A Second Chance

Prologue: Freedom Fighting

Spring 1994

Spell fire lit up the night sky, illuminating the landscape in a patchwork of colours as they flew past broken tree trunks and mounds of debris at incredible speed. Deep reds, glorious blues, sickening yellow, and the ever present terror inducing greens which a few years ago would have been unthinkable to see outside of tall tales. Irregular deafening booms as these mesmerising lights reached their destination and sounded out in all directions. The thick smell of ozone filled the air as the environment became oversaturated with magic resulting in frequent flashes of lightening as the energy was discharged back into the earth, occasionally detouring through some unlucky soul, and the accompanying thunder rent the sky asunder overwhelming the sound even of the most destructive spells being cast below.

The battle had been ongoing for only 45 minutes at this point and the surrounding area was already unrecognisable. The tropical forest once creaking with incest life, humid to the point of uncomfortableness, with a thick canopy of trees was reduced to scared earth demarking the defenders from the attackers as both sides launched everything in their arsenal against each other. Fighting on this scale hadn't been seen in the magical world since the tragic events in Cambodia a decade earlier. And it had taken another civil war for the magical world to see its like again.

This battle was the end of a long campaign which started with the brutally swift coup conducted by Moreno the latest Dark Lord to grace the shores of South America. The magical community in South America had long avoided the great wars which swept most of the rest of the world in the 20th century but have long suffered internal conflicts dating back to the Spanish conquests centuries ago. Shifting dominance of ethnic and cultural fractions had been a long standing tradition of sorts and although not bloodless, transitions were considered to be part of life in these communities. That is until a new type of movement took hold around two years ago. Moreno's rise was anything but bloodless and his rule comprised of fear and pain. His hatred of indigenous cultures and his deep seated desire for a Spanish ethnic state finally snapped the local populace out of their usual apathetic response. His brutal rule and ethnic cleansing had sparked a fierce and large counter revolution which after a number of setbacks had finally cornered Moreno into his last stronghold.

The conquistador era fort nestled in the mountains of South West Venezuela was the site for this final battle. It had taken the better part of a week for the freedom fighters to pull down the ancient wards surrounding the fort, but after a year of savage fighting everyone present knew the conflict was drawing to a close. Hundreds of wizards and witches were fighting on both sides of but It was apparent that the defenders were beginning to be overwhelmed. They were outnumbered 4 to 1 and slowly the defensive line was crumbling in places and the fighting was moving from the well prepared killing zone and into the interior of the fort itself. The final frantic stage of the war was beginning with the orderly lines of warriors dissolving into a close quarters nightmare.

In the midst of the freedom fighters, in the thickest of the fighting, there was an odd sight. Surrounded by much larger men each covered in copious tribal tattoos and wielding a mixture of wands and staffs was a small sunburned figure looking very out of place. His light skinned face was caked in dried blood and dirt. A empty expression projected from his eyes yet his complexion underneath betrayed his youthfulness. He represented yet another casualty of this war, one which the international community was unaware of due to the complete blockade enforced after the embassies were targeted a couple months after the commencement of hostilities. Therefore, the survival of the British Statesmen Allister Bletchley son was not known outside of the country.

Leopold Bletchley had been 13 years old when he had witnessed the murder of his father at the hands of Moreno. His father had ensured his survival by sealing Leopold into the wall cavity of his office just moments before the door splintered open and a cloaked figure swept through. His father had fought in the Wizarding War in Britain in the preceding decades and had been known for his level headedness which he demonstrated on one last final occasion. This had been one of the major reasons the ICW had chosen him for this assignment. Unfortunately, his attempts at reasoning with the rising Dark Lord were met with deaf ears and evidently Moreno believed a body would sent a clearer message to the international community. In this he was right, after learning of the death of their ambassador and his young son the ICW acted swiftly by blockading the country from travel and trade until a resolution could be agreed for further intervention between its members.

The silencing and paralysis charms that saved Leopold's life had worn off 10 minutes after his father's drawn out and painful demise. The sounds and sights of this forever changing the young soul and hardening him to the world. Moreno and his followers were long gone and only the smell of blood and smoke remained. He was eventually found by members of the newly formed resistance who came to investigate and found him kneeling over his father head bowed in mute shock. The proceeding weeks had been a blur for Leopold but the desire for vengeance built up within him. The resistance was dismissive of his offers to join the fight in the beginning but after demonstrating the some of the skilful duelling and tactics taught to him by his late father the leaders eventually conceded.

This lead to the current peculiar situation where a 15 year old British pureblood was fighting in the front lines of a civil war in South America. Not only was he fighting, he was holding his own against opponents older and larger than himself. When the last of the defenders broke and routed he was part of the team that stormed the citadel. Leopold wished fervently that he would be the one to cast the lethal spell but life is rarely like a story and Leopold didn't even get to see the final moments of Moreno's life busy as he was fighting some underling. When the dust settled Leopold was found standing over the body of the man he had dreamt of killing for nearly two years and he felt empty. No joyous revelation, no feeling of content just a dispassionate resignation. He gave the corpse a last look and walked out into the dawn. Bodies of friends and foe were strewn haphazardly over the broken landscape. At last feeling the various injuries he had sustained over the intervening hours he slid down the rough masonry wall beside him and watched as the rising sun and the blood red sky became unfocused and allowed himself to pass into unconsciousness unconcerned if he didn't remerge from it.

The ICW was at first sceptical of the reports that the freedom fighters had managed to successfully remove the Dark Lord Moreno from his position of power and establish a peaceful interim government. But after sending an advance party of Hit Wizards to confirm these reports were glad that no intervention from the ICW would be required especially given that after two years the body had yet agree on the best course of action. The blockade was lifted rapidly and an influx of aid was transported into the previously isolated country. The first official from the ICW to visit was the one who had been campaigning most vocally for relief since the start of the fighting. The Supreme Mugwump arrived in the main magical enclave in Valencia not long after the blockade was lifted and was saddened by what he saw. Although, Valencia was never a focal point in the war it had not escaped its fair share of destruction. Rubble lined the streets which even in the new dawn of victory remained conspicuously quiet, most evident was ICW workers organising the delivery of aid and off in the distance setting up what looked like a field hospital. The Supreme Mugwump spent the next several hours meeting with the leadership of the resistance which had formed the new interim government which comprised of a number of tribal leaders from various indigenous tribes and a cohort of Spanish descendants who fought against Moreno's rule. He managed to agree a framework for which membership to the ICW could be regained if a number of developmental targets were met and he left the meeting feeling optimistic for the future of this state regardless of the tensions that were clearly developing among the leaders now the common enemy was vanquished.

He thought it prudent to check in at the hospital as this would likely be the main ICW presence in the near future and was pleasantly surprised to meet an old Great War comrade Healer Schneider who was organising the setup of the facilities. He learnt that casualties had been much higher than initial estimates and it was all his friend could do to triage and hope for the best. Once again saddened by the realities of war which never seemed to get easier for the old man he allowed his friend to return to his frantic work and walked through the already busy wards. The injuries spoke clearly of the tale which these people had been subjected to a story of pain and hatred carved into the tapestry of their bodies. Limbs missing, blood soaked bandages, and guttural agonised moans were common among every ward. The twinkling blue eyes belonging to the Supreme Mugwump dulled perceptivity as the vivid sights and smells brought up memories from his own past. Faces of old friends long dead seemed to appear on the faces of those in their beds. It was near the end of his tour when he suddenly needed to take a second and then a third look. His veins went cold when after refocussing his sight on the man his face didn't disappear into memory like the rest. The man was heavily bandaged, his torso crisscrossed when crimson soaked wraps and a freshly closed wound extended down the left side of his face bulldozing through a section of his eyebrow. He was in a deep state of sleep and his chest was rising consistently. It was then the Supreme Mugwump noticed the signs of youth hidden beyond the injuries and a deep sense of guilt washed through his chest. He sighed heavily as the realisation that the death of his friend Allister's son was greatly exaggerated. Albus then took a seat at the young boy's side and decided the rest of today's appointments could wait.