from those who sought his guidance rather than his suffering.

Slowly, the tears stopped, though the rain continued to pitter patter, falling faster now. Harry Potter raised his hand, a small slender piece of holly loosely grasped within it. He pointed the stick at his temple, and swiftly uttered two words; just two. It was the same two words that had taken his parents from him; the same words that had been used to kill countless others who had stood against Lord Voldemort. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his last thoughts of the only one left who could possibly finish the task he had failed. After all, they not siblings, weren't they? Shouldn't she be able to do what he could not?

Shortly after Harry had taken his final breath, a majestic bird appeared from within the green flame that had just spawned beside him. It was the legendary phoenix, but unlike most phoenixes however, this one had plumage of silver and green. She – for there was no mistaking it was a she – alighted on the corpse's chest and wept, letting out a low, mournful tune. She had protected and guided this poor soul, almost from the cradle. It was she who had rescued him from his torturous captivity; she who had healed his physical wounds.

Once, she had been worshipped as a god and, once upon a time, she could have convinced Death to release his hold, but that had been long, long ago. Now she could only grieve the passing of an old friend. It was a few moments until she heard the sound of hooves striking water. The phoenix lifted her head and gazed out at the sea towards the same island that had been the Harry Potter's last sight.

Impossibly, she saw a dark figure astride a pale horse galloping across the water. The horse leapt, and suddenly they were right next to her. The rider reined in, allowing the regal bird a better look. She cringed back as she realized who exactly he was. This newcomer was clothed entirely in a tattered black robe. On the side of the horse was slung a large farming scythe. As he dismounted, the rider noticed the phoenix and spoke gently, "I did not expect to find you here, Wisdom."

The phoenix trilled back at him, and the rider seemed to understand because he cocked his ear to listen better. He paused for a moment and then knelt beside the lifeless body on which she was perched before gazing at the corpse's face.

"So, this is your protégé? This is the one who was supposed to stay the hand of Armageddon?" He snorted, "Doesn't look like he'll be stopping anything anytime soon."

Once again the majestic bird trilled at him, this time angrily. Ignoring her comment, the dark rider continued, "And here, I thought you were supposed to be an Incarnation. Pray haps we should find a replacement?"

At this, the silver bird fell silent. The rider reached out a hand, and the ancient avian noted that it was bone. He placed his hand onto the man's chest, and it sunk in until all that was visible were the wrist bones as they came out of the black robe's sleeve. Tendons pulled taught, and the figure slowly pulled back.

Clutched in his hand was what appeared to be a silver piece of fabric, though closer inspection revealed it to actually be mottled black and white. This is what the rider had come for. He was the Incarnation of Death after all, and it was his job to collect the souls of those whose lives had been of near perfect balance. Attached to the soul was a tattered remnant that was almost entirely black. He could tell that this did not belong to the man for whom he had come.

In his many centuries as the Reaper, this man had become able to read a person's soul just by the size and shape of the white splotches that were their good deeds, and the black blots that were their sins. He could tell that this man had led a good life with many great deeds by the fact that all the white areas were large. However, there were countless small black spots, all of a similar shape. The Reaper knew that these were the shape of murder, but he also knew that most of those deaths – like that of the Hermione Potter and their children – were not truly his fault. Others were those he had personally led or killed in battle. Still others were those that had given their lives to save his.

These were the worst because suicide was widely considered the most terrible of sins. The Harry's own death was by far the largest spot on his soul. Of course sacrifice was holy, and so the imbalance was shoved onto the person for whom the sinner had died. The Reaper knew the system was broken, but he knew he could not fix it and no longer cared to. It was not his place; he was just the ferryman, come to collect the toll.

The Reaper pulled the soul taught, and then gave it a quick yank. The other end tore and came free. He swiftly folded it and tucked it into the bag at his side. He knew the only place to determine where this soul was meant to go was his home in Purgatory. His purpose was not just to collect the souls of those in balance, but to help them to wherever they deserved to spend eternity – be it salvation or damnation. As he mounted his horse again, he glanced back at the minor Incarnation still perched upon the chest of her companion.

"You're welcome to come with me, of course. Maybe you can help me figure out where to place him." With those words, Death turned his horse about and kicked him into a canter. He heard a flap of wings and felt a weight press in on his right shoulder. Only a portion of his lip turned slightly upward before a portal opened in front of him and he rode off into the land of the lost. The corpse of the man said to save the world lay cold and forgotten on the ground of a loney bluff overlooking a small chain of islands as the rain continued to fall.

Many kilometers away, a young girl of no more than twelve summers awoke with a fright. Her mother rushed into the room at the sounds of her daughter's screams. Though her warm brown eyes were still filled with tears, when her mother asked about the nightmare, the girl did not respond. How could you tell your mother when you weren't even sure of what was so frightening?

As it was with most dreams, the girl could not remember the details very well. What she did remember, however, seemed to fill her with a deep emotional pain and longing. It somehow felt similar to when she had attended her grandfather's funeral last year, but stronger; she felt as if someone she had known and cared for deeply had just died, and she had yet to grieve.

After a few moments in her mother's arms, the bushy-haired girl fell back to sleep, and the mother returned to her husband's side in their bed. The young girl tightly clutched at the sheets she lay under and dreamed again. This time, the dreams seemed to be of a more peaceful nature, and the girl forgot all about the nightmare and the emotions that it brought.

Still further away, in what was called a normal house by most, a young and most unusual boy with wild black hair and brilliant green eyes awakened from a strange dream. He had dreamt of magic and evil wizards, of love and pain, and of a life away from his hated aunt and uncle. Shortly there after, he heard his aunt screech and bang on the door to his tiny little cupboard under the stairs, telling him to get up and help make breakfast…