“When I say run,” Mr. Carmichael said, drawing his wand. “Head out the back door.”
“Mr. Carmichael,” Jack whispered , pressing against the counter, “There is no back door!”
“Not at the moment, no. Deep breath please,” Mr. Carmichael pulled his pocket square out and tied it around his mouth and nose, then whirled his wand around as if summoning a vortex, “Fumifera,” he whispered.
Thick clouds of choking white smoke suddenly filled the store.
Jack heard their pursuers shout something in a language that was not English, then heard his escort bark “Confringo!”
A flash of red light shot out and vanished into the smoke behind them. With a massive explosion, wooden splinters and flying glass rebounded towards them, flashing and sparking off Carmichael’s quickly cast Shield Charm.
"Run!"
They dashed from behind the counter, sprinting towards the back wall, Jack''s trunk and case bouncing awkwardly behind him. He burst out of the shattered back wall of the department store through the cloud of billowing smoke into a crowd of startled pedestrians. Curses flew all around him, staining the air with streaks of yellow and red and exploding on nearby buildings.
He spotted Mr. Carmichael a few yards away and raced to catch up. He clumsily wove through the crowd, narrowly missing bowling over an elderly lady, and leapt over a pile of bricks set up to help rebuild a demolished wall.
"Sorry! Sorry!” he gasped instinctively as he ran through two men unloading a truck full of groceries, sending cabbages rolling everywhere.
A car backfired nearby. Something red-hot whizzed past his ear, leaving a scorch mark on the wall ahead and spraying his face with flecks of brick dust.
"This left!" Carmichael yelled out, flicking his wand to make the contents of an unlucky newspaperman’s cart explode into the air behind them. "Then right!"
They careened down an alley barely wide enough for Jack''s trunk, past overflowing trash cans and underneath laden washing lines strung between buildings like signal flags on a ship’s rigging. “Glacius!” Carmichael shouted. Behind them, one pursuer slipped on icy cobblestones, crashing into a stack of pallets.
The remaining man was gaining, another stunning spell smashed against Roland’s Protego. Jack could hear his footsteps right behind him. He kicked into his highest gear, breath sobbing in his chest, heart pounding.
Carmichael slowed suddenly and spun, nearly tripping Jack as his wand thrust out between Jack’s arm and side. A rainwater barrel nearby exploded, drenching their pursuer, “Adhesivo!” barked Carmichael, and the water solidified into a sticky taffy-like substance, coating the man completely. Jack looked with horrified amazement as their pursuer slowly thrashed against the weight of the transparent tar.
"Here!" Carmichael pulled Jack out of his frozen shock and half-dragged him down the rest of the alley, then a quick right, coming to a halt beside a boarded-up pub, its windows still wrapped with wartime blackout tape. He tapped the doorknob with his wand.
It clicked.
"In!"
They tumbled through into a dusty room full of stacked chairs and tables. Jack heard frustrated voices outside as Carmichael sealed the door with a brisk “Colloportus!”
"Not much time," he said, pulling the pocket square from his face and straightening his hat. "They’ll be through soon. Floo Powder over there. You know how to use it?"
"Yes sir," Jack panted, leaning against his trunk, his heart racing. He heard a spell rebound against the outside window, followed by an explosion of foreign profanities. "Are we going to be ok?"
"Oh yes, splendid, splendid," the unflappable Carmichael replied, adjusting his tie. "Usually it''s much more exciting than this. Ever try chasing down a runaway Niffler1 in downtown Bristol? That’s why we’re much stricter with animal control at immigration now-”
BOOM!
Another blasting curse from outside. The door rattled slightly.
Still catching his breath, Jack watched Carmichael take out his pocket watch as he led Jack to a small, dingy fireplace in the back of the pub. “21 minutes past nine,” he said, tutting in annoyance, “Should still get you to King’s Cross by 9:30, despite the delay.” Carmichael poured out a generous handful of glittering Floo powder into Jack’s hand and took his trunk for him. "Inconsiderate buggers."
The doorknob shook aggressively. The men outside were testing the lock.
"Hold on tight to your case and keep your elbows tucked in," Carmichael advised, cool as a cucumber. "We’ll be passing through several cities along the way. I''ll go first - watch what I do and follow right after. We want you to go straight and not diagonally."
Jack nodded, heart hammering and stomach roiling as he watched Mr. Carmichael toss a handful of powder into the flames, turning them emerald green. The Ministry man squeezed into the overly-small fireplace, shouted "London, King’s Cross, Platform 9 ?!" and vanished in a whoosh of iridescent color.
Jack hesitated.
A thunderous curse from outside shook the whole pub.
Taking a hasty breath, Jack stepped in the fireplace. His head and shoulders disappeared up the chimney. He repeated what Carmichael has said, squeezing his eyes tight as he began to spin rapidly.
The floor fell out from underneath him.
He opened his eyes to time to catch dizzying glimpses of other fireplaces whizzing by with signs in block-lettering above them:
Manchester, Sheffield, Derby, Leicester, Northampton, Oxford...oh sweet Franklin don’t let me throw up…
…he stumbled out of another fireplace onto a train platform, fighting off the urge to vomit.
Roland caught his elbow before he could fall, steadying him and sitting him down onto his trunk. "Alright there, Jack? Sorry, that was a long ride, we break that trip up into segments usually. Had to catch your train though," he held out his watch for Jack to see. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Jack blinked until the four watch faces resolved into one... it was 9:27 am.
“Tip top, departure isn’t for another 33 minutes!” Carmichael said cheerfully.
Jack could only nod, swallowing bile as the platform spun crazily around him. Eventually his internal equilibrium settled, and he beheld the incredible sight of the scarlet Hogwarts Express, gleaming like an enormous red python amidst the steam and hubbub of students and families. Owls hooted in cages, cats wound between legs, and laughter and chatter filled the air, nearly drowning out the conductor''s whistle announcing the start of boarding.
"Right then," said Mr. Carmichael, helping Jack bring his luggage out onto the platform. "This is where I leave you. Your trunk and case will be taken care of, so just hop on and find a seat. You''re in good hands from here."
He offered his hand and Jack shook it firmly, mustering a smile despite the butterflies in his stomach. "Thanks for everything, sir. And for saving me. I appreciate it."
“Just doing my job, Mr. Semmes. Best of luck at school. I’m off to the Ministry. Need to report this little incident, I’m sure the parchmentwork will keep me busy for the next two weeks." With a cheery wave, Mr. Carmichael turned on the spot and disapparated with a crack, leaving Jack alone on the platform, adrift in a sea of black robes and pointed hats, and not a friendly face in sight.
Jack sighed, opened his trunk, withdrew a bulky paper-wrapped package, relocked his trunk, and headed for the nearest bathroom, burping quietly to stave off his nausea.
The men''s toilet on Platform 9 3?4 was a cramped, late-Victorian contrivance of dark wood, pull-chain tanks, and tarnished brass.
Jack locked himself in the largest stall, hands still shaking slightly as he pulled off his sports coat and unwrapped his Ilvermorny school uniform.2 The jacket was a sharply cut affair of midnight blue wool with cranberry piping and cuffs, with a high collar and a row of eight brass buttons engraved with the Ilvermorny crest running down the middle, Jack’s Thunderbird house pin went prominently over his heart. Black wool trousers with a dark red stripe, a black leather belt, and highly polished black leather shoes completed the look.
The uniform was designed for snowy New England winters, and if not charmed properly would have been both heavy and murderously hot in anything else. Fortunately, the enchantments were woven into the very stuff that the clothes were made of, and the wool flowed around Jack as lightly as if it were made of spider silk. The collar was still annoying though, no magic could fix that.
Voices echoed off the tiled walls as other students entered the bathroom.
"There’s some new boy walking about the platform in mufti."
“Probably just the help.”
"No, transfer student, I heard. First one since forever, or at least before the war."
"Eh? Beauxbatons6 probably. What kind of robes do they wear?"
“Nah, doesn’t look like a frog, ‘e’s too tall. And too bluff and browned to be Durmstrang7. From the Raj, probably.”3
Jack focused on doing up his buttons. His fingers felt clumsy, too aware of the whispers outside.
When he emerged, two boys a bit younger than him in black robes with green trim openly stared at him in the mirror while washing their hands. Jack’s initial plan of greeting them heartily shriveled up in his chest. After his adventure this morning, he felt outnumbered and unsure of his footing, new and unpleasant feelings for him.
He was accustomed to being quick on his feet and the dynamo of his friend circle, not the odd man out. This felt like being back in 6th grade at Ilvermorny again4, but worse, because he had no classmates with him.
"Excuse me," he muttered, quickly washing up and squeezing past them.
The platform was worse. Clusters of students paused their conversations to watch him pass, some pointing openly, others whispering behind their hands. He caught a remark about him looking like a train conductor.5 A group of younger students actually got up off a bench they had claimed and scrambled out of his way.
The whispers followed him like shadows. The surrounding world was alien and unfriendly, and he sought refuge in the comforting familiarity of tobacco. Getting back to his trunk, he packed away his No-Maj street clothes, then closed the lid, sat down upon it, and stared at the platform pavement as he reached for a cigarette. He didn’t feel quite like getting on the train yet.
The whispered remarks hushed a bit around him, but he didn’t pay any attention to their significance until two legs stopped directly in front of him and faced him.
<hr><hr>
1. That 1946 incident was such an unmitigated disaster that it’s still talked about at the Ministry, and not fondly, I might add. For four harrowing hours, the little bugger went from shop window to shop window, pocketing everything shiny from rings to pocket watches, and even some poor Muggle’s dentures. It took three Obliviators to clean up the chaos - not to mention all the Muggle shopkeepers who swore up and down that they’d seen a ''mutant mole'' wreaking havoc. Then, of course, some overenthusiastic Muggles got wind of it. They turned the fiasco into the opening of that bloody Muggle film Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, conveniently shifting it to New York City in the early 1900s. Supposedly for ''drama.'' No one wants to see Bristol in the rain, I suppose.
Then again, I don''t want to see Bristol in any weather.
2. One must address the ghastly pretensions of pre-1982 Ilvermorny. Their students paraded about like some dreadful combination of Prussian cadets and those American "G.I. Joe" dolls that modern Muggle children are so fond of. While their current attire is marginally more tolerable, it now reeks of that American obsession with appearing "casual." Heaven forbid they should embrace proper wizarding robes. Then again, what can one expect from a nation that thinks baseball on broomsticks is an acceptable sporting endeavour?
3. The exodus of British magical families from the former colonies remains a delicate subject, but the dissolution of the Raj was a disaster for expatriate wizarding families. Most fled to more civilized climates such as Britain, South Africa or Canada, though a few chose to embrace "local" magical traditions and remain.
4. "Sixth grade" is equivalent to our first-year. Mr. Semmes presumably attended Muggle primary school in New York City for what he would have called his "1th through 5th grades". That young Mr. Semmes attended a Muggle institution in New York City (of all places) before proper magical instruction began is, sadly, typical of MACUSA''s increasingly lax attitudes toward Muggle society.
5. While one often struggles to find humor in such dry material as school uniforms, the outfits of pre-reform Ilvermorny students did indeed make them appear rather like an assembly of midnight blue-clad porters.
6. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, nestled in the Pyrenean foothills of southern France, is renowned for its breathtaking architecture and emphasis on charmwork and alchemy. The institution, steeped in French wizarding tradition, prides itself on elegance and discipline, producing witches and wizards known for their refinement and scholarly prowess. Along with Hogwarts and Durmstrang, the only magical secondary education schools in Europe.
7. Durmstrang Institute, a remote and formidable school of magic located in the northernmost reaches of Europe—likely within the shadowy forests or icy fjords of Scandinavia—has long been shrouded in mystery. Known for its austere teaching methods and emphasis on martial magic, the school has often been associated with a more... pragmatic approach to the Dark Arts, though its defenders would call this a matter of "broad magical education."
- Percy Runner
London, 2024
Editor''s Note: These observations should be considered within their historical context. Modern diplomatic relations with MACUSA necessitate a more measured perspective on our differences in educational philosophy. Mr. Runner''s views do not reflect current Ministry policy regarding international magical cooperation.
Horatius Cornhower, Peregrina Publishing Press