Summary: Your classic 'Wrong BWL' story with a twist. Ryan Michael Potter is hailed as the BWL. His older brother Harry is neglected for a year before he is left at a brutal orphanage. Roughly a year after that he disappears, not that anyone cares. 14 years later, at the final battle he returns, but nothing close to what he once was. He is now a Warrior with a mission, and the Potters and Dumbledore will come to realize what drastic effects their decisions have wrought.

A/N: I own nothing except the plot and original characters.

The Forgotten One

The cloudy, stormy unforgiving sky roared with a clap of thunder, streaks of white lightning rocketing towards the round below. Fat thick blobs of frigid rain slammed down from the sky relentlessly, pounding the stone of the mighty towers of Hogwarts. An eerie cold spread around the area, emitted from the floating figures of sorrow, their wretched wails of agony the only sound being made besides the downpour and claps of thunder. Their bony hands curled with long pointed nails extended and prepared to shred as they hung listlessly in the air above a venerable army of black clad figures with masks of pure ivory covering their faces. This army held sticks of varying sizes in their hands, aimed straight ahead, tips glowing with an eerie green light, a sickly green light. Hidden partially by darkness and shadow stood massive bulks of flesh and muscle, their forms towering above all those before. Large, thick clubs of solid wood with orbed heads were clutched in their hands as the drool from their open mouths dripped down to the ground below. At their heels crouched beasts of nightmare and savagery, wolfs of the moon whose instincts were to hunt, maim and slaughter. Their amber eyes glinted in excitement, their snarls low and menacing whilst they bared their whites fangs of enamel to the prey that quivered before them.

At the head of it all stood a balding figure with pale skin, his bony fingers clasped a pure white stick carved with elegance and grace, an oxymoron if there ever was one for this figure radiated anger, hate and darkness. It was pure evil. Its robes, like its soul, were black as night and its eyes glowed crimson red with fury and power. It was a demon from hell, a being bent solely of wreaking havoc and chaos. His name is never spoken, for to do so is a curse upon one's soul. He is feared by all, yet opposed by few. He is one who seeks to bring the world to its knees in service of him, forcing those inferior to him to bow and kiss his feet whilst he slaughters those he sees as unworthy. He is the purist evil in existence. He is Terror. He is Darkness. He is Lord Voldemort.

Before the darkness stands those who oppose him, the Light. Men and women and even children who resist his will. They stand united, their only goal to eradicate the evil from their world. Yet for all their bravery and courage, they still shake at the mass of evil before them. Their numbers and inferior, their skills paling in comparison to the enemy they fight. They know this. They know that tonight, the last beckon of light shall fall, unless the one destined to destroy the darkness can succeed. They rest their hopes and dreams on the shoulders of a man no older than seventeen, a man who from birth has been expected to defeat the Evil One. He is the hope of their world, their messiah, their savior, yet he too shakes. He is afraid, he is unsure, but most of all, he knows he will not win. He lacks the skill and courage to win and his foe knows this as he does. He shakes because all hope is gone. At least, it was until about 3 minutes ago. 3 minutes ago someone else arrived, someone who reeks of power and wisdom, someone who commands power and authority unknown to most mortals. His hazel eyes like all those around him are fixated of the figure in front of them. They stand mesmerized and in awe.

In front of the Light stands one figure, one man with the courage to face the might of Darkness, alone. This being stands at 5' 11", his skin is lightly tanned and his muscles sculpted and toned, making his lithe form appear hard as stone. Across his back hands a katana, its handle made of the purest steel. It is lined with gold that shimmers in the waning light of the moon, runic symbols glittering brightly. His torso is cover by elegant body armor, white gold in color with line of crimson trailing across it outlining the griffin that adorns his breastplate above his heart. Greaves of similar white gold adorn his forearms and shins, while his lower region down to his knees is covered by a royal blue sash. His black messy hair stuck up at odd angles, making it look naturally windswept. With hands clenched tightly at his sides and his feet shoulder width apart, the figure's glowing emerald orbs focused on the incarnation of evil before him.

Lord Voldemort's blood red eyes scanned the figure before him in apprehension and fury. 'Who dares stand against me,' he seethed silently. He raised his white stick of yew at the figure before him and spoke in a cold tone,

"Who are you who dares stand against Lord Voldemort!?"

The figures' face remains emotionless, though those behind him cannot see it. "I am the one who will banish you to the realm which you truly belong to. I am the one who shall rip your soul from your body and destroy your mind. I am your Omega," he responded calmly but clearly.

Voldemort's frighteningly hollow laugh echoed through the air, "Fool, the only one who could kill me is dead! The fools who raised him left him to rot and perish as they protected the one they believed destined to destroy me!"

The side of Light's jaws dropped at this proclamation. It was impossible, Ryan bore the scars! Two gashes of dual lightning bolts marred his otherwise flawless cheek, scars that refused to heal over. Even Dumbledore said he was the child of the prophecy! James and Lily Potter looked to each other stunned, 'Ryan isn't the Boy-Who-Lived? But how is that possible!? They found him in his crib crying loudly while his brother was passed out! His brother only bore one lightning shaped scar while Ryan had two! That must mean he is the BWL, he has to be!' they frantically thought.

Ryan Michael Potter's jaw became unhinged and his eyes clouded with terror. It was impossible! HE was the Boy-Who-Lived. HE killed Voldemort, not his brother! It can't be true, it mustn't be true! "You LIE!!" he screamed.

Voldemort's hollow chuckled reached their ears and made them shiver, "No boy, I do not. Your DEAD brother was the one to defeat me, NOT you! You are pathetic and useless, lacking any real power. Your only hope for victory is gone, and now you will die with the knowledge that YOU abandoned your savior, your own flesh and blood to DIE!"

The side of light shook in terror as the gravity of their mistakes began to dawn on them. The small boy they had forsaken and left in an orphanage to fend for himself was their only hope. Now he was surely gone, most likely murdered by Death Eaters while they fawned over Ryan. It was over, there was nothing left to do. Their savior, their son was dead and the world along with him.

"You assume too much Riddle," the figure in front of the Light stated calmly. His posture remained unchanged and his features set in stone.

Voldemort whirled on the man furiously, his wand tip glowing red, "Never speak that name! Crucio!" he yelled in fury. The red spell of unimaginable pain slammed into the man before him, yet he did not fall to his knees nor did he scream. For 2 entire minutes the figure did not move; his face remaining set in stone. Voldemort released the curse in shock and slight fear, an emotion foreign to the self-proclaimed Dark Lord. Voldemort began to take a closer look at the man before him, regarding him closely. The messy hair was not that astounding, but those eyes. They held knowledge, strength and most of all confidence. He recognized those eyes, for he had only seen them once before. It was those eyes! His eyes opened wide in shock,

"POTTER!" he hissed in rage.

The man still had yet to make any kind of move as he spoke, "Took you long enough Snake Face."

Voldemort recoiled in horror, "You're dead! Surely my Death Eaters killed you! You were but an abused runt! There is no way you could have defended yourself!"

"Wrong," was the suddenly cold reply, "I am not a runt, I was never a runt. I am a weapon with a purpose, to eliminate you."

The unfamiliar emotion of fear was becoming a regular feeling for the Dark Lord. It was not possible. This boy radiated shear power, enough to make his pale in comparison. There must be a way to sway him, to turn against those fools of the Light. He would be a powerful servant, the best and if he could turn him he could rule with an iron fist and absolute will. He must turn him!

"Why help those who neglected and abandoned you? Why help the ones who never showed you love or affection? You are so powerful Harry; you could do many great things. Join me and I could show you the wonders of using your power properly and asserting your will on those unworthy of you! Make those fools of the light regret all they have done to you! Make them suffer! Make them pay!" Voldemort offered.

Dumbledore and the Potters visibly paled. What had they done? They had left their child in hell and it could possibly be their end! If Harry joined Voldemort it would be over, there would be no way to stop Voldemort. Yet, despite all of this, only shame ran through the minds of Lily and James Potter. They were horrid parents, abandoning one son for the other. How could they have given up Harry so easily, make him feel so unloved and worthless? How could let him become so… cold? Was it true? Did he not know what love was? Did he not have a proper childhood where he played with children his own age? Dumbledore's mind pondered how he had been mistaken one again and what effect it would have on the world, while Ryan could only wonder what it was like for his brother. He couldn't imagine growing up alone, without love or support. How had Harry managed? Ryan was beginning to see his long lost older brother in a new light, sadness and regret making their way into his mind. All these years he had called his brother unwanted, useless and worthless. How wrong he was. Ryan swore to himself that if they survived this, he would do all he could to make it up to his brother. He would help show him was love was, he would redeem himself in his brother's eyes.

Their reverie was collectively broken by Harry's ever calm reply, "You assume I care about these foolish notions called love, revenge and power. There is only purpose and duty, and I will use my last breath to make sure mine is fulfilled. I am a weapon and a warrior, and I do not require love or acceptance. Enough talking Snake Face, prepare to meet your end."

Harry calmly reached back and withdrew his katana, its regal diamond blade glinting slightly in the waning moonlight. He brought the weapon forward, clasping it in both of his hands and raising it above his head, blade pointed back.

"Your move," he calmly taunted…

A/N: This is part one of a two part story, a sort of prologue but not really. This story is a little plot bunny that has been in my mind for a while now and I had to get it out. It actually has been on my mind so often that it's halted all progress on my other stories until I get it out. Part two will be significantly longer, I'm aiming for around 7-10K words.