Harry Potter and the Spirit of Revenge
Chapter 1: The Man-Who-Died

Please Read and Review. I'd like to know what I'm doing right (to keep doing it), and what I'm I doing wrong (to correct it).

Disclaimer: Later chapters will contain multiple POVs, and slow burn subplots.

"Avada Kedavra!" A hissing voice said, full of hate and despise.

"It's not fair!" A young voice replied, this one full of loss and anger.

"Avada Kedavra!" The first voice repeated, a sickly green light pierced the darkness.

"it's not FAIR!" A young man yelled, illuminated by the poisonous green light for a moment.

"Avada Kedavra!" Again the first voice, a simple echo in the darkness.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" A young man raged in the unfathomable darkness.

A scratching sound and a spark of light interrupted. In front of the young man, a spark of light, warm yellow in color, illuminated a tall figure, with broad shoulders and the stance of a dangerous man to cross. He used the match to light a cigarette. His face was dark and angular. His eyes glinted in the dark like the edge of a knife.

When the man spoke, it was with a voice both rough and pitiless. "No. It is not fair. Hell, life itself is not fair." He blew a cloud of smoke through his nostrils. "What will you do about it? It doesn't matter much anymore."

"I..."

The man snorted. "You're dead, kid." Then, he smirked. "You are not even a ghost. Just accept it and move on."

Harry Potter felt anger, more anger than anything he had felt in life. "I don't know if I can even do something, but I won't rest until that bastard is deader than me!"

"Would you kill him?" There was a bit more light around the man, Harry noticed then the muggle clothes; a pinstriped green suit, white shirt with a black tie, a hat, black leather shoes. The lapels were quite broad, cut in an old-fashioned style. The man looked like he belonged to a gangsters movie. "Would you be willing to pay evil onto evil?"

"Yes!"

"What about Dumbledore? Won't he be disappointed on you?" the man arched an eyebrow.

"My parents are dead because of Voldemort. My godfather was thrown into Azkaban because of him. I went through Hell because of him!" Harry said, his voice bitter and venomous. "A guy who could have been my friend has been murdered in front of me just because Voldemort didn't have any use for him. He has hounded me, my family, my friends. He has tried to kill me several times and now he has done it. I am dead because of that monster. I don't care about Dumbledore's disappointment anymore. That criminal and all his followers must pay for all the pain they have caused!"

The man arched an eyebrow. "Don't you trust that God's Justice will get them in the end? If not in this world, then in the next?" There was a slight tinge of cynicism in the man's voice.

"I have seen very little justice in my life." Harry's fists trembled in silent rage. "I'd rather make in my own justice."

"Even if you are denied Heaven?" The man asked.

"I don't care anymore!" Harry answered, his anger spent, but his will unbroken. "I died surrounded by murderers! I'm sick and tired of watching criminals go free and good people to die at their hands!"

The man looked away, his eyes lost in remembrance. "We are more alike than I had thought." He said bitterly, blowing another cloud of smoke.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, his voice neutral.

The man took his hat off, revealing himself as a redhead, with wavy hair. The color was close to the Weasley's, except for a white stripe, zigzagging in the middle. "My name is... was... James Brendan Corrigan. Police Detective, New York City. And I was murdered back in 1939."

Harry shook his head, "Are you trying to pull my leg? You don't look a day over forty! Even a wizard would look older than that. Or are you some kind of ghost?"

Corrigan snapped his fingers, and the whole place lit up. "Kids these days..."

Harry looked around. They were inside a building, an empty warehouse. "What? Where are we?"

"This, kid, is an abandoned warehouse in the docks of New York, late 1939. And this day, is the day I died. Pay attention over there," He pointed at the other side of the building. "that's where the main show is playing out."

Harry tapped a wall, "What's this? It doesn't feel like a pensieve."

"Nope. Not one of those things, kid. These are my memories, not a copy of them, we are inside my head. You can't change things, but you can touch them. You can't move even a speck of dust, but you can feel it."

Corrigan shook his head towards the other side of the warehouse. "Now pay attention, or you'll miss the show."

At the back, three men lowered a fourth man into a metallic barrel. The man was tied up with thick ropes, in a way that would make it impossible for him to free himself.

Harry looked closely at the man's face. Surprised, he looked at his companion.

"Yeah, that's me, kid. I was a proud idiot back then. Stubborn as a mule and almost as smart. I got a hot tip that was actually a big damned set up, and following it cost me my life. That guy there, the one who isn't doing anything, is Gats Benson, a gangster, a crook and a murderer. The other three are just hired muscle, thugs who would kill their own mothers for spare change. I had been making myself a nuisance to Benson, and he got me good."

"They got me from behind, knocked me down, tied me up, and... well... you seem to be a smart kid. I'm sure you can work out the rest."

Harry nodded. "They killed you. Is that it?"

"Had it been just me, things would have been very different." Corrigan exhaled another mouthful of smoke. "But they also got my partner. And worse, my gal."

In the meanwhile, the bound Corrigan tried to escape from the half-filled barrel. Only to be pushed back in, the lid was secured with a few hammer blows on the edge.

The three underlings rolled the barrel to the wharf, and dropped it in the murky waters.

Suddenly, Harry and Corrigan stood underwater. A few pitiful bubbles emerged from the barrel, while the sediment settled back at the bottom.

"Didn't take me too long to begin to die. Though having my lungs filling with hardening cement felt like an eternity. Nasty way to go. That stuff burns your lungs at the same time it suffocates you." Corrigan shook his head, "You got it easy. A light show, a bit of pain, and poof. Afterlife express. You should reconsider your choices. I've heard Heaven is nice this time of the year."

Harry dismissed Corrigan's words. "What happened then? You wouldn't be showing me this unless you had a point."

Corrigan dragged another lungful of smoke. "No, I wouldn't. You see, I got a new job on the side before the night was over. But unlike you, I didn't get to have a chump on my side to show me the ropes, to tell me what I was getting myself into. But what can I say? The rules of this game change from time to time, and you are always the last guy to get the notice. I want to get one thing in that noggin of yours. Don't follow me. You are now in serious danger of falling to the same trap I did."

The scene changed. Corrigan's spirit ranted in the dark. His words almost the same as Harry's. The young man noticed, and turned towards the man next to him. Corrigan looked at him sideways. "Told you. Alike."

A voice that came from nowhere and everywhere answered Corrigan's rant with a promise and a sentence. "You are not worthy of Heaven but not deserving of Hell either. Your spirit shall walk the Earth, you will be the focus of the anger of the murdered dead who seek retribution. Confront Evil. Confront and comprehend. Until you understand why people choose the paths they take, you'll wander the face of the Earth. Seeking to rid the world of Evil. A task you must ultimately fail."

"After that, I came back to Earth. A wandering, avenging spirit. The very literal wrath of God. With the power to do anything I could imagine." Corrigan shook his cigarette, dropping some ash on the inexistent floor.

Suddenly, they were back to the dirty warehouse. A woman was tied up to the columns that held the roof. While a man was in the process of being roughed up, his face was a mass of bruises, his lip was split, and a think streak of blood ran down his chin. The woman wore a beautiful pink dress, and judging from the faces of the thugs, she would be so much worse once the boss gave the order. Gats Benson was apparently about to start on her himself.

Corrigan walked in, looking perfectly healthy, as if nothing had happened. "Let her go, Benson. It's Judgement Day."

The thugs sprang into action, but nothing they did managed to even touch Corrigan. Punches never connected, and bullets passed right through him, accidentally killing one of the thugs. After a few moments, only Gats Benson remained, still clutching his machine gun as a talisman. It didn't do any good to him. With a simple movement of his hand, Corrigan willed him to melt.

A few moments later, all that was left of Gats Benson was the echo of a tortured scream, a small pool of noxious pink slime, and his expensive, tailor-made suit.

Corrigan spoke again. "When I came back, I could do anything, except to actually live. If you take this deal, you'll become more than human, and so much less. Very few things will be able to hurt you, and even less will be pleasurable. Your emotions grow cold, except for one. Your anger will be apocalyptical if you let it run wild. Your senses get dull, you won't taste food, everything you touch is cold. You'll only be able to smell one thing, blood."

"You seem to manage it rather well…" Harry noted.

Corrigan laughed. His laughter was cold, and sharp as a knife. There was no actual humour in it. "I was already like this when I died, kid. I was a god-damned bastard. Cold hearted. Angry at the world. Angry at God and everything else."

He gestured at the only two people left in the place. "The only people I didn't hate were my partner, Waylon, who was a really good man, ugly as sin, but loyal as a dog and smart as a fox; and my gal, Clarissa Winston. Now, let me tell you, she was quite the woman…"

Corrigan's eyes misted for a moment. "She was… happy. In her own way, I guess. More than fifty years later, and I still have no idea what the hell did she saw in me that was worth her time. But she managed to crack my shell and drag me back into the human race. Sometimes, I wonder what would have been of us had I not gone to that trap… but what ifs are a sucker's game. What matters is what actually happens."

"Once I dispatched Gats Benson and all his goons, I realized Clarissa had been shot during the fight. I got careless, cocky, I decided to play with them instead of simply send them to Hell with a swift kick on the head. Clarissa paid the price." A spot of red grew in the middle of her torso. "And then, I chased her to the Afterlife and dragged her back into this valley of tears. Hell… Right at that moment, she had a guaranteed entry to Heaven, and I made her lose it." Corrigan crushed his cigarette.

He kept silent for a few seconds. Harry did the same, not wanting to intrude in Corrigan's thoughts. "Anyway, I broke our engagement that very night. I was nothing but a ghost. I was solid if I wanted to, but I was no less dead. My body had stayed behind in that damned barrel full of concrete. What right did I have to drag her into my… existence? I should have let her go to Heaven. I lost track of her almost as quickly."

Corrigan got his emotions back under his control. "Anyway, I got back into things. All I knew was how to be a cop. A god-damned good one. I kept on that little charade for years. Back then, the war on Europe was only a matter of when it would start. I got involved with a group of superpowered guys. And I went and got myself a ludicrous suit. At least I wasn't the worse in the bunch. I kept it simple." A gust of wind enveloped them, and for a moment, Harry saw a very different man next to him. Paler than a corpse, clad with what seemed to be a swimming suit, a long hooded cloak, gloves and short boots.

As silly as it should have looked, there was a definitive air of menace in the figure. The hood threw a deep shadow over the man's face, deeper than any shadow Harry had ever seen.

"The Spectre." Corrigan went back to looking normal again. "That's what I was called. The Avenging Ghost. The Astral Avenger."

"So, as I was saying, I joined forces with some other so-called mystery men, and we formed a team to fight the Nazis. Strictly home front, as that damned to hell tyrant held a relic that would have turned any superpowered being into his slave if we crossed some kind of mystical barrier. Anyway, after the war ended, I went back to being a cop, but got caught into some magical backlash, and spent twenty years not knowing who I really was. When I got my memories back, I saw that the world was even worse than before, and went on to punish the guilty."

A series of images floated around them, grotesque executions of murderers and criminals of all kind. Muggers, assassins, terrorists, serial murderers, even some that seemed to use bastardized versions of magic. The means the Spectre used to kill them were as varied as their targets. And each and every one was uniquely suited to their sins.

Harry's green eyes shone in the darkness.

"Now," Corrigan continued, "I am tired of it all. I'm ready to lay the mantle down and rest. But the bosses have decreed that I have to leave a successor. A righteous soul who is willing to continue the job. They sent me to you. They want me to show you what the job means, and I want to dissuade you. Take the advice, kid. Leave it here. Go to Heaven. You have a ticket to go in, no questions asked. You'll meet your parents again."

"Show me what Voldemort is doing now." Harry hissed.

Corrigan sighed, and nodded gravely, "Very well." He waved a hand, and Harry was once more in Little Hangleton Graveyard.

Voldermort stood proudly over Harry's corpse. Laughing like the maniac he was. "So you see, my friends! The Golden Boy is no more! He lays in the mud like a slaughtered sacrificial lamb!"

The Death Eaters around him bowed and bent their knees. "What are your orders, Master?" Harry recognized the voice, Lucius Malfoy.

"Today, we rest. We let the fools worry for their saviour. Tomorrow, at first light, drop the body in front of The Daily Prophet, and send the head to Hogwarts. Deliver it to Dumbledore right during breakfast. I want every student to know the fate that had befell to the Boy-Who-Lived."

Voldemort continued. "By the end of the year, we will have the Ministry in our hands. Then, we will start the cleansing. First, the mudbloods shall be collected, tortured, and executed publicly. Unless, they prove themselves… docile... useful even."

A smile was clear in Lucius' voice. "Master? There is a particularly annoying mudblood at Hogwarts, One who doesn't know its place. It has publicly humiliated my son and House Malfoy."

Harry tried to punch Malfoy, but his fist passed through him.

Voldemort looked at Lucius. "I know what you mean." He hissed the name, "Granger. The mudblood who consorted with Potter." Lucius nodded. "Yes, you can have it. I think young Draco will enjoy… breaking its will, showing it its proper place at his feet."

"Thank you my lord."

"ENOUGH!" Harry turned to Corrigan. "I won't allow this! Whatever you have to do, do it! Give me the power to stop them! I won't let Hermione to suffer like that!"

There was anger and sadness in Corrigan's voice. "Very well, kid. It's your show now. It's gonna hurt. And for what it may be worth, I am sorry." A green and white cloud detached itself from Corrigan's body. For a moment, Harry saw a screaming skull in the middle of a green whirlwind of rags. Its teeth were long, pointy fangs, and in its eyesockets two demented orbs shone green over white, full of barely contained anger and madness.

The cloud surrounded Harry, wrapping itself around his body; a pain a thousand times worse than the Crucio curse ran through his body. With a mighty roar, Harry found the strength to tame the pain, to bend it to his will. The worse pain seemed to concentrate on that hated scar on his forehead.

As soon as he asserted his will over the wrathful spirit now joined to his own soul, the stench of a million open graves suffocated him, but he didn't waver. An ocean of blood called him in his fury, but he didn´t recoil. The anger of thousands of victims screamed at him, but their fury didn´t faze him.

"Avenge me!"

"Avenge ME!"

"AVENGE ME"

Harry welcomed the tide. "I will." His voice was a mere whisper, raw and wrathful.

He noticed a red… thing… trying to crawl away from him. Instincts he had not possessed before told him what it was, and he stomped his foot over it, erasing the soul fragment from existence.

Harry looked at Jim Corrigan for a moment, nodded brusquely, and vanished.

Corrigan sighed. "Good luck, kid." And he vanished too, inside a bright light, blinding in its purity.

Author Notes:

One of my all-time favorite characters is the Spectre, from DC. The original spirit of revenge.

His first appearance was in (the ironically named) More Fun Comics issue 52 (Feb 1940), cocreated by Jerry Siegel and Bernard Bailey. (Interestingly, he shares one of his cocreators with Superman). However, the Spectre is so powerful that it is very hard to write good stories about him. Usually, the creative teams lose steam around issue 4.

Still, the Spectre has enjoyed a certain niche popularity for decades, and there are some very cathartic stories featuring him. The Michael Fleischer and Jim Aparo run in Adventure Comics 431 to 438 was legendary for its boldness in portraying violent and gruesome deaths. It was later collected in a four-issue miniseries called The Wrath of the Spectre, including several stories that had been written, but not drawn.

From then on, DC tried to revive the series several times, but always dealing with the power level in one of two ways. By giving him absurdly powerful enemies, or reducing his power level. Neither approach worked well in the long run.

It wasn't until the John Ostrander and Tom Mandrake run, in The Spectre Vol. 3 (issues 1, Dec 1992 to Issue 62, Feb 1998) that the Spectre finally came to its own. This time, the focus of the stories was on the human half of the character, Jim Corrigan, and his very human defects, which inevitably tinged his view as the Spectre.

I highly recommend both the Wrath of The Spectre collected edition and The Spectre run by Ostrander and Mandrake. The first codified the Spectre's behaviour, and the latter is simply an incredibly good story, that poses deep questions about justice and vengeance.

Corrigan´s death and first adventures as the Spectre as narrated here were taken from the first few issues of the Ostrander and Mandrake run. They play better than previous tellings of the story.

After Ostrander and Mandrake finished, the Spectre as a character has never found its way again. They set the bar so high that no other creative team has managed to do justice to the character.

For this fic timeline, the final issue of the O&M run actually happened in 1994.