Chapter 1

The Uninvited Opportunity

"While all war is tragic, the loss of life is always more brutal when a nation finds its only resort is to start killing its own. And no matter which side wins, the whole of the people and their culture will always lose."

General (ret.) Jigme Dorji Wengshuk

"Blasted thing," the farmer muttered as the tractor spluttered to a stop. He needed a new one, he knew, but this had been his father's tractor, and this was his father's land. He just couldn't get rid of it that easily. He looked at his barn, a whole mile away across his field. He grumbled and swung his leg off the seat, hopping down to the ground. At least it was only six in the morning, barely sunrise, and he was just a mile away instead of at the far end of his farm a whole five miles away.

He grunted as he put his hands on the small of his back, bent backwards wincing at the rolling wave of crackles that ran up his spine.

"Oof, gettin' too old fer this," he muttered, though he still chuckled at himself. He was only forty-nine, not all that old really, but he had been farming his whole life, and it was taking its toll. Though as he looked around at his land, he had to admit there was nothing else he would be doing instead.

He finally started to walk towards his barn, taking care to step over the rows of green that were beginning to pop from the ground as he went. He yawned as he started getting closer to the barn. After he did, he gave a sideways glare to the south. He'd been kept up all night by the sound of explosions coming from the US side of the border. It was the Fourth of July yesterday, the American celebration of their independence. He'd expected the fireworks, but something had been different about this year. The explosions and the flashes of light had started around two in the afternoon, and continued for the next twelve hours.

"Crazy Yanks," he muttered again.

Thinking back on his school history, it wasn't even a unique Fourth of July for them to be celebrating. Would it only be their two hundred sixteenth birthday? There was nothing spectacular about that number was there? Nothing significant enough to warrant twelve whole hours of fireworks, anyway. Then he thought perhaps it was something unique to the three or four little towns over there. Maybe it was a significant anniversary year for one of them, so they'd gone a little overboard?

As he neared the barn, something odd made him stop. It was his youngest son running headlong towards him looking frantic.

"Dad! Dad!" he could hear his son calling as he ran.

"What is it, son?" he called back.

He started jogging forward towards his son closing the gap rapidly. His son didn't answer until he finally reached him, pausing to pant heavily with his hands on his knees.

"Well, what's the matter?" the farmer asked.

His son was only sixteen and ran track and field for his school. He must have been running as hard as he could to be this winded after just a quarter mile.

"Th-there's... in the barn, people," his son finally managed to splutter.

"People?" the farmer asked. "How many? What kind of people?"

"I-I don't know!" his son spluttered. "There's a whole bunch of them, the whole barn's full!"

The farmer looked to the barn, then his house, which was almost the same distance away. The whole barn was full? His son had to be exaggerating. He could fit up to one-hundred people in his barn comfortably, he knew. There had been that many in there before when he and all his neighbours had celebrated the finishing of building it two summers ago. But from the look on his son's face, he knew that there had to be at least someone in there.

"Son, go get the shotgun and bring it out to me quick but quiet-like, you got me?"

"Okay, Dad."

The farmer watched his son run off to the house then looked back at the barn. He thought he had a good idea of what was going on. It was probably partying American kids who'd got stuck on this side of the border and were waiting for nightfall to sneak back into the States. Kids often came here to celebrate because the drinking age on this side of the border was lower than in the States. He'd just show up with a shotgun and order them all out, plain and simple.

His son came back out a few minutes later with the shotgun. He took it in his arms, checked it was loaded, and started creeping towards the barn.

Now that it came time for it, he was starting to feel nervous. Darker thoughts were beginning to run through his head now. What if it was drug smugglers? He stopped and looked back at his son.

"Run back inside and call the constable just to be safe."

His son nodded and started running back towards the house. He took a deep breath and started back towards the barn. He couldn't hear anything coming from it until he finally got to the door. As he reached for the handle, he heard a sneeze. He paused and furrowed his brow. It had been a child's sneeze; a young child's. What on earth was going on in his barn?

"Who's in there?" he finally called. "I warn yeh, I'm armed. Come out nice and slow."

"Who's out there? Is... is this... is this Canada? Are we out of the US? Did we make it? Are we safe?"

The farmer jumped at the sound of the voice. It was another man's voice, middle-aged sounding. He was caught off-guard about the by the palpable fear in it. Whoever was hiding in his barn was terrified, but he didn't think it was from him.

"Yes, yes this is Canada, now come out nice and—"

He didn't get the chance to finish. His barn door was flung open and before he knew what was happening someone was hugging him in a tight embrace. As he looked into the barn through the now open door, his eyes went even wider. His son had been right; there were a lot of people in their barn. There had to be nearly two hundred people crammed inside.

The man who was hugging him finally let go, but immediately collapsed back onto the ground and started laughing hysterically. His expression was one of pure, unbridled joy and relief.

"We made it! We're safe! We made it! Everyone, we're free!" the man shouted back to the rest.

There were cheers from the rest of the group and the next moment the entire crowd was hugging him. They were varied in age, from the very young to the very old, but for the most part, they seemed younger, mostly women and children. In fact, the only males he could see were the man who had first hugged him, a boy who looked all of thirteen, another young boy who seemed to be about eleven that the farmer had at initially taken for a girl, and two infants.

"Whe-where did you all come from?" he asked incredulously.

No one responded right away, they all seemed too happy to be out of the US to have even heard him.

"We're from the three towns just across the border; some of us are from St James, some of us from Rollen and some from Belview. They attacked us; they came without warning," a woman finally said in answer to his question.

She seemed the most composed, though she was still very tightly hugging a young girl who didn't look any older than twelve. As he took them all in, he noted how many of them had burns and black marks on their skin, and more than a couple had what looked like dried blood on their very ragged looking clothes.

"Wh-who did?"

"The secessionists..." another woman said. There was widespread muttering of agreement around the room.

"Secessionists...? I don't under—"

"Of course you don't," muttered the man. "You're a Muggle... this is a wizarding fight..."

"W-wizard?"

"Sorry, I know this is all new to you, but we need to speak to an authority figure... I'm sorry I was so unseemly earlier when you came to the door, but," he waved a hand vaguely at the rest of the group, "if you could only have seen the brutality we encountered you would understand my fear. My name is Arnold Hoffman. I'm the wizarding mayor of Rollen, and what you see here is... well... all that's left."

"L-left?" the farmer spluttered.

"Yes, all that's left of our three towns," said the first woman who had spoken. The man nodded to her and walked over, holding her hand and the hand of the young girl she was hugging tightly. The farmer guessed the two were the man's wife and daughter.

"You mean everyone else is—"

"Dead," muttered another woman, rocking a baby in her arms, "or captured... they rounded up all the men in the town they could get their hands on."

"Even the boys..." moaned another woman. "My boy, they took my boy!" she wailed and dissolved into sobs on another woman's shoulder.

"Shhhh, it's okay Emily, I'm sure he's fin—"

"HE'S ONLY EIGHT!" the woman screamed, "What good to them is he?!"

The woman collapsed to the ground. The others around her lifted her up and tried to comfort her further. The farmer's eyes drifted to the man, Hoffman, the two boys in their early teens and the two infants.

"Then... how did you all escape?"

Hoffman sighed. "It was the hardest choice..." he started to say.

As he did, the farmer couldn't help but notice he was starting to get his wits back about him and seemed a bit more leader-like.

"I had the choice... keep fighting and be captured or killed or..." he looked over his shoulder at the rest of the group, "or do my best to make sure some of us escaped to be able to tell what happened."

The farmer blinked in astonishment. Hoffman looked back up at the farmer and sighed.

"I know, it's easy to judge from where you're standing. But put yourself in my shoes. Could you say you would have stayed?"

The farmer pondered these words and found he didn't have an answer. "But, why attack you like this? Why try and kill everyone?" The farmer asked.

"We were the one area that held out. They wanted to silence us," said the woman, who the farmer took to be the mayor's wife. "They wanted to kill or take all of us... they didn't want the story to get out."

"Our towns refused to join the secessionists. We refused to force some of our citizens to be second class, or worse," said the mayor.

The farmer shook his head. This was all too much, he had no idea what was going on, but this was just becoming too much. All he knew, as he looked at these people, was they had all been through hell.

There was a soft popping noise behind him, and he turned. It was Constable Kirkwood, the local Mounted Police constable standing behind him in the doorway, wearing a grey Mounted Police uniform. His face was stricken as he looked around at the people in the barn.

"Oh Constable, you got here fast, er, these people here—"

But before he could say another word, Constable Kirkwood stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out what looked like a long, straight stick. He pointed it right in the farmer's face and shouted: "Obliviate!"

With heavy hands, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic of Britain, set down the report. It was too much to bear to read it all. Over three thousand people were dead or missing, both wizards and Muggles. Three thousand four hundred eighty-eight men, women and children. So much hatred, so much destruction. Three whole towns wiped off the face of the map. It was with a certain bitterness that he forced down the small bit of relief sneaking into the back of his thoughts at how glad he was it had not happened here in Britain.

He tried to imagine it. Three whole towns turned to cinders and rubble; an entire wizarding army descending on them and levelling their homes. It was simply unconscionable.

"My god..." he muttered to himself as he rubbed his temples. "Not even You-Know-Who nor Black could have wrought such destruction!"

A civil war had just broken out in America. States all across the country had decided to break away from the standing Wizarding government there. From what Fudge understood, there was a distinct parallel between this current civil war of the Wizarding World in the United States, and a massive Muggle civil war in that same country a little over a hundred years ago.

Apparently, the newest president and his party had managed to push through legislation that gave equal rights and citizenship to the magical aboriginal population, something they'd been denied since the wizarding government in the States had been formed. While most in the magical world, including Fudge and much of the International Confederation of Wizards, had been very supportive of this law, it became evident very quickly that the place this law was least popular was in the States themselves.

According to the report, in one of the states that had seceded in response to the law, a few cities had held out where support was still active for the Wizarding government. Most of the population had capitulated, yet this little cluster of towns held out. When they finally ignored all orders to surrender, the secessionists attacked. In twelve hours, the secessionists had managed to level the towns utterly. Some were already calling it genocide. It was apparent the attacking forces had tried to kill or imprison everyone.

The report also stated that the severity of the attack was most likely to keep the story from getting out. Fortunately, the only way the alarm had been raised was when the mayor of one of the towns had managed to escape with a small group of survivors into nearby Canada, which was fortunately only five miles away. A Canadian Ministry wizard working undercover in a Muggle law-enforcement entity called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was the first on the scene. He gathered the information about what had happened. The information had been relayed to the Canadian Ministry immediately, who sent out a warning to other major wizarding governments at once.

Fudge jumped as both the clock on the wall chimed, and his little messenger portrait cleared his throat. "Minister, Albus Dumbledore and one guest shall be arriving in five minutes time. They wish to discuss the events in America with you."

Fudge looked at the portrait. He had only just received word of the attack himself. How did Dumbledore already know? Who was this guest he was bringing?

"Eh, who is the guest?" Fudge asked warily.

"Aurora Sinistra, the Professor of Astronomy at Hogwarts," said the little man in the portrait.

Fudge felt a small feeling of resentment well up inside him. This was just like Dumbledore to barge in here uninvited just expecting to be seen. And, why, in the name of Merlin, was he bringing the astronomy professor?

Fudge heaved a sigh and nodded. "Very well, I shall receive them."

He flicked his wand, arranging three chairs in front of his fireplace and striding over to the crackling flames. He stared at them blankly as he tried to process all that had happened that evening.

Three towns had been destroyed, and only eight hours after its happening Dumbledore was calling a meeting with him. Surely if Dumbledore had information concerning the attack, he should be going to the International Confederation of Wizards, not the Minister himself. Dumbledore was the Supreme Mugwump after all.

There was a knock at the door behind him, and Fudge turned around. "Come in," Fudge said in his bravest attempt at a casual tone.

Dumbledore entered. His glasses flashed white opaque from the lamplight as his eyes found Fudge. "Ah, good evening, Cornelius," said Dumbledore in maddeningly familiar terms.

I'm the Minister of Magic, Fudge thought bitterly, the least you can do is address me as such.

"Good evening, Albus, what brings you here on such a tragic day?"

Dumbledore quietly sighed and stepped aside. A woman Fudge had never seen before strode in behind him in black robes. Fudge was caught off-guard by the woman's stark beauty, but not nearly as much as the apparent sadness emanating from her.

"This, Cornelius, is Professor Aurora Sinistra, one of our newest members of staff."

Fudge nodded and bowed to her and extended a hand. "Good evening to you too young lady, what can I do for you?"

The young woman took his hand and shook, but still looked as if an entire world of misery weighed upon her shoulders. Finally, she spoke, and Fudge found himself slightly taken aback. She was American by her accent, and her voice cracked a little as if she was holding back tears. "Thank you, Minister, as... as Professor Dumbledore said, I'm Professor Sinistra, and I... I'm from the state where this... this... where it happened..." She trailed off as a distinct lump came to her throat, and Fudge felt his heart sink further.

"Oh, my dear lady, I'm so sorry about what happened..." he said in a quiet voice, trying to sound understanding. "I shall promise whatever support the Ministry can give," He went on, though even he felt the hollowness of his words. This was taking him right back to his days working as Junior Minister of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, having to manufacture his empathy for people he'd never met.

"As it so happens, Cornelius, we do have a request we would like to make for some support," Dumbledore said quietly.

Fudge looked at him curiously before guiding the young teacher to the most comfortable of the three chairs and gesturing for Dumbledore to take a seat of his choosing before sitting himself.

"Well, anything the Ministry can provide in these troubled times we will do our best to do so. Now, what is your request, my dear lady?" Fudge asked.

Professor Sinistra looked up at him and took a deep breath. "Minister... sir... There was a magical school in the area of those towns," she choked a little trying to force the words out. "Many of the students who went there are now homeless or," she trailed off again, apparently unable to finish the sentence, and Fudge nodded understandingly.

The young woman looked at Dumbledore, who nodded and leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes fixed on Fudge's. "Upon hearing of the attack, Professor Sinistra came to me at once. As you are aware Cornelius, Hogwarts is a very large school, even with our large wizarding population," Dumbledore said solemnly, and Fudge raised an eyebrow.

"Are, are you suggesting we take on these students here Dumbledore? At Hogwarts? How many students are we talking about?" Fudge asked in shock.

Aurora merely shook her head. "Fifty-four. That's all that's left of the students in that school... The rest were captured by the secessionists or... or..." The young witch said, and Fudge saw her lower lip tremble slightly as she was unable to finish the sentence.

The words seemed to wash over Fudge as nothing else had. Out of a population of nearly four thousand people, only fifty-four of the magical children were still alive? He fell back in his chair and stared at the fire in thought.

"These children are guilty of no crime, Cornelius. They are mere bystanders in an unprecedented act of hatred and violence. We cannot turn them away in such a time of need like this. We need to bring them to Hogwarts. Here they will be safe, and whole and their magical educations can continue unhindered," Dumbledore went on, his voice still solemn, but with a certain element of command to it.

Fudge fought off a grimace. On the one hand, he was growing to resent this sort of behaviour from Dumbledore; on the other hand, Dumbledore was right.

There was no way he could turn away these children now, although, "Is there no wizarding school there in America that could take them? Or Canada?" He asked trying to keep the edge of a plea out of his voice.

Necessary or not, it would cause many issues in logistics getting them here, and, humanitarian mission or not, Fudge couldn't help but feel bringing fifty new students into Hogwarts from outside the country would not be an overly popular situation with the some in British Wizarding society. Some would say Fudge was playing with fire and risking pulling Britain into the war.

"There are no battle lines in this war going on there Cornelius, as you are fully aware. Everywhere is the front line. Nowhere in the States is safe for these students anymore. Professor Sinistra and I have been constantly updated on the situation since the details of the attack became known. There are still numerous entities that wish to harm these children. They cannot remain there while this war is going on. They are currently in asylum in Canada. We cannot stand by and do nothing about this Cornelius," Dumbledore said with a noticeable edge to his voice.

He had not shouted, but Fudge felt a chill run down his back that made it feel more like Dumbledore had stood and raged at him. "I... well... yes, you are right of course. We shall begin making arrangements at once, my dear," Fudge said.

He returned his attention to the young woman sitting between them. Aurora's face registered shock at Dumbledore's display of indignation at Fudge's hesitancy, and she turned disappointed eyes on Fudge.

Against his will, Fudge felt the slightest flicker of shame.

"Many of the arrangements have already been made, Cornelius. With but a word the students and what's left of their families will be on their way here immediately. Time is of the essence here, Cornelius. We cannot hesitate or risk losing more innocent lives."

"A-arrangements? Already? But how, Dumbledore? The attack only ended eight hours ago!"

"Professor Howe, Headmaster of Rathlin, has been keeping a close eye on the situation. I will remind you that I have attempted on several occasions to warn you of this possibility. Professor Howe has numerous students who come from the United States, and had long ago set up a network to get the families of students out of the US and into Ireland should something like this happen. We can easily use this very same network to bring these children to Hogwarts. They can remain at Hogwarts for the remainder of the summer, where we will be delighted to have them."

Fudge stared at Dumbledore incredulously. He hadn't known Dumbledore to be this pressing on an issue since the last time You-Know-Who was powerful. Fudge kept staring back at Dumbledore, then nodded. "Very well Dumbledore, send word. I shall have a task force of Aurors ready to receive them."

Professor Sinistra fitted Fudge with glowing, watery eyes and began crying in earnest. "Oh thank you, Minister, oh thank you so much!" She exclaimed taking his hand in heartfelt gratitude.

Fudge found himself somehow feeling a little lighter in his chair as she held his hand so sincerely.

Dumbledore smiled softly and put his hand on the young woman's shoulder. "Aurora, dear, please go and send Fawkes to them. He is waiting for you just outside," Dumbledore said, and she nodded, rising walking swiftly to the door, though pausing in the doorway to thank Fudge once more before departing.

Fudge turned his gaze back to Dumbledore, who once more had a severe look on his face. "I want to thank you, Cornelius. This is the right decision. It will have its opponents, but you cannot but win in this situation. You are showing great mercy to those who are in desperate need."

Fudge blinked slightly looking at the older wizard. Dumbledore had never thanked Fudge for anything before, and to hear those humble words from Dumbledore's lips was shocking. He nodded. "Of course, Dumbledore, what else could I do?" Fudge said still a little taken aback. "No one with a heart could turn away those children... it was simply shocking at first... this has been a lot to process in a very short amount of time."

"Yet when the time came to make a decision, you picked the correct one. People will not forget this; whatever may happen in the future."

Fudge furrowed his brow a little at those words. What had Dumbledore meant by that? However, he was distracted from asking when Professor Sinistra re-entered the room and Dumbledore and Fudge both quickly got to their feet.

The woman's eyes were still full of tears, but she looked much happier now, and hopeful. The sight filled Fudge with such a feeling of self-satisfaction he had to give his head a little shake to bring himself back to the present.

"Fawkes is on his way, Headmaster," Professor Sinistra said beaming around at them. Dumbledore bowed deeply to her and Fudge bowed as well before he turned to Albus.

"Keep me constantly updated on the progress of getting them here, Dumbledore," Fudge said in a rather serious tone, trying to sound more commanding.

Dumbledore nodded, "They will be here as rapidly as we can manage, Cornelius. And now, I must escort Miss Sinistra back to school where she must get some much-needed rest, and I must prepare Hogwarts for a wash of bright new faces being offered a second chance at peace and happiness."

Fudge walked Dumbledore to the door bowing him out and shaking Aurora's hand again before the pair departed. Fudge sat back in his chair, looking at the report again and sighing. Things had been so quiet for so long, and now this. He groaned as he called out, "Dolores?"

Dolores Umbridge, his squat, very pink, senior under-secretary entered, carrying her ever-present clipboard and smiled in a simpering way.

"Yes, Minister?" she asked in her sweet, girlish voice.

"I need you to take down some letters, but first please send for Rufus, and two Aurors of his choosing, though I highly suggest Kingsley Shacklebolt to be at least one. I have a mission for them."

"Very well, Minister," Dolores said, scribbling the notes down rapidly on her clipboard.

"Oh, and send for Amelia and Barty as well. I'd call for Albus I suppose, but he already knows," Fudge was hard put not to add a slightly bitter laugh to that final statement.

"At once, Minister," Dolores said scribbling more. "Anything else?"

"No, that is it for now. Tell them all I want them here as soon as possible. There's very little time to delay. I shall have to pay a visit to the Minister of Muggles as well to inform him of this crisis."

Dolores nodded and shuffled from the room rapidly. Fudge sat back in his chair and found himself smiling. Dumbledore was right. This was the right thing to do.