The rain fell heavy and cold on the grimy cobbled roads. The streets were so narrow that it felt as though the tall buildings were swallowing the scurrying rats below. The air was thick with smog and the stench of cigarettes, the usual perfume of fresh rain disguised by the influence of human activity. A scrawny ginger cat, peering from behind a battered dustbin overflowing with waste, crouched in the slimy road and flicked out a tongue to taste a sliver of rotting flesh.

The cat darted away as a dark figure stormed boldly past, his heavy boots splattering muddy water along the hem of his robes. Fearful eyes peered out to watch him through gaps in boarded windows, and the clicks of locks could be heard as he marched past reinforced doors. He had not been there long, yet already the people had sensed that he was to be avoided.

He soon reached his destination. Like all the other premises, the house was tall, narrow and neglected. Any attempts at bringing colour to the home seemed pointless. Despite the efforts of a decaying flower box, it still held the same grey tones as the derelict walls, and sodden laundry hung sadly from a rusted balcony. At one time the door may have been green, but the chipped paint did nothing to trigger a smile in the harsh lines of the man’s face as he stared into the scratched spy hole, raised his fist, and pounded on the door.

Other than the relentless pouring of the rain, there was silence. A street lamp spluttered angrily behind the man, and was extinguished. He stared, waiting, for another minute. He calmly kicked open the door and entered.

---

Her eyes opened, but her blank expression did not change as she woke. Through the gaps in the tattered curtains she could see flashes through the rain, hear shrieks and screams underneath the rat a tat tat of gunfire and feel a deadened, lazy feeling of fear bubble in the pit of her stomach. Her younger brother had sat straight up from his nest of blankets on the floor, a hardened expression (so unnatural for a child of ten) carved into his gaunt face. The rest of her family and the Kaminski’s were, or were pretending to be, still asleep.

‘Są to strzelanie Zimmermaans,’ said Oskar quietly.

Sofia nodded. They were indeed shooting the Zimmermaans. The Zimmermaan family had been forging documentation for a small group of families. It had been inevitable that they would be caught. She could see the greying, heavy sheets light up with each flash, shivering lazily in the heavy rain. Soon there were no more screams.

She moved her legs from under the thin woollen blankets and her cold bare feet touched the floor as she slowly and quietly sat up. Careful not to wake the two others on the bed, she rose and cautiously advanced to the window. Men in German SS uniforms were leaving the house, grumbling about the weather and darting to their truck. Sofia looked down to see them step over a crumpled heap on the floor, a thin, pale hand shining out against the muddy, blood stained cobbles.

The truck revved and spat as the men piled in. One last man rushed out of the house, his arms filled with clothes.

‘Wartet auf mich! Wartet!’ he called, stumbling over the body. The men laughed and the truck moved away a few metres as they teased and impersonated him. It was a game Sofia had once known well; no matter how much the German commanded his friends to wait for him, they tormented him by pretending to drive off. Such petty games now seemed alien to her.

‘Ich sagte, wartet!’ The truck stopped and the last man clambered in, snapping at his colleagues for teasing him as they snickered. They drove away noisily.
For some reason she could not explain, Sofia continued to stare at the house across the street. It seemed strange that they shared the same laundry line, that their houses were connected. She wondered how soon it would be before someone claimed the sheets.

Something caught her eye. From the battered door, another figure emerged. For half a second she joyously assumed that the Germans had missed someone, and that someone had survived. But on closer inspection she could see something was strange.

His hair was long and dark, his face unshaven. He was well fed, yet he somehow still looked malnourished, with sunken eyes and pale skin. But the oddest aspect of his appearance was the long black robes, torn and damp along the hem, but heavy and layered. Sofia caught a glimpse of a wand being tucked into the folds of the cloak, and knew immediately that he was a wizard. He looked up and their eyes met. She doubted he was a good wizard; she could tell by the way his eyes bored into her and the severity of his face. She knew that she should probably hide, run, at the very least break eye contact. But something told her not to. He intrigued her.

Without breaking his stare, his body twisted, and with a loud crack and the whip of his robes, he had vanished.

Her heart was pounding, but she remained calm. Her brother whispered her name. Sofia turned, and saw he was crying. She hugged him as he wept, but she did not think of the Zimmermaans. People died every day; she couldn’t be sorrowful for all of them. No, the cold gaze of the wizard floated to the front of her mind. She wondered why he was there, and why he had not left with the Germans. She wondered if he had helped kill the Zimmermaan family, and if he had, why were the Nazis there?

The encounter with the wizard had revived memories of her life as a witch. She remembered Durmstrang, with its ice and mountains and the thrill of magic. But she was a Jew, and Jews were not welcomed there any longer, by the influence of Grindelwald. She was also Muggleborn, and Muggleborns had never truly been welcomed there, certainly not now.

If she still had her wand, she thought bitterly, she could protect herself and her family. She could charm away Oskar’s tears and she might have saved the Zimmermaans. But it had been snapped with her expulsion and now she was left with the ability, but no tool.

The fact that a wizard had stepped out of the scene of slaughter disturbed her. She knew the war had Grindelwald’s influence, but she had not considered the extent to which magic may be involved. While the war had been organised and fought by Muggles, she had believed that the odd dark wizard such as Grindelwald had been involved only for financial reasons or some other gain, merely exacerbating the situation for their own benefit. Yet here was a sinister looking wizard leaving a property shortly after a family had been massacred, with no sign of looting and showing neither pleasure nor disappointment at their deaths. If wizards were involved, this was not going to get better. She had to get out.

Mrs Kaminski stirred and her sagging face squinted sleepily at them.

‘Hör auf zu weinen und geh schlafen!’ Sofia was poor at German, having never ventured out of her native Poland, but she gathered from her irritable tones that Mrs Kaminski, the grumpy Berliner forced into Krakow, wanted them to sleep.

Thinking dark thoughts about the German people, Sofia gave her brother one last kiss on the forehead and crawled back into bed. Next to her, her mother gave a raspy cough and rolled over in her sleep.

Sofia could not sleep that night. As much as she just wanted to rest and think it over in the morning, she could not distract her mind from trying to form a plan to get her and her family out. Both she and Oskar were magical – that could possibly get them to Britain as a charitable case at Hogwarts. But Oskar would not be old enough for another year, and her parents and older sister were Muggles. It would be much harder to get them out of Poland.

She would speak to her parents tomorrow, she decided, and a solution would be found. Father would know. Father was a doctor and he knew everything. There was no life for any of them here and while they had hoped that things would get better, it had long been apparent that they were on the brink of something very dark and terrible.
Hogwarts had strong potential. It was charitable and famous for taking in Muggleborns. Sofia hoped they would take in Jews as well. Staring up at the cracked, cobwebbed and crumbling ceiling, Sofia succumbed to sleep.

Dippet’s quill quietly tapped the rim of the ink bottle, jarringly out of time with the whoosh of the pendulum clock behind him. Dumbledore sat opposite, seemingly patient, but certain tenseness about the lips gave away his urgency to those who would look closely. Dippet himself liked to finish one task before beginning another, yet also disliked leaving people waiting outside his door. This conflict of habits led to many frustrations amongst his staff, but the general consensus was that he would never notice.

The scratching of quill on parchment finally ceased, and he looked up at Dumbledore. They stared in silence for a few moments, before Dippet clucked his tongue and said, ‘I’m sorry Albus, it really is very sad but I just can’t do it.’

Dumbledore’s face did not move, and his voice stayed calm, yet something bubbled unpleasantly under the surface. ‘With what reasoning?’

Dippet inhaled with unease. ‘You have to understand, Albus, this girl is not the only Jewish child in danger. We can’t make a special allowance for her, and not save the others.’

‘So you believe that because we cannot save all, we should not save any?’ Dumbledore said sharply.

‘That’s not at all what I mean.’ There was a long pause as Dippet gathered his thoughts and gave a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not school policy to allow people to join part way through their education, let alone this child. She’s missed out on two years; imagine how far behind she’d be! Although, yes, it has to be admitted that no other Jewish children have applied to Hogwarts, we can’t open the floodgates. Not to mention her poor English – you’ve read her letter! Do you really think she’d be happy here?’

Dumbledore joined his fingers into a steeple and leaned forward. ‘There are very few magical Jewish children. We could help them, we could save them. I don’t know if you have heard about the Kindertransport that the Muggles organised? Why not a magical version? The Muggles were forced to stop, but we have more ability, more knowledge, more-’

‘-Risk,’ finished Dippet. ‘You might get along well with Grindelwald, Albus, but even you must appreciate that his policies are best kept outside of British borders.’

Dumbledore’s face showed for the first time an expression of uncertainty. ‘Gellert’s ideas are revolutionary, but he is enforcing them in ways that are perhaps... unorthodox. If it is angering Grindelwald you’re concerned about, I would not worry. The actions in Eastern Europe are of Muggle origins – he encourages them, yes, but ultimately it is Muggles at the core. But this girl, these magical children; surely they should not suffer from their Muggle counterparts.’

‘Certainly not, I agree with you. But we do not take students in that are not eleven. It just does not happen. She would struggle, and it is not fair to the others. It’s a firm rejection. I thought we had been through this at the staff meeting; I cannot fathom why you insist on continually bringing it up. I only spoke to you about it as a matter of conversation.’ Dippet’s exasperation and boredom shone through his dull eyes as he glanced at the offending letter on his desk. ‘I mean, look at it, Albus. She barely speaks a word of English and her handwriting leaves much to be desired. We don’t need to take in a student doomed to fail.’

‘She’s doomed to death otherwise.’

‘Come now, Albus, don’t exaggerate. The situation in Krakow is sad, but it can only get better from here. Do not worry yourself about it; your priority should be the students of this school and the magical community in this country. It is not our duty to solve Muggle problems in Europe.’

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed, but he said nothing. He rose, and left the room bitterly as Dippet crouched over his desk and began to write his reply.

---

Dear Miss Goldhirsch,
Thank you for your application to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I regret to inform you that at this time your application was unsuccessful and the institution is unable to offer you a place. We are currently unable to accommodate refugees or students who are unable to start at the age of eleven. We thank you for your interest and wish you every success for the future.

Sincerely,
Armando Dippet
Headmaster
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Order of Merlin, Second Class.
Vice Chairman of The Alchemists Association.

Sofia’s eyebrows crinkled as she peered over the letter with her parents.

‘Nie rozumiem,’ she said sadly. ‘Co to znaczy?’

Her father shrugged helplessly. He struggled with English as much as she did, and was equally clueless concerning the decision. Her mother, on the other hand, knew just enough English to allow the words written so elegantly on the parchment to seemingly float to her eyes and provoke the watery beginning of tears. She quietly informed her daughter of the verdict.
‘Oh,’ said Sofia quietly. She had expected this, but the disappointment still created an icy coldness in her stomach. Her father suddenly twisted away and kicked a chair. She flinched, and watched him lean on the window sill, breathing heavily. She had a horrible feeling that he was crying.

‘Daj mi to,’ her mother said sharply, snatching the letter from her.

She stormed over to the bed and sat, immediately scrawling foreign words at the bottom of the parchment with a fury and desperation Sofia had never seen.

Her mother scrawled the letter in messy Polish. Sofia doubted anyone at Hogwarts would be able to understand it, but her mother’s passion would prevent her from writing comprehensible English anyway. Nevertheless, passionate or not, there was no glorious glimmer of hope in Sofia’s mind, no white dove gracing her imagination, no stubbornly burning flame of determination in her chest. It was over; she had exhausted all avenues. She had not wanted to admit to herself that she had grown excited about the prospect of Hogwarts, with its promise of freedom and life and safety. In her head she had known that it was a long shot, yet her mother’s limited knowledge of a few famous staff members had led her to believe that perhaps she may benefit from generous charity.

Her mother had been born a Squib, not an especially uncommon occurrence within the very small magical Jewish community. Whether it was genetics or pure bad luck, Sofia didn’t know, but very few Jews had the gift of magical skill, something which herself and her brother, to the pride of their parents, had acquired, albeit with average skills at best. She weakly tried to console herself by remembering that she would not have understood any of the lessons, and would have failed and been thought of as stupid or retarded. She may not have been the most popular or the most gifted student at Durmstrang, but at least she had been well liked and never bullied, aside from the odd comment about her race or occasional anti-Muggle joke.

Leaving her father still staring at the cracked windowsill and her mother scribbling away through half-choked sobs, Sofia shuffled out of the room, leaving an air of disappointment and hopelessness behind her. A sudden burst of angry energy ushered her feet into a run.

Down the twisted, splintered stairs, dodging the woman clutching a silent baby, over the pile of looted suitcases, through the wrecked door, and out; out onto the grim street where a skeletal dog stalked with its nose low to the cobbles. The misery filled every crevice like a weed and Sofia gritted her teeth to imprison a wail as she thought of her old home in pleasant, sheltered suburb with a neat lawn and a fat ginger cat that used to lie in the cradling branches of a leafy tree. It was probably just a mile away from where she stood and panted now. Her breath coiled into smoke in front of her.

She looked down and saw a dead, muddy stalk that had once been a flower. Lord knows why it was there, but it was; trampled and downtrodden and dead. A swell of bitterness and grief overcame her, and she picked it up. As she did, it re-grew in her hand, a rich green stem, and the flower a beautiful deep, vibrant purple with three proud petals standing tall, surrounded by three lowly, drooping petals, so soft to the touch. She gazed at it in adoration and gave a tinkling laugh, for she had not experienced accidental magic since she was tiny.

Oh, what a wonderful feeling it was, to hold something alive in her hand, something with such glorious colours with such elegant shape and pure scent. It gave her faith and a new sense of carelessness. So Hogwarts didn’t want her. She could survive; she would prove to them that she could.
It was a curious thing for a spectator to observe, to see a young girl of maybe fifteen, sixteen at a push, laugh while tears fell onto a dark purple iris. But nobody did observe, as the Ghetto made people selfish beasts. Their own threatened lives and looming deaths were the only concepts which filled their bowed heads as they fought domination with nought but individual dreams.

Albus Dumbledore had travelled hundreds of miles in his life so far. He had seen the Great Pyramids emerge through a cloud of gold-red dust; he had inhaled the scent of a hundred thousand vibrant tulips in the fields of the Netherlands; he had searched for rare potion ingredients amidst the excited shouts and calls of a street market in Morocco, admired the marble palaces of Moscow, witnessed ancient magic in Calcutta, and observed a brilliant red dragon guard a nest in the crevice of a craggy rock on the side of a Chinese mountain. But never before had he travelled to a place such as Krakow.

Despite his extravagant and garish attire, not one dull eye glanced at him. The shadows of bankers, accountants, businessmen, dancers, musicians, artists, historians, architects, doctors, dentists and a hundred other professionals scurried past him as mere animals, reduced to thinking only of food and survival. Thin limbs and gaunt faces packed the narrow streets, broken up by occasional groups of ruddy-faced Germans who laughed and smoked. He felt a brief tug at his side and looked down in time to see a young boy dart way with his silver compass. Little thief. Albus immediately placed his hand in his other pocket to wrap around his treasured Deluminator.

How on earth had intelligent Muggles been reduced to this? It was further evidence, he reasoned, that they needed magical help and guidance. They clearly could not be left to their own devices if they allowed the darkness of human nature to create such suffering. With every wail from every child, every sob from every woman, every cackle from every soldier, Albus’ sympathy and disgust grew, and he yearned to fix it. Just a few spells and charms would transform the poverty and misery here into something better, something purer. . . But no. Gellert was right, the Muggles had to make their own mistakes and learn before wizards could guide them. Gellert had some. . . vibrant ideas, yet they were mostly right in principle. The situation in Europe could be resolved through discussion and patient diplomacy, magic was not necessary.

He arrived at a small, narrow house and knocked on the door. It opened slowly and a pale woman with uncombed black hair appeared. She stared up at him with sunken eyes.

‘Mrs Goldhirsch?’ he asked.

‘Lo,’ she said dully with a slight shake of her head. She turned around and looked up at stained stairs. “Marat Goldhirsch!� She gave one last uncaring glance at Albus and walked into an adjacent room, where the grief-stricken wails of a man awaited her.

Albus stepped over the threshold. The first thing that hit him was the smell. Damp, overcrowded, diseased. A silhouette appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Oh! Hogwarts Professor?’ the figure said in a surprised, heavily accented tone.

‘Hello, Mrs Goldhirsch, I am Professor Dumbledore. I’m here to talk to you about your daughter.’ There was a brief moment of silence before the figure bolted down the stairs and embraced Albus in a hug. Quite taken aback and unused to such physical contact, he stumbled backwards and raised his arms in bewilderment. The woman, thin and sickly looking with pale ginger hair, babbled in a mixture of Polish, Hebrew and fragmented English.

‘Please calm yourself . . . hush, hush. . .’

She sniffed and let him go. ‘Sorry. Please, upstairs come. I have much grateful.’

He followed her upstairs, glancing around. There had to be at least four families in the house, each assigned to one or two rooms each. They stared out at him with a kind of bored interest, and a feeling similar to guilt prodded somewhere in his chest. There had to be an easier way than this . . . maybe Gellert was wrong. But no, Gellert was right. The Muggles were doing this. It was all their idea, and it was not a good thing to meddle any more than necessary, at least until they needed magical guidance. He had to let nature take its course.

She led him into a room where a man sat on the floor, hunched over papers, and a young boy peeled a tiny pile of potatoes at the foot of a rusted bed. Blankets and pillows also covered the majority of the floor, evidently for more people to sleep on, though where they all were Albus didn’t know. The man and boy looked up, the boy with an expression of pure bewilderment and fascination, and the man with a strange hopeful nervousness. He said something in Polish and the woman nodded, a small watery smile playing about her lips.

‘Sofia is gone to get potatoes. She go to school? And my boy also?’

Dumbledore hesitated. ‘After I translated your letter . . . it was evident that the situation here is very difficult. There is still some concern amongst the staff but for the most part I have been able to convince them that we can offer help to your daughter. We cannot, however, do the same for your son.’ The woman stared blankly. He had obviously spoken too fast. ‘We can take Sofia. Not Oskar.’

The woman bit her lip. ‘When he eleven?’

‘Possibly.’ There was a long silence as conflict raged in the woman’s tired face. Dumbledore spoke again, consciously simplifying his words as much as possible. ‘I am trying very hard to help wizarding families here. I also plan to make contact with four other magical children in danger who may wish to join Sofia in Hogwarts, but we cannot have adults or children under eleven. I’m very sorry. Once Sofia is in England she may be able to find Muggle jobs for you and your husband and gain permission for you to go, but it is highly unlikely.’

She nodded slowly, great unease written across her face. The boy and the man evidently did not understand any English, and could only watch with confusion. ‘But Sofia . . .,’ the woman said slowly. ‘Sofia can leave to England?’

‘Yes. But she would have to leave soon. We will place her with an English family so that she can learn some English before she reaches Hogwarts.’

The woman turned and spoke rapidly in Polish to the man, who nodded in the same hesitant way. Dumbledore could hardly blame them. Although he was offering their daughter the chance of freedom and safety, his insides twisted in guilt at the thought of the boy left behind, of the thought of splitting up a family, the thought that perhaps Sofia may find that she was the only survivor . . .

‘We need time to think, and ask Sofia,’ said the woman slowly.

Dumbledore nodded. ‘Of course.’ He handed her a ticket, Polish on one side, German on the other. ‘There is a train next Saturday which will take Sofia and the other children to England via the Hook of Holland, at midday.’ He pointed to the times on the ticket. ‘This is her ticket, if she wishes to use it. Do not give it to anybody else. Do not speak of it. It is secret. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

He nodded, and gave her more German documents in a parchment envelope. ‘All the best with your decision.’

He left them in troubled silence and Disapperated before he had reached the street.

Mother was dressed in a periwinkle blue dress, and her silver Star of David necklace glinted in the sun. Father had donned his best suit and had shined his shoes to within an inch of their lives. Oskar had, with difficulty, been persuaded to comb his hair and wash behind his ears. Everybody wanted to look their best to say their farewell to Sofia. They ignored the suspicious stares of the ordinary people, and the awkward glances at their garish yellow stars. Today, they were not in Krakow railway station, but in their own little world, where they hugged and kissed and held back tears.

Mother and Father had argued and wailed and paced the room for days over the decision, only ever discussing the matter in Hebrew so Sofia and Oskar found it near impossible to understand. Sofia had said nothing, struggling with the turmoil herself, and had not particularly wanted to understand her parents’ arguments. She wanted so desperately to leave, but she needed her family with her, and nobody could tell her when they would be able to join her in England. Oskar had stamped his feet and thrown tantrums, completely sure that if he wasn’t allowed to go to Hogwarts, neither should Sofia. So it was with pouted lips and folded arms that he reluctantly allowed Sofia to kiss him on the cheek.

Her parents kept thin lips and stern faces, but their eyes shone as they spoke to her, checked she had her things, assured her they would follow her soon, and made sure she looked neat and tidy. They smoothed her hair and patted her cheeks and brushed stray hairs off her cardigan, and all at once she didn’t feel sixteen any more. She was hit with the memory of her first day at school, and she felt as small and as scared and as breakable as she had then. She wanted to hug her mother and never let go, and she wanted Father to pick her up and spin her and hold her upside down until all the blood rushed to her head and she shrieked with laughter and Mother fretted and told Father to be careful. Her bottom lip quivered so she bit it. Her hand squeezed the handle of her small brown suitcase, where her name, age, and a large star were chalked on in large, uneven letters.

The train arrived on the platform. Sofia and her family shuffled forwards slowly, glancing at four other families who appeared to be in similar emotional states and also bore grubby yellow stars. Her father opened the door of the train. Mind the gap. She stepped on the train; the air was thick and musty and smelt of cigarettes. A baby was crying in one of the carriages. Her heart thumped against the Star of David necklace her mother had instructed her to hide in her bra. A tightness around her chest made her feel weak, sick and dizzy. She leant out of the window and reached out her hands so that they could be clutched by her parents, who now wept and choked out their goodbyes. The train rumbled and shook. Even Oskar was crying now, his large dark eyes staring at Sofia as he raised his arms to her, shouting her name over and over. The other families were crying too; Sofia could hear names and sobbing and declarations of love.

The train started to move with a shudder. Her parents moved with it, still clutching her hands tightly. To her right, there was a shriek, and she turned to see a mother pull a young boy through the train window back onto the platform, back into her arms. The train was now moving so fast that her parents were running alongside the train, Oskar meters behind them, screaming. Her mother gave a wail and tried to pull Sofia off the train, but Father held her back, and with a strong hand pushed Sofia back into the safety of the train. The train sped away, Father had his arms tight around Mother’s chest, holding her back as she struggled and screamed.

‘Nie zapomnij o mnie! Sofia! Nie zapomnij o mnie!’
The train sped away as Sofia screamed and sobbed and kicked and pounded the train door, which rattled feebly.

Suddenly, a large hand grabbed her by the hair and dragged her away.

‘Juden!’ spat the conductor angrily. He pulled her into a carriage and sat her down forcefully, ranting about the damage to his train door.

Sofia wasn’t listening. There was a ringing in her ears and she felt faint. She stared up at the conductor, who had sunken eyes and fat flabby cheeks, listening to the sound of her own breath and pounding of her heart, and somehow mesmerised by the conductor’s angry shouting and foul teeth.

He eventually stormed off and Sofia was left ignoring the stares of the other Poles on the train. Her lip quivered and she felt scared. She wiped away her tears and kept one hand clutched tightly around the battered handle of her small suitcase.

A small hand touched her shoulder and she looked round to see a thin, dark haired boy of about fourteen looking down at her, with a similarly tear-streaked face. Behind him were three other children. One small girl was clutching his hand, and their dark eyes were so similar that Sofia was sure they were siblings. The other two children were boys, pale faced and shaking.

None of the children spoke to each other, but they sat together on the bumpy train as Polish countryside flashed by through the grubby window. Several hours passed, but none of them slept, or spoke, or did anything but ignore the frightened stares, the disgusted mutterings or the cruel giggles of the ordinary people on the train. Sofia felt tired but every time she closed her eyes she saw her mother’s screaming face as Father held her back, or Oskar reaching up to her with his thin arms.

Before long, the Polish words turned to German, and the ordinary passengers quickly left the carriage upon seeing the yellow stars. They had entered Germany, and Sofia leant her forehead against the cool, rumbling glass of the window as she looked out at the increasingly darkening landscape.

The silence was unbearable. It took almost ten minutes, but Sofia finally plucked up the courage to drag the words ‘Jakie są wasze imiona?’ out of her mouth. The children all looked up at her.

The boy who had touched her shoulder cleared his throat and lifted his chin. ‘Lavi,’ he said brusquely. Sofia nodded. She at least knew one name.

‘Sofia,’ she said in return, quietly.

The sight of the two eldest children exchanging names seemed to trigger a hidden bravery in the three other children, and it was the girl with the dark eyes and black curls who piped up first with ‘Nova’, her pale hands picking loose skin on her thumb.

The two boys took slightly longer, but at last they named themselves as Solomon and Hirshel, and it was revealed that they were both eleven. It was with shock that Sofia discovered that Lavi and Nova were in fact fourteen-year-old twins, for Nova looked so tiny and childlike in her beauty.

Beyond names and vague descriptions of where they had come from, the conversation lapsed once again into uncomfortable silence, all five children too shy and too heartbroken to talk to one another. But, now that they all had names, labels, even brief history, it did not seem so strange to grip hands over the table, or to suddenly embrace each other in hugs, or cry quietly onto each other’s shoulders. They were united by a common tragedy, and occasional attempts at conversation, such as wondering about the boy who had been pulled off the train by his mother, and giggling about the German woman who had shrieked upon the sight of them, certainly allowed them to connect, even if only for brief moments.

As night descended, the children dropped off into a shallow and uneasy sleep, waking up every few minutes at each new station, and curling into balls as they shivered and wished for blankets. Sofia could blearily remember changing trains at Berlin, carrying Hirshel, who couldn’t keep his eyes open, and almost tripping over her own suitcase.

The remainder of the journey to the Netherlands was excruciating. Her body ached with fatigue, her stomach panged with hunger, and her feet were numb with the cold. The train rattled and swayed and bumped and screeched, and some drunken women piled on the train laughing and singing.

‘Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!’

Sofia groaned quietly and felt like she could cry from exhaustion. Nova had fallen asleep on her brother’s shoulder, and he himself looked deathly as he scrunched his face in an effort to sleep. Hirshel was still asleep in her arms and Solomon was slumped over the table quietly crying, murmuring ‘Mamma, Mamma...’

Sofia was not sure what happened next. Whether she was asleep, or in a daze or perhaps just so used to the hours of travelling that she no longer noticed time passing, it made no difference, but the next thing she knew, the dawn was rising and they were at the border of the Netherlands. The train stopped.

A golden mist shone in the crisp morning, the children’s breath coiled in front of them, and Hirshel entertained Solomon by pretending to be a dragon. A bubble of excitement grew inside all of them, temporarily awaking them, and bringing small, daring smiles to their faces. They had nearly escaped. A few more hours, and they’d be on the boat to England.

There was a cough. They turned to see a German soldier staring down at them, his arms folded and his feet in heavy boots. Sofia felt Hirshel move closer to her and start to shake.

‘Öffnen Sie Ihren Koffer,’ he said, coolly. The children glanced at each other, none of them spoke good enough German to fully understand what he was saying. ‘Koffer!’ he barked.

Nova seemed to realise what he meant, and grabbed her suitcase, which had her name and age carefully chalked on the side. She flicked the latches and opened it, and the other children quickly copied.

The soldier went through the luggage, taking anything of value. Sofia was immediately grateful for following her mother’s advice and hiding her necklace in her bra as she watched virtually everything but basic clothes being taken. Photographs, toys, jewellery, money, religious items and texts, books, pens, fine clothes, everything was seized. Lavi tried to hide a photograph of his mother in his hand, but the soldier slapped him across the head, took it and set it alight while Lavi watched, stony faced. The soldier chuckled and dropped the smouldering remains on the floor. He then took a piece of chalk and drew large stars on their suitcases, stroked Nova’s hair, offered the youngest boys sweets, and left.

Lavi growled and kicked his seat. Nova sat down and cried. Solomon and Hirshel refolded their clothes and laid them neatly in their suitcases through watery eyes. Sofia stood stunned. It had happened so fast, and it had upset her, but she had just stood and watched.

Now the train was moving again, and the others sat and complained about their hunger and cursed the solider. Sofia repacked her suitcase and prayed to god that England would give her what she needed, quietly muttering the Shema under her breath.

The ship cut a frothy trail through the black sea under the watchful eye of the crescent moon. The night was not foggy, but the wind was strong, and the children had briefly entertained themselves by running onto the deck and feeling the force of the gale, clutching the railings and shrieking as they were nearly blown away. However, before long the chill reached their bones and they retired back into the ship, Lavi heroically stealing a plate of food from the restaurant, which they devoured hungrily, hidden behind a plant pot in the passenger lounge. This was immediately regretted as the rocking of the ship created the realisation that not one of the children had their so-called sea legs, and they curled up on the uncomfortable chairs clutching their stomachs and groaning with sea sickness, before falling into light sleep.

She dreamed of her family at the station, with her mother in the periwinkle blue dress and the shiny Star of David necklace, and her father with the smart shoes and Oscar with his combed hair. She dreamed about the roar of the train and the smirking German who burnt the photo and saw herself clutching her suitcase and trying to stay afloat in the vast abyss of the sea.

‘Sofia? Sofia Goldhirsch?’ Sofia opened her eyes to see a smiling young woman, plain, but friendly looking, crouched down by Sofia’s chair. Modestly dressed and warm, the woman stroked Sofia’s hair and pulled her into a sitting position. ‘You’re here, Sofia, you’re in England. Follow me.’ Sofia did not understand what the Quaker woman was saying, but she understood the outstretched hand and kind gaze. She held the woman’s hand and was led through the ship, out onto a slippery wooden ramp which glistened in the early morning sun. Her guide was bathed in such a beautiful pinkish glow from the rising sun, and the sounds of the waves lapping the dock were so gentle, it was easy for Sofia to believe that she had slipped into death on her journey and was now being helped to shore by an angel.

The air was cold and salty; the sky was filled with the noises of seagulls and the resonating bellow of the ship’s horn, and painted with glorious hues of orange and pink and pale blue. She could see Lavi and Nova standing on the dock, shivering and clutching their suitcases, and she could hear the excited whispers of Solomon and Hirshel behind her. A group of Quakers stood on the dock, clutching bibles and crucifixes, and they embraced the children and said, ‘Welcome to England, you’re safe now.’ They tutted at the garish yellow stars stitched onto their clothes and said ‘You don’t need these anymore,’ while taking scissors and breaking the stitching so they fell to the slimy dock floor. The children laughed at their new freedom, and stamped the offending cloth labels into the salty, muddy puddles of the dock.

They were herded onto a rumbling bus which made them bounce and slide and grip each other in delighted fear as they travelled over a flat countryside with hay bales and wide open fields, quaint little villages and, towards the end of their journey, proud women in smart uniforms waving at the bus as they worked in the fields. The Quakers sang a cheerful song, which they couldn’t understand, but they hummed and made up nonsense lyrics along to the tune.

‘Shine Jesus shine! Fill this land with the Father’s Glory!’

They came to a stop outside a large, colourful gate. Sofia tilted her head and could just make out the word ‘Butlins’ in bright red playful writing. The Quakers helped them off the bus and they stood in a little huddle, staring at the gate and listening to shrieks of laughter inside. A young man came rushing out, and with joy Sofia saw a navy blue kippah atop his dark curls.

‘More?’ he said to one of the Quaker women. ‘I thought the Kindertransport had been stopped from bringing more children? We still haven’t found places for some of them.’

Kindertransport... the word seemed familiar to Sofia, though it was certainly German. Child transport... she seemed to remember one of her Muggle friends mentioning it; they had said that their mother was trying to find money for a Kindertransport ticket. She didn’t understand anything else that the man said however, and his stressed tone set her at unease.

‘I don’t know,’ said the woman. ‘We were just told to meet them at Harwich, it was all very last minute. They do have the correct tickets, authorised by the English, German and Polish authorities, and we were told there are families who have confirmed they’ll take them.’

The man spluttered. ‘We have children here who have been waiting for months! They’ll have to wait in the queue like all the others!’

‘These children are special,’ replied the woman in an unconvincing tone. ‘They must be, to be rescued so late. Jesus has chosen them to save them.’

The man rolled his eyes. ‘You forget who you’re talking to. Go and pray to Jesus, I’ll take the children. Don’t worry, I’ll be nice,’ he said pointedly as she frowned at him.

‘Jesus will save you too.’

‘I’m sure. I’ll see you at lunchtime.’ He turned to the children and looked them up and down. ‘Shalom,’ he said, his tone kinder now.

‘Shalom!’ replied Nova gleefully.

He laughed and ruffled her hair. ‘You’re a queer one! This way; follow me.’ They followed him through the gate and along a wide path, with a well cut lawn either side. They could hear children laughing and shouting, and as they walked the man began to teach them English. ‘Shalom... Hello...’ he said. He repeated this until they began to recite it after, and he showed them praise through clapping and laughing and jumping. They all laughed at this wonderfully energetic man, and before long they were skipping and dancing around him as they walked up the path, shouting ‘Shalom! Hello! Hallo! Hello! Shalom!’

‘I imagine you’re all somewhat hungry, yes?’ he said as he opened the door to a long barrack.

It was then Sofia was completely sure she had died on her journey. The overpowering scent of cooked food, even better, cooked breakfast, and the wonderful sound of lively and happy chatter was surely a sign of heaven. The moment a plate was handed to her she became aware of how hungry she was, and it was with a wide smile that she received two slices of toast and a large spoonful of scrambled eggs.

***

It was night time. Sofia had enjoyed the most wonderful day since she’d been forced into the ghetto. After breakfast there had been painting and sewing, and then she had been allowed to sit on a sunny lawn talking to a rather dashing Czech boy while the younger children played on swings and slides and a roundabout. She had followed this particular boy, who seemed to be called Ludvik, all day, including at lunch, where they had vegetable soup, and during the English class, and even shyly during swimming (in her underwear, she dreaded to imagine what her mother would think) in the afternoon in the holiday park’s own pool.

But now in the darkness, on an uncomfortable bed, she tossed and turned, caught between fretful sleep where she dreamt of her mother’s blue dress and Star of David, and her father’s shiny shoes and Oscar’s neat hair, and moments of complete alertness, where she was driven mad by the sounds of dozens of children sniffing, coughing, whispering the Shema and crying. It didn’t matter what a wonderful day she’d had, how many attractive young men she’d lightly flirted with, how many new friends she’d made, the moment the moon rose into the foreign sky she was acutely aware of how alone she was, and she could not help but bitterly wish that her father had let her mother drag her off the train. No doubt, by the sounds of the quietly crying children around her, this feeling of abandonment and loneliness were not by any means unusual, but it offered her little comfort. She too, like others, tried to whisper the Shema, but it only reminded her of her mother saying it with her.

She became overwhelmed with home sickness and full of dread for the future. Perhaps she would have another glorious day tomorrow. Maybe if she did, the same thing would happen the day after, and the day after that, and for ever more. She could easily imagine the swimming pool and the playground becoming boring, and the endless nights of hearing scores of children with sniffs and sneezes and raspy coughs was not particularly inviting. She had no idea what was going to happen to her; Mother had told her that there would be an English family waiting to look after her until the rest of the family made it to England. But this was no family, this was a huge refugee camp hastily made in a holiday park, with unorganised young religious volunteers desperately trying to make themselves understood and trying too soothe the hordes of confused and frightened children. Sofia had seen children as young as three and as old as seventeen, and all the ages in between, but she had not met one person who knew what was going on. Ludvik had told her, in his best Yiddish that every now and again a child or small groups of children would leave with an English family, but they had not been seen again. This frightened her, and reminded her of the stories of her neighbours and friends who had been told to go to the East for work, but had stopped replying to letters. She asked him if he thought it was good to go and live with a family. He shrugged.

She tried to ask a Jewish volunteer girl, but Sofia’s Hebrew was bad and the girl’s Hebrew was only marginally better; evidently her parents had been correct when they had lectured her over the importance of learning it. Sofia tried Yiddish, but again, the girl understood nothing. In the end, the volunteer gave up and gave Sofia a sweet before wandering off.

She had been given second hand, but clean, clothes and had been allowed to wash and brush her teeth. She had been fed and she had been hugged and she had laughed with companions. She had been given a bed, even if it was a little uncomfortable and she was safe within four walls. What more could she ask for? At that moment she hated herself for her ungratefulness and fear as she imagined Oskar trying to sleep on his pile of blankets to the sounds of machine gunfire and screaming and cruel laughter. She hated herself for feeling lonely as she imagined the little orphaned seven-year-old who used to walk through the ghetto trying to sell stolen items. She hated herself for dreading the future as she remembered her cousin Helen who was trying to hide outside of the ghetto, or her own parents who were trying to find a work permit for their ten-year-old son.

Yet it didn’t matter how many times she reminded herself of others suffering, it didn’t seem to make her own night any lighter.

***

Sofia, Lavi, Nova, Solomon and Hirshel had been woken earlier than the other children, and had been instructed, in fragmented and incorrect Polish by a nervous volunteer who read from a phrase book, to dress in the best clothes they had quickly and meet by the gate with their suitcases. Yawning and muttering, they did so obediently, and walked together, Hirshel clutching Sofia’s hand and talking animatedly to Solomon, through the holiday park to the gate.
Standing there was the energetic young Jewish man who had welcomed them the day before, who was sneaking curious stares at the vibrant and extravagantly dressed auburn haired, bearded man next to him, who was smiling at them.

‘Hello. My name is Professor Dumbledore, I'm the Assistant Headmaster at Hogwarts. I’m pleased that you’ll be attending my school. Term starts in September, so until then we’ve found some suitable families who understand your talents to look after you.’ The Jewish man translated into Hebrew for them, and Lavi, the only one fluent in said language, then translated into Polish. The young man looked confused, but the children immediately recognised the reference to Hogwarts and glanced at each other with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

There was a loud crack nearby. The children and Jewish volunteer started and looked round, but the ever-odd looking Professor just gave a small smile and waited patiently. He stared at Sofia, and she found herself fixated on his blue eyes, frozen in place. She felt as though he were listening to her thoughts.

A woman walked through the gate, and the Jewish volunteer frowned, confused. ‘I didn’t see you come in,’ he said. ‘How did you get here?’ Dumbledore smiled and dismissed him, and he left, looking completely bewildered.

The woman herself looked proud and somewhat haughty. She had voluptuous curves squeezed into a forest green dress and red earrings with a matching necklace glistened about her face, painted carefully with make-up. Sofia decided she would perhaps look like a movie-star, if she were a little younger and her hair was all black, rather than decorated with lines of grey.

‘Ah, Mrs Brigham,’ said Dumbledore politely.

‘Albus,’ she said in a dignified manner nodding her head. ‘I said I’d take in a child, Albus, but I have been doing some thinking and I only want a girl.’ She looked at Nova and smiled. ‘She’s a pretty little thing, I’m happy to take her.’

‘Certainly, but the young man standing next to her is her brother, and we think it best not to separate them.’

‘Hmm. I don’t want a boy. We have an evacuee from London and he’s simply horrid. Good luck with him when he arrives at the school in three years.’ She surveyed the children, who stood awkwardly, unable to understand but feeling distinctly like they were being sold. ‘Do none of them speak any English?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ said Dumbledore. ‘But I trust you and your family would be able to educate them admirably before September.’

‘Teach a child a language in two months? Are you mad, Albus?’

‘Possibly, but I have little other choice.’

‘Hmmph.’ The woman walked over and stood in front of Sofia, who suddenly found it very hard to look at anything but the woman’s highly polished shoes. Father had polished his shoes. ‘What’s this one’s name?’ barked Mrs Brigham.

‘I believe this is Sofia Goldhirsch,’ said Dumbledore cheerfully. ‘She’s sixteen.’

Mrs Brigham held Sofia’s chin and pushed it up so Sofia looked directly into her face. ‘She’s awfully sickly looking and thin to be sixteen. I suppose I’ve no other choice. I don’t want a boy.’

Sofia was shaking and nearly in tears. She didn’t know what the woman was saying or what was happening, but she felt like an object and the woman seemed unfriendly. Dumbledore, however, seemed amused.

‘My dear Mrs Brigham, you’re terrifying the poor child. You don’t need to keep up such a silly display of sternness in front of me. I have more families coming for the other children and I doubt any of them will look as dignified and responsible as you,’ he said slyly, with twinkling eyes.

‘Oh do be quiet, Albus.’ She grabbed Sofia’s hand. ‘Well come on then, girl. I’m in quite a hurry and your clothes are hideous. They must be changed.’ With that, Sofia saw one last glance of her friends, and she vanished with a deafening crack.

Sofia had never Apparated before. Quite honestly, the only adult wizards she had ever met had been at Durmstrang, and the one wizard in Krakow who had loaned her an owl, though he vanished some days later, not that he had had a wand regardless. She quickly decided that she did not enjoy it one bit, and for a brief second thought she was going to suffocate.

Her feet found the earth again and it took her by surprise. Feeling queasy, she stumbled and fell onto polished, dark floor boards. The pine scent mixed with the smell of tobacco and warm biscuits.

There was a giggle. ‘I say! She’s not very graceful, is she?’ Sofia looked up to see a grinning girl of about her age, with dark hair and a strange accent. She wore a brown tartan dress and her hair was in a ballerina bun. ‘Diana! Pan! Ben!’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Come and see the Jewish girl!’

‘Don’t shout, Minnie,’ came Mrs Brigham’s voice sternly as Sofia picked herself up off the floor. ‘What have I told you about creating an impression?’

Minnie adopted an expression of seriousness, but a small smile still played about her lips, and she was unable to hide her excitement. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked Sofia.
Sofia recognised the word ‘name’ vaguely from her single English class at Butlins, and hesitantly said ‘Sofia...? Sofia Goldhirsch.’

Minnie burst out laughing. ‘You don’t sound very sure!’
Sofia blushed and felt tearful. Was her name funny? What was wrong with it?

‘She doesn’t speak very good English, Minnie, be nice!’ snapped Mrs Brigham. The sounds of feet thundering down the stairs echoed through the kitchen. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, does nobody have any decorum in this house?’

Minnie hurried over to Sofia and held her hand. ‘I’m ever so sorry! Don’t worry, we’ll be best friends, and you’ll learn English.’ Sofia felt slightly better at Minnie’s warm smile and excited gaze. Her hand was soft and smooth and she pulled Sofia to meet three others. Two small children, a boy and a girl, peered up at her. The girl (Sofia assumed this was Diana) was perhaps only five, and her large chubby cheeks wobbled as she bounced over to Sofia to peer up at her with delighted interest. The young boy was slightly older, but he was sour- faced, scruffy and skinny. He stared intently up at Sofia.

‘My dad says to never trust a Jew.’

‘Do be quiet, you little urchin. My dad says never to trust you, but we still let you live here,’ said the last child, cuffing the small boy around the head. He was not really a child; he was bordering adulthood, and was effortlessly handsome, so much so that Sofia’s face reddened even more as he shook her hand and said, ‘I’m Pan. Pleased to meet you, kid.’

‘Minnie, go and find Sofia some good clothes. She looks dreadful. You three, help me with the dinner,’ said Mrs Brigham brusquely. ‘Benjamin! You little rotter, put that apple back.’

Minnie pulled Sofia through the kitchen and into a large drawing room. It was stunningly beautiful; a pale yellow with a marble fireplace and huge French-style windows, which looked southwards out towards rolling misty moors, with mountains in the distance. Minnie took Sofia to the other side of the room and up white marble stairs, lined with moving portraits which watched them curiously.

‘Ignore Ben,’ said Minnie chirpily, ‘he’s from London and he’s dreadful, I hope he doesn’t stay for long. You’ll get to meet Daddy tonight as well, but he’s at work at the moment. Daddy’s a Muggle, but he doesn’t have to fight in the war because he hasn’t got a leg. He lost it in the Great War. It’s not funny really, but he makes jokes about it and hops about pretending to be a flamingo, so it is a little bit funny.’

Sofia didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, but she enjoyed Minnie’s cheerful tone, and, though she wasn’t sure, she thought Minnie had some sort of accent different from Mrs Brigham’s. It sounded friendly and warm.

The entered a dark, awkwardly shaped room, with wooden walls covered with photos and posters, a mixture of wizard and Muggle life. Two beds with tartan covers and soft white pillows provided the homes for a huge collection of teddy bears and dolls, and jigsaw pieces lay scattered across the floor.

‘This will be our room. Usually Diana sleeps in here too, that’s why there are so many toys. But she’s having Pan’s room because he’s going to fight with the Muggles. Mummy’s ever so annoyed about it.’ Minnie opened a large mahogany armoire and searched through. ‘Hmmm... red will clash with your hair. Perhaps green will suit you.’ She handed Sofia a green dress. ‘Put this on. I’ll take some of the teddies off your bed for you and put them in the study while you get changed.’

She left the room and, guessing and hoping she wasn’t being rude, Sofia put the dress on. It was pretty, but far too big for her malnourished body. Taking advantage of the first time she was left alone, Sofia reached into her bra and took out her now warm Star of David necklace. She put it on and felt comforted.

Minnie returned, smiling as usual, but her eyes widened when she saw Sofia. ‘Gosh, I didn’t realise how thin you are!’ She took out her wand and looked at it nervously. ‘I’m not allowed to do magic yet... but nobody will know. And I am very good at Transfiguration...’ She pointed the wand at Sofia, whose heart thumped nervously. She calmed down as the dress tightened gently around her, fitting itself around her narrow waist. ‘There,’ said Minnie, satisfied. ‘Perfect. I told you I was good. But don’t tell anyone what I did.’ She held a finger to her lips, and Sofia smiled and copied her, understanding. The girls giggled, and a friendship was made.

***

Dinner that evening took place in a red dining room with a dark mahogany table, polished to within an inch of its life. Sofia still felt awkward and uncomfortable, but she was entertained by the noise of the family chattering away, even if she could not understand it. Mr Brigham appeared to be a business man. Despite the fact that his left leg missing below the knee, he was dressed smartly and amusingly carried his briefcase on his back as he hopped around on his crutches. He had a big dark beard and a deep, bellowing laugh, and his first action upon seeing Sofia was to embrace her in a rib-cracking hug.
Ben, the small Londoner, seemed very out of place and resentful of the family, not to mention suspicious of Sofia. He kicked the table indignantly at the sight of vegetables, and as Mrs Brigham tried to persuade him, the lights flickered warningly. He was certainly destined to be a powerful, if rude, wizard. His temper tantrum, however, was ignored by all but Mrs Brigham, who eventually pulled him out of the room by his ear. Instead, the family seemed more fascinated by Sofia, though, admittedly, they had trouble remembering her name and often referred to her as ‘Sophie’.

Already they were helping her to learn English, and she giggled as they held up various objects for her to learn.

‘Fork.’

‘Fark?’

‘No, no, no! Silly Sophie! Foooooork. Fork.’

The laughter, the food, and the smiling faces were refreshing and comforting. For the first time since leaving her original home in the suburbs of Warsaw, Sofia felt safe and happy. Thoughts of her family were even pushed out of her mind as she happily struggled over the word ‘cucumber’.

Minnie seemed especially fond of Sofia, and Diana was absolutely amazed; every adoring gaze and admiring glance made Sofia chuckle, especially when Diana copied her pose and accent. Pan, however, although friendly, seemed distracted. There seemed to be some tension between him and his mother, and Sofia was confused to see him in a Muggle uniform for dinner. As the moon rose, so did Pan, and he kissed his stony- faced mother on the cheek before he left the room. Through the window, Sofia and the family watched his silhouette walk down the path, stop, and vanish.

‘He’s going to get himself killed,’ said Mrs Brigham grumpily. ‘A full moon is a perfect night for a raid.’

‘Ach, nonsense! He’s a smart lad, he’ll do us proud,’ said Mr Brigham, helping himself to more salad.

Mrs Brigham threw down her knife and fork onto her plate with a clatter, and Sofia was shocked to see her eyes water. ‘For heaven’s sake, Gerald, I have no idea why you had to plant that ridiculous idea in his head. Just because you can’t serve doesn’t mean your son should! He’s not even a Muggle!’ With that, she left the room, wiping her face and breathing heavily.

An awkward silence fell. Minnie’s lips turned into a thin, stern line, not unlike her mother’s usual expression.

‘Very sorry, Sophie,’ said Mr Brigham light-heartedly. ‘Emotional girl, is my wife.’

Sofia did not understand but nodded.

‘It’s So-fee-ah, Daddy,’ said Minnie after a few moments, obviously trying to break the tension. ‘Not Sophie.’

He chuckled. ‘Ah, very sorry, Sofia. Now, I think it’s time for everyone to trot off up to bed. Run along now.’

***

Mother wore a blue dress and a necklace in the shape of a star. Father was dressed smart and Oskar was crying. Ben stamped his feet at the table where hundreds of teeth lay and Uncle Frank picked out the tiny gold stars embedded inside them, while Mrs Brigham watched sternly. And so Sofia dreamed as a midnight gale whipped around the house like a scream.

***

The next morning, Minnie woke Sofia with a hefty shake and insisted on pulling Sofia’s hair into a tight bun. ‘Your hair is so soft!’ she proclaimed. ‘It’s a shame the colour is a bit pale. Ooh, your necklace is pretty.’ She pointed to Sofia’s necklace. ‘Necklace,’ she said slowly, smiling. Sofia repeated it, and then said ‘Gwiazda Dawida.’

‘Dawida?’ asked Minnie, frowning. ‘Oh, David? Star of David? Jewish? Juden?’

Sofia nodded, grinning. ‘Tak, tak!’ She paused and tried to repeat in English. ‘Sar... ov... Davida?’

‘No. Star...’

‘Star...’

‘Of David.’

‘Of David,’ repeated Sofia. ‘Star of David. Jewish. Star of David.’

Minnie squealed and hugged her. ‘You’re learning so fast! I think I shall start teaching you spelling and reading today, so you can do the work in Hogwarts. But first, we’ll go for a walk. I’ll show you the Scottish countryside, and teach you the names of outdoor things.’

Sofia followed Minnie out of the house into a stone courtyard, where Ben was chasing chickens. He stopped at the sight of the girls, and asked Minnie, ‘Has she nicked anything yet?’

‘Go away, Ben, of course she hasn’t. You’re the only snotty thief around here.’

‘Why does a Jew pick his nose? Because it’s cheaper than using a hanky.’

‘You little wretch! Go back to London, I don’t care if you get bombed.’

Ben laughed, stuck out his tongue and ran off. Minnie watched him sourly, her face as stern and severe as her mother’s.

‘Wretch?’ said Sofia.

‘Yes, wretch! Ben is a wretch! Wretch, wretch, wretch! Hmph.’

Sofia laughed. ‘Mean of Jew?’ she asked, almost amused.
Minnie started and looked at her. ‘W-what? I thought you speak no English. How did you understand?’

‘Word “Jew�. Deutsch “Juden�. Nazi mowi “Juden! Juden!�’ Sofia spat the word as she had heard it so many times before. Minnie watched, her face still, her lips thin. ‘Ben no Jew like?’

‘ Ignore him. You are a fast learner, aren’t you? Come on, follow me. Chicken,’ she said, pointing. Sofia giggled, fond of the goofy birds. Minnie continued to teach her the names of the world around her and chattered away animatedly in her usual cheerful tone, but there was still some sternness in her face, and Sofia found herself wishing she had pretended to not understand Ben’s feelings towards her.

***

As the summer progressed, Sofia became, out of sheer necessity, better and better at English. Although very often the family had to speak very slowly around her and the majority of her comprehension was guess work, she was at least able to hold a basic conversation, even if Minnie was the only one who seemed able to call her ‘Sofia’ rather than ‘Sophie’.

She spent her days walking into the nearby village with Minnie, talking and learning as she went, then went from shop to shop, house to house, business to business begging anyone who would listen to give her parents a job. If they had jobs waiting for them, she reasoned, the government may be more inclined to allow them to stay. Her correspondence with them had been fragmented and difficult. Her parents were clearly withholding some information from her, and she herself found that she did not want to describe how happy she was; surely she should be horrifically homesick? Missing them? Begging to come home? Wouldn’t normal children feel awkward and uncomfortable and isolated in a house of strangers?

Perhaps they would. However Sofia found herself utterly at home, and blissfully happy. Mr Brigham was, she gathered, a Muggle, and thus the balance between Muggle and wizarding life was so perfect that Sofia found herself neither yearning for home nor overwhelmed by an immersion into magic after so many years in the ghetto. She was even able to enjoy Muggle activities which she had remembered from so many years ago; Pan had kindly taken them to the cinema to watch a Mickey Mouse film, at which Minnie was delighted to see a character with the same name.

‘And there’s going to be a film about a baby elephant in October!’ she squealed delightedly. ‘I read it in my magazine.’

Even Ben showed occasional signs of happiness on such outings to the village and, despite the near constant abuse she received from him, something about Ben’s fierce temper and mischief entertained her, and she felt a strange sense of protectiveness over him. He reminded her of one of the ghetto children, and his constant praise of his own father brought back memories of some of the neighbouring orphans in Krakow. Angry, bitter and lost. So it was for this memory that she didn’t snap at him as the Brigham’s did, and tried, on occasion to show him some kindness. This was usually ill-received, but she took it with grace.

She did miss her parents, but her gratefulness to be out of the ghetto resulted in a distinct lack of sadness when she thought about them. They had assured her, after all, that they would join her shortly, and next year, Oskar could come to Hogwarts too.

On the 22nd of June 1941, Sofia’s Hogwarts letter arrived, hidden inside thick parchment with rich green ink and a dark waxy seal. At the exact moment she opened the envelope, a group of Russian women and children were led into a forest by cigarette-smoking Germans. Sofia Floo’d to Diagon Alley as the last strange lullaby was silenced with a bang.

The two girls sat under the circling branches of a gnarled beech tree, enjoying the last day of summer. Minnie sat behind Sofia, transforming her hair into fashionable curls.

‘Your mother will not like; you break the rules,’ said Sofia, amused.

Minnie gave a smile, and continued to twirl her wand. ‘Rules are there to be broken. Mummy’s too strict anyway. You’ll be glad of me doing this; you’ll look beautiful for your first day at Hogwarts.’

Sofia bit her lip, excited for tomorrow, when she would board the Hogwart’s Express. ‘I hope I am liked. The lessons will not be too hard also.’

‘You might find it hard at first. Your English still isn’t perfect, but it’s getting there. You learnt so fast, I can’t believe it! Do you speak other languages?’

‘Yiddish, and a little German, but I have never like Hebrew. My parents speak it when they do not want to be heard,’ replied Sofia, looking down at her hands. She never knew what to think about her parents. Whenever they were mentioned there was a jolt of anger in her stomach, as well as a deep sadness. But she found that she did not long for them at night, she didn’t wonder what they were doing and the vast majority of the time she did not think about them at all.

‘Have you heard from them recently?’ asked Minnie lightly. In the distance, a wood pigeon cooed and the sun was warm.

‘Yes, I had a letter day before yesterday. They remind me about Yom Kippur. I forgot it.’

‘What is Yom Kippur?’

Sofia paused. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, finally, laughing. ‘We never celebrated it until we move into the ghetto. We never had religion strong before. But on Yom Kippur, Mother would not let me eat and we pray for the whole day.’

‘What?’ exclaimed Minnie, shocked. ‘No eating for a whole day? That’s horrible! Why?’

Sofia found herself feeling angry. ‘I don’t know! I would say to my mother “please, I am hungry� and she would say “not today, Sofia�. I used to shake with hunger but she would not give me food.’

‘That’s simply horrid,’ said Minnie, matter-of-factly. ‘You can eat as much as you like here. Well, as long as you stick to the ration cards, but they’re not so bad, especially with a few charms. Your hair is finished now.’

Sofia raised a hand and touched it, feeling the new shapes and curls. ‘Thank you,’ she said smiling. She looked down at the long coarse grass, where her new wand, with a dragon heartstring core, lay. She held it proudly. ‘I cannot wait to use,’ she told Minnie. ‘It has been so long.’ Minnie smiled, and they relaxed in silence for a few moments, listening to the woodpigeon and watching the thick white clouds crawl lazily across the sky.

‘It does seem rather silly, though,’ pondered Minnie, ‘That we have to go all the way to London to catch a train that will just take us back up to Scotland. But the train journey is quite fun, so I shan’t complain.’

‘I don’t like trains,’ said Sofia uneasily. ‘There is no other way?’

‘You’ll like this train, don’t worry. A lady comes round with sweets, although Mummy expects us to get breakfast.’ Sofia remembered the German soldier on the train offering sweets to Hirshel and Solomon and shivered. ‘Are you cold?’ asked Minnie, oblivious. ‘Let’s go inside. I imagine lunch will be ready soon enough.’

Sofia nodded, eager to please, and they rose and began to walk back to the house. ‘Do you miss home when you go to Hogwarts?’ asked Sofia curiously.

‘Oh, I always do a bit, but all my friends are there. So I never feel too sad. And this year I’ll have you there as well! We’ll be in the same year. I hope you’re in Gryffindor with me. Have you finished packing by the way? I don’t suppose you have any room in your trunk left over? I can’t fit my Astronomy book in.’

‘I think I have room.’

They reached the house. Ben was sitting on the doorstep, playing with a magical yo-yo, which attempted to snap his fingers. He looked up grumpily. ‘Lunch is ready, but I’m not allowed.’

‘Why? What did you do this time?’
He said nothing, but continued to play with his yo-yo.

‘Ben?’ asked Sofia softly. ‘What is it?’

He burst into tears. ‘Mr Brigham killed one of the chickens! He killed her! Chopped her head off! They’re going to eat her for dinner tomorrow!’ He wailed and threw his yo-yo away.

‘Well, that’s what they’re there for,’ said Minnie, irritated.

Sofia crouched down so she was level with Ben, who was still crying noisily. ‘You thought she was a pet? You like the chickens?’

Ben nodded. ‘I smashed up the shed when I saw it, so I’m not allowed lunch.’

‘Serves you right, you little townie!’ exclaimed Minnie. She turned to Sofia. ‘Honestly, he didn’t even know where milk came from when he first got here. He’s stupid. Come on, just ignore him.’ Minnie stalked grumpily into the house.

Sofia looked down at Ben, who was still wailing. ‘I will bring you out food,’ she told him.

He sniffed and rubbed a tear away with a grubby hand. ‘No you won’t. Everyone’s horrible to me here. I hate it. I want to go home.’

‘Why your parents send you here?’ she asked, curious. England was a place of safety.

‘The government told them to. There are bombs in London.’

‘So?’

He stared at her. ‘Well... it’s dangerous. I could die.’

She giggled before realising he wasn’t joking. ‘Oh... well, my parents send me away to keep me safe also.’

He looked at her strangely. ‘They didn’t want to send me away... and I didn’t want to go. I’d rather be with my parents in a dangerous place than alone in a nice place.... not that this place is nice,’ he added bitterly.

‘You have to be nice to others if you want them to be nice to you,’ said Sofia. He didn’t say anything, and just started to play with his yo-yo again. Evidently the conversation was over. ‘I shall bring you food,’ she assured him again.

He ignored her.

When Sofia did return an hour later with some smuggled food, Ben had disappeared. She did not see him until later that evening when she passed him in the corridor on her way to bed.

***

That night she dreamt of her parents on the train station platform, and of Oskar. They stood and stared and she tried to shout at them, but there was a ringing silence. Their faces were smug, happy, amused. She heard her own voice echo through her head, a harsh, deafening whisper.

I pass, like night, from land to land...

Her family was walking away casually, but she could not run after them. She could hear Oskar calling her name, laughing.

I have strange power of speech...

She was speeding away; the sound of a train roared in her ears, she could hear the German women singing the national anthem-

And till my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns.

She woke up shaking, in tears, with her fists clenched. Minnie was still asleep; she could hear her heavy breathing. A cold silver glow seeped through the crack in the curtains. She rose and padded softly out of the room, her pyjamas so long that they made her shuffle like an oversized penguin.

She went into the marble bathroom and splashed her face with icy water. Looking into the ornate mirror, she panted, her hazel eyes moving frantically to survey her reflection. After two months of happiness and security, her face was fuller, her cheeks had more colour. Even her hair, which had always been dull, was less lank, though perhaps that was due to Minnie’s beauty skills. She was still not what she would describe as beautiful, or even particularly pretty, but she at least now looked human; the clothes loaned from Minnie now fit her without the aid of modifying. Something, however, was different. There was something angry and bitter in her face, some kind of fire in her eyes.

The door creaked. Sofia whipped round to see Diana, looking sleepy and clutching the arm of a bear. ‘Sophie?’ she asked, dazed.

‘Hello, Diana.’

‘Why are you up?’

‘I had a bad dream. Why are you up?’

‘I heard you,’ she replied, yawning and swaying on her
feet.

‘Oh, I’m sorry little one,’ said Sofia. She picked Diana up, who curled an arm around Sofia’s neck like a warm snake.

‘I like you, Sophie,’ said Diana sleepily as Sofia carried her to Pan’s old room. ‘I’ll be sad when you go to Hogwarts and I’m still here with Ben.’

Sofia laid her down on the bed and tucked her in. ‘Try be nice to him, Diana. It’s hard being far from parents.’

‘But you’re still nice.’

Sofia paused. ‘I’m older than him. And his parents didn’t want to send him away. Go to sleep now. Sweet dreams, and God bless.’ She kissed her on the forehead and returned to her own bed, to await the dawn.

***

‘Just run through the barrier, Sophie.’

‘Mum! It’s Sofia! You never call her Sofia!’

‘Be quiet, Minnie, just go and run through, Sofia will meet you on the otherside.’

Minnie did so obediently, and now only Sofia and Mrs Brigham were left. Sofia felt sick and dizzy. The sounds of the trains, the crowds of people, the curious stares; everything smothered her like smoke.

‘I can’t go by train,’ she told Mrs Brigham faintly.

‘Don’t be silly, Sophie. Of course you can. Be brave.’

‘But I’m no brave. Please. I don’t want to go by train.’ An announcement echoed through King’s Cross, and Sofia was stuck, rooted to the floor, staring at the barrier between Platform Nine and Platform Ten.

‘Soon you’ll be at Hogwarts with all the other boys and girls-’

‘NO!’ Sofia shouted suddenly. Passerby’s stared and Mrs Brigham blushed and looked away. Sofia grabbed hold of her. ‘Don’t send me away! Please!’

‘Sophie, you’re making a scene! Have some dignity!’

‘Please, there have to be another way to go. No train, no train, please no train!’

There was sympathy in Mrs Brigham’s eyes, but her face was now so red and she was trying to avoid Sofia’s gaze so much that Sofia felt like she was fighting a losing battle. ‘Oh, come on then,’ said Mrs Brigham finally. ‘I’ll Apparate you to Hogsmeade and you can join the other students when they get off the train.’

Sophie held onto Mrs Brigham’s hand as they left the station, and was surprised to find that Mrs Brigham squeezed back just as tightly. A large group of pigeons fluttered through the station, and Sofia chewed on her lip anxiously. How pathetic she was; sixteen years old, nearly seventeen, and here she was nearly sobbing, too scared to go on a train and clutching the hand of a surrogate parent like a toddler.

‘Sit down,’ commanded Mrs Brigham, pointing to a bench outside the station. It was covered in bird droppings, but Sofia was not in a position to protest. ‘I’ll be back in a few moments, wait here.’

Sofia was left on a filthy bench drowning in her own shame and disappointment, feeling sick to her stomach. Her feet scuffed the cigarette littered pavement and, embarrassingly, she found that her nose was a little runny.

A pair of shiny black feet appeared. She followed the legs up to see a short, fat, grumpy looking man with a grey moustache, dressed in uniform. Her stomach lurched as she thought of the conductor on the train in Germany.
‘Hello there,’ he said. Who knew such a friendly phrase could be said in such a threatening way?

‘Hello,’ replied Sofia nervously.

‘Quite a scene you were making back there. Is everything all right, love?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Where are you headed?’

‘Scotland.’

‘What station?’ he asked. There was a long silence as Sofia furiously tried to think of what to say. ‘What station?’ he asked again. ‘You must know which station you’re going to.’ Further silence. ‘You’ve got a nice little accent there,’ he said suspiciously. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sophie. Sophie Goldhirsch,’ said Sofia, trying to sound as English as possible.

‘Goldhirsch? That sounds pretty German to me.’

‘How dare you?’ demanded Sofia, genuinely outraged. ‘It’s Jewish.’

‘One and the same to me, love. Can’t be too trusting of folks who ain’t regular people, like what I am.’

‘What on earth is going on?’ Mrs Brigham had returned, clutching a brown paper bag. She frowned at the man. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Is this your daughter, Madam?’

‘I’m looking after her. Is there a problem? I didn’t realise the war had got so bad that we needed to be interrogated on the streets now.’ Her lips were thin and her face was stone-like; Sofia was keenly reminded of an old school master from years ago.

‘I was just trying to work out where abouts she’s from, is all. Funny accent, she’s got.’

‘She’s Polish, she’s here as a refugee,’ said Mrs Brigham coldly.

‘Oh is she now?’ marvelled the man sarcastically, eyebrows raised. ‘And how do I know she isn’t a spy? Her accent sounds more German to me. I think we best make a trip down to the police station,’ he said proudly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Mrs Brigham stared at him for a few moments. ‘Oh, do be quiet you silly little man,’ she said finally and, so fast Sofia barely saw it, she discreetly pointed her wand at him and there was a flash of silver.

‘Arsenal for the cup,’ he mumbled. ‘Have a good day, see you at the match.’ He wandered off and Mrs Brigham rolled her eyes and sat next to Sofia.

‘Meddling old fool. Here, I bought you some breakfast, seeing as you won’t get it on the train. We have some time to kill, don’t eat it too fast.’

Sofia opened the bag and pulled out a sandwich. She hesitated briefly, then nervously said, ‘I’m sorry, I can no eat this.’

‘What?’ asked Mrs Brigham in an irritated tone. ‘Why not?
What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s bacon. It’s a pig.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ snapped Mrs Brigham, and a subtle Scottish twang slipped through her usual refined accent. ‘There’s a war on, do you have any idea how difficult it is to get any kind of meat, let alone bacon? God’s not going to kill you because you had a bit of pig.’ There was an awkward pause as Sofia looked down at the offending sandwich through watery eyes. ‘Oh, don’t eat it if you don’t want to,’ said Mrs Brigham. ‘I’m sorry, Sophie. Just give it to me, I’ll have it.’

‘Sorry,’ whispered Sofia.

Mrs Brigham pulled her into an awkward hug. ‘Don’t be silly. Come on, I’ll take you to Hogsmeade and you can sit in the Three Broomsticks with me for a few hours. Maybe Irene will have some of her hotpot.’

***

Butterbeer was perhaps the most delicious, most warming drink Sofia had ever tasted. The hotpot was also delicious, and filling, although it felt strange to be eating dinner at eleven o’clock in the morning. Both substances soothed her throat and calmed her, and the chatter of the pub was intriguing and amusing. It was a side of the magical world she had never witnessed; she had seen magical students studying in Durmstrang, she had lived in a half-magical household and she had seen the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. But here, in this pub, was the casual, normal and social side of wizarding life.

A goblin sat on a bench reading a newspaper the same size as him, letting his feet swing absentmindedly. A pair of wizards were having a heated debate about Quidditch and a witch glared at her boyfriend as he watched the barmaid lean over the bar.

Mrs Brigham sat opposite her, looking bored and haughty, but occasionally Sofia caught her glancing at her with concern and sympathy.

‘Flora!’ A dark haired man with a thick Scottish accent strode in.

Mrs Brigham smiled at him. ‘Why hullo, Percy! Sophie, this is Perseus McGonagall; he lives in the next village. Percy, this is Sophie, the Jewish witch I told you we were looking after.’

He beamed at her. ‘Delighted to meet you, Sophie!’ He seemed so lovely that Sofia did not even feel annoyed that once again nobody was getting her name right. ‘I’ve heard all about you; my lad Jonathon said that Minnie talks about you in her letters all the time.’ He turned to Mrs Brigham. ‘When are we going to have that dinner party, Flora? You did promise!’

She chuckled, and Sofia had to admit she was surprised to see such an open display of emotion from her. ‘You’re absolutely correct, and Minnie was hassling me all through the summer. Perhaps we could have a Boxing Day meal together again this year?’

‘Fantastic! It’s your turn to host. Johnnie will be thrilled.’ He eyed Sofia. ‘Why aren’t you on the train with them, lass?’
Sofia blushed. ‘I don’t like trains.’

‘She’s a tad fragile,’ Mrs Brigham told him. ‘I suppose anybody would be after living in Krakow.’

‘ Yes, ghastly, truly ghastly. I do hope your family are safe,’ he said to Sofia.

‘I wrote to them yesterday.’

‘Well, you make sure you keep in touch with them! We’ll want to meet them once the war’s over.’

She smiled at him; it was nice to be reminded that the war could not last forever.

Mrs Brigham checked her watch. ‘We might as well buy you some more clothes while we wait. Heaven knows you can’t just borrow my daughter’s clothes all year. It’s just not proper.’

***

It was time. Sofia stood at the wrought iron gates, dressed in her brand new uniform, looking up at the beautiful castle ahead, standing out against the orange sunset.

Professor Dumbledore stood there, holding a large bunch of keys and speaking quietly to Mrs Brigham. After a few moments she embraced Sofia and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Have fun,’ she said, unusually relaxed and friendly. ‘You’ll be absolutely fine. I’ll see you again at Christmas, and Minnie will look after you.’

Dumbledore smiled at her. ‘Don’t worry about not taking the train, Sofia. It’s quite understandable. You’ll be joining the first years anyway; you have to be Sorted. Thank you for bringing her all the way up here, Mrs Brigham.’

‘Not at all, Albus. Goodbye, Sophie.’

‘Goodbye, Mrs Brigham. Thank you so much.’

There was a long walk in awkward silence up to the castle, though Dumbledore seemed quite at ease. The turrets and towers and windows loomed over her, and she felt enthralled and nervous. Her suitcase caught between her legs and she stumbled slight.

‘Oh my dear, I am so sorry, how terribly rude of me,’ said Dumbledore, waving his wand. The suitcase vanished.
Sofia shrieked. ‘Where did it go? Do I get it back?’

‘Of course you do. Come along, lest we be late!’
Eventually they reached the large oak doors, just in time to see a gaggle of windswept and cold looking first years, led by a burly gamekeeper.

‘Sofia! Sofia!’

‘Solomon! Hirshel!’

They rushed towards her and the three of them embraced.
‘Do speak English you yet?’ asked Hirshel excitedly. ‘I learn, I learn!’

Sofia laughed. ‘What? Keep practicing, little friend!’
The three of them held hands, Hirshel gazing adoringly up at Sofia, as they followed Dumbledore and the other first years through the doors and into a small side chamber.

‘Good evening. I am Professor Dumbledore, the Assistant Headmaster. You shall shortly complete the Sorting Ceremony which will place you in one of four houses; Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Each house has its own characteristics and merits, and wherever you end up I can assure you that you will feel a distinct sense of belonging. I must leave you for a few moments, but I shall soon return to take you through to the Great Hall. The ceremony does take place in front of the school, so it’s a good idea to look your best.’ He left the room, and the students stood awkwardly in silence. At that moment, the familiar faces of Lavi and Nova were ushered in by a stressed looking member of staff. They grinned and immediately rushed over to greet Sofia, Hirshel and Solomon.

‘Who are you lot?’ came an arrogant voice. The five children looked over to see a sea of confused eleven-year-olds, and one boy, arms folded, who looked at them as if they were stealing his thunder. ‘Some of you don’t look eleven. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘We refugees, from Polska,’ said Lavi, his accent thick.

‘You what?’ sniggered the boy. ‘How about you say that in English?’

‘He’s still learning, we all are,’ said Sofia sharply, feeling slightly more confident with her level of English. ‘I think you should know that “you what� is not correct English speaking.’

The boy stared at her for a few moments. ‘Where’re you from? You sound German,’ he said accusingly.

‘Krakow,’ replied Sofia. ‘In Poland. We are Jewish refugees.’

‘How on earth did you get into Hogwarts?’ piped up a blonde girl. She did not seem rude, like the boy, but rather stunned.

‘They probably have contacts,’ said the boy.

‘Or they paid a lot!’ came a voice from the back. There was a low ripple of laughter. The five Jews stood awkwardly, blushing.

The little blonde girl frowned, looking irritated at her fellow students. ‘I’m sorry to be rude but . . . How did you get in?’

‘Dumbledore came to save us,’ said Solomon, happily.

‘He can’t have,’ the girl said. ‘Only the Headmaster has the power to decide admissions. We all heard rumours there was a Jew trying to get into Hogwarts, but it said in The Daily Prophet that Professor Dippet said no. My mum told me.’

‘Yes...’ said another girl slowly. ‘My parents told me that there wouldn’t be any foreign students here. I was scared that you would be spies.’

A few children backed away in a rather unsubtle manner.

‘We no spies,’ said Nova. ‘We run from Germans. They try to kill us. We here for safeness.’

‘Dumbledore brought us here. He walked me to the castle himself,’ said Sofia, confused.

‘Yes, and he tells me and my sister we can go to Hogwarts himself too,’ said Lavi. ‘He travel to Warsaw to give us the ticket.’

The English students glanced at each other.

‘It was definitely in the newspaper that you Jews had been rejected from Hogwarts,’ said the rude boy, less harshly than before.

Hirshel held Sofia’s hand and, when he spoke, sounded like he was about to cry. ‘No, they not send us back. We here now, we are safe.’

‘Dippet said no,’ shrugged the boy. ‘You’ll be back in Poland this time next week.’

At that moment, the door opened, and Dumbledore returned, smiling. ‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘Orderly fashion, if you please.’

They were led into the most magnificent hall Sofia had ever seen. Elegant candles hovered in midair, illuminating hundreds of faces which stared at them curiously from long wooden tables. She glanced up at the ceiling to see the glorious night sky, with hundreds of stars winking at her.

Compared to the tiny eleven-year-olds, she felt like a clumsy giant. Herself, Lavi and to an extent Nova, were certainly attracting curious whispers and giggles from the current students. They did their best to ignore them, and kept walking ahead in crocodile fashion, Hirshel still gripping Sofia’s hand.

They came to the front of the hall, where there stood a bumpy three-legged stool and a ragged hat. There was a complete silence as everyone stared at it. Sofia wondered if something was wrong, and Lavi looked equally perplexed. Suddenly, a tear by the rim of the hat opened, and the hat launched into a song. It sang so fast and Sofia was so surprised, that she could barely understand it, and could only catch brief lines.

Oh you may look at me as merely a hat...

Her fellow students looked delighted, but she felt Solomon grip her robes, and knew he shared her anxiety.

...Or maybe ambitious Slytherin’s your home...

The hairs on the back her neck prickled, and she felt a desire to repeat the strange word ‘slytherin’. She imagined it would feel smooth to say.

...Some of you may have travelled from far and wide,

May I urge you to heed my song,

No man, no war, no heart can this school divide...

There was more singing, even faster now, and the hall erupted into applause and grins, though the first years looked even more confused. Professor Dumbledore stepped forward with a long scroll.

‘Anderson, Donald.’

A little boy with curly hair hurried up to the stool. Dumbledore placed the Sorting Hat atop his head, which slipped down to cover his eyes. A few moments passed. ‘HUFFLEPUFF!’ the hat screamed. A table underneath a yellow banner cheered and banged the table with their fists. Looking both terrified and delighted, the boy went to join them.

This continued for a few more children, before Dumbledore called out, ‘Goldhirsch, Sofia.’

An old man, who Sofia assumed was the Headmaster, Dippet, stood up suddenly from his high backed chair, which made a hideous scraping noise as it was pushed back, and glared furiously at Dumbledore. Sofia didn’t move, afraid of the reaction. ‘Goldhirsch, Sofia,’ said Dumbledore again, firmly. Dippet sat down, still looking livid, yet apparently unwilling to make a scene.

Sofia walked nervously up to the stool, conscious of the hundreds of eyes following her. The hat was placed on her head, and though it did slip to her brow, she could still see the ocean of suspicious faces watching her. She sat uncomfortably on the tiny stool, unsure of where to put her hands or feet, feeling incredibly stupid.

Hmmmmm.... said a voice in her head. She tried not to let the surprise show in her face, but by the sounds of the giggles from the audience, she imagined she failed. Well now, aren’t you an interesting one, eh? Difficult, most difficult, it’s hard to say how much events have affected you... Had I sorted you at eleven you would have been in a vastly different house... But you are not eleven anymore... You want freedom, oh yes, you long for freedom... and power, you’ve watched so many men with so much power, but you’ve never had your own... You’re still just a child... But... You would love some power... you’re not smart enough to be in Ravenclaw, sorry about that, but I’m sure you’ll go far regardless; you have determination for it. Well... that only leaves...

‘SLYTHERIN!’

It was not the same thrilled applause as the other children had received, but there was scattered clapping and cheering nonetheless, and that was enough for Sofia. She walked towards the table and looked up at the green banner. She immediately loved it. The elegant curves and lines of the snake, the shining silver and the rich green, which reminded her of nature and life, and was a far cry from the greys and blacks and browns and reds of life in Krakow.

She sat down, and was watched closely by her fellow students. Shy, she looked down at her plate as another student was sorted into Gryffindor.

‘What’s your name again?’ asked a girl with curly brown hair. ‘You’re not eleven.’

Sofia looked up at her. ‘Sophie,’ she said, after a pause. Her desire to fit in and be considered English, coupled with the knowledge that people didn’t seem to like calling her ‘Sofia’ anyway, meant that the English name rolled of her tongue with ease. ‘Sophie Goldhirsch. I’m a refugee from Poland.’

‘I’m Betty,’ said the girl. Her blue eyes flicked up to the staff table. ‘Professor Dippet doesn’t seem too happy about you being here. I swear I read in The Prophet that you lot had been refused entry. How old are you?’

‘Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in December.’

‘Oooh,’ said the girl with delight. ‘You’ll be in the same year as me. Be my friend,’ she commanded, and Sofia laughed, not sure if she was joking or not.

‘Miller, Lavi.’

Sofia whipped round. ‘It’s my friend,’ she told Betty. ‘He’s from Warsaw.’

The hat had barely touched Lavi’s head when it screamed, ‘GRYFFINDOR!’

Betty groaned. ‘What a shame. Sorry about that. You’ll make new friends anyway.’

‘New friends?’ asked Sofia, as Nova’s name was called. ‘What’s wrong with Gryffindor?’

A boy with cool green eyes and a posh accent laughed. ‘Oh, Sophie, we’re going to have to teach you. The Gryffindors are all reckless, arrogant fools. They seem to confuse bravery with stupidity, then use it as a reason to feel like they’re better than everyone else. For some reason they seem to think that bravery is a greater quality than ambition, intelligence or loyalty. Nobody likes them... Except the Hufflepuffs, but they’re all sheep; they like anybody who’ll be nice to them.’

‘Oh,’ said Sofia, as Nova was also sorted into Gryffindor. ‘But I like them. We were on the train from Krakow together.’

The boy shrugged. ‘Some of them are probably all right. But you’re a Slytherin now. I’m Cetus, by the way.’
Sofia continued to half talk, half watch the sorting. Hirshel and Solomon were both sorted into Ravenclaw, Hirshel giving a wave to Sofia as he skipped past.

Betty laughed. ‘Oh, how sweet! If only he were a Slytherin!’

‘Rather!’ agreed Cetus. ‘He’s got the perfect build for a Seeker, the little runt!’

‘He’s a nice boy,’ Sofia told them. ‘I had to carry him through Berlin station because he fell asleep!’

There was a chorus of ‘awwww’ from Betty and another Slytherin girl, and Sofia felt pleased. The faces around her were now a little friendlier and a little less suspicious, and Sofia now felt a strange sense of achievement.

The hall fell silent as Professor Dippet rose. He still looked irritated, but not quite as enraged as he had been before. ‘To our old students,’ he began, ‘welcome to a new year, and to our new students welcome to Hogwarts. It appears that we have five guests from Poland tonight. I encourage you all to be friendly and give them an evening they will remember. In other notices, Professor Powell has retired and so Professor Raul shall be taking his place as Herbology Professor.’ The school gave a polite round of applause as Professor Raul gave a sharp nod. ‘The Forbidden Forest is of course, as usual, out of bounds, hence the name, as well as self-spell checking quills. I know they’re new and exciting, but I will not tolerate them, no matter how much you paid for them. Now, you may begin.’

There was a sigh of relief from the student body, and the plates and dishes in front of them magically filled with a delicious feast. On the one hand, Sofia was so ecstatic at the incredible food and beautiful hall that she found it hard to care about anything. On the other hand, an uncomfortable feeling of dread lurked in the back of her mind as she remembered Dippet’s description of her as a ‘guest’.

‘Hey, Sophie. What’s Durmstrang like? You must have been there at some point.’

She looked at Betty and smiled. As she described her old school, she decided that even if she did have to go home, these few months of happiness were enough to keep her going.

***

The five Jewish children, Dumbledore and Dippet were all sat in the Headmaster’s office in awkward silence as the pendulum clock whooshed in time with Sofia’s heartbeat.
‘I told you that it was a firm no,’ said Dippet accusingly at Dumbledore. ‘Look what’s happened now! You’ve given them false hope.’

‘They’re here now, you may as well allow them to stay,’ replied Dumbledore lightly.

Dippet pounded the desk with his fist, making the children jump. ‘Confound it, Dumbledore! Sometimes I think you feel like you have more power than me in this school! Well you don’t! These children have to go home!’

‘Why? They’re here, they speak English, there’s space for them. Are you really going to send them back to certain death?’ asked Dumbledore shrewdly.

‘Yes! Yes I am! We’re not a refugee camp or a charity, Dumbledore! And I said no! You deliberately disobeyed me. Your concern should be for the children of this country.’
‘Please, Sir,’ said Sofia, suddenly feeling a strange urge to speak. ‘We have travelled so far, over so many countries. We’ve learnt so much already. We are so grateful to be here, and we think you are so generous. We surely believed that you must be the greatest Headmaster in history, to allow us to survive.’

‘Yes, yes, all good and well, but you cannot stay here! You’d be happier at home anyway.’

‘I could tell you such stories of horror and fear from Poland, but your country has given us such joy. All the stories my mother told me about the greatness of your school, and of you, they all make such sense. Please, Sir... even in the darkest corners of Krakow we heard of your generosity.’

Dippet seemed to stand a little taller. ‘Even in Krakow, you say? Well, I am usually very generous... But don’t you see, my dear, it is not because I don’t feel sympathy for you, not at all! But it’s just not right. There are lots of children in Krakow I couldn’t save, as much as I would have liked to.’
‘But you did something, and that’s enough. That’s enough to make you a hero in Poland. For so long we have been ignored and abused. But you have treated us differently.’

There was a strange prickling warmth about her chest, particularly as the other children nodded and agreed with her, quickly catching on.

‘The best Headmaster in Europe, I did hear.’

‘A man of great spirit!’

‘We will be of so much gratefulness; we are so sad and you are so kind.’

Their heavy flattery seemed to be working; a proud blush appeared at the top of his cheeks, and he could not seem to help but grin. ‘I shall treat you differently! It’s not fair that our own kind is treated with such contempt... All right, I
shall allow it. But mind you realise how lucky you are! I mean, really, this is completely immoral if you truly think about it. But, as long as you all work hard I will provide safety for you. Just don’t make me regret it.’

‘Thank you, Sir, thank you so much!’

‘Off you go, all of you. Have a good night, and good luck with your lessons.’

The children and Dumbledore left, the children laughing and jumping and skipping, Dumbledore smiling gravely. He touched Sofia on the shoulder. ‘That was quite remarkable,’ he said quietly. ‘I have never seen someone convince Dippet of anything so quickly. He’s usually a lot more stubborn.’

‘I just guessed he liked to be feeling important?’

‘Indeed, that is quite right. Your speech was perfect.’ He looked at her strangely. ‘Very good speech,’ he said again, more to himself. ‘Sleep well,’ he added with a vague wave, and wandered off, apparently deep in thought.

Sofia looked around at the maze of moving stairs and corridors. ‘Where do I go?’ she called after him.

‘Ask a portrait,’ he called back.

‘Which house are you in, dear?’ asked a monk in the portrait next to her.

‘Slytherin.’

‘Ah, follow me! I shall show you the way!’

Sofia followed the stout little monk down the grand staircase into the depths of the dungeons below, her heart thumping with excitement and pride.

***

At that precise moment, Pan Brigham threw a pathetically small bucket of sand over a blazing workshop, the heat pounding at his face as the piercing sound of an air raid siren tore through his ears. It would be easy to cast a spell, but Sergeant Elsewood was helping him, so it was by Muggle methods only that he could fight the fire.

A woman proudly rushed forward carrying two buckets of sand, her face set in hardened determination.

‘Bloody marvellous, those women,’ shouted Elsewood over the crackles of the flames and screeching wail of the siren. ‘Each one deserves a medal.’

Pan nodded, feeling rather ashamed that he was afraid, and even more embarrassed at the thought that he would much rather be in his mother’s arms as she lectured him for some petty thing. The column of thick black smoke vanished into the dark night sky, which buzzed with the drone of planes. A few yards away, a woman in Red Cross Uniform, visibly shaken and pale, dragged a bloody and smouldering body out of the Operations room.

‘Do you think we’ll stop the fire?’ yelled Pan, though knowing it was rather hopeless. ‘How many planes have we lost?’

‘Four Spitfires,’ replied Elsewood, holding up four blackened fingers. ‘Bloody shame; they weren’t even in the air. All the telephone lines are down too.’

Pan cursed, watching a steady stream of ambulances rushing the injured to hospital, dodging the rubble and devastation around them. ‘Anyone would think we were the only important aerodrome in London!’

‘You think this is bad?’ laughed Elsewood. ‘The war’s only just begun, lad. Things may be in poor shape, but Old Jerry hasn’t broken our spirit.’