Here I am again. I don't have many readers, but if anyone is out there and sees this please send over a review and tell me what you think about this fic! It would mean a lot and I love reading them. I've been working on this for a long time and I'm glad to finally share it with .

I want to update every Saturday but I'm a music student and have more than enough to do outside of school, so please bear with me if I don't update every single week. I will say it outright if it's impossible for me to update on a certain week due to my schedule. Let's just pray I don't get writer's block...

Also, I initially forgot I posted this before and between then and now I made some edits. I don't really know how detrimental they'll be *shrug* but it'll probably be for the better.

Until next week,

Cap

Disclaimer:

I gain no profit from the publication of this work. All ideas derived from the universe of the Harry Potter franchise belong to J.K. Rowling.

Dedicated to the victims of the of the holocaust and all those that fought in the Allied Forces during WWII.

Chapter I : The Train to Hell

Irony has a mean way of presenting itself; so found many citizens of Germany who lived in Hitler's Third Reich. Muggles and wizards alike realized this, but when or if they did, it was too late.

In the year 1936 in Germany, Adolf Hitler had been declared führer directly after president Hindenburg had died two years prior, and came to power as the complete dictator of the state. Every citizen was expected to own a volume of Mein Kampf, and they were all supposed to join the Nazi Party no matter what their social or economic status; if a man didn't enter, then he would be putting himself and his family at great risk of being taken away, never to be seen or heard from ever again.

A boy and his family, however, who resided in the German state, were not Nazis, as their nosy, horse-faced neighbors constantly reminded them, sometimes shouting out the window in the mornings when his mother was hanging up laundry or shaking out a rug. The boy's father was an apothecary, and was trained in England, which was well known for its herb-work around the wizarding world; he specialized in both muggle and magical goods at his shop, Faust's Apothecary & Other Medicinal Supplies. Oftentimes the boy's father would make small explosions from magical potions that would do silly things, albeit nothing harmful. He was also an admirable cellist and played in a local symphony orchestra, although it paid little to nothing. His mother was a delivery woman who brought packages (never letters) to people's front doors, and also had a very small salary, plus whatever tips she was given from her customers. She was always home an hour before dinnertime to prepare the evening meal, which usually wasn't more than a bowl of pea soup and bread.

The boy was named Oliver Faust. He was only six years old, but knew how to play the violin quite well, considering his young age. His repertoire wasn't horribly wide, but he knew a few professional pieces, and was learning newer ones as best he could at quite an astonishing rate. His teacher often prided him strictly, always telling him that he could do something better; so he did. He didn't need to go so far to perform, but he did so often at a small church about a mile away from his small home with the surprisingly good volunteer orchestra his father played in as principal cellist.

He didn't live in a particularly rich part of Dresden, but not near the dirt poor slums. His family didn't even own a car, but were lucky enough to not have to share an apartment complex with the rest of the city, like most of its residents were forced to.

While blood status mattered elsewhere, it was an even more important 'virtue' in Germany, to the point where muggleborn wizards and their families were kicked into mud and beaten in the middle of the street by other magical folk, at the worst of times. Oliver's mother, Christa, was a muggle, while his father Arlo wielded a wand made of ash and dragon. He used to be a member of the Magische Polizei before he had completed his training as an apothecary, and was a first-rate officer, one of the best that the Magische Versammlung had to offer before he quit. All of the subordinates and higher-ups he had started to gradually be sucked down into the world of the Nazis, abiding by their rules and customs without the bat of an eye. Oliver was expected to be as powerful as his father or even more so, according to his former co-workers; he wasn't so sure they saw that he wasn't much of the fighting-type. He'd rather stay in his room, or perhaps go to the piano bench to practice, and then perform a piece or two at the stage and afterwards play with ladybugs and worms in the yard outside.

Along with his passion for music, the boy loved to read. Unfortunately, many books were taken and burned because the German Student Union did not deem them to be correct; the books that were banned opposed German beliefs in one way or another. "This one was written by a Jewish author,'' they said, or "this one by Albert Einstein says that science and religion are coexisting! Such nonsense," they cried, and piled the books higher into mighty pyres, splattering them with kerosene as they jumped and danced in flame and fire.

So, Oliver decided with a leap of faith that he would take the cover off of his copy of Mein Kampf and slip it over his storybook, telling about a prisoner who made his life from nothing, and then raised an orphan girl and died a martyr in a revolution-scarred land. That was a great risk, but he thought that Mein Kampf was probably the worst book ever written, and he'd rather not deal with it if he didn't have to. Oliver had been forced to listen to it being read aloud during class while at school (where he was given the book in the first place), but he tried not to pay much attention unless Frau Feige decided that a pop quiz was necessary for the well being of her class. Of course, she rarely did, because she didn't like grading every single paper so much; she was often lazy, but still very strict.

He so wished to go to a magic school when he was older instead of the rotten schoolhouse he was stuck in, but a thing such as that was not possible at that point in time. Since he was only six and not nearly old enough to attend Altenstein's, the wizarding school located in northern Germany, he had no idea how to use such magic as was associated with the former work of his father's. When he was about four or five, Hitler had purposely shut it down through the magical government with the knowledge that the leaders of every other country in the world, whether axis, allied, or neutral, also knew of the magic world (the leaders, at least). He had thought that if the only magical school was still running in his empire and with the number of wizards coming out, the outcome would mean a greater risk of a magical revolt against his campaign, and he would be overthrown. Ergo, shutting down the school and making all magic-related items and affairs illegal, including wands, magic books of any sort, magical creatures, nonverbal magic, and anything else that a witch or wizard could do different than a muggle, was the answer. Essentially, they would be more restricted, freedom-wise, than an everyday German citizen, even if those everyday citizens were also deprived.

Although all magic of any kind was banned, any witch or wizard individuals that were at all known for odd behavior or doing illegal magic were captured and taken to a concentration camp to be re-educated, as they called it. The process consisted of the usual practices concerning brainwashing, but was accelerated by one variable: the dementor's kiss.

While Hitler was a muggle, he had known of the existence of magic for the entirety of his life, yet knew very little about it for most of that time. His three surviving siblings, Paula, Angela and Alois, all had turned out to be muggleborn magic-users. All but him were magical, and they never spoke of it to him when he asked, so he was left in the dark as a child. He used that lifelong curiosity that had plagued him to fuel his vision for the future of his reich. He was able to brainwash prisoners faster with the dementors, and once the magical ones were brainwashed, they were re-educated with Nazi ideals and joined a secret army consisting of the only witches and wizards permitted to do magic when he had come to power: The Geheimen Truppen. They spanned the entire European continent, most prominent in Germany, and also had situated themselves in few parts of Asia, the US, and Great Britain; they were in the concentration camps, and could sort out the magic from the muggles; they worked with the gestapo; they roamed the streets as regular civilians would. The entire network of the GT was like a spider web engulfing a fly that had no idea it was trapped in the first place. All of the magic would be his; he would be thwarting his downfall and growing stronger at the same time, and his security would only increase as the years ranked up behind him in his place as chancellor; dictator, rather.

Oliver's magical abilities, like with every young witch or wizard around or at his own age, had begun to blossom. Thus, he had to be that much more cautious and conscious of himself while learning to control his spontaneous, pedagogical bursts of magic while out in public, if he ever went; his father said it would be dangerous. Oliver had neither a wand nor magical training, but his father had told him of a few useful spells that could be of some use to him once he was able to learn magic and obtain a wand: stupefy, expelliarmus, and reducto; all spells that were used in dueling. "Like father, like son," he said proudly. The boy could only hope not to disappoint him.

"Maybe this one could make the drinker meow like a cat?" Oliver suggested to his father, who was brewing a petty concoction for his boy to play with. Arlo did just so, mixing in three hairs from a cat and a scale from a grindylow.

Oliver's father was a slightly short, rather young man, and had dusty blond hair paired with blue eyes; befitting enough for the average German man, at least according to the Nazi's ideals, so he was widely accepted as a good aryan. He usually had his apron on, and it carried the battle scars of exploding potions and the powdery remnants of herbs and spices. His hands always seemed to be covered in chalk whenever he was at work, and was continually wiping them on his armored torso.

"Alright, it will be done by tonight. I'll bottle it up later and tomorrow we can see if it works," Arlo said, picking up his son and lifting him off of the counter where he had been perched. "Whew-! You're getting big, mein Junge! How old are you now?"

"Almost six, Vati. My birthday is next month."

"What do you want, then?"

Oliver thought for a moment. "A new book. Maybe one with fairytales?"

"I'll see if I can get the money for it by then," he thought out loud, turning the burner off from under the potion to let it sit for a few hours. He heard the bell to the door of the shop ring, and he set Oliver down, going through the door and walking briskly to the counter, a hard, business-like expression on his face. "May I help you-? Ah, Christa!" He softened, and kissed his wife from behind the counter.

"My break is almost up and I need someone to help me carry some packages. Can Oliver do it, Liebe?"

Oliver put his arms on the top of the counter and attempted to peer over the top of the tabletop. "Yes I can!"

Arlo chuckled. "Alright, get a move on. I probably won't be too busy for the rest of the night, but I still have to stay for another hour or two. Will you be back at home by then?"

"Yes, and I'll make the usual tonight."

Arlo nodded, and then was quiet. He whispered, "What if… what if the gestapo come tonight?"

"You say that every night for days and they haven't come yet," Christa reasoned, growing nervous, herself. She sighed and whispered, "It will be okay, please don't be so worried. I know it's scary, and I'm anxious about it, too, but Oliver…"

"Right, right." Arlo cleared his throat, "Oliver, we have the dress rehearsal at the other church tomorrow morning at ten for the Mozart concerto and then the performance later, remember?"

Oh, right! He had almost forgotten. "Yes, I can't wait! The audience at the other church loved it."

"Yes, they did. Well, have a good run, you two. I'll see you at home, then. I love you."

"I love you, too," they both chorused.

Christa was not curvy, but wasn't terribly skinny, albeit short in stature. Her frizzy, wavy hair was a gentle red and was shorter than her shoulders, setting her apart from plenty of young women her age. Paired with her bright green eyes, she was quite beautiful, though, and always received smiles at the doors of customers when delivering their packages and parcels. Sometimes they were deliveries of magical artifacts or items, but she was accustomed to a box with smoke coming out of a torn corner or a jumping lump covered in brown paper; she was a muggle, but knew what to expect thanks to her magical husband.

Oliver towed along behind his mother, carrying two small packages in his arms, while his mother carried a rather large one tied together with twine and marked with a sticker yelling ZERBRECHLICH on the top.

On the way to the last destination, when they were to deliver the last package, one of the small ones he was carrying, Oliver noticed a pyre burning in the town square, and people were shouting and throwing things into it. "Mutti, what is that?"

Christa looked on. "That is what the Nazis make their youth do: burn books that they think are inferior so that we can't read them. It's a shame and a disgrace, really. Good books should be cherished, not destroyed."

Oliver looked down. "Yes, Mutti."

"Oliver?"

He looked up.

Christa stopped in her tracks. "I know you heard the conversation Vati and I had. Please promise that if something does happen, you'll still remember to be alert, okay? Don't be dull-minded like how the neighbors say they are in those camps; it will only make you think like them, and you'll think like the crowd. If something does happen, use your head, please, my boy. You'll survive."

Oliver didn't quite understand what point his mother was trying to get across, but he agreed nonetheless. "Okay, Mutti."

They delivered the last package to an old woman in an apartment building on the third floor. She had ordered a book, and when she opened it she read the title aloud. "Harry Houdini: Master of the Art of Escaping. How entertaining; my thanks," she said, handing over her payment to Christa.

On most nights Oliver had trouble going to sleep. He was not an insomniac, but he could think of so many things in a multitude of different facets that was not possible when it wasn't quiet, like right then, laying in his bed. He thought about the sun, and how it hadn't been out in so long that he couldn't remember what sunlight touching his skin felt like; he thought about how cynical and cold the people in his city behaved, how much like the winter weather they were; how, on some nights, his family didn't have the money to have a fire in the kitchen. Even though the city was full of people, full of children his age, he was still lonely, and never played much outside because he was scared. Occasionally he would play football in the street or go hunting with his father, but it wasn't the same. The other children he played with already had their own friends, so he was mere background noise to them. If they were of magical descent, they didn't wish to consort with him, either, because he was a half-blood. His father was fine company, and his mother also, when she took him on runs, but it wasn't the same as having a friend of his own, like him. Eventually, he grew bored with his mind and decided to read.

A small thump sounded downstairs; it was probably one of his parents going to get some water, he thought, or perhaps they were going to the bathroom. Then, something shiny caught his eye through the window. A slick, black truck was parked in the usually vacant spot in front of the house. Suddenly the thump turned into brash knocking, and the sound of the door being thrown off its hinges rang through the house. There was the crashing stomps of violent footsteps coming up the stairs, one, two, three, four. Oliver closed the door in a frenzy and scrambled under his bed, the dust from the floor making itself at home in his bed-headed hair and wrinkly night clothes. He heard someone open the door to his bedroom with a bang, and he burrowed further still, peeking out through a sliver of light from under the bottom of the bed.

He had heard of what father feared would happen to them in the night, so Oliver had grabbed his tiny one-fourth size violin and his book as precaution in the event that they didn't come home ever again. Father was always so scared that they would come and take them away, but his nightmare had come to a fateful reality.

The man entered, clad in boots tipped with iron. They stopped in the middle of the room for a moment, and then quickly crouched down and reached under the bed with a swiftness only a skilled hand could have mustered, dragging Oliver out by his shirt collar. All the while the boy screamed and kicked, desperate to get out of the intruder's grip.

"Close your mouth, boy, or you won't have one by the end of the night!" the intruder barked, taking him through the empty doorframe and into the night.

"YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR BEING TRAITORS OF THE NAZI STATE!" a different officer yelled, spitting in Arlo's face.

"Prove it!" He barely managed to sputter out while being choked, still attempting a punch or two.

The officer caused a slip to materialize in his hands. He hissed, "Here's your proof." Arlo then contorted his face and kicked his magical offender in the knee.

"I want- no, I demand you to let me speak to your superior! He will understand, I have done all I could, he will set things right-" Immediately Arlo was muted with a slap to the face. "Show me to him!"

"Silence!" the officer said.

Oliver's father had received his letter of conscription ordering him to join the German military, but per order of the Magical Assembly, he was required to burn his letter else he would be killed once in the military by the Magische Polizei. According to German law, if a citizen resisted conscription into the armed forces, they would be taken away and killed; they were going to die one way or another, no matter what choice he chose; so he burned the letter. For that reason, Arlo had been troubled in the past week, not going out and becoming nervous whenever someone passed by the window or looked at them in an odd manner. He had closed his shop earlier and relocated all of the dangerous magical substances to the basement out of sheer skepticism and paranoia.

Christa suddenly took her own assailant's wrists and tried to pry them off of her torso, ultimately failing after the man threw her into the back of the slick, black van. She cried out; after being thrown and landing the wrong way, she had broken her wrist in the process of falling.

As Oliver was struggling to escape from the officer's grip, he dropped his book, although was able to keep a grip on his violin. In the process of dropping it, the book slipped out of it's hiding place, not wanting to be seen through its facade any longer. The cover slipped off in Oliver's hands the book fell out onto the dusty road with a thump and the words Les Misérables read across the face. It looked towards the sky on it's brown cover as its keeper was being dragged away. He pleaded, he begged for it to only be a dream. He could swear the book jumped a few feet to try and make its way back to him, but it was to no avail, for he was already in the truck, and the doors were closing in on him.

During the truck ride, he sat slumped in the corner as the truck rocked on the bumpy road. He had not cried, but he was angry; angry, sorrowful, and afraid. He clutched his violin in his arms while leaning against his mother, who was rubbing his scrawny back. His father was sitting next to Christa, gently whispering to her and inspecting her arm. His head was down, slouching in its seat atop his shoulders with melancholy grief.

When they had traveled in the van for a couple of hours, the family was taken and dropped off at a train station. It lay situated in the middle of nowhere; the grass was gray, and there were no trees in sight, only miles upon miles of rusty train tracks veiled in mist. Whatever other people were there (and they were minimal) were raggedy and gray like the land they stood around atop the stone plateau, waiting for whatever train might come to eat them up.

Oliver looked up at his mother and father; their faces were stony and worried, their eyes watery, not unlike his own green ones contrasting against his golden head. "Vati," he asked quietly, "where are we going?" He knew it couldn't be anything good; he was young, but he wasn't stupid. The men that took them had guns, they were loud and mean, and they were taken from their home, most likely to never return. Perhaps they might know of the new place they were going to go to?

"I don't know for sure, son," Arlo answered with chapped lips, drawing his coat closer around his shoulders. Oliver looked to his mother for an answer, then.

"And I too, I'm sorry," Christa sighed, loosely bracing her arm against her torso.

It was hours before any train came. When it did arrive, their car was no more than a cattle box on wheels, sporting no elbow room as more passengers came aboard at different stations, and two single buckets: one for water, and one for waste.

The ride itself lasted two days. Two days without sufficient water, and no food. Two days standing, mostly without sleep. By the time the train had come to its destination, the boy could barely keep on his own two feet, wobbling and daring not to whine for rest. Christa carried Oliver close in her arms, much against Arlo's pleading for her health, and embraced him with every step. If he were to open his eyes, Oliver would only be greeted by a view of his mother's short, strawberry blonde hair; it even smelled like strawberries, though the places they had been were dark and disgusting to any senses one could perceive.

When the crowd of prisoners made their way into the concentration camp, they were told to go into a courtyard. Christa put Oliver down between herself and her husband, and they waited. Chaos engulfed them with every step they took inwards into the prison camp. People screamed, tore at each other's coats, were shot on the spot.

Oliver was wide awake, then. Officers with big guns and stern faces patrolled the discord, looking at every prisoner from head to toe. They inspected each person. A little ways away a short old man wouldn't keep still, and looked to be having a hard time even breathing, for he was very anemic. An officer who was walking by stopped, looked at him, and shot him, right in the middle of the forehead. He walked on and continued his task; three more were shot where they stood, and others were taken away. The rest which remained that were not shot or taken aside were put to the left or right of the muddy courtyard, their fate given to them in a tarnished pewter bowl.

The boy, frightened, elected to watch the sky instead of the onslaught of death taking place before him. The clouds changed with the strong winds above his head, twisting and contorting with every whisper in their ears, as if commanded by the wind to do its bidding like puppets. It was too bad that they never allowed the sun out, though. The clouds were like a cage for the sun, constricting it like a snake, choking it at gunpoint. Oliver hated that the sun didn't get to shine, he wanted to feel warm against the rays of a joyful day. But would a day like that ever come again? Did he even remember of a day such as that in so short a life as his had led so far? Bam. Another bar sautered onto the cage. Bam. Another serpent joined the horde of snakes. Bam! All the rifles fired and the sky was stained with blood.

It started to rain. Oliver looked on at the sky as the rain droplets fell around him like in slow motion, as if he were traveling at the speed of the unconscious mind. It took all of his might, but he tore his eyes away from the sky and he looked to his right; there stood his father, still as a statue, his eyes wider than the moon was round. He looked to his left; there his mother fell, her head no more than some scraggly bits of flesh and hair still clinging around her neck.

The rain covered him like a sheet. Not only water droplets fell, but blood, by the gallons. He could feel it, warm and sticky on his face, splattering onto him, the ground, and those in the surrounding vicinity. But suddenly, she was on the ground, a limp body without a head.

Oliver couldn't make a sound. Not a grunt, not a scream, not a choke or a cry. All he did was stare, stare into the nothingness of his mother's post-being. He could hardly think, as if his mind was blown to pieces just as hers was. Such a strange sensation it was, not to think; he thought all of the time without trouble, so much then that it felt like he was mindless. Perhaps he had simply misplaced it? Yes, that was it, he had simply lost it. He had lost his mind.

The world was silent, and the wind was a song. Three gusts and a loud whoosh; a song of sorrow, a partita of pain, a caprice of cacophony. All was slow, all was sluggish, like in his head. In a belated scramble, his father reached out to Christa, but was grabbed from behind by the same officer that had taken her down and was dragged away by the shoulders. He screamed, he sobbed, he cursed the Nazis for splitting his family like a loose seam into a gargantuan hole that then erupted his soul.

And yet, Oliver heard none, yet for the faint humming of the wind and a high pitched screech. He looked over his shoulder at his father being dragged away, and he slowly started to hear again, beginning to listen and hear an echo as his father sobbed loudly, "My wife, my son! Don't succumb to them!"

He could only hope not to disappoint his father, for he would be cross with him.

At that moment, it was as if Oliver's mind had woken back up from a deep sleep, and everything hit him in a hard, harsh realization. It was so overwhelming, so horrid that the only thing he knew how to do was cry, not cry out, but simply sob, and sob, and sob.

Dachau was Oliver's place of residence for two years; he didn't consider it a home of any sort to himself or any of its misfortunate residents. He was orphaned, of course, since had arrived, witnessing his mother's dramatic death and his father's disappearance, for which was still relevant, as he had not seen him since and doubted he would any time soon.

He was allowed to keep his violin at the camp, and he improved dramatically, playing songs and solos of all sorts he had heard previously by ear, as he had heard a large assortment of pieces for the violin. He had also grown more accustomed to the nerves of the stage, and enjoyed it more, the thrill of the performance.

The inmates that listened to him practice often praised him, but not like his teacher, who pointed out the faults in his playing. Perhaps it was because they were an audience, he thought, but it was perhaps that, with the five years under his belt hence, he had weaved out most of those imperfections; but he still had to clean up The Dance of the Goblins quite a bit.

One day, a year in, a demand was cast upon him. "Boy! By the devil, play your damned violin today or I'll feel so compelled to finally put a bullet to your head," a Schutzstaffel officer exploded, pinching the boy's shoulder. Oliver made no attempt to disobey and picked up his instrument, not bothering to even tune. He immediately started to play an obsession. He couldn't seem to decide on how he would play the tune from Bach, but he eventually created an angry, grief-filled concoction of sound. He had heard it once before, played by a member of the orchestra back in Dresden a year prior, when he was just a regular boy, at heart.

Suddenly the anger turned to pure sorrow. The sorrow that emitted from his instrument engulfed him, and he was taken aback. He tried very hard to keep himself from joining the bitter weeping of his violin, but he could not show any kind of weakness to the SS. Still, his violin sang on.

He didn't finish the sonata, but stopped midway where it sounded like an appropriate place to do so. He dared to glance up at the officer, and was relieved to see a haughty look upon his stern face. "Good, do the same tomorrow evening. You'll live another day." He retired to his comrades, who were smoking and drinking heavily in their chairs. They shooed Oliver out into the cold, dreary courtyard.

The next day, after Oliver had finished eating his measly portion of bread, he was taken over by a different officer, and he was accompanied by the same one who demanded music from him the evening before.

"You live because you can play the violin, but you denied to play for this man last night. He's told me all about it. From your fault, you will be punished, boy," the commander growled through his thick mustache. Oliver restrained himself from emitting any form of shock when he looked over to the smug-faced officer from the day before. "And to think, you could have been freed for your skill!"

Oliver could have screamed. Freedom? It was a myth to some but it was very true. Some were taken out by families who used bribery, but that was all the boy had heard. It was because of the Arbeit Macht Frei gate which marked that freedom could be pursued and obtained, if only by the lucky few that did get it.

They took him to the prison block and left him in a room so small that he could only stand, and where his shoulders always touched the walls. Barely any sunlight would stream through the palm-sized, barred window on the wooden door. They gave him even less food, it seemed, than when he was just a regular prisoner.

He wished he could have asked why they had actually detained him, but kept his mouth shut for fear of anything potentially worse than the cramped prison cell. He could feel his own breath against his face, and he grew very anxious over the course of three days confined in that way.

On the third day, Oliver overheard the commander and his subordinate speaking in hushed tones. "…e's dangerous, what if when we do it, he casts a spell…be cautious…how do you kno…the X on his shirt…"

So they're scared of what I might do, he thought to himself. And what about an X? He looked down, observing his prison badge: his prison number, '92081,' a black, inverted triangle, and a black 'X' beneath it.

Only moments later did they take him from his cell and situate him in a small room. They put him in a chair and had two guards at his shoulders, holding him down if he were to retaliate and try to stand; he wouldn't have, even if he was given the chance.

"Like with all of our magical guests, we strive to learn from them," a voice echoed against the walls, its owner marching from the shadows. "We hear that you can conjure ghost-like apparitions with your music. Care to elaborate?"

Oliver had never known this. "I don't know what you're talking about, Herr-" he tried, but was silenced with a slap to the cheek.

"Like I said, elaborate, or I won't be so forgiving." The man straightened his cap and leaned close to the boy's face. Oliver glared back into his eyes.

"What, are you implying that your officers are seeing hallucinations? Maybe they should be admitted as prisoners if their genes are so faulty that they should see things that aren't really there-!"

"-ENOUGH! Kerner," he growled, turning to a subordinate in the room. "turn on the chair, make him howl!"

Oliver strained his head to see what the man went to do behind him. A plug was inserted into an electrical port connected to his chair. The men holding him down instead let go and put his arms and legs in cuffs around the arms and legs of the chair. Kerner pulled down a switch on the wall and a surging pain ripped through the Oliver's body, causing him to convulse and shake as if a troll had taken him in his arms and started to bash him repeatedly against a wall.

They electrocuted him three times over before Oliver had decided to give up anything to them. He had screamed so much that his throat was raw.

"M-maybe I can, but I've never noticed any ghosts when I play, I focus on t-the music," he sputtered, still out of breath and twitching from the aftermath of the session. The Obergefreiter, as the head officer was called, peered down on Oliver once more.

"There have also been accusations that you have made other inmate's food portions larger by just looking at them. What do you say to that?"

Again, Oliver was confused. Sure, he had felt pity on the other prisoners around him, but whatever the Obergefreiter asked of him, he wasn't sure if he had even done it or not. "I-I'm not sure-"

"Kerner, the chair, again-"

"No, wait!" Oliver yelled suddenly, begging not to be electrocuted again. "Yes, yes, I know, I've done it! I felt sorry for them, so I made their food larger!" Kerner took his hand off of the lever.

"What else can you do with your powers?" the Obergefreiter asked slowly.

Oliver paused, deciding to just give the man what he wanted so he wouldn't be hurt anymore. "I can brew potions and produce spells from a wand. That's it."

"Good," the man said, pacing. "We happen to have confiscated a wand from another inmate. Demonstrate for us what you can do." Kerner disappeared through the door momentarily, and returned, carrying a long, grainy wand. The two other men in the room who had previously held Oliver to the chair took his right arm and unlocked the sheath. Kerner gave him the wand, but as he did, he revealed a gun from his holster. He checked that there was ammunition inside the barrel, cocked it, and put it to Oliver's head.

"Now, we can't let you kill us with that thing, boy," Kerner chuckled, a thin grimace pasted upon his papery lips. The gun was so close that the cold metal touched his scalp. Shaking, Oliver held up the wand in front of him and remembered one of the spells his father had taught him when he was younger.

"Reducto!" he exclaimed, pointing his wand and aiming the curse at a bloodied, steel boot in the corner where a rather large bucket, knives, and a whip were also stored. The boot suddenly was hit by a blue light that came from the tip of Oliver's wand and was reduced to a fine, gray ash, made up in a neat, cone-shaped pile on the ground. Kerner and the two guards were stunned by shock at what they had just witnessed, while the Obergefreiter was indifferent, a pleased look on his iron face. Kerner almost let his arm go limp and propped it back up against Oliver's head as he craned his neck to get a better glimpse at the scene.

"Now perform the same spell, but on him," the Obergefreiter ordered, ushering one of the manservants to stand in front of the boy's chair. One sheepishly walked up and stood, giving continual glances at his superior but saying no words.

Oliver wasn't keen on finding out what exactly would happen if he were to induct this curse upon a man, although he had a slight inclination on what the outcome might have been. Reluctantly, he pointed his wand and once again said, "Reducto!"

Immediately, the same thing happened to the guard, and he fell to the floor in a pile of dust in a great scream. The ash was not so neat that time, and it spread throughout the hair in a small, confined cloud, almost outlining where the man had stood before his demise. Now Oliver was stunned, beginning to embrace what he had just done.

"Good," the Obergefreiter chimed gruffly. "For giving us this valuable information you possess, you'll be returned to the camp. But, if you conjure any more ghosts or enlarge any food items again, you will be killed on sight. Do you understand, boy?"

"Yes, Herr," Oliver breathed, dropping the wand on the ground with a hollow clatter.

misc. notes:

Die Magische Versammlung is German for the magic assembly; exactly like the UK's Ministry of Magic

Die Magische Polizei is German for the magic police; equivalent to the UK's aurors.

Die Geheimen Truppen is German for the Secret Police

Zerbrechlich is German for fragile

Obergefreiter is German for corporal