Disclaimer: I own nothing. Every recognizable character and place belong to the property of J.K Rowling, Warner Brothers, and Scholastic. I am not making any money off of this work.

Warnings/ Triggers: ALL OF THEM. Sex, drug use, alcohol use, torture, gore, blood magic, underage sex, mentions of non-con/dub-con, murder, bullying, pretty much anything you can think of is going to be in here. If you cannot handle this, then please do not read this story. If however, you're just as demented as me, you should enjoy it very much.

This story came to life after seeing a post in The Death Eater Express on Facebook asking a What-if about the Trio being in Slytherin. This story developed from it. Hope you enjoy.

"And the Forgotten will Reign. The Broken will Heal. The Chosen will Choose."

Ronald Weasley often felt forgotten. The youngest of his brothers, but not the youngest child. No, that position was taken by his sister Ginevra. The daughter his parents had always wanted. The reason that his family was so poor. After all, if they had stopped having children after Bill, or Charlie, or Percy, or the twins or even him they would have been better off. But it wasn't to be. While Ginny got new robes and toys and books, he was stuck with hand-me-downs from his brothers. Clothes that barely fit, either too big or too small. Toys that were broken, and abused from years of wear and tear. Books that were missing pages or falling apart. He got the worst of everything, while his darling little sister got the best of what his parents could afford.

That wasn't the worst of his lot. No, as the youngest son, he didn't have a chance of being noticed. Not with Bill being Head Boy, and Charlie being a Quidditch star, Percy with his book smarts, and the twins with their pranks. All of the niches were filled. There was no place for ickle Ronnekins. He was expected to live up to the roles of his brothers, but why should he? Why should he go to Hogwarts and become a Gryffindor, just because every Weasley that ever went was? Why should he have to give up more of himself trying to fill shoes that could never be filled? It wasn't fair, or right. And dammit all, he wanted more! More than to be just another Weasley. More than the forgotten youngest son, more than to be overlooked simply because he didn't seem important to anyone else. Staring at the evening sky, the night before he and his family would go supply shopping for Hogwarts, Ron knew that he was on the precipice of a choice. One that would change his life forever.

The following day, he held onto his father's hand as he apparated them to Diagon Alley. It made his stomach twist and turn, the feeling of being squeezed through a too tight tube enough to make him want to vomit. Of course, he would never say as much. Not in front of his parents and especially not in front of his brother's lest they use it against him. It was strange to him, how supposedly brave and chivalrous men and women were so cowardly to turn on their own family. Their own blood. Perhaps that's what the other purebloods really meant when they called them Blood Traitors. Funny thing that. How much blood really meant in the wizarding world as a whole, and just how little it meant to his family.

His mother had already swept away with Ginny, no doubt to spoil her some more, while his brothers had scattered. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, "Let's go get you a wand, son." Arthur said, leading him towards Ollivanders. Ron felt an instant rush of happiness. His own wand. His. Something that only he would own, that wouldn't be passed down from his brothers. He had worried that he might have gotten stuck with an old family wand, but instead, he was getting his very own. The bell above the door chimed as they entered the dusty old shop and Mr. Ollivander appeared behind the counter.

"Ah, hello Arthur. Holly with a core of unicorn hair nine and a half inches, rather flexible. And this must be your youngest boy, Ronald." Mr. Ollivander greeted them, peering over the counter to stare at him. Ron shifted uncomfortably, although he was slightly pleased that the wandmaker knew his name, he was still unused to such intense attention.

"Well then, let's get you sorted lad," Ollivander said, before beginning to take stock of Ron. "Arms out. Right or left handed?" Ron waved his right hand. "Good, good. Now to take some measurements." Ollivander muttered while a tape measure began taking measurements of his arms. From fingertip to fingertip across his chest, from the tip of his right middle finger to his wrist and finally from his wrist to his elbow. Ollivander hummed and turned to the back of his store, where boxes upon boxes of wands were piled up precariously. Ron wondered how they all managed to stay up, even with magic.

"Try this one. Poplar, unicorn hair, ten and a quarter inches. Nice and rigid." Ollivander said, placing the wand before Ron. Ron grasped it lightly only to hiss and drop it when it sent out red sparks that stung. "Not that one," Ollivander tutted taking the wand back gingerly with brows raised. Over and over Ron tried out varieties of different wands. None of them seemed to fit correctly. They were either too explosive or too unresponsive. Just as Ron was about to give up, Ollivander pulled out a peculiar looking box.

It was ornately decorated, pure black with silver veins running through it. It was topped with glittering rubies, and Ron felt a yearning to grab the wand and run with it. He controlled himself but still eyed the box covetously. He could feel the power rolling off the box in waves, calling to him, begging him to take it and be its true master.

Before Ollivander could hand over the wand inside though, Arthur spoke up, "Mr. Ollivander, we couldn't possibly afford such a luxurious wand. Are you sure there aren't any others?" In that moment, Ron felt a fury bubble up inside him. A fury directed towards his father. How dare he! This was his wand, his, and he wanted to deny him it. Before Ron could open his mouth to object Mr. Ollivander batted his hand at Arthur, "Nonsense. The wand chooses the wizard, Arthur. If this wand chooses your boy, then he will pay the same price as any other wand in my shop. A true wandmaker knows better than to keep a wand from its wizard."

Ollivander handed over the box carefully, "Go on lad. Try this one. Ebony, with a Phoenix feather core. Twelve and three-quarter inches, rigid flexibility."

Ron gazed upon the box lovingly, he could feel the magic in his veins humming with anticipation. Lifting the lid carefully he grasped the wand in his hand and let out an excited laugh as the magic swirled around the room, lifting his hair and shooting off silver sparks. Ollivander looked on curiously, strange that one of the first wands his family had ever crafted, found its home in one so young. This young lad was destined for great things, and he could only hope they would be wonderful as well.

Harry Potter hated Number 4 Privet Drive with a passion. He hated everything about it, from his Aunt Petunia's ridiculous chinaware that no one could touch, much less eat off of, to his Uncle Vernon's obscene snoring that could be heard all the way under the stairs. But he especially hated his cousin Dudley. He was loud, lazy, fat and slovenly. Not to mention spoiled beyond belief. While Harry was lucky if his birthday was even remembered with a piece of tissue paper, Dudley was lavished in gifts. Heaven forbids if one was missing, or if there weren't as many as the year before, then the entire neighborhood could hear his tantrums. Harry himself was reduced to wearing his cousin's too large hand me downs, and once Dudley had caught on, he made it his mission to destroy them to the best of his ability knowing Harry would still have to wear them. Of course neither his Aunt or Uncle ever punished the brat, choosing instead to give into his whims; all for the sake of appearing normal. That was the entirety of their life. Look normal, act normal, be normal.

Normal. What a boring awful thing to be. He wanted to be extraordinary. He wanted to be able to look at those who had bullied him all his life and spit in their faces for ever believing themselves to be better than him. For punishing him for things he couldn't explain, such as growing his hair back right after his Aunt had cut it. Or finding himself on the roof of his school when Dudley and his gang of bullies chased him with threats of pounding him to death. Or even when his Uncle had caught him talking to a small garden snake. His face had turned puce with rage, and he'd grabbed the poor thing and crushed it within his beefy fist before slinging it to the ground to stomp on. After that incident Harry had been regulated to his cupboard for a week, only allowed out to use the restroom and scarf down some bread and water. Then he would be unceremoniously shoved back into the dim space and told to think about what he's done.

But the truth was he didn't understand what he'd done, or how or even why. Some things just happened, and he very rarely had any control over them when they did. So when the first letter addressed to him came, and his Uncle tore it up in front of him, he was angry. When twenty more after that arrived, and his uncle burned them he was livid. And when his Uncle moved them all to this terrible little Island just to avoid the mysterious owls delivering them, he was beyond furious. As he lay on the hard dirt of the awful shack, he felt his anger mount higher and higher. How dare they do this to him! It wasn't his fault he was different. He shouldn't be treated like pond scum because of it. In fact, he should be treated like royalty. Imagine what all he could do if he learned to control the things that happened around him. People would call him a miracle worker, not a freak.

And it wasn't like Vernon and Petunia Dursley were truly normal, to begin with. Not his Aunt with her horse-like face and freakishly long neck and obsession with what the neighbors were doing. Not with the way she would secretly smoke cigarettes in the laundry room, that she thought no one knew about. Not with how she would eye the teenage boys that would often come to mow her lawn because Vernon was too lazy to do so himself. And not his Uncle, with his absurdly large body and meaty fists that were prone to hitting walls and tables and sometimes even Harry himself. Not with his disturbing movie collection that featured girls that were surely too young to be doing such acts. Not with how he would brag about himself to anyone who would listen, regardless if they cared or not. Not Dudley, with his spoiled tendencies and bullying. Not with how he would chase people down to spit on them, or try to lift the older girls dresses when they passed by. No, they weren't normal at all.

So when a man who was easily eight foot tall bashed through the door of the shack and offered to take him to another world. One hidden from his Aunt and Uncle and cousin, one in which he could learn how to master the magic inside him, he leaped for the opportunity. Anything to get away from the awful people he had been left with as a baby. Anything to get his revenge. Staring at the faces of his relatives, he made a promise to himself that one day they would pay for all they had done to him. One day they would admire his greatness and bow before him, just before he killed them.

Hagrid had left him inside Ollivander's wand shop, while he ran a few errands for the Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore. Looking around the dusty and slightly dirty shop he wondered if this was all just a dream. Magic was real, and it was spectacular. And now, he was about to get a wand. Something that before now, he believed to be just a story. An older man with white hair sticking up at odd angles and crows feet around his eyes stepped off a ladder and smiled at him.

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Potter." He told him. Harry swallowed nervously and shifted from foot to foot, "You have, sir?"

The man nodded. "Yes indeed. You know, you have your mother's eyes?" He asked, leaning over the counter to peer closely at Harry. Harry felt a jolt of surprise. This man knew his mother. He had met her, and he felt anger well up inside him at the injustice. These people knew his mother, they knew about her, had met her and seen her, and yet he could not remember her face. He had no clue what either of his parent's looked like, all because a man named Voldemort had attacked them one night. And because his Aunt and Uncle refused to speak of them, claiming they were lazy drunks killed in a car crash.

"What was she like?" Harry questioned eagerly. He wanted to know something about his mother, anything to help him feel a connection to her. The man's eyes dropped in obvious sadness, "My dear boy, you mean to tell me no one has told you anything?" Harry shook his head, and the man let out a sigh, "Your mother was incredibly intelligent. She was brave and clever, quick with a wand and an excellent study in charms and potions. She was Head Girl at Hogwarts, and your father was Head Boy. Why I remember watching him chase her through the Alley declaring his love for her and begging for a date. She never paid him any mind of course, not until their Seventh Year, when he finally matured enough for her. After that, they were always together. Such tragedy that they died so young." Ollivander told him, smiling wistfully at days gone by.

Harry smiled as well, his parents had been happy together, and that was enough for now. Mr. Ollivanderr shook his head and smiled, "Enough of that for now, what's say we get you a wand, eh?" Harry smiled brightly and nodded, eager to get his hands on a wand that would belong to him. Mr. Ollivander set about taking his measurements and asking him questions. Harry stood still and answered all of them with a smile on his face. When it came time for Mr. Ollivander to present him with wands though, the smile began to wane. Wand after wand he tried and none of them fit just right. He had even tried a wand that matched the core of the one that had given him his scar, only to be irritated while holding it. Ollivander sighed and stroked his chin for a moment.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt to try," He murmured walking to the far recesses of his shop only to return with an intricate looking wandbox. It was a dark green and had gold filigree embossed upon the sides, a single emerald glittered atop it. Harry felt his heart begin to race in anticipation, please let this be the one he thought. Mr. Ollivander placed the wand before him, and Harry eagerly grabbed it, paying no mind to the box that held it. Pure power rushed over him in waves and for the first time in his life, he felt at peace. He felt true happiness holding this wand, feeling the power inside it meld with his own. Closing his eyes he enjoyed the moment, before opening them and staring at Mr. Ollivander. "This one," he breathed, "This is the one."

Mr. Ollivander nodded with a smile, "Yes it is, Mr. Potter. Aspen with Dragon Heartstring core. Eleven inches. Slightly yielding. An excellent wand for charms and dueling." Harry smiled back, feeling a connection with his mother through this wand, she was great at Charms, and so would he be. He would endeavor to excel in everything that she did. And one day, he would avenge her death, especially if what Hagrid said was true and Voldemort wasn't truly dead. Ollivander watched the boy leave with a smile on his face, that one would be a leader, of that there was no doubt.

Hermione Granger was an intelligent young lady. Her parents told her all the time, although they worried about the books she tended to prefer to read. They also worried that she didn't socialize with the children her age. That she would rather talk politics with adults than Barbie dolls with girls her age. That she would rather know how a car worked than to play with the toy versions. That she was fond of balancing chemical equations at nearly eleven years old instead of just getting the hang of her multiplication and division problems. All of these things were of concern to her parents, but nothing was more concerning than what she could make happen. When angry she could shatter windows and glasses. When happy she could make her books float across the room to her. When sad she could cause water mains to burst and flood the house.

It terrified her parents. They had even called several priests to try and exorcise her, believing her to be possessed by demons, and no amount of begging and pleading could stop them. So she learned to be discreet. She learned to control her emotions tightly, how to appear as if everything was perfectly fine. As if the so-called demons had fled after the sixth or were it the eighth exorcism. As if she were a perfectly normal little girl, who just happened to be frighteningly intelligent.

It was enough to fool her parents. Enough to keep the priests away. But in the secret of her room, she would will her books to her. After all, she had read Matilda. She knew it was simply telekinesis that allowed her to do such intriguing things. Of course, her parents didn't believe in such things. Too wrapped up in the religious worlds that they had grown up in, instead of the scientific one she preferred. It was such a shame that such brilliant minds were wasted with their limitations. As if God was the only answer to what she was capable of.

So it came as quite the shock when her theories about being telekinetic were incorrect. Instead, she was a witch. That was worse to her parents. As far as they knew, witches were evil harmful beings who did the Devil's handiwork. They were frightened of her after that, afraid of what she could do now more so than ever. It hurt her badly, but she didn't let it show. She never let anything show anymore. Emotions were weakness and reserved for only those who deserved them. And her parents did not deserve to see her pain. So she strengthened her spine, resolute to never allow anything to punch through her armor, no matter how hard it may try. She would never allow her parents to know how much their fear and rejection hurt her. Instead, she would use her magic to cure the diseases that the Muggles couldn't. She would figure out how to end wars using magic, how to create homes for the homeless and food for the hungry. Oh, she was certain that even magic had laws and rules, but they were meant to be broken. And break them she shall.

So when Hermione appeared in Ollivander's wand shop to purchase the most vital part of her future education, it did not surprise her at all when a wand box in the very back of the dusty old shop began to shake.

Raising her brow at the older man before her she smirked, "I assume that means that one belongs to me?"

Mr. Ollivander eyed her appraisingly before nodding in agreement, "Indeed it does Miss.."

"Granger. Hermione Granger." She supplied when she realized he was asking her name.

"Indeed it does Miss Granger. A very special wand that one. Are you sure you can handle it?" Ollivander asked, meeting her eyes over the counter. Hermione pursed her lips but nodded. She could handle anything.

"Well then, let's get to it." He smiled, making his way to the box that was nearly vibrating with energy. She could feel the energy pouring off of it. It was rich and thick like dark chocolate, sweeping over her in a way that made her want to melt into the magic. It was raw and powerful and full of sickly sweet promises. She could almost hear the magic whispering to her, telling her all the great things she would do. Telling her how it could help her in a way that no one else ever could.

"This wand is Acacia, one of the few my family has ever made. It houses a dragon heartstring core. Eleven and a third inch long. Very, very rigid." Ollivander tells her, passing over an ornate box made of a violet colored wood. Sparkling jewels littered the top, and she barely pays them any attention. Instead focused on the instrument inside. Her wand. Lifting the lid so slowly she feels her own breath hitch in anticipation. It's beautiful, and as she picks it up she feels a power unlike any other flow through her veins reacting with the magic that resides there. This wand will do perfectly for her future plans.

Ollivander eyed the young witch for a moment. Finding it strange that such a fickle wand would belong to a seemingly innocent girl. That had been the main propensity of why his family had never been able to sell the wand. It refused any who touched it, often times sending nasty shocks to those it didn't believe worthy to wield it. And that it was the third ancient wand he'd sold this week made him think that change was just over the horizon. Change he wasn't sure the world was ready for, not with the likes of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter being at the helm.

The first of September rolled around and found three different and yet similar students boarding the Hogwarts Express. They were each nervous, and yet they covered it with an air of indifference. They were used to being ignored, or beaten down, or underestimated. And they always managed to overcome any obstacles placed before them. Time and time again they had beaten the things that had tried to beat them and they would continue to do so. There was nothing at one measly school that could break any of them. And this is where their story begins.

A/N: So, I hope you like the story so far. As I said before, this story will be dark. It is not going to be light and fluffy and full of rainbows and happiness. It's going to be gritty, and painful, and angst filled. There might be some bright spots, but it will take a while to get there. I am going to try and stay as close to canon as I can, with quite a few changes character wise. Thanks as always to my Amazng Beta Vino Amore for everything you do. Please review and let me know what you think. Til next time, Lilbit903.