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Harry Potter and the Rising Phoenix	By : TallyHo Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 7217 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Disclaimer : I do NOT own Harry Potter. I own my imagination, which owns this story. Characters and situations which seem familiar to you... not mine.

�You weren�t ready,� softly spoken and with
the saddest smile Harry had ever seen.
But it wasn�t enough to check his flare of resentment.

�I was,� he insisted, waving one hand to
his bloodied battle-robes, numerous magical weapons, and a powerful, trained
aura. Trained from so
many. Most of
them probably dead now. Like
him. �I was more than ready! I was going to win! He was going to die!�

�There is no
certainty from which you can speak, my love,� his mother said. He looked at her familiar emerald eyes and
felt some of his rage abate. Her
luminescent skin and warm, auburn hair was more welcome to him than anything
had ever been. �You weren�t ready.�

Harry gritted his
teeth, wanting � needing � to argue more, but knowing it would do no good.

He had died. The truth blazed around him. His mother�s smile, the beautiful, peaceful,
blank white space they occupied together, the light that came from nowhere but
sprinkled over everything.

He was dead, this
was heaven, and damn it, he didn�t
want to be there.

�But� I didn�t
kill� He didn�t�� his gaze was hopeful upon his mother, but he knew the truth
before she spoke it.

�No. He lives on.
The Prophecy gave assurance only that one would live and the other would
not,� her tone was kind, but the words scraped across his ears like nails. �Harry, you need to rest. You�ve done so much in such a short
time. You do not have to worry about it
all right now. You must be so tired.�

Even as she said
it, he felt a stirring of drowsiness. A
longing for peace that he was too familiar with. But giving into it was something he would not
do.

�No,� he said
firmly, eyes narrowing once more.
�No. I will not rest. I cannot until he
is gone.�

�Lily, quit
teasing him,� another voice entered their realm, and Harry turned to see his
father. And Sirius.

His throat closed
and he could no longer breathe.

�Hello, Harry,�
the animagus said, grinning widely.

�Sirius,� the boy
choked. �Sirius!�

That wonderful
grin turned to his father as the raven-haired man that Harry took after snorted
and crossed his arms.

�And
no welcome for me, eh?�

Harry stumbled
forward, throwing his arms around both men and desperately holding back tears,
as he had done when first seeing his mother.
Before she�d told him he�d failed because he wasn�t ready to battle
Voldemort and win.

He could no longer
staunch the tears and they flowed unreservedly.
Lily drew near, soothingly murmuring as she wrapped her arms around
him. Both men watched, sorrow in their
expressions as well.

�Poor boy,� she
cooed. �My poor son. I know, I know. I wanted you to rest, truly I did, and you
need it above all others� but it is not possible, not yet. As you said, you cannot.�

He lifted his face
from the shoulder he�d burrowed into, confused.

�So,
now what? What do I do?�

�My love, you
return,� she answered simply, shaking her graceful head and smiling again. �You return and carry out the Prophecy.�

�But� I have,� he
said, still bemused. �One of us is
dead. The Prophecy�s fulfilled.�

She shook her head
again.

�One has been,
yes. There are others that have not. And you cannot rest until they are. Return, Harry. We�ll be here, waiting for you. When you�re ready.�

He realized that
he�d misunderstood her former words.
When she�d said he hadn�t been ready, she�d meant he had not been ready
to die. Not that he
wasn�t ready to defeat Voldemort.

But he would be,
he vowed fiercely. He would be, if he
had not been before.

And as the world
began to dissolve, the thing he last remembered was his mother�s kind smile,
and the identical, proud grins of his father and godfather.

There were three
children born into the magical community of Britain
on the day Harry Potter died. A pair of
brown-eyed twins with cherub faces and tufts of flaming red hair, beaming at
their family who could not help but beam back, even though there was a great,
empty hole in all of their hearts for the loss of many and the start of a near hopeless
war.

And then there was
little Gale Diggory, a slightly fussy child, whose hair promised to be a few
shades darker than his father�s, and whose blue eyes quickly darkened to a
mossy green. He was raised by the Diggory�s on the memory of their former son, lost to them
by the hand of He-Who-Most-Not-Be-Named three years earlier.

But even though
they did their best, Gale seemed determined from the start to be his own
person. To set his own
rules and agendas. He was not a
bad child, no. He did not scream or
whine or cry any more than any other infant.
He actually was a very quiet and serious babe. It was rare that the Diggory�s
heard much of anything out of them, which was as disconcerting as it was a
relief. Those new Weasley twins could be
heard wailing their little hearts out nearly every night on the borders of Ottery St. Catchpole.

And so, five years
into Gale�s life, the Diggory�s came across their
first suspicions that their second son was not entirely new to life.

�Gale,� Mrs. Diggory called to her son in a
slightly puzzled manner. �Why are all of
your father�s spellbooks on the floor of the
library?�

Gale�s young, soft face turned to her from
his seat at the dining table � where he was contentedly finishing up a sandwich
their house-elf had made for him.

�Because I�m not done reading them yet,� he
said in his usual, somber voice.

�Oh,� his mother said, turning and exiting
the room only to pause in the hall, remembering that Gale had not yet been
taught how to read.

The second sign
that came to the Diggory�s happened two years later.

Amos Diggory had been going about his work
at the Ministry of Magic, trying to keep up with all the Death Eater activity
that branched into his Department (which was a lot, surprisingly and
depressingly), when his wife and son walked into the office. Mrs. Diggory held Gale�s hand tightly, but
the young boy seemed to be the leader between the two of them, rather than the
follower. His wife looked pale and
shaken, while Gale just seemed rather annoyed.

�What�s happened?� he asked his spouse,
furrowing his eyebrows in concern and raising to meet them. She only shook her head faintly, closing her
eyes and placing a hand to her brow.
Gale looked up at her and frowned.

�She needs to sit,� his son said simply,
looking back at him. Amos nodded
slightly, moving to give her his own chair.
She swept over and sat immediately.

�He� he�� she lifted her other hand to her
face and could manage no more.

�Who�s he?� Amos inquired, confused. Gale answered.

�Me,� he said clearly. �I did magic.�

A proud smile spread across Amos�s
face. He turned to his wife.

�But that�s wonderful!�

�No!� his wife cried immediately. He blinked in surprise.

�No?� he repeated.

�No!
Not when it�s Legilimency!� she said, paling further and
moving her hands so that they clasped in front of her heart. �He asked� he asked about something he wasn�t
supposed to, and when I told him that he was too young to know, he� he did that!�

Amos stared at his wife in mute shock.

�Well,� he said faintly after a few, long,
silent moments. �What did he ask about?�

�Voldemort,� Gale said, almost defiantly,
meeting the astonished gazes of both his parents unperturbedly. �I asked what Voldemort�s been up to. And where she�s been hiding
the Daily Prophet.�

And the third
time, the time when both Diggory�s were quite sure
that their son was at the very least not natural, was on his eleventh birthday.

Gale clutched the letter in his hand with a
rare smile, gazing at the emerald ink as if it were an old friend. It was only his name and address, but it
brought him happiness.

It was when he�d read the letter through and
not found the name that would double his happiness that he placed the letter
down and released his smile.

His mother sat at the other end of the
table, waiting calmly for him to finish reading.

�Is something the matter, dear?� she asked
around her tea. Gale looked up at her
and, after a moment, picked the parchment back up again.

�Dumbledore,� he said, pointing to the top
of the letter where Professor Mcgonagall�s credentials lined up. �He is not here.�

�Of course not,� Mrs. Diggory said smoothly,
finally used to her son�s seemingly infinite oddness. �He died a long time ago.�

�How long ago?� Gale demanded instantly. His mother looked at him sternly, and he
repeated his question in a more respectful tone.

�Eleven years ago. Today, in fact,� she answered, finishing off
her tea. �Now, let�s see to those
presents of yours, alright, dear?�

Gale turned his head back to the letter, and
if Mrs. Diggory had been looking at him closely, she would have seen such
sorrow in those green eyes.

�Right. My birthday,� he said to
himself flatly. She failed to notice the
tone.

�Of course, dear.�

By the end of the
summer, Gale�s dark hair had grown enough to shade most of his face and tickle
his nape. His green-streaked gray eyes
had not brightened, and his generally quiet disposition had not changed.

Mrs. Diggory had
fussed over him at the train station, worried that his strangeness would garner
him no friends and no little enemies.
Gale had told her not to worry.

Leaning his head
against the cool window of his empty compartment, he tried not to be too
annoyed with his �mother.�

She meant the
best, he knew, and she did not feel he was a replacement for Cedric, as Mr.
Diggory probably did. But she treated
him like an infant, which he was most definitely anything but.

By his count, his
last birthday was his twenty-eighth. By
everyone else�s, it was his eleventh. Closing his eyes, he suppressed a sigh. That had been the hardest thing so far into
this new existence as �Gale Diggory.� To
remember to act his �age,� and try not be impatient
with those who wouldn�t let him forget it.
He�d slipped up a few times, he knew, but hoped that the Diggory�s would discount those as the peculiarity of their
second son.

He tapped one
finger against his knee as the train snaked through Britain�s
countryside, recalling the other thing that annoyed him in his new life.

The
fact that he had no link to Voldemort.

The lightning-bolt
scar had gone with his other body, and with it the dreams and visions. And the over-protective Diggory�s
certainly didn�t help matters with their refusal to discuss or allow him access
to things that would tell what Voldemort�s recent moves were.

His accidental Legilimency upon Mrs. Diggory years
ago had only gleamed him a few vague thoughts on the matter, and they were
linked rather firmly with Cedric�s death.

Gale smoothed his
irritation away with a breath, stretching out along his seat and rubbing his
eyelids resignedly, concentrating on the better things this life had to offer.

Like a second
chance.

His thoughts were
interrupted by the door of his compartment sliding open.
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Harry Potter and the Rising Phoenix