Phoenix Blood, a harry potter fanfic

It was done.

Finally, after decades of pain and terror and cold-blooded murder, it was all over.

Lord Voldemort was dead. He too had become a victim to the genocide of his own design. The last in a long line of hundreds, …thousands, before him.

But this time, he wouldn't come back.

…One by one his horcruxes had fallen. The cup was broken. The snake… Nagani had been used, in a moment of pitiful irony, to block Voldemort's killing curse in the early moments of the battle. The look on his face as his final defence was destroyed and his secret revealed, was something that made Harry laugh as though he hadn't in years. Because in truth, he hadn't.

…Only cried. Cried as he lost those close to him. Even now, a tear rolled down Harry's cheek as he clenched the locket in his bloody palms. Even though it was for this tiny thing that Dumbledore had died for, Harry claimed it as his own. It was his locket of memories. A reminder of what it had cost to bring him to this moment. It itself held a memory of the man who retrieved it, and the poison that he had drunk.

Within, the single picture of Sirius that had been taken after his release. Smiling, as though he never had. It was from the Christmas they had spent together with the Weasley family at Grimmauld Place, and was also Hermione's first and only attempt at moving photographs. Needless to say, the result had been perfect.

Hermione and Ron had trained with Harry, all becoming more powerful with a speed never before seen. It was they who accompanied him when he sought out Voldemort's black relics. Even if he refused them, they still came. Ginny had trained with them also, and was nearly as strong as they were, but it was her that Harry blatantly refused to put in danger. Hermione and Ron were already well known, but Ginny was not. And he used that as an excuse to protect her. He could honestly admit, looking back at it now, that it had been selfish.

But however much he tried, he could not protect them. It was because of this that the locket contained not only a photograph, but also the few broken remains of a wand. That, had been the only thing they found after the battle, broken and scattered so freely amongst piles of blood-splattered ash.

The battle… the day another friend died. For where the death eaters failed, Voldemort himself had come to hunt them down. That battle had occurred in London, in the middle of a street. Muggles who had watched it, before their memories were erased, claimed to see a teenager, a year or two off eighteen, fighting a man with great flashes of light and flame. When asked about the man himself, they could suddenly do nothing, aught for tremble in fear.

Four had become three. Harry's closest friends had been reduced to two.

Voldemort had left another mark upon him. One Harry swore that he the dark lord would pay for, a thousand times over.

And now he had. Voldemort had been cut down, and reduced to little more than dead muscle and bone. It was an astonishing similarity, except that this time, the wand was intact.

But no victory is without its price. There was more than the Nagani's or the dark lord's blood on the ground. Much of it, perhaps most of it, was his. Harry had taken that cost willingly.

Click. Harry opened the locket, ignoring the blood which seeped in and covered the photo and wooden remains.

Snap. It slammed shut, hiding the memories of the past.

Harry coughed, then spluttered as a great rush of blood flooded his lungs.

Click.

Snap.

Click.

His vision was becoming dark. It was hard, getting harder, to see what it had all been for. He couldn't remember.

Snap.

Click.

He felt the edges of the locket, the only thing he felt. But he could not remember what it was.

Snap.

Dark...

Click.

Snap.

Dark...

---

Harry's heart leapt as something pierced the gloom.

A song.

The song.

It gave him strength, strength enough to open his eyes and see what was coming. See, and remember.

Fawkes fluttered into sight, his shining outline becoming clearer and clearer. As he landed beside Harry, the bloodied wizard reached up and patted the feathers, even though he was downing them in blood.

"Fawkes... hey, it's been a while."

The bird trilled shrilly but sadly and inclined his head, meeting Harry eye to eye.

"I guess I'm honoured..." said Harry weakly. "...that you would come here to be with me."

Fawkes was still, listening, for if just a moment. Then, he leant over the wizard, over the blood and wounds to the fatal one. A great gash, a foot long and half that deep, cut diagonally across his chest. Within the gore-splattered mess ribs were shattered, organs were punctured and a lung torn in two.

No wonder the phoenix began to cry.

The tears shone slightly as they fell, and Harry both saw them and felt them as dripped down like a few drops of rain.

But nothing happened.

Harry reached up slowly, and stroked the crimson feathers. "Sorry Fawkes. It won't work this time."

Fawkes pulled away, but he didn't stop crying. These tears were not for healing.

"I guess I don't mind. Though I would have liked to see a world without him, things were not meant to be that way."

Harry coughed, his chest heaving as blood continued to fill the gaps. "I'll get to see people again." He joked weakly, then sobered. "But I'll also miss who I'd have to wait for."

Fawkes continued crying, looking at Harry through teary eyes with a desperation the wizard had never seen.

"You're one of them, ya know?"

The crimson head shot up, but he didn't notice. His eyes began to slide shut, and his breaths becoming thinner and thinner.

The phoenix jerked and let out a high shrill. Hesitating for a moment, he raised his scarlet feathered wing over the boy, and with another sudden jerk of muscles, this time from his neck, he swung his head and beak to pierce his own immortal phoenix flesh.

Fawkes shivered his wings splattered blood across the ground. It fell like a thin river, mixing in with the soaked flesh in the wound, bright red liquid mixing with sparkling crimson.

...And slowly... it began to heal.

Seconds, though it seemed hours later, Harry was whole once more.

He still didn't move.

Fawkes folded the wing, stemming the flow of blood. He leant in, brushing his head against Harry's lifeless palms. A few tears fell.

Heartbeats slowed, and slowed more. A mouth cracked, words were uttered.

"...thank you."

Tha-thump.

The beat was ragged.

Tha-thump.

Blood flowed slower... weaker... dying.

Tha-thump.

Thump.

...thump.

...thump.

...thum...p...

The chosen one was dead.

...Fawkes let out a soundless cry, and vanished in a burst of flame. A rusty red phoenix feather drifted to the ground.

---

Someone hurried into a clearing. Robes flickered in the wake of footsteps. Behind, another person followed just behind.

He had disappeared, and they had tracked him. Powerful magic had been invoked in the effort, magic he had taught them. He had always been a good teacher.

Harry.

They knew they were getting close now.

A few more steps, they made it through some trees, blasted open a gate that stood in their way. They hurried through it, ...and they arrived.

For what had happened, what had been required, they were expecting the worst.

But their expectations could not match up to what they saw now.

The first thing the pair saw was a blackened corpse, a wand unheld by its side. Thirteen and a half inches, yew.

For a moment, they feared the worst. But then they realised this man was too tall to be the wizard, the friend, that they sought. One leant gingerly to the side and suddenly leapt back. For she had finally seen what was hidden underneath layers of clotted blood and burnt skin. A pair of ruby eyes.

Even if it was dead, if he was dead, they wanted to run. They would have, had it not been for something they saw, just as they went to turn away.

Past the barely intact wall of the old Potter house. Out on the street, the occasional car shot past. The magic that protected the house still lingered in some ways. Even after seventeen years, muggles could still not see the scattered remains. Such had been the skill of its caster.

But that was not important to them, not at the moment. Not when they had just seen through the hole in the wall, which someone had recently been slammed through, tangles of wild jet black hair.

They both cried out and rushed forward to their companion's side. It was like entering a pool of blood. It was just everywhere.

"Harry!" "You can't be..." "Breathe... please breathe." "You're stronger than this! Get up! You have to..."

They tried to revive him. The cleaned the mess of still wet blood with a single flick of their wand. To their surprise, he was untouched. Clothes and robes torn, blood everywhere... but his flesh was whole. The most attention was paid to the slashes across his robes, obviously he should be damaged there. A cut, even a scratch. But no.

But then they noticed something, for which they then hugged him and cried for the loss.

Even in death, Harry smiled. Smiled, because he made a difference.

---

It took a massive effort to keep the funeral private. Reporters had huddled around the Weasley house for days, once it leaked that Harry Potter, no longer the boy who lived, but the boy who had won, succeeded, was victorious, there where many different alternatives to the name. That his remains where kept there.

Two people had apparated to the multi tiered house in the early hours of the morning, one levitating a body with care, the other dragging a corpse with disdain.

They had entered, and a single shout ensured everyone woke.

Tears flowed so freely that morning, and Arthur Weasley soon left to inform the ministry. It seemed only minutes later that dozens of aurors and even the minister himself appeared on the property. It was eerie how silent it was, considering the gathering.

Eventually an auror, they weren't sure who, suggested they take the bodies. Voldemort, the family gave willingly, though his wand was not recovered when the ashened remains were taken. But for the other, the boy who lived, a witch had stood in their way, and the other of the remaining two friends backed her up. If the ministry could not stop the death eaters, what chance did they stand against them, the ones who succeeded where the aurors had failed so miserably.

The aurors had laughed. A few had just ignored her, and went for the body. A second later, those few were unconscious on the ground. The girl raised her wand threateningly, daring them to try again.

They didn't.

But for the next few days, reporters, mainly from the prophet, were swarming around the house. They kept yelling, screaming, to see the remains. To be able to take photos, to know when and where the funeral was being held, and to talk to the people who had found him.

They were denied all. Besides, the ministry had already shown the body of Voldemort. Paraded it around, like it was their big accomplishment. It had been on the front page for days. In more than one way, it was disgusting to watch. They had no wish for Harry to end up like that.

The media were not the only people to linger outside the house. Hundreds of people had shown up to show their respects to the boy, no, the man who had saved them all. Most brought flowers, which Mrs. Weasley took gratefully. In a moment of levity, Fred joked that she should open a flower shop.

When it finally appeared that the reporters had given up, the funeral was arranged. It had taken quite an effort, but the day came when a group of people arrived organised at the house where it the legend had both begun and ended. The grave was dug alongside his parents, prepared for the oakwood coffin to be placed inside.

The Weasley family, the Order of the Phoenix, some of the Hogwarts teachers. Luna and Neville had been invited too, they had been there to fight alongside him when it mattered. Even the Dursley's had shown up, though they never said a word to anyone.

Nearly everyone took the stand to speak. But the difference was that this was not just a mix of random barely known people and far-off relatives, who would splutter some half-baked drivel to the audience. These were people who had known him, who of which Harry had touched their lives in some way. Though some knew better than others, they had all seen what he was, beneath the shell we humans call our pride.

Then people approached, and gave their respects. In death, Harry had been fitted with his dress robes, which had been modified slightly to fit with the growth he had done since he had last worn them. The locket was at his neck, over the green clothing, and his wand by his side. At some point, few were sure who, someone had placed Voldemort's wand in also. It was another sign, where his real life had begun, and where it had ended.

Eventually, the coffin was lowered and all departed. All but two, who had stood at the back, watching, smiling as people recounted what their friend had been. They knew, that there had been no exaggerations, and certainly no lies.

Howbeit not all had been good. A few teachers had told of how much of a rule-breaker he had been. And yet, as they spoke it, they still smiled in a bittersweet kind of way.

The two approached the hole where the coffin now lay, and stood in silence till it permeated the scene. They waited a moment, a long, silent moment, before one stepped forward.

"...You... were a great friend. Always there, always caring, always being you. A saviour. That's what you were to me, to us all. But you were also my friend. My best friend. I'll miss that most of all."

There was a moment of trepidation before she found the courage to continue. "...I don't know what to say. How do I speak to you like this? ...I know there is one thing... that I must say. ...I never thanked you... when you saved me."

Her face seemed to scrunch in pain as she remembered. "...I guess, maybe it's too late. But... thank you... Harry." The girl retreated as she burst into tears. The other hugged her, then approached to have a final moment.

"I always loved talking to you, even if it was about nothing. You made me laugh all the time. What do I do, now that you aren't here anymore? I wonder what life would have been, if you were still here. After school, would we still be friends? Would we seek out each-other, and talk every day? I think so. But I suppose now that we can't, I'll just think about you would have said, when you pulled that cocky grin of yours. And you know what? I think that... I might still be happy that way, because no matter where you go, you'll live on in our memories."

With that, they swept their wands, and the dirt that had been dug up piled over the hole, covering the oaken box.

They took a small moment, more like a painful flick of the neck, to look at the slab of stone which adorned the grave.

Harry James Potter

Friend.
Protector.
Hero.

His sacrifice saved us all.

And they left.

Unbeknownst to them, the earth rustled slightly, and the ground began to heat up. The inside of the coffin was suddenly bright as day, for the body within had suddenly caught aflame.

The fire spread quickly. First to the wands by his side, which caught with an absurd quickness, then to the coffin, which quickly burnt to ash. The ground sagged inward in the lack of space, but it fell in a strange way.

A small space remained between the enclosing soil.

Within that tiny space, lay three feathers.

One was solid black.

The next was white, mottled with red.

Last was a stranger thing, nestled cleanly on a bed of ash.

It flashed with colour, turning all that of the rainbow, then as the light faded, it seemed to decide, becoming a single, soft colour.

Green.