Prologue:
Fire is everywhere. In wide open spaces made entirely of nature, and in small, lonely caves that sit far from any means of life. No matter how small the spark, the fire burns rapidly and without hesitation. Without any warning. No matter how desperately we try to put it out, no matter how fast we respond in the face of danger, it is never gone. That small flame will always remain and the damage will forever be done, despite every attempt to fix those wide spaces, and those tiny, empty caves. No matter how good the heat and the burn may feel at times, and weather it is good or bad, the fire is, and will always be, everywhere.
This was no different. That small flame was waiting patiently, hoping against all odds, that there was a chance for it to reignite, to be wild and to burn down every tree, every leaf in the forest. Filling every living, breathing creature's lungs who tried to put it out, with filthy, painful smoke. This fire had a name. Two names actually. Some know him by Tom Riddle, most by Lord Voldemort.
Voldemort is the flame in the forest. Trying to burn, trying so desperately to fill the lungs of those who lost their loyalty. Those who believed that this was the end of him. The ones who had such little faith in him that they believed that this boy, this 17-year-old boy could possibly be the end of him. This boy that they call The-Chosen-One, or The-Boy-Who-Lived. This boy named Harry Potter.
A/N: Hope you read and review! :D
