Some would consider it a blessing. What he had was essentially eternal life, and many would sell their immortal souls for such. He however considered it to be a curse.

As far as he, rather than those who knew him for what he was, was concerned, he was only given thirty years. Thirty years from the day he'd first touched Fawkes to the day he'd essentially died. Thirty years of life until all was flame and he rose from the ashes, a Hogwarts Second Year student with no memory of what had come beyond that day.

He'd gone through the cycle so many times that few if any knew who he had been in the beginning. He knew that it was always the same because that was who he was. In the first moments of his new life, he would start in fear of his odd surroundings which were not the Headmaster's office that he'd remembered being in, and then he would adjust to his new surroundings, and then he would try to continue his life as best as he could in a society that was almost completely alien to him.

Today, that thirty years was up.

There was fire, there was pain, his life ended, but his soul did not move on.

"W-Where am I?" a twelve year-old child asked as he took in the barren wasteland beneath an orange sky amidst which he had been standing.