the plot.
Over the last ten years, life had been normal across the globe. Thomas Marvolo Riddle, also known as the infamous Lord Voldemort, had been dispatched and removed from the world's worries in the year 1996; most of his followers had either gone with him or had been incarcerated to live out their lives guarded by dementors. The wizarding world, for the first time in many years, was at last at peace, their worst fears and terrors eliminated by the passing of the megalomaniacal Dark Lord.

Or so it would seem.

Boiling deep beneath the public streets upon which witches and wizards dwelled was another growing power, yet it was not embodied in a single being; it was many. It was hundreds. It was an army spanning thousands, and yet no one but they had any clue of what was to happen.

Christmas, 2005. Washington, DC, the capitol of the great global power, the United States. Everything was alive in celebration of the holiday, flakes of snow drifting softly down upon famed national monuments, over the lawns of the Capitol Building, its windows fogged and glowing warmly with life. Many of the world's greatest leaders and dictators had gathered here for a special evening of feasting, dancing, and drinking -- the annual Christmas Ball, thrown year after year in tradition by the President himself. This year's was to outdo every preceding year in its sheer scale and glamor, every wall and statue of the building decorated in holly and lights. The Christmas tree standing tall, nearly to the high ceiling, gleamed beautiful at the very front of the ball room, to either side of it great, shining menorahs. People filled the room to the brim, dancing and eating; people of all nations and races, somehow finding commonplace. The night was to be a spectacular one. But with an unpredicted twist.

As with every year before it, it was only expected that President Matthew Turner would make a great speech to officially kick off the holiday fesitivities. He took the podium just feet in front of the grand Christmas tree, his cabinet seated at the tables branching out on either side of it; his wife and daughter sat just to his right. After a moment of standing, gazing out on the nations gathered before him, silence fell like a wave across the room. All eyes of all shapes and colors turned to him expectantly. And, with the charming smile that had trademarked his presidency, he began to speak.

But it wasn't long after he began to speak in his commanding, passionate voice that odd things happened. Every light in the room flickered, then brightened greatly, as if surging with electricity; some of the bulbs even popped. The curtains to every window flew closed, wafting in some nonexistant breeze. Soon after, every statue and vase in the room shattered, exploded as if shot by a bullet; every painting hung on the walls rose up in flame. And the grand Christmas tree, standing so tall and lovely, its lights burning brighter and brighter, soon exploded into hungry flames. As people rose in fright from their chairs to leave, some unknown power forced them all right back into their seats, the doors to the ballroom swinging firmly shut as if closing a casket. No one would get in, and no one would leave. The President's guards were already standing, alert, looking for the source of the strange disturbance.

There was no need to look for it, however, for without delay it revealed itself. From what seemed like the middle of nowhere, a dozen or so men and women clad in black robes were all around the room - each behind a security guard. And with a single motion with what looked like a stick in their hands - a wand? - each guard fell to the floor, limp and motionless. In a flurry of robes, all of them appeared once again at the tables before the Christmas tree, now roaring with flame, the menorahs beside it burning just as brightly. The President was quickly overtaken by one of the mysterious people, another taking hold of the First Lady, and a third stealing the President's young, terrified daughter. It was this one that stepped to the podium, unafraid to show his face. It was no different than anyone else's in the room; it was human, it was alive, it was angry and demanding. And he spoke.

"For too long have we stood in the shadow of muggles," A voice of ice and hatred. Black eyes searched across the room, gazing directly into each horror-struck, trapped face. He smiled. "The time has come. Witches and wizards alike will take what is rightfully theirs, and you -- all of you -- shall bow to them for mercy." His arm remained tightly locked around the little girl as he spoke, his hand clamped across her mouth as he stared directly, smiling, into one of the many cameras positioned around the room. "We are the ones that will selflessly open the eyes of the world to what has been kicked to the ground, over. And over. And over again. And yet we stand and turn the other cheek. But no longer, I say." At this point, his black eyes peered down at the girl trapped in his arm, her little eyes wide and leaking profuse tears. He grinned. And in a blur, he looked up and raised his wand, screaming to the nations gathered there for a night of celebration. "The revolution is nigh!" And at once, the grand chandelier dangling beautifully and majestically above the ballroom exploded in a flurry of sparks and flame.

And they were gone. The President, on his knees. The First Lady beside him.

But not his daughter.



x________________________________________________________________________________________________
Muggle police of all types were immediately on the scene, but they were unable to do anything to get inside the locked ballroom; not even explosives could put a dent in the doors or windows. But it wasn't just muggles that had heard of the terror at the White House. It wasn't long before a team of mysterious, unknown men and women had arrived, not speaking to any of the guards there but simply forcing their way through the crowds and to the locked-down ballroom, the screams and cries from within heard from the other side of the building, the smoke from the growing fires inside pouring into the halls. After a moment's deliberation, the mysterious team had the doors and windows flung wide open, people rushing out like a tidal wave. The ballroom was a fog of black, suffocating smoke. The time they'd lost in trying to get the room open had cost them lives. Yet when the National Guard looked for the team that had come in to help, they were gone.

Hours passed in chaos while everyone attempted to sort out what had happened. But all they needed to do was look at the footage caught by the fifteen or so news cameras that had already been there, taping the President's 2005 Christmas Ball -- it was only meant to be filler for the extra time news programs had. It was already all over the television, all over the internet. This presented a gigantic problem.

How were they going to modify all those memories?

It was impossible.

President Turner paced endlessly around his desk in the Oval Office. Those people, he had known what they were, but for his nation to know would cause widespread panic. He was at a loss -- how could they do this? Weren't they friends? What had happened to anger them? Enough cameras had caught what had happened to convince millions of people that there was such thing as wizards and witches. But more than all of this, he was unable to get his daughter out of his mind.

It was almost dawn and still, nobody was coming up with anything. The National Guard, the CIA, the FBI, none of them could figure out who these people were, where they'd come from, or where the President's daughter had gone. They knew each individual's face from the videos, but none of them had any sort of identity. It was as though they'd never existed.

The sun was on the ascent, painting the sky an array of deep reds and fiery oranges, reminding President Turner of the flames of the previous night. He stood solemn and silent in front of the window, guards surrounding the room, his wife weeping in a chair nearby. Another police chief telling the two of them, "We're sorry, we can't find anything." He ordered everyone out, even the guards, against their duty and will. Even his wife left the room, perhaps to sit in her daughter's room and weep.

"We are all very sorry, Mr. Turner."

He turned. Arcus Schruber stood there in the middle of his office, flanked by two of his other high officials. Arcus was the President, too, but of an entirely different world in an entirely different high council. Matthew couldn't speak; the anger growing in the pit of his chest was roaring like the flaming Christmas tree of the night before.

"Get out." His voice was uncharacteristically icy, furious, threatening. He wasn't smiling now. He wanted Arcus' blood for his missing daughter.

"Now, Matthew, let's be rational --"

"Rational? My daughter was stolen from me while I watched helpless. My wife is a wreck. My nation is panicking. And you have the audacity to tell me to be rational?" His fingers dug into the back of his chair behind his desk, blood pressure spiking an all-time high, yet somehow he maintained a low tone of voice. "I want you out. You -- your people -- you're not welcome until I have my daughter back in my arms."

"Mr. Turner, I understand your distress, but we have larger problems on both of our hands." Arcus' voice was no longer comforting or gentle. It had now reverted back to a firm, professional tone, emphasized by a single step forward away from his two ever-watchful, worried officials. "The damage this has done is monumental. The amount of muggles that have seen these videos is substantial; we've modified as many memories as we've been able, but I'm afraid our efforts are futile." Now a clear look of worry had set in on Arcus' features. Matthew regarded him silently for several moments before he looked down at the chair before him, releasing his death-grip on it with a careful, shaking sigh. Then, he looked back at Arcus, brows furrowed deeply.

"Find my daughter."




x_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Time passed. Days withered and the situation across the globe only worsened. With the several video recordings of the group of revolutionaries kidnapping the President's daughter came international shock and fear. But the terrorism didn't end there. As if the kidnapping had been a catalyst, all across the world, people dressed the same way were doing what they could to catch the eye of muggles: destroying whole buildings, attacking political figures in their homes and in public, destroying historic monuments. These extremist wizards and witches -- these revolutionaries -- became widely feared and known.

And for weeks, there was no word about the whereabouts of the President's daughter - until one day, two months later, the Wizarding Council headquarters in Philadelphia received word from the very man that had made the earth-shattering speech in the White House that tragic Christmas night. The President's daughter was alive, but the price for her freedom would be a great one.

Recognition. They wanted to be acknowledged as another race, another nation, another society. They wanted their own piece of the world. They didn't want to have to hide their way of life while muggles lived so freely. They wanted to leave the darkness of the shadows.

His demand was denied. Despite risking the President's daughter's life, they could not acknowledge a society so chaotic and dangerous; the Wizarding Council wouldn't even see them as part of their society. Fortunately, with the contact made by the kidnapper, aurors at the Wizarding Council headquarters were able to pinpoint his exact location.

Arrests were made. A daughter was saved. But the world remained forever changed.

With the arrests of the leading revolutionaries came something of an explosion in rebel activity. Wizards and witches across the world were sickened by their treatment and spoke out, acted out -- they joined the revolution, too. As time went on, the power behind the movement grew stronger, but the other half of the wizarding community that wanted to remain anonymous were seemingly ignored by the world. Those that were for the war looked down upon those that were against it, even spoke out against them, too, treating them as if they were supporters of muggles. But all the muggles saw were the terroristic extremists and not the other wizards and witches. Before long, muggles began fighting back, attacking and isolating anyone they even suspected to be even magic-related -- in some places, it became a witch hunt to go through and attack or incarcerate witches and wizards. Within months, with the urging of strong public opinion, most muggle governments severed all ties to that of magical governments; many schools ended up shutting down, many wizarding towns formerly secret now destroyed or taken over by muggles. It quickly became a worldwide civil war in what newspapers everywhere were calling Muggles versus Magic.

In this new era of chaos, which side will you choose?