The castle was restless that night. The war beyond the walls pulsed through the air every distant boom of spellfire, every low rumble of giants striking the earth seemed to shake the very stones. The professors thought the students slept, but sleep was impossible.
In the shadows of the courtyard, cloaks drawn tight, James Potter waited. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only sound was the soft shuffle of feet as they came first Sirius, grinning like a wolf in the dark, then Lily Evans with her wand already in hand, her jaw tight with resolve. Then came others faces James knew well, and faces he barely knew at all. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Slytherins. Some carried satchels of supplies, others only their wands and pale determination.
"About bloody time," Sirius muttered under his breath as another group slipped in, robes whispering in the wind.
James glanced around quickly, counting them in the shadows. More than he expected far more. "Keep quiet," he hissed. "If the professors catch on before we're gone, it's over."
A Slytherin boy—Mulciber, if James remembered right—folded his arms. "You're mad if you think this will work. They'll notice half the school's missing before dawn."
"Then we'd better already be gone," James shot back. He turned and started down the corridor, motioning sharply for them to follow. Their footsteps were soft but quick, the air thick with nerves.
Someone whispered from behind, a Hufflepuff girl clutching her wand so tight her hand shook, "Do you really think we can do anything? We're not… soldiers."
Her friend answered before James could. A Ravenclaw with sharp eyes, voice quiet but cutting, "Do you really want to wake up tomorrow and hear the war's been lost, and know you could've done something? Even a little? And didn't?"
No one argued after that.
They moved fast, ducking into alcoves when the patroling professors passed, slipping past wards James had studied for months. His father had told him of secret ways out of Hogwarts the same passages James had sworn he'd use for mischief one day. Now, they felt heavier, like the stone itself was demanding to know whether he understood what he was about to do.
Finally, they reached the blank wall deep beneath the castle. James pressed his palm to the stone, whispered the word, and the passageway opened with a groan.
The darkness beyond was damp, winding, and endless, but it led out out into the night, out into war. One by one, the students slipped through, the stone sealing behind them.
When they emerged, the air was filled with smoke and thunder. Not far away, beyond the rolling fields, fire flared and shadows clashed with light. The backlines of the battle were chaotic—healers rushing between tents, exhausted fighters stumbling back, the distant roar of monsters shaking the ground.
James froze only a moment before straightening his shoulders. "This is it," he murmured. His wand felt heavier than it ever had before. "No going back."
Beside him, Sirius gave a feral grin. Lily's eyes blazed. Dozens of students spread out behind them, gripping their wands tighter, breathing in smoke and fear. The war was here, and they had chosen their side.
***
Back in the castle, the realization came like wildfire.
"Empty beds," Professor Sprout said breathlessly, rushing into the Great Hall where the professors had gathered in the middle of the night. "Half my House, gone."
"Mine too," Flitwick squeaked, his face ashen. "Dozens missing. Dozens!"
McGonagall's expression was carved from stone, but her hands trembled as she set down the roster parchment she had just checked. "Gryffindor… Ravenclaw… Hufflepuff… Slytherin. Not just one House. They're gone."
Albus Dumbledore stood in the center, his face turned toward the distant windows where faint flashes of the battle lit the horizon. For once, his eyes had no twinkle, only a hard, heavy shadow.
"They've gone to war," he said quietly.
A stunned silence followed. Shock, then horror, then a rising wave of alarm swept through the staff and the commanders gathered in the hall.
"They'll be slaughtered!" one of the Aurors shouted. "They're children!"
"They're fighters," McGonagall snapped, though her voice broke halfway through. "But Merlin help us they're still our students."
And before another word was spoken, orders rang out runners, patronuses, floo flames sparking. The professors and commanders moved with the speed of panic. The students had gone to the front, and if they weren't found quickly, they would be lost to the war forever.
***
The wards shimmered faintly as James Potter led the way through, his heart pounding. One by one, the students stepped into the bubble of the war camp.
And the world changed.
The smell hit first. Blood. Thick, metallic, suffocating. Smoke clawed at their throats, acrid and choking. Under it all was the sweet-sour stench of bodies that hadn't been moved fast enough from the battlefield. Several students gagged, one retching helplessly against the wardstone as the others stumbled past.
Then the noise came alive.
Screams not the startled yelps of a classroom duel gone wrong, but raw, soul-tearing cries of people being torn apart or clinging desperately to life. Shouted orders cracked like whips in the smoke, colliding with the sharp reports of spellfire and the deeper concussive booms of explosions hammering the walls in the distance. The ground shuddered with each impact, dust trickling down from makeshift tents as stretchers hurried past them.
It was too much.
Lily Evans froze mid-step, her hand snapping to her mouth as tears blurred her vision. A Ravenclaw boy stumbled to his knees, clutching his ears against the screams, whispering, "No, no, no, I can't—" over and over. A Hufflepuff girl dropped her wand entirely, staring blankly at a blood-soaked soldier carried past, his face unrecognizable beneath the burns.
James tried to speak, but his throat felt thick, his heart slamming like a trapped snitch in his chest. Sirius's usual smirk was gone, his eyes wide, darting left and right like he couldn't decide whether to bolt forward or back through the wards. Even he, reckless as he was, faltered.
All around them, the camp was chaos stretchers, shouted spells, healers screaming for more hands. The students stood in the middle of it like children who had wandered into a nightmare. Their bravado shriveled, leaving them trembling and pale.
For a long, paralyzed moment, none of them moved.
Then a voice sliced through their terror.
"Snap out of it!"
It was Evan Rosier. His voice cracked like a whip, his green-and-silver scarf glinting in the firelight. He wasn't shaking. He wasn't staring. His wand was already in his hand, his face pale but hard.
"This is no different than dueling practice," he snapped, glaring at them all. "When we hex each other bloody and then heal each other after. That's all this is. Now move!"
And before anyone could argue, he surged forward, shoving past a pair of exhausted mediwizards to kneel at the side of a dying man, his wand flashing.
The spell broke.
Lily dropped to her knees beside a witch trying to set a broken arm and began handing her bandages. A pair of Ravenclaws fumbled open their bags, pulling out dittany and blood-replenishing potions. Sirius dragged the Hufflepuff boy upright, muttering, "Come on, mate, we're not standing around," and together they staggered to where another team of mediwizards was shouting for hands.
The students poured into the chaos, driven more by instinct than courage. They bandaged wounds, levitated stretchers, steadied trembling hands that were too exhausted to finish a spell. They whispered charms they'd practiced in classrooms, their voices cracking as the magic knitted flesh or dulled pain.
But the adults noticed.
A matronly healer whipped around, fury and shock etched into her face. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, snatching a vial out of a boy's shaking hand. "You're children, you shouldn't—"
"We're here," James cut in, his voice hoarse but steady. "We're here, and we're not leaving. You need help. You can't send us back."
Another healer shouted over the noise, "They'll be slaughtered out here! Get them gone before the commanders see—"
But the students didn't budge.
"No," Evan Rosier said flatly, shoving another potion into a wounded man's mouth as he worked. His wand flashed with a practiced episkey. "We're staying."
The camp was too desperate, too frantic to force them out. Every extra hand was swallowed up in seconds, and though the questions and protests kept coming—"Why are you here? Do you have any idea what you've done?" the students refused to break.
They had crossed the wards, and there was no turning back.