Prologue
A lone star twinkled in the darkness of the night sky. It was a thing of beauty, the very essence of all that had been lost to Fallen Earth and her inhabitants. Bravely it shone above the ruin of muggle London, offering a glimmer of hope in a world so tainted by evil.
For the world was indeed tainted by evil. Nature itself was but a twisted shadow of its former glory. No more was the golden disk of light that had caressed so many summer days; no longer did those glorious rays bathe the world in joy. This sun was wrong, twisted, and evil: a sickening shade of blood-red in the hazy, pewter-gray sky. Nothing had been spared from the contamination, as the twisted and bent trees, the withered grass, the strangely parched rivers would all testify. Everything had been tainted.
The nights were different now as well--colder, longer, reeking of evil, haunted by the tortured whispers of those long gone--the night was filled with a deeper darkness than before, and it was a darkness that seemed unnaturally alive. Those who dared venture out into the night were quickly swallowed by the shadows.
An era of darkness had settled upon the world; both wizard and muggle alike.
Two-hundred years had passed since the Last Battle, the battle that had decided the fate of mankind. Two hundred years since the world had shuddered under the weight of their beloved Champion's death. And in that moment, all hope of salvation was brutally torn apart as the broken body of a nineteen-year-old boy crumpled to the ground, emerald eyes closing for the last time.
For two centuries the world had toiled and groaned under the cruel, terrifying reign of the immortal Lord Voldemort. And as the years past, as the taint of Lord Voldemort's evil spread, the world sped ever faster towards its ultimate destruction.
Only scant factions remained opposed to him; small pockets of resistance scattered throughout his mighty Empire. The death of Harry Potter had devastated all worlds alike as the arm of Voldemort spread until even the muggle world fell under his heinous rule--the same muggle world which had caused so much pain, so very long ago, to a young boy named Tom Riddle.
With the devastating defeat of the Chosen One of the Light, the gateway to long-lasting—if not eternal—life had been opened to Lord Voldemort. The Dark Lord rewarded those whom he saw fit with the Elixir of Life and watched with satisfaction as the community of those loyal to him grew. It was upon the completion of this peculiar potion, he set loose his wrath against the world that had rejected him so long ago.
Muggle-killing rampages grew and intensified as the full force of Lord Voldemort's hatred poured down upon the non-magical population. The muggles were hunted as sport, tortured to death, burned at the stake in ways cruelly reminiscent of muggle witch-hunting.
It was at this point in time that a curious trait of nature came into play. As more magic was used with increasingly casual regard against muggles, a peculiar mutation took place in a select few, which caused an immunity to most magic as a whole.
At first this tiny beacon of light brought hope into the hearts of the muggles, for who had not heard of Darwin's "survival of the fittest"? Perhaps in those few, some hope for the survival of the muggle world could be placed. Into these Select few, perhaps all the knowledge and dreams and love of the non-magical could be preserved and saved for a better, brighter day.
But as in all things, nature had a way to balance this anomaly. To those who underwent this change, even a common cold was deadly. The very mutation which had allowed the Select to be impervious to magic, had in fact mutated their immune system to the point where magic and all its components were recognized as a pathogenic infection and immediately disposed of, while ordinary viruses and bacteria were no longer a threat.
It was because of this that most of the Select died before adulthood—and most often in the most horrible manner. But in a world gone mad, they held the hopes and dreams of all muggle-kind.
For years, the Select were the deepest secret of muggle-kind. Upon discovery, they were hidden away, out of the reach of Lord Voldemort, where they lived their short, pain-filled lives as best as they could, biding their time.
Their fellow muggles died to protect them, spilling their lifeblood to keep the Select a secret—and still the Select did nothing, until that day.
Exactly two-hundred years after the death of The-Boy-Who-Lived, another child-of-prophecy was born. The son of two Selects, his birth heralded the approach of a new era, an era of justice and peace.
For now, the muggles would still groan under the torturous rule of Lord Voldemort, but the time to fight would soon come. Hope stirred in the hearts of all, as the first awakening of a pale, spring day.
From the ashes of despair, hope springs anew.
