Prophecy's Chosen

Chapter 1: The End

Death stood over the dying figure, gazing down at him. He lay spread-eagled on the cold stone floor, the cuts and bruises marring face. He was only a boy, really, about seventeen, just recently growing tall and all the other effects of growing up. Death shook its head; it never liked it when someone died young. It was a waste. Especially for this boy, who hadn't even been granted his promise that he'd die swiftly. It shook its head beneath its dark cowl. It stretched out its cadaverous hand and prepared to touch the boy's forehead, right at the lightning shaped scar, so his soul could be carried safely Beyond.

But then the boy who it had thought dead stirred. He coughed, ever so slightly, but bringing a bubble of blood up with it. He didn't even bother trying to wipe it away; he was too weak. His startlingly green eyes open beneath the messy black bangs and the shattered glasses, and looked up at Death. Death was rather unnerved at this, not only because it'd thought he was dead, but also because the dying eyes of Harry Potter looked up at him in acquiescence. There was always fear in the eyes of the dead... just not this one.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" he said, pausing to cough up some more blood, staining his already grubby T-shirt with it. "I've failed."

Death nodded at this. "Not quite dead, though. But you have failed."

"Not dead?" Harry asked. "But... I have all these wounds and all... and... and I'm not in pain. How's that?"

"I really don't know."

"But the dying isn't the worst part. I failed. Voldemort will--

Harry was cut off sharply by Death. "I know. I've been notified." Then its tone softened, and the voice that came from beneath the black hood was almost caring. "There was a prophecy that could've helped you."

Harry smiled weakly. "I know that now. I know what I did wrong, what was done right..." He recited the prophecy, from memory. Oh, it was so ironic, all this.

"Scholar holds the lonely heart

Loyal One knows ancient arts

Dragon guards his hoard with a jealous mind

To defeat the Nameless, The Boy must find

The Three stone Brothers

The Spider large

The Temple's Secret

And Death's black barge.

Only when prophecy's complete,

Shall he be back, on swift feet."

He finished, but the recitation had sapped his strength. He doubled up into a fetal position, coughing up blood. The welts and lacerations, once scabbed over, now pulled at the sudden movement, reopened and oozed a sickly white ichor. Death shook its head sadly, wanting to put the dying boy out of his pain. It couldn't do that, make someone die. It could only carry the soul. It could never take charge, it could only advise. It was very, very ironic, Death mused, because it was supposed to turn out this way. For now.

"I've failed," Harry moaned again. "Voldemort's won. Now he can do as he pleases up there, and no one can stop him. They're all dead," he said, and Death knew he was changing the topic, "And it was my fault. If I'd never dragged them into this, they could..." He ground to a halt, as he was crying. Tears leaked from beneath tightly closed lids, shut against the memory of the pain. Not the pain from what Voldemort had done to his physical body, but what had been done to his friends. His body shook with sobs. Death thought it was odd. He'd never broken under the slow, lingering death that Voldemort had given him; there had never been tears over what would have broken a lesser person. Never.

Death let Harry sob. It knew that the act would bring him comfort in his last moments.

"I wish I could go back," Harry stopped and coughed, pausing to wipe some of the nasty-looking fluid from his eye, "Go back and change it all. Maybe then Hermione and Ron wouldn't be gone. Hell, I'd go back to save Draco, even!" His mind went over the long, terrible list of those who had died for this cause. This horrible, bloody, costly cause. "And Ginny, and Charlie, and Cho, and Sirius, and all the rest. I didn't want them to die. But there's nothing I can do." Then he glanced at Death. "Is there something you can do? You are Death, after all."

Death shook its head. "There are limits, Harry Potter. I cannot bring back souls that have gone."

"Really? So all of them will have died in vain?" His voice rose in anger. "So now they're dead, and for nothing? Voldemort's up there, killing people! And you don't care? Don't you have compassion? Oh, wait," he finished, realizing who he was talking to. "You're Death. I'd just a job to you! I bet if you bring back more dead than usual, you get a damn bonus!"

"I'm Death, Harry. This isn't a job. It's who I am."

"Really? Really? Why the hell can't you change who you are?"

"Can you change who you are?"

Harry stopped. "No, I can't," he said quietly. "I don't think you can either." He looked up into the depths of Death's hood, trying too look into his eyes, but there were no eyes to be seen, only infinite darkness. "Sorry."

Death would have smiled, if it were capable of that. "Apology accepted, Mr. Potter." Harry cringed. It sounded like a teacher from Hogwarts, any teacher, and he didn't want to be reminded of his past life. But, he realized, he wasn't dead yet.

"Am I dead yet?" he asked Death.

"No, but I think it's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time for the prophecy to begin."

"Begin?" asked Harry. "It's over. I've failed. Voldemort's won."

Death would have smiled again (but it couldn't), so instead it settled for a bone-chilling chuckle. "Harry, lad, you'll soon realize the truth." It could tell that Harry was very confused. "But first you've got to get up." It waited for Harry to comply with its wishes. "Up, lad," he said, and grabbed Harry by the upper arm. With surprising strength for a mysterious cloaked figure, he pulled up Harry, ignoring blood and foul liquid. Harry gasped for a second, not from pain (he'd gone long beyond that), but from surprise. He had somehow gotten enough strength to stand. Death released his arm, and looked at him; Harry would have supposed it was a look of irritation if he could see its eyes, but then he guessed that Death had lent him some strength all along. "Follow me," said Death, and began walking away, not pausing to see if Harry would follow or not. Of course, Harry did.

Death reached the wall of the underground cavern that they were in, but didn't stop. He kept on walking, and Harry had no choice but to follow. The dirt and rock shifted around Harry (Death seemed not to care, and in fact whistled a jaunty tune) and he was left untouched beneath the thousands of tons of soil above. He somehow felt as if they'd left the world far behind, that they were now travelling to somewhere outside of the cosmos. What Harry did not fully realize, was that they were.

The scenery changed around them. It had the shifting quality if a dream and they were out of the earth and walking on flat, barren plains under a cloudless dark sky. The transition between earth and plains wasn't as abrupt as it would have been in waking life; here it seemed as natural as the sun rising and setting. But here the sun didn't rise and set, it looked like, because they were walking for what felt like hours, and the sky was the same dark green-blue it had always been. And Harry hadn't lost any vigor. Death whistled again. It was beginning to get on Harry's nerves.

Again, the surroundings changed, this time into a forest. The trees were twisted and blackened, as if they'd been burnt. There were no leaves on the branches, and the barren boughs reached up to the blank sky, an entreaty for more light. It was dark in the woods. Harry could see little lights darting from behind the trees, and they were whispering among themselves He's here! He'll set us free! Harry had no idea how he would set the little things free. It had to be him, he thought, as there was no one else within sight besides Death, who was still whistling.

Then Death stopped suddenly, and stopped whistling (to Harry's relief) and Harry almost fell into the river that had opened up at his feet. Death took a firm hold on Harry's shoulder to prevent it, saying all the while, "This is the river souls must cross, Harry Potter. Are you ready to do so?"

Harry's head snapped up, tossed out of his thoughts by the words. "So, I... I'm really dead?"

"Are you ready to cross?"

Harry thought about his plight. There was no one left to fight against Voldemort. All were dead, and his friends were beyond this river as well. He may as well join them. There was nothing left for him behind. The decision came quickly, almost too quickly, and Harry thought over it more to make sure he wasn't quitting.

"Yes. I am ready to cross," he answered, and felt the pain of the loss of his friends, the worry, and troubles that had followed him to the banks of the river leave. He was free. Unfettered.

Death nodded, and a boat appeared in the river, with that same smooth transition as with all the scenery changes. The boat's prow rose up proudly, ending in a skull that would have done a Viking shipbuilder proud. The boat looked about enough for two people, maybe three if they didn't mind crowding. The wood was worn, and the black paint peeled away, all eroded by the waves of the river. Black streamers were tied to the edge, trailing in the water.

Harry was startled by the boat, as he realized what this was. He asked a question to Death, who only chuckled his smile-replacing, bone-chilling chuckle. "You may want to step onto my barge, Harry. I told you this was the beginning."

"Beginning? How? I mean, this could only be a beginning if I went back and did everything over..." He stopped, realizing.

"How far do you want to go back Harry? The barge will take you," Death said. Death didn't have the power to do anything besides carry souls to the river, but the barge was instilled with the necessaries for this eventuality.

"I..." He'd wanted to go back, wanted to so much, but he'd never really thought of when he'd want to go back to. The possibilities swept through his mind, and he searched through them to see when things began to go wrong. He sighed, and supposed he'd have to start at the beginning. Everything always started at the beginning, didn't it?

"Send me back to when I got the letter," he said. Death nodded, it didn't need to know which letter. It motioned to the boat, and the boat understood, and began to move forward, down the river.

A few yards down, Harry turned and said, "Wait! Will I remember any of this?"

Death shook its head. "Of course not."

"Then how will I know not to make the same mistakes?"

"Don't worry, Harry. You will." Death watched the boat float swiftly down, following the current, then muttered as the boy rounded a bend and turned out of sight, "It was meant to be."