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Harry Potter and the War of Souls: Phoenix
by jynkyg and The Fat Chipmunk

The locket…the cup…the snake…something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… The war against Voldemort rises to a new level as Harry sets out to find and destroy the Horcruxes. Shocking discoveries are made, bloody battles are fought, and teenagers learn to cope with death, betrayal, grief, and love as the Final Battle draws ever nearer. And the Boy Who Lived discovers the true meanings of sacrifice and scars as he witnesses an end that no one could have foreseen.

Note: We've got roughly four months to write all this up and post it, so everything'll go pretty quick. It's basically just another seventh year fic (and a rewrite of The Fat Chipmunk's abandoned War of Souls: Banewreaker - thus the similar title - so it'll have some elements of Banewreaker in it. It's not plagiarism, we swear), filled with as much drama, missing plot pieces, evil lords, and snogging as we could find room for. Completely canon, including several major character deaths and assuming Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione, and whatever other pairing we fancy. Happy reading! ;)

By golly, we almost forgot - much thanks extended to our beta Rezallia, for her time and patience in editing and revising. :)

Prologue – "The greatest deeds are often those that go by unnoticed, unrecognized, and unseen for their true worth."

It was an ancient building, to say the least.

Straight out of a nightmare, it was a frightful, unseemly blotch on the lush green clearing it stood upon, like a careless splatter of paint upon a picturesque canvas. A monolithic ruin even by the lowest standards, its gaping, jagged windows and thick oaken doors hanging precariously from rusted hinges radiated a bone-numbing chill into the warm summer night.

The sky above was an angry, stormy grayish blue, as if the swollen clouds were full of bruises. A pale moon strained to penetrate the dark veil, casting an eerie murkiness to the shadows of the towering trees nearby.

All was quiet and still, with not a breeze to set the gnarled, bare branches crackling. There was no movement to stir the tall, overgrown grass, to betray any sign of life.

A pair of round, yellow eyes, impossibly bright, blinked into existence high up on a knotted branch, half hidden by twisted, parched tangles of leaves. Keenly, the luminous eyes surveyed the great, crumbling structure, as if convinced it would soon spring to life.

A grunt; the rough slither of something – or someone – being dragged through the grass, followed by a stream of fierce invective drifted out of the thick copse, prompting the yellow gaze to swivel to eye this new phenomenon.

"In the name of Merlin," a voice hissed. Its owner, a tall, black-cloaked figure, leaned against the crooked trunk of an ancient birch. After a moment of labored breathing – the harsh sound of which echoed through the palpably thick air of the forest's edge – the figure bent over to inspect a ragged heap at its feet. Only by the slight rise and fall of tattered robes could it be discerned that the heap was alive.

Another round of curses ensued as the tall figure hauled the unresponsive bundle onto its back and stumbled drunkenly under the watchful yellow gaze to pass into the clearing. It headed arduously toward the old ruin, its path marked by the parting wave of long grass. When the big entrance doors were finally reached, the figure swung them open with an unsteady nudge of a foot and staggered inside the building.

High in the knobby boughs, the insistent yellow eyes contemplated the black void beyond the crooked doors that had swallowed the figure and its burden.

Then they blinked once, cautiously and purposefully, and vanished.

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"Damn."

He stood swaying in the austerely furnished entrance hall, the worn flagstone floor spreading before him at once familiar and distortedly alien. He dazedly observed his surroundings, whose size and condition clearly belied the decrepit exterior, taking in the high domed ceiling and the extravagant marble staircase opposite him that seemed to flow upward; the vast curtained opening to the right and an enormous, immaculate fireplace to the left; the flickering candles held sternly upright by twisting silver snakes that extended from gleaming brackets.

A dry, rattling cough from his burden prompted his wandering mind back to reality. He lurched forward, feeling oddly light-headed, and trusted his feet to remember the right path. Vaguely he tottered up the marble steps, stumbled onto the first landing and hobbled down a dim corridor. He tried to count how many doors he had passed, but each one seemed to meld with the next, and he staggered on.

A lance shot up his right leg every time he put his weight on it; a nail was driven deeper into his skull with every passing moment; a rope tightened around his lungs every time he attempted to draw breath. Exhaustion whined in his ear to stop moving, to crumple on the floor and just rest; it nagged and begged at his arms to drop the cumbersome load upon his back.

He snarled and snapped and hissed at it all, determinedly pressing on – he had made it this far and would not die at the doorstep, no matter how many people willed it of him. And finally he was there, in front of the door he had never seen before but knew instinctively was his, and he crashed against it before remembering he had to turn the doorknob.

His numb fingers scrabbled uselessly at the golden serpent's head for a moment until he got it to turn, and he half-stepped, half-fell into a candle-lit room. There was a bed there, with sheets the color of dried blood and a plump-looking pillow. He unceremoniously let the moaning lump slide off his back to huddle on the sheets.

Fumbling with his robes, he managed to find his wand stashed in his pocket and drew it. But his mind was a white blank – he could not recall any spell for the life of him. Bits of phrases and strange words flitted through his mind, allowing themselves to be glimpsed but keeping maddeningly out of grasping range.

Uttering an oath, he cast aside his wand just as his bleary eyes alighted upon a decanter of brandy and a flask of water sitting on a polished dresser, complete with two sparkling glasses. He shuffled around the bed to the dresser, reaching for the water first. With shaking hands he poured half the flask's contents into one of the glasses, splashing most of the other half on himself.

He faced the bed again, where the mound of robes had not moved. He extended pale, trembling fingers and roughly shook it.

"Get up," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Get up – drink this – get up – " He tugged the hood off to reveal pale, pointed features – a white face that stood out in stark contrast with the black robes. Closed eyelids fluttered slightly beneath a tangle of white-blonde hair. A trail of dried blood snaked down from the corner of a mouth that grimaced in pain.

He coaxed the water, dribble by dribble, past thin lips that moved to form inarticulate words until the glass was empty. Satisfied, he let the head loll back on the soft pillow and turned back to the dresser. He grasped the decanter of brandy and tipped it into the other glass, watching the reddish liquid slosh around as it filled to the brim.

Gripping the glass firmly, he tilted his head back and drained it, setting it down with a thump and reveling in the feel of the fiery drink burning its way down his throat. He poured another brimful and this time took a small sip.

Blowing out a gust of air, he leaned back against the dresser to inspect the room. In addition to the bed and the dresser, there was a desk accompanied by a wooden chair beside him and a nightstand on the opposite side of the bed. Off to his left was a fireplace with a pile of wood stacked behind a grate that shined in the candlelight. The marble mantelpiece was bare.

Beyond the bed, pushed against the far wall, was a low table resembling a vanity or a dressing table with a large, rectangular mirror hanging above it, its frame gilded in silver and gold.

Only half of his cloaked form was visible in the mirror, and he took another sip of brandy before making his way around the bed to approach it.

Setting his glass down upon the table, he regarded the black specter-like form in the mirror for a moment. Then, he reached up a hand, no longer shaking, to slide his hood back.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the dour man staring impassively back. Lank, greasy hair framed a sallow face. A thin mouth quirked beneath the shadow of a large, hooked nose. Bloody scratches scored his right cheek, while his left sported a smear of dirt. Dull black eyes bristled at its twin, and suddenly, it all came crashing back…

The skull, the screams. The plea, the curse. A purple-robed man flying through the air, like a rag doll cast away by a disinterested child. Defying gravity just for a moment, just before plummeting, inevitably, toward the unrelenting ground. The flight, the burning hatred. The fear, the rage. A black-haired boy sprinting through corridors, leaping down stairs, passing great oaken doors out into a darkened night, bent on one thing, and one thing only – revenge.

The attacks, the shouts, the parries, the fire, the accusations, the inhuman pain –

COWARD!

And that he was. He was a coward, a foolish, filthy coward, and also a hero, a steadfast, stubborn hero, but all for the wrong reasons, all branded by the wrong people…

The greatest deeds are often those that go by unnoticed, unrecognized, and unseen for their true worth. But they are done and they are there, and lauded or not, the doer knows the righteousness of the doing – and that, truly, is enough.

A softly intoned plea to do what was needed, to do what was asked, to do what was impossible.

A blink, a curse, a flash.

He glared at his reflection: the eyes that had beheld the old man, the mouth that had uttered the final spell, the cunning mind that had, for once, failed to find a satisfying answer.

And the hands – those pale hands stained with invisible guilt – hands that had raised a wand and pointed it at a heart that had given nothing but love, a heart that had seen an impossible good masked by an impossible evil.

He saw the ancient wizard fall again, saw the unreadable expression in those hatefully calm eyes, saw the dark and weary lines of that weathered face smooth over in peace and acceptance.

Hands clenched and shook with the force of uncontrollable fury, and with one impulsive movement, he drew his fist back and smashed it into the mirror.

His reflection shattered, and he watched his face splinter as a shower of glinting shards fell like a mystical rain upon the table.

Up Next: The Dursleys hear a supposedly terrible bit of news, Petunia does an extraordinary thing, and Harry learns that Dumbledore was right.

Don't forget to review! We've already gotten a couple chapters typed out, so check back in a couple days for chapter one. :)