《The Boy from M.A.C.U.S.A. [HP Cold War FanFic]》 1. An Innocent Abroad The SS Mauretania cut through the brown waters of the Mersey, her black hull gliding toward Liverpool beneath a sky the color of slate. A steel forest of rust-colored cranes jutted up from the docks, swinging netted loads onto the decks of waiting cargo ships. Columns of inky smoke poured from the stacks of factories further inland. Closer to shore, a crowd gathered along the quay, their figures blurred by drifting steam and coal smoke. Women in headscarves, children in sweaters too big for them, a few men in caps and coats with their hands shoved in their pockets. Some waved, most just watched, their faces marked by weariness and English reserve. Jack Semmes leaned against the railing, his wand safely tucked in the hidden pocket of his checked sports coat. He pulled his flat cap down low over his dark hair to keep the sea breeze from snatching it. At fifteen, he was tall and wiry, sun-browned from more time spent outdoors than in. An onlooker could have mistaken him for a young Tyrone Power,3 all dash and roguish casualness that belied his current nervous energy. His hazel eyes darted over the city with insatiable American curiosity. Everything was so No-Maj. Inside, his guts were churning in time with the thrum of the ship machinery shaking the deck below his feet, driving the massive props beating the murky water. Thick black smoke belched from Mauritania''s twin smokestacks over the heads of passengers crowding the deck, pointing at the approaching Liverpool dock and waving at waiting acquaintances. Jack¡¯s nose caught the mingled scent of brine and coal smoke mixed with unwashed bodies and garbage. It smelled like Newark. Two years after the greatest war the world had ever seen, Liverpool still bore the wounds. Bombed-out warehouses lined the waterfront, skeletal remains of buildings standing as grim reminders. Some were still piles of rubble, while others were enveloped by scaffolding and tarpaulins, mid-reconstruction. Jack idly wondered how much of the damage had been caused by German bombs and how much by desperate street battles between Grindelwald¡¯s radicals and the forces that had finally brought them down. Britain had been one of the hot zones. ¡°Long way from home,¡± he said to himself as he fingered the letter in his pocket ¨C heavy parchment bearing the Hogwarts seal and containing an unprecedented approval of his transfer request from Ilvermorny to Hogwarts for his sixth year (3rd year of high school, by American reckoning, but the Brits just had to do things their own way). His father at MACUSA4 had moved heaven and earth to make it happen instead of leaving him in Ilvermorny while his parents moved from New York to London for his father¡¯s new job, a liaison position in the U.K Ministry of Magic¡¯s Department of Foreign Affairs. All that was needed next was a combination of a new Minister for Magical Education and a well-timed suggestion of ¡°cementing the special relationship.¡± Jack still wasn¡¯t sure how he felt about it. Just three months ago, he''d been ready to start a normal junior year at Ilvermorny, and his highest priority was improving his Quopro fastball. Now here he was, thousands of miles from the maple forests of the Taconic Mountains, watching seagulls wheel over a dirty industrial city that looked (and smelled) uncomfortably like Newark with a cathedral spire blackened by fire. Still, there was a thrill in it. A good thrill. Something out of an adventure novel. His hands fidgeted as the crew made fast the lines and extended the gangplank. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and struck a match, inhaling the smoke with a practiced motion. Two weeks without magic had forced him to get good at Muggle methods. It made him feel older and wiser than the scared teenager lying just underneath the surface. The British passengers had been tense the entire crossing, their unease palpable. Jack had grown up in the safety of the United States. He had never seen the war firsthand, where cities had been bombed in the night, where food and gasoline had been rationed into thin, desperate portions. But these No-Majs had lived through it. And now, as newsreels rolled footage of crumbling empires and new battle lines across Europe, their shoulders hunched with the weight of an uncertain future.Stolen story; please report. Jack knew the wizarding world wasn¡¯t immune either. Grindelwald might be gone, but the scars of his reign ran deep. "This is a crucial time, Jack," his father had said before he left. "The magical and No-Maj worlds are both rebuilding. What we do now will shape the next century." Easy for him to say. Thomas Semmes would be spending his days in the warm, well-lit offices of the British Ministry of Magic, arranging postwar wizarding cooperation over afternoon tea. He wouldn¡¯t have to navigate a whole new school, a new country, and a student body who¡¯d see Jack as either a curiosity or an outsider. He glanced behind his shoulder towards Birkenhead, where a century before a No-Maj who shared his surname had set forth to face his own destiny. He took a deep breath and shrugged the tension out of his shoulders. Whatever challenges lay ahead, he was still a Thunderbird of Ilvermorny, adventurous and daring. Terror of the Horned Serpent nerds and the Pukwudgie softies.1 He grinned fiercely around his cigarette. The sorting at Hogwarts would place him somewhere new¡ªhe¡¯d spent the whole week crossing the Atlantic reading Hogwarts: A History¡ªbut who he was wouldn¡¯t change. Couldn¡¯t. He was a Semmes. And Semmes were stubborn. His mother reminded his father of that daily. He sent the glowing end of the cigarette pirouetting into the Mersey with a practiced flick. Jack strained to pick out the disguised magical officials mixed with their No-Maj counterparts waiting to process the new arrivals, but couldn¡¯t pick any out from this distance. Somewhere in that crowd should be a Ministry representative ready to escort him to London, and from there, King¡¯s Cross. And after that... he started to reach for another cigarette but stopped himself, forcing himself to ration them. Might not have a chance to buy more before London. After that though, a castle in Scotland¡­and whatever adventures awaited Jack Semmes there. Mauretania¡¯s horn bellowed as the gangplank hit the dock, startling a flock of seabirds into flight. Passengers began filing toward the customs warehouse¡ªits official replacement still a bombed-out shell thanks to the Luftwaffe¡¯s creative redecorating. Jack hoisted his charmed featherlight trunk onto his shoulder, grabbed the guitar case carrying his broom, and stepped into the stream of travelers eager to disembark. The sky promptly began to drizzle. "Welcome to England," Jack thought, flicking his collar up against the rain.
1. Ilvermorny Academy, the wizarding school of North America, is situated atop Mount Greylock in Massachusetts, blending seamlessly into the dense forests and rugged peaks. Founded in the 17th century, Ilvermorny is known for its disciplined and egalitarian approach to magical education. During the mid 19th century, the school gained a reputation for its military-style uniforms - sharp grey tunics and high-collared cloaks - and a disciplined regimen that reflects the pragmatic American ethos and brings together a disparate student body from all states and territories into a unified whole. Thunderbird: One of the four houses at Ilvermorny Academy, the American wizarding school. Each reflects a part of the body. Thunderbirds are said to represent the soul and favor adventurers. Naturally, this attracts a fair number of reckless show-offs. There is no clear equivalent for Thunderbird at Hogwarts, making them, in my opinion, the most interesting of the four houses. Most notable graduate: Benjamin Franklin. Horned Serpent: The brain. Ilvermorny¡¯s version of Ravenclaw, favoring intellectuals and bookworms. Commonly (and accurately) accused of being know-it-alls. Most notable graduate: T.S. Eliot. Pukwudgie: The heart of Ilvermorny, for healers and caregivers. Very nice, very kind, very... earnest. Good chaps though. Quite like Hufflepuff (my alma-mater house). Most notable graduate: Clara Barton. Wampus: The brawn. The house for warriors. Think Gryffindor, but without Godric, Dumbledore, or Potter. Most notable graduate: Jean-Baptiste Charbonneau (1805¨C1866), son of Lewis and Clark expedition member Toussaint Charbonneau and Sacagawea. A legendary wizarding voyageur who ventured further into the uncharted American West than any of his contemporaries, magical or otherwise. Known for his mastery of animal transfiguration and dueling skills. Died arm-wrestling a troll. 2. The Liverpool Customs House was actually a pretty impressive building for Muggles. Built in 1837, it was bombed to bits by the German Muggles during their Blitz in 1940, then demolished after their war was over. The replacement building, like everything the Muggles put up nowadays, is completely hideous. 3. Tyrone Power (1914¨C1958) was a celebrated Muggle film actor of the 1930s and 1940s, known for his smoldering good looks and swashbuckling roles in films like The Mark of Zorro (1939) and The Black Swan (1941). Whether or not our hero''s self-comparison holds up is a matter of personal taste¡ªand lighting. 4. The Magical Congress of the United States of America (MaCUSA, pronounced by Americans as Ma-Cusa and everyone else with a brain as Mac-USA) serves as the governing body for American witches and wizards throughout the 20th century and beyond. Its reputation in the 1940s was...complicated. During this era, MACUSA was helmed by President Kingfisher Longchamps, a polarizing figure (but more on him later). 2. The Pickup The improvised customs hall was a cavernous space of echoing footsteps and murmured conversations, still smelling faintly of fish. Jack shifted his magically lightened trunk to his other shoulder, pretending that it more than it did. The Featherlight enchantment made it feel empty, though he''d packed half his wardrobe and a personal library. His broom rattled gently inside its guitar case, and bumped against his hip as he shuffled forward in the queue, earning him curious glances from fellow passengers. "Next!" barked a customs officer, his weathered face set in practiced suspicion. ¡°Eh, you¡¯re a tall one,¡± He took his passport and gave Jack a long look, taking in his height and bearing, standing several inches over the average British passenger in line. "Another Yank, you look like a West Pointer.7 Thought you lot were all headed home now that the scrap is over." ¡°Just here to see the sights, sir,¡± Jack responded politely, it was easier to let the assumption that he was a No-Maj officer stand. What else was he going to do? Tell him that he was actually a wizard transfer student from western Massachusetts off to Scotland? The officer gave him another searching look, stamped his papers with mechanical efficiency and waved him through. The next stop was the currency exchange booth, where Jack traded his few remaining dollars for a handful of pounds sterling, the tired clerk barely looking up as he counted out notes, King George VI¡¯s dour face replacing the familiar presidents of home. He had a small coin purse of assorted British magical currency1(Sickles mostly with a handful of Knuts) locked away securely in his trunk, but that was for after he got to London. He stepped out into the damp Liverpool morning, blinking at the crush of noise and movement. A pair of newsboys jostled beside him, shouting over each other to sell their respective papers, loudly proclaiming numbers of No-Maj dead in India (millions), tomorrow¡¯s temperature (15, whatever that meant), and the score of the recent football match (Aston Villa 3, Liverpool 1): ¡°Read all about it!¡± Ignoring them, Jack scanned the crowd. He felt slightly self-conscious about his brightly-colored coat and jaunty flat hat amidst the sea of drab demob outfits and work clothes. Fortunately it didn''t take long to spot his Ministry contact, an energetic looking man with a pencil mustache in his late-20s, standing across the street on the sidewalk facing the exit of the customs hall, clad in a single-breasted brown ration suit and black homburg hat. He was holding a sign over his head that read "J.T. Semmes" in a neat cursive script. Jack looked left, and stepped out on the street directly into the path of an oncoming black omnibus, which nearly knocked him down. The driver and passengers considerately informed him of his mistake with a torrent of Liverpudlian expletives and menacing gestures. Heat crawled up Jack¡¯s neck as he scrambled out of the way, resisting the urge to snap back. He¡¯d barely been in the country five minutes and was already making an idiot of himself. The Ministry man took in the sight with a wry smile, and started approaching before Jack had even made it to the sidewalk. ¡°First time over here?¡± the man said, watching Jack shake off the close call with the omnibus. "Yes sir." Jack let out a breath, breaking into a relieved smile as he stuck out his hand. "Jack Semmes, pleasure to meet you." The Ministry man shook his hand firmly, guiding him off the sidewalk and underneath a shop awning. "Roland Carmichael, Junior Undersecretary for Educational Affairs, His Majesty¡¯s Ministry. Pleasure''s mine," he replied crisply, making the sign disappear somehow while Jack wasn¡¯t looking. "Nasty business, sailing. Would have rather arranged a Portkey, but there are shortages, and also immigration regulations these days...3 I trust you had a pleasant crossing regardless?¡± Jack nodded, and the man continued. ¡°Shall we get out of this drizzle and find somewhere for a spot of breakfast before we catch your train? You must be famished.¡± Jack agreed gratefully, feeling his spirits lift a little. Maybe this wouldn''t be so bad after all. ¡°Yes please, Mr. Carmichael, they served some breakfast on the ship but I couldn¡¯t eat much of it.¡± Mr. Carmichael chuckled. ¡°Well, now that you¡¯re back on terra firma let''s see if we can find you something a touch more appetizing, shall we? There¡¯s a little place of ours just down the street that does a top notch fry up." He clapped Jack on the shoulder, steering him through the crowd down the street, away from the dockyards and towards what appeared to be a shopping district. "And after that, a quick Floo trip to London," Mr. Carmichael said cheerfully. "Little slower but safer than apparating with luggage, especially cross-country. The war left some nasty spatial anomalies that we¡¯re still trying to clean up¡­"5 As they walked, Jack stared at the reconstruction that seemed to be going on all around him. Mr. Carmichael kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out landmarks and sharing stories that rolled off Jack¡¯s ears like water on waxed paper. The fog and drizzle clung to everything, muffling distant noises and causing Jack¡¯s shoes to slip on the cobbles. Mid-sentence, Mr. Carmichael¡¯s eyes flicked to their reflection in a shop window. Jack caught a brief glimpse of a man in a dark coat and hat just before the crowd swallowed him. The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. His escort''s right hand went into his coat pocket, but he continued walking without missing a beat, picking up his story right where he''d left off. His hand on Jack¡¯s shoulder applied more force, causing Jack to pick up his pace into a New York walk as they wove through a makeshift path around debris where the street had once run straight. A prickle of unease crept up Jack¡¯s spine. Was someone following them? He stole a glance around, but the crowd looked ordinary enough. Roland hadn¡¯t broken stride, so Jack forced himself to focus on the promise of breakfast and the excitement of what lay ahead. But doubt lingered, and a prickling feeling in the soles of his feet warned him that things were not alright. "Everything ok, Mr. Carmichael?" Jack asked. "Quite, quite," Mr. Carmichael said lightly, then suddenly nudged Jack off the main street. "Though we need to take a small detour before breakfast, terribly sorry." They turned down a narrow side street where scaffolding created a skeletal maze of shadows and light. Past a quiet bombed-out church whose empty rose window gaped like the mouth of a grave. Jack heard the ringing of hobnailed footsteps on cobblestones behind them, and fought the rising urge to turn around. Mr. Carmichael read his mind. "Don''t look back," he said pleasantly, like he was mentioning that the sun was about to come out. "We¡¯ve picked up some unwanted attention. Keep walking normally." Jack''s hand itched for his wand, but they were surrounded by No-Majs going about their morning business. Even if international magical law allowed underage wizards to cast spells in self-defense, they couldn''t risk the exposure. But what if the men following them cast first? The footsteps grew closer. Jack and Mr. Carmichael emerged onto a broader street abutting the river where dock workers unloaded large crates off of the SS Barrett, from Halifax. Jack¡¯s escort steered him through the longshoremen, then said something lost in the ambient noise. Above them, cargo nets slipped their davits. Crates plummeted, smashing into the dock with thunderous crashes. Men fled in all directions, shouting in alarm, two unlucky ones pitched headfirst into the Mersey. "In here," Mr. Carmichael skipped ahead around a corner and motioned Jack into a gutted department store. The grand display windows were gone, leaving theatrical frames around empty space. Small pieces of broken glass, missed by the sweepers, crunched underfoot. They crouched behind the scorched retail counter, about ten yards from the entrance, as two men in poorly-fitting dark No-Maj clothing strode deliberately past, trying too hard to look inconspicuous. One was short and rotund, the other tall and thin. Jack couldn''t see their faces. "Who are those guys?" Jack whispered. ¡°Former associates of Mr. Grindelwald, I suspect," Mr. Carmichael said, his tone breezy despite their situation. "Someone¡¯s been canvassing disembarkation points for American wizards lately. Your father''s appointment has caused a bit of a stir." Mr. Carmichael¡¯s dry formality softened the punch until Jack had reprocessed what he had said. Wait¡­Grindelwald?! Franklin¡¯s kite, what the hell had he walked into?! "Keen," Jack muttered, his palms starting to sweat. "First day over here and I''m already in a spy movie."6 "A what-what?" Mr. Carmichael looked at Jack quizzically. Jack stared back, did British wizards not watch those? "Never mind,¡± he spoke over Jack just as the boy was opening his mouth, ¡°When I say run, head out the back door. There''s a hidden entrance to the Floo network, a backup location...careful now, we should still have... Merlin, they¡¯re coming back, must be using a Tracking Charm." Their pursuers had doubled back, striding straight toward the store. One paused just outside, scanning the interior¡ªthen locked eyes on the counter. He lifted a hand. Pointed. They walked into the department store, wands drawn.
1. American Wizards use a currency called Dragots, which are silver (until 1897 in gold) round coins. Unlike our nice sensible system of 17 Sickles to the Galleon, one Dragot has ten Sprinks. 2. The Partition of Muggle India was ongoing at the time of Mr. Semmes'' arrival to England, as the Muggle British Raj collapsed into the new states of India and East/West Pakistan. 3. I was able to find from my archival research that the entire Ministry of Magic was officially in possession of only seven Portkeys in the summer of 1947. All of these were being used for classified purposes. 4. Mr. Carmichael''s concerns were not ill-founded. Three wizards disappeared in apparition accidents from September 1945 to April 1946 before the Ministry placed a blanket ban on intercity apparition. The last of the anomalies were not declared clear until the early 1960s. 5. Franklin''s Kite: This American minced oath, commonly used among Ilvermorny alumni, refers to Benjamin Franklin, the so-called Wizarding Founding Father of the United States. Franklin¡¯s dubious legacy as a ''Muggle lover'' remains a contentious topic in wizarding circles on both sides of the Atlantic. While undeniably a genius, he brazenly applied magical principles to Muggle inventions such as the lightning rod, bifocals, and the Franklin stove. These "gifts" to the non-magical world earned him accolades among Muggles but fostered resentment among wizards who saw him as recklessly blurring the Statute of Secrecy. Franklin¡¯s, shall we say, PENCHANT for Muggle women further cemented his reputation as a scandalous figure, leaving behind an impressive number of illegitimate half-blood descendants - so much so that American Wizarding historian Barnabas Bancroft quipped that "half the wizards on the East Coast and in Paris have Franklin¡¯s blood in their veins." Alternatives to this colorful phrase include Franklin''s stove, Franklin''s fire, and Franklin''s hat. 6. Films like The Ministry of Fear (1944) and Notorious (1946) are staples of Muggle cinema from this period. 7. West Point, officially known as the United States Military Academy, is a prestigious Muggle institution located along the Hudson River in New York, 80 miles south of Ilvermorny. Established in 1802, it serves as the training ground for America¡¯s military leadership, much like a Muggle version of the Auror Training Academy¡ªthough admittedly, with fewer spell duels and more emphasis on physical drills. During the 1940s, West Point gained particular renown for producing officers who played critical roles in the Second Muggle Big War. The academy¡¯s strategic importance and strict discipline have long made it a point of inappropriate fascination for American wizards. 8. Gellert Grindelwald, infamous for his conquest over much of Europe in the 1930 and 40s, was a charismatic and dangerous wizard who sought to impose his ideology of "The Greater Good" through terror and subjugation. While his movement never gained significant footholds in Britain, his men launched frequent and highly destructive raids all the way up to Hogsmeade by 1944. His defeat in 1945 by Albus Dumbledore remains one of the most pivotal moments in wizarding history. 3. Shaking a Tail ¡°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 yet,¡± Carmichael murmured. ¡°Deep breath, please.¡± He pulled out his pocket square, tied it around his nose and mouth, then twirled his wand in a tight, controlled arc. ¡°Fumifera.¡± Thick clouds of choking white smoke suddenly filled the store. A sharp command rang out in a language Jack didn¡¯t understand¡ªthen a blast of red light erupted from Carmichael¡¯s wand. BOOM. The explosion sent wooden splinters and shattered glass whistling past them. Sparks skittered across Carmichael¡¯s hastily conjured Shield Charm. "Run!" They bolted from behind the counter. Jack¡¯s trunk and case bounced awkwardly as he tore through the swirling smoke, bursting into a crowd of startled pedestrians. A bolt of yellow light sizzled past his shoulder, then another, red-hot, slammed into a shopfront, shattering the window. Shouts erupted behind him. More spells followed. He spotted Mr. Carmichael a few yards away and raced to catch up. He dodged through the crowd, nearly bowling over an elderly lady, then vaulted a pile of bricks stacked for reconstruction. "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 hot whizzed past Jack''s ear, leaving a scorch mark on the wall ahead and spraying his face with flecks of brick dust. "Left!" Carmichael yelled out, flicking his wand to make the contents of an unlucky newspaperman¡¯s cart detonate behind them in a whirlwind of ink and paper. "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 rain barrel burst, drenching their pursuer. "Adhesivo!" Carmichael snapped. The water thickened instantly, congealing into a gluey mass that clung to the man like wet tar. 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 stumbled into a dusty room cluttered with stacked chairs and tables. It looked like a shuttered tavern. Behind them, muffled voices cursed in frustration. Carmichael sealed the door. ¡°Colloportus.¡± Click. "Not much time," Carmichael said, pulling the pocket square from his face and straightening his hat as if they¡¯d just finished a leisurely stroll. "They¡¯ll be through soon. Floo Powder over there. You know how to use it?" Jack nodded, still gulping air. His pulse thundered in his ears as he leaned on his trunk. "Y-yeah. Yes, sir." 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," Carmichael replied, smoothing his tie. "Honestly, this is rather tame. Ever had to chase a runaway Niffler through downtown Bristol? That¡¯s why immigration¡¯s so strict about magical pets now¡ª¡± The doorknob shook aggressively. The men outside were testing the lock. Carmichael took 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 handful of glittering Floo powder into Jack¡¯s hand and took his trunk for him. "Inconsiderate buggers." BOOM! The door shuddered. Dust rained from the ceiling. "Hold tight to your case, elbows tucked in," Carmichael advised. "We¡¯ll pass through several cities on the way. I¡¯ll go first. Watch me, then follow exactly. Straight, 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, then flinched as a thunderous curse rattled the pub walls. No more time. He sucked in a sharp breath, threw in the powder, stepped into the fireplace, and felt the heat of green flames lick around him. 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 vanished. Jack plummeted into a roaring tunnel of green fire. He cracked his eyes open just in time to glimpse a blur of flickering hearths, each labeled in bold letters as they streaked past. Manchester. Sheffield. Derby. Leicester. Northampton. Oxford... oh, Franklin, don¡¯t let me throw up... ...he tumbled out of the last fireplace and landed hard on cold stone. A whistle blew. A train hissed. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard against the nausea.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. Roland caught his elbow, 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. 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. "Plenty of time for a cuppa!" His stomach finally settled, and he took in the sight of the Hogwarts Express, a scarlet leviathan gleaming through the steam and clamor of students and families. Owls hooted in cages, cats wove between legs, and the platform buzzed with laughter and chatter, nearly drowning out the conductor¡¯s whistle. "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 report this little incident...bound to be buried in parchment for 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, retrieved a bulky paper-wrapped package from his trunk, and snapped the latch shut again. He needed a moment to breathe. And to change. Still fighting nausea, he set off toward the nearest bathroom. 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 Midnight-blue wool jacket, sharply cut, with cranberry piping at the cuffs and epaulets. A high collar and a row of eight silver buttons engraved with the Ilvermorny crest ran down the middle. His Thunderbird house crest was stitched prominently on his left sleeve. A single cranberry stripe was on his epaulets, marking his rank. 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 bloke walking about the platform in mufti." ¡°Probably the help.¡± "No, transfer student, I heard. First one since forever, or at least before the war." "Eh? Beauxbatons you think? 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 Durmstrang. From the Raj, probably. Or Australia.¡± Jack fumbled with his buttons, his fingers clumsy and stiff. The whispers outside made his ears burn. When he stepped out, two younger boys in black robes with yellow trim stood at the sink, watching him in the mirror. Jack¡¯s instinct was to offer a hearty hello, but the words shriveled up before they reached his lips. After this morning¡¯s chaos, he felt outnumbered, off-balance. A new and unpleasant feeling. 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 again, but worse, because he had no classmates with him. "Excuse me," he muttered, quickly washing up and squeezing past them. The platform was worse. Conversations lulled as he passed. Some students whispered behind their hands. Others pointed. He caught a muttered jab about looking like a train conductor. A group of younger kids actually scrambled off their bench as he approached, as if he might bite The whispers clung to him like wet wool. The world felt alien, unfriendly. He needed something familiar. Back at his trunk, he packed away his No-Maj clothes, latched the lid shut, then sat on it, staring at the pavement. His fingers found his cigarette case. He didn¡¯t quite feel like boarding yet. The whispers faded. Jack barely noticed, until a pair of polished shoes stopped in front of him.
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¡ªlikely within the shadowy forests or icy fjords of Scandinavia¡ªhas 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." 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 4. The Prefect on the Platform A pair of impeccably shined black dragon-leather shoes stopped in front of Jack. Hand-tooled in Paris, if he wasn¡¯t mistaken. He could see himself in their reflection. They belonged to a set of slender legs clad in a knee-length skirt and...dark nylon stockings? How did she get those? Weren¡¯t those still rationed? He looked up - cigarette forgotten - past blue-trimmed school robes into a face sculpted like a classical statue, right down to the disdainful expression. She was about his age, but her features were refined and aristocratic: high, elegant cheekbones, a graceful jawline, and a pert, slightly upturned nose. The kind of beauty that didn¡¯t need embellishment. Her white-gold hair was plaited into an intricate crown braid, the kind of hairstyle that probably required house-elf assistance. Everything about her uniform screamed bespoke, from the knife-sharp pleats of her skirt to the immaculate knot of her silver-and-blue tie. A gleaming badge sat on her right breast, opposite her house crest (azure, a raven displayed sable). But it was her eyes that trapped his attention. A striking shade of violet, too intense for her age, both mesmerizing and a little scary as they bored into him. She reminded him of Vivian Leigh, complete with the attitude of Scarlett O¡¯Hara.2 "This platform is for Hogwarts students." Her accent could have sliced diamond. "Only students, staff, and faculty are permitted aboard. And I don¡¯t believe you¡¯re any of the above." She put her hands on her hips. ¡°Please leave or I shall summon the guard." After the morning he¡¯d had¡ªdodging curses and dark wizards¡ªbeing accosted by the Hogwarts welcome committee felt like the punchline to a bad joke. A strangled giggle escaped before he could stop it, then another. Her expression flickered from haughty disapproval to indignation, which only made it worse. "I fail to see what¡¯s so funny," she snapped, her pale cheeks flaming. "I''m sorry," Jack managed between chuckles, not even caring anymore that everyone around was watching him. "It''s just... I am a student. From the States. Ilvermorny." "An American? Impossible." The violet eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I''ve not heard of any such transfer. Show me your letter of admittance." Jack started to stand up and reach for his trunk latches, then paused. Something in her commanding tone needled his natural rebellious streak¡ªonly slightly tamed by five years of Ilvermorny discipline. Who even was she to talk to him like that? They weren¡¯t at Ilvermorny. He wasn''t going to jump just because this dame said so. Everyone was watching, after all. He needed to make a statement about who he was, who Americans were. He straightened up, meeting her gaze head on. "Sure. How about you tell me who you are first?" She drew herself up¡ªtall, though still a head shorter than him¡ªand inhaled like she was about to issue a royal decree. "Cassandra Hightower. Sixth-year Ravenclaw Prefect." She delivered her name with the kind of expectation usually reserved for kings and war heroes. Jack bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. This girl must think she¡¯s royalty or something. What a country! He stood up, unleashed his most charming smile, and extended his hand. "James Semmes, but call me Jack. Pleased to meet you." She pointedly ignored his hand, crossing her arms underneath her breasts and drawing herself up like the photos of the Admiralty Guards in Jack¡¯s No-Maj Guide to Great Britain.3 "Your letter, Mr. Semmes," she prompted icily. "I won''t ask a third time." A growing crowd gathered, drawn to the spectacle. Jack rapidly calculated that this wasn''t a battle he was likely to win, at least not without causing an even bigger scene. And who knew what this spunky doll was capable of? She carried herself like someone important. How powerful were prefects here? Were they like student officers? Jack turned to his trunk and flicked his wand (12 ? inches, sugar maple, thunderbird feather core, slightly springy). The latches popped open, and his admittance letter floated up. He could have handed it over like a gentleman. But where was the fun in that? With a lazy wrist motion, he sent the parchment zipping straight into her chest. She fumbled it, glaring at him as she unfolded the parchment and began to deliberately read. "Is everybody in this country this friendly?" Jack asked blithely, plucking his cigarette from his lips. "Or is it just you?" He tapped his wand against the tip, igniting it with a faint hiss. Inhaled slow. Exhaled slower. Pure, effortless cool. Cassandra ignored him, scanning the letter with purposeful slowness. Jack took another drag, watching her and the crowd. A few students were whispering behind their hands. One yellow-trimmed boy winced like he was bracing for an explosion. A girl covered her mouth, barely concealing a smirk. Three older boys in red-trimmed robes grinned, enjoying the show. "Well, Mr. Semmes," she said, voice as cool as the North Sea. With a flick of her wand, the parchment shot back into his trunk like a homing spell. Another flick and¡ªBANG. The lid slammed shut with unnecessary force. "Congratulations and welcome to Hogwarts. Do try to adhere to the dress code in future." With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the front of the train, every movement crisp and controlled. The crowd dissolved like morning mist, a few students sneaking curious glances at Jack. He barely noticed. His attention was on the way her robe flared behind her and the flash of stockinged ankles. Franklin¡¯s stove, he thought, blowing smoke upward with an exaggerated exhale, why are the prettiest girls always either taken or terrors? He''d known dames like that back at Ilvermorny - old magical families from the Northeast, Essex County or the Philadelphia Main Line, with overprotective fathers, more gold than Gringotts, and their way or the highway. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Still, he mused, flicking his ash on the ground, none of them had quite managed that particular combination of untouchable beauty and devastating intimidation. Must be the accent. "ALL ABOARD!" The conductor''s magically amplified voice echoed through the platform. "Hogwarts Express, departing in five minutes! All aboard!" Jack left his luggage on the platform as bidden, heading towards the open door of the worn, wood-paneled carriage in front of him along with a flood of his future classmates. The Hogwarts Express was no Yankee Doodlebug, that¡¯s for sure, he noted as he squeezed into the passageway and into the first empty compartment he saw. The car smelled of coal smoke and wood polish. It bore the quiet scars of the war - brass fittings dull despite careful polishing, cracked leather seats patched over with magic, a spiderweb fracture in his window that no spell had quite managed to fix. He slid the door closed with a rattle and a bump, settling into the forward-facing corner. Arms sprawled, legs stretched out¡ªbody language clear: no room here. No one tested it, though a few younger kids annoyingly peered wide-eyed through the window. Jack stubbed out his cigarette in a handy ashtray (he still couldn¡¯t figure out how to get the damn window open), loosened his collar, and pulled his cap low over his eyes. He waited. The whistle blew. The train lurched forward. Jack was on his feet before they¡¯d even cleared the station, readjusting his uniform as he made for the club car. He left his cap behind as a placeholder. The rhythmic clack of the train wheels filled the air, underscored by muffled chatter from the compartments he passed. In the space between cars, three red-trimmed boys stood smoking in the open air - the same three from the platform. The one in the middle, broad-shouldered and a few inches shorter than Jack, had sandy hair and an easy smile. He tapped his friends, wordlessly making space. ¡°Thanks,¡± Jack said appreciatively as they squeezed around each other, the train¡¯s wheels clattering loudly over the tracks below. ¡°Thanks,¡± Jack said as they maneuvered past each other, the train wheels clattering beneath them. ¡°No worries. That bit with Hightower, bloody brilliant,¡± the boy replied with a grin, jerking his thumb toward the next car. ¡°Pullman is just there, if that¡¯s where you¡¯re headed.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it,¡± Jack replied, pushing open the door to the club car. Plush seats upholstered in deep burgundy velvet lined the sides of the car, drenched in sunshine. Through the large windows, the lush, rolling hills of Hertfordshire passed by in a blur of brown and green. The club car was alive with students in all four house colors, some nibbling on pastries and sipping hot beverages, others gazing out the large windows at the passing countryside. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked bread wafted through the air, hitting Jack like a warm embrace. His stomach rumbled. His scanty breakfast on the ship felt like a lifetime ago. Jack slipped through the crowd to the counter, where a kindly-looking witch had just finished serving a pair of redheaded sisters. ¡°What¡¯ll it be, dear?¡± she asked warmly. ¡°Coffee, milk and sugar. Three club sandwiches,¡± Jack said, fishing out a few Knuts. The witch nodded, already wrapping up his order before he¡¯d finished speaking. Smooth. The witch nodded with a smile, quickly assembling his order and handing over his change. Jack balanced his sandwiches and steaming coffee, scanning for a seat. Nothing on this side, and no one looked eager to squeeze with the odd Yank in the odd uniform. He sighed and maneuvered past the bar line, heading for the far end of the car. Near the back, a lone figure sat by the window. A thin boy in green-trimmed robes, blonde hair neatly parted, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He had the look of someone perfectly content to ignore the world. Perfect, thought Jack. The brooding type, excellent company for guys like me. With a lopsided grin, he approached his unsuspecting quarry, clearing his throat loudly. "Hey there. I''m Jack. Mind if I join you?" The boy¡¯s blue eyes flicked toward Jack¡ªsharp, assessing. For a brief moment, Jack felt weighed, numbered, and found wanting. ¡°I suppose,¡± the boy replied, voice clipped. He flicked a vague gesture toward the seat. Jack dropped into it without hesitation, balancing his coffee between his knees. He quickly unwrapped one of the sandwiches and took a large bite of chicken, lettuce and tomato, his hunger temporarily overriding his desire for human connection. Jack chewed, glancing sideways at his seatmate. The guy hadn¡¯t moved¡ªjust kept staring out the window, brow furrowed in deep contemplation. Or constipation. ¡°So, you got a name?¡± Jack asked, voice muffled around a mouthful of sandwich. The boy shut his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose¡ªannoyed, but resigned. Then he turned, pinning Jack with another swift, dissecting stare. ¡°Cyprian Venge.¡± And just like that, he was back to looking out the window. ¡°Cool name.¡± Jack nodded, swallowing hard. ¡°I¡¯m Jack. Would shake hands, but, well¡ª¡± He waggled his sandwich in one hand, his coffee in the other. ¡°Bit occupied.¡± There was a pause as Jack took another huge bite and finished the first sandwich, washing it down with half of his coffee. His spirits were returning in fine order. ¡°Nice scenery huh?¡± he asked his seatmate cheerfully, unwrapping sandwich number two and devouring it in four bites. ¡°It¡¯s even nicer when it¡¯s quiet,¡± his taciturn companion replied without turning his head, the passing landscape flickered across his glasses like a no-Maj movie projector. Undeterred, Jack settled back with his last sandwich. ¡°So, you¡¯re a Slytherin, huh? The green looks good with the black. Snazzy.¡± Cyprian closed his eyes momentarily, as if he was hoping to wake from a nightmare where a loudmouthed foreigner had just sat down next to him. ¡°Thank you,¡± he replied. ¡°Read in Hogwarts: A History that you lot live under the lake. Big window, whole underwater thing. Does it get drafty? You guys have dehumidifier charms or just really good cloaks?¡± Jack asked around another mouthful. ¡°We manage,¡± Cyprian replied. ¡°Ain¡¯t that just what we can do,¡± Jack finished his food, then drained his coffee. This Venge kid was no fun. Jack was getting bored¡ªand sleepy. Two weeks on the liner had wrecked his sleep schedule, and Venge wasn¡¯t exactly thrilling company. ¡°See ya ¡®round, buddy.¡± Jack hopped up like a jackalope, dropping his empty mug onto a passing tray before squeezing through the club car and heading back to his compartment. Once there, he made himself comfortable on the bench seat, placed his hat over his eyes, and slipped into a dreamless sleep after a few minutes, lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage. When he finally stirred, the sun was low in the west, painting the crags of the Scottish Highlands in regal shades of purple and gold through his window. His compartment was still empty save, either his unusual appearance was keeping people away, or British magical students were more courteous about disturbing sleeping strangers than their American counterparts. Through the window, mountains marched past under a darkening sky¡ªthen vanished into blackness as the train plunged into a tunnel. Somewhere ahead lay Hogwarts, and whatever reception they had planned for their first transfer student in decades. Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. Whatever it was, he just hoped it involved a hot shower and a warm bed. And minimal hazing. He wouldn¡¯t mind seeing Cassandra again, though. Preferably after she¡¯d had an attitude adjustment. Probably just first-day stress. Right?
1. While Muggle Britain suffered under nylon rationing through the post-war years, no self-respecting wizard would ever be caught dead in synthetic fibres. Leave it to an American to mistake proper wizarding silk for some ghastly petroleum-based substitute. Next they''ll be suggesting we wear polyester robes! 2. Modern readers may need reminding that comparing witches to Muggle film actresses was considered quite daring in the 1940s. The reference to Scarlett O''Hara here is particularly loaded, given her character''s reputation for willfulness in the 1939 film Gone With the Wind. We must suppose that a young man like Mr. Semmes considered such comparisons romantic rather than scandalous. 3. The peculiar American obsession with photographing our Muggle Admiralty Guards remains utterly baffling. The poor chaps can barely complete their rounds for all the clicking and flashing. 4. The infamous Yankee Doodlebug Express. It opened in 1938 and ran from Miami, Florida to Bangor, Maine with a spur out to Ilvermorny in Mount Greylock, Massachusetts. A garish attempt to replicate the Hogwarts Express'' charm, complete with singing conductors and "magical snowfall" in the dining car. Went belly-up in ''93 after American wizards discovered something called "air miles." Good riddance to that particular bit of colonial whimsy. 5. The jackalope: supposedly a local species of horned rabbit native to the American West. Complete nonsense, of course - clearly a badly executed Transfiguration experiment that got out of hand. The Americans insist on claiming it as a native magical beast. 6. The hazing at Ilvermorny was notorious, particularly in the mid-20th century. Accounts from the time make it clear that it was very unpleasant to be a first-year student - or a "tack," as they are called to this day. 5. An American in Scotland The Hogwarts Express shot from the tunnel, curving smoothly along the tracks. Outside, a glacial valley unfurled beneath the twilight like a painted backdrop. And there, perched on its ancient stone rise, sat Hogwarts - distant yet unmistakable, like a model carved by artful hands. The dying sun bathed the castle in molten gold, turning its weathered granite warm as sandstone. Light danced along its towering spires, gilding them against the darkening sky. Thick pine forests cloaked the surrounding hills, their dark canopies tumbling down rocky slopes before melting into dark farmland. At the valley¡¯s lowest point lay a great lake, its surface shimmering like an oil slick, catching the sky in strokes of pink, purple, and orange. Hogsmeade Station glowed in the twilight, rising from the valley like something out of a storybook. Gas lamps (No electricity this far out? Jack wondered stupidly, before realizing that it was a wizarding village and they were enchanted) cast golden halos over the platform, their soft light spilling onto cobbled streets. Beyond them, the village climbed the hillside, its windows flickering like stars. With a great hiss of steam, the Express pulled into the station. Jack stepped out of his compartment and followed his future classmates out of the car. The station platform was crowded as students disembarked and began making their way towards the carriages that would transport them up to the castle. Further down the valley, Jack could see the lights of individual farms and smaller hamlets in the distance like will o¡¯ wisps rising up to the high surrounding cliffs. The air was sharper than in London, tinged with the bite of early autumn. Jack inhaled deeply. It wasn¡¯t the crisp maple-and-oak scent of Mount Greylock, but something older and wilder. Spicy heather, cool pine, and the faint mineral smell of mountain air. But it was the castle that held him fast. From here - just over a mile away - Hogwarts loomed from the bones of the earth, its towers and turrets etched dark against the violet sky. Below, the valley unfurled, the lake now mirroring the castle¡¯s glowing windows on its shifting surface. After five years marching through Ilvermorny¡¯s Beaux-Arts halls, Jack had to admit, it was something else. The Hogsmeade platform bustled with activity as students spilled from the train, funneled toward waiting horseless carriages. "First years! First years over here! This way for the first years! Blast it! I said first years this way! No dawdling!" A short wizard in a billowing tartan cloak and matching kilt flapped his arms like a mother hen, shepherding a cluster of wide-eyed eleven-year-olds toward a flotilla of small boats bobbing by the lakeshore. Jack headed the opposite direction, following the crowd toward the road, where a line of waiting horseless carriages awaited. Jack wondered idly if they used No-Maj engines. He was just about to reach one when Cassandra Hightower practically apparated in front of him. "Mr. Semmes," she said severely. ¡°Hi!¡± Jack smiled. Pleasant surprise. Her cheeks were flushed, and the evening light only made her look prettier. ¡°Wanna ride up together?¡± "What?¡± she said, taken aback. Then she recovered. ¡°No! First years go that way," she pointed firmly behind him. ¡°Yeah, I caught that,¡± Jack said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ¡°The guy in the dress said so.¡± She shook her head, "That includes transfer students. You''ll be riding across with them." ¡°Gimme a break,¡± Jack scoffed. "I''m not a little kid," he moved to step around her. "I''m joining the sixth year class. I''ll ride up in the carriages with everyone else, thanks."Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. Cassandra stepped into his path again, arm outstretched, violet eyes flashing. "It''s tradition for all new students to cross the lake," she insisted. Jack nearly bumped into her. "That means you." "Says who?" Jack stepped back and crossed his arms. The urge to grin was getting harder to fight. ¡°You?¡± "The rules!" "Which rules?" "The.. the..." she momentarily lost her bearing, "The Hogwarts rules!¡± She stamped her foot. ¡°For Hogwarts students!" "Never heard of that rule." The voice was light, amused. Jack turned as the sandy-haired boy from the club car leaned casually out of the nearest carriage window. "We haven''t had any transfer students here since...oh, 1923?" the boy mused. "Graf Siegfried Maria Hildebrand Maximilian Albrecht von Schlotterkopf Knickerbein from Durmstrang, wasn''t it?¡± His hazel eyes twinkled mischievously. ¡°Did he take a boat ride?" Cassandra whirled on him, her glare sharpening. "This isn''t your concern, Ravenhurst," she snapped. "I''m handling it." Ravenhurst raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Doesn''t look like there''s anything to handle," he observed. "Unless you''re planning on physically tossing our new Yank into a boat yourself." ¡°I wouldn¡¯t mind that,¡± Jack said with a grin. Cassandra looked murderously at him, and Jack briefly wondered whether British witches would slap like American ones or just went straight for their wands. "Might as well introduce myself." The boy leaned out the carriage window, neatly cutting off Cassandra. ¡°Henry Ravenhurst. Sixth-year Gryffindor¡ªsame as you¡¯ll be, hopefully.¡± His broad accent carried the weight of wild moors and old country manors. "Don''t mind our Miss Hightower here, she takes her prefect duties very seriously. Especially when foreigners are involved - you know, you might be a spy, one never knows nowadays. She check you for Polyjuice yet?¡± Jack burst out laughing. Cassandra folded her arms, looking like she was deciding whether to report them or set them both on fire. ¡°That is enough, Ravenhurst.¡± she said. ¡°I will report you to Professor MacLeod for interfering with official prefect duties, to say nothing of your incorrigible-¡± "Well you¡¯d better get a move on then," Henry announced lightheartedly, opening the door of the carriage for Jack. "Unless you would prefer to explain to Headmaster Hollowbrook why we¡¯re delaying the welcome feast over some fictitious rule?" A small crowd had gathered to watch the entertainment again. Cassandra looked around, seemed to realize she was losing whatever authority she had, and drew herself up with wounded dignity. Then, with a final venomous look at Jack, she spun on her heel and stormed off. "This isn''t over, Semmes," she declared balefully over her shoulder. Jack gave a low whistle, watching her storm off. For once, he was at a loss for words. "Don''t mind Hightower," Henry repeated, helping Jack into the carriage, "Known her for ages. She takes her duties very seriously. Bit of a stickler. If sticklers carried arming swords and declared blood feuds. Gets that from her mother." "You don¡¯t say." Jack chuckled, sinking into the springy seat. "Thanks for the save. Jack Semmes.¡± He stuck out a hand. "Pleasure¡¯s all mine." Henry shook it firmly as the carriage rattled up the winding path toward the looming castle. The sun had set beyond the western hillslopes, and a full harvest moon blazed low in the darkening sky. "No need for thanks, happy to help. Us non-prefects have to stick together." Jack grinned, already warming to Henry¡¯s easy manner. As they rode, Henry kept up a steady stream of chatter¡ªintroducing himself further, explaining that the West Riding he hailed from was not a racetrack but a part of Yorkshire, pointing out landmarks, and sprinkling in bits of Hogwarts lore like a seasoned tour guide. Jack drank it all in eagerly, craning his neck for glimpses of the castle as they rounded the twisting curves and passed through the outer curtain wall, under the North Gate, and onto the school grounds. "How are you finding our sceptered isle?" Henry continued as their carriage rattled up the road, ¡°Pleasant journey to London, I hope?" ¡°Everything was great until I got off the boat¡­¡± Jack launched into an abridged¡ªand moderately embellished¡ªaccount of the chase in Liverpool. The way he told it, he¡¯d narrowly escaped a half-dozen armed wizards, pulling off maneuvers worthy of a dime novel hero. If he''d actually been alone, of course, he would have handled it just as flawlessly. ¡°Merlin¡­¡± Henry¡¯s carefree face turned extremely serious, ¡°The Ministry man said they were Grindlewald¡¯s men? That¡¯s not good, did he say why they were after you?¡± Jack shook his head, about to explain his father¡¯s new post at the British Ministry, when the carriages jolted to a stop at the foot of Hogwarts¡¯ sweeping front steps. 6. Action and Reaction The returning students and Jack climbed the steps and passed underneath the Bell Tower, its huge pendulum swinging above them, then down a hallway, and emerged into a large, quadrangular courtyard (¡°The Transfiguration Courtyard,¡± Henry supplied), the night sky twinkling overhead. A cloister ran along the perimeter, its columns twined with flowering vines that perfumed the air. In the center of the courtyard stood a sundial, its gnomon casting a long, useless shadow in the moonlight. Down the cloisters to the left, and they entered into the central hall, a vast, vaulted chamber with staircases on three sides and dominated by an enormous fountain. The centerpiece was a towering statue of a bearded wizard, water spouting from the tip of his wand, while carved magical creatures of all descriptions cavorted in the surrounding pool. "Here¡¯s the central hall, the fulcrum that Hogwarts spins around, that''s the Fountain of Magical Brethren," Henry explained in a low voice as they approached. "Represents the unity of the wizarding world, they say. They also say the sculptor just wanted to carve a bunch of naked mermaids. Old joke." Jack snorted with repressed laughter. As they passed through the hall and down the stairs to the right, Henry kept up a quiet running commentary, pointing out the library, the greenhouses, the stairs down to the dungeons, and different routes to classrooms. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a proper tour when you get sorted into Gryffindor, consider this the general visitor¡¯s guide,¡± he added helpfully. ¡°If, not when, right?¡± Jack grinned. ¡°What if the hat thinks otherwise?¡± ¡°It won¡¯t, I can tell. You¡¯re already a Gryffindor through and through,¡± Henry stated confidently. ¡°Nobody else would have been daft enough to pick a fight with Hightower on their first day.¡± An enormous portrait of a dignified wizard with a carefully groomed black beard and mustache looked dubiously down at them as they walked underneath his watchful gaze, ¡°Place has gone to the hounds,¡± the portrait boomed with a self-satisfied air. ¡°Each year they drop the standards further and further! First it was fifth-years, what could be next, accepting seventh-year transfer students? Not even enforcing basic uniformity anymore either, why back when I was Headmaster¡­¡± Then they were out into the night air again, across a towering viaduct, then another series of stairs up to the Viaduct Courtyard surrounded by massive towers, until at last, they ascended to a set of massive double doors leading into the Entrance Hall, their oak panels intricately carved with scenes of magical feasts and celebrations. Some upperclassmen ahead of them pushed the doors open to reveal the reception hall beyond. As they entered, a severe voice rang out, cutting through the chatter of the returning students. "Mr. James Semmes! A word, if you please!" Jack knew that tone of voice. It spelled trouble. He turned to see a tall, stern-faced witch in dark blue robes bearing down on him from the stairs, her graying hair arranged in artful curls. Cassandra Hightower hovered at her elbow, looking like a raccoon eying an open trash can. "Deputy Headmistress Winterborn," Henry whispered in Jack''s ear. "Head of Ravenclaw. What did you do to get on her bad side already?" Jack didn''t have a chance to answer. Professor Winterborn had already reached them, her sharp gaze raking over Jack critically. She was shorter than him, but her erect posture and terrifying presence added a foot to her height. Henry discreetly scooted away from Jack. "Mr. Semmes," she said, as the other students formed a large semicircle behind him like a patchwork cyclorama.1 "I understand you chose to disregard our traditions and arrive with the upper years, despite Miss Hightower''s explicit instructions." Jack opened his mouth to defend himself, but Winterborn held up a hand to silence him. "I don''t want to hear excuses," she said caustically. "Hogwarts has a way of doing things, Mr. Semmes. A way that has served us well for centuries. It is not for you to question or disregard those traditions simply because you are a new boy here." Jack quailed under her reproach, his confidence evaporating, each word driving him further into the floor like a hammer. "You will find that Hogwarts rewards those who respect our ways and abide by our rules, and sternly disciplines those who do not. Especially when those rules are conveyed by your fellow students. I suggest you take this lesson to heart."This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. With that, she pointed to the double doors beyond leading to the Great Hall proper, "You will wait there in the corner until the first-years arrive for the Sorting. Perhaps a bit of time to reflect on the importance of meekness and obedience will do you good. Miss Hightower, if you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Semmes? The rest of you, to your tables." She made a sweeping gesture, then departed through the door they had just entered, presumably to fetch the first-years from the boathouse dock. Jack balled his fists tightly as he followed Cassandra up the stairs. Around them, students whispered and pointed, craning for a look at the idiot American transfer student. He could practically feel the triumphant satisfaction radiating off Cassandra¡¯s face as she deposited him in the corner, his ears burning and his ego deflated. "You just couldn''t follow simple instructions, could you?" Hightower said, lecturing him like a naughty child as his future classmates trooped past. "Had to make a scene, show everyone how special you are." Jack clenched his jaw, "My mistake," he ground out through gritted teeth. "I didn''t realize I was signing up for a No-Maj chain gang by coming here." Cassandra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat. "Enjoy your time with the first-years, Semmes," she said, eyes glittering like amethyst. "Maybe you could learn something from them. Like humility." With that parting shot, she spun on her heel and walked into the great hall, head held high. Jack watched her, fury burning in his gut as the rest of the students passed, murmuring and snickering. Jack set his jaw and fixed his gaze straight ahead, determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. He could feel the weight of their stares as the last of them passed, their judgment and gleeful schadenfreude. It was like being back in No-Maj elementary school, the weird kid that nobody wanted to sit with at lunch. He leaned against the cold stone wall, alone in the corner of the reception hall, waiting. Four giant bronze hourglasses dominated the far side of the foyer, each bearing one of the crests of the four houses. The tops of the hourglasses were filled with respectively colored gemstones: garnet for Gryffindor, tourmaline for Slytherin, topaz for Hufflepuff, and lapis lazuli for Ravenclaw. Their presumed purpose eluded him, probably some kind of inter-house competition. Several agonizing minutes ticked by. The great hall through the doors behind him filled with laughter and conversation as he continued to stew and indulge in a private fantasy of pushing Hightower into the stupid lake that she was so insistent on him crossing. At last, the first-years arrived up the winding stairs from the boathouse and headed towards him, led by Professor Winterborn, huddling together in nervous, damp knots. They eyed Jack curiously, taking in his height and striking Ilvermorny uniform. ¡°Are you a guard?¡± asked a brave little boy, looking up at him with eyes as wide as saucers. Jack glared back at him. Great. Even the little kids thought he was a freak. ¡°Are we all here?¡± Professor Winterborn said, her gaze taking over her charges, ending with a pointed look at Jack. ¡°Very well, welcome to Hogwarts.¡± She opened the door dramatically, leading the gaggle of first-years (and one mortified sixth-year) into the Great Hall. Even in Jack¡¯s humiliated state of mind, the gothic splendor of the Great Hall was still amazing. It was smaller than he had expected, but no less impressive for it. Hundreds of candles floating beneath an enchanted ceiling that perfectly mirrored the star-studded Scottish sky outside, the four long tables lined with - by Jack¡¯s quick estimate - about three hundred students in black robes. At the staff table on the dais, a distinguished collection of witches and wizards watched the students file in. Jack noted that the house tables seemed to have more room on the benches than the 60 or so first-years could fill, as if a portion of the student body was missing. At the front of the hall, a shabby, patched wizard''s hat sat on a stool. As Jack watched, a rip near the brim opened and the hat began to sing, extolling the virtues of the four Hogwarts houses. He listened with half an ear, too busy scanning the room to take in the words. His gaze landed on the Gryffindor table, where Henry Ravenhurst sat surrounded by a knot of friendly-looking students. Henry caught his eye and shot him a sympathetic look, mouthing "Sorry, old sport." Jack''s answering smile was more of a grimace. The Sorting dragged on for eternity, the hat shouting out house names as one tiny freshman after another scurried to their new tables amid cheers and applause. Jack shifted from foot to foot, acutely aware of how ridiculous he must look, looming over the diminutive first-years in his blue jacket. One bespectacled little girl, McGonagall, Minerva, sat on the stool, her sharp eyes fixed straight ahead. The rip at the Hat¡¯s brim moved constantly, whispering things only she could hear. Jack watched, intrigued. He hadn¡¯t seen it take this long for anyone else. A murmur passed through the hall as the delay stretched on. His feet started to hurt from standing so long. Was this normal? Finally, after five minutes and thirty-seven seconds according to Jack''s wristwatch, the Sorting Hat bellowed, ¡°GRYFFINDOR!¡± Minerva hopped off the stool and marched over to the Gryffindor table, where she was met with enthusiastic applause. Finally, after "Zillmer, Hortensia" was declared a Hufflepuff, Professor Winterborn fixed Jack with a stern look. "Semmes, James Thomas," she called, her voice ringing through the hall. "Transfer student, Ilvermorny, sixth year." 7. Sorted A susurration of fresh whispers rippled through the room as Jack marched forward down the interminable walk to the front of the hall, his face flushed as he tried vainly not to listen to what was being said about him from every quarter. ¡°...did he really say that to Hightower?¡± ¡°Cocky chancer¡­¡± ¡°Who does he think he is?¡± ¡°...we shouldn¡¯t take transfers.¡± ¡°Hope he doesn¡¯t end up with us¡­¡± ¡°Typical big-headed Yank.¡± ¡°...should just go home¡­¡± He could feel every eye on him as he sat gingerly on the stool and faced the stares of the assembly. He stared fixedly down the central aisle at the double doors. Then the hat was unceremoniously dropped over his head by Professor Winterborn, surrounding him with musty, merciful darkness. "Hmmm," murmured a startling voice from the interior of the hat. Was he hearing it in his head? Or through his ears? "You¡¯re already almost fully grown here, Mr. Semmes. Ilvermonry hasn¡¯t given me much to work with. Old oak is hard to shape, to mold and adapt. But in the right environment¡­hmm, yes, perhaps with a combination of heat and pressure... You¡¯ve got plenty of courage, oh yes, I can see the adventures that bravery has taken you, some ambition, good amount of wit, and loyalty too, loyal as a badger. You''d do well in Hufflepuff, but with that streak of curiosity...where to place you?¡± "Gryffindor," he thought desperately, thinking of two years having to deal with the likes of Cassandra and Cyprian. "For Franklin¡¯s sake. Put me in Gryffindor. Please." Whether the hat heard his silent plea or had already made up its mind, Jack didn''t know. But after a moment, the rip at the brim opened wide and shouted: "GRYFFINDOR!" Jack sagged with relief, yanking the hat off and stumbling towards the cheering Gryffindor table, Henry leading the applause and directing his housemates to join in with more enthusiasm. As he walked, Professor Winterborn performed an intricate motion with her wand behind him. His Ilvermorny uniform jacket transfigured to long, black Hogwarts robes, complete with red trim. He felt a pang of loss as the Thunderbird pin popped off his uniform (he caught it just in time) and was replaced by the bold lion rampant of Gryffindor over his heart, but the ensuing roar of approval from his new house washed it away like an ocean wave. As Jack took his seat, he vaguely noticed the varying reactions from other houses - polite applause from Hufflepuff, catcalls and snickers from Ravenclaw, and studied indifference from Slytherin. "Budge up, you lot," Henry said briskly, elbowing aside a couple of gawking second years to make room for Jack to sit. "Well done, Semmes! I already told the lads that it was my fault that you didn¡¯t ride with the first-years. Rotten of me to put you in the lurch like that on your first day, forgive me?¡± He stuck his hand out. Jack shook it feeling slightly numb, ¡±Nothing to forgive, I got myself in trouble.¡± ¡°No no, honestly,¡± Henry added earnestly, ¡°I made up all that nonsense about the Jerry transfer student too, didn¡¯t think she¡¯d run off and tattle to Winterborn about it.¡± Jack shook his head, Cassandra Hightower was to blame for this, not the only boy here that¡¯s shown him any kind of friendship. "It''s fine," he said shortly. "Not your fault Hightower''s stuck up. I can handle her.¡± "Good luck if you can, old sport, because none of us can," Henry said, clapping him on the back. "But you''ve got us now. Gryffindors stick together." Jack managed a smile at that, looking at the warm expressions sitting around him, the red and gold banners hanging from the rafters. He was already forgetting about his rude welcome in Liverpool and the humiliating time-out in the reception hall. Maybe this new school wouldn''t be so bad after all. At the front of the hall, the headmaster (Augustus Hollowbrook, Henry whispered to Jack, he had been one of the chief resistance leaders against Grindelwald during the opening phases of the war) stood up, his carefully groomed silver beard glinting in the candlelight. "Welcome, welcome, to another year at Hogwarts," he said, leaning heavily upon the back of his chair, his voice magically amplified. "I regret to inform you that the Triwizard Cup will not be happening next year, as Durmstrang is not able to participate.¡±1 There was a muted reaction from the student body. Henry leaned over in response to Jack¡¯s quizzical expression, ¡°Inter-school competition between us, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. I expected as much, we haven¡¯t had it for 30 years, what¡¯s another five at this rate?¡± ¡±Instead,¡± Hollowbrook continued, ¡°Let us focus on the new year ahead. A year of renewal, of rebuilding, after the darkness that has touched us all. Let us come together now, united in our determination to create a brighter future, free from the shadows of the past..." He continued for a few more minutes while Jack admired the great hall and imagined what dinner would be like. Then the speech was over and the feast appeared on the plates in front of them, and he was reaching for a steaming platter of roast beef. It was everything Jack could have dreamed of: meats roasted, baked, and boiled; savory pies, potatoes in every style imaginable, and enormous towers of decadent desserts. The indefatigable Henry helped make introductions with the other sixth years around him, including the other two Gryffindors that Jack had passed with Henry on the train. These were Oliver Brackenby, a stocky, quiet, dark haired Cumbrian with a bent nose, and Theodoric ¡®Teddy¡¯ Marshwiggle, a lanky, cheerful fellow whose father apparently raised knuckers in the Lincolnshire Fenlands. All three were avid members of the house Quidditch team: Oliver the keeper, Teddy a beater, and Henry a chaser. ¡°Welcome aboard Yank, don''t mind the Ravenclaws.¡± said Teddy, ¡°They''re still riding high from the war and Quidditch from last year. Swept the finals, plus half their house joined the Special Magical Operations unit - you know, the ones who broke Grindelwald''s codes and such. Now they all fancy themselves junior Dumbledores."2 "Isn¡¯t Dumbledore a Gryffindor though?" Jack asked, feeling a sudden surge of second-hand pride from being associated with the greatest wizard alive, even if he was a Brit. Oliver chuckled. "If you''re looking for logical consistency in house pride, you''re in for disappointment." Jack nodded, determination welling up in his chest as his new friends continued to rag on what was apparently their chief rival. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. He was already starting to feel the Gryffindor house spirit. Jack Semmes would show those stuck-up Ravenclaws. He''d show all of them. Cassandra, Winterborn, the whole gang. During dinner Henry and company provided Jack with a helpful introduction to the faculty on the dais. Headmaster Augustus Hollowbrook sat in the central chair, his silver hair and beard neatly trimmed. He had the weathered look and lines of a man who''d seen much of war. His gray eyes were mournful, and set deeply into his face below dark eyebrows. He doesn¡¯t teach courses or engage with us much, Henry confided, he mainly sits in his office and writes. To his right sat Professor Helena Winterborn, Deputy Headmistress, Head of Ravenclaw, and Transfiguration teacher, who Jack had already been roughly introduced to. To his left was Professor Malcolm MacLeod, the burly Head of Gryffindor and Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, sporting a magnificent red beard and deep facial scars from his time fighting Grindelwald''s radicals in the great war. Next to him, the rail-thin Professor of Herbology and Head of Hufflepuff Iris Blackthorn, chatted animatedly with Professor Arcturus Vale, the Potions master and Head of Slytherin with a shock of white hair. The other faculty filled out the table: Professor Edwin Brightwell (Charms), Professor Aurora Starling (Astronomy), and more that Jack would meet in the coming days. Jack leaned toward Henry. "What was with that one girl? The one with glasses that took forever?" "Oh, her?" Henry followed Jack¡¯s gaze a few places down the table, where McGonagall was eating. "Hatstall." He nodded, as if that explained everything. Jack didn''t have time to follow up. His new housemates were already peppering him with questions about America and Ilvermorny, which he did his best to answer while also stuffing himself. "You don''t have a castle, do you?" a sixth-year girl with dark brown hair and an unknown musical accent chimed in, "I read that Ilvermorny is just a house?" Jack bristled slightly. "It''s not just a house. It''s a mansion. And we live in a barracks. A big one, with outbuildings, built right into the side of Mount Greylock. No-Maj can''t see it, it looks like just another rocky ridge. Sometimes hikers try to climb to the top, but there are displacement charms that transport them further down the massif so they don¡¯t get near us.¡± ¡°Which of your states is it in?¡± ¡°Massachusetts.¡± Jack replied, spearing a beef steak with his fork, ¡°We have a little No-Maj town at the base of the mountain called Adams that we¡¯re allowed to visit when we¡¯re in 9th grade, we just can¡¯t bring wands.¡± ¡°Your teachers let you traipse around a Muggle town?¡± Henry found that very droll, ¡°And you lot want to?¡± "Of course, but why would you want to?" first-year Palamedes Hitchens piped up, genuinely puzzled. "What''s there to do without magic?" "Lots of things!¡± Jack exclaimed, ¡°There''s this place called the Sugar Shack that makes the best maple candies you''ve ever tasted, No-Maj or not. And a soda fountain where you can get hamburgers and chocolate malts." "Dangerous business," a boy down the table said gloomily. "Mixing with Muggles like that..." ¡°We haven¡¯t had any issues,¡± Jack replied defensively, ¡°The townies think that we¡¯re from a local boarding school. Most of them are just happy for the business we bring in, and we always behave ourselves. Ilvermorny has a one-strike policy, like Quopro. One slipup around the No-Maj and you¡¯ve lost walking privileges for the rest of your time there. The biggest problem we had in my memory was that a local boy wanted to take a girl in my class out on a date and wouldn¡¯t take no for an answer. One of the teachers had to perform a gentle memory modification after he tried to follow us back on campus.¡± His classmates¡¯ faces held a mixture of amused and scandalized expressions. Imagine, a Muggle boy talking to a witch! "It seems like it would be lonely though, being up in the mountains surrounded by Muggles," a fifth-year girl observed. "Well, it can be," Jack admitted. "Especially in the wintertime when the snows hit. We¡¯re usually stuck on campus from January to March, we call it the ¡®Greylock-down¡¯. Not much to do besides stay inside and study.¡± And get hazed by bored upperclassmen, he didn¡¯t mention. ¡°That¡¯s when most of the freshmen who don¡¯t have their hearts set on Ilvermorny quit.¡± ¡°Sounds like the middle of nowhere,¡± Teddy grinned. Jack shrugged, ¡°I mean, it¡¯s not New York, but it¡¯s not in the middle of nowhere either. It¡¯s an hour''s broom flight to Boston and twenty minutes to Albany. It¡¯s not like it''s in Oklahoma or something.¡± ¡°Are you from New York City?¡± a second-year boy asked just as Jack had taken a large bite of a Yorkshire pudding. ¡°I heard that¡¯s the biggest city in America, with the tall cloudscratchers!¡± ¡°Mph,¡± Jack chewed and swallowed quickly, ¡°Yep I am.¡± Not precisely true. His family was from Hoboken, but he didn¡¯t think his housemates would care about the No-Maj state of New Jersey anyway. Heck, American wizards didn¡¯t even care about New Jersey. Besides, it was close enough. ¡°And they¡¯re called ¡®skyscrapers¡¯, not cloudscratchers. The No-Maj¡­the Muggles build them everywhere. You should see them put them up without magic in just a few months, it¡¯s like watching ants crawl all over an apple. They go up hundreds of yards into the air. Then the rich No-Maj live at the top.¡± ¡°H-how do they climb all those stairs?¡± the boy continued, wide-eyed. ¡°They climb in a big steel box called a L-E-vator, then a boy who lives in it pulls a switch and the box goes up into the sky,¡± Jack explained, proud of his knowledge. His dad had taken him and his mom up to the top of the RCA building when he was twelve years old. He still remembered the panorama of Manhattan spread out under them like a giant model city, dominated by the monumental Empire State Building. ¡°I didn¡¯t know American Muggles risked their lives so casually to avoid climbing stairs,¡± Oliver observed drily. ¡°It¡¯s quite safe,¡± Jack insisted, ¡°It¡¯s less dangerous than crossing the street.¡± He thought of his narrow escape in Liverpool at the hands of an omnibus. Franklin, what an embarrassing end to his adventure that would have been. Why can¡¯t they drive on the right like normal No-Maj? ¡°Is New York bigger than London?¡± the girl with the musical accent asked while delicately buttering a potato. Jack had no clue, ¡°Probably, I¡¯ve never been to London though, just the train platform.¡± ¡°Well, how many Muggles live there?¡± ¡°Millions, poor No-Maj, ritzy No-Maj, politicians, musicians, movie stars oh¡­speaking of which,¡± Jack gestured out the door of the Great Hall in the general direction of Hogsmeade, ¡°Do you fellas have a movie theater here?¡± Confused stares, ¡°There¡¯s a stage in the Hogsmeade town hall that they put on mystery plays during holidays,¡± a curly-haired sixth-year girl named Mina Mulholland said helpfully in a lilting accent of her own, ¡°Is that what you mean?¡± ¡°No,¡± Jack said, gesturing around him, ¡°Like a big room to watch No-Maj movies, you know, moving pictures!¡± ¡°Like¡­a portrait? We have heaps of those already, they never shut up.¡± Teddy said, pointing to the myriad animated canvases around the Great Hall. ¡°Why would we want to watch Muggle portraits?¡± Jack took a drink of water and prepared to launch into a passionate defense of American No-Maj cinema, but his enthusiasm was quenched by the confusion and skepticism on the faces of his housemates. He didn¡¯t want them to think he was nuts. ¡°It¡¯s¡­.well we watch a lot of them at Ilvermorny. You know, it¡¯s isolated out there, not much else to do¡­¡± His housemates nudged each other and chuckled. Some of the girls made sympathetic sounds. There was a brief pause in the conversation as the main courses faded, and more desserts took their place. 8. Diplomacy by Dessert "Speaking of Muggles," a tall, skinny sixth-year boy with parted red hair said, leaning around Henry to fix Jack with a penetrating stare. "What''s with Americans and their obsession with them? MACUSA is practically part of the Muggle government." ¡°Come off it Grymes, everyone knows the Yanks are mad about Muggles,¡± Henry shook his head laughing, trying to deflect the question. ¡°It¡¯s their personal little obsession, like us with Quidditch.¡± ¡°Aye, being here is probably better for your state of mind, Semmes,¡± Oliver added, bringing a water jug over to fill up his glass with a sweep of his wand. ¡°It¡¯ll help to ground you back in reality.¡± Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Grymes¡¯ gimlet eyes bored into him. He knew there was some truth to the rumor, his father had worked for MACUSA''s No-Maj Bureau before being transferred over here, and he''d heard him speak about joint magical-No-Maj operations during the war. But he also knew that information was definitely classified, and not something to be shared with a bunch of British teenagers, classmates or not. "What you said about us and the No-Maj government¡­that''s not true," he said firmly, meeting Grymes¡¯ gaze. "MACUSA has always maintained a strict policy of separation from No-Maj politics. Even the rest of the wizarding world. Heck, we didn''t even join in the fight against Grindelwald until he attacked us!"1 "But didn''t you help the Muggles in their big war?" the braided girl asked, her eyes wide. "Against the Germans and the Japanese? I mean, you just said you basically live with them at Ilvermorny-" ¡°The Americans have been trending towards greater integration with Muggle government for years,¡± Grymes interrupted, speaking with great authority on the subject. ¡°They have a full-fledged Muggle-business office to coordinate policy efforts, not like our Ministry that only talks with Muggles when it''s time to delete inconvenient memories.¡± Jack flinched. Not entirely true¡­his dad made it sound like the No-Maj Bureau mainly handled airspace deconfliction between MACUSA flying cars and U.S. Army Air Corps aircraft. But what Grymes was saying had the ring of truth, and he could see kids around the table nodding in agreement. He had to say something. He knew his father had been involved in some capacity with No-Maj. But again, the details were vague, and he knew better than to run his mouth on things that were better left secret. "No, we don¡¯t," he said, shaking his head as Henry passed him a tray of various fruit tarts, "The Muggle war was Muggle business, not ours. MACUSA minded its own store and stayed out of the war. Just like your Ministry and your Prime Minister with the German War."2 Henry started to say something, but then he stopped himself. ¡°That¡¯s not what I¡¯ve been reading,¡± Grymes looked skeptical. ¡°You''re helping them now. With their A-tom-micks. And Rock-its.¡± Jack nearly choked on his water. How did this kid know about that? Those were top-secret projects, the kind of thing his father had only ever mentioned in hushed tones behind closed doors. If his dad found out he was blabbing about it to foreign wizards... "I don''t know what you''re talking about," he retorted, too quickly. "The U.S. government doesn''t believe in magic. If they ever catch wind of rumors about wizards in America they think we''re just a bunch of creepy cultists living in the hills, weird but harmless. They just won the Big War, why would they want our help?" ¡°Maybe because they¡¯ve had it all along,¡± Grymes continued to stare, looking unconvinced. ¡°Maybe the Big War isn¡¯t over yet.¡± Thankfully, Henry chose that moment to jump in. "Leave off, Eustace," he said good-naturedly. "Can''t you see the poor bloke''s exhausted? He''s had a long day, and the last thing he needs is an interrogation about Muggle politics." Eustace Grymes unwillingly subsided, turning his attention to his dessert. Jack shot Henry a grateful look, and the other boy winked at him. ¡°Don¡¯t hold it against him,¡± Henry whispered, ¡°He¡¯s had a hard go of it, Grymes. Brilliant though.¡± After that, the conversation turned away from Ilvermorny to more mundane topics: Quidditch rankings, professor ratings, difficulty of upcoming classes, the latest prank products from some place called Zonko¡¯s. Jack let himself relax slightly. But he couldn''t completely shake the uneasy feeling that Eustace''s questions had stirred up.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. He was here to finish up his magical education and graduate, not get caught up in international intrigue. Whatever MACUSA was or wasn''t doing with the No-Majs, it had nothing to do with him. Just like those dark wizards in Liverpool. All of that nonsense and grown-up business was far away now, outside the enchanted walls of Hogwarts. Once the feast had finished and began to magically clear away, Henry, Oliver and Teddy led Jack at a brisk pace out of the Great Hall main doors and to the left, through the Reception Hall. Ancient suits of armor stood sentinel along the walls, their helmets turning slightly to track the boys¡¯ passage. ¡°Kitchens are down that way,¡± Henry pointed out a brightly-lit spiral staircase that led underneath the Great Hall. Warm golden light and the smell of baking bread wafted up. ¡°Along with the bakery, the brewery, and the Hufflepuff Common Room. No need to really go down there unless you¡¯re a Huffle or a house elf, or Teddy.¡± "The house-elves like me,¡± Teddy replied casually, in response to Jack¡¯s questioning look. ¡°He¡¯s dating a Hufflepuff,¡± Oliver added, receiving a light Kicking Hex for his trouble. From the Reception Hall, they ascended the Grand Staircase, a dizzying five-story spiral of moving staircases that seemed to operate on their own inscrutable logic. Portraits of unknown graduates lined the walls in legions all the way up, stern-faced wizards in ruffs and doublets, witches in medieval dress, even a group of dour druids who appeared to be playing chess with actual miniature warriors with stone weapons. One of the pieces received a lethal wound, spouting blood gorily all over the front of the canvas to Jack¡¯s horror. "Watch the banister," Oliver warned as their current staircase began to swing away from their intended destination. "It stays still as the stairs move. It¡¯ll yank you right off into oblivion." Jack¡¯s feet tingled as he surveyed the drop that suddenly yawned beneath them, sixty feet straight down to the stone basement below. ¡°Is there any rhyme or reason to their movement?¡± Jack asked as they waited patiently for the stairs to return to their original position. ¡°Do they take Sundays off?¡± ¡°Oh no, Sundays are their worst,¡± Teddy remarked. ¡°They get bored because of low foot traffic and come up with new patterns.¡± ¡°This is taking too long,¡± Henry stepped off the stairs and led them down a corridor one floor down from where they had planned to alight. ¡°We¡¯ll just bypass Fac Tower and get to the Quad that way.¡± The corridor led to a set of open double doors leading into a warmly-lit residential tower, and a staircase to the right. Henry took them right, up two more flights of stairs, and out a thick wooden door. They emerged into the Quad Courtyard, a relatively small cloistered space surrounded on all sides by massive walls and towers that stretched up into the darkness like the ramparts of a donjon. Jack tried to orient himself, following Henry''s pointing finger. "Right, we¡¯ll start with the north and work our way around.¡± Henry said, ¡°Ravenclaw Tower is right there, second tallest in the castle.¡± Jack strained his eyes, he couldn¡¯t even see the top of the turret in the night sky. ¡°That''s where their common room is, way up there. Just to the tower¡¯s left, you can see the Bridge Gate." A narrow postern gate in the wall led to a delicate wrought iron suspension bridge spanning the gorge to connect with a severe citadel of granite and marble. "That way to the Academic Wing," Teddy supplied. "Most of our classes are there. Transfig, Astronomy, Charms, History, Defense, Mug Stud..." ¡°Convenient to be a Gryffindor, we have the shortest walk to our classrooms,¡± Oliver noted with satisfaction. ¡°Slytherin has to race all the way from the dungeons every morning, they¡¯re only close to Potions and Arithmancy.¡± "Grand Staircase behind us of course,¡± Henry¡¯s hand swept around to the east. Now that they were outside, Jack could see that they had just exited the massive round tower that dominated the castle next to the Great Hall. ¡°You can get down this way or the way we just came through. Top of the Grand Staircase is the Headmaster¡¯s Office, no good reason to ever go there. Faculty Tower to the south," he continued, pointing to the rectangular residential building they had just exited. "Married teachers live in Hogsmeade, so that''s where the unmarried teachers live. Prefects get their own quarters up there too." ¡°Prefects get their own rooms?¡± Jack''s eyes lingered on the mixture of lit and unlit windows. "Supposed to help them stay more impartial. Don''t even think about it," Henry warned, catching Jack¡¯s look. "Those stairs are more heavily warded than Gringotts. No one gets in there uninvited short of an invisibility cloak, which last I checked are all with the Ministry. Hightower would probably pitch you headfirst off the top of the parapet if you tried." Jack grinned, ¡°Wouldn¡¯t dream of it.¡± "Course not. And in case you do, the Hospital Wing''s right there next door in the southwest tower. Underneath it,¡± Henry gestured to a wide gate in the south wall, ¡°The Clock Tower, its courtyard, and the South Gate. That way to Feldcroft and the seaside. And finally..." They turned to the western tower, shorter than Ravenclaw''s soaring spire but more solid, more grounded. Red and gold banners flew from its battlements, the gilding magically illuminated and shining in the dark sky like streaks of starfire. "Gryffindor Tower," Henry concluded.
1. Mr. Semmes'' characterization of MACUSA''s wartime involvement is not that inaccurate. MACUSA maintained its isolationism until the Percival Graves/Grindelwald attack in 1927. Even then, President Warren faced significant opposition from conservatives before committing American magical forces to Europe by the mid-1930s. Interestingly, declassified documents from 1995 have revealed that a ''T. Semmes'' was part of an unofficial American presence operating in Europe as early as 1928, well before official MACUSA deployment to Europe. This division, the Sorcerous Services Office (SSO), worked closely with British Aurors in occupied France, though its existence was officially denied until the Muggle Clinton administration. 2. The full extent of wartime cooperation between the Churchill Muggle Government and the Ministry is still a matter of strict secrecy. 9. Dulce Domum They crossed the Quad and climbed the spiral staircase, passing narrow arrow-slit windows that offered dizzying glimpses of the grounds below. "Here we are, home sweet home," Henry announced as they reached a portrait of a fat woman in a pink dress down a short corridor at the top of the steps. "Password is ¡®krugeri¡¯,¡± the portrait swung open. ¡°MacLeod has the passwords running through all the different types of lion this year. Sorry for rushing you after dinner, old sport, but wanted to get you here before all the children arrive and make a racket.¡± He held out his arm to let Jack enter first, into the delightfully warm and wood smoke-scented interior of the Gryffindor common room. He walked through a short rounded hallway, passing a notice board on the wall. The board was currently empty except for an announcement about class scheduling on Saturday tomorrow morning, something called ¡®Club Night¡¯ scheduled for next Tuesday afternoon, and a cute hand-written sign welcoming the new first-years to the house that shot out little red and yellow sparks as they passed it. ¡°Mulholland¡¯s work,¡± Henry commented drily on the note. ¡°She¡¯s the mothering type.¡± ¡°Irish,¡± Teddy snickered, shutting the portrait door behind them so as to not spoil the surprise for the first-years. Jack only half-listened to their continued banter as he stepped into the pool of firelight illuminating the plush scarlet-covered couches and armchairs, his feet sinking into a two-inch thick velvet red carpet. The firelight spilled out of an enormous stone fireplace in the far wall of the circular room, complemented by small enchanted lanterns flickering brightly over various study nooks. Up above him, massive wooden rafters towered three stories above his head, framing delicate arched stained glass windows, cloth-of-gold tapestries, and enchanted portraits inhabited by famous Gryffindors adorning the stone walls. Ahead led twin spiral staircases leading up to the boys¡¯ and girls¡¯ dormitories. But the real magic was in the corner near the fireplace. A genuine and heavily modified Marconiphone radio, its wooden casing polished to a mirror shine. ¡°What does our colonial ¨¦migr¨¦ think of our humble abode?¡± Henry asked, pride evident in his voice as Jack continued to stare. ¡°It¡¯s¡­.ritz.¡± Jack managed, spinning around slowly and gawking like an Ohioan tourist on Sixth Avenue.1 It sure beat the Thunderbird day room, that was for sure. ¡°Enjoy the moment,¡± Henry said, ¡°It won¡¯t be this quiet here until Christmas.¡± As if on cue, the portrait door clicked open and a solemn double line of eleven-year olds processed in, led by a very tall seventh-year prefect with a lurid scar running from his cheek to his neck. The prefect, (¡°Algeron Fairburne,¡± Henry pointed out to Jack sotto-voce, ¡°our Quidditch captain, good lad, bit strait-laced¡±), attempted to begin a serious lecture on the importance of house honor, getting along, and never disgracing the Gryffindor name. He had barely gotten past the names of the four founders when the third and fourth-years came bounding inside and pandemonium ensued. The poor first-years, still wide-eyed and in awe of their new surroundings, were jostled aside by the older students rushing to claim their favorite perches on the furniture. The common room filled with Jack¡¯s housemates like water in a running bathtub, competing voices echoing off the stone walls as they recounted summer adventures and plans for the school year. Snacks and bottles of ginger beer and lemonade stolen from the Great Hall appeared like magic. A band of rowdy fifth-year boys occupied the corner by the radio, ejecting a second-year who moved too slowly, dragging over chairs and huddling around it, twiddling the knobs to tune in to the Quidditch match between the Chudley Cannons and the Kenmare Kestrels.2 ¡°Too hot in here!¡± came a shout, and the windows were thrown open to the cool night air, revealing a stunning view of the Hogwarts grounds, with the Quidditch pitch visible in the distance and the Forbidden Forest stretching out to the horizon. Fairburne and his fellow prefects desperately attempted to restore some kind of order, but their cries of "First-years, over here!", ¡°Don¡¯t spill that on the furniture!¡±, and "Merlin¡¯s sake watch out for the bloody fire!" just added to the bedlam. Henry tapped Jack on the shoulder and gestured toward the stairs to the boys dormitory. Jack followed, and soon was on the second-story balcony overlooking the scene, feeling like a No-Maj general watching his men sack a conquered city. ¡°Who the devil are you?¡± a commanding voice barked at him from the wall. Jack looked up to see a portrait of a clean shaven wizard standing on a forest trail in an immaculate red military uniform and powdered periwig. He scowled fiercely at Jack and shook his riding crop, ¡°Who let you in here?¡± ¡°It¡¯s alright there, Georgie,¡± Henry answered diplomatically, ¡°This is Jack, new sixth-year from Ilvermorny.¡± ¡°Ilvermorny!¡± Georgie¡¯s eyes lit up with delight. ¡°You¡¯ve taken a prisoner! Brilliant work, Major Ravenhurst! We¡¯ll have those rebels whipped in no time!¡± ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± Henry said, giving Jack a wink, ¡°Picked up this one fresh off the boat, we¡¯re working a prisoner exchange as we speak.¡± ¡°Wonderful news,¡± Georgie walked right up to the edge of the canvas, positively beaming as he inspected the two boys, ¡°I must inform my Muggle counterpart Sir Burgoyne. Once I¡¯ve cornered that accused fox Morgan and his ragged wizard irregulars near Lake George we can march south together towards Albany and split the rebel forces in twain!¡±3 ¡°Wait, is he talking about the Revolution? That war¡¯s been ov-¡± Jack started, but Henry was already leading him towards the boys dorm room marked with a brass ¡®6th¡¯. ¡°Yes your Lordship, we¡¯ve got them on the run, but I have to take him to his cell now, ta!¡± Henry shouted over his shoulder as he pushed Jack ahead. ¡°Torture him for information, Major Ravenhurst!¡± roared Georgie behind them. ¡°Don¡¯t spare the curses!¡± Henry tapped his wand on their dorm room door, unlocking it with a click, and led Jack inside. The mayhem outside was immediately muffled as he closed the door behind them. It was a lovely cozy space with five four-poster beds draped in rich scarlet hangings arranged in an even circle around the walls. ¡°House elves did their work well,¡± Henry noted approvingly, pointing to an embossed plate that bore Jack¡¯s surname on the foot of one of the beds. His trunk and broomcase were both neatly placed on the floor nearby. Jack collapsed onto the bed with a groan of delight. ¡°Where are the showers?¡± he asked as Henry sat on his own bed nearby and started putting on his slippers. ¡°Showers?¡± Henry asked incredulously, ¡°This tower was built in the 13th century, old sport.¡±4 Jack sat up, fearing the worst, ¡°Baloney¡­you trying to tell me you Brits don¡¯t have plumbing?¡± ¡°Of course we do,¡± Henry replied with the patient tone of someone explaining something obvious to a small child. "Added during the 1800s, actually. At great expense too, if you listen to Phineas Black''s portrait in the central hall carp on about it." "That the sourpuss who was griping about ''uniformity'' as we walked past?" "The very same. Least popular headmaster in Hogwarts history, according to most.5 Thought indoor plumbing would make students soft." Henry''s voice took on a stuffy, pompous tone. "''In my day, we used chamber pots and were grateful for them!'' He''ll go on for hours if you let him." "But no showers?" Jack pressed, suddenly thinking longingly of the modern facilities at Ilvermorny. "We''ve got proper conveniences in the dorm hallway," Henry assured him. "So no more chamber pots. Just no showers. We have them at the Quidditch pitch locker rooms though. Bit of a trek out the North Gate, but worth it if you''re desperate for more than a washing charm." "A washing charm," Jack repeated flatly. "Standard hygiene, old boy," Henry took out his wand and demonstrated with a flick. "Scourgify for your clothes, Tergeo for your skin... though be careful with that one, bit harsh if you''re not used to it. Took all the hair off my legs the first time I tried it. Couldn¡¯t wear short pants for two weeks." Jack jumped to his feet, "I cannot believe this. You''re telling me the most prestigious magical school in Europe, home to centuries of magical innovation, doesn''t have showers?" "We''ve got these lovely copper scrubbing tubs on the first floor of the Hospital Wing," Henry added. "Very traditional. And the prefects get their own bathroom with a tub the size of a swimming pool. Though good luck getting permission to use it, they guard that privilege like a dragon on its hoard."6 "Unbelievable," Jack muttered. "No wonder you all lost your minds over indoor plumbing in the 1800s. You''re still catching up." "I can count the number of notable Ilvermorny graduates on MacLeod¡¯s missing hand," Henry retorted good-naturedly. "Think of it as part of your cultural immersion. Nothing builds character like learning sixteen different cleaning charms because you''re too lazy to walk to the Quidditch pitch before breakfast." "Cultural immersion," Jack repeated. "Right. Any other modern conveniences I should know are missing? Indoor heating? Electric light? Air conditioning? Toothpaste? Toilet paper?!" "Oh no, we''ve got most of those," Henry assured him. "Well, magical versions anyway. The lights are enchanted, and the heating¡­¡± He paused, ¡°What¡¯s air conditioning?¡± ¡°It makes it cold inside when it¡¯s hot outside,¡± Jack said, wondering if there was still time for him to sneak out to Hogsmeade and try and get back aboard the Hogwarts Express before it returned to London. ¡°Oh no, there¡¯s no need for that, this is northern Scotland, Semmes. It barely gets above 18 here in the summertime. Of course, there¡¯s always the lake, bit chilly this time of year but the giant squid should be sleeping by this time of night-¡± "I am not taking a bath in a lake!" Jack¡¯s face was so obviously crestfallen that Henry couldn¡¯t hold back anymore, and burst out laughing, "Course not," his friend confessed. "Because we have perfectly good baths with shower attachments in the dorm washrooms. Since 1932, in fact. Separate bathrooms for boys and girls at the end of the hallway, bathrobes and towels in the cubbies there. You should already have one with your name on it.¡± ¡°You¡­¡± Jack shook his head, relief overwhelming any annoyance at Henry''s teasing. The castle might be medieval, but praise Franklin at least the plumbing system was modern. Following Henry''s suggestion, he dug through his trunk for his spare Ilvermorny robes, the thunderbird insignia already feeling like a reminder of a different life, and hung them at the foot of the bed for the house-elves to modify to Hogwarts robes. Then Jack headed out into the hall, the noise and merriment of the common room already starting to wind down as the prefects packed away the first years to their dorms. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. The dormitory boys washroom was a marvel of gleaming copper pipes and white tile, with separate shower stalls, several individual round copper bathtubs, and a large communal bath that could fit a Quodpot team. Magical water heaters hummed softly like sleeping dragons, putting out steam in puffs. He was the only one there. Jack found his assigned cubby already stocked with thick crimson towels embroidered with the Gryffindor lion. A luxuriously thick bathrobe in matching colors hung on one of the cubby¡¯s two hooks. The cascading water was blissful, washing away the grime of travel and the lingering tension of the sorting disaster. Jack let his mind drift, trying not to think about tomorrow''s classes or about having to prove himself all over again in a new school. As he got out of the shower, his new housemates were starting to filter in as well. The washroom filled with the sounds of young men masking their mutual insecurities through loud commentary and exaggerated bravado. Jack politely avoided eye contact as they joshed each other. Back home, he''d known everyone in his class and house since 6th grade, their preferences, their family histories, their eccentricities. Here, he felt like an understudy in a play where everyone else knew their lines. Unfortunately, he found immediately himself the subject of conversation when Teddy and Henry burst in like a two-man hurricane. "-absolutely mad, going toe-to-toe with Hightower like that," Teddy was saying as he yanked off his tie, then noticed Jack drying himself. "Ahoy there Semmes! Boys, let¡¯s hear it for the new blood! Not even his first day and he¡¯s already got detention!" A chorus of appreciative cheers and whistles filled the washroom. "I didn''t get detention!" Jack protested, startled into engaging. "Winterborn just stuck me in the corner until the Sorting started. At least, I think I didn¡¯t get detention, how do you know if you do?" "Oh you¡¯ll know," Oliver¡¯s voice echoed out from a billowing steam cloud. ¡°And you¡¯ll doubly know if you miss it.¡± ¡°How was the summer holiday Ravenhurst?¡± another boy asked, ¡°Looks like you got new duds.¡± ¡°The winter wheat and barley came in well,¡± Henry replied, pitching his jacket into his cubby with the casual accuracy of a Quidditch Chaser. "That and my da couldn¡¯t ignore my growth spurt forever. Shot up two inches since Easter, turned all my trousers into knickerbockers. Only so much that lengthening charms can do." ¡°Oh that¡¯s it then, thought that you¡¯d been doing a bit of Dubliner part-timing, clerking for Mulholland Esquire,¡± Teddy said lightly, dodging into a free stall. Loud whoops and wolf-whistles at Henry¡¯s expense. "Shut it, Marshwiggle," Henry retorted, flushed from the hot air and embarrassment. "Some of us farmers actually work hard for our pocket money." ¡°Are you calling mucking out knucker dens easy?!¡± Teddy laughed, ¡°How about you finally visit us for the summer like you keep promising and I¡¯ll show you.¡± "What''s a knucker?" Jack asked. "Water dragon," Teddy explained. "Family breeds ''em for potions ingredients. Nasty tempered things, but profitable if you don''t mind the occasional drowning attempt."7 A short, extremely skinny boy with sharp features popped his head around Jack''s cubby and grabbed a towel. ¡°Semmes, right?¡± he said in a cockney London accent that was so strong that Jack thought it was an affectation. ¡°Todd Brock, third year. You play Quidditch at Ilvermorny?¡± ¡°No, Quodpot and Quopro,¡± Jack corrected, relaxing as the conversation shifted to familiar territory. "Quodpot we''ve ''eard of," Todd said, toweling his hair. "Bloody exploding Quaffles right?¡± "That''s the best part," Jack said, wrapping his towel around his waist. "You''ve got a ball, about yea big,¡± he described a sphere with his hands about eighteen inches in diameter, ¡°that''s been soaked in explosives, called a Quod. Very unstable, it¡¯ll blow up in random intervals from three to ten minutes. Only one goal - pot - on each end of the field, which is smaller than a Quidditch field. More physical than Quidditch too, basically no physical contact is off limits. The two teams - seven men on each team - try to get it in the pot at the other end of the field before it goes off. You score, the pot blows up the ball, you get a point, and another ball is brought out. If the Quod explodes while you''re holding it, you''re out and the other team gets a new Quod."8 ¡°Out as in¡­dead?¡± Henry called from his shower. ¡°No, you usually get caught by a cushioning charm if you get knocked off your broom. And we wear heavy padding and leather helmets, it¡¯s more unpleasant than painful. Getting body-checked by a linebacker at 50 miles an hour hurts worse.¡± "And people play this voluntarily?" Oliver asked incredulously. "It''s huge back home," Jack said. "Just had a professional league start up and everything a few years back. It¡¯s not as big as Quopro, but it¡¯s gaining.¡± "Mental," Todd repeated admiringly. "Absolute barking. No wonder you didn''t back down from Hightower, playing sports like that." "Says the runt who made Seeker," Teddy laughed, "Chasing an electrically conductive walnut-sized ball through thunderstorms..." "That''s different," Todd replied stiffly. "That''s proper sport, that is. None of this exploding business." ¡°Hang on then, back up,¡± a new boy piped up. ¡°What¡¯s Quopro?¡± "Stick and ball game," Jack explained, warming to his subject. "But with some extra enchantments. Players on brooms, except for the batter and pitcher. One strike instead of three because the balls go for hundreds of yards if you connect properly. It¡¯s a sight to see when the batter connects, there''s a massive explosion and the ball goes soaring into the sky with a fiery trail like a frigging comet. I brought some balls with me, we should get a game together." "Oi, speaking of games," a boy called from the showers. "Did any of you see Cassandra''s face when this mad lad laughed at her on the platform? I saw the crowd but didn¡¯t realize what was going on." ¡°You missed the fight of the century, Adkins,¡± supplied another boy on the other side of the cubbies. ¡°Thought she was going to hex him!¡± "Five points from Gryffindor for existing!" someone mimicked in a high-pitched voice, generating more hilarity. Jack laughed along as he got into his bathrobe and started to brush his teeth and style his hair. He felt like he had just been inducted into an elite brotherhood. "HO THERE! STAND TO ATTENTION, YOUNG FELLOW ME LAD!" The booming voice from the large mirror nearly made Jack swallow his toothbrush. His reflection was suddenly joined by the translucent figure of a mustachioed officer in battle dress, complete with swagger stick and a chestful of campaign medals. ¡°W-who the heck are you?¡± Jack sputtered. "Wing Commander Bader-Smythe, Royal Air Force at your service!" The ghostly officer twirled his impressively waxed mustachios. "But the lads just call me ''The Wing Co.'' And I must say, you¡¯re looking a shambles for the first day of term. Can''t face the enemy looking like you''ve just barrel rolled out of a Hurricane¡¯s cockpit!"9 Jack stared at his reflection in bewilderment. "Guys, the mirror is lecturing me." "Oh, he''s brilliant," Henry appeared behind him in his bathrobe, sandy hair pointing in every possible direction. "Everyone loves the Wing Co. He¡¯s a Muggle but he fits in great. Been here since the Blitz. Previous Head Boy tried to have him moved to the prefects'' bathroom, but we rioted." "Quite right too!" the Wing Co. declared. "Can''t abandon one''s post in times of crisis. Now then new boy, report! Name, rank and serial number! Jack barely stopped himself from snapping to attention, instead just straightening up, ¡°Jack Semmes, sixth-year, Ilvermorny, sir.¡± The Wing Co. paced back and forth in front of Jack¡¯s reflection twice, ¡°Very good. Alright young Yank, let''s get you squared away and shipshape. Remember the three P''s, Leftenant Semmes: Pride, Purpose, and Pomade! You represent not only Gryffindor, but the entire Allied forces of magical education!" "Allied forces?" Jack asked as he reached for his comb, amused in spite of his discomfit. "Naturally! Hogwarts, Ilvermorny, Beauxbatons, all standing firm against the forces of darkness!¡± The Wing Co. swished his swagger stick for emphasis. ¡°Can''t let standards slip, wot-wot? Now then, part to the left, that''s the ticket. Touch more pomade. Excellent!" The spectral officer beamed. "Looking like proper officer material now! Next we¡¯ll work on your facial hair, looking a bit scant, but plenty of time for that later! Now then, Leftenant, chin up! Shoulders back! Show our boys what a proper American wizard can do! How¡¯s your morale?" "I''m actually kind of nervous about it all, sir," Jack admitted, surprising himself. The Wing Co.''s expression softened behind his magnificent mustache. "Course you are, old chap. Natural as rain. But remember, courage isn''t about not being scared. It''s about pressing on regardless! Got me through the scrap, just like it¡¯ll get you through this! Remember, fortune doesn¡¯t favor the faint-hearted. So straighten up, keep your chin high, never let the blighters see you sweat, and let¡¯s give ¡®em a right thrashing! Right, off you go, chin-chin and tally-ho! Carpe diem!¡± ¡°Uh thanks sir,¡± Jack replied awkwardly as the Wing Co. waved his swagger stick and vanished. ¡°You too.¡± Back in the 6th year boys dormitory, his new roommates were settling in for the night. The familiar sounds of boys getting ready for bed - quiet conversations, the rustle of blankets, someone stubbing their toe and cursing - were both foreign and comforting. Different accents, different school, but some things were universal. Jack changed into his pajamas (American style, he noted, different from the nightshirts his dormmates wore) and climbed into bed. The sheets were already warm, probably from a warming enchantment. The tower window near his bed showed a slice of star-filled Scottish sky, so different from New York''s lights and the black forests of Ilvermorny. Jack bid goodnight to his new friends and pulled his curtains closed, shutting out the stars and hopefully most of his worries about tomorrow. He was clean, well-fed, and feeling more exhausted than he''d ever been in his life. It was cold outside, and the bed was warm. His last thought before drifting off was that he should write to his parents¡­but that could wait until tomorrow.
1. "Ritz", meaning classy or glamourous, is from Muggle C¨¦sar Ritz (1850¨C1918), a Swiss hotel owner. A nod to "Putting on the Ritz" a 1927 song by Muggle Irving Berlin, later immortalized by Muggle dancer Fred Astaire. "Putting on the Ritz" signified dressing and acting far posher than one¡¯s station. If a house-elf tried on a monocle and spats, you¡¯d get the idea. Ohioans: Muggles from the U.S. state of Ohio are famously provincial, even by American standards, often struck dumb by urban sophistication. Imagine a Welsh Hufflepuff encountering Diagon Alley for the first time. Sixth Avenue: A bustling 1940s Manhattan thoroughfare filled with neon lights, jazz clubs, and swanky hotels - Muggle culture¡¯s crude attempt at sophistication. 2. The 29 August 1947 match between Chudley and Kenmare ended with Kenmare winning 280-90, allowing the Kestrels to advance to the quarterfinals. The Chudley Cannons¡¯ loss was as inevitable as sunrise, though their fans maintain a loyalty bordering on the deranged. Kenmare¡¯s 1947 run was spectacular - ending, of course in true Irish fashion, in heartbreak during the semi-finals when their Seeker accidentally caught a Leprechaun instead of the Snitch. 3. ''Georgie'' is referring to the ill-fated Saratoga Campaign of 1777 A.D. during the American Revolution (1775-1783) that ended in a joint Magical-Muggle catastrophe for British forces and the total surrender of Sir John Burgoyne''s remaining forces. A black mark in British military (and magical) history. The campaign involved a bungled Muggle attempt to cut off American forces down the Hudson Valley paired with an equally incompetent Magical attempt to catch the chief of MACUSA resistance in New England, Captain Fox Morgan. Ministry reinforcements only added to the disaster when a wayward Delugeo Maximus spell meant to refill a bathtub accidentally wiped out several roads and Burgoyne''s line of retreat. Muggles still debate how ¡°American minutemen¡± managed to be so effective against British regulars. 4. Hogwarts was founded in 990 A.D. as a collection of small shacks and stone huts on what is now the Transfiguration Courtyard. Fascinatingly, early Hogwarts resembled less a school and more a ramshackle settlement of eccentric hermits wielding wands. One imagines the Sorting Hat began its career telling students, ¡°Try not to sit under that leaky roof.¡± Over the succeeding centuries the area that would become the Academic Wing was first built up into a motte and bailey style castle, then a full-fledged castle. The Quad Courtyard with its four surrounding towers (Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Grand, and Faculty) was completed in 1257. 5. Mr. Ravenhurst''s immature comment is not inaccurate. Phineas Black consistently rates in the top 3 most unpopular Hogwarts Headmasters, even amongst such enlightened company as Petunia Pott - the first female Headmistress of Hogwarts - who during the diamond jubilee of her tenure in 1541 was revealed to actually be a potted plant when an overzealous Ravenclaw began researching Transfiguration mishaps. 6. My research has uncovered only one non-prefect use of the prefect''s bathroom in the entire history of Hogwarts. Further details remain sealed in the archives. 7. Knuckers - dragon-like creatures prone to lurking in watery lairs - were a cornerstone of pre-modern British wizarding biodiversity. The Marshwiggles of Deeping Fens were the only licensed knucker breeders in the world from 1913-1957. The Marshwiggles¡¯ monopoly ended when an unlicensed knucker swallowed the entirety of the Upper Flagley Village Quidditch team during practice. 8. Quodpot, a game founded in the United States in 1891 by Abraham Peasegood, has (fortunately) only achieved limited popularity outside its homeland. Unlike its slightly more refined cousin Quopro, which is massively popular amongst Japanese and Latin American wizards. Ties in Japanese Quopro (or as they call it Hinoyaky¨± [»ð¤ÎÒ°Çò]) are traditionally decided with the rival pinch hitters having a sword fight on the mound with flaming katanas. 9. The Hawker Hurricane was a staple of the Royal Air Force during the Second Muggle Big War, a conflict far more destructive even than Grindelwald¡¯s rise. Hogwarts¡¯ magical wards often attract restless spirits, though the Wing Co¡¯s mysterious departure from the Gryffindor washroom in the 1950s suggests he¡¯s moved on to his Reward - or been moved by the Ministry Department for Ghostly Affairs. 10. Transcripts and Tribulations Morning arrived with the sound of British liquid sunshine splashing against the leaded glass windows and the distant cry of goshawks hunting their prey in the long meadow grass of the valley floor. Jack awoke with a start and a panicked grab for his wristwatch on the nightstand. It was nearly half past nine. Then he remembered where he was. No 6th graders racing down the hallways back at Ilvermorny pounding on the doors to awaken the upperclassmen, no morning formation to sprint downstairs to for the march into the mess hall for breakfast. No, Mr. Semmes, you¡¯re practically on vacation right now. Jack allowed himself to stretch luxuriously in the soft cotton sheets that somehow still smelled of summer sunshine despite the rainy autumn weather. The dormitory was empty. His roommates had apparently let him sleep in. The strange twittering songs of unknown birds serenaded him from their roosts outside the window. He lay in bed, contemplating the bed canopy, and wondering if he could get an underclassman to fetch him breakfast in bed. Did they do that here? A brisk knocking sound brought him back to earth. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!" Henry opened the door and stuck his head inside. "Scheduling in fifteen minutes! Better hurry up or all the good classes will be taken." Jack dressed quickly in what he hoped was appropriate casual wear under his school robes, pressed khaki trousers, a white button up shirt, brown suspenders, and a comfortable pair of brown leather oxford shoes. The shoes felt like a little piece of home, he''d bought them on Fifth Avenue last summer, before any of this transfer business had been finalized.1 He began adding one of his blue and red striped Thunderbird neckties¡­ "Oh no you don''t, here," Henry tossed him a strip of crimson and gold as he emerged from behind his bed curtains putting his tie on. "You need a proper necktie. Can''t have you wearing that Ilvermorny thing anymore." He took away Jack¡¯s old tie and tossed it back onto his bed. Jack carefully knotted the borrowed Gryffindor tie in front of their shared mirror into a casually nonchalant half-Windsor. ¡°Never trust a man with a full Windsor knot,¡± his father had told him. ¡°That¡¯s a man who puts too much stock in his own appearance. Learned that from a British colleague.¡± His reflection showed a tall, athletic young man trying very hard to look like he belonged here. The sun-browned skin and easy smile that had felt so natural at Ilvermorny now seemed foreign against the unfamiliar backdrop of his new dorm room. ¡°How do I look?¡± he asked Henry, who was collecting a few things from his nightstand. "The robes make the wizard," Henry replied without looking. "Or at least a decent American imitation of one."2 "...Thanks.¡± ¡°Taking our prisoner out for air, Major?¡± Georgie asked suspiciously as they passed his portrait. The little red-coated wizard was sitting on a campaign stool enjoying breakfast complete with china service and white linen tablecloth. A remarkably civilized repast considering his woodland surroundings. Now that Jack paid closer attention, the background looked remarkably like the Hudson River Valley¡­3 ¡°He¡¯s out on parole, Georgie,¡± Henry replied. ¡°Word of an officer and a gentleman and all that.¡± ¡°Pish-posh!¡± George grunted disapprovingly, ¡°The word of a scoundrel and rogue more like! He¡¯s taking advantage of your better nature, young Ravenhurst!¡± He pointed his painted fork at Jack threateningly. ¡°Mark my words, when he absconds it will be on your head when we report to the Ministry!¡± ¡°I¡¯ll take my chances,¡± Henry pulled Jack past before Georgie could waste more of their time. They descended the spiral staircase to find the common room filled with their housemates, but considerably more subdued than last night. Griffindors sprawled across every available surface from carpet to couch, comparing schedules and trading tips about professors. First years clutched their brand-new timetables like sacred texts while older students lounging in the best chairs offered contradictory advice. Watery gray sunlight filtered through the rain-splattered windows. "Advanced Potions is brutal," a worldly seventh-year was warning a group of fourth-years, "You want nothing to do with it. Leave it for the Ravenclaws and the overachievers. Look at me, I¡¯m still graduating with nothing better than P¡¯s and A¡¯s in Potions. Remember ¡®P¡¯s get degrees.¡¯"4 "Don''t take Divination," another advised. "Unless you enjoy making up increasingly creative ways to die." ¡°I never had any trouble with that,¡± his friend jumped in. ¡°Sitting in Doubtfire¡¯s classes make me think of all sorts of ingenious suicide methods.¡± ¡°Professor rankings from worst to best? That¡¯s easy: Binns, MacGregor, Blackthorn, Vale, Winterborn, Whitby, Brightwell, MacLeod,¡± pronounced a bespectacled third-year boy far too loudly, to boos and cries of ¡°Stop sucking up!¡±, ¡°Apple polisher!¡±, ¡°Lickspittle!¡± and other rude appellations. The unfortunate speaker was pelted by crumpled napkins and bits of toast for good measure. That drew Jack''s attention. There must be food available. He soon noticed a breakfast cart set out by the staircase with crumpets, toast, fruit, and tea and availed himself of the refreshments. Professor Malcolm MacLeod was holding court by the roaring fireplace, towering over his charges like the Ghost of Christmas Present.5 His bristly red beard was even more impressive at close range. "Ach, our new boy!" MacLeod boomed cheerfully as Jack approached, trying (and failing) to carefully eat a crumpet that he had overloaded with raspberry jam and clotted cream. "Had a look at your transcripts. Top marks in History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts. Looking forward tae having you in class. Have ye completed the apparition examination yet?" ¡°No sir,¡± Jack replied, wiping his hands on a napkin and sitting down in an armchair next to where Henry was examining his own schedule. ¡°I turn sixteen in October.¡± ¡°No trouble, we''ll take care of that next summer before your seventh year.¡± He handed Jack a blank schedule form. Now that he was up close Jack noticed that the professor wore an articulated iron gauntlet covering his left hand, its surface engraved with subtle runes. Jack tried not to stare, but MacLeod caught him looking. The professor''s weathered face split into a broad grin. ¡°What¡¯s that laddie? Want me to take it off?¡± Without waiting for Jack to politely decline, MacLeod was already unbuckling the straps that secured the gauntlet to his arm. The metal hand detached... and walked across the table on all five fingers like a demented spider. Jack''s jaw dropped. Where the gauntlet had been was nothing but a scarred stump ending mid-forearm, the skin a shiny pink mass of burn scars. "Gift from a particularly nasty Polish wizard in Upper Silesia,"6 MacLeod explained cheerfully, watching his mechanical hand do a little dance among the breakfast dishes. "Rotter thought he was being clever, using something that would resist magical healing. Had to get creative with the solution." He whistled sharply and the gauntlet scuttled back, reattaching itself with precise clicks. "Does it...always do that?" Jack asked, slightly sickened but fascinated despite himself. "Only when new students get a wee curious," MacLeod winked. "It plays wizard chess too, though it doesn¡¯t take losing gracefully. Tried to choke me last time, the little blighter." He flexed the iron fingers affectionately. "Developed quite the personality after I had the goblins enchant it. Cost me a small fortune, but worth every Galleon just to see the looks on people''s faces. Just like yours." Jack¡¯s face drew a round of fresh laughter from his housemates. He grinned self-consciously. "Now then, about your classes¡­¡± MacLeod handed over a double-sided piece of parchment covered in course information. what subjects were ye planning to continue at N.E.W.T. level?" N.E.W.T.s, right, the level above APs, Jack thought as he scanned the course list, noting several significant differences from Ilvermorny''s curriculum. There were fewer classes, but the hours were longer. The courses also appeared more comprehensive and less specialized than back home. Divination was Divination, though the British seemed to take it more seriously, at Ilvermorny it had always been an optional elective. He was glad he didn¡¯t have to take it until Spring Term. "Alchemy is just called Potions here?" he asked. "At Ilvermorny it''s split into Practical Alchemy and Transmutation Theory..." Neither of which, he did not add, he was very good at. "Professor Vale handles both aspects," MacLeod explained. "Though he favors the practical. Says there''s little point in understanding theory if you can''t brew a decent Pepper-Up. I¡¯m trying to place you into Advanced so that you can make up for missed course work." Jack continued down the list. "No separate class for Indian Magical Traditions?" "Covered in History of Magic, rather briefly. Professor Binns uses a Euro-centric curriculum." "Magitechnology?"7 "I know that¡¯s popular across the pond, but not considered orthodox over here, very controversial at the Ministry. What we have regarding that is split between Charms and Muggle Studies." MacLeod''s enchanted hand clicked thoughtfully. "Ilvermorny does seem rather focused on defense applications of magic." "Comes with life on the frontier sir," Jack said carefully. "And doubly so after the war." "Aye, well, can''t fault that." MacLeod made a notation on a gridded piece of parchment, evidently Jack¡¯s Ilvermorny transcript. "Your grades are excellent. Top 10% of your class¡­Defense, obviously, those courses you took will serve you well there. Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic... Muggle Studies too? Interesting choice." "With how Ilvermorny is, basically all of us have a minor in Muggle Studies,¡± Jack explained. "Aye, Professor Whitby''s approach might be a tad¡­different from what you''re used to,¡± Jack¡¯s housemates laughed uproariously at that, even though he didn¡¯t get it. Yet. They worked out the rest of his schedule over the next few minutes, MacLeod occasionally consulting a complex chart showing course equivalencies between the two magical schools. Jack was relieved to see the majority of his Ilvermorny credits would transfer, though some adjustment would be needed. "You¡¯ll need to take an increased course load this term, but the change in wand technique might be your biggest challenge," MacLeod said. "British technique emphasizes precision and control over improvisation and speed. Professor Winterborn especially is strict about proper form." ¡°Yes sir," Jack said ruefully. There was one last course he was curious about, one of his favorites back home. Jack knew it was a long shot but asked anyway, ¡°Is there a class that includes Magical Guerilla Warfare offered here?"8 "Gorilla-wha?" MacLeod''s bushy eyebrows rose. "Merlin''s beard, no, but I¡¯m sure they cover callitrix and other dangerous primate beasties in Care of Magical Creatures. Now here, take a look.¡± He handed over Jack¡¯s adjusted transcript with course credits. Jack suppressed a sigh. He should have known better, Ilvermorny''s martial heritage showed in courses like that one, where they learned everything from magical camouflage to counter-tracking. It had been developed during the Revolution and refined through various conflicts since. Clearly the British didn¡¯t worry so much about fighting. He consulted his extensive list of Ilvermorny transfer credits:
Advanced Combat Magic, Outstanding (converted to O) ¡ú Defense Against the Dark ArtsUnauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Magical Theory and Practice, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Charms Transmutation, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Transfiguration Alchemy, Acceptable (A) ¡ú Potions No-Maj Studies, Outstanding (O) ¡ú Muggle Studies Magical History, Outstanding (O) ¡ú History of Magic Infinitesimal Calculus, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Arithmancy Pictography, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Ancient Runes Astrology, Outstanding (O) ¡ú Astronomy Cryptozoology, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Care of Magical Creatures Herbology, Exceeds Expectations (E) ¡ú Herbology Signs and Portents, No Grade ¡ú Divination
"Your Combat Magic marks are impressive," MacLeod noted. "Though you''ll find my Defense curriculum focuses more on theory and controlled application rather than your¡­gorilla tactics." "And dueling," Henry added. "Proper dueling. None of that American freestyle business." Jack thought nostalgically of the fast-and-loose combat style taught at Ilvermorny, where winning mattered more than doctrine. "Now here..." MacLeod checked another parchment. "You''ll need tae take a placement test for Potions. Different brewing techniques here, you understand. Professor Vale is very particular about methodology."" "He means Vale''s a nightmare," Henry stage-whispered, earning a glare from their Head of House. ¡°That¡¯s enough of that, Ravenhurst. Now Semmes, Professor Winterborn wants a go at assessing yer Transfiguration an¡¯ all," MacLeod continued. "And..." He paused, scanning the parchment. "Ach, aye, Professor Brightwell made a note that yer Charms O.W.L. equivalent was particularly strong. He¡¯s suggesting ye join the Advanced Practical Applications study group." Jack took a swig of tea to try and calm his nerves. Even the grading system was different. Ilvermorny used a modified version of the No-Maj American system: A, B, C, D, and F. But here... "Outstanding (O), Exceeds Expectations (E), Acceptable (A), Poor (P), Dreadful (D), and Troll (T)," MacLeod listed off. "Troll?!" Jack''s shock made Henry snicker. "Aye, named after the quality of work typically produced by said creatures," MacLeod explained. "Though we haven''t had one awarded at the N.E.W.T. level since the late ¡®30s."9 ¡°What¡¯s N.E.W.T. stand for?¡± Jack asked, although he knew he was going to regret it. ¡°Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Exams,¡± Henry supplied proudly. "Here''s your tentative schedule," MacLeod said, tapping the blank form with his wand. Lines of neat script flowered over the page:
Day I Day II
Time Class Time Class
7:00am Breakfast 7:00am Breakfast
8:00am - 10:30am Adv. Potions (Double) 8:00am - 9:15am Adv. Defense Against the Dark Arts
9:30am - 10:45am Adv. Muggle Studies
10:45am - 12:00pm Adv. Transfiguration 11:00am - 12:00pm Study Hall
12:00pm - 1:00pm Lunch 12:00pm - 1:00pm Lunch
1:30pm - 2:45pm Adv. History of Magic 1:30pm - 2:45pm Adv. Charms
3:00pm - 4:15pm Ancient Runes 3:00pm - 4:15pm Herbology / Care of Magical Creatures (alternating)
4:15pm - 6:30pm Sports and Club Time (Magical Integration on Second Wednesdays) 4:15pm - 6:30pm Sports and Club Time
6:30pm - 7:30pm Dinner 6:30pm - 7:30pm Dinner
7:30pm - 10:00pm Supervised Prep 7:30pm - 10:00pm Supervised Prep
10:00pm Lights Out (1 hour of Astronomy weekly at 12:00pm) 10:00pm Lights Out
"Placement tests this afternoon, classes start Monday.¡± ¡°Placement tests on Saturday afternoon?!¡± Jack echoed in despair. "I haven''t studied!" ¡°Aye, you¡¯re the only one who needs them!¡± MacLeod grinned, ¡°All your fellow students did them last term.¡± ¡°Winterborn says taking tests on Saturday builds character,¡± Henry added unhelpfully. ¡°Any last questions?" "Just one, sir," Jack said, studying the schedule. "What''s this ''Magical Integration'' period on Wednesdays?" "Ah." MacLeod''s twinkling eyes grew serious. "New requirements from the Ministry after the war. Monthly seminars for each class year focused on wizard/Muggle relations, pureblood ideological deprogramming, cultural exchange, international magical cooperation, that sort of thing. Gi¡¯en recent events..." He didn''t need to elaborate. The shadow of Grindelwald still hung over everything. Jack suppressed a shudder, remembering the door of the pub shaking with curses launched against it, the strange guttural language being barked by his pursuers. "Speaking of integration," Henry chimed in, "fair warning, you''re sharing most of your advanced classes with Ravenclaw. Including double Potions Monday morning." Jack¡¯s expectant smile grew even wider, "Let me guess¡­Cassandra Hightower?" "Top of our year in Cauldroning," Henry confirmed cheerfully. "Try not to blow anything up. Vale''s enough of a terror without adding house rivalry to the mix. Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m in your Transfig class though! Don¡¯t be scared of Winterborn, she loves me." ¡°And if you fail your placements,¡± Teddy added, ¡°You can just take the normal course load like Oliver and me.¡± "Aye, well." MacLeod shuffled his papers again. "You''ll have some catching up to do, but your O.W.L. equivalents are strong. Just remember, different school, different methods. Try to adapt rather than argue, Mr. Semmes." Jack nodded, thinking of the differences he''d already noticed. On the surface, Hogwarts seemed more relaxed than Ilvermorny. The dress code was looser, students had lots more leeway in what they put under their robes, there was no morning formation in the courtyard, and no required study hours enforced by student officers. The professors seemed more approachable too, or at least MacLeod certainly was. Jack could feel himself slowly peeling back paper-thin layers of tradition and formality beneath the informal exterior. Here were ancient house rivalries and byzantine social codes with subtle but strict divisions. It was like navigating an invisible maze. At Ilvermorny, the rules were clear. They were written in manuals, posted on walls, and drilled into students until they could recite them in their sleep. Here, the important rules were unwritten. Ilvermorny''s regimentation was skin-deep, designed to impose order on a young, chaotic magical tradition. Hogwarts'' traditions ran straight through the bone, wrought by centuries of history and pain. Even the castle itself showed it. Ilvermorny''s granite was solid, dependable, exactly what it appeared to be. Hogwarts'' mosaic of shale and slate shifted and whispered, hiding secrets. In spite of superficial appearances, Hogwarts was more rigid in many ways than Ilvermorny. But it also had a depth of magical knowledge that Ilvermorny, for all its practical focus, couldn''t match. It really made Jack feel like an intruder. "One last thing," MacLeod fixed Jack with his bright blue eyes. "The prefect system here may be different from what you''re used to. Pay attention to your seventh-years, follow the rules, and for Merlin''s sake don''t challenge Miss Hightower again.¡± Jack looked indignant, ¡°But sir, how did you-¡± ¡°You think that we teachers don¡¯t talk to each other? Or to the prefects?¡± MacLeod laughed. ¡°Trust me laddie, young Miss Hightower knows more hexes than most Auror trainees. She¡¯s not a girl to trifle with." Henry''s barely-suppressed snort suggested that there was a story there, but Jack was too overwhelmed with information to care at the moment.10 Different grading, different teaching styles, different social structures. He took another fortifying sip of tea. At least the tea was good. Although at the moment he really wanted a nice cup of coffee. He sat back in his armchair, considering his schedule and licking jam off his fingers as MacLeod turned his attention to the first-years. Nine classes this semester. Two more than he had at Ilvermorny, and not an easy one in the bunch. Well, maybe Muggle Studies or History of Magic. But he''d wanted an adventure, hadn''t he? Well, here he was - new school, new curriculum, and classes starting in two days with the most bombshell blonde dame this side of Manhattan. He sunk deeper into the plush padding. And to cap it all off, only fifteen minutes to get in between classes in a castle where the staircases liked to rearrange themselves. ¡°Henry,¡± Jack said from the depths of the chair, his inquisitive mind starting to carefully prioritize the new information that he needed to collect, ¡°I¡¯m going to need that nifty tour of the grounds you promised.¡± Henry folded up his own schedule, then stood up and stretched, "Not to worry, old sport. I''ll give you the ground tour, show you all the shortcuts.¡± He pulled a battered brass pocket watch out of his pocket, ¡°Still got a few hours before your placement tests. That¡¯s plenty of time to get you set right." Jack nodded, looking at his schedule again. "You''re a lifesaver, Henry. Seriously." His friend neatly packed away his parchments in his school bag, ¡°Shall we begin then?¡±
1. Fifth Avenue: the chief Muggle shopping district in New York City. The Americans¡¯ utter lack of a proper wizarding shopping district like Diagon Alley is, frankly, embarrassing. Fifth Avenue is passable for Muggles, I suppose, but where¡¯s the charm? The hidden entrances? The sense of mystery? 2. "The Robes make the Wizard": A clever variation on "vestis virum facit¡±, a 16th century Latin proverb by Wizarding philosopher Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus. Erasmus, along with his good friend Sir Thomas More, was one of the few wizarding philosophers who managed to influence Muggle thought, though they still haven¡¯t the faintest idea who he really was. 3. The Hudson River Valley: This breathtaking glacial valley, running through eastern New York state and just west of Ilvermorny, holds a special place in both Muggle and wizarding history. Among Muggles, it inspired the Hudson River School of landscape painting, a movement that captured the region¡¯s natural beauty in the 19th century led by Thomas Cole and Asher Durand. Today, Ilvermorny students visiting the valley for magical field trips often joke that it¡¯s impossible to tell where the natural beauty ends and the enchantments begin. 4. ''P''s get degrees'': While technically accurate, it¡¯s disgraceful advice for any young witch or wizard with aspirations. Passable marks might get you through, but good luck getting a job that doesn¡¯t involve mopping floors at St. Mungo¡¯s. 5. The Ghost of Christmas Present: A delightful character from Muggle author Charles Dickens¡¯ A Christmas Carol. Dickens, of course, had no idea how accurate his depiction of ghosts really was. One wonders if he had an accidental brush with the spectral world¡­ or just a surfeit of sherry. 6. Professor MacLeod is almost certainly referring to the 1945 Battle of Kohlbergwerk, near Breslau in modern-day Poland. One of the final magical conflicts in the Great Wizarding War. Grim business. The accounts of dark wizard banshee deployments alone are chilling. 7. "Magitechnology" was a faddish (and now thankfully suppressed) "science" of the early to mid-20th century proposed by American wizards Robert Homestead and Warner Brown to try and ''merge'' Muggle tech with wizarding expertise. Most of its ¡°breakthroughs¡± resulted in chaos. Magical radios were the sole success - everything else either exploded or melted. 8. "MS460: Magical Guerilla Warfare" was an advanced elective offered at Ilvermorny by the Department of Magical War Studies from 1938-1973. It sounds far more exciting than anything offered at Hogwarts in my day. Why this course was dropped is beyond me. Perhaps they feared it was giving students too many ideas? 9. The student in question was the unfortunate Agamemnon Dupuy, Class of ''38, who accidentally transfigured his Charms N.E.W.T. into a singing telegram while attempting to slyly conjure a cheat sheet. Let his story be a lesson to all: study or face ignominy. 10. Mr. Ravenhurst was probably alluding to a rather infamous incident in March 1947. According to my research in the Hogwarts archives (a thankless task, let me assure you, given the state of record-keeping at this school), Prefect C. Hightower - yes, that Ms. Hightower, ever the paragon of propriety - personally apprehended three Slytherin fourth-years in the act of attempting to pilfer knickers from the Hufflepuff girls¡¯ dormitory. It seems their harebrained scheme involved some sort of levitation charm up the kitchen chimneys, as it alerted Hightower, who was on patrol at the time. She promptly chased them down - across two staircases and a secret passage, according to her statement - and dragged all three, thoroughly chastened, before Professor Blackthorn. Blackthorn, a notoriously strict disciplinarian, docked Slytherin House 150 points and gave the petticoat thieves two months of detention plus a dressing-down severe enough to leave one of the boys sobbing. A rather quaint scandal by today¡¯s standards, but at the time, it caused no small amount of gossip - though more about the boldness of the Hufflepuff girls in their choice of undergarments than the idiocy of the boys attempting the theft. Some things, it seems, never change. 11. Placements and New Pals For the next two hours, Henry led Jack through the winding halls and moving staircases of Hogwarts, pointing out classrooms, bathrooms, and pitfalls along the way. He showed him how to get through the dungeons to Potions ("Do not ask Slytherins for directions."), other classes ("Like we told you last night, most of your classes are in this building, Transfiguration''s down here. Mind that step, it vanishes during new moons. Charms corridor down through there.¡±), how to not get delayed (¡°If you hear Peeves the Poltergeist coming, run like the devil. He¡¯s heard there¡¯s an American here. Now he¡¯s like a barghest with a bloody steak held in front of it.¡±1), the quickest route from the Charms corridor to the Transfiguration Courtyard ("Skip the main staircase, take this stone slide behind the tapestry with the hunting scene"), miscellaneous tips (¡°Be sure to go to the bathroom before Astronomy, the nearest bathroom is seven flights of steps down and it¡¯s a girls room.¡±) and the best place to take a smoke between classes ("There''s a nice little alcove behind the suit of armor on the second floor, hardly anyone knows about it").2 Jack took it all in, marveling at the sheer size and complexity of the castle. Ilvermorny¡¯s academic buildings and grounds felt like a modest New Jersey townhouse compared to this. He felt a pang of homesickness, a longing for the familiar haunts and faces of his old school. But it was quickly overwhelmed by a thrill in his chest at all the history that was literally underfoot. Albus Dumbledore had gone here, and nearly every other wizard and witch worth reading about. Going down the same hallways, and attending the same classes. How many of his classmates would be blazing their names into history books for future Hogwarts students to read about, dream about, and seek to emulate? By the time they circled back across the viaduct to the Great Hall for lunch, Jack was feeling much more confident about his ability to navigate the castle. His head was packed with new information. He felt energized, ready to tackle whatever challenges lay ahead. Of course, his first challenges were the Potion and Transfig placement tests (he was already falling into the slang references for the course). After a hasty sandwich and another cup of tea, he bade Henry goodbye and made his deliberate way down to the dungeon classroom where the test was being held. He was - as expected - the only student there, and Professor Vale gave him the special attention Jack was afraid of. Vale loomed over his cauldron like an ill-tempered white-wigged bat and made disapproving noises at his ingredient preparation technique. "American method," he muttered. "All shortcuts and flash. Where''s the artistry? Where¡¯s the precision?" Jack was a split second late adding beeswing to his gently bubbling draught, prompting the Potions Master to tut loudly and add: ¡°How delightfully typical, late to the war, late on your timing.¡±3 Jack finished in under 45 minutes, had his Ointment of Rheumatic Aid critiqued as ¡°bland, insipid, mass-produced, and uninspiring¡±, and fled the dungeons after Vale had marked him ¡®barely Acceptable¡¯. Professor Winterborn was marginally less threatening during the Transfiguration assessment upstairs back in the Academic Wing, though her rapid-fire questions about theoretical principles and the conservation of mass left Jack sweating and stammering. "Different foundation at Ilvermorny, clearly," she noted, after Jack had successfully changed the color of a glass paperweight all the way through the rainbow while keeping it mostly transparent, "but not unsalvageable. I¡¯ll give you an Acceptable for now, but you''ll need some supplementary reading to catch up." A yard-long scroll was conjured from the air and handed to him. ¡°Mr. Ravenhurst can help you with some of the more intricate concepts.¡± "Is that really necessary, ma¡¯am?" Jack asked weakly, his spirit massively bruised by the ¡®C¡¯ grade. He thought he was good at Transmutation... ¡°Presumptuous, Mr. Semmes,¡± Winterborn pinned him with her beady eyes. "Or perhaps you''d prefer to be in my remedial section?¡± Jack slumped in defeat. "No, professor." Jack had a splitting headache and his hand was cramped from writing essays all afternoon by dinner time. Henry and his friends had saved a seat for him at the Gryffindor table. He collapsed onto the bench, air spilling out of him like a punctured balloon. "How''d it go?" Henry asked innocently, though his twinkling eyes suggested he already had a good idea from Jack¡¯s body language. "Vale thinks I''m an idiot, Winterborn hates me, and I have a month¡¯s worth of reading to do just to get ready for class on Monday," Jack groaned, reaching for a pork pie. "Tell me again why I transferred?" "International magical cooperation, right?," Teddy offered cheerfully. "Blame the ICW.4 Cheer up Semmes, we¡¯ve got Sunday off tomorrow. Can''t get any worse, right?" Oliver drained a glass of perry in one long swig, "You really shouldn''t say things like that at Hogwarts, Marsh. The castle takes it as a challenge." Jack looked up at the enchanted ceiling, where angry storm clouds were gathering dramatically. After dinner, he walked with his friends back towards the common room, splitting off with them in the courtyard and headed in a roundabout way for the Owlery, refusing an offer from Henry to show him the way. Jack wanted some time to himself. His mother was probably already worrying about something or other, he had promised to mail them the day he arrived. It was inconvenient having to trek all this way, he thought as he picked his way carefully down the wet steps of the West Tower heading towards the Beasts Paddock. Maybe he should save his money up to get his own owl¡­have it deliver mail straight to his dorm room. They were expensive though. Maybe a new broom should come first. Jack turned up the hood of his robe against the rain, which had started to sheet down, and ran the two hundred yards to the owlery. The circular stone building rose before him like a medieval watchtower, its windows glassless to allow the hundreds of owls living there easy passage. The storm made the whole structure seem forbidding, rain lashing against stones occasionally illuminated by lightning flashes. The interior, by contrast, was a warm and stuffy ascending amphitheater of soft hooting and rustling feathers. Owls of every size and breed perched in the shadowed rafters: tiny scops barely bigger than Quopro balls, elegant barn owls preening their heart-shaped faces, massive eagle owls regarding him imperiously from the highest perches. The stone floor was thickly carpeted with straw and the evidence of several hundred owls'' favorite pastime. Everything reeked of ammonia. He picked his way carefully between piles of owl droppings and pellets toward the school birds, finally selecting a doughty-looking barn owl that seemed up for a long journey for a reasonable fee. His letter was already written and sealed in a watertight envelope:
Dear Mom and Dad, Here at Hogwarts, safe and sound. Voyage was uneventful. The castle''s very impressive. Got sorted into Gryffindor and already making lots of friends. Everything''s going great. Classes start Monday. Don''t worry! Love, Jack
He''d rewritten it twice to capture the perfect amount of teenage insouciance, hiding homesickness between the lines and deleting any mention of Hightower.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. ¡°Snf!¡± The owl gave him a snort and an exasperated look. "I know, I know," Jack grumbled, "Sorry! I know it¡¯s a long flight, but think about it from my perspective. I gotta pay transatlantic airfare!¡± He counted out a whole Sickle into its leather purse. ¡°Highway robbery if you ask me. Could buy a nice dinner and a movie with that!"5 With a distinct huff, the bird snatched the envelope and launched itself into the tempest through the western window. Jack looked outside at the storm, figured that it wasn¡¯t letting up anytime soon, and ran back to the West Tower as fast as he could, leather shoes slipping on the path. His socks were soaked through before he made it fifteen yards. The journey back was a good review of Jack¡¯s pilgrim prowess, and of Henry¡¯s careful tutelage. Down the spiral stairs of the West Tower and through the echoing Academic Wing he squelched. Several portraits made impolite comments about good-for-nothing students wandering about late hours dripping water everywhere. The iron suspension bridge swayed alarmingly in the wind, forcing Jack to grab the rain-slicked handguard as he crossed high above the black abyss of the ravine. He trotted past Ravenclaw¡¯s aerie, into Gryffindor Tower, up six flights of spiral steps, and finally (¡°Krugeri¡±) through the portrait hole. Jack was attempting to dry himself with a combined heating and gusting charm in the entryway when they descended upon him. ¡°Mr. Semmes! Mr. Semmes!" A small boy with a mane of untamed brown hair and a sharp aquiline nose materialized at his elbow. "There¡¯s a seat over here by the fire, Mr. Semmes, we saved it for you!¡± He politely but insistently tugged at Jack¡¯s arm. "Could you tell us more about America?" After his initial confusion, Jack recognized him. It was Palamedes Hitchens, the first-year from the reception hall who thought Jack¡¯s Ilvermorny garb had been a guard¡¯s uniform. ¡°Hey, listen pal-¡± Jack began exasperatedly. ¡°Yes, YES!¡± Palamedes lit up like a Christmas tree, ¡°Please call me Pal! Way better than Palamedes.¡± He pulled Jack into the common room. ¡°I had so many questions I didn¡¯t get to ask you yesterday. Is it true you play Quodpot? Did you really ride a thunderbird? What''s New York like? Is Superman a wizard?"6 "No, Superman isn''t a-how do you even know that-" Jack began, but was interrupted by a second first-year, this one dumpy and clutching a massive book to his chest like a life preserver. ¡°Menelaus Gristwood, Mr. Semmes,¡± the boy adjusted his thick round glasses self-importantly, "But my da calls me Mel. I just got this book from the library and I''ve been reading about American magical education systems. Is it true that Ilverm-¡± "Give him space, you two!" A third boy, ginger, freckled, and in pajamas decorated with moving golden snitches, shoved his way in between them. "I''m Wigbald Stoat, but I like Wiggy. Can you teach us American dueling?" "Absolutely not," came Mina Mulholland¡¯s ringing lilt. She pattered down the spiral steps from the boys dorm and marched up to them, looking slightly harried. "It''s past your bedtime. Did you brush your teeth?" Three guilty faces turned toward her. "But Miss Mulholland!" "We just wanted-" "He''s from America!" "And he''ll still be from America tomorrow," she said firmly, herding them back toward the dormitory stairs. "After you''ve slept, eaten breakfast, and done your homework. School starts in two days, and I expect-" her musical reprimands faded up the stairs. "This is better than a wireless drama,"7 the irrepressible Henry Ravenhurst commented from a nearby armchair. Cigarette smoke coiled upward into the still air from an ashtray. Jack hung up his wet robe on a coat tree and sat down in front of the fire to carefully dry his shoes. The common room was nearly empty. "Are freshmen usually like that here?" Jack asked. "Of course," Henry snorted. "You ask me, it''s because we can''t fag them anymore.8 Bloody post-war softness." ¡°They¡¯re like excitable little puppies,¡± Jack remarked. "Boys, be charitable. They''re first-years," Mina returned, looking fondly up towards the dorms. "Everything''s still magical to them." "As opposed to us jaded old men," Henry grinned. He shook a cigarette out of his pack and gestured to the open armchair next to them. "Not tonight," Mina rolled her eyes. "I need to head back to the prefects'' tower. I¡¯d like to store up some sleep before the year starts in earnest." ¡°So soon?¡± Henry asked. ¡°And you should both get to bed too,¡± Mina said, as if he hadn¡¯t said anything. ¡°It¡¯s only 10 o¡¯clock-¡± Henry protested. "Good night, Mr. Ravenhurst," she cut him off. "Good night, Mr. Semmes." They watched her disappear through the portrait hole, waving a water repelling charm over her robes. Jack returned his attention to drying and oiling his shoes. When they were cleaned enough he stood up, yawning and ready for bed. Henry was still staring pensively at the entryway. ¡°She¡¯s nice,¡± Jack offered. ¡°Her accent is really-...neat.¡± He barely stopped himself from saying ''pretty'', held back by an innate boyish code of honor. Henry uncoiled himself from his seat like a spring. ¡°She¡¯s right too,¡± he said, bounding over to the stairs and taking them up three at a time. ¡°Sleep deficit is no way to start the school year. Come along Semmes.¡± ¡°Were you waiting up for me?¡± Jack asked as they climbed toward their dormitory. ¡°¡®Course I was,¡± Henry replied matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. ¡°What if you had gotten lost?¡± Jack was taken aback. ¡°That¡¯s¡­really-¡± Henry continued on, ¡°I¡¯m locking you out, Semmes,¡± he said over his shoulder as he reached the door without him. Jack followed. They made their way to their beds in companionable silence.
1. A barghest is a spectral black dog of Northern English folklore, often associated with death and misfortune. Much like Peeves the Poltergeist, barghests are notorious for appearing at the most inconvenient times, usually to terrify or torment the unsuspecting. 2. Smoking was, of course, frowned upon in academic areas, but common rooms were more lenient. In the 1940s, male wizarding students who enjoyed a pipe or cigarette was the norm. It was slightly more uncommon for girls. Presumably Mr. Semmes and his friends used a vacuum charm - simple, yet effective - to remove all traces of smoke. 3. "How delightfully typical, late to the war, late on your timing", Professor Vale''s barb is accurate, as MACUSA didn''t join the Great Wizarding War until nearly six years after it had started. While Grindelwald¡¯s forces swept across Europe in the 1920s, the Americans seemed more concerned with isolationism and internal politics. When they finally joined, their contributions were significant, but the delay still rankles, particularly among wizards who lived through those years. 4. The International Confederation of Wizards, which at the time nominally presided over the Magical World. The ICW¡¯s authority was already precarious in the 1940s, and the post-war period saw further erosion of its influence. Decolonization destabilized traditional magical hierarchies in Africa and Asia, as emerging wizarding nations sought to establish autonomy. Meanwhile, the Soviet Union''s magical factions rejected ICW oversight entirely. By the mid-20th century, the ICW was struggling to maintain any semblance of global unity. 5. Adjusted for inflation, Mr. Semmes paid nearly 5 Sickles and 3 Knuts for that letter. Highway robbery indeed. Thankfully, the post-war expansion of the Mail-Floo Network reduced costs and improved accessibility for wizarding communication. Today, you¡¯d only pay a few Knuts for the same service - though the reliability of Mail-Floo has been called into question ever since those Romanian dragon eggs ended up in the kitchen of the Muggle Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park back in 2008... 6. Superman debuted in 1938, the creation of two American Muggle comic writers, Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster. The character¡¯s extraordinary powers - flight, strength, and near-invulnerability - were perplexing to wizards who couldn¡¯t quite believe a Muggle could dream up such abilities without magical influence. Of course, now we know Superman¡¯s powers are attributed to his fictional Kryptonian origins, but one can imagine contemporary wizards entertaining the notion that he might be a wizard hiding in plain sight. 7. Wizarding wireless dramas were the wizarding world''s answer to Muggle radio plays: serialized stories performed live, complete with enchanted sound effects and magical music. Popular in the early 20th century, these dramas included everything from gripping tales of heroic Aurors to comedic sagas about bumbling potion-makers. Sadly, the advent of enchanted moving pictures has largely replaced wireless dramas, though aficionados still tune in to the occasional classic broadcast. 8. Fagging - a tradition where younger students were effectively servants to their older peers - was strictly banned at Hogwarts in 1946 after a Slytherin first-year fell off a parapet trying to escape from a group of upper years attempting to make him swim across the Black Lake in January. 12. The Grand Tour "Right then," Henry proposed at breakfast on Sunday, with the sun streaming through the windows and the enchanted ceiling a perfect periwinkle blue. "Now that the storm has blown through, how about a fly about the grounds for our new boy before hitting the books?" ¡°Aye aye,¡± Oliver and Teddy voiced approval. ¡°A fly?¡° Jack looked up, swallowing his mouthful of scrambled eggs. "On brooms?" Henry rolled his eyes, "No, on hippogriffs. Yes, on brooms, you daft Yank.¡± ¡°No, I mean-that¡¯s allowed here?¡± Jack asked in surprise. ¡°You thought that Quidditch pitch outside is for show?¡± Teddy needled him. ¡°What, you can¡¯t fly at Ilvermorny?¡± ¡°Not outside no,¡± Jack explained, ¡°Way too risky. Remember, we have a No-Maj town just down the mountain. We have an indoor stadium, dual-purpose for Quopro and Quodpot.¡± ¡°An indoor stadium¡­¡± Oliver pronounced the words as if they tasted bad. "It''s actually pretty amazing," Jack defended. "There''s a door in the gym that opens into this massive space, like a giant bubble. Goes miles in all directions, people get lost in there. The ceiling''s enchanted to look like the sky outside, kind of like the Great Hall here but not as detailed. The floor is all cushioned, and it¡¯s totally climate-controlled, no wind or rain to worry about!" "Sounds horrible," Oliver declared. "Half the fun of flying is feeling the wind in your face, dealing with the weather..." ¡°Merlin, you Yanks are soft!¡± Teddy shook his head in disgust. His declaration carried the authority of someone who''d taken more than his share of Bludgers to the chest and face. ¡°Come on then,¡± Henry stood up. ¡°Time for some real flying. And we''ll show you around the exterior grounds properly. Give you a taste of what Hogwarts is really about." Back in their dormitory, the others retrieved their brooms with the reverence usually reserved for sacred artifacts. Henry''s Hotspur 41 was getting past its prime but lovingly maintained. It was a masterpiece of engineering, its lightweight ash wood treated with streamlining charms, perfect for a Chaser. The British racing green metallic finish caught the light like jadeite. Teddy''s dark crimson Elderstrand Thunderbolt emerged from a custom case, its stocky oak handle wrapped in pebbled knucker-hide he''d clearly applied himself. Oliver lovingly applied an extra coat of handle polish to his Havelock Guardian, a specialized Keeper''s broom built for hovering stability and rapid vertical acceleration. The bristles were splayed out in a distinctive Japanese fan pattern. Then Jack pulled out his Henricus Model B.1 Their raised eyebrows and poorly concealed smirks said everything. "It''s good for Quodpot," he explained defensively. "Quick acceleration, tight turning radius. Pretty cheap too..." he trailed off as their amusement grew. "Sure it is," Teddy held out his hands professionally. Jack surrendered the broom for inspection. "You might want to try out a British broom sometime." He turned it over with an expert''s eye. "That tail drag must add fifteen seconds to your mile. What''s your mile sprint time?" "78.2 seconds," Jack admitted. "Oooof," Teddy winced. "Do you lot fly through treacle?" ¡°Don¡¯t chaff him so, Ted, it¡¯s not his fault. We¡¯ve still got Ratburn¡¯s old Stormrider down in the equipment shed,¡± Henry observed. ¡°He can use that as a loaner for tryouts.¡± ¡°Tryouts?¡± Jack asked. ¡°Quidditch tryouts this Thursday, Semmes.¡± Henry explained. ¡°We need another Chaser.¡± ¡°Oh¡­¡± Jack said. Great, another thing on his plate. It did sound fun though. And he appreciated being included- "Consider this morning your audition for the tryout," Teddy spun his Thunderbolt with practiced ease, the motion so smooth it seemed to blur. "Time to see what you''re really made of, Yank." Henry led them down through the Quad and Grand Stairs, then outside to the massive viaduct that spanned the gorge below the castle. Shreds of morning mist still clung to the walls, swirling in the wind that whipped through the arches. "Right," Henry announced, casually mounting the viaduct wall like he was climbing onto a garden bench. "Grand tour starts with a grand entrance." "What are you-" Jack started. Henry turned to face them, balanced precariously on the narrow stone. His school robes billowed dramatically in the wind as he spread his arms wide, broom held loosely in his right hand like a performer''s prop. "Be quick Hal," Teddy called, "Prefects will have your hide if they see-" But Henry was already falling backward, a wild grin splitting his face as he disappeared over the edge. "Franklin¡¯s kite!" Jack lunged forward. ¡°HENRY!¡± "Wait," Oliver said calmly. A red and gold blur shot upward past them, Henry''s whoop of triumph echoing off the walls of the gorge and castle as he spiraled higher. "Bloody Tyke Yorkie show-off!" Teddy shouted good-humoredly.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. "Your turn, Semmes!" Henry shouted down. "Unless American brooms can''t handle it?" Jack peered over the edge. Two hundred feet of empty air separated him from the rushing water below, which foamed white around jagged rocks as it poured into the lake. His feet tingled. His mouth went dry. Suddenly his Model B felt about as reliable as a bundle of twigs. "This is insane." "No, it¡¯s tradition!" Teddy corrected. "Started by who? You three?" Jack''s voice had an edge of hysteria. He stared down at the dizzying drop, then at his broom. He''d done crazier things in Quodpot, hadn''t he? Though usually with nice soft grass underneath, not granite teeth waiting to crack him open like an egg... "You don''t have to," Oliver offered. "You can just kick off from the courtyard¡­¡± That sounds nice, a sensible voice in Jack''s head whispered. That''s a good idea. Much safer. Can''t impress anyone if you''re dead. Do that! Jack took a white-knuckled grip on his broom to silence it. "Oh no no, you''d never let me hear the end of it," he muttered, scanning for teachers and prefects. His broom hummed beneath his fingers, responding to his elevated heartbeat. He climbed up onto the wall. "That''s the spirit!" Henry called from above. "Just don''t think about the rocks at the bottom!" "Thanks!" Jack shot back sarcastically. His heart thudded in his ears. The familiar pre-Quodpot rush was beginning to flood his system, turning fear into electric anticipation. He stood on the wall, facing forward unlike Henry''s theatrical backward fall. The gorge yawned behind him, mist spiraling up from its depths like grasping fingers. His breakfast lurched in his stomach. Don''t think, just drop... ¡°Winterborn¡¯s coming,¡± Teddy warned. Jack let himself pitch forward. The world tilted crazily as he plummeted, turning head over heels, wind shreking past, the stomach-dropping sensation of freefall. For a long heart-stopping moment he was just falling, nothing but air and gravity and approaching crunching impact- Then his hand pulled up on the Model B''s handle. The broom responded instantly, transforming his death-drop into a shallow glide. He pulled into a climbing turn, threading through the central arch of the viaduct before shooting over the top, pushing higher until he drew level with an applauding Henry. His veins sang with pure adrenaline. "Not bad!" Henry shouted, extending his hand. "Not bad yourself!" Jack slapped it instead of shaking. Together they watched Teddy and Oliver vault the viaduct wall and take off the same way, joining them moments later. ¡°Wait a minute,¡± Jack said, forcing himself to relax slightly and look below them. There was only a pair of second-years on the bridge, watching them with craned necks. He couldn¡¯t see any other students except a few farther off. ¡°Where¡¯s Winterborn? You said she was coming.¡± Teddy grinned. ¡°I only said that to get you off the ledge.¡± "Right then," Henry called, taking point. "Grand tour begins now. Keep up, and try not to fall off!" They circled the Great Hall first, going higher and higher, Henry playing tour guide as they soared close enough to the walls to frighten roosting pigeons. His three friends were naturals on their brooms, whooping and spiraling around each other like playful magpies while Jack took in the view and tried not to crash when they repeatedly cut in front of him. "Here''s the Quad from above, it looks quite a bit smaller from the air. Gryffindor Tower there, you can see our dorm window." Henry pointed to the familiar crimson and gold banners fluttering in the autumn breeze. "Grand Staircase next to the Great Hall, that¡¯s the massive circular one that''s always changing direction when you''re late to class." They banked around the northern turret, its blue and bronze banners sparkling in the sunshine. "Ravenclaw Tower," Henry announced. "Where the swots live- sorry, where the academically gifted reside. Mind the weather vane, it bites." ¡°It¡¯s taller than our tower,¡± Jack noted. ¡°Ravenclaws prefer to look down on everyone,¡± Oliver replied drily as they flew closer. Jack caught a glimpse of students through the windows, bent over books even on a Sunday morning. ¡°Oi, look who it is! Wave to Hightower,¡± Teddy grinned. "Very funny," Jack retorted. But he looked anyway. He couldn¡¯t see her. He circled the tower once more slowly, the ground effect pulling his broom closer to the walls than he intended. His broom''s turbulence gently rattled the ancient window panes. ¡°Buzzing them Semmes? Brilliant!¡± Teddy¡¯s delighted voice called out from behind him. ¡°Wait¡­no I¡¯m not buzz-¡± Jack couldn¡¯t finish before Henry and Teddy rocketed past him and around the tower at max speed. Their slipstream carved spiral contrails around the turret like a forming tornado. The whole tower vibrated from spire to oubliette from the shock of their passage. A window burst open directly in front of Jack. "STUDENTS ARE TRYING TO STUDY, YOU CRETINS!" A crimson-faced seventh-year leaned out, his head and shoulders suddenly occupying the exact space Jack''s broom was heading for. Time slowed. At this speed, a direct hit would blast the Ravenclaw clear of the window, and probably knock Jack off his broom as well. Pulling up would clip him under the chin, knocking him out and causing him to fall forward. Diving would unseat Jack and pull the Ravenclaw out as he flew underneath, with the same deadly result. He pictured all this in less than a second. Only one option, turn hard right away from the tower. Jack''s Model B responded instantly, turning on a dime as he yanked on the handle. The tail whipped around in a perfect arc - directly into the shouting Ravenclaw''s face. ¡°Gah!¡± The impact still nearly knocked Jack off his broom, and he scrambled back onto his seat catching his breath. Sorry, but it was better than the alternatives, Jack thought as he watched the boy fall backwards into the common room rather than out into three hundred feet of empty air. "I''m sorry!" he shouted into the open window, as younger students swarmed it, both checking on the downed seventh-year and staring outside curiously. "He got in my way! I didn''t mean to hit him!" Jack watched his friends roll their brooms into three synchronized steep dives, plunging into the safety of the gorge. He knew the smart thing was to follow them. But something - conscience, naivety, or an ingrained American need to take responsibility - made him hover there instead. Stupid George Washington and his stupid cherry tree.2 Or maybe it was something else¡­ Through the tall arched window and around the Ravenclaws, Jack could see an airy circular room with a midnight-blue carpet and starred ceiling. It looked like a tidy eagle¡¯s nest of velvet and marble. Now, of course, it was in disorder. Scattered parchments lay like shot gamebirds and spilled tea spread across an elegant bronze table where several leather-bound volumes lay open. Star charts and Ancient Runes translations lay abandoned mid-sentence, and amber and lapis silk cushions were scattered across the floor where they had fallen from window seats. Then Cassandra Hightower appeared at the window, and Jack''s heart stopped.
1. A Henricus Model B: A mass-produced black utility broom. Embarrassing even by the modest British standards of the 1940s. Honestly, I¡¯d be ashamed to see my 8-year-old son on a training broom with specs like that. Still, Mr. Semmes has a point about the price. Adjusted for inflation, a new Model B in 1932 cost around 350 Galleons - a pittance compared to the price of a Firebolt these days, which will set you back nearly ten times that." 2. George Washington and his Cherry Tree: An unoriginal Wizarding Americanism, ripped straight from the Muggle fable. You know the one: little George admits to chopping down his father''s tree because he ''cannot tell a lie.'' American Wizards apparently take in patriotic Muggle myths with their mother''s milk. Their lack of a Wizarding National Epic is embarrassing. 13. A Brief Encounter Cassandra Hightower was wearing a casual dark blue sweater vest over a white blouse, now sporting an impressive brown tea stain down the right sleeve. Her elaborate crown braid was replaced by a simple side plait, giving her a softer appearance that contrasted sharply with her outraged expression. "MR. SEMMES!" Her voice hit Jack like a slap. "What is WRONG with you?!" "I can explain!" Jack started desperately. "First you mock me on the platform, then you undermine me in front of the first-years, and now this?" She gestured at her stained sleeve and the disaster around her. "Your band of vikings just destroyed our common room! Tea everywhere, scrolls ruined, and now you''ve gone and assaulted Maurice!" Jack''s stomach dropped, "It was an accident!" "An accident? Then explain how you''re accidentally buzzing our windows on a Sunday morning! Explain why my best blouse is ruined and Maurice is unconscious!" Windows were opening now around the tower like gunports on a man o¡¯ war, faces crowding out to stare. This was rapidly becoming another spectacle. Jack hated it. "Look," Jack said, trying to keep his voice steady while balancing on his broom six feet from the window, "I was flying too close to the tower. Then someone, not saying who, flew past too fast. When¡­.Maurice stuck his head out, I almost crashed into him. If I hadn¡¯t turned at the last second, we both would have fallen all the way to the ground.¡± ¡°Now I''m not saying it''s his fault," he added quickly, seeing her mouth open. "I''m really sorry about all of this. We didn''t mean to cause trouble. The wind caught me wrong, turbulence off the wall, and then-" "The wind caught you wrong?" She tossed her braid. "Do you ever take responsibility for anything?" "I''m trying to! That''s why I stayed to apologize!" ¡°Hmph. You stayed.¡± she crossed her arms. ¡°And where are your fellow air-pirates now? "SEMMMMMMMES!" Henry''s voice echoed up from the gorge. "Get out of there before they hex you!" Cassandra leaned forward slightly, peering down. Jack saw the corner of her mouth twitch. "Your choice in fellows leaves much to be desired," she looked back at Jack, eyes sharp as thistles. Jack ignored the remark, ¡°Is Maurice ok?¡± She glanced behind her, "His nose is bleeding, but he''s awake." Someone groaned loudly from the common room floor. "No thanks to you." ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Jack said firmly. ¡°This won¡¯t happen again.¡± "Thirty points from Gryffindor," she said coldly. "Each. For reckless flying, disrupting study hours, and damaging personal property.¡± "Wait a sec." Jack leaned forward on his broom, coasting slightly closer to the window. "I''m the only one here. I should be the one punished." "Protecting your accomplices now?" "Please." He met her gaze steadily. "They''ll kill me for bringing the whole house down.¡± ¡°You should have thought of that before.¡± Cassandra said, looking around at their attentive audience. ¡°I only just got here, they¡¯re my brand new housemates,¡± Jack fought on gamely. He thought his ears were about to catch fire from embarrassment. ¡°Let me take the punishment instead of docking everyone points. I¡¯ll clean your tower, scourging, poena cullei, anything!" "You were all responsible-" she started. "But I''m the one here,¡± Jack said. ¡°Please.¡± She gave him a long, calculating look, her head tilted slightly, eyes slightly squinted beneath her eyelashes. Then she pulled out her prefect''s notebook and conjured a quill. The detention slip rapidly took shape beneath her precise handwriting. With a tap of her wand, it folded itself into an origami bird and fluttered across the gap between them. Jack caught it carefully, trying not to lose his balance. "You''ll receive no special treatment, Semmes," she dismissed him coldly. ¡°Good morning.¡± The peeping audience of Ravenclaws peered down on him from the surrounding windows like a parliament of highly judgmental owls. Jack''s heart sank as he barrel-rolled into a dive, finding his friends hovering in the shadow of the cliff. Teddy was furiously tapping his fingers on his elbows. Oliver was stone-faced. Henry was evidently trying to pacify both of them. "Semmes, old sport," Henry shook his head sadly, "you can¡¯t stick around like that. They¡¯ve got us now¡­" ¡°They better have frozen you with a sticky jinx,¡± Teddy growled, ¡°Because if you willingly stuck around like some kind of cowboy so help me-¡± ¡°Easy Ted,¡± Henry soothed, then blanched as Jack produced the folded detention slip. ¡°What¡¯s the butcher¡¯s bill?¡± he asked the question that was on all their minds. Jack unfolded the paper bird, and they all crowded around him to read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Date Issued: Sunday, 31 August 1947 Time Issued: 9:31 a.m. Issued By: Cassandra A. Hightower 6th Year Prefect, Ravenclaw House Recipient: James T. Semmes 6th Year, Gryffindor House Nature of Violations:
  1. Article 13: Simple Assault
  2. Article 38: Destruction of Property
  3. Article 91: Horseplay
Description of Incident: On the morning of Sunday, 31 August 1947, during a house study prep for first-years, the aforementioned student engaged in disruptive and reckless behavior, resulting in accidental physical contact (classified under Simple Assault), minor destruction of personal property belonging to at least 3 other students, and conduct unbecoming of a Hogwarts student, as outlined under the student Code of Conduct. The violations occurred in the vicinity of Ravenclaw Tower.
Punitive Measures:
  1. House Point Deduction:
  2. Gating:
  3. Detention Prep:
Failure to adhere to these terms will result in further disciplinary action, including possible referral to the Head of House.
Prefect''s Signature: Cassandra A. Hightower 6th Year, Ravenclaw House
This form is to be co-signed and returned to your Head of House by 10:30 p.m. today.
His friends looked at him like there was a unicorn horn growing out of his head. Oliver let out a low whistle. ¡°Wha-...that?¡± Henry asked, shocked. ¡°Seems that way,¡± Jack said mournfully. ¡°I¡¯m sorry guys, but she was originally going to dock a hundred and twenty. The forced study halls are going to be a pain-¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. "Ten points?" Teddy interrupted, looking thunderstruck. "For crashing into a seventh-year and buzzing a house tower?" "And detention prep," Jack reminded him. ¡°And gating, whatever that is.¡± "Gating means you''re restricted to school grounds," Henry explained. "It¡¯s a severe punishment. No Hogsmeade, and no grounds past the courtyard unless you get special permission. You¡¯re basically a first-year again. They might let you tryout for Quidditch if you grovel properly. Algy can put in a good word for you." ¡°Ugh,¡± Jack grimaced, ¡°That¡¯s tough.¡± ¡°Yes it is, but it could have been miles worse,¡± Teddy reached over and took a firm grip of Jack¡¯s shoulder, his anger forgotten in his amazement. ¡°We dodged a dragon¡¯s tail. That could have been over a hundred house points and two weeks of detention for all four of us. The unusual thing is that Hightower put it all on you. That is not like her¡­¡± All three of them stared at Jack with identical impish expressions. Jack felt his face getting hot. ¡°What?¡± he asked. "Jack," Henry look at him appraisingly, "I think she fancies you." "What?!¡± Jack nearly choked, ¡°No way, I just ruined her morning!" "Hightower never gives light punishments," Teddy said. "Last term she gave me twenty points and a week¡¯s detention just for cutting a Slytherin toff¡¯s suspenders in the hallway. And he deserved it! You do something miles stupider and walk away with half?!" "Semmes must have charmed her," Oliver¡¯s usually phlegmatic face was awestruck. "When he stayed to apologize like a proper gentlewizard." ¡°Think how she delivered the slip!¡± Henry cackled. ¡°All secret so that her house didn¡¯t know how lenient she was being!¡± "A prefect and her halfwit knight-errant," Oliver agreed. ¡°And here I was cursing the day he was sorted,¡± Teddy slapped Jack on the back so hard they both nearly overbalanced and fell. ¡°I¡¯m sorry Semmes, just never do that again, aye? When we run one, we run all. No more heroics.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t,¡± Jack promised. ¡°I almost knocked that idiot out the window. Wanted to make sure he wasn¡¯t hurt.¡± He stuck his hand out, ¡°From now on I¡¯m with you guys.¡± The other three exchanged glances, then grinned. Their hands stacked on top of his, hovering steadily above the gorge. There was silence. Just the rushing of water beneath. "You¡¯re supposed to say something, Ravenhurst,¡± Teddy said. ¡°Why me?¡± Henry asked defensively. ¡°Why not the Yank?¡± "You¡¯re the nobleman," Teddy said. ¡°Semmes¡¯ll just say something hackneyed about freedom and the tree of magical liberty being watered.¡± ¡°Noblesse oblige,¡± Henry cleared his throat, ¡°We few, we happy few, we band of lions, so be it, amen!¡± ¡°Aye, though he be earl, yet Ravenhurst is the king of courtesy!¡± Teddy exclaimed, beating his chest with his free hand. ¡°Well said!¡± finished Oliver. ¡°What the hell are you guys saying?¡± Jack asked blankly. ¡°I thought we were going to say ¡®Go Gryffindor¡¯ or something.¡± They broke apart laughing, nearly falling off their brooms. ¡°It¡¯s Shakespeare, you dunce,¡± Teddy gasped, wiping his eyes. ¡°The most brilliant wizard playwright to ever have lived!¡± ¡°So great even the Muggles claimed him,¡± Oliver nodded. "Right then," Henry clapped his hands. "Let''s finish the tour before our American friend here gets officially gated at lunchtime. Still the whole rest of Hogwarts to see." They flew south through the ravine and underneath the suspension bridge that spanned it between the Quad and the- ¡°Alright, where were we?" Henry fell quickly back into form, "Ah, yes, Academic Wing, remember? Astronomy Tower is there," he pointed to the highest needle-like spire jutting from the Academic Building. "Tallest point in the castle. Excellent for stargazing, better for rendezvous, not that I''d know personally. Ask Marshwiggle." "Don¡¯t bother," Teddy said in response to Jack¡¯s quizzical look. ¡°Gentlewizards don¡¯t kiss and tell.¡± ¡°Look, you¡¯ve got Marshy putting on airs now,¡± Oliver snorted. They spiraled lower over the Academic Building, skimming past windows showing classrooms and hallways. "Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor," Oliver designated. "See the scorch marks ¡®round the windows?" "Transfiguration Courtyard below," Teddy added. "Where Winterborn turns first-year troublemakers into statues." ¡°Bell Tower, right over the north gate, the one we walked through our first night here. Over the central hall are the greenhouses," Henry indicated a cluster of glass structures gleaming in the morning sun north of the central hall. ¡°See the green mass on the roof there? Carnivorous mistletoe. It¡¯ll take your lips right off, so be careful during Christmastime.¡± They looped the Bell Tower, then swooped low over the North Lawn towards the Quidditch Pitch ("Tryouts this Thursday, you should come"). Then they banked left towards the Care of Magical Creatures paddock where the tartan-clad teacher Mr. MacGregor was hoeing cabbages along with his enormous assistant. MacGregor shook a rake at them menacingly as they flashed past flying low overhead. His assistant let out an ear-splitting whistle and a wave. They looped over the Owlery tower and then back again toward the north along the border of a great, ancient woodland. A patchwork of gently waving leaves beginning to turn fall colors and dark conifers stretched to the horizon. ¡°The Forbidden Forest,¡± Teddy gestured to the vast expanse of trees and the foreboding darkness between the trunks. "Forbidden for a reason. Full of all sorts of nasty surprises. The centaurs mostly keep to themselves, but the acromantulas are more¡­extroverted." "The what?" Jack asked. "Giant spiders," Oliver explained. "Size of a carthorse, very territorial!" Jack peered into the shadows between the trees. American woods were not nearly as dangerous as this, it seemed. At least not until you got really deep into the Appalachians¡­ ¡°Do we ever go in there?¡± he asked. ¡°Strictly off-limits unless escorted, and even then only during Care of Magical Creatures. Don''t even think about it," Henry warned, noting Jack''s interested expression. "Lost a second-year in there last spring. They found him a week later, speaking in tongues and wearing clothes made of mushrooms." "He''s still in St. Mungo''s," Teddy added helpfully. "Thinks he''s a talking toadstool." They zoomed over the greenhouses outside the central hall gleaming in the morning sun, beyond them the Black Lake stretched halfway across the valley. ¡°Hogmeade¡¯s there, you can see it quite well from up here,¡± Henry pointed out the village nearly a mile away. ¡°See the road we came up from the train station?¡± A vast, pallid form glided into view beneath the surface of the lake, its sheer mass bending the water¡¯s reflection into shifting ribbons of light. A tentacle, smooth and spectral, pressed close enough to bulge the surface in a slow, rippling swell, as though the lake itself recoiled from its presence. "Is that a-" Jack started, taking a firm grip of his broom. ¡°Is that Nessie?!¡± "No, Nessie is further south east in Loch Ness.¡± Oliver corrected. ¡°That¡¯s our giant squid. Or kraken, if you prefer. Friendly enough, unless you''re a trout. Or swimming after curfew." ¡°Lost another second-year that way,¡± Henry said. They flew farther north, catching a thermal that carried them past the lake and over the storybook village of Hogsmeade. Smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals, and Jack could make out a few students walking the path to and from the town. ¡°Pull up there,¡± said Henry, waving his hand, ¡°Plenty of time to show him Hogsmeade in three weeks once he¡¯s ungated. Plus the leaves will be proper autumn colors by then. Pretty as a picture. Let¡¯s take Semmes back to the pitch, show him what real sport looks like.¡± Jack swallowed a remark that Quodpot and Quopro were infinitely better than Quidditch, inside or outside, and followed them back towards the school grounds and pitch. "And that concludes our tour," Henry announced as they descended into the empty Quidditch pitch. "Any questions? Comments? Declarations of awe at our magnificent institution?" As they touched down on the manicured green grass, Jack couldn''t help but stare at the towering golden goal hoops, the brand-new gleaming stands, and the fluttering house banners snapping in the breeze. ¡°It¡¯s incredible,¡± Jack admitted as he spun around slowly., windswept and exhilarated. He could see why the founders had chosen this spot, surrounded by natural defenses. ¡°You guys have the whole valley! It makes Ilvermorny feel like a prison!¡± He didn¡¯t mind that he was confirmed to campus for nearly the next month. This place was incredible. He really should try out for Quidditch. His appreciation was short-lived. No sooner had they dismounted their brooms than a group of boys in blue robes came striding out of the locker room, broomsticks slung over their shoulders. At their head was a tall, handsome young man with unfashionably long brown hair and piercing blue-gray eyes. ¡°Merlin¡¯s halitosis,¡± Henry stiffened beside Jack, his easy grin fading. "Ravenclaw must have booked the pitch," he muttered, his voice low and tense.
1. Mr. Semmes¡¯ broom being pulled closer to the tower is a classic example of ground effect, a phenomenon first discovered by Muggles during the early days of their primitive aviation efforts. Muggle pilots, flying crude cloth-and-plywood contraptions, noted that their planes often ¡°floated¡± near the ground, stubbornly refusing to land. This curious behavior was eventually attributed to the interaction of air pressure and drag when a flying object gets close to a surface, reducing drag and increasing lift. While Muggles treated it as a breakthrough for their growing obsession with flight, wizards largely ignored the principle until it was disastrously forced upon our attention. The Amarillo Runaway Lorry of 1967 remains the textbook case for why magical folk should occasionally pay attention to Muggle discoveries. Three American wizards, attempting to land a charmed flying lorry on the I-30 Interstate at midnight, failed to account for the lorry''s increased lift near the ground. What should have been a simple descent turned into a catastrophic bounce that obliterated a trailer park a half-mile from their intended landing site. The incident caused three severe wizarding injuries and property damage to many more, including several Muggles (deemed, of course, unimportant in the official MACUSA report). This debacle sparked an international push to educate magical folk on ground effect - an embarrassing concession to Muggle science, to be sure, but evidently a necessary one. 2. Poena cullei, or ¡°The Punishment of the Sack,¡± was one of the more colorful horrors of ancient Roman justice. Reserved only for those convicted of murdering their parents, the punishment involved sewing the condemned into a leather sack with a dog, a snake, a monkey, and a rooster before tossing the entire writhing package into the Tiber River. The Muggles saw this grotesque spectacle as the height of poetic justice, though one wonders how they sourced such a menagerie for each occasion. Wizarding Romans, with their usual practicality, considered the poena cullei both wasteful and unnecessarily messy. Instead, they dealt with parricides by bricking them into the family villa and letting starvation take its course¡ªa fate considered ¡°more humane¡± in wizarding circles, though one suspects this is a matter of perspective. It is worth noting that both punishments were designed not merely to kill but to annihilate the honor of the guilty, which, in Roman society (wizarding or otherwise), was seen as the greater penalty. 3. Noblesse oblige, ("nobility has obligations") or the principle that privilege entails responsibility, is often cited as a cornerstone of noble behavior¡ªamong Muggles and wizards alike. It originated, of course, with wizards long before Muggles appropriated the idea and turned it into their own moralistic catchphrase. The concept asserts that those blessed with wealth, power, or status are duty-bound to use their advantages for the good of society. In practice, noblesse oblige is more often honored in the breach than the observance. Mr. Ravenhurst¡¯s ironic invocation of the term is a case in point. 4. Mr. Ravenhurst''s mock oath and Mr. Marshwiggle''s response are drawn from the Great Wizard Bard''s Henriad (specifically Henry IV Part 1 and Henry V''s St. Crispin speech). 14. How to Make Friends and Antagonize People The Ravenclaw leader saw the four Gryffindors and changed course directly for them, his team following loyally like a flock of migrating geese. He greeted Jack and his companions as if he was welcoming unexpected guests. ¡°My my, the Gryffindors!¡± he exclaimed. ¡°And their new American! He looks as if he¡¯s already fitting in splendidly.¡± "Hello there, Montfort" Henry said, leaning on his broom casually. "We were just leaving.¡± ¡°So soon?¡± Montfort gave a smile that didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°I¡¯d just come up with a rhyme for you!¡± His voice took on a mocking singsong quality:
"Marshwiggle, Brackenby, and Ravenhurst, Who do you think they be? A peat-thief, a pig-scraper, and beggar-knight. Turn ¡®em out, knaves all three!¡±
He paused for applause. The Ravenclaw team obliged him, laughing unpleasantly. "That¡¯s a new one," Henry''s voice was light, but Jack could see his cheek muscle twitch. "Did your house-elf write that for you, or did you manage it yourself?" Montfort¡¯s grin grew wider, "Better borrowed wit than a dissolute¡¯s fate, O Ravenhurst, with your pawned estate.¡± He pronounced the couplet like a stage actor. ¡°The Yanks come to put their shoe on our neck and just like our foolish Muggles you line up to lick.¡± His gaze settled on Jack. ¡±So this is Semmes. Washington¡¯s clumsy infiltrator. No surprise the hat put you with the lions, no decent house would have taken you..." Jack blinked, completely thrown by this unexpected line of attack. "Hey now, I''m just here to-" "Spread discord?¡± Montfort interrupted. ¡°Ensure magical Britain remains on a leash? We know what you want, to keep us weak, divided, and dependent on your protection against manufactured threats of Grindlewalders hiding in the shadows." ¡°I-I-,¡± Jack blustered. ¡°That¡¯s not what-¡± "I wouldn''t expect an Ilvermorny boy to understand," Montfort made a dismissive gesture. "Your whole society is built on magical and racial segregation-" ¡°That¡¯s not true-!¡± ¡°-to say nothing of systemic exploitation.¡± Montfort continued. "Look," Jack tried again, "I don''t know what you think MACUSA is doing, but I''m just here to study-" "To study us? Report back? Ha!" Montfort''s laugh was like the bark of a coyote. "Your timing is apropos! The very month that the Ministry debates closer ties with MACUSA, along comes their young representative..." "Bugger off Montfort," Teddy cut in. "Save it for History of Magic." "Keep your head in the sand then, Gryffindors," Montfort adjusted his silk Quidditch robes. "Your benighted den has always been this way. No self-awareness. No sense of responsibility. Too busy with sophomoric mischief while the world turns around you. Change is coming to Hogwarts. You¡¯ll all see, soon enough." "That''s enough," Henry pulled on Jack¡¯s robes. ¡°We¡¯re leaving.¡± "Run along," Montfort dismissed them. "Remember, Semmes: Hogwarts is not Ilvermorny¡¯s puppet." The two groups parted. The Ravenclaws strode off towards the end of the pitch. Jack stared after them as the Gryffindors walked the opposite direction, completely flummoxed. "Who," he managed finally, "was that?" ¡°Caeso Montfort," Henry explained grimly. "Sixth-year Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain, all-around rotter.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t have to explain that last bit,¡± Jack replied, fixing his wind-blown hair. ¡°What the heck is his problem? Acting high-hat like that¡­I''ve never even met the guy before.¡± "He hates most Yanks on principle," Oliver explained. "Says that you lot export America along with your magic." "You¡¯re in good company, because he really hates us," Teddy added cheerfully. "Says we lack the capacity to understand our own oppression." Henry huffed, ¡°Let¡¯s go old boy, we¡¯ll walk back up to the castle and show you the north road to Hogsmeade.¡± They shouldered their brooms and started up the muddy trail, feet slipping occasionally on wet leaves. The late summer wind whipped Teddy¡¯s scarlet and gold scarf. Jack was still reeling from the encounter. His good humor had evaporated. After about two minutes of silence, Jack had enough. "If he had said that kind of stuff back home someone would have dropped him on the spot," Jack kicked a stone, sending it skittering off the path into the underbrush. ¡°Well you¡¯re not ¡®at home¡¯, now are you, old boy?¡± Henry grunted, adjusting his broom. "Montfort¡¯s always been a toff, we''ve had our share of run-ins¡­ But I thought that he¡¯d just ignore you. Something about you has really gotten under his skin." ¡°He¡¯s a bloody bookworm Harry Flashman1,¡± Teddy said, pulling out a pack of Ignis Fatuus cigarettes and passing them around. "He must have caught wind of your tiffs with Hightower." Henry shot Jack a sideways glance, his brow furrowed. "The Montforts and the Hightowers go way back. Old families. Stuck-up and stuck together, like glue." "Great," Jack muttered, taking one of Teddy¡¯s cigarettes. His appreciation for Cassandra¡¯s lenient punishment faded. "Miss Perfect Prefect writes me up and now I''m public enemy number one. Is that how things work around here?" He lit up his cigarette off of Teddy¡¯s proffered wand. Oliver let out a chuckle along with a cloud of smoke. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Yank." "Montfort is not a boy to take lightly," Henry''s voice was serious, shooting Oliver a quelling look. "His family has connections everywhere, the Ministry, school governors, the papers, you name it. And he''s got a nasty habit of arranging accidents for people who cross him." Jack felt slightly sick. Montfort¡¯s mocking jingle resurfaced in his mind, ¡°That stupid little song he sang: ¡°The peat-thief, the pig-scraper, and the beggar-knight,¡± what did that all mean?¡± "That rubbish.¡± Henry''s face darkened further. "It''s a Montfort thing. He loves writing little lines about other pure-bloods here that don¡¯t see eye to eye with him. He really goes after the Slytherins. Calls them the ruling class. For us and any Huffles that cross him, its families who''ve fallen from grace¡­or were never there to begin with. Calls us riff-raff. Makes him feel good about himself." "My family is from the fenlands," Teddy explained after a drag of his cigarette. "You don¡¯t have them in America, I assume. It¡¯s a giant swamp. Hence ''peat-thief.''" He looked over to Oliver. "We Brackenbys are Cumbrians, neither Scot nor English," Oliver said after a few moments. "''Pig-scraper.''"If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. "And the Ravenhursts?" Jack asked, looking at Henry. ¡°The most pathetic of them all,¡± Henry let out a bitter laugh. "Used to be proper nobility, actually. Collected rent from half of the North. Then my great-grandfather got on the wrong side of the Goblin Banking Crisis of 1873. Lost everything. The demesne, the servants, the estate. Now we grow corn. I grew up in a dirt floored cottage within eyeshot of the Ravenhurst manor. It¡¯s owned by a cadet branch of the Malfoys now. They¡¯ve done dreadful garish things to the interior, so I¡¯ve been told. All we have left is a title. When my father dies I¡¯ll be Sir Henry, 9th Earl Ravenhurst - the ''beggar-knight.''" ¡°Merlin¡­¡± Jack breathed, ¡°That¡¯s awful.¡± ¡°It¡¯s actually quite liberating, Semmes.¡± Henry grinned, ¡°Do you think that I¡¯d be able to tweak Hightower like that from the carriage or be out hobnobbing with these two reprobates if I was still a ¡®proper noble¡¯?¡± He reached out with both arms and pulled Teddy and Oliver into a Falstaffian embrace, broomsticks clattering together. ¡°What¡¯s all that harness good for? Personal house elves spying on me? Gold plated sinks? Being betrothed to some rich no-chinned bint on my fourteenth birthday? I''ll have none of it. Thus ends my catechism.¡±2 ¡°Say what you want about the English wizarding nobility, they are consummate survivors,¡± Teddy declared. ¡°Unfortunately most of them are not like Prince Hal here,¡± he slapped Henry on the back. ¡°More Shakespeare,¡± Oliver supplied for Jack¡¯s literary appreciation. "Does everyone here judge people by their parents?" Jack asked, amused at his friends¡¯ impressive verbosity. "Not everyone," Henry replied savagely. "Just the ones who have nothing else to be proud of.¡± "Suffice to say, Semmes, you''re basically everything Montfort¡¯s afraid of," Oliver concluded. "So what, we just let Montfort maraude around and insult everyone?" Jack asked. "No," Henry''s grim aspect shifted to something more calculating. "We need to be wise in the way we handle him. Picking our battles. Caeso Montfort prefers direct confrontation, it''s how his kind operates, it¡¯s where he has the advantage. Don¡¯t even try to debate him. He¡¯ll eviscerate you. But there are other ways to fight. Revenge is a dish best served cold, after all. And preferably with multiple witnesses and an ironclad alibi. That¡¯s the road down to Hogsmeade, by the way.¡± Henry pointed down the left fork in the road with his broom. ¡°We¡¯ll take you once you¡¯re a free man again." The boys took the right fork up towards the North Gate and Bell Tower, heading through the outer curtain wall. Jack looked back toward the now-distant pitch, where Montfort was putting his team through their paces like a No-Maj drill sergeant. ¡°If Montfort¡¯s so progressive and forward-thinking,¡± Jack wondered, ¡°Why is he the captain of their Quidditch team? Isn''t that a bit contradictory?¡± ¡°Ask him yourself,¡± Henry replied with a shrug. ¡°Just don¡¯t say I didn¡¯t warn you.¡± ¡°Is he any good?¡± ¡°They¡¯ve won the Cup for five years running. Helps that two of our best players got killed in ¡®44.¡± Teddy said darkly. ¡°Is this a Ravenclaw thing?¡± Jack asked, ¡°They all carry themselves like they own the place.¡± "Not always," Henry said, ¡°The houses go through cycles. Each one has its time in the sun.¡± ¡°Fortune''s furious fickle wheel,¡± Teddy waxed unexpectedly philosophical, ¡°She can only be constant by being perpetually inconstant.¡±3 Henry stretched his arms over his head to shake out any residual broom stiffness. ¡°Slytherin used to rule the school fifty years ago, with Headmaster Black and one of their students stopping the Great Goblin Uprising.4 Then a whole bunch of students hopped in with Grindelwald when he kicked off and quit school to go fight-" ¡°-they¡¯re all dead or in Azkaban now.¡± Teddy added parenthetically. ¡°Then it was between Hufflepuff and the Ravenclaws for a bit. During the next twenty years most of the half-bloods and muggle-born fled the country or were killed. Practically everyone left in school now are purebloods.¡± Jack reflected back on the gaps in the house benches during the Sorting Ceremony. Empty spaces where students should have been. "Slytherin and Gryffindor took the worst losses," Henry continued. "Mostly the conservative families, but some revolutionaries too." "Wait a sec," Jack interrupted. "Slytherin? I read they were all for Grindelwald. You know, ambition, pureblood supremacy, magical dominance..." "Not that simple old sport," Henry shook his head. "Slytherin split hard over Grindelwald. The traditionalists - ancient families like the Selwyns, Greengrasses, and the Venges - want absolute separation from Muggles. Splendid magical isolation. Grindelwald''s ''for the greater good'' meant actively controlling Muggles, which they saw as tainting wizarding society. They fought back. But then you had the radicals, from the upper middle-class, or younger sons of noble houses, people with something to prove. They bought into Grindelwald''s vision of wizard supremacy. Saw it as their chance to reshape the world and seize power." "Both sides hated each other more than they hated anyone else," Teddy nodded. "Family against family, brother against brother...proper Grecian tragedy. Ripped Slytherin apart." Jack thought of Cyprian Venge sitting alone in the club car. The great North Gate of Hogwarts loomed ahead, winged boars watching their approach with impassive stone eyes. ¡°The upshot is that the headmaster and all of the teachers now are Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Hollowbrook, Brightwell, Winterborn, Starling, Quillworth, Babbling, all Ravenclaws. Blackthorn, Bernstein, and MacGregor, Hufflepuffs. All we got is Professor MacLeod, and he¡¯s missing a hand." "Don''t forgot Professor Whitby," Teddy said. "Gryffindor Class of 1932." "And Vale too.¡± Oliver added. ¡°You¡¯ve got to have a Slytherin potions master, it¡¯s tradition.¡± Jack thought about this as they passed under the outer gate and into the northern bailey. "So how did Gryffindor fare in the war?" "Lots of open seats in the common room.¡± A shadow passed over Henry''s face. ¡°Gryffindors tend to pick sides and fight for them. We¡¯re not fence sitters." "Must have been terrible," Jack said quietly, thinking of the soldiers in the common room portrait and the enchanted mirror. The lurid scar on Algy Fairburne''s face. He realized now there were fewer students in Gryffindor compared to the other houses. Coming from Ilvermorny he was somehow outside all this. No history, no baggage. He had no idea what his housemates had gone through for the past decade of their lives¡­ "Why''d you think the houses keep to themselves so much?¡± Teddy asked rhetorically. ¡°Everyone remembers who supported who. You¡¯re the odd duck crashing in here and upsetting the tea cart." Literally. Jack thought ruefully about Cassandra¡¯s blouse. They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps muffled. The northern courtyard sprawled before them, its manicured grass still wet with morning dew. To their right, the Care of Magical Creatures paddock stood empty except for a large, solitary, and very mundane milk cow. Ahead, second-years wobbled through basic flying drills over the lawn, their uncertain movements making Jack feel like a very expert flier indeed. "Ravenclaw¡¯s won the House Cup eight years running now, on top of the Quidditch Cup.¡± Oliver said. ¡°Gone to their heads, if you ask me. Made them think they''re untouchable." "But they''re not," Teddy chimed in, his narrow face set in a determined scowl. "Gryffindor''s due for a surprise." "Speaking of surprises," Henry stated, suddenly staring ahead. A small figure in Ravenclaw robes had emerged from the Bell Tower, clearly intent on intercepting them. Even from a distance, her red hair blazed like a signal fire.
1. Harry Flashman started out as the villain in the Muggle Victorian novel Tom Brown¡¯s School Days, set at Rugby School. He is a nasty piece of work, even by Muggle standards, and an alcoholic bully to boot. Somehow, he¡¯s been reimagined as the antihero of a wildly popular series of historical fiction novels by a Muggle named George MacDonald Fraser. Typical Muggle fascination with scoundrels. 2. Mr. Ravenhurst¡¯s closing speech echoes Henry IV (Act 5, Scene 1). Young wizards were apparently very well-read back in the mid-20th century. Goodness gracious me. What on earth are they even teaching in primary schools these days? Merlin¡¯s beard, it¡¯s embarrassing. 3. Mr. Marshwiggle¡¯s quip about the Wheel of Fortune is a mash-up of Ancient Pistol from Henry V (Act 3 Scene V, I believe) and the medieval Muggle philosopher Boethius¡¯ Consolation of Philosophy. 4. Mr. Ravenhurst is correct about Slytherin dominance after the Great Goblin Uprising of the late 19th century. Somehow word of Ranrok''s jihad ended up in that recent Muggle video game, Hogwarts Legacy (along with some typical Muggle silliness and Deus Ex Machina - there is no such thing as Ancient Magic). Still, how they got their hands on that tale is beyond me - probably some idiot too fond of telling tales after a few Firewhiskies. I¡¯ll concede that it was fitting that a Slytherin student put a stop to the rebellion. They deserve some wins. 15. Ravenhurst and the Redhead
"Who''s that?" Jack asked, watching the girl''s determined stride carry her rapidly nearer. Her blue-trimmed black robes billowed behind her like a morrigan¡¯s feathers, complete with the sensation of impending doom. "Looks like Ludd," Henry frowned. "But Ravenclaws only walk like that when they¡¯re returning overdue library books or docking house points." "It¡¯s the latter," Oliver replied, shading his eyes against the sun¡¯s glare. "That stride definitely says ''prefect.''" ¡°Stone the crows,¡± Teddy groaned. ¡°That IS Bianca Ludd. They made her a bloody prefect. And here I was thinking this day couldn¡¯t get any bleedin¡¯ worse.¡± Jack could make out more details as she drew closer. She was short, with rectangular glasses that gave her a bookish appearance. But there was nothing demure about her manner as she stopped a yard away and planted herself directly in their path. She was even shorter than Jack had first thought, barely reaching his shoulder, but she carried herself like an ornery mountain troll. Freckles dotted her face like constellations, and her glasses magnified sharp, intelligent gray eyes that blazed with righteous indignation. "Henry Ravenhurst," she announced without preamble, "I have some questions." Her voice carried the crisp pronunciation of someone who''d spent considerable time practicing in the mirror. Jack raised an eyebrow and looked to Henry, surprised that a girl a year younger could talk to upperclassmen like this, prefect or not. "Ah," Henry''s foxy expression turned cherubic. "You must be¡­?" "Bianca Ludd, fifth-year prefect." She adjusted her spectacles. "I¡¯m asking the questions here." "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last!" Henry turned on the idiotic charm like a spigot. "I''ve heard wonderful things about your organizational skills from Miss Mulholland." ¡°Is that so?¡± Bianca replied acidly. ¡°Miss Mulholland and your other house prefects seemed disinclined to run you down. That is the reason that I have come all the way out here.¡± "Most dedicated of you," Henry nodded respectfully. "Though I must say, the lighting out here doesn''t do justice to your-" Bianca''s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. She looked from Henry to his friends, lingering particularly on Jack. "You must be the Ilvermorny transfer," she said. "Miss Hightower mentioned you." "All good things, I hope?" Jack put on his most dazzling smile. "She said you have antisocial tendencies." Bianca returned her glare to Henry. "Mr. Ravenhurst," she consulted a notebook that had materialized in her hand along with a small travel quill. ¡°I have eyewitness accounts of you and your three associates," Bianca gestured at Jack, Teddy, and Oliver, "executing an extremely dangerous aerial maneuver from the viaduct on or about today, the 31st of August at 8:45 in the morning. I took the report and notified Miss Hightower at precisely 10:47. She was most concerned about the example this sets for younger students.¡± "Was she really?" Henry looked delighted, "How flattering!¡± he winked at Jack. ¡°Though I must point out that at 8:45 this morning, we were all actually-" "Having breakfast in the Great Hall? Or perhaps sleeping in?" Bianca stared at him, eyes unblinking behind her glasses. "Curious, as I have statements from three different witnesses placing you on - and then off of - the viaduct at that exact time. Unless you''ve mastered the art of bilocation?" "Or someone that looked like me?" Henry mused. "We live in uncertain times. It seems like everyone has gotten access to Polyjuice Potions and metamorphic spells. Might have been an imposter.¡± ¡°Imposters imitating all four of you?¡± Bianca asked dubiously. ¡°According to Golpalott''s Third Law-¡± Teddy began. ¡°-That¡¯s a law for making poison antidotes,¡± she cut him off. Oliver stuffed his sleeve in his mouth to hide his laughter. ¡°Perhaps a Time Turner was involved?¡± Henry tried a different tack. "This isn''t about temporal mechanics!" Bianca shouted, then recovered herself. "This is about four irresponsible sixth-years deliberately flouting school safety regulations for their own amusement!" "Oh, safety regulations!" Henry brightened. "Well, why didn''t you say so in the first place?¡± ¡°We¡¯re safe as houses,¡± Oliver piped up. ¡°Hogwarts honor,¡± Teddy bowed slightly, nudging Jack. Jack nodded vigorously in agreement. ¡°We certainly are,¡± Henry said, gesturing to the others. ¡°In fact, I''d be happy to demonstrate the excessive precautions that we take every day-" he made as if to mount his broom. "NO!" Bianca jumped up and down. "Get down! No demonstrations! This is a serious violation of protocol! Miss Hightower specifically directed me to-" "Did she now?" Henry''s hazel eyes twinkled. "Does she often send you to do her field work? Must be exhausting, running all those errands..." ¡°Miss Hightower¡¯s business is her own!¡± Color flooded Bianca''s pale cheeks, making her freckles stand out floridly. "She values my initiative in maintaining proper standards! Unlike some other prefects," she added with a condescending sniff. "Yes, Mulholland and Fairburne do tend to focus on actually dangerous behavior rather than exuberant and harmless expressions of school spirit," Henry agreed pleasantly. "What specific rules were you thinking that this hypothetical viaduct incident would have broken?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. ¡°It is NOT hypothetical, Mr. Ravenhurst!¡± Bianca spouted, clearly thrown off script. "I... that is... Miss Hightower suggested..." "Suggested what exactly?" Henry''s tone was helpful, "Because if we''re discussing theoretical violations of school rules-" "You jumped off the viaduct!" Bianca''s voice cracked. "All four of you! On broomsticks!" "Did we?" Henry spread his hands open to demonstrate that he had nothing to hide. "Rather difficult to prove without incontrovertible evidence, wouldn''t you say? Unless you''ve got a pensieve handy, maybe some Veritaserum, but that¡¯s a bit harsh¡­ Plus you''ll need to specify the exact infraction in your report.¡± Jack was impressed. Henry was as smooth as any barracks lawyer back home.4 ¡°''Extremely dangerous aerial maneuver'' is too vague, legally speaking.¡± Henry continued. ¡°The disciplinary board requires the precise infractions in question, not something like¡­¡± Jack, catching on, felt bold enough to contribute with "''Creative demonstration of fire escape via controlled flight?''" "Oh, very nice, Semmes!" Henry''s approval was immediate. "Shows initiative, and safety-consciousness!" "I..." Bianca consulted her notebook with increasing desperation, pages fluttering. "The most fitting entry would be Article 148: ''Reckless Endangerment'', subheading fifteen: ''unauthorized aerial acrobatics off the North Lawn or Quidditch Pitch'', but-" "Righto!" Henry beamed. "That sounds brilliant! Though I believe that particular regulation does require additional statements from the aerial acrobats in question..." He affected a tragic expression. "And I''m afraid we were all at breakfast at the time. Most unfortunate. Unless you¡¯d like to hear about how Mr. Marshwiggle or Mr. Semmes like their toast¡­" ¡°Lightly browned brioche,¡± Teddy nodded solemnly. ¡°Extra butter.¡± ¡°I really like those crumpets-¡± Jack began. "Several people saw you!" Bianca''s voice jumped an octave. "Did they?" Henry asked politely. "And they''re willing to provide statements? Because false testimony is a violation of the honor code." ¡°You¡¯ve got it backwards!¡± Bianca seemed to hit a mental block, her mouth opening and closing silently like a codfish. "I-if YOU submit a false statement, THAT¡¯S a violation of the student honor code!" "Exactly!" Henry agreed enthusiastically. "Which is why we''d never dream of making any perjurious statement about theoretical activities that may or may not have occurred on the viaduct while we four were definitely eating breakfast in the Great Hall. Wouldn''t want to compromise anyone''s integrity!" Jack watched in fascination as Bianca''s face cycled through several interesting colors from pink, gray, magenta, and light cyan. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her head as she tried to find a way around Henry''s topsy-turvy rhetoric. ¡°So you¡¯re not making a statement?¡± she managed finally. ¡°No.¡± Henry replied. "M-Miss Hightower will hear about this," she stammered. "Oh, I''m sure she will," Henry nodded sagely. "Though what exactly she''ll hear about remains rather unclear, doesn''t it? Given the lack of documented evidence or reliable witnesses..." "And the fact that we were at breakfast," Teddy added helpfully. "Eating a well-balanced meal," Oliver contributed. "Most important meal of the day," Jack agreed. ¡°Besides, I already copped to buzzing the tower. But you probably know about that.¡± Bianca made a sound like a kettle about to boil over. Her little quill snapped on the page from pressing it too hard, splattering ink across her pristine notebook. "You four¡­" she declared, with such pathos that Jack thought she was about to cry. He felt a little badly for her. ¡°...why can¡¯t you just follow the rules?¡± ¡°We do!¡± Henry said. Jack could have sworn he saw a halo appear over his friend¡¯s head. ¡°We¡¯re on your side here, Miss Ludd! Isn¡¯t that a nice feeling?¡± "On my side¡­ how dare you!" Bianca practically shrieked. "This is a serious safety violation! You could have been killed! And then where would I be?" There was a very pregnant pause. ¡°...at Hogwarts?¡± Oliver supplied blandly, accompanied by an expression of serene stupidity. With a final incoherent splutter of rage, Bianca stormed off, scrubbing at her notebook. They managed to maintain straight faces until she had disappeared inside the Bell Tower, then collapsed against their brooms howling with laughter. ¡°That ginger minx!¡± Teddy wiped his eyes. ¡°I¡¯ve half a mind to take her over my knee!¡± "Seriously Henry," Jack shook his head in disbelief. "How did you do that?" "Instinct, old sport," Henry wiped his eyes. "Ludd¡¯s new to this, she¡¯s trying too hard to impress the upper year prefects. It¡¯s also her personality, gets flustered when you quote her back at herself and pretend to be an Abraham-man."2 "Merlin''s jumper," Oliver shook his head. "They''ve got a mini-Hightower." ¡°Worse. She¡¯s going to be trouble," Henry prophesied after he had regained his breath. "Did you see that look in her eyes? She¡¯s a Yethhound."3 ¡°That won¡¯t work twice,¡± Teddy said. ¡°She¡¯ll come wand loaded next time.¡± "Yes," Henry agreed, "but she respects proper procedure.¡± He shrugged. "Even prefects have to play by the rules." "She''ll report us anyway for this," Oliver noted. "Course she will," Henry shrugged. "But she can''t prove anything. No prefect actually saw it, and even Hightower only takes her seriously about half the time anyway." "I thought Ravenclaws stuck together?" Jack asked. "They do," Teddy explained. "But Ludd - is a lot. Even for them. Sucks up to Hightower, ends up going overboard. She should have been a Slytherin. She¡¯s been trying to become Head Girl since her second-year. Ruddy annoying little¡­" "Prefects who actually believe in rules, we can handle,¡± Oliver said, ¡°It''s the ones using the rules that worry me.¡± ¡°Ludd¡¯s bark is worse than her bite. Montfort is the opposite,¡± Henry summarized as they headed inside the Bell Tower. Lunch was about to be served in the Great Hall.
1. The Morrigan, an ancient Irish spirit of death and doom who could transform into a murder of crows, has been thoroughly misappropriated by Muggles. It¡¯s also apparently the name of the ¡°second best girl¡± in some silly Muggle contraption called Dragon Age: Origins. (I won¡¯t even ask who the first is. Muggles and their obsessions.) 2. Abraham-men were early-modern Muggle English beggars pretending to be mad patients discharged from Bedlam, the infamous Muggle lunatic asylum. In reality, most were perfectly sane and just using the ruse to swindle coins or pick pockets. This same trick was apparently used by famed Slytherin auror Tobias Abraham to infiltrate a notorious dark wizard ring operating around Sussex in 1703. The naming convention is, as far as I can find, a coincidence. Mr. Ravenhurst is most likely referring to the latter. 3. Yethhounds, the faerie realm¡¯s relentless trackers from Devonshire, are said to never abandon a trail until their quarry is dead. Makes sense of Mr. Ravenhurst''s remark about someone¡¯s ¡°bark being worse than their bite,¡± though in the case of a Yethhound, both are equally unpleasant (personal experience). 4. The so-called barracks lawyer is yet another curious Wizarding Americanism, apparently borrowed from their Muggle military. Mr. Semmes'' use of it here is the first that I''ve been able to find in this context. It refers to someone loudly dispensing legal advice they¡¯re entirely unqualified to give. Very on-brand for an American: loud, brash, and utterly sure of themselves. - Percy Runner London, 2024 16. The Savage Wars of Peace
"Pick up the wizard''s burden, and reap his just reward, The hate of those you help, and the scorn of those you guard." - Slytherin Washroom Graffiti
Jack was introspective as they trooped across the viaduct, the awe-inspiring panorama going half-noticed. Even the threat of detention felt muffled, as if he was hearing things distantly underwater. ¡°What did you mean about Montfort?¡± he asked Henry. ¡°His bite worse than his bark?¡± "It¡¯s like this,¡± Henry explained, pausing in the middle of the bridge near one of the benched alcoves, ¡°Ludd will dock points and blast you for minor infractions. Montfort smiles to your face while plotting to get you expelled. He¡¯s probably writing a letter to the Ministry about MACUSA influence at Hogwarts as we speak." "You''re joking," Jack said. "Wish I was.¡± Henry shook his head. Below them, the lake reflected the Scottish autumn: purple heather, leaves slowly turning gold, clouds skating across water so still it might have been glass. Usually such views stopped him in his tracks. Today he barely noticed. "Don''t let him get to you," Henry advised, catching Jack''s expression. "Montfort''s a gadfly. This is just how he moves and shakes things." ¡°He sounds like an equitist,¡± Jack turned the word over in his mouth, then spat into the gorge. ¡°Pinko.¡± 1 ¡°Maybe in the States,¡± Henry said warningly, ¡°Here it¡¯s serious business. The war changed things. When Grindelwald fell, he left a vacuum. People started asking questions about the ways we always did things.¡± "Questions like why do the old families own all the land and gold? Why can¡¯t goblins hold Ministry positions?" Oliver listed. ¡°How do we prevent another Grindelwald?¡± "Exactly. We have questions, they have answers. Promises to remake magical society, end blood prejudice, and share wealth." Henry explained. "Sounds good on parchment." "They''re just wizard commies," Jack protested as they started up the stairs towards the Great Hall. "Back home, we know how to deal with Reds-" "It''s not that simple, Semmes.¡± Henry cut him off. ¡°This isn''t your Wizarding Wild West. You can¡¯t just blow people away with wands in the middle of the bloody street.¡± ¡°That¡¯s just on the W.A.N.D. radio show,¡± Jack complained, ¡°In reality, hardly anyone got killed-¡± ¡°What¡¯s that one?¡± Teddy interrupted, ¡°Can we get that on our common room wireless?¡± ¡°¡®Wizarding America: News and Drama¡¯,¡± Jack replied proudly, ¡°We¡¯ll have to check, it¡¯s on 17.76 FM, might be hard across the ocean-¡± ¡°Both of you shut up,¡± Henry continued over them. ¡°Listen Semmes. The war - wars - nearly broke us. Our Muggles just nationalized half the economy because everything was failing. We lost over a quarter of our magical population. The Ministry''s in flux. The Post-War Enclosure Act is wreaking havoc on wizarding farmers.2 Refugees are pouring in from all over the Empire. Old families lost everything in the war while new money rose up. Britain is a vast brewer¡¯s vat, bubbling with ideas foul and fair." "And Montfort?" Jack asked. ¡°Where does he fit?¡± "Chameleonic," Henry explained. "He''s old money, but styles himself as an Avant-garde. Hosts salons in Ravenclaw Tower, quotes obscure magical philosophers, acts like he''s leading a grand movement for change..." "I don''t think he''s a dilettante. He really believes what he''s saying," Jack said slowly, feeling an icy finger gently trace his spine. "The way he talked about MACUSA, about me...he thinks I¡¯m a threat." "Possibly," Henry considered, "What he is - is really clever. Quiet when he needs to be. Charismatic when he wants to be. People listen to him, especially the lower years.¡± ¡°Just fantastic,¡± Jack muttered. "So what''s his problem with me?" Oliver and Henry exchanged uncertain looks. "Look here Semmes.¡± Henry spoke deliberately. ¡°There has been a lot of talk, ever since the end of the war, about how MACUSA is using the Muggle Soviet threat to¡­influence Magical Britain. Montfort and others have been spreading that around, passing out pamphlets and books from Knockturn Alley publishers.3 When you showed up on our doorstep-" "I became living proof of his warnings." "Yes," Henry sighed. "Most people aren''t as intense about it as he is. But here we are..." he paused briefly. "Magical Britain''s empire is in tatters. MACUSA''s sun is rising. We have the Ministry considering American loans, there are joint US/UK auror deployments in Western Europe, MACUSA agents in Britain-" "And now an American student at Hogwarts," Oliver finished. "Does that bother you guys?" Jack asked. "Hogwarts possibly being overtaken by Ilvermorny?" Henry shrugged, "What will be, will be. I''m not one to cling to past glories. That''s for other houses," he pointed over to the Slytherin table. Jack thought of his father''s careful letters, the vague references to his new position. Had he known what his son was walking into? "So what do I do?" "Keep your head down," Henry advised. Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. ¡°Keep my head down!?¡± Jack exploded. ¡°From the guys who goaded me into jumping off of a bridge and buzzing Ravenclaw Tower? That¡¯s rich!¡± ¡°That first one was on me,¡± Henry admitted soothingly. "And I covered for you didn¡¯t I? That''s in the past now, old sport. Don''t let Montfort bait you into anything else. He''d love nothing more than to prove you''re some provocateur and get you expelled. Or worse, arrested." They entered the reception hall. Jack looked gloomily at the corner where he had spent his last ten official minutes at Hogwarts before being sorted. The simple revenge on Montfort he¡¯d been imagining now seemed childish compared to the neck-deep rapids he¡¯d just stumbled into. "Ta da!" Teddy scoffed, opening the doors to the Great Hall for them, "Thus the Ravenclaws host their silly weekly get-togethers, spouting about reform and the dangers of Washington.¡± "While their fathers¡¯ money funds their refreshments," Oliver added dryly. "Exactly. Don''t waste time worrying about what Montfort thinks of America or MACUSA or anything else. He''ll find a new cause by Christmas," Henry said. "Probably house-elf liberation or something equally silly." The worst part was, Jack thought, he couldn''t entirely blame the Brits for thinking this. After what Grindelwald had done, who wouldn''t want a better world? The question was what "better" really meant¡­and who got to decide. Aye, there''s the rub, as Henry would say. They entered the Great Hall, where the lunch crowd was already gathering. The rich smell of Sunday roast filled the air, roast beef with all the trimmings, perfectly crisp potatoes, and fresh horseradish sauce. The enchanted ceiling reflected the autumn sky outside, scattered clouds drifting lazily overhead. Jack caught sight of Montfort, back from Quidditch practice and holding court at the Ravenclaw table gesturing passionately to an attentive audience. Cassandra sat nearby, seemingly absorbed in a book. ¡°Can you fault us for wanting closer ties?¡± Henry said as they sat down at the Gryffindor table. ¡°The French are shattered, the Germans are gone, the Russians are behaving oddly- "Hang on," Jack interrupted, "What''s going on with the Russians? We haven''t heard anything from them since the peace conference at the end of the war." "That''s exactly the point," Henry said, helping himself to roast beef and horseradish. "Eastern Europe got it the worst from Grindelwald. Whole communities were murdered by his radicals. Then the Russians rallied and pushed them back, meeting us in the Alps where we finished them. Two years ago, the Russians were right there with us fighting Grindelwald. Now? Complete silence from Moscow. The Ministry can''t get straight answers from anyone east of the Netherlands." Oliver nodded gravely, passing the horseradish. "My uncle said the Department of Foreign Affairs hasn''t received a single owl from their Russian counterparts since January. Used to be weekly communications. The Mail-Floo Network doesn¡¯t work anymore either." "So what?" Teddy asked through a mouthful of potatoes. "Maybe their owls got lost." "All of them?" Henry raised an eyebrow. "And what about the delegation that was supposed to visit the Ministry last month? Canceled without explanation. Or Durmstrang suddenly not reopening like they said they were going to?" "The whole Eastern European wizarding world too," Oliver added. "Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, they all fought alongside us against Grindelwald. Now it¡¯s like they don¡¯t even have Ministries anymore." Jack leaned forward, lowering his voice. "But why? What changed?" "That''s what''s got everyone worried," Henry said. "Nobody knows." He glanced around before continuing. "Remember how the Easterners were pushing for complete integration with Muggle governments during the peace talks in Milan?" "Yeah, but nobody took that seriously and they got outvoted," Jack said. "I mean, the Statute of Secrecy prohibits that explicitly." "That is exactly what they started calling ''an outdated tool¡¯ right before they went silent," Oliver cut in. "They blame the Statue for Grindelwald¡¯s rise. Their head ambassador even took out a full page advertisement in the Prophet railing about ''permanent revolution'' and ''the inevitable union of magical and non-magical peoples.''" Teddy looked bewildered, "The what of the what now?" "It means they want to tear down the walls between our world and theirs," Henry explained patiently. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what Grindelwald wanted!¡± Teddy spouted. The other three shushed him. ¡°Not like that,¡± Oliver said, ¡°Not dominate Muggles, but cooperate with them, equitably. That¡¯s why they call themselves equitists.¡± ¡°And we all know who¡¯d be leading such an equal organization.¡± Henry scoffed. ¡°All wizards are equal,¡± Jack quoted. ¡°But some wizards are more equal than others.¡±4 Then he snapped his fingers with realization. ¡°What is it?¡± Henry asked. "This is all too familiar," Jack said, frowning. "Something''s not right about this. All this language they''re using...I''ve read it before, but not just from wizards." Henry looked at him sideways. "What do you mean?" "In No-Maj Studies back home, we covered communistic vs capitalistic rhetoric. There''s this whole..." Jack trailed off, trying to find the right words. "It''s not just what they''re saying, it''s how they''re saying it. The exact same patterns." "But magical governments don''t align with Muggle ones," Oliver pointed out. "We stay separate," Henry finished. "It''s fundamental." "So why are they suddenly speaking like Muggles?" Jack tried to keep his voice casual, though his heart was beating faster. "Why use their exact phrasing? Their modified ideology?" "Maybe they just like how it sounds?" Teddy gestured with a fork full of potatoes. ¡°Trying to keep their people happy.¡± "No," Henry said slowly, "Jack''s right. It''s too precise. Deliberate.¡± They let that hang in the air for a moment. "You know what''s really strange?" Jack said, keeping his voice light. "Back home, there''s all this worry about equitist sympathizers in MACUSA. Congressional investigations going on. It¡¯s..." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "It¡¯s?" Henry prompted. Jack shrugged. "Just funny timing, that''s all." ¡°Funny timing,¡± Oliver shook his head. ¡°A third of wizarding Europe is gone. No contact, no word, nothing. Like a black pit.¡± Henry hit the table with his fist, ¡°Then better to have our friend the Yank than whatever is lurking out there in the dark.¡± The four boys shuddered, in spite of the warmth of the hall. "But that''s exactly Montfort''s point, isn''t it?" Teddy pressed, helping himself to carrots. "We''re turning to America because we''re afraid. He''d say that makes us weak, dependent." "Better dependent than dead," Oliver muttered. "My cousin was in Rotterdam when Grindelwald''s men came through.¡± Jack noticed how the conversations around them had quieted slightly, other students listening while pretending not to. His classmates were worried. Worried during Sunday lunch, safe inside the quadruple-cloistered walls of Hogwarts, within this enchanted valley, in this little England, bound in with the triumphant sea, like the moat around a castle against the envy of less happy lands. Worried about what was out there in the dark.
1. Pinko: another Americanism borrowed from their Muggles, referring to someone with suspiciously socialist sympathies. 2. The Post-War Enclosure Act of 1946 was a desperate attempt by the Ministry of Magic to recover from the total devastation of the Great Wizarding War. The Act nationalized vast swathes of magical land to pay off war debts, forcing countless wizarding families to give up their ancestral holdings. It turned struggling families into outright paupers and handed more power to old pure-blood families who could afford the buyouts. Hogwarts was barely able to keep its doors open, Gringotts only lent at outrageous interest, and traditional industries like broom and wand making collapsed. The economy was in shambles - businesses bankrupted, manufactories closed for want of workers, alchemical supplies depleted, and magical infrastructure in ruins. Only a 300-million Galleon loan from MACUSA in April 1948 saved the Ministry from total insolvency. Much of the worst of this was going on far above our young peoples'' blissfully ignorant heads. 3. Knockturn Alley, London, long infamous for its darker magical dealings, evolved into a peculiar hub for fringe ideologies during the early-20th century. Some dubious publications from the period, such as Truthteller, Red Spark, and (my personal favorite title) Manifestopheles, found circulation here. 4. "All wizards are equal, but some wizards are more equal than others." A modified quote from the popular 1945 book Animal Farm by English author and Great Wizarding War veteran Georgius Wellor, attempting to warn his fellows against the dangers of totalitarianism in a post-war world. As Wellor was in desperate need of money, he optioned the manuscript to a Muggle book publisher under a pseudonym. 17. The Tome Raiders The hubbub of lunchtime chatter washed over Jack like waves on the shore as he mechanically ate his roast. His mind, reeling from international magical politics, latched onto a more immediate terror: the mountain of work waiting for him in the common room. Unopened Potions and Transfiguration textbooks, yards of supplementary reading, all the new techniques he needed to familiarize himself with before class started on Monday. He was almost grateful for his looming detention study hall tomorrow night in the library. It was overwhelming. He''d always been a good student, especially at tests. He had been near the top of his class at Ilvermorny, that was one of the main reasons his transfer request had even been considered - but this was a whole new level. What if he wasn¡¯t able to succeed here with the same level of effort he had to put in before? What if he couldn''t keep up? What if they expelled him for academics, never mind his already perilous disciplinary situation? The thought of Hightower¡¯s scornful expression and Montfort¡¯s mocking laughter as he was frog-marched through the Central Hall by suits of animated armor and tossed unceremoniously out of the North Gate made his stomach churn. The state of magical Europe suddenly seemed far less pressing than the fate of his grade point average. Funny how the human mind worked. Give it a choice between looming abstract threats and petty (but concrete) academic deadlines, and it would prioritize the latter every time. When Jack was older and wiser, he would be able to reflect on that. At the moment, fifteen-year old Jack Semmes was in a state of near-panic. ¡°Alright there, old sport?¡± Henry asked. ¡°If you¡¯re still wasting brain cells on Montfort, I can assure you that he¡¯s not going anywhere.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Jack managed, ¡°It¡¯s more the class prep. Five years of British magical theory and practice in less than 18 hours¡­¡± ¡°Oh that?¡± Henry checked his pocket watch, ¡°We have all afternoon still, don¡¯t worry about that. We¡¯ll drop by the library and get you what you need." "Now?" Jack looked up. ¡°It¡¯s all the way on the other side of campus.¡± "Ten minute walk at most, the castle isn¡¯t as big as you think." Teddy assured him. "Best time for it too. Most everyone else is still unpacking or catching up with friends." "We might as well review too. Ms. Quillworth''s much more helpful when it''s not crowded with bloody Ravenclaws," Oliver stood up from the table. ¡°Come on Semmes.¡± The Hogwarts library was a vast, two-story sanctum, with soaring wooden bookshelves, cozy study nooks, and dust motes dancing in the September sunlight. Jack compared it very favorably against Ilvermorny¡¯s subterranean labyrinth, lit with austere magical bulbs. The librarian¡¯s desk in the middle was empty. There was a small placard on it with a handwritten note that said: ¡°In the stacks!¡± A tiny silver bell rang as soon as Henry stepped up to the desk, fixing his tie. The librarian emerged from behind a shelf. Jack immediately understood why his friends had been so eager to visit the library. She was sorting through returns, her wand conducting books through the air like an orchestra. She looked scarcely older than a seventh-year, with brown eyes, a scatter of freckles across her nose, and side-braided auburn hair. "Henry of Ravenhurst and his Merry Men," Ms. Lettie Quillworth said, putting away the last of the books and adjusting her glasses. "A new addition to your band of outlaws?" She was wearing a knit turtleneck sweater and a smile as warm as the sunlight pouring through the large windows. All four boys straightened unconsciously. Henry''s voice cracked slightly as he introduced Jack. "Good afternoon, Ms. Quillworth, we''re helping Mr. Jack Semmes here prepare for classes," Henry explained, uncharacteristically subdued, his ears pink. "Especially Potions and Transfig...he¡¯s here from Ilvermorny." Jack tried not to shuffle his feet. ¡°Oh lovely,¡± Ms. Quillworth beamed at Jack, "I''ve always wanted to visit America. I¡¯ve heard that the Ilvermorny archives of American Indian magic fill a whole wing, is that true?"The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "Yes, ma''am," Jack replied, trying to look anywhere in the library but at her. ¡°Just need to catch up on the different wizard-uh, magical theory.¡± "Of course," her eyes sparkled with knowing amusement. "British methods can be quite different from the Continental style, let alone the American. Follow me." She led them on a winding path through the stacks, past the ominous gated Restricted Section, and up to the second floor, all the while selecting books with practiced ease like she was picking wild strawberries in a meadow. ¡°Transatlantic Brewing, this should help with Professor Vale. And Transmutation and Transfiguration Techniques: A Comparative Study..." Jack found himself trying not to blush every time she handed him a book, or flinch when her hand occasionally brushed against his sleeve. His friends weren''t any better, Teddy walked into a shelf watching her climb a ladder to the top stack. ¡°This hasn¡¯t been checked out for a few decades,¡± Ms. Quillworth added an incredibly dusty and disintegrating book entitled Hogwarts: A Transfretende Scoleres Gydynge from the top bookshelf to Jack¡¯s growing armful. ¡°It¡¯s a guide for transfer students. I don¡¯t know quite how useful it will be to you, I¡¯m sure most of the faculty biographies are out-of-date, but very interesting nevertheless.¡± ¡°Who even writes something so specific?¡± Jack asked incredulously. ¡°Probably someone¡¯s dissertation,¡± Ms. Quillworth noted sagely. The book growled and nipped Jack¡¯s hand as he tried to open it. ¡°Yeouch!¡± he yelped and snatched his fingers away, ¡°Is this thing even in English?¡± "Middle English, not too difficult, the ¡®y¡¯s are ¡®i¡¯s.¡± Ms. Quillworth took the book from Jack, ¡°Flip it over and stroke the spine first, the older books like that.¡± She demonstrated, making Jack turn a bright scarlet and the bottom drop out of his stomach. Teddy and Henry stared. Oliver had to avert his eyes. ¡°These should get you started," she said as Jack and the others hurriedly checked the books out at the circulation desk. "If you need anything else," she added as they prepared to leave, "anything at all, just ask!" The boys mumbled sweaty thanks and fled the library, Jack speed-walking in the lead. "Sweet merciful Merlin," Henry breathed once they were safely back in the common room. Jack was trying to fan himself with his shirt front. It was uncomfortably hot in the common room. "She can''t actually be that nice to everyone," Teddy insisted. "Can she?" "That''s just how she is," Henry said, still flushed. ¡°That¡¯s not decent,¡± Jack grumbled, ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be allowed to be a librarian until you¡¯re in your mid-50s.¡± "Makes studying much more interesting," Oliver sighed wistfully. ¡°How are you getting any studying done when she¡¯s within fifty yards?!¡± Jack exclaimed, drawing looks and shushes from his housemates. He continued in an undertone, ¡°Franklin¡¯s kite, man, did you see what she did to that book?¡± ¡°We all did,¡± Teddy said with a thousand-yard stare. "Focus, lads," Henry said, calming the group, "We''ve got work to do."
To Dearest Lettie To Ms. Q To The Fairest Flower of Knowledge''s Garden O Auburn-tressed angel of the stacks, Your gentle hands upon the tomes so fair, When checking out my books, my courage lacks To tell you how I tremble, standing there. Your freckles dance like stars across the sky (That''s rubbish, you idiot) Your grace when stamping dates makes my heart fly Like [ink blot] soaring o''er a crystal pool When you remind me books are overdue, Your voice is sweeter than a siren''s song I''d gladly pay a thousand fines to you And in the Restricted Section...[rest burned away] - Half-finished Sonnet, Author Unknown, found in the fireplace of the Gryffindor Common Room (Editor''s Note: Holy Merlin, it¡¯s even in iambic pentameter! How much time did he spend on this?!)
18. Last Minute Cramming
"A Gryffindor with a textbook? Must be December!" - Ravenclaw gibe "At least we know a date isn¡¯t just something you memorize for History of Magic." - Gryffindor retort.
The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual, most students enjoying their last free weekend outdoors. They claimed the corner near the wireless set, spreading books across the worn table as his friends arrived with their own materials. Jack rubbed his face with his hands to temporarily banish all thoughts of Ms. Quillworth and laid out his reference books in order. He began the laborious task of taking notes on the key differences between American and British magical approaches. "''Essential Theory of Powder-Based Potions,''" Teddy read from a massive grimoire in desperate need of rebinding. "¡¯Featuring A Comparative Analysis of Stirring Techniques.¡¯" He grinned at Jack''s expression. "Light bedtime reading." "I''m doomed," Jack groaned, looking at the two foot-high stack of books, including all of Winterborn¡¯s ¡°supplementals.¡± "Nonsense, you''re just playing catch up.¡± Oliver assured him. ¡°Give it a month and you''ll be fine." "Look here," Henry said firmly, picking up the top textbook. ¡°Some considerate Ravenclaw went through and highlighted all the important bits.¡± He opened the front chapter to demonstrate. ¡°You can skim it.¡± "Right then, I¡¯ll start off with my notes. Get out some cribbing parchment," Oliver produced a leather-bound folder that looked suspiciously well-organized for a sixteen-year-old boy. "British potion-making has some key differences from American methods. First off, we use standard 256-dram pewter cauldrons, none of that tempered glass business..." A well-dressed 16th century ghost in a ruff drifted over politely to observe their progress as Jack¡¯s quill scratched in time with Oliver¡¯s discourse. ¡°Hello Nick,¡± Henry, Teddy, and Oliver chorused (¡°He¡¯s our house ghost,¡± Henry whispered to Jack). "Ah, young minds at work!" Nick declared. "How gratifying to see such dedication to magical education! So free of¡­distractions!" He wafted next to Jack and tried to impress him with his now-dangling head, hanging only by a strip of ghostly flesh. "That¡¯s nothing," Jack said, unimpressed. "You should meet the Hessian. Now he¡¯s got an impressive decapitation. His name¡¯s Gustav. Hates choir directors." "I-I beg your pardon?" Nearly Headless Nick''s semi-attached head wobbled dangerously. "Oh yeah!" Jack continued enthusiastically, not noticing the frantic gestures his friends were making. ¡°He comes thundering up the Hudson River from Sleepy Hollow completely headless, with a billowing black cloak, and riding a spectral hellsteed through the halls at midnight launching flaming pumpkins everywhere. He likes to disappear freshmen on Halloween, especially if their last name starts with ¡®C¡¯. We have to go out into the woods on All Saints Day to find them before the No-Maj police do. One year we found a kid named Crandall half-way up a pine tree in nothing but his PJs. Took weeks of therapy to get him back, poor guy." "Well!¡± Nick drew himself up to his full height, his partial decapitation quivering with indignation. ¡°If you prefer your spirits mounted and completely decapitated, perhaps I should leave you to your studies!" He swept away through a wall, radiating wounded pride. ¡°Was it something I said?¡± Jack asked. "Shouldn''t have mentioned the horse," Henry suggested. "How was I supposed to know he''d be sensitive about it?" Jack protested. ¡°He¡¯s dead!¡± "It''s Nick," Oliver explained, going back to his notes. "He''s sensitive about everything. Now, back to the Scottish brew, it¡¯s simple as. ¡®For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble¡­¡¯" For the next few hours, they walked him through the basics. Henry made copies of his old Transfiguration and Charms notes for Jack (color-coded by year and block of instruction), while Teddy had practical tips for dealing with each professor''s quirks.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. "Like MacLeod said, Winterborn''s is unbelievably strict about form, as you could probably tell," Teddy said. "Gets tetchy if your wand''s even a degree off.¡± ¡°But magic responds to intent more than method,¡± protested Jack. ¡°This stupid teacup can become a tufted titmouse whether you do it with Brit precision or American efficiency." ¡°Proper form creates more stable, longer-lasting transfigs,¡± Henry responded. ¡°Seriously. Don¡¯t talk back in class, she¡¯ll assign you three-foot essays or turn you into a turnip.¡± "Eh?" Jack asked, looking up from The Abridged Book of Spellcraft, which contrarily was over 800 pages long. ¡°Really?¡± "With Winterborn? Absolutely,¡± Teddy expounded. ¡°Happened to a Gryffindor third-year in ¡¯42. Took Dr. Butts two hours of persuasion to turn her back. And she¡¯s as fast with detention slips as an Auror on the wand draw. Now, MacLeod already likes you so you¡¯re set with him, just don¡¯t fall asleep or blow up his classroom too much. Whitby in Muggle Studies is mental-¡± ¡°Completely mental,¡± Henry and Oliver chorused. ¡°Brightwell is brilliant, really kind too, he always offers Study Prep for any student falling behind in Charms, which is more than I can say about most of the other teachers here. Blackthorn wants everyone to actually do the assigned reading before her class. Don¡¯t try to skate Herbology, she¡¯ll catch you and make an example of you. Herbology detention is the worst, especially if you want to keep all your fingers. Starling does Astronomy, don¡¯t fall asleep, find the right stars, memorize them for the tests, not much more to be said. MacGregor, the Care of Magical Creatures teacher, is a bit of a crabbit. He can be quite funny to wind up though. Last of all, Vale. He will dock points for rough-cut ingredients or adding your materials in batches. He expects perfect mise en place-¡± ¡°Mise in what?¡± Jack interrupted. ¡°Ingredients arranged just so, tools aligned precisely...it¡¯s French, Yank.¡± Teddy explained, showing a flash of irritation. ¡°Do you not learn French in primary school?" "No¡­Spanish. How do you guys know all this?" Jack asked. "Five years of trial and error," Henry grinned. "Mostly error. But we learned the hard way so that you can learn through our mistakes." They worked through dinner, with only a brief study break to walk down the Great Hall to collect a large tray of sandwiches and ginger beer. The common room slowly emptied as other students drifted off to bed, leaving them surrounded by books and parchment in the firelight. "You''ll be fine," Henry said finally, watching Jack practice the British ¡®switchback¡¯ wand movement for the eighteenth time. "You''re not in this alone, you know." "You can''t fail," Teddy added, "I¡¯ve got money on you lasting at least until Christmas. Five to one odds against." ¡°Think how embarrassing it would be for the Ministry,¡± Oliver observed. ¡°All this work to bring in the first Yank and he falls on his face? Someone would have to pull some strings.¡± "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jack replied dryly, but he felt better. The work was daunting, yes, but not impossible. And having friends willing to spend their last Sunday before school starts helping him prepare. He was overwhelmed by their magnanimity. ¡°I really owe you guys,¡± he said gratefully, looking around at his three housemates. ¡°Thanks so much.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t say that kind of twaddle in future, mate, you sound like a poofter,¡± Teddy deflected his gratitude with rough Lincolnshire levity. ¡°Bloody Americans and their feelings.¡± Jack burst out laughing. Oliver snorted loudly. ¡°Consider it me slightly making up for the chewing you got from Winterborn, and also for you taking the brunt of the Ravenclaw Tower incident,¡± Henry replied lightly. ¡°You can pay us back when we take you to Hogsmeade. First round will be on Teddy, then you. He owes us from last term¡­isn¡¯t that right Marshwiggle?¡± Teddy waggled his thick eyebrows cryptically. "One last run-through?" Oliver suggested, holding up the distillation instructions for celandine. "Actually," Henry intervened, "I think Semmes needs sleep more than another review of fractionation. Can''t have you falling asleep in Vale''s class, old sport. He¡¯ll toss you feet-first into a vat of Piranha Solution." Jack¡¯s neck was stiff, his eyes itched with tiredness, but thanks to his friends he felt like he had done all that he could to keep himself from making a complete fool of himself in class tomorrow. Stifling a yawn, he waved his wand to gather up his things and trudged up to the dark and silent dormitory with the others. As he changed into his pajamas and crawled into the wonderfully soft and enormous bed, he couldn''t help but feel a twinge of dread in his gut. Tomorrow loomed like the Sword of Damocles: double Potions followed by advanced Transfiguration, all before lunch. He was sure glad he had sorted into Gryffindor, at least he had some help here. What a disaster this would have been otherwise¡­ At least, he thought, he hadn''t included all that in the letter to his parents. That conversation could wait until he knew whether he''d survive his first day of classes. As exhaustion pulled him under, his last coherent thought was a prayer to whatever Powers that Be looked after transfer students that he wouldn''t completely humiliate himself. With that, he closed his eyes, rolled onto his side, and drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his dreams full of spinning notes, bubbling cauldrons, and shadowy figures glimpsed in storefront windows, of laughter and whispers that followed him down eternally twisting stone corridors. 19. Rebel Without a Cauldron
Take thee first a cauldron of good pewter, tested by moonlight and thrice-blessed. The size must be neither too large nor too small, but just as thy grandmother might have used. Begin when Venus rises in the third house, and add: Three measures of morning dew, gathered from roses which have never known frost Essence of Jobberknoll, obtained when the bird gives its final cry Plentie of moonseeds, crushed ''twixt silver and stone (but not so much as to embitter the brew) Seven drops of dragon''s blood, neither more nor less, unless the dragon was old, in which case five may suffice A pinch of powdered unicorn horn (if thy purse allows - if not, substitute with ground pearl of good quality) One sprig of rosemary, picked by a virgin at dawn (the herb must be virgin too) The color should be that of a summer sky at dusk, though in winter it may turn more purple. When the surface shimmers like a cat''s eye, add: Crushed butterflies (common garden varieties will serve, though tropical sorts make the potion more potent) A thimbleful of mercury caught from a broken looking-glass Three hairs from a wise person''s head (thine own will not serve) Let simmer until the potion whispers thy name. If it calls thee by thy full name, thou hast erred - throw it out and begin again. The finished draught should taste of forgotten summers and have the consistency of a young child''s tears. If it tastes of regret, thou hast over stirred. N.B. If brewed during autumn, double the rosemary, this makes the potion somewhat tastier. (scrawled in the margins: ¡°I want to die. - JS ¡®47¡±) Excerpted from A Most Efficacious Receipt for the Brewing of Memorie''s Quickening by Magdalena Mouldsworth, 1742 A.D.
Jack woke with a start, his heart pounding. For a moment, he didn''t know where he was - the four-poster crimson-canopied bed, the scarlet curtains, the soft breathing of his fellows all unfamiliar. Then it all came rushing back. Hogwarts. First day of classes. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The dormitory was still dark, the rosy fingers of dawn just starting to creep through the mullioned windows. He''d set his alarm early, wanting plenty of time to prepare. He was used to that. His sleeping-in yesterday was a fluke. Ilvermorny was not a place for late risers. It was just school, he told himself firmly, as he put his hands behind his head and stared up at the canopy. He''d faced down worse than this. He could handle a few extra classes, a few different ways to cast spells or make potions. He was Jack Semmes, after all. The weird little kid whose first accidental cast of magic was to make a local bully¡¯s pants fall down after he had repeatedly followed behind Jack kicking his foot out of his shoe. Come on Jack, up and at ¡®em. He dressed quickly, his fingers fumbling a bit with the unfamiliar fastenings of his robe. He tied his tie just loosely enough to make it look rakish, flicked his wand over his leather shoes to give them one last polish and headed to breakfast. ¡°ALARUM!¡± bellowed Georgie the portrait as Jack passed, scaring him half to death. ¡°THE REBEL PRISONER HAS ESCAPED!¡± ¡°Shut up!¡± Jack hissed, rounding on him. ¡°You¡¯ll wake the whole tower!¡± Georgie yelped and hid behind the large rock that served as his background, ¡°Back, provincial!¡± he menaced Jack impotently with his crop. ¡°I fear not your savage allies or your rude attempts at spellcraft!¡± Jack, amused by his antics, read the little brass nameplate on the frame: Sir George Pendleton Twistleton-Fitzhubert, 3rd Earl of Waterbury and Viscount of Wombly-upon-Thames: 1689-1777. ¡°Tecumseh¡¯s teepee, no wonder they call you Georgie,¡± Jack grinned, tapping the canvas and making the whole painted forest shake, dumping a load of autumn leaves on the wizard¡¯s head and triggering another vitriolic outburst (more muffled this time). The Great Hall was nearly empty when he arrived, just a handful of fellow overly-eager students and slowly-awakening professors scattered among the long tables. He helped himself first to some coffee and crumpets, then to a plate entirely of different types of sausages. He looked vainly about the table for tomato ketchup, and was just resigning himself to pouring a tureen of some sort of brown sauce over them when Henry and his friends arrived, chatting about the weather like true Englishmen. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. ¡°Going to be rain,¡± prognosticated Oliver gloomily, looking at the ceiling. ¡°Hope you slept well, old sport,¡± Henry plopped down next to Jack. ¡°Ready for your baptism by fire?¡± ¡°Ready as ever,¡± Jack polished off the last of his sausages and checked his wristwatch: 7:25am. He realized everyone else here seemed to use pocket watches. ¡°I¡¯m going to get a head start to Potions,¡± he stood up from the table. "Good luck, and remember what I said about the dungeons!¡± Henry called after him. ¡°Take the stairs in the central hall by the suit of armor, and don''t listen to anyone who tries to tell you otherwise!" Jack nodded absently, mentally reciting the twelve uses of dragon''s blood. "Got it. Thanks, Henry." In his distracted state, he promptly forgot all about Henry''s advice the moment he stepped out of the great hall. He made his way across the viaduct into the central hall, and down into the dungeons. Ten minutes later, he was hopelessly lost, and came to a dead end. He cursed himself for not paying better attention on Henry''s tour. ¡°Franklin¡¯s kite, what a stupid rookie mistake.¡± He turned and started running the opposite direction. He was dead. So very dead. Late to class on his first day while already looking down the wand point of a week of detention prep¡­ He was just about to give up and start shouting for help when he turned a corner and ran headlong into a thin young man in green-trimmed robes with carefully-parted blonde hair and round wire-rimmed glasses. Cyprian Venge from the club car. ¡°Cyprian!¡± Jack cried out like a drowning man seizing onto a raft. ¡°I need help, I¡¯m trying to get to class!¡± ¡°Semmes,¡± Cyprian looked at him owlishly, ¡°What are you doing all the way down here?¡± Jack just looked at him, too embarrassed and out of breath to think of anything reasonable. The boy adjusted his glasses. "Potions? I''m heading there." The Slytherin led the way at a casual pace while Jack hopped in frustration next to him. ¡°Are we going to be late?¡± he asked as Cyprian deliberately went up a staircase one step at a time. ¡°No.¡± Jack¡¯s watch read 7:58am. Cyprian walked up the stairs, pushed on an unremarkable stone in the wall, and walked though as the section rotated like a spinning door. Jack dove through before it crunched shut, and found himself in a busy hallway just outside of Vale¡¯s classroom. Cyprian was through the door precisely as the bell started ringing eight and slipped with practiced ease into the nearest seat. Jack stood at the entrance, quickly surveying the room, trying to spot a fellow Gryffindor or a friendly face. The only empty stool he saw was at the back, next to Cyprian. Professor Vale entered the classroom from his office precisely as Jack sat down beside Cyprian. The Potions Master''s shock of white hair was a sharp contrast to his dark robes as he strode to the front of the room. "Welcome to Advanced Potions, sixth-years," Vale announced, turning to face the class. His eyes flickered briefly to Jack before continuing their sweep of the room. "This term we''ll be first focusing on medical applications, beginning with an individual review of healing potions you should have mastered in your O.W.L. year. Today''s assignment will be a standard Blood-Replenishing Potion, necessary for treating shock. We will spend the second half of class reviewing the course syllabus." Jack felt his shoulders relax slightly. They''d covered that potion at Ilvermorny, though the British method had some differences. He began unpacking his equipment, trying to mirror Cyprian''s arrangement. "The standard recipe is in your Alkemyste¡¯s Cookbook, page 194," Vale continued. "You have until the end of the first period to complete it. The second period will be devoted to the syllabus and this term''s expectations." He waved his wand at the blackboard, where neat chalk writing appeared. "These are the modifications I expect you to incorporate: a Taste Inhibitor and an Anticoagulant. Begin." Jack squinted at the board. The British variations were there - crushing the blutroot instead of slicing it, stirring the widdershins seven times instead of six...but besides that, it was just following the recipe. He could feel sweat beginning to form on his brow as he worked. Oliver¡¯s cribbed notes were a lifesaver. He placed them out next to his desk to help gloss the extra details that the ancient textbook left out. For instance, the recipe called for ¡°a goodly handfule of angelica, well choppe.¡± Oliver¡¯s notes on the potion spelled out: ¡°Exactly ? cup of angelica leaves- no sticks or stems.¡± Beside him, Cyprian moved with quiet efficiency. Jack noticed the Slytherin had his pocket watch propped open beside his cauldron, though he never seemed to look at it. Vale methodically patrolled the class, offering advice to students that looked like they were struggling, and caustic critique to those working too quickly. He passed by Jack and Cyprian¡¯s shared table. ¡°It looks like you prepared for today¡¯s lesson, Mr. Semmes,¡± he said, with a note of mild approval. Jack was too focused to offer more than a quick nod. Halfway through the practical, Jack caught sight of Cassandra across the room. She was working with preternatural grace. Jack quickly looked away before she could catch him staring, nearly dropping too much troll blood into his potion. "Time," Vale announced as Jack finished his final stir and removed the cauldron from the heat. The Potions Master moved through the room, examining each cauldron in turn. He paused at Jack''s workspace, peering into the cauldron. "Acceptable, Mr. Semmes," he said finally. "It wouldn¡¯t kill your patient, but your consistency could be improved. This requires a lighter touch with the stirring rod." He moved on to Cyprian''s cauldron. "Excellent work as always, Mr. Venge. Perfect viscosity." After checking the last few potions, Vale returned to the front of the room. "Clear your stations and take out your quills. We''ll spend the remaining time discussing this term''s curriculum and my expectations for your N.E.W.T. preparation." The second hour passed in a blur of note-taking. Jack''s hand cramped as he tried to keep up with Vale''s rapid-fire listing of potion theory requirements and exam preparations. When the bell finally rang, he felt like he''d just run three laps around the castle. "Thanks," he said to Cyprian as they packed up their things. "For showing me the way here, I mean." Cyprian adjusted his glasses. "Everyone gets lost at first," he said. ¡°Count the torch sconces. They¡¯re constant.¡± Jack shouldered his bag, considering this. "I''ll keep that in mind," he said. "See you around?" Cyprian gave a slight nod and departed, leaving Jack to hurry up to the Transfiguration classroom. 20. The Ghost of History ¡°If you manage six hours of napping a day, on top of six hours of sleep a night, you¡¯re only stuck here for 3.5 years.¡± - Ilvermorny Student Proverb
Henry had saved him a seat near the middle of the Transfiguration classroom. The room was wonderful bright and airy compared to the dank and claustrophobic dungeons, in spite of the gloomy weather outside. Cassandra Hightower was already in a seat in the front row. "Made it through Potions alive." Henry commented as Jack dropped into the chair beside him. "Barely," Jack replied, "I managed not to completely embarrass myself thanks to you guys." He reached into his schoolbag and brought out his Advanced Transfiguration textbook, a modern work (only just published in 1921) cheekily entitled What¡¯s The Matter? "Bravo, old sport," Henry said. "Wait until you see what Winterborn has in store for us today. I heard from the seventh-years that the final project this term is on human transfiguration..." ¡°Animagi?¡± Jack whispered back, but Henry didn¡¯t have time to respond before Professor Winterborn was already launching into her introduction to the course. "Advanced Transfiguration is not for the undermotivated or the faint of heart," she warned, her eyes sweeping over the assembled students. She gestured with her to a stack of paperback books on top of her desk, and they flew out to the tables in a coordinated swarm. Jack¡¯s copy landed directly next to his notes with a slap. He inspected the staple-bound cover, The Arte of Animagick. "This is a N.E.W.T.-level class,¡± Winterborn continued as the last of the books were delivered, ¡°and I expect each and every one of you to put in the work required to succeed. There will be no malingering, no excuses, and no second chances. Do I make myself clear?" There was a murmur of assent from the class, a few shifting nervously. Jack sat up straighter in his seat, suddenly feeling very alert. He had to focus here, not start falling behind on the first day. Keep up the strong start. His confidence was short-lived. As Professor Winterborn outlined the syllabus for the term, Jack felt his heart sink lower and lower as the coursework moved from matter phasing to human-animal transfiguration. The reading list was enormous and the spell work complex beyond anything he''d ever attempted. To cap it off, the term paper - a three yard-long monster on the mechanics of Animagi worth thirty percent of their final grade - sounded like something out of his worst nightmares. He glanced over at Henry, hoping to see a similar look of trepidation - but the young scion of the West Riding was grinning, his eyes alight with excitement. Of course he was. Henry loved Transfig, probably had been looking forward to this class all summer. Jack felt sick with discouragement. Potions was one thing, but Transfiguration on top of it? How was he ever going to keep up? He was already behind and the semester had barely started. At this rate, he''d be lucky if he didn''t flunk out by Christmas. He was almost grateful for being gated with mandatory study prep now. The bell rang, cutting his mental semester simulation short. He gathered up his books and followed Henry out of the classroom towards the Great Hall for lunch. "Well, that was invigorating!" Henry exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet as they crossed the suspension bridge. "I can''t wait to start the practicals. And the paper sounds brilliant! Might turn it into a research project for seventh-year¡­¡± ¡°Gee whiz,¡± Jack said dully. Henry was too caught up in his own enthusiasm to notice his friend''s mood. "Come on, let''s grab some food before History of Magic," he said, slinging an arm around Jack''s shoulders. "It¡¯s great you¡¯re in Advanced Transfig with me, old sport! Finally another Gryffindor to chum around with instead of grumpy snakes and raven toffs. I heard they''re serving treacle tart for pudding. They don¡¯t have that in the States do they?" Henry¡¯s good humor was infectious. ¡°Sounds kind of like shoo-fly pie,¡± Jack managed a smile, allowing himself to be steered towards the Great Hall. ¡°That¡¯s a rum name, Semmes. Rum,¡± Henry chuckled. "Made with real insects is it?" Food, Jack thought. That was what he needed. Food, a break, and a chance to catch his breath before he had to face another class. They joined Teddy and Oliver at their table for lunch, the former regaling them with how Charms and Care of Magical Creatures had gone, Henry filling in their side of the day. Algeron Fairburne stopped by, his scar pink against his tan, to remind them about Quidditch tryouts on Thursday and how they needed a new chaser now that Isaias Ratburn had graduated. ¡°Hopefully these first-years have a ringer in there,¡± Fairburne said, skeptically eying a handful of his new charges at the end of the Gryffindor table. Wigbald Stoat had bitten a hole through a treacle tart and was holding it up to his eye like a monocle, to the hilarity of his fellows. ¡°Might have a ringer right here, Algy,¡± Teddy volunteered Jack with a grin. ¡°Only problem is he¡¯s gated.¡± ¡°I heard about that,¡± Algy gave Jack a searching look. ¡°I¡¯ll speak to the prefect council tomorrow about getting you permission to extend your roam to the pitch. Shouldn¡¯t be hard to win over votes from the Huffles and Slyths. Anything to try and take Ravenclaw down a peg.¡± ¡°See Semmes, told you Algy would put in a word,¡± Henry slapped Jack¡¯s back. ¡°If you think his Yank flying can translate to Quidditch, I¡¯m willing to see it,¡± Algy gave a resigned sigh. ¡°Not like our team can get much worse than a 3-7 record.¡± He dug into his school bag and pulled out a well-thumbed Quidditch rulebook, complete with animated diagrams and little brooms that whizzed through the air in three dimensions when you opened it. He handed it to Jack, ¡°Mind you, Quaffles don¡¯t explode.¡± Jack took it, ¡°How boring.¡± he replied with a straight face. Algy laughed, ¡°Review that, the terrible trio will set you straight. See you lads Thursday afternoon.¡± He walked off to join his fellow seventh-years. ¡°Great, more reading,¡± Jack said, flipping through the beautifully illustrated book. He admired the full-page colored plate of different professional teams and their uniforms. ¡°At least this has pictures.¡± ¡°You can skip most of it,¡± Henry advised, ¡°Quidditch is Quidditch, get the ball through the hoops and don¡¯t die. Basically the same as your Yank game, except with a Snitch, and two flying iron skittle balls trying to turn your brains into mushy peas.¡± After lunch and the walk back to the Academic Building, Jack slid into his seat in History of Magic next to Henry. His stomach full of treacle tart and his mind stuffed with morning classes and Quidditch. He was ready for classes to be over already, and the day was only half done. But he forced himself to set out his quill, parchment, and massive History of Magic Volume IV textbook on their shared desk and shake off his mental fatigue. This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Magical History had been one of his favorite classes at Ilvermorny, second only to Defense Against the Dark Arts and No-Maj Studies - the tales of ordinary warlocks and wise witches, the grand sweep of time, and the way that seemingly insignificant events could have widespread and long-lasting impact. Jack took stock of his classmates. All four houses were here: Henry sitting next to him, Cassandra Hightower, perched in the front row of course, her hands neatly folded over a fresh sheet of parchment; Caeso Montfort, lounging on the far left side of the room looking bored; Eustace Grymes, the lean, intense Gryffindor with parted red hair and a determined set to his jaw that Jack remembered from the Welcome Feast; a few Hufflepuffs he remembered from Potions, and last of Cyprian Venge, who was strategically positioned on the opposite wall as Montfort. The bell rang for class to start, but the front of the room was still empty. Jack looked around at the door to see where Professor Cuthbert Binns was. Henry tapped him on the shoulder, ¡°He¡¯s over there.¡± Jack looked forward, blinking, to see a pearly-white figure floating through the wall of the classroom, his face vague and indistinct. "That''s Professor Binns?" he frowned. ¡°A ghost?¡± "That¡¯s him, been dead for ages,¡± Henry whispered, ¡°But he keeps on teaching." ¡°How the heck does he grade papers?¡± Jack hissed. ¡°Wandwork." ¡°Sounds like a bad joke,¡± Jack shook his head. ¡°A bad joke by someone who had bad experiences in high school history class.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s brilliant, he works for free and doesn¡¯t take up space anymore,¡± Henry added. ¡°MacLeod said they turned his old bedroom into a storage closet. He didn¡¯t even notice.¡± ¡°So what¡¯s the catch?¡± Jack asked warily, watching Professor Binns try and fail to pick up a piece of chalk to write on the blackboard. ¡°You¡¯ll see,¡± Henry said. He pulled a small white pill-shaped object out of his pocket and squeezed it in his palm. The little object expanded rapidly into a large pillow that Henry put behind him and settled into with a contented sigh. Professor Binns gave up on the chalkboard, flew through it a couple of times, cleared his throat - a strange, echoing sound - and did a loop of the classroom, "Welcome, class, to sixth-year History of Magic. I am pleased to see you all again. I hope that you had a pleasant summer, now this term we will focusing-ah!¡± he paused by Jack and Henry¡¯s shared table. ¡°A new boy?¡± his pale eyes glimmered down upon Jack. ¡°I do not remember you from last term.¡± ¡°Jack Semmes, professor,¡± Jack said, standing up respectfully and suppressing an idiotic impulse to extend his hand for a handshake. Not like Binns could shake his hand. ¡°Ilvermorny transfer.¡± Binns made an indistinct sound that could have been either pleasure or dismay, Jack couldn¡¯t tell, ¡°Ah, Ilvermorny! A fascinating little case study, originally founded 1627, by a Hogwarts graduate and her Muggle husband.¡± Jack took his seat again at Binns'' vague gesture. ¡°A truly remarkable thing,¡± Binns floated towards the center of the classroom and raised his voice to allow the rest of the class to hear, ¡°Ilvermorny operated as a school of Hogwarts all the way up until 1775, taught and led by Hogwarts graduates, just like our schools around the rest of the Muggle Empire continue to do to this day, the Calcutta School in India and Impundulu in South Africa.¡± Henry grimaced, ¡°Calcutta was abandoned months ago due to riots during the partition,¡± he whispered to Jack. ¡°What happened to the students and faculty?¡± Jack whispered back. ¡°Trying to make their way back to England, the new Indian Ministry wants to set up a new school entirely staffed and attended by natives.¡± ¡°Professor,¡± a bespectacled Hufflepuff girl near the middle of the class raised her hand, and Binns called on her. ¡°What happened at Ilvermorny?¡± ¡°A remarkable thing, Miss Pevensey,¡± Binns repeated himself, ¡°The American wizards threw their lot in with their Muggles!¡± There was a brief, confused pause. ¡°When their Muggles rebelled against our Muggles,¡± Binns explained. There was a flutter of ¡®ahhs¡¯, ''quite rights'', and other British noises of comprehension. Jack hid a smile behind his hand. ¡°Professor,¡± Cyprian raised his hand, ¡°What could have possessed them to do that?¡± Jack felt the now-familiar feeling of every eye in the class turning onto him. He groaned internally. He¡¯d never asked for this¡­having to speak on behalf of MACUSA on all topics. He knew Binns was about to foist the question onto him, and started mentally rehearsing- As expected: ¡°Why don¡¯t we ask our new boy from Ilvermorny?¡± the ghostly history professor swept his arm over towards Jack. ¡°Why did the Ministry wizards over in America rebel along with their Muggles and form the MACUSA?¡± ¡°Because the No-Maj were right,¡± Jack said flatly. Not ¡®our No-Maj¡¯, ¡®the No-Maj¡¯, he thought fiercely to himself. Professor Binns'' ghostly form wavered slightly into transparency at Jack''s blunt response. The class stirred. He saw Cassandra turn partway around to look at him. "Because the No-Maj - the Muggles - were right," Jack restated. "The British Ministry was treating American wizards the same way the King was treating the Muggle colonies. Every decision had to go through London. American wizards couldn''t hold high positions in our own government. We couldn''t negotiate for ourselves with the Indians, Spanish, or French. We couldn¡¯t even manufacture our wands, they all had to be imported from Ollivanders." He took a deep breath, remembering Professor Bancroft¡¯s passionate history lectures back at Ilvermorny. "But it was more than that. American wizards lived differently. We had to. The frontier was vast and dangerous. You couldn''t survive by keeping magic and non-magic separate. When a wendigo was stalking your settlement, you didn''t check if your neighbor was a No-Maj before deciding to help them." "But the Statute of Secrecy-" Venge began. "Was written by Europeans," Jack countered. "But in America, Indian wizards had been living openly in their tribes for centuries. Puritan witch-hunters meant that we settlers needed some secrecy, we still generally follow the Statute, but total and complete separation? That was London trying to force Old World rules on New World realities." "You ''generally'' follow the Statue?" Venge repeated in disbelief. Montfort snickered loudly. "Let him finish, Mr. Venge," Binns nodded, enjoying the unexpected animation in his usually somnolent class. "The final straw," Jack continued, "came when the Ministry ordered American wizards to help suppress the Muggle Rebellion. To use magic against their own neighbors, people they''d fought alongside against French wizards and Indian shamans. People who''d helped hide them from witch-hunters..." "You chose Muggles over your own people?" Cyprian''s face was outraged. "We chose freedom," Jack shot back. "The right to govern ourselves, magical and non-magical alike. When the No-Maj Congress issued their Declaration, the American wizards copied it verbatim. The Magical Congress of the United States, MACUSA, was founded in Philadelphia right at the same time as the No-Maj United States-" "A fascinating perspective," Binns interjected. "Though perhaps missing some nuance regarding the Ministry''s position..." "The Ministry''s position was that Americans should remain obedient subjects," Jack pointed to the large and out-of-date world map on the wall. Two-thirds of it was red and pink, demarcating the British Empire on which the sun never set. "Just like they expect Indian and African wizards to do now. How''s that working out?" Several students shifted uncomfortably. Cassandra buried herself in her textbook. Cyprian shook his head. Montfort was shaking with silent laughter. Eustace Grymes smiled wolfishly. "An interesting interpretation," Binns began, "Though the textbook suggests-" ¡°Oh yeah, the textbook,¡± Jack leafed to the frontispiece of Bagshot¡¯s History of Magic Volume II, and read aloud, ¡°¡®Printed in Diagon Alley, London.¡¯ Our version is a bit different-¡± ¡°Thank you Mr. Semmes, very elucidating,¡± Binns was already floating back to the front of the classroom. Jack glared after his retreating back. Henry put his head down to muffle his chuckles. The class settled down as Professor Binns drifted through the blackboard, already droning about the term''s syllabus. Jack struggled to focus as the professor listed dates and treaties in a monotonous voice. His attention wandered back to the massive world map dominating the wall, its territories colored in fading imperial red. The United States was painted light blue, with a patchwork of unincorporated land in the southwest. Jack noted with amusement that Oklahoma was still labeled as ''Indian Territory''. "The Wizarding Congress of Europe in 1865," Binns intoned, "established the framework for magical sovereignty in the age of expanding Muggle empires. While Muggle governments carved up Africa and Asia, the magical ministries..." Jack gamely tried to keep up, but the names and numbers were blurring together in his ears. Binns¡¯ voice had a soporific effect, made even worse by his full stomach from lunch. Beside him, Henry was snugly embedded in his novelty pillow, not even bothering to take notes. 21. The Ministry of Ungentlewizardly Warfare ¡°When in the Course of Magical Events, it becomes necessary for one Magical Community to dissolve the Political Bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of Magic, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Magic''s Creator entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of Wizard-kind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all Witches and Wizards are created equal, that they are endowed by Our Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Magical Knowledge. That to secure these rights, Magical Governments are instituted, deriving their just powers from the consent of their fellow Wizards. That whenever any Form of Magical Governance becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the Magical People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Magical Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. The history of the present Ministry of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations against the American Magical Community, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these Colonial Provinces. To prove this, let these Facts be submitted to a candid Wizarding World¡­(the complaints go on for several more pages. Franklin was not as laconic as his No-Maj counterpart Thomas Jefferson - PR)¡± Done this FOURTH Day of JULY in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen Hundred and Seventy-Six, at the Chambers beneath Independence Hall, Philadelphia, by the Assembled Representatives of the Thirteen Magical Colonies of America. Signed, Benjamin Franklin (et al.) Master of Natural and Supernatural Philosophy, Chief Scribe of the Continental Congress of Magic, Founder, American Philosophical Society of Thaumaturgy, Ambassador to the Court of Louis XVI and the Acad¨¦mie Royale de Magie The MACUSA Declaration of Independence, as preserved in the Library of Magical Congress
The bell couldn''t ring soon enough. As students began packing up their things, Binns assigned six inches on the major provisions of the 1865 Congress by next class. Jack rubbed his eyes and put his things into his schoolbag. Henry stretched luxuriously. ¡°I¡¯ve never had such a terrible history teacher,¡± Jack complained, as he watched Cassandra pack up and depart. ¡°You did your best to liven it up a bit,¡± Henry grinned, ¡°But that¡¯s like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands.¡± "Not bad there Semmes," Montfort said as he passed them. "Perhaps you''re not as stupid as you look." "Keep walking, Montfort," Henry replied. Caeso waved dismissively over his shoulder. As they left History of Magic, a thin figure with red hair detached himself from the corridor wall. "Semmes!" Eustace Grymes fell into step beside them with a friendly smile. "Wanted to properly introduce myself, seeing as we¡¯re housemates and all. Eustace Grymes.¡± ¡°Jack Semmes-¡± Jack smiled politely, always happy to make a new friend. Grymes was already starting to talk before he had finished, ¡°That was brilliant in there, about the parallel founding of MACUSA and the No-Maj Congress. Most of us don''t realize how deeply intertwined American magical and non-magical independence is." Jack started in mild surprise, "Thanks," he said. ¡°Don¡¯t think that won me any points with Venge though.¡± "Don¡¯t worry about Venge, he¡¯s an odd duck," Grymes continued, "Listen, Jack. I was out of line at the sorting feast. All that rubbish about Americans and Muggles... been listening too much to Montfort''s crowd, I suppose. Hope we can start fresh?" Jack didn¡¯t hesitate shaking it. Grymes had a surprisingly firm grip for such a skinny frame. "Sure, no offense taken." "Excellent!" Grymes brightened. "Henry, you''ll have to tell me sometime how your father''s handling the Ministry''s new agricultural policies. Must be affecting the farm, eh?" Without waiting for an answer, he gave them both a cheerful nod and loped off down the corridor with his hands in his pockets. ¡°What¡¯s with him?¡± Jack asked Henry as they added down the stairs. ¡°He seems¡­ off.¡± ¡°He¡¯s very, very sharp, Grymes.¡± Henry said, ¡°Smartest boy in our year. He would have been sorted into Ravenclaw but he asked the hat to be in Gryffindor like his father...¡± "What happened to him?¡± Jack asked, with a feeling of trepidation. "His dad, I mean." "Killed by Grindelwalders, Siege of Diagon Alley in ¡®44. His Muggle mother''s in St. Mungo''s¡­curse damage. She doesn''t recognize him anymore." He shook his head. "All happened during the autumn of our third year. He missed a whole term. Made up the coursework in two months over the summer."This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°Cripes¡­¡± Jack breathed, "I''m sorry, I didn''t know." ¡°Not like he was going around wearing a sandwich board, old sport,¡± Henry responded with a strained smile. "Anyway, you''d better hurry. Wrack and Runes waits for no man." Ancient Runes proved similar to Ilvermorny, though Jack''s expertise in Native American pictographs and Spanish Saragossan script proved useless against Proto-Germanic. Professor Babbling filled the blackboard with endless declension tables. Jack''s eyes glazed as she explained the differences between the Elder and Younger Futhark. The novelty of Hogwarts'' quirks was already starting to wear thin by dinner. The Great Hall''s enchanted ceiling showed a deepening twilight, promising a long night of detention ahead. The library was almost empty when he arrived, most students still lingering over their dessert in the Great Hall. Ms. Quillworth looked up from her desk and gave him a sympathetic smile as he signed in for study prep. Jack avoided eye contact, found a quiet table in the Reference section and pulled out his History of Magic homework, trying to knock out his short paper on 19th century wizarding geopolitics while the sky darkened outside the tall windows. Time management was critical if he was going to survive here. He checked his watch, allowing exactly 30 minutes for History of Magic, then closing the book and moving over to Transfiguration. He still needed to review tomorrow¡¯s classwork as well. The librarian moved quietly among the shelves nearby, shelving books and humming softly to herself, the only sound besides the occasional rustle of other arriving students and scratch of his quill. The rest of the week stretched ahead of him like a race track. At least he''d managed to get through his first day of classes without losing points or earning additional detention. Small victories, he supposed, opening his notebook to review Professor Winterborn''s lecture before moving on to prep for Defense class. 9:30pm arrived sooner than he thought. He stayed an extra few minutes to finish reading the Charms syllabus before heading back across campus to Gryffindor Tower. The Fat Lady stifled a yawn as she swung open to admit Jack. The common room was still busy despite the late hour, filled with the murmur of conversation and scratch of quills. The fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting dancing shadows on the crimson draped walls. Henry, Teddy, and Oliver had claimed a spot by the window, surrounded by open books and crumpled pieces of parchment. They''d pushed three armchairs together to form a study circle. The wireless was softly playing classical music. "There''s our brave Ilvermorny boy, back from the goblin mines!" Teddy called out softly, as not to bother anyone already asleep. "Heard you gave old Binns what for today." "Did you really tell him that Bagshot was British propaganda?" Oliver asked, not looking up from his Arithmancy problem set. Jack pulled up an empty armchair to join the circle. "Not in those exact words." He dropped his bag and plopped down. ¡°Could we put some actually good music on?¡± "Mr. Semmes! Mr. Semmes!" The first-years Pal, Mel, and Wiggy ran up to his chair in a storm of pattering feet. "Is it true you brought some Quopro balls with you?" Pal asked breathlessly. "Can we watch? We found this brilliant book about American wizarding sports-" "Boys." Mina Mulholland''s voice broke through their chatter. She stood with her hands on her hips, trying to look stern despite the smile tugging at her lips. "Mr. Semmes has had a very long first day, and he has classes tomorrow. This can wait until tomorrow." "But Miss Mul-" Wiggy started to protest. "No buts. Off to bed, all of you. You can pester him about American sports tomorrow." The first-years trudged away, though not before Mel managed to slip the book onto Jack''s armrest. "Just in case you want to look at it," he whispered conspiratorially before scampering after his friends. "Thanks," Jack told Mina gratefully. She favored him with a pretty smile before passing by. "Those three are turning into your personal army," Henry observed, amused. "They''re annoying," Jack yawned. "That''s one word for it," Teddy snorted. "They asked me before you got back if Americans duel with two wands at once." "Where did they even get that idea?" "Probably the same place they got the notion that MACUSA rides flying motorcycles," Oliver said. Jack chuckled and picked up the book that Mel had left him. He opened it idly. A slip of parchment fell out. He picked it up and held it up to the light. The ink was watery and hard to read:
¡°Agent J, Pride sends: Dead drop, glasshouse. Intel under largest pot. Destroy message after reading. Careful, Snakes everywhere! Signed, The Gryffindor Irregulars aka the Sorcerous Operations Wizards (SOW) aka the Ministry of Ungentlewizardly Warfare"
The signature block was scrawled hastily in three different handwritings, as if the authors couldn¡¯t agree on what to call themselves. Jack stared at the note for a moment before bursting into laughter. He passed it to Henry, who read it with increasingly raised eyebrows. "''Agent J''?" Henry started chuckling. "''Snakes everywhere!''" Teddy read over Henry''s shoulder, his eyes wide with mirth. "Those little berks have been reading too many comics about Jedburghs!" Oliver peered at the note. "Should we be concerned that they''re mucking about in the greenhouse?" "I¡¯m quite sure it¡¯s MacGregor''s prize Chinese Chomping Cabbage in that ''largest pot,''" Henry snorted. "Probably spent hours trying to write this in invisible ink." "The Ministry of Ungentlewizardly Warfare," Jack shook his head, ¡°What a mouthful.¡± "S.O.W.," Teddy corrected with mock seriousness, tapping the side of his nose. "Very hush-hush." "Well, Agent J," Henry affected the exaggerated accent of an overworked Ministry bureaucrat, "You''ve got your team together. Better not lose your hands collecting that intel." "Yes commander, I¡¯ll check that pot," Jack gave a sloppy salute, then yawned again. "Tomorrow. After I''ve slept.¡± 22. The Price of Liberty
On Knowledge of the Enemy: "Before casting your first spell, cast your eyes upon your enemy¡¯s wand, his training, and stance. The wise magician reads his foe as a book¡ªcarefully, patiently, and thoroughly." On the Superiority of Interior Ley Lines: "In battle, he who commands the ley line commands the field. Magical currents are the unseen rivers of power; to fight against them is to row against the tide." On Positioning: ¡°To defend well is to place oneself upon the key terrain: high ground, uneven terrain, and choke points render an opponent¡¯s numbers impotent while amplifying your own.¡± On Maneuver and Illusion: "The greater duelist is not he who casts the most spells, but he who appears where his enemy least expects. Apparition is not merely movement¡ªit is misdirection." On Economy: ¡°A defensive charm foolishly placed is as wasteful as a Galleon spent on frippery." On Wards and Countermeasures: ¡°The essence of magical defense lies in economy of effort. The Protego Reflexionis is not a wall but a mirror; this most elegant shield turns a foe¡¯s own strength against them by a factor of three. Why exhaust yourself when the enemy will gladly provide their own downfall?¡± On the Balance of Offense and Defense: ¡°A wizard who defends endlessly will be buried. Any defense, however strong, must always be in preparation to shift to the offense at the first opportunity.¡± On Offensive Action: "To linger in defense is to yield the initiative. The wizard who presses forward with fire and fury dispels his enemy¡¯s plan and compels him to react, and reaction breeds mistakes." On Momentum: "Victory in battle is a rolling stone; once it begins, it gathers speed and strength. Strike, strike again, and strike until the stone and slope are too great to stop." On Strategy vs. Tactics: "Spells win duels; duels win battles; but strategy wins wars. A wizard who plans for the hour is a tactician. A wizard who plans for the season and the one thereafter is a master strategist." - Excerpts from "The Principles of Magical Warfare" by Antonius Grimini, 1836. Translated from the French by Cephas Parrott. Required Reading at Ilvermorny, CM370: 10th Grade Advanced Combat Magic.
The next morning dawned gray and drizzly, the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall mirroring the gloomy sky. Jack was halfway through an improvised bacon sandwich, trying to ignore the pounding in his temples, when the morning mail arrived in a flurry of feathers. A bedraggled owl landed in front of him with a slightly damp letter clutched in its beak. Jack took it eagerly, recognizing his mother''s neat handwriting on the envelope. He scanned the contents, his heart lifting at the news that his parents would be arriving in Britain in a week. His mother wrote that everything was ready for his father¡¯s ¡®new job and our new apartment¡¯, without any further details. Jack smiled tightly, his dad always told him never to entrust details to mail. There was a small postscript: ¡°Keep your eyes open for a boy named Venge, should be in your year. His father and I were in Paris. - Dad¡± Cyprian Venge? Jack looked over towards the Slytherin table where the boy in question was sitting at the far end, a yard wide gap between him and the new first-years. Still waters run deep, he thought to himself. He¡¯d have to try and grab him between classes. He made a mental note to write back to his parents that evening. The morning''s Daily Prophet brought fresh reminders that the magical world''s troubles hadn''t ended with Grindelwald. Grim headlines told of more chaos in India and trouble with striking goblin factory workers in southern France and Lancashire. The Quibbler''s shrill warnings about dark wizard infiltration at the Gringotts Stock Exchange sounded comical in comparison, though Grymes leaning over to borrow the tabloid from a third-year suggested otherwise. Concerned murmurs about relations stationed in the Orient bubbled around him, a few Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had family in colonial civil service. The Slytherins were particularly disturbed by the news about India. Green-clad students crowded around each other to read the papers. He focused his ears, picking up groans of consternation and gloomy speculation about what will go wrong. Next he glanced over at the Ravenclaws, where Caeso sat having a spirited and one-sided debate with his sycophants: "You sound like a bloody Fabian, Partridge! Always ¡®gradual change¡¯ this and ¡®tea with the Establishment¡¯ that! I tell you, in ten years, we¡¯ll either have full integration or we¡¯ll be living under a MACUSA jackboot..." Cassandra was sitting in the middle of their house table with Bianca Ludd, filling out forms. Probably demerits or patrol schedule, Jack reckoned. She looked polished and unruffled. The Ravenclaw table seemed blas¨¦ about the newspapers dropped on their tables. As if the world outside, with all its tragedy and suffering, simply didn''t exist. Like the deaths of millions of Muggles and the destruction of whole wizarding enclaves, was less real or important than the personal dramas playing out within the walls of Hogwarts. Jack felt a surge of irrational anger, hot and bitter in his throat. People were dying and losing their homes. How could they all be so cavalier about everything? But even as the thought formed, he felt a twinge of guilt. He''d grown up safe and sheltered in America, far from the devastation of the war here. He had no idea what it was like to live with that kind of loss. For him, pain was dinner coming an hour late, or taking an exploding Quod to the chest. Nasty sure, unexpected maybe, but nothing earth-shattering or life-changing. What about the poor wizarding families in the former British Raj that had lost everything overnight? As he gathered up his books and headed for Defense class with Henry, he couldn''t shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong at this school. Things back home seemed incredibly simple by comparison. Was this the burden of trying to maintain such a sprawling magical empire? He climbed the winding staircase to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower, preoccupied with depressing thoughts. Professor MacLeod''s classroom was near the top of the wide tower, taking up most of the floor. The tapestries lining the staircase and walls showed magical combat through the ages, from ancient Roman magi hurling elemental magic at dark magic-wielding Carthaginians1, medieval magicians dueling in enchanted armor and riding upon dragons, an early-modern wizard in alchemist garb destroying a pike square of landsknechts2, all the way to 19th century Aurors dramatically facing dark wizards on stormy mountaintops.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon. The Defense classroom bore the scars of countless duels ¨C scorch marks on the stone walls, a few suspiciously clean patches where curses had stripped away centuries of grime, and desk legs that had been repaired so many times they seemed to be made of splinters held together by spellwork. Tall windows let in the autumn sunlight. Runic iron bars criss-crossed the windows, to protect the glass against both stray spells and potential attack from without. Professor MacLeod, the head of Gryffindor House, stood beside a raised dueling platform with his gauntleted hand tucked into his belt. Jack and Henry settled into an inconspicuous back table. Cyprian and Caeso Montfort were in opposite corners. Cassandra was in the front, one table over from Eustace Grymes. "Welcome to N.E.W.T. level Defense Against the Dark Arts," MacLeod announced without preamble as soon as he adjudicated that the last student was in her seat. "You''re here because you''ve shown both the aptitude and the will to learn advanced combat magic. But make no mistake, this isn''t about passing exams." He paced the platform, his boots thunking rhythmically on the boards. "Three years ago, Grindelwald''s forces attacked Diagon Alley. Students your age found themselves fighting dark wizards in the streets.¡± Eustace Grymes didn''t move a muscle. ¡°Two years ago,¡± MacLeod continued, ¡°nearly to the day, they attempted to storm Hogsmeade. One last gasp. Again, young witches and wizards stood on the front lines. You¡± he gestured at the class ¡°were kept in the castle. The fifth-years and up were called out to fight in order to defend Hogwarts. Some of them didn¡¯t come back." The class was silent. Jack was scared to look away from the dueling stage. MacLeod continued to pace steadily. Now Jack knew why there were so many empty seats in the Great Hall. "I am not saying this to try and scare you," MacLeod continued, his blue eyes fixing each of them in turn, "I am telling you that not one of us knows when you''ll be called upon to defend yourselves, your loved ones, or the innocent. Dark wizards will not wait for you to finish school. The curriculum reflects that reality." He flicked his wand at the blackboard. Words appeared in bold letters:
Block 1: Advanced Shield Charms and Counter-Curses Block 2: Detection and Dispelling of Dark Magic Block 3: Defensive Wards and Anti-Apparition Area Protection (Mid-Term) Block 4: Combat Healing Block 5: Partnered Combat Techniques and Avoiding Friendly Fire
"The last block of instruction is particularly important for when you are in a m¨ºl¨¦e,¡± MacLeod smiled, attempting to lift the tension, ¡°I speak from experience. Professor Whitby - fellow Gryffindor alum - almost took my good hand that way. He was aiming for the chain on a drawbridge. In his defense, I was holding onto said chain at the time, and an armored mountain troll was bearing down on us. It¡¯s a good story, especially when he tells it, since I nearly tossed him off the top of the Hohensalzburg3 afterwards.¡± A few nervous laughs. Jack diligently noted down the words on the board, not realizing they were already on his course syllabus until he had already gotten past Block 3. "We''ll begin with Shield Charms," MacLeod continued. "Not the basic 180-degree Protego you learned for O.W.L.s, but specialized variants. Variants that are highly dependent on timing and direction. Shields that can reflect curses back at attackers. Shields that protect not just yourself but others nearby. Shields that can be maintained while moving or casting other spells. By Halloween, you''ll be able to do this." He demonstrated while still pacing, his wand moving in a complex pattern. The air glimmered and refracted around him. Jack noted with satisfaction that it was practically the same reflection Protego that he had learned last fall at Ilvermorny. Finally, he was a bit ahead of the game. ¡°Clear your tables so that I can move them to the side of the room to make space,¡± MacLeod ordered. A scuffle of activity in the classroom. ¡°Now partner up with your seatmate. Knockback jinxes. I want five percent power only! I want you to focus on timing and deflection, not trying to smite each other." The rest of the class passed in practical exercises. Jack and Henry practiced launching gentle Flipendos at each other like they were first-years, with the new sixth-year wrinkle of catching the jinxes with Protego and volleying them back and forth like a Quaffle. Jack handled the assignment effortlessly. It was actually pretty fun. "Good class, old bean," Henry commented as they packed up at the end of class. "I think you made an impression." ¡°Eh?¡± Jack said, distractedly trying to put his wand back into his sleeve pocket. "You think Hightower was watching me and my partner that closely last term?" Henry asked with a grin. Jack glanced over to where Cassandra was carefully filing away her notes. She wasn''t looking at them. He felt a strange, swooping sensation in his stomach. ¡°No way,¡± Jack replied, shaking the feeling off, ¡°She¡¯s just got it out for me. Making sure that I¡¯m staying on the straight and narrow- Squanto¡¯s corns3, where¡¯s Cyprian Venge gone off to? He was just in his seat.¡± ¡°What are you asking about him for?¡± Henry asked curiously. ¡°Venge is queer. Even by Slytherin standards.¡± ¡°My dad wanted me to say hi to him, I think he and Venge¡¯s dad know each other from the war.¡± ¡°The war?¡± Henry¡¯s lip curled, ¡°The Venges played neutral until they threw in with us late in ¡®40.¡± ¡°Johnny-come-lately, huh...¡± Jack caught a glimpse of Cyprian slipping out the door behind a pair of chatting Hufflepuffs. ¡°Oh, there he goes.¡± Montfort shot Jack a smug look as he packed up and left. Jack looked past him, instead zeroing in on Venge, who was beelining for the stairs down. He bid a hasty good-bye to Henry. ¡°Hey there, Cyprian, wait up!¡± Jack had to jog down the hallway to catch him.
1. The Roman magi were famed for their disciplined use of magic¡ªharnessing fire, wind, and earth as effectively as their legions wielded steel. During the Punic Wars (264 BC ¨C 146 BC), these magi often found themselves hurling flames and invoking tempests against Carthaginian sorcerers, whose dark necromantic blood magic struck terror into Roman ranks. The Carthaginians, it is said, bound shadows to their will and called on eldritch forces that unnerved even the bravest legionaries. Rome''s eventual victory not only secured dominance over the Mediterranean but cemented its magical legacy. The Romans codified Greek spellcasting into structured incantations and charms, creating the foundation of what the Western world still considers magic today. Terms such as magia, incantatio, and protego stem directly from Roman tradition, as do the principles of wandcraft, runic warding, and magical law. The secrets of Carthaginian black magic and necromancy have been lost to time, thank Merlin. 2. Landsknechts, gaudily dressed German mercenary soldiers of the 16th and early 17th centuries, would march as readily for gold as for glory, and were as dangerous as they were flamboyant. Known for their brutal efficiency with pike and firelock, they wreaked havoc across the towns and battlefields of Europe. The 17th century was an especially perilous time for magical people. The chaos of constant warfare, combined with the breakdown of society and organized religion, desperation, suspicion, and superstition, often forced wizards and witches to defend themselves against Muggle rapine and pillage. This dark period proved one of the final straws that made wizardkind realize co-existence with Muggles was impossible. 3. The Hohensalzburg, a massive medieval stronghold overlooking Salzburg, Austria, was the site of a covert wizarding battle in October 1944. Aurors Malcolm MacLeod and Edwin Whitby engaged several dark wizards who had fortified themselves deep within the fortress, supported by a mountain troll they had bewitched. The battle - which happened concurrent with a massive Anglo-American Muggle air raid - reached its climax when Whitby used a Bombarda spell to sever the chains of the fortress¡¯s ancient drawbridge mechanism and drop the bridge onto the troll, flattening it. Though the dark wizards managed to escape amidst the chaos, the Aurors successfully recovered the cursed artifact they had been smuggling to Grindelwald¡¯s forces. 4. Squanto¡¯s Corns is another colorful American wizarding idiom, used to express disbelief, frustration, or exasperation. Its origins trace back to the early days of America and the peculiar circumstances surrounding the famed Patuxet Indian known as Squanto (Tisquantum), who famously aided the Muggle Puritan settlers of Plymouth Colony in 1620 AD (and thus indirectly the following wizarding settlers of Rhode Island). Squanto was not only multilingual but also a highly skilled magical botanist. By blending herbology with magic, he managed to cultivate extraordinarily resilient maize (known as corn to Americans) that flourished in the rocky New England soil¡ªa feat so miraculous it baffled Muggles. It''s also a sophormoric pun on foot corns. 23. Venge GRINDELWALDERS REPULSED IN DESPERATE HOGSMEADE ASSAULT Students and Townsfolk Stand Firm Against Dark Forces Hogsmeade, September 12, 1945 ¡ª In what is being called a ¡°last, frenzied gasp¡± of Grindelwald¡¯s shattered forces, a band of his followers launched a vicious attack on the wizarding village of Hogsmeade late Monday evening. The assault, which saw dark curses raining down on homes and businesses, left several buildings in ruins and claimed the lives of both townsfolk and students. Despite the ferocity of the attack, the town¡¯s hastily assembled town watch, supported by students and faculty from Hogwarts, successfully repelled the attackers after hours of brutal fighting. Eyewitnesses report an extraordinary display of courage from both sides of the castle gates. ¡°Explosions were everywhere!¡± said one shopkeeper, who helped his family to safety before joining the hastily assembled defense. ¡°But we held the line. We couldn¡¯t let them take Hogsmeade. Not after everything we¡¯ve been through.¡± Heroic Prefect Among the Injured Among the defenders was Algernon Fairburne, a fifth-year Gryffindor Prefect who led a sortie of students to flank the dark wizards from the west bridge. Fairburne sustained severe injuries when shielding a fellow student from a barrage of curses but is expected to recover. ¡°Fairburne fought like a lion,¡± said one student witness. ¡°Even after being hit, he kept directing us until the professors arrived to reinforce our position.¡± Tragically, several students paid the ultimate price. Headmaster Hollowbrook confirmed that three students were killed, with many others wounded, some gravely. A full list of names has not yet been released pending notification of their next of kin. The townsfolk suffered heavily. Three businesses were completely destroyed, including the iconic Zonko¡¯s Joke Shop, burned to the ground. Early reports indicate at least four villagers dead and dozens injured. ¡°We¡¯ve lost so much, but we¡¯re still standing,¡± said a tearful Madam Welcome, who helped defend the Three Broomsticks Inn with her wand and shield charms. The Grindelwalders were eventually driven back by a combined assault from Hogwarts faculty, led by Professors Winterborn and Brightwell, and a fierce rally by the locals. The attackers fled into the Forbidden Forest under heavy pursuit, leaving behind two dead. Ministry officials have commended the bravery of the defenders but cautioned that isolated groups of Grindelwald partisans may still pose a threat. A memorial service for the fallen will be held this Sunday in Hogsmeade¡¯s town square. - The Daily Prophet Archives
¡°Hey there, Cyprian, wait up!¡± Jack had to jog down the hallway to catch him. ¡°Semmes,¡± the bespectacled Slytherin turned with a slight bow that managed to be both proper and sarcastic, ¡°Need directions to your common room?¡± ¡°That¡¯s a good one,¡± Jack replied airily, ¡°No, wanted to tell you that I think our fathers spent some time dodging curses together in France.¡± Venge paused for a moment. "Operation Alc¨¢zar," he adjusted his glasses. "The MACUSA contingent that broke through the catacombs." His voice was mechanical. "My father spoke very highly of their point man. His name was Tom." ¡°That¡¯s him,¡± Jack nodded. He hadn¡¯t heard his father tell that story¡­ They walked in silence for a moment, their footsteps echoing in the stone corridor. "You disagree with me," Cyprian said. It wasn''t a question. ¡°What?¡± Jack asked, raising an eyebrow. ¡°About what? Your choice in cologne? What is that anyway, Bay Rhum? You smell like my grandpa if he fell inside of a Christmas ham-¡± ¡°You disagree with my position. In History of Magic.¡± "Oh, that! About keeping Muggles in the dark? Yeah, I do." Jack replied. "We have an obligation to protect them." "Protect them?" Cyprian raised an eyebrow. "From what? Themselves? They''re doing a splendid job of that on their own. See what they did to London?" "We could have helped prevent that," Jack insisted. "And hundreds of witches and wizards would die in the attempt." Cyprian stopped walking, turning to face Jack. "Do you know why Slytherin House remembers the witch hunts so vividly, Semmes? We were the ones who built the hidden places and developed the concealment charms. Our families sacrificed everything to keep our world safe while the Muggles burned and hung magical children." "That was centuries ago, and in Europe, not America-" "And what''s changed?" Cyprian¡¯s glasses flashed as they caught the sun, hiding his eyes. "Only their efficiency. Instead of burning one witch at a time, now they can holocaust entire nations. Their politics? They''ve just finished the bloodiest war in human history. Their tolerance? Look at the Nazis. Look at the Muggle empires dissolving. Millions dead, neighbor murdering neighbor over ancient hatreds." Jack bit his tongue, flushing. He had no response. He couldn¡¯t tell if he was more angry or embarrassed at that. They resumed walking along the cloister of the Transfiguration Courtyard. A pair of second-year Gryffindors raced past, chasing a third who was floating helplessly about three feet off the ground. "The Statute of Secrecy isn''t about our superiority, Semmes," Cyprian said, his voice relentless. "It''s about survival. Every time our worlds touch, it ends in blood. Usually ours. And unlike Muggles, we can¡¯t afford losses. How many wizards live in America?¡± Jack considered, "About ten thousand or so. We''re super spread out." Venge''s voice echoed out into the stairwell as they descended. ¡°There are fewer than four thousand of us in Britain today. The Continent, who knows after Grindlewald, but most likely no more than fifteen thousand. There are probably fewer than thirty thousand wizards and witches left in all of Europe and America now that the war is over.¡± Jack blanched. He hadn¡¯t thought about that. ¡°There are over 50 million Muggles on this island.¡± Cyprian gestured south. ¡°50 million." He shook his head. "You Americans think you can save everyone. That if you just explain things properly, show enough good faith, everything will work out.¡± His tone had no rancor, only a world-weariness far beyond his sixteen years. ¡°Like your comic book superheroes. It''s admirable. And hopelessly naive."The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. "So we just hide forever?" Jack challenged. "Watch from the shadows while they destroy themselves?" "Yes. Because the alternative is them destroying us too. The moment they truly understand what we can do, they will turn on us. Not out of hatred, but fear. And fear is far more dangerous than hatred." ¡°Aren¡¯t you supposed to say that ¡®It¡¯s better to be feared than to be loved?¡¯¡± Jack shot back sarcastically. ¡°You know, Machiavelli and all that Slytherin schtick?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be an idiot, Semmes. That¡¯s only true when you have overwhelming raw power¡ªwhich we do not. Any power we have over Muggles is based on obfuscation, illusion, and trickery. Smoke and mirrors.¡± Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Cyprian cut him off, ¡°Niccol¨° Machiavelli wasn¡¯t writing for people like us. He was writing for Muggle princes¡ªkings with armies. Men with the might to enforce their will. We¡¯re not princes, Semmes. We¡¯re ghosts. Shadows. The moment the Muggles find us and see us for what we are, we¡¯re finished.¡± ¡°Grindelwald thought he had that sort of power,¡± Jack countered. ¡°Grindelwald was the same as Hitler and the Kaiser before him. All of them made the same mistake, believing they could impose their will on the world by naked force. You think you can rule Earth forever with nothing but a wand and a collection of confoundment spells?¡± ¡°Yeah he went about it wrong, but doesn¡¯t the idea of uniting wizards to fix the world mean anything? Would you rather just sit in your dungeon and hope the Muggles don¡¯t blow up the planet and take us with them?¡± Cyprian tilted his head, studying Jack like a chess master considering a reckless opponent. ¡°And what happens when wizards ¡®unite¡¯ to fix the world? Who decides how much ¡®fixing¡¯ it needs? You? Me? Montfort? Dumbledore? Grindelwald in his prison cell?¡± His lip curled. ¡°Wizards are no less flawed than Muggles, Semmes. We¡¯re humans. Clay given breath. In fact, our flaws are even more damning because of the power we¡¯ve been given.¡± ¡°Hiding isn¡¯t a strategy, it¡¯s cowardice!¡± ¡°Cowardice?¡± Cyprian repeated, ¡°You think it¡¯s cowardly to avoid a fight you can¡¯t win, Gryffindor? Grindelwald didn¡¯t fail because he lacked personal courage. He failed because he was a fool! The majority of wizards knew his goal was suicidal, and fought him. The Muggles aren¡¯t just more numerous than us, they¡¯re better at war. They¡¯ve perfected it. Their weapons, their machines, their numbers, it¡¯s not even a contest, Semmes. It would be annihilation. Grindelwald didn¡¯t have the power to win, and neither do we. But unlike him, I don¡¯t have any delusions about that.¡± Jack stared at him, ¡°Maybe you don¡¯t have delusions, Venge. But maybe you don¡¯t have any hope, either.¡± ¡°Hope is a fine thing, Semmes,¡± Cyprian replied, ¡°Until too much gets you killed.¡± Jack stared into the Transfiguration Courtyard. It was a beautiful, sunny fall day. Birds were singing merrily in the arches of the cloister, their chirps punctuated by the occasional harsh squawk of a peacock. Students bustled about, robes swishing, their chatter filling the crisp air. Nearby, a pair of Hufflepuff girls were practicing levitation charms, trying to coax an ancient, singed Quaffle to hover. Each success was punctuated with a cheer¡­until the Quaffle shot off and hit a Ravenclaw square in the back of the head. He glared but decided against a confrontation when a pair of Hufflepuff prefects strode by, laughing and loudly debating the merits of dragon hide gloves versus enchanted wool mittens for Herbology in the colder months. On the far side of the courtyard, Palamedes Hitchens was engaged in a spirited game of Gobstones with an equally determined Slytherin first-year. From the dramatic groans and exaggerated victory poses, it seemed more about showmanship than actual skill. Not far from them, a Transfiguration class was wrapping up around the sundial as students retrieved their belongings. One unfortunate Gryffindor fourth-year started frantically chasing after his book bag, which had sprouted legs and was hopping away like a rabbit. Cyprian stood beside him, watching with detachment. After a bit they continued walking. ¡°Why do you think, Semmes,¡± Venge spoke up, ¡°that we Slytherins are so against wizards taking Muggle wives? Or, instead of replacing magically sensitive Muggle children with changelings like we used to in the past, now bringing Muggleborns and their families into our world?¡± Jack shrugged, unsure of what to say. They stopped at the entrance to the West Tower. An apologetic Hufflepuff fourth-year ducked in between them. ¡°Do you think it¡¯s because we¡¯re mean spirited?¡± Cyprian asked. ¡°Bullies? That we don¡¯t believe in true love? Or that we¡¯re - what¡¯s that new word that Montfort uses - racists?¡± "I mean," Jack rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall. "It doesn¡¯t seem very fair to the Muggleborns." "''Fair.'' Let me tell you about ''fair,'' Semmes. Every Muggle parent of a magical child is a risk. Every Muggle lover is a betrayal waiting to happen. One quarrel, one bitter divorce, one wagging tongue in a pub - that''s all it takes." Venge pulled off his glasses and polished them. "Do you know what happens to Muggle-magical marriages? I¡¯ve seen it. The Muggle spouse grows to resent their magical husband or wife. Their children are torn between incompatible worlds. And those children''s Muggle relatives, Their aunts, uncles, cousins? Each one is another thread connecting our hidden world to theirs. Another crack in the wall that we''ve spent centuries building." He replaced his glasses. "And the Muggleborns. They come to Hogwarts thinking like Muggles. They want to ''improve'' our world with Muggle ideas, Muggle technology, Muggle solutions. They don''t understand that we do things differently for a reason!" "But some integration is good." Jack argued. ¡°It¡¯ll keep us from being too bunkered down.¡± "Ha!" Cyprian''s laugh was hollow. "There''s no such thing as ''some'' integration, Semmes. It''s like being ''somewhat'' pregnant. Once it starts, it doesn''t stop until completion. Look at America - look at yourself! Your Ilvermorny is a carbon-copy of a Muggle military academy! You wear Muggle clothing, use Muggle phrases, Muggle ideas, watch Muggle movies! ¡± "Now just a minute, Venge, hold on!" Jack shot back, only to realize too late he sounded exactly like Jimmy Stewart. Cyprian smirked. "Your youth reads Muggle comics and plays at being heroes. Your ¡®spellcats¡¯ are all over the papers." Jack flinched. ¡°Yeah, ok they might go a bit overboard. "The war caused losses. We needed to replace them," Cyprian stepped off, leading Jack up the spiral steps of the West Tower. "Half-bloods and Muggleborns. Every year more of them come to Hogwarts, bringing their world with them. Their misbegotten romances. Their ethnic conflicts. Their ¡®technology¡¯,¡± he spat the word. "Every Muggleborn who enters our world brings Muggledom with them. Their parents want to understand their child''s education - reasonable, isn''t it? Their siblings want to visit Diagon Alley - oh just once, what''s the harm? Their cousins hear stories about magic - but they''ll keep the secret, surely? And then those children grow up and marry, and have their own children, and the circle of knowledge grows wider and wider. "And one day, Semmes, one day during our lifetime, that circle will grow too wide. Someone will talk to the wrong Muggle reporter. Someone will prove magic exists to the wrong Muggle scientist. Someone will try to ''help'' with the wrong Muggle war. And then?" He held up his hand and made a slashing gesture. "Thirty thousand of us will face a world of three billion Muggles terrified of what we are.¡± He stared into Jack¡¯s eyes. ¡°With machine guns, poison gas, jet aeroplanes, rockets, and atom bombs." He swept his hand. "We¡¯ll be blown away like leaves. Everything our ancestors built, all their sacrifices, all their protections - gone." Jack swallowed. "So no, Semmes, it''s not ¡®fair¡¯. It''s not about blood purity or magical superiority. My family opposed Grindelwald because dominating Muggles would have destroyed our way of life. But don¡¯t think that means I¡¯ll fly like a fool to the opposing dialectic of helping them. We maintain the wall that keeps us all safe. Every half-blood family, every Muggle-born student, every Muggle girlfriend - they are cracks in that wall. And the day that wall breaks¡­" "You think it¡¯ll come to that?" "I know it will." Cyprian¡¯s voice was heavy with conviction. "It always does. Men fear what they can''t control. And what they fear, they destroy." He snapped his fingers, the sound sharp and final. "Our next war won¡¯t be fought with wands¡ªit¡¯ll be fought with atoms." They continued walking down the hallway. Cyprian¡¯s black certitude loomed over Jack with the dreadful shadow of a mushroom cloud. ¡°Why are you still following me?¡± he asked suddenly. ¡°Uh, we¡¯re in the same class, Venge,¡± Jack observed as they arrived in front of their classroom on the first floor of the West Tower. ¡°Muggle Studies with Professor Whitby.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Cyprian stared into space, his round glasses reflecting the light and hiding his eyes, ¡°You threw off my timing. Now I¡¯m two and a half minutes early.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the problem with that?¡± Jack asked, as they went inside. ¡°People try to talk to you if you¡¯re early,¡± Cyprian responded, finding a seat in the far corner as Cassandra Hightower breezed past them on her way to the front row. Jack shook his head. Venge was a grim conversationalist. No wonder nobody liked to talk to him. Interlude: Ilvermorny, 1941 The June morning was warm and clear as the Semmes family''s Ford Model 18 wound its way through the backroads of western Massachusetts. Jack sat in the back seat, watching the small town of Adams emerge from the morning mist. The car, modified with magical enhancements his father said were "just for emergencies," purred contentedly as it navigated the narrow streets. A large banner stretched across Main Street, its letters bold against the weathered buildings: "Welcome New St. Benjamin''s Students!" Jack noticed several boys his age being herded onto a bus at the train station, their parents fussing over collars and ties. His father caught his eye in the rearview mirror and winked. "No-Maj cover," Thomas Semmes explained, steering past the commotion. "They think it¡¯s a normal boarding school. Real pillar of the community. Been there longer than Adams, technically speaking." Elizabeth Semmes reached back to squeeze her son''s hand. "Nervous, sweetheart?" "Nah," Jack lied. He had been too nervous to eat breakfast that morning at the motel they had stayed at. His mother''s dark eyes crinkled with knowing affection. The car turned onto an unpaved mountain path, climbing steadily through dense forest. They passed a weathered wooden sign: "Mount Greylock State Park" with "St. Benjamin''s School for Boys and Girls" beneath it in smaller letters. The air shimmered around them like heat waves off summer asphalt. The car shuddered slightly, and the dirt track transformed into pristine granite pavers. "Here we go," his father said. They approached a wrought iron gate, usually kept firmly closed but today standing open. Two upperclassmen stood at attention, their midnight blue uniforms immaculate, high collars starched, coats gleaming with silver buttons and cranberry piping. They greeted Thomas Semmes with easy familiarity. "Welcome back to Ilvermorny, sir," the taller of the two said, touching his cap. "Administration Building is ready for new cadet processing. Please follow the signs, sir." As they drove through, Ilvermorny revealed itself, nestled on a granite shelf below Mount Greylock''s summit. The morning sun caught the edges of the Beaux-Arts buildings, their pale stone glowing against the backdrop of dark pines. At the heart of the campus lay a parade ground as big as a football field, its manicured surface smooth as green glass. Ilvermorny was compact and precise ¨C a testament to American efficiency. The buildings formed a perfect half-square, their ornate facades blending elegance and functionality. "It¡¯s impressive," his father said, pride evident in his voice. "See the old manor house, that¡¯s just over there.¡± He pointed to an enormous mansion surrounded by gardens opposite the parade ground, then pointed to a towering seven-story square white edifice in front of them, pierced with archways at ground level and perfectly symmetrical windows all around. ¡°That right there is the Barracks. Rebuilt in 1854 after Superintendent Flayer¡¯s reorganization. Modern magical education for a modern magical nation." Jack pressed his face to the window, taking in every detail. Whatever nervousness he''d felt was transforming into excitement. The car came to a stop before the Administration Building''s marble steps. The sound of a bugle call echoed across the parade ground, clear and bright against the summer sky. As Jack stepped out into the clean mountain air, he found himself part of a sea of boys around the parade ground. They poured from buses and cars of every description ¨C some gleaming and new, others held together by magic, duct tape, and hope. Boys from every corner of America mingled together: tall lanky farmboys from Kansas standing next to sharp-dressed city kids from Chicago, round-faced sons of Louisiana planters beside wiry coal miners'' sons from Pennsylvania. An upperclassman''s voice cut through the chaos with practiced authority: "New boys, please bid your families farewell. Parents, Professor Huntington will escort you to the Superintendent''s reception. This way please." Jack''s mother pulled him into a tight embrace, "My brave boy," she whispered, "Don''t forget to write!" She straightened his collar one last time. His father stood maintaining his composure through formality. "Make us proud, Jack," Thomas Semmes said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion. Jack grabbed his small suitcase ¨C containing only his wand, spare underclothes, and wristwatch ¨C and turned quickly away before the tears threatening his eyes could fall. He joined the stream of boys heading toward the row of tables outside the Administration Building, not daring to look back until he reached them. When he finally did turn, he could just make out his parents'' distant figures being led away towards the mansion with the other adults, his mother''s flowered dress a tiny spot of color against the pines beyond. "Surnames A through E, first table! F through K, second table!" Jack found his place in line and reached the S-Z table. His hand trembled slightly as he signed next to "Semmes, James T." in the heavy leather-bound registry. The ink gleamed momentarily before sinking into the page, making it official ¨C he was now an Ilvermorny student. "Treasurer''s table next," the upperclassman directed. His voice was deceivingly mild. Jack joined another line where a stern-faced clerk carefully counted and logged every Dragot the new boys possessed. "For safekeeping," he explained as he noted down Jack''s modest sum. "No currency permitted on campus." Finally, Jack stood with a growing cluster of processed others, all clutching their meager belongings, trying to look brave and failing. Another upperclassman appeared, his shoes and buttons blindingly bright in the morning sun. "Follow me, Poor Richards," he commanded, leading them off the main avenue towards the huge stone building Jack had seen when they first arrived. They walked through an archway into a vast courtyard. Jack''s neck craned back as he took in the seven-story cloister that surrounded them on all sides, its covered walkways stacked like the gundecks of a great marble warship. The Ilvermorny Barracks. They found themselves facing a line of upperclassmen, their presence simultaneously impressive and terrifying. "So," a precocious boy down the line asked, "are we tacks now?" The corporal''s head snapped around like a rattlesnake. He covered the distance to the speaker in three steps, steel heels clicking against the stone courtyard. "You, Mr. Magoo, are nothing," he said, voice pitched to carry to every trembling boy in the courtyard. "You, sirs, are less than nothing. You are not a tack. You are not a cadet. You are a Poor Richard, which puts you several evolutionary steps below a flobberworm." The boy stared straight ahead, regretting his question. Another naive newcomer piped up from the line: "Where are the girls?" The corporal''s eyes gleamed with delight. "You will never speak that word again, Mr. Magoo," he said, stalking over to his new victim. "Girls do not exist. They do not exist for such imbecilic blockheads as you, Mr. Magoo. They especially do not exist at an institution dedicated to creating wizards out of whatever sorry excuse for raw material has been dropped at our doorstep." He paced the line now, addressing all of them. "Let me make this abundantly clear for your marble-filled craniums. There is no such thing as a girl in your world. Not for the next three years. Not until you prove yourselves worthy of being actual human beings, let alone gentlemen. The Only Thing that exists for you is obedience, drill, study, and the endless path toward becoming something marginally more valuable than the dirt beneath our shoes." He stopped in front of the second speaker. "And if I catch even a whisper of that forbidden word again, Mr. Magoo, you will spend so much time doing push-ups that your arms will evolve into tree trunks. You will do so many squat thrusts that your legs will become steel pistons. You will run so many laps of this courtyard that you will wear a trench deep enough to strike oil. And then, Mr. Magoo, once you have done all that, you will do it again until the very concept of the opposite sex has been permanently erased from whatever you call that collection of rocks rolling around between your ears." He surveyed the now perfectly silent line. "Do I make myself clear?" There was a murmur of confused assent. ¡°What was that?¡± he roared. "Yes sir!" the boys chorused. That was how Jack learned about the two Ilvermornys: the Academy for boys, where they stood now, and the College for girls, who wouldn''t arrive until August for their own, distinctly more genteel version of magical education. Jack Semmes did not place eyes on an Ilvermorny College drag (the word ¡°girl¡± was strictly forbidden) until August. He didn¡¯t get to talk to one until 1944. The two Ilvermornys sat barely 200 yards apart, yet they might as well have been on different continents. The Academy, with its spartan Barracks, housed the male cadets. Just across the parade ground (forbidden for cadets to walk on unless on parade) stood Ilvermorny College for Young Witches, the most prestigious secondary school in the country, its Victorian mansion and rose gardens a refined contrast to the Academy''s fortress. The separation was maintained with rigid magical and social barriers. Enchanted hedges marked the boundary, shifting and rearranging themselves to prevent unauthorized crossing. Detection wards alerted the College staff to any attempted fraternization. Even the path between the schools was charmed to redirect wandering feet back to their proper side of campus unless they were escorted by faculty or carrying a permission slip. In August, Jack watched from the barracks windows as carriages arrived at the College, bringing the mysterious female students he and his fellow cadets wouldn''t be allowed to meet until they were in the Upper School. Glimpses were rare and precious ¨C chapel on Sundays, a distant group crossing their lawn for herbology classes, or filing into their own dining hall for meals. They were ethereal, more rumor than reality. The rules were explicit and unyielding. No communication was permitted between Academy and College students until 9th grade. Any attempt at magical communication triggered immediate disciplinary action. Eye contact across the divide was strictly discouraged. Even letters were forbidden until 9th grade, when unchaperoned group dates were permitted into Adams. "The young ladies are pursuing their own course of magical education," the Detail corporals sternly reminded the boys of the Lower School. "They are not here for your entertainment or distraction. If you wanted that, you could have gone to Lost Cove or Monterey." The College was over a century older than the Academy. Boys weren¡¯t allowed to attend Ilvermorny until 1747. It had its own traditions, as different from the Academy''s as could be imagined. Ilvermorny College for Young Witches combined rigorous magical education with classical liberal arts. The professors taught classes at both College and Academy. While domestic magic was part of the curriculum, it was far from the focus. The girls there wore no uniforms, instead a wide variety of elegant and practical dresses. The separation extended to magical practice itself. The College emphasized theoretical understanding and academic excellence. Many graduates went on to careers in magical research, civil services, or advanced healing. Others became influential figures in magical society, using their education to navigate complex sociopolitical spheres. The separation wasn''t about limiting either group but rather about optimizing education for different roles in society. The College produced researchers, diplomats, and healers, while the Academy prioritized training aurors and magical engineers. This was reflected in the houses. Although all four houses were represented at both schools, the militant Thunderbird and Wampus houses dominated the Academy, while the more cerebral Pukwudgie and Horned Serpent ruled the College. This rigid separation made the few authorized interactions all the more significant. Upperclass cadets spoke of the regularly scheduled dances with the reverence of religious ceremonies. Every detail was precisely regulated ¨C from the proper distance between dance partners to the approved topics of conversation. A wrong step, literal or social, could result in the loss of all future privileges. For Jack, throughout his first year, the girls of Ilvermorny College remained as foreign and wonderful as the creatures in his bestiary textbook. He would not attend his first chaperoned social event until May 1942, and even then, the experience was so carefully controlled and formal that it hardly seemed real. The system reflected both tradition and social norms, creating an environment where young wizards and witches could develop their abilities without the complications of co-education. Whether this actually prevented romantic entanglements was debatable ¨C if anything, the enforced separation and mystery made each side all the more intriguing to the other. The Ilvermorny chapel was booked solid every June through December with Academy boys marrying College girls, leading one weary professor to observe that they might as well start saving time and pass out rings along with diplomas. But for the boys of the Lower School, the rules were clear and the consequences for breaking them severe. So Jack, like generations of Ilvermorny cadets before him, focused on his studies and inspections, while the mythical, lovely figures across the parade ground flitted about in his imagination like elves.
Room 321, Thunderbird Wing Ilvermorny Academy, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts 2335 Hours, 19 September 1946
The lights were officially out in the barracks and the curtains of their third-floor room were shut tightly. Jack lay on his bed, hands behind his head, while his roommate Ashley Main sat at his desk, vainly trying to finish an American History essay by carefully concealed wandlight. "Semmes," Ashley whispered, abandoning all pretense of completing his paper on the Ghost Dance, "you ever wonder what they do over there all day?" "The drags?" Jack kept his voice low. After four years, they were experts at unheard after-hours conversations. "I heard from Jed that his sister says they have tea every afternoon. Formal tea with cups and saucers and everything." "Tea?" Ashley''s voice carried Southern skepticism. "While we''re doing close-order shielding in the rain they''re having tea parties?" "And they learn more advanced transfiguration and charms work than we do. Plus all these useful spells on top of that. Things like how to enchant a room to clean itself, make dinner cook on its own..." "Heck, I¡¯d kill for a charm like that, it would save us at least 30 minutes every day instead of having to clean by wand." Ashley paused. "Having tea every day might be nice, if it''s with drags. Better than the coffee in the mess hall. I bet they wear fancy dresses too. Debutante ball style, like at our dances." Jack rolled onto his side. "You think those dolls have to march like we do?" "Lord, no. My cousin Emma ¨C she goes to Salem ¨C says they''re taught to ''glide.'' Moving gracefully. Actually have classes for it." "Gliding?" Jack snorted. "Not double-timing?" "Can''t very well expect a drag to double-time in those shoes." Ashley''s chair creaked as he leaned back. "Don¡¯t you see them at Sunday chapel? The way they all float in like a flock of tropical birds?" "Hard not to notice when we''re stuck standing at attention for twenty minutes while they file in." Jack grinned in the darkness. "Though I guess that''s the point ¨C making sure we notice." "My mama would say that''s exactly the point." Ashley''s drawl got thicker when he mentioned his mother, as it always did. "A proper lady should always be noticed, while never appearing to seek attention." "Sounds complicated, Main." "That''s because you''re a Yankee, Semmes. You don''t understand important things." "Main, what''s the difference between a damnyankee and a Yankee?" Jack rolled over in his bunk, grinning at their familiar routine. "Why, that''s simple arithmancy even a Hobokenite should understand," Ashley drawled, setting aside his textbook. "You''re a Yankee because you stay up north here where you belong. Damnyankees are the ones who come down South, buy up all our land for Sprinks, tell us how to farm it, and then stay forever telling us how much better things are up North." "Doesn''t that make you a damnrebel then? Coming up North instead of Lost Cove, taking a spot at Ilvermorny, complaining about our coffee?" "No Semmes," Ashley replied with dignity. "It makes me a prisoner of conscience, temporarily detained in enemy territory for the purposes of magical education. Also, it''s expected of me. The Mains have attended Ilvermorny since before the Revolution. The food here may be good but the mess hall cooks can¡¯t make coffee to save their dang lives." "You nearly exploded when the tack at our breakfast table put sugar in his grits. I thought that was a Southern thing." "Heck naw. That¡¯s some Louisiana nonsense," Ashley shook his head. "Grits get salt, pepper and butter. Nothing else. My mama would disown me if I said otherwise.¡± "Your mama would disown you if she knew half the things we do here," Jack pointed out. "Like when we had to belly-crawl through that magical swamp down the valley during the snipe hunt?" "I had to write home and tell her I''d ruined my best undershirt doing ''advanced magichemical experimentation.''" Ashley sniffed. "I noticed you still ate three helpings of yankee meatloaf at supper." "Building bridges between our two nations," Ashley replied solemnly. "Can''t let all that Reconstruction go to waste. Y''all wouldn''t know proper fried chicken if it flew up and pecked you." "Y''all?" Jack repeated with a snicker. "Your hick accent gets thicker every time you mention food." "And yours gets more barbaric every time you try to pronounce ''coffee'' or ''water.'' It''s not ''cawwfee'' and ''wader,'' Semmes." "Maybe down in Georgia." "Especially in Georgia. We didn''t lose the war of words, even if our poor No-Maj lost the other one." They fell silent as footsteps passed their door ¨C the night guard making his rounds. "You think they talk about us like this?" Jack whispered. ¡°The drags?¡± "Probably not," Ashley replied. "Drags are more mature than we are at this age. I¡¯d bet they¡¯re busy studying." ¡°And having pillow fights,¡± Jack sighed dreamily. "And gliding," Ashley agreed. "Franklin. I need to finish this essay before I have to explain to Bancroft why I was too busy contemplating the mysteries of femininity to complete my homework." Jack grinned. "Yes, honey.¡± A few minutes passed. "You know who''s a real killer-diller?" Jack whispered. "Vivien Leigh." ¡°From That Hamilton Woman?¡± Ashley pretended to be obtuse. ¡°No, you stupid Reb, Gone with the Wind!¡± "Well, obviously," Ashley drawled, glad for any excuse to not keep writing. "She¡¯s practically perfect. And not just because she reminds me of home. I prefer Olivia de Havilland though, better wife material, more to your speed too. A Yankee like you could never handle Scarlett O¡¯Hara in real life." "Sure I could!¡± Ashley turned around and stared at him, ¡°No you couldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°It''s how she carries herself, you know? All proper and controlled, but with all that fire underneath. Like she¡¯ll hex you if you step out of line." Jack shifted onto his elbow, undeterred. "Plus I like them willowy. Slender, but not skinny, with...you know..." "Good posture?" Ashley offered. "You¡¯ve got a way with words, Main." Jack giggled. "What about you? Besides de Havilland." "Rita Hayworth," Ashley replied without hesitation. "All that red hair, curves like-" "A Comet 43?" "I was going to say a country road, but trust a New Yorker to crassly compare a woman to a broomstick." Ashley caught the sound of footsteps and paused for a moment. "Some of the drags have started styling their hair like hers." "How would you know? We never get close enough to see their hair." "Binoculars charm during Drawing class," Ashley winked. "Of course." Jack stared at the ceiling and sighed. "I bet there''s one over there right now, probably sitting at her desk writing a letter home. Blonde, or light brunette maybe, kind of tall for a dame, but not too tall. Good at school but not too much of a dork. The type who follows every rule but secretly wants to break ¡®em all..."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. "You''ve given this way too much thought, Semmes." "Yes I have, Main." Jack rolled over. "What else are we supposed to think about during formation drills?" "Your stance? Your wandwork? The actual drill?" Ashley suggested. "Instead of some imaginary drag who probably doesn''t exist?" "She exists," Jack said with conviction. "Somewhere. Maybe not at the College, but somewhere. And I bet she¡¯s thinking about a boy like me right now too." "Franklin''s kite, you''re a stupid romantic under all that Northern practicality." Ashley gave up on his essay and started getting ready for bed. "Don''t let the Ps catch you lusting like this. They''ll have you scrubbing the Court until you forget what drags look like altogether." "Too late for that," Jack yawned. "Between all this marching and studying, I don¡¯t remember what anyone looks like who isn''t wearing midnight blue and a perpetual scowl." "According to Prof Huntington, it does get better after we graduate from this place,¡± Ashley finished brushing his teeth and laid down carefully onto his bunk so as to not rumple the sheets. ¡°Yeah, well, we¡¯re stuck in it now,¡± Jack said, tucking himself underneath his comforter. ¡°When you¡¯re going through hell, keep going,¡± Ashley agreed. Both boys fell silent. In Ilvermorny fashion, they were asleep in moments.
Back on his first day, Jack Semmes¡¯ revelation about girls was quickly forgotten as an electric tension swept through the group. Before them stood the members of the Detail ¨C upperclassmen whose midnight blue jackets seemed painted onto their muscular frames, their black trousers with red stripes creased sharp enough to draw blood. These were the young men tasked with transforming "Poor Richards" like Jack into proper Ilvermorny cadets. "Stand up now, all along the line!" A corporal''s voice cracked like a whip. Jack and his fellows scrambled to comply, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated. "Snap into it¡ªyou on the left there!" Another voice joined the first. "Hold up your heads! Pull those shoulders back! More!" "Drag in your chins! You, there, in the clown trousers!" "Put that hat on straight! Throw your chest out! Suck up those guts! Harder! Harder!" Jack felt sweat trickling down his back as he tried to maintain the unnatural posture. The Detail circled them like sharks, their faces masks of controlled disgust at each imperfection they discovered. The scene was interrupted by the arrival of two late newcomers. The Detail descended upon them with predatory efficiency. "You man, there, slouching into the Court! What''s your name?" A corporal zeroed in on a short, rotund boy peering through thick tortoise-shell glasses. The boy stared in fascination at the corporal''s pristine uniform jacket, seemingly oblivious to the danger. "Do you hear me talking to you? Take your slimy eyes off me and look to the front!" Beside him, a tall, lanky boy in an expensive suit and audacious green tie received similar treatment. "How do you do?" the boy smiled pleasantly. "My name is Marino." "Your name is Mister Marino, SIR," the cadet officer thundered. "Mister Marino, you get that?" "And you too, Mr. Magoo," he turned to the bespectacled boy. "Don''t you forget to put a Sir on the end of your name!" The two latecomers joined their ranks and the transformation began immediately. Green ties disappeared, trouser cuffs were turned down, coats buttoned up, and all traces of civilian identity were stripped away. They surrendered their "contraband" at the orderly room ¨C playing cards, dice, and books all disappeared into the Treasurer''s custody. Jack didn¡¯t have any, although he had an odd desire to have something in order to put it in the box and perhaps please the Detail that way. He was then assigned to his room, where he met his roommate and future friend, Ashley Main, a Georgian whose calm demeanor seemed impossible under the circumstances. Jack''s own hands wouldn''t stop trembling. The barber shop came next, reached at a dead run ¨C Poor Richards weren''t allowed the luxury of walking. A single harried barber wielded his wand deftly, and dozens of regulation haircuts manifested simultaneously. Jack watched his dark locks fall away with the others. Then came the Cadet Store, where black flannel trousers and belts were issued with mechanical efficiency. The basement yielded bedding and mattresses, which each boy carried back to his quarters on the seventh floor, muscles straining. Back and forth they ran, collecting clothing and supplies, their newly-shorn heads waiting for the issued caps and hats that would complete their transformation. Every movement was scrutinized, every action timed, every step monitored by the ever-present Detail. The metamorphosis from civilian to cadet proceeded with the inexorable precision of a well-oiled machine. Jack felt himself being swept along in the current, his old identity washing away with each new command, each new requirement, each new demand. The sun was setting when they were marched to the mess hall, their ragged formation drawing winces and barked corrections from the corporals and sergeants. The long hall was enormous, designed to seat all four hundred cadets at once at tables of twenty, though now it felt cavernous with only one hundred summer residents ¨C the new sixth graders and their Detail tormentors from the eleventh and twelfth grades. Steam rose from platters of homestyle cooking ¨C chicken and dumplings, collard greens, cornbread. But there was no time to savor it. They ate in rigid silence while the upperclassmen prowled between the tables, looking for infractions. The food was good, Jack realized, if only he could taste it through his exhaustion. After dinner came showers, then back to their rooms with an ominous promise that made Jack''s stomach clench: "Early day tomorrow, Poor Richards. Very early." In their room, Jack and Ashley finally had a moment to breathe. His roommate sprawled on his hard bed with the easy grace of a boy born into privilege. "Semmes," Ashley said, using Jack''s surname with the peculiar intimacy that marked Ilvermorny friendships, "I do believe this has been the longest day of my life." "Main," Jack replied, testing the address, "I can¡¯t think of anything worse." They talked quietly in the growing dark. Ashley''s home was an actual plantation in Georgia, complete with white columns and Spanish moss, but he spoke of it without pretense. Just another boy far from home, trying to make sense of this new world they''d been thrown into. The next morning brought new terrors. During formation, Corporal Strait ¨C a lean, sharp-faced upperclassman with cruel eyes ¨C fixed on Jack with predatory interest. "Well, well," Strait mused, circling Jack like a coyote. "What do we have here? Bit dark for a proper wizard, aren''t you, Mr. Magoo? What¡¯s your name, half-breed?" ¡°This Poor Richard¡¯s name is Semmes, sir.¡± Jack replied in the approved formula. "Mr. Semmes is it? Your father may be MACUSA, but that doesn''t quite wash out the Patuxet, does it?" Jack stared straight ahead, jaw tight. "You know, Mr. Main," Strait addressed Ashley without taking his eyes off Jack, "your people fought wars against his people. Good American wizards died protecting settlers from warraids. My own grandfather was at the Battle of Wounded Knee, when MACUSA finally put down the last of the medicine men." Ashley''s face carefully blank. "Yes sir." "Any forbidden magic passed down, Mr. Semmes?" Strait continued, "Does your mother still practice the old ways? Any reason we should be concerned about having you here at Ilvermorny? After all, it wasn''t that long ago that your mother''s people were trying to burn this very school to the ground." "No sir." "Main here comes from one of the finest American families in Georgia.¡± His eyes flicked between Jack and Ashley. "Half-breed and the perfumed planter. Perfect setup, really. North and South. White and... well, redskin enough. Why don''t you boys give us a re-enactment? Battle of the Washita. You know how it goes. Indians lay an ambush for MACUSA, I want to hear your war-whoops, Chief Semmes.¡± Jack felt his face burn, but kept his eyes forward. Beside him, Ashley remained perfectly still. "Not brave enough to volunteer?" Strait''s voice rang with false disappointment. "Then I guess we''ll have to find another way to educate you Poor Richards about magical history. Down! Both of you ¨C dipping exercises!" What followed was a blur of torment in the mounting summer heat. Air squats until their legs trembled. High-stepping with arms extended like scarecrows. And finally, most humiliatingly, crawling on all fours, making train whistle sounds while Strait laughed. "Choo choo, Poor Richards! Show me how MACUSA brought civilization to the Wild West! You see, this is what happens when we let standards slip. First it was letting in half-breeds, then the Irish¡­" Jack''s vision was starting to go black in his periphery, his uniform soaked with sweat, when salvation arrived in the form of a cadet sergeant. "That''s enough, Strait," the sergeant''s voice cut through Jack''s haze. "You¡¯re wasting our time. Get these boys some water and move on." As they gulped down water from a dipper, Jack caught Ashley''s eye, an understanding forged in shared degradation. Summer fell into relentless rhythm. Each morning at 6:20, the sunrise gun''s report echoed across the mountain, followed instantly by the savage rattle of drums and the bugle''s piercing call. The sound would haunt Jack''s dreams for years to come ¨C not that he got much chance to dream during those first months. Dozens of Poor Richards quit before summer ended, opting for more civilized wizarding schools around the country. Each dropout was marked by vulgar whoops of celebration from the Detail. The days blurred together in an endless cycle of activity. Morning calisthenics left Jack shaking and sweat-soaked before breakfast, but they were just the beginning. Each week brought focus on a new sport, with both theory and grinding practice. Quodpot, Quopro, track and field, boxing, aerial gymnastics, broom racing, and magical dueling ¨C the Academy believed in building both magical and physical prowess. Every spare moment was filled with instruction. They memorized the Academy regulations until they could recite them in their sleep. Parades demanded endless practice ¨C the precision of movement, the proper handling of wands during review, the exact angle of their heads during salute. The first spell they learned was the Shield Charm. "The Shield Charm is the first, and greatest of all spells," the Detail drilled into their heads. The initial magical curriculum was brutally simple: Everything else could wait for proper classes. These spells were hammered into their muscle memory through endless repetition, usually combined with physical exercises: "Shield up! Down for push-ups! Shield stays up! Levitate! Shield still up! Back down! What part of ''shield stays up'' was unclear, Mr. Magoo?" The Poor Richards quickly learned that dropping a spell during drills meant starting over - with weight charms added. As a friendly corporal explained: "If you can cast while we''re smoking you, you can cast them while someone''s actually trying to kill you." No one was supposed to be actually killed during summer training, but Jack wasn''t entirely sure. Then there came dancing instruction in Alumni Hall. Jack had dreaded it, but the Academy approached waltzing the same way as everything else. "A wizard must move with grace in all situations," their instructor declared. They practiced basic steps over and over until even the clumsiest Poor Richard could manage a passable box step. Jack earned his "proficiency" after three weeks, grateful to be excused from further lessons. The culmination of their summer training came in August ¨C the Poor Richard hike. For five days, they circumnavigated Mount Greylock, carrying full packs with no featherlight charms and making camp each night in different locations. They learned to set up magical wards, to find safe water sources, to navigate by stars both magical and mundane. Despite the physical challenges, these days proved surprisingly enjoyable. Away from the constant scrutiny of the Detail, the Poor Richards began to form friendships. Around campfires at night, they shared stories of home. Jack learned that Ladd Marley¡¯s father was one of the biggest cattle ranchers in Oklahoma, that Sonny Marino from southern California knew how to surf, that Ashley Main could hold his breath for three minutes. Even some of the Detail relaxed slightly, showing glimpses of humanity beneath their exteriors. The instructors used the hike to evaluate their charges more naturally. They watched, made notes, and had quiet conversations about individual Poor Richards. Everything ¨C from how a boy handled exhaustion to how he treated his fellows when sharing limited supplies ¨C was carefully observed and recorded. "They''re not just making us miserable, you know," Ashley commented one evening as they set up their tent. Jack had just made a discouraged comment about transferring to Monterey where there were white beaches and girls. "They''re building us into something." "What''s that?" Jack asked, using his wand to drive in a peg. "Gentlemen," Ashley replied, his accent making the word sound grand. "Or trying to, at least." He flicked his wand clumsily and the tent shot up too fast, accidentally knocking Jack on his behind. The Poor Richard hike ended where it began, back at the parade ground. The boys that had endured it were different now ¨C tanned, toughened, standing straighter. No longer just a collection of scared kids from across America, but the beginnings of a cohesive group. The Detail''s strict discipline had served its purpose. As they marched back through the gates and fell out back to their rooms for showers, Jack caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His haircut had grown out just enough to need another trim, his uniform was trail-worn but carefully maintained, and his eyes held a confidence that hadn''t been there six weeks ago. For better or worse, he was growing up quickly. The Detail had a peculiar sense of humor, as Jack discovered through what they cheerfully called "sight-seeing trips." These tours of campus were conducted with all the ceremony of a formal parade and none of its dignity. "Squad, halt!" The corporal''s voice rang across the parade ground. "Left face!" Jack stood rigidly in the front rank, eyes locked forward. The corporal announced with gravity: "Alumni Hall." "Right face! Forward, double-time, march!" If he was lucky and quick, Jack might catch a half-second glimpse of the building before being whisked away to the next landmark. "Squad, halt! Left face! Library. Also the Mess Hall. Also the Academic Hall. Right face! Forward, march!" Some sights didn''t even rate a full stop. As they quick-stepped past a viewpoint, the corporal barked: "Eyes left! That''s the No-Maj town of Adams down in the valley. Front!" And that was Adams, population 522, seen and dismissed in the space of a breath. Jack thought of writing home about these tours but couldn''t figure out how to describe them without making his mother worry. But the "sight-seeing trips" were nothing compared to the clothing formations. These were the Detail''s favorite form of entertainment during their precious few rest periods, turning Poor Richards into reluctant performers in absurdist theater. The orders would come without warning: "Poor Richards! Formation in five minutes! Uniform of the day: Full dress hat, white gloves, puttees, regulation underwear. That is all!" They would then be drilled as if parading in full dress instead of their underwear. The Detail maintained perfect poker faces as they inspected the formations, checking that gloves were spotless and hats properly aligned, while carefully ignoring the fact that their charges were practically naked. "Mr. Semmes!" a corporal barked. "That hat brim is precisely one-eighth inch too low. Such sloppiness reflects poorly on Ilvermorny!" Jack learned to maintain rigid military bearing while standing at attention in his drawers, which he supposed was a lesson in itself. Ashley theorized it was meant to strip away their dignity so thoroughly that nothing in their future careers could possibly embarrass them. "After you''ve done close-order drill in your underwear," Ashley pointed out, "giving a speech to the Magical Congress won''t seem scary at all. That¡¯s got to be how Senator Longchamp does it so well." ¡°I don¡¯t want to imagine Senator Longchamp in his underwear, Main,¡± Jack shuddered. These bizarre ceremonies were conducted with such straight-faced seriousness that they transcended mere hazing, becoming sacred traditions ¨C albeit traditions that no one outside Ilvermorny Academy would ever understand or believe. The Detail clearly took as much pride in crafting these peculiar torments as they did in their regular duties. The Poor Richards learned to dread the gleam in a corporal''s eye that meant he''d thought up some new variation. At least these theatrical productions were confined to the relative privacy of the barracks. Though this was small comfort when Jack found himself perched on the guardrail of the seventh floor balcony at dawn, flapping his arms like a chicken. "Louder, Mr. Semmes!" Corporal Strait demanded. "How do you expect to wake your future house with such a halfhearted cock-a-doodle-doo? I¡¯ll have you cast down with the Pukwudgies!" Jack belted out another crow as if this were the most natural thing in the world. As if every proper wizard had always greeted the sunrise from a balcony railing, playing rooster. The corporal unceremoniously shoved Jack off the balcony. Jack plummeted seven stories towards the Court below, dully thinking that if he splattered hard enough maybe it wouldn''t hurt. Strait caught him a few feet above the ground with a sharp levitation charm that almost dislocated his shoulders. The Detail''s creativity was boundless. One afternoon was devoted to the funeral of a deceased beetle, with Jack and Ashley assigned the roles of chief mourners. Poor Richards were drafted as pallbearers, musicians, and even a chaplain who delivered a solemn eulogy about their "fallen comrade''s dedication to bugginess, his beetling brows, his passion for beets, and devotion to six-legged duty." The funeral procession wound its way around the Barracks Court with full military honors. Jack walked behind the matchbox coffin, his face a mask of grief for the dearly departed insect. The ceremony concluded with a Poor Richard shrilly singing taps, while the Detail watched with eagle eyes for any crack in the Poor Richards'' somber expressions. The slightest hint of a smile brought swift correction. "Mr. Semmes! Wipe that smile off your face!" Jack quickly raised his hand to his face and mimed erasing the offensive expression. "Throw it on the ground!" His hand dropped, releasing the imaginary smile. "Now step on it!" He ground it into the dirt with his shoe heel, face now properly blank. "Don''t ever smile in ranks again," the warning came, delivered with the same direness as if it were one of Ilvermorny¡¯s most sacred regulations. Jack learned the art of the empty expression ¨C eyes focused on infinity, face showing nothing, no matter how ridiculous the situation. It was a skill that would serve him well in years to come, though he couldn''t have known it then. Life on the seventh floor of the barracks gave Jack and his "wife" (roommate) Ashley plenty of light and air, although the climb was punishing after a long day. The Academy''s rigid hierarchy was reflected in the architecture ¨C seniors claiming the ground floor, with each subsequent year stacked above them like a layer cake of authority. As Poor Richards and future tacks, they occupied the topmost tier, quite literally at the top of (and thus the bottom) of the pecking order. Their room offered no opportunity for personal expression. Everything was standardized, regulated, and precisely positioned according to written instructions that might as well have been carved in granite. The iron beds, whether single or double-decker, were identical throughout the barracks. Metal clothes lockers, wooden desks, and straight-backed chairs might have come off an assembly line, they were so perfectly uniform. The bare floors and blank walls emphasized utility over comfort. No rugs softened footsteps, no pictures brightened the white walls. Their possessions were regulated down to the smallest detail ¨C from the exact number of shoes permitted under the bed (two, arranged toes-out, of course) to the precise arrangement of toiletries on the washstand. "Look here," Ashley had shown Jack their first night, pointing to the detailed diagram posted inside their door. "Even the toothbrush has an assigned position. Three inches from the right edge of the shelf, bristles up, handle perfectly parallel to the wall." The reasoning behind this obsessive standardization was twofold, as their inspecting upperclassman politely explained while Jack and Ashley were doing push-ups for daring to ask the question. First, these arrangements had been proven by experience to be sufficient for a Ilvermorny boy''s needs ¨C no more, no less. Second, any deviation from the pattern stood out immediately to inspecting officers, making their jobs easier and infractions harder to hide. Jack learned this lesson the hard way during his first week as room orderly. Each Sunday night, they would alternate this duty, posting their names in the card rack by the door to identify who was responsible for maintaining these exacting standards. The role brought with it the constant threat of demerits ¨C "skins" in Ilvermorny parlance ¨C for the smallest infractions. "Mr. Semmes!" The inspector barked. "Would you care to explain this dust on the underside of your lampshade?" ¡°No, sir.¡± Jack couldn''t explain it, of course. One didn''t explain at Ilvermorny; one accepted responsibility and punishment. The demerits accumulated in his record, each one a reminder that no detail was too small to escape notice. Ashley proved to be a meticulous roommate, his upbringing having prepared him well for this level of household precision. "My mama would skin me alive if she saw dust anywhere in her house," he explained while demonstrating the proper way to make hospital corners on their beds. "This isn''t so different, except now it''s the officer doing the skinning." Together, they learned to maintain their standardized domain to the Academy''s exacting specifications. Their room became a reflection of Ilvermorny''s larger philosophy ¨C that discipline in small things built character for bigger challenges, that uniformity bred unity, and that attention to detail was not just virtue but a way of life. Jack hated it. But he refused to quit, because that would have been even worse. Then he got used to it. But he never enjoyed it, like some of his certifiably insane classmates claimed to. Even the view from their seventh-floor windows was regulated ¨C they were only permitted to look outside during designated periods, and Heaven help any Poor Richard caught daydreaming during study hours. But on clear days, when they were allowed, they could see all the way to the No-Maj town of Adams in the valley below, a reminder of the world they were being trained to protect, even if they couldn''t live in it anymore. The transition from Poor Richard to tack (sixth grader) at the end of summer brought its own set of peculiar customs. Jack found himself ascending and descending the seven flights of stairs two steps at a time, forbidden to touch walls or banisters for support. More than once, this resulted in him and his classmates practically flying down the stairs into the Court, much to the amusement of passing upperclassmen. His wrist watch was confiscated ¨C such luxuries being reserved for upperclassmen only. A tack had to know the time by the sun and the clock outside the guard room. His overcoat cape had to be worn closed in front, except during formations. He had to march everywhere. Every tack was required to write home on Mother''s Day, a rule Jack suspected was less about discipline and more about ensuring no mother was forgotten. The rules were arbitrary. Questioning them was unthinkable. "Down on your faces, tacks!" the corporal barked. "Standard hovering position!" Jack and his fellow tacks dropped into push-up position, then muttered the levitation charm that left them floating six inches off the ground. Holding the charm steady while maintaining proper form was brutal - drop too low and you''d face plant, too high and you''d trigger the corporal¡¯s ward that would dump you back down. "Floating push-ups! Begin! And I better hear those incantations crisp and clear!" Each push-up required a precise hover charm. Jack''s arms trembled as he tried to maintain both physical form and magical focus. Beside him, a classmate lost control of his charm and crashed face-first into the stone floor, triggering a cascade of blue sparks. "Pathetic, Mr. Magoo! Report to the Reversal Chamber for practice! The rest of you - shield charms up while continuing push-ups! Protection spells stay active or the Stinging Hexes start flying!" They struggled to maintain their meager 6th grade shield bubbles while continuing their floating exercises. The corporals paced between them, sending mild but annoying hexes at anyone whose shield flickered. Jack felt his concentration splitting between physical effort, hover charm, and shield spell - exactly the kind of multiple-focus Ilvermorny demanded. "Now translate the Academy motto from Latin while maintaining all spells! Mr. Semmes, begin!" "Through... duty..." Jack gasped, his shield wobbling, "Per officium..." A Stinging Hex caught his shoulder as his shield slipped. The corporal''s voice cut through the chaos: "Your shield fails in combat, you don''t get a second chance! Again!" Later, they were lined up for ¡°poise correction" - forced to maintain perfect posture while their uniforms were enchanted to become progressively heavier. The magic started at their shoes and worked up, adding pounds of invisible weight with each passing minute. "A wizard stands straight under any pressure!" the corporal lectured as they struggled. "Your ancestors held formation while the Ministry¡¯s storm giants attacked Charleston! Grindlewalders are training RIGHT NOW to kill you and you can''t even handle a simple Weight-Increasing Hex?" Those who slumped triggered the secondary enchantment - a blast of icy water that shot upward, leaving them sputtering and even more miserable. The corporals had picked up a few tricks from the Pukwudgies who maintained the grounds. "Now the dueling position! Perfect formation! And if I see one wand out of angle, you''ll all be jumping from the seventh-floor!" "Remember," the corporal''s voice carried across the courtyard, "every great American wizard started exactly where you are! Ben Franklin maintained a Shield Charm over the entire Continental Army at Valley Forge for two weeks! Hamilton Gerard apparated across three states to save a MACUSA wagon train from a Lakota war party! The Expeditionary Brigade held the line against Grindelwald''s forces in La Rochelle while outnumbered 3 to 1! And here you can''t even manage a simple weighted march without looking like a herd of drunken Erumpents!" Jack focused on keeping his wand at the proper angle while fighting the magical weight that now felt like he was marching underwater. A Poor Richard ahead of him stumbled, his wand slipping. The corporals descended like hammers. "Disgusting! Everyone in the Reversal Chamber! Time to practice Shield Charms upside down!" The mess hall became a zoo with the return of the other cadets. Jack and his fellow tacks at his table were required to prepare entertainment ¨C skits, dialogues, and performances ¨C for the upper classmen''s amusement. A successful performance earned the privilege of eating "at ease," a luxury not to be underestimated. The 7th and 8th graders of the Lower School found tacks from their home states and adopted them, sneaking them sweets and good advice. But the slipperiest tradition was the August Tack Athletic Meet, held in the basement bathrooms, or "sinks," the week before school began. The highlight was the infamous soap sliding competition, where tacks, covered only in enchanted lather, tobogganed across the soaped floor at high speed. It was utterly undignified, completely ridiculous, and quintessentially Ilvermorny. The night before classes began, the entire Academy from Lower to Upper School assembled in the Barracks Court. There was no fanfare, no magical artifacts, no speeches. Just four walls of cadets standing at attention, watching as the tacks were formed into a square in the center. Names were called out. One by one, tacks were directed to the four houses, arranged along the cardinal directions of the Barracks. Thunderbird the north wall, Wampus the south wall, Horned Serpent the east, and Pukwudgie the west. When Jack''s name was called, he executed a step forward, a left-face, and marched to join the Thunderbird formation. Minutes later, Ashley joined him. The whole process took less than thirty minutes ¨C exactly what you''d expect from an institution that treated breakfast like putting fuel in an automobile. They moved their room to their new house barracks on the seventh floor of the north cloister. After a few minutes of settling in, all the new tacks were called out into the hallway, standing at attention along the wall. Jack caught the attention of one of his new seniors, Cadet Captain Tanning. "Sir, permission to speak?" "Granted, Mr. Semmes." "Sir, how exactly did we end up here? I mean, there wasn''t any form we filled out or anything¡­" Tanning grinned. "You think we haven''t been watching every move you''ve made since you got here? Every professor, every instructor, every Detail member, every senior cadet has been evaluating you. How you handle stress, how you work with others, how you think on your feet. It''s all been noted, analyzed, and calculated. The sorting is a science. ¡°You¡¯re lucky, tacks,¡± grinned Tanning¡¯s roommate. ¡°Wampus puts their new boys on the ground floor and makes them fight all the way up to the seventh. No wands.¡± ¡°Permission to speak, sir?¡± asked Ashley . ¡°What is it, Mr. Main?¡± ¡°Do we do anything like that?¡± The lights snapped out along the hallway, leaving them in complete darkness. ¡°Welcome to Thunderbird, tacks,¡± Tanning¡¯s voice announced pleasantly. ¡°You have thirty minutes to get to the summit of Mount Greylock. Time starts now.¡± 24. Charms and the Man
"-absolutely not, Edwin! The very idea-" "Helena, I got it for a song! They¡¯re practically giving them away down at Clyde. Think of the practical applications! The students need to understand how these things work if they¡¯re going to learn how to defend against them-" "I don''t care how cheap it was or how many ''practical applications'' you can list, we are not demonstrating a¡­what did you call it?¡± ¡°A PIAT. Stands for Projector, Infantry, Anti Tank, it¡¯s like a bomb thrower-¡± ¡°We are NOT demonstrating a Muggle bomb thrower on the viaduct!" "It¡¯s a small one! Man-portable! I modified it to shoot Fizzing Whizbangs." "Modified it? Need I remind you about the incident with that accursed Muggle Jeep you ¡®modified¡¯?" "Seemed only fair to let the students have a go at driving it after they started it up." "You ruined the Flying Lawn and nearly destroyed the greenhouse!" "Yes, but this time absolutely nothing can go wrong. Professor MacLeod agrees that-" "Malcolm MacLeod would agree to letting you demonstrate Greek Fire in the library if you promised him front row seats! The answer is NO!" "What if we did it off-grounds? By the lake? The merfolk were quite interested when I was testing the Muggle LVT-4 amphtrack that we got from the Ministry last summer. They even helped me fish it out after it sank-" "EDWIN WHITBY, DID YOU TEST EXPERIMENTAL MUGGLE MACHINERY IN THE-" - Overheard in the Transfiguration Courtyard, August 30th, 1947
Professor Edwin Whitby''s Muggle Studies classroom looked like someone had raided a dozen Edinburgh charity and military surplus shops. Telephone parts lay scattered across one table, a partially dismantled wireless set occupied another, and a mannequin wearing a complete U.S. Army paratrooper¡¯s uniform (complete with helmet painted with a white spade) stood in one corner like a sentinel. The mannequin was enchanted to salute passing students and utter incomprehensible phrases like: "We''re paratroopers, we''re meant to be surrounded!" and "Remember boys, flies spread disease. So keep yours closed!" In the front of the classroom underneath the chalkboard squatted a chunky wooden device, as tall as a person, with large oblong buttons lit up and flashing invitingly. "Ah, Mr. Semmes. Our newest Gryffindor. Welcome!" Professor Whitby bounded over with a slight limp, the round sunglasses that he wore in all weather gleaming. His carefully parted hair and clean-shaven face made him look younger than his thirty-five years. "Perfect timing! I was just telling Mr. Mossflower here about my newest acquisition, straight from New York City!¡± he gestured proudly to the device while shaking Jack¡¯s hand. ¡°You got a jukebox?¡± Jack asked, impressed. A gift from a wealthy Ilvermorny alum had only just installed one in the Thunderbird dayroom a year ago. ¡°You are familiar with its operation?¡± Whitby''s enthusiasm somehow doubled. ¡°I made a few minor enchantments, to increase its limited repertoire and make up for our lack of American Muggle currency. Can you believe that they charge their fellow Muggles nearly a Knut per song? Outrageous, monstrous, true excess!¡± His wide grin belied his criticism. ¡°So it works for free?¡± Jack approached the jukebox, still carrying his school bag. ¡°Yes, and better than that,¡± Whitby limped behind the machine and leaned on it, ¡°I improved it with a thought-reading charm. Just tap it with your wand and it plays exactly the song you want to hear. About 95% of the time.¡± ¡°Professor,¡± Jack paused in front of the jukebox, examining it, ¡°You¡¯re supposed to work the buttons on it, you pick a record with this one and¡­¡± ¡°No no, Mr. Semmes, I know what I¡¯m doing. Go ahead, try it!¡± Jack skeptically drew his wand from his pocket. "Professor, I really think that''s a terrible-" Cyprian started to say from the back of the room, but Jack had already tapped the gleaming Wurlitzer. The machine lit up like a Christmas tree. Multicolored lights began strobing across its chrome surface as the mechanical arm inside went berserk, selecting several records simultaneously. Then, with a sound like a million orchestras tuning up at once, it launched into song at the earsplitting volume of an air raid siren: ?? OVER THERE, OVER THERE! ?? Fireworks sprayed from the coin slot. Red, white, and blue sparklers erupted from the speaker grilles. The entire machine bounced from leg to leg like an enthusiastic drunk. SEND THE WORD, SEND THE WORD, TO BEWARE! Jack clapped his hands over his ears as dust was shaken from the ceiling and the windows rattled in their frames. His classmates dove for cover under their desks. THAT THE YANKS ARE COMING, THE YANKS ARE COMING, Through squinted eyes, Jack could see Professor Whitby beaming with pride and wearing a RAF flying helmet. THE DRUMS RUM-TUMMING EVERYWHERE! "Isn''t it wonderful?" Whitby shouted over the din. "The enthusiasm! The patriotic fervor! The sheer Muggle ingenuity!" "PROFESSOR!" Jack yelled back. "I THINK IT''S STUCK!" "Nonsense!" Whitby called back cheerfully as a shower of golden sparks rained down around them. "It''s working exactly as intended! WE''LL BE OOOVER, WE''RE COMING OOOVER- Professor Winterborn burst through the classroom door. "Edwin!! What in Merlin''s name is-" She stopped dead, taking in the scene before her. The jukebox was now dancing the can-can while belting out its third repeat of the chorus. "Ah, Professor Winterborn!" Whitby looked delighted. "Excellent timing! We''re conducting a practical demonstration of American musical technology! Care to join us?" "I believe," Winterborn bellowed over the cacophony, "that we discussed how your ¡®teaching aids¡¯ must be contained to a reasonable volume?!" "Oh, very well," Whitby reluctantly raised his wand. "Just a minor adjustment..." ¡°AND WE WON¡¯T COME BACK, ¡®TIL IT¡¯S OVER OVER THERE-¡± -skrrt! There was a record scratch as Whitby¡¯s silencing charm took hold and muzzled the machine. The muffled whirring and faint clinking of internal gears gave one last defiant sputter before it fell still. "Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen!" Whitby announced, sounding more amused than contrite as he flicked his wand to disperse the lingering wisps of smoke. Jack¡¯s classmates popped up from behind their desks like prairie dogs after a thunderstorm. He saw Venge giving him a scornful look from his seat. He resisted the urge to flip him a rude hand gesture. ¡°Still a prototype,¡± Whitby continued, completely unbothered. ¡°To be expected. Merlin¡¯s drawers, perhaps that was a bit too loud. Some of the runed solder must have crossed a wire¡­ fascinating stuff, really! I¡¯ll just need to recalibrate the magical grounding field next time.¡± He stepped back and surveyed the singed classroom as though this were all part of a perfectly normal Tuesday. ¡°I really need a different classroom. Preferably somewhere further from the Transfiguration Courtyard. Perhaps down in the dungeons¡­ must remember to ask Professor Vale about borrowing some space. ¡°Five points to Gryffindor, Mr. Semmes, for being our willing test subject! That reminds me of a fascinating digression on the historical significance of music in Muggle warfare. You can take a seat, Mr. Semmes.¡± Whitby swept his wand and banished the jukebox to a far corner. ¡°Please pull out your quills and I¡¯ll pass out the syl-¡­oh-¡± His eyes moved to the back of the room, where Professor Winterborn was glowering in the doorway. ¡°Edwin. A word,¡± she said in the same tone of voice that Jack had first heard before the welcome feast. Professor Whitby smiled apologetically and hobbled briskly out of the classroom. Jack, still rubbing his ears, began to head past Cassandra¡¯s desk in the front row. She removed a pair of conjured earplugs from her ears and arched an eyebrow at him. Her lips twitched as she suppressed a smile. Was it at him, or Whitby¡¯s antics? Next to her, an empty seat beckoned. Jack''s feet, operating independently from his brain, betrayed him. Fully intending to keep walking to an open seat in the middle of the room, he found himself sliding into the chair beside her instead. He watched her expression shift from fleeting amusement to momentary dismay, finally settling on familiar iciness. Franklin¡¯s kite, she was even cuter with the frown. ¡°In my defense,¡± Jack said to her, laying out his course materials, ¡°I was thinking of ¡®Five Minutes More¡¯. You know, Sinatra.¡± ¡°Never heard of him,¡± she said, not looking at him. There it is again, Semmes, Jack kicked himself mentally. What did you expect? You idiot. You¡¯re stuck now. Can¡¯t retreat. Might as well make the best of it. Dig in and fight. ¡°You haven¡¯t heard of Frank Sinatra?¡± he asked, almost disbelievingly. The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°No, I have not,¡± she replied, reaching into her school bag and pulling out their textbook: Murray and McAlister¡¯s Marvelous Muggles. ¡°He¡¯s a No-Maj,¡± Jack prompted. ¡°I do not listen to Muggle music, Mr. Semmes. Or¡­¡± she hesitated, and finally glanced at him. "what do you Americans call it? Jiving?" "Jazz," Jack corrected, leaning forward and putting his elbow on the table. "And sure, I like Benny Goodman as much as the next guy, but Sinatra is the swellest," He performed a quick-step on the desk with his fingers. ¡°He¡¯s a great dancer too.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen what you Americans call dancing,¡± Cassandra replied primly. ¡°It¡¯s hardly ballet.¡± ¡°We have dance classes at Ilvermorny.¡± "I''m sure to the same exacting standards as the rest of your school," she said drily. Jack pretended to not hear her, "My mom''s crazy about Sinatra. Says he could charm a basilisk." ¡°That¡¯s silly-¡± she began, then her eyes flickered to the side of the semicircular classroom. Jack followed her vision over to where Caeso Montfort was watching them with narrowed eyes. Her expression frosted over. Jack had a flash of understanding. Right, the Hightowers and Montforts. He was intruding on something. The origami bird¡­ Dang it! In his excitement he had forgotten to thank her for the tower incident. Stupid stupid STUPID Semmes! He cleared his throat, ¡°Sorry.¡± He pulled out his book and laid out his parchment, affecting a casual lean in the opposite direction. He¡¯d have to find another opportunity to speak to her without Montfort or anyone other Ravenclaws hovering. Professor Whitby chose that moment to return, looking mildly chastened and holding his flying helmet. "Right then! Where were we¡­oh yes! The course syllabus!¡± ¡°Now,¡± he limped behind his desk and tossed a pile of neatly printed syllabuses into the air. They zipped to each student¡¯s place like playing cards. ¡°You may note it¡¯s a bit different from what the sixth-years took last term. I removed the lawnmower, jackhammer, and nitroglycerin demonstrations due to concerns from my colleagues on the curriculum review committee. A mixture of disappointed groans and loud sighs of relief from the class. ¡°But!¡± Whitby said brightly, ¡°Instead I added in several classes on various fascinating Muggle weapons which I acquired over the summer. Can you believe they¡¯re just giving them away to anyone who asks?" Martin Mossflower raised his hand, "Professor, how''d you get that approved?" Professor Whitby leaned on his desk, "The key to navigating bureaucratic obstacles is understanding their structure. The curriculum review committee has a rulebook - updated last in 1894 - which states that any ''experimental lesson plans'' are to be classified as ''provisional'' until reviewed after at least one term of implementation. These provisional lessons require no committee approval." He tapped the syllabus with a finger, his tone conspiratorial. "So, when I find an interesting demonstration, I classify it as a provisional ''Muggle cultural study'' or a ''practical comparative analysis.'' By the time the committee realizes I¡¯ve taught seventh-years to load, dismantle, and reassemble a flamethrower, it''s too late for them to block it. Their only recourse is to review the effectiveness of the lesson via student feedback. And it¡¯s usually quite popular." A few students snickered; others leaned forward, rapt. "Now, the beauty of this." Whitby smiled broadly, "By the time they¡¯ve officially reviewed one term¡¯s lessons, I¡¯ve already rotated it out for something fresh - leaving the committee eternally chasing last term¡¯s syllabus. Keeps me comfortably ahead." "But don¡¯t they notice the...er, escalation?¡± Martin asked. ¡°Mr. Mossflower," Whitby waggled his wand. "It¡¯s not escalation. It¡¯s interdisciplinary learning! They love that word upstairs,¡± he gestured towards the Grand Staircase. ¡°For instance, when I had the fourth-years build a trebuchet on the Flying Lawn, I framed it as an exploration of medieval siege tactics. This term¡¯s automatic weapon dueling techniques? A modern extension of defensive magic. They hear ''duel'' and assume wands are involved. I got Professor MacLeod to sign off on it." ¡°What happens if they catch on?¡± another student ventured. Whitby waved dismissively. "By then, I¡¯ll have sent them a thoroughly glowing course end report about how much you all learned and enjoyed yourselves. They rarely argue ¡ª especially when my electives are filled year after year and the feedback comes with quotes like ¡®Professor Whitby¡¯s lessons taught me invaluable life skills!¡¯ and ¡®It was the best term of my life.¡¯ Of course, I might have to bribe you all into providing such feedback, but that¡¯s a minor detail.¡± The classroom burst into laughter, though a few students exchanged nervous glances. Whitby tapped his wand on the table, bringing them back to attention. "This term we¡¯ll be learning everything from gunpowder to rocketry and everything in between!¡± Whitby promised. ¡°So let¡¯s skip the syllabus review and begin today¡¯s lesson: Comparative Practical Applications of Zip Lines and Grappling Hooks in defeating Muggle Security Systems!" He flicked his wand, and a coil of rope zipped across the room, attaching itself to the rafters. "Hope none of you are afraid of heights. Who wants to go first?" Jack heard Cassandra shift her chair slightly away from him, but not before he caught the faintest hint of crushed juniper and lavender. He focused on Whitby''s enthusiastic introductory lecture, trying to ignore both her perfume and the way his heart had started doing flip-flops in his chest. The following study hall hour passed in a blur of half-finished essays and daydreams. At lunch, Jack barely registered what he was eating or his friends'' conversations, his mind still replaying her almost-smile from Muggle Studies. He sat down next to Eustace Grymes in Charms class. "Hello Grymes, mind if I join you?" he asked. ¡°Not at all,¡± Eustace replied with a friendly nod, "Always good to have an outside perspective on practical magic." Professor Brightwell proved to be a jovial wizard with a neat gray beard and kind eyes. He spent the first half of class outlining their N.E.W.T. preparation schedule and the syllabus for the edification of most of the section, who had not read it before coming to class as directed. "Welcome to N.E.W.T. level Charms!" he announced, conjuring a piece of chalk that began writing on the board. "You''ve all proven your capabilities in your O.W.L.s, but now we begin the real work. First, however, we will lay out course expectations!" He then demonstrated some advanced animation charms that had the whole class eagerly taking notes. ¡°Mr. Semmes,¡± Brightwell called on him. ¡°As our newest sixth-year, perhaps you''d demonstrate the Substantive Charm?" Piece of cake. Jack stood. He pointed his wand at one of the wispy aerial ribbon decorations floating around the room, concentrating on the wand movement. "Solidarius!" The ribbon stiffened as if frozen solid, becoming hard as stone while maintaining its low mass and filmy appearance. "Excellent! And Mr. Grymes, the counter-charm?" Eustace¡¯s "Mollarius" flashed towards the ribbon, and it went limp instantly. "Quite right! Now, paired practice. Remember, boys and girls, visualization is key..." They spent the next hour working through fifth-year review material. Jack was grateful for his seatmate. Eustace proved very helpful, providing Jack a copy of his last term¡¯s notes that showed a deep understanding of interconnected charm theory. Jack attempted to catch Cassandra after class but she walked past him in the hallway, calling out to Bianca Ludd. Next came Herbology. Professor Blackthorn, a rail-thin witch with dirt perpetually under her fingernails, pinned Jack with a stern look the moment he entered Greenhouse Three. "Our transfer. Tell me, Mr. Semmes, from last night¡¯s reading, what''s the proper method for harvesting Noxious Windbags?" Jack silently thanked Teddy for warning him about Blackthorn''s "welcome ritual" for the first day of class. "Muffling charm on the flower first, then cut at a forty-five degree angle below the second nodule, Professor." "And why the angle?" "Prevents the magical reaction that could trigger the defense mechanism in nearby plants." The Hufflepuffs in the classroom looked disappointed. They''d obviously been hoping for some entertainment at his expense. Blackthorn''s severe expression cracked into a slight smile. "Well well, someone did the reading. Five points to Gryffindor." After class, Jack casually made his way to the enormous Chinese Chomping Cabbage that dominated the back of the greenhouse. While pretending to cautiously examine its leaves, he quickly levitated the massive pot and checked underneath it. There was indeed a piece of parchment, but it had been reduced to soggy pulp by the morning''s watering. He could just make out "TOP SECRET" in running red ink before the note disintegrated completely in his hands. The Great Hall was chaotic when he arrived for Club Night after classes. Tables had been pushed to the walls, creating space for dozens of small booths and displays. The Gobstones Club was demonstrating trick shots, while the Wizard Chess Society had set up a simultaneous exhibition. The Astronomy Club had charmed the ceiling to show various constellations, much to the first-years'' delight. The Broom Racing Club has set up a tiny obstacle course for training brooms over in the corner. Jack looked around, feigning coolness while searching for any sight of¡­ "Semmes! Over here, old sport!" Henry waved him over to where the Quidditch teams had set up in the prime spot, right in front of the dais. "Help us convince these juniors that Americans don''t actually kill the losing team after a Quodpot match." "But Wiggy said-" a tiny first-year girl began. ¡°No,¡± Jack shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s only in Aztlan Hoop Blood Bowl. Been banned since the Spanish Wizarding Conquest.¡± Some of the first-years moaned in visible disappointment. Jack spotted the three agents of the Ministry of Ungentlewizardly Warfare huddled by the Dueling Club table, trying to look inconspicuous. They quickly hid notebooks behind their backs when they saw him approaching. Jack sidled up to them and began talking to them out of the side of his mouth. ¡°Gentlemen, I received the greenhouse message.¡± Pal¡¯s face bloomed into an enormous smile. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°Er,¡± Jack hadn¡¯t bothered to think that part out. ¡°I¡¯m working on it.¡± He headed back to his friends. "Irregulars hard at work?" Teddy asked upon Jack¡¯s return. "They¡¯re all wet," Jack replied drily. "Ah well," Henry clapped him on the shoulder. "I''m sure they''ll have another top-secret mission for you soon. Here, I¡¯m demonstrating the standard attack-v to the grubs. Listen up you lot, this is proper Quidditch, no more playing training brooms in your da¡¯s backyard. Oliver, Jack, give us a hand will you?"
For those who¡¯d like to listen along to the Muggle music:
  1. Over There (Written during the First Muggle Big War, but remained enduringly popular amongst MACUSA wizards in Europe during the War Against Grindelwald): https://open.spotify.com/track/3DftRGzij2ZsmpnCVXmIUc?si=fac3314d71384606 / https://youtu.be/kKx9oPyh0KM
  2. Five Minutes More (#1 on the US Muggle pop chart on 14 September 1946, remaining there for four weeks): https://open.spotify.com/track/6QoZrtfcelwHjjXKjqPEcV?si=1d8f5bd998cc4679 / https://youtu.be/GvWEigjXVsI
?????? BONUS CHRISTMAS CONTENT: ?????? ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "Best professor ever!! Brought in a REAL Muggle G-Peep this term and let us drive it! Winterborn was SOOO ANGRY! Learned loads about e-leck-tricity. Must take if you want to understand Muggles. Safety goggles provided." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡î "Good teacher but WHY does he keep bringing explosives to class?? Lost my notes twice but learned a lot. His lectures on the Muggle Battle of Britain were amazing." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "WHITBITES FOR LIFE!!! If you''re not in his class you''re missing out. He let us take apart a real Muggle motorcycle! Sure it melted but that''s part of the fun! His wife brings us biscuits sometimes." ¡ï¡î¡î¡î¡î "Completely mental. Do not sit in front row. Spent the whole lecture on something called ''a-tom-mick fission'' then demonstrated with a modified Blasting Curse. DO NOT SIT IN FRONT ROW." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "Most exciting class at Hogwarts! Never know what''s going to happen. Got extra credit for helping him smuggle a Muggle wireless past Winterborn. His wife and 1-year-old son Ethan visit class sometimes and are absolutely adorable. Mrs. Whitby makes the best chocolate biscuits. Not bribery!" ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡î "Very knowledgeable about Muggle technology and warfare. Sometimes gets too excited and sets things on fire. Keep your Shield Charm ready. Great teacher though (if you survive)." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "Professor Whitby made me want to study Muggle engineering! Fair grader, amazing practicals (mostly safe), and actually understands how Muggle stuff works unlike most wizards. Plus his war stories are incredible. Whitbites forever!" ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡î "Look, the man knows his stuff, but there''s got to be a safer way to learn about internal combustion engines. Still, never boring. Bring protective gear." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï ¡°Had Muggles Studies first hour. I never fell asleep in class.¡± ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "Did my final project on countering Muggle firearms with him. Most fun I''ve ever had in class, even with the safety lectures from Professor Blackthorn afterwards." ¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï¡ï "REAL MUGGLE ARMY VETERAN! Says he fought alongside Muggles in the big war! Actually knows what he''s talking about! Yes there are explosions but they''re EDUCATIONAL explosions! Best professor if you''re serious about understanding the world." 25. Pygmalion and Galatea
¡®The best laid schemes o¡¯ Mice an¡¯ Men Go oft astray, An¡¯ leave us nought but grief an¡¯ pain, For promis¡¯d joy!¡± ¨D Robert Burns, Wizarding Poet To a Mouse or Ode to a Failed Transfiguration. ¡°Do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?¡± ¨D George Bernard Shaw, Muggle Playwright Pygmalion Hogwarts Library Poetry Section
The September dawn crept through the tower windows, finding Jack wide awake and miserable. His neck ached from hunching over his desk through library detention last night, and his eyes felt like they''d been rubbed with sand. He stumbled to the showers before his dormmates stirred, letting hot water blast life back into him. Some habits from Ilvermorny died hard, like waking up with the morning sun. He still had occasional urges to jump to his feet in class when called upon by a teacher, ¡®recitations¡¯, they had called it back on Mount Greylock. Agerius Flayer, Ilvermorny headmaster from 1847-1891, developed an eccentric obsession with West Point after a chance visit there in 1852 to visit a Squib friend there. Whereupon his return to Ilvermorny he promptly introduced a uniform and regimen to ¡®break course with European Wizarding stick-in-the-mud-ism¡¯ and ¡®build discipline in a disparate student body¡¯. Ilvermorny certainly had a disparate student body. Representatives of all 48 states plus territories attended: staid and conservative New England Yankees with puritanical senses of propriety, obnoxious Chicagoans, hot-tempered Appalachian spell-slingers as wild and unpredictable as the mountains they called home, practical and salt-of-the-earth Midwesterners, proud and stubborn Southerners as quick with dueling spells as they were with summoning breezes and ice on hot days, Cajun mystics from Louisiana, and eccentric West Coasters trying to ride broomsticks like surfboards. Flayer¡¯s reforms had been enduring and transformative, if occasionally ridiculous. One thing even the Ilvermorny Board of Visitors had to admit, making all the new 6th graders arrive two months early and endure a magicalized military-style matriculation did wonders for esprit de corps. Also, the girls of Ilvermorny College (and their mothers) were quite taken by the boys'' new uniforms while on parade. Thus the new style of Ilvermorny Academy endured. By the time he returned, toweling his hair, Henry was stretching and Oliver was fumbling for his pocket watch. Teddy''s snores still rumbled from behind his bed curtains. "Morning," Henry yawned. "You''re up early." "Lots of work to do," Jack pulled out his Potions text, trying to refresh his mind for today¡¯s lesson while he waited for the others. He was unsuccessful. All his eager energy from the first day of school was gone. The first quarter-mile was done. It was time to settle in for the marathon. He hated running. ¡°All I gotta say,¡± he half-joked to Henry as his friend returned from the washroom brushing his teeth. ¡°Is that in ten years, I better be really rich and really happy after graduating from this place. Or I¡¯m going to be really angry.¡± The walk to breakfast was a bleary parade of yawns. Even the ceiling''s brilliant sunrise did little to improve their mood. Jack was halfway through a scone and his second cup of coffee when a paper airplane swooped down the length of the table and nose-dived into his mug. ¡°Gah!¡± Jack barked unconsciously, coffee splashing on the table. He stood up from the bench abruptly, looking for the culprit. ¡°Who the heck did that?¡± Jack looked suspiciously at the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables. He couldn¡¯t see any likely suspects. All his classmates were busily occupied with breaking their own fasts. Montfort wasn¡¯t here yet. He saw Cassandra and Ludd arriving from the west entrance, walking with some official-looking parchments. "Let''s see that then," Henry reached over and withdrew the improvised aircraft, unfolding it to reveal a crude, coffee-stained crayon drawing. It showed a terrified stick figure with an American flag for a body being chased by several abstract shapes with angry eyes. Written beneath in spiky handwriting were the words "YANKEE GO HOME!" "Uh oh," Teddy said. Oliver got up and moved three places down the table away from them. ¡°What is it?¡± Jack asked, sitting back down. ¡°Montfort?¡± ¡°No,¡± Henry said, placing the parchment down and blithely pouring a cup of tea. ¡°Poltergeist.¡± Jack was confused, ¡°The one you were telling me about? Peeves?¡± As if summoned by his name, a cackling sing-song rang out above them. "OOOOOOOH WHAT A BOOTIFUL MOOOOOOOOOOOOORNING, OHHHHH WHAT A BOOOOTIFUL DAAAAAAAAAAAY!¡± Peeves the Poltergeist materialized upside down over the Gryffindor table wearing a battered Uncle Sam top hat and brandishing a fife like a swagger stick. A wicked grin stretched literally from ear to ear as he floated down towards them. ¡°IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII¡¯VE GOT A BOOTIFUL FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIIIIING! THAT SOMETHING BAD¡¯S COMING YOUR WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!¡± ¡°Hello,¡± Jack said, uncertainly. The poltergeist had a more menacing aura than anything else he had faced at this confounded school yet. ¡°Was that¡­Rodgers and Hammerstein?¡± ¡°OH! A CONNOISSEUR OF THE MUGGLE ARTS?!¡± Peeves trilled in sadistic delight. ¡°Why, you''re a lucky fellow, Mr. Smith!¡± the ghost flipped right-side up and brandished the fife. ¡°Would you like to hear another song?¡± ¡°Ignore him-¡± Teddy warned, but Jack had already started talking. ¡°My name¡¯s not Smith, it¡¯s Semmes-¡± BRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT! The fife shrilled an appallingly sharp double-high C. The Great Hall collectively winced. Peeves cleared his throat: ¡°YOU''RE BLUSHING RED, WHITE AND BLUE, BUT, BUDDY, THAT''S ALL RIGHT TOO BECAUSE THOSE COLORS LOOK GOOD ON YOOOOOOOU, YOU''RE A LUCKY FELLOW, MR. SEMMES!¡±If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. "Run," Henry said. "Now." Jack didn''t need telling twice. Tiredness forgotten, he snatched up his bag and bolted for the great doors. Peeves'' maniacal laughter and singing zoomed around his head like he was being strafed by a fighter plane. Bits of colored red, white, and blue chalk exploded into dust on the floor as the ghost pelted him with calcium carbonate missiles. "YANKEE DOODLE, KEEP IT UP, YANKEE DOODLE DANDY! MIND THE SUITS OF ARMOR NOW, THEY''RE FEELING MIGHTY RANDY!" Jack sprinted down the corridor towards the Grand Stairs as animated suits of armor began stepping off their pedestals, attempting to snag him with their gauntlets. Peeves¡¯ singing - amplified by the stone walls - belaboured his ears. ¡°MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY OF THE COMING OF THE PEEVES! HE IS TRAMPLING OUT THE TRANSFERS AND THE TRASH, THE SCUM, THE THIEVES!¡± He nimbly ducked under one animated armor¡¯s grabbing hands and leapt over another''s attempt to trip him with a halberd, before catching a third¡¯s mailed fist in the side of the head, sending him sprawling. Jack scrambled to his feet, his ear ringing from the impact. No spells, Henry had been quite clear on their tour, that just made things worse. He had to keep running. ¡°ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF SEA, THREE IF IN A CASKET! WHEEEEEEEEE!¡± Peeves swooped in front of him, cutting him off while hitting him right in the chest with a cloud of chalk dust. Jack cut right and skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a group of startled Slytherins. "Sorry! Watch out for the armor!" he called back as he ran towards the central hall. He finally reached the dungeon stairs, taking them down two at a time and tripping in his haste. Behind him, he could hear the clanking of pursuing armor growing fainter. Peeves'' voice echoed distantly before fading behind the thick stone walls, "AWWW, NO FUN! NO JOY! COME BACK AND PLAY, ILVERMORNY BOY!" Jack burst into the Potions classroom twenty minutes early, doubled over and gasping for breath. His ear was bleeding, his tie was askew, his twisted ankle throbbed, his robes were covered in chalk dust, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. Professor Vale poked his head out of his office at the commotion, one white eyebrow raised. "Mr. Semmes. A very energetic entrance this morning." ¡°Sorry Professor,¡± Jack gasped. ¡°Peeves.¡± ¡°A rite of passage,¡± Vale observed unsympathetically. He closed the door and left Jack alone. Jack fixed his tie and attempted to clean himself up. His ear smarted and burned. ¡°Partner work for today: Wiggenweld Variations¡±, proclaimed the chalkboard, with a double column of names underneath. Partner work? Hope sparked in Jack¡¯s chest as he rapidly scanned the list. James Semmes was paired with Desdemonia O¡¯Neill, Cassandra Hightower with Martin Mossflower. Nuts. Oh well, it was only a 12% chance of it happening anyway in a 16-student class, Jack thought commiseratingly to himself. Then a sly idea came to him. He looked down the empty hallway outside, then strolled towards the front of the class. A final check at Vale¡¯s closed office door, then Jack¡¯s wand was out, making a swirling motion around ¡®Jack Semmes¡¯, and invoking the charm that was the bane of the 8th grade English teacher at Ilvermorny. ¡°Plagiarismo!¡± he whispered. The chalk words leapt off the board in a perfect duplicate. He stashed the name in the air, then repeated it for Mossflower. Two gentle cleaning charms eliminated the originals, leaving room for him to quickly swap in the duplicates - Jack with Cassanda, and Martin with Desdemonia. ¡°Imitatio Manus!¡± He swept his wand carefully over the chalkboard. The uneven spacings with the different length names were immediately smoothed out. Even up close, it was perfect, no evidence of tampering. Easy. Jack grinned, put his schoolbag down at the table in the front and fetched his cauldron and ingredients from the side cabinet, whistling. This was a swell opportunity, he told himself, wild fantasies flying through his head. Good chance to get a high grade in Potions too. So why were his hands shaking? He had just conjured a comb from his wardrobe back in his room and was in the process of fixing his hair when the first of his classmates began to arrive. ¡°Morning Semmes,¡± said Martin Mossflower, a bluff, friendly Hufflepuff who sat behind Jack in Muggle Studies. ¡°Saw you tearing out of breakfast early this morning. My sympathies. Rough start to a Wednesday.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m awake now,¡± Jack nodded his head, trying not to nervously laugh as Mossflower examined the board. ¡°Brilliant, I¡¯m with O¡¯Neill¡­¡± Martin grumbled as he went to collect his things. ¡°She¡¯s been trying to get me to go to the Halloween Dance with her since Easter.¡± "What''s the matter with that?" Jack asked absently, vanishing the comb and watching the door. His heart did a little jump as Cassandra entered. He didn¡¯t hear Martin¡¯s response. She checked the board, did a slight double-take, then made her way to Jack''s table like she was picking up the mail. "Mr. Semmes." "Mornin''," Jack¡¯s larynx hurt from his forced casual tone. His tongue felt swollen and clumsy. "How''s your week going?¡± "Adequate, thank you." She set her bag down, "You have blood on your collar." ¡°Oh, thanks,¡± Jack sponged at his ear and performed a quick Ilvermorny special bleaching charm on his shirt. ¡°Suit of armor got me. They move surprisingly quickly.¡± ¡°Plate armor is designed for mobility,¡± Cassandra walked over to the supply cupboard and returned with her share of the ingredients and her cauldron. ¡°We will use my cauldron this morning.¡± ¡°Ok,¡± Jack replied, putting his offending pot underneath the table. He checked his watch, three minutes before class started. Now was his chance. He stood next to her and started laying out the ingredients: horklump juice, dittany, mistletoe berries, chimera saliva, solution of celandine in alcohol, pinch of powdered unicorn horn, and fluxweed. "Hey, ah¡­" he said quietly as he scooped out dried dittany flowers onto the cutting board, "I wanted to say sorry for last week. On the train platform. And the boats thing. That was rude of me. And I never properly thanked you for the tower thing¡­It was really nice for you to do that." The words came out far faster than he had planned. "It was a practical solution," she replied, laying out measuring tools. "Nothing more. Pass the celandine, please." "Sure,¡± Jack handed over the ceramic bottle. ¡°Um...The detention preps have been really helpful with my coursework too." This was only half true - they were also mind-numbingly boring - but he pressed on. "Still getting used to Hogwarts methods and all, you know? So many unwritten rules¡­" "I''m glad the punishment is serving its intended purpose, Mr. Semmes." She pointed to his cutting board. "Lay out the stirring rod on the top of the board, not the bottom." "Right.¡± Jack corrected the wayward stirring rod, feeling deflated. ¡°Sorry." Vale emerged from his office thirty seconds after Cyprian had arrived and five seconds before class started. He gave a brief lecture about the importance of proper Wiggenweld preparation, reminded them they had to produce a pain-killing variation (hence the celandine and mistletoe), and turned them loose for the whole double block. They worked in increasingly awkward silence. Jack kept trying to find openings for conversation, but Cassandra responded with increasingly clipped, formal answers until he eventually gave up. Their potion turned out a perfect shade of shadowy emerald green by the end of class. Jack''s mood was as dark as their decoction. "Excellent work, Miss Hightower, Mr. Semmes," Vale commented as he examined their cauldron a few minutes before the bell rang. "Though perhaps a touch more horklump juice next time." Praise like that in Alchemy normally would have sent Jack over the moon. Now though he was too busy watching Cassandra pack up their unused ingredients and wondering how he''d misread things so badly. Yesterday she''d almost smiled at him, and even engaged in conversation. Today she could barely look at him. And Montfort was nowhere around! Dames, Jack thought sullenly as he cleaned their cauldron. Specifically, English dames. No, scratch that - specifically Cassandra Hightower. One minute she''s letting you off easy for breaking rules, the next she''s treating you like trash that just blew in across the Hudson River from Albany. She flounced past him toward the door. Jack caught a faint hint of juniper and lavender again over the smell of heated metal and boiled dittany. Great. Just great. He should have just left Mossflower with her. Let him take her to that stupid dance or whatever it was. Now he was going to have her perfume on his mind again all day.
26. Politics and Prophets
¡°Read the Prophet, Reap the Profit¡± - Slogan of the Daily Prophet from 1945-1969.
Jack managed to get through Transfiguration without setting anything on fire, which was a small miracle given his mood. Professor Winterborn had them practicing matter phase transitions, starting with something nice and simple (her words): condensing water vapor into rain. Most of the class managed to produce at least a light drizzle over their desks. Jack''s attempts alternated between nothing at all and sudden deluges that soaked his notes. "You''re slashing your wand like you''re trying to cast Diffindo," Henry whispered after Jack''s fourth failure. "Smooth circles, old sport.¡± Jack grunted and tried again, forcing the spell through. This time he got a weak spitting, but his heart wasn''t in it. By lunch, he was radiating so much gloom that even Teddy noticed. "Alright Semmes, out with it," Henry said quietly as they settled at the Gryffindor table. "You''ve been in a funk since Transfig." Jack looked at the stack of melted cheese and bread on the table, ¡°Are these grilled cheese?¡± he asked, trying to ignore the question. ¡°Welsh rarebit,¡± Oliver corrected. ¡°And don¡¯t dodge the question.¡± "It''s nothing," Jack muttered. Then, unable to help himself, ¡°Ok, it¡¯s dames." ¡°Singular or plural,¡± Henry asked. ¡°Because none of us can help with the latter. That¡¯s something to take up with God.¡± ¡°A singular broad,¡± Jack clarified. "That¡¯s simpler," Oliver nodded. ¡°Just snog her,¡± Teddy suggested. ¡°If she likes you, you¡¯ll know.¡± ¡°Shut up Ted,¡± Henry replied with a stern look. ¡°That''s terrible advice. And, given who he¡¯s talking about, probably suicidal." "Who says we''re talking about anyone specific?" Jack protested weakly. "Exhibit A," Oliver passed around the salad. "You''ve been alternating between sighing and staring at the Ravenclaw table every thirty seconds since we sat down. Exhibit B: You sat down on this side so that you could face them. And I doubt that you¡¯re admiring Montfort¡¯s luscious Absalom locks." "I have not-" Jack caught himself mid-glance and slumped. "Is it that obvious?" "Only to anyone looking," Henry said kindly, patting him on the back. "And the furniture." "It''s just..." Jack sawed at his rarebit with unnecessary force. "One minute she''s like a normal girl, next minute she''s Brunhild, Ice Queen of Prussia. I don''t get it. Yesterday in Muggle Studies, we''re having an actual conversation about music. She smiled¡­well almost. Then I catch Montford mean mugging us. Then today in Potions..." He described the awkwardness and her increasingly distant responses. "Wait, back up," Henry interrupted. "How exactly did you end up with her? Vale just put you together by chance?" Jack felt his ears turning red. "I¡­adjusted the partner list," he grinned self-consciously. "You didn''t," Oliver breathed. "Plagiarismo," Jack admitted. "That took some minerals," Teddy whistled admiringly. ¡°You bloody idiot.¡± Henry pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°Vale would have strung you up by your thumbs if he had caught you.¡± "Yeah, well, he didn¡¯t catch me,¡± Jack declared. ¡°And it was going fine until I tried to thank her for not destroying my life over the tower buzzing incident on Sunday. Then suddenly she¡¯s all-¡± he mimicked her accent, ¡°''It was the practical solution'', ''your cuts are too coarse.¡¯¡± "Jack," Henry shook his head, "You are overthinking this." "No, I''m clearly not thinking enough! Because I keep doing stupid things like trying to talk to her hoping that she might..." Jack trailed off, watching Cassandra enter the Great Hall with a group of her housemates. She didn''t look his way. "Look here, old bean," Henry said, "Have you ever wondered why you¡¯re the only boy in the whole school trying to talk to her?¡± ¡°No,¡± Jack said dully. ¡°I thought you said it was because she was intimidating.¡± ¡°Bosh.¡± Teddy tossed his head, a long lock of hair fell loose from his part and fell across his face. ¡°You think ¡®intimidating¡¯ is a good enough reason for us to not talk to a witch that looks like that? Do you think we¡¯re all knobless geldings over here, Yank?¡± "Merlin''s beard," Oliver muttered to the others, "You should have told him earlier. Save the poor sod the trouble." "Told me what?" Jack demanded.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°Listen Jack,¡± Henry leaned in closer, lowering his voice further. "Cassandra Hightower does not get asked to Hogsmeade. She does not get secret admirer notes. She does not get bad poetry dedicated to her. She¡¯s top of our class, probably Head Girl next year. Her life has been arranged since she was two." "Arranged?" Jack felt his stomach drop at the double-meaning. "Simple upper crust politics, mate," Teddy explained. "The Montforts go back to the Norman Conquest. Hightowers go even further back. Her father''s a real nabob at the Ministry. Montfort''s family runs the Daily Prophet. Do the arithmancy." "No. No way. You''re telling me she''s..." Jack couldn''t finish the sentence. "Promised. Betrothed," Henry explained. "Why d''you think Montfort''s watching you in class like a hungry falcon?¡± He poked Jack in the chest. ¡°You''re mucking about with his future wife." Jack felt ill. The table spun in front of his eyes. "But that''s... that''s not done!¡± he protested. ¡°This¡¯s medieval!" "This is magical Britain," Oliver tapped the table. "The old and important families all arrange marriages. Keeps the bloodlines in nice circles, consolidates power, all that codswallop." "Does she..." Jack stifled his eyes from going towards the Ravenclaw table where Cassandra was sitting. "There¡¯s no way she¡¯s ok with that!" "She¡¯s a girl. What she thinks doesn''t matter much." Teddy scoffed. "Though I expect she''s been raised to think that it''s her duty. Proper stuck-up witch." "You¡¯re new, ignorant of the rules," Henry said, kicking Teddy under the table. "So when you tried to thank her, you put her in a difficult position. Any hint of friendliness toward you would be noticed. Reported. Girls like her learn early to keep their distance from unsuitable boys." "Unsuitable?" Jack bristled. ¡°I am suitable! I¡¯m a suitor! I wear suits!¡± "American. Transfer student. Pure-blood but dubious parentage (no offense, but I know you Yanks don¡¯t keep records like we do). Unknown quantity. Bit rough around the edges..." Henry ticked off on his fingers. "Plus you''ve already gotten crosswise with Montfort and-¡± On cue, the day¡¯s issue of the Daily Prophet landed on the table, dropped off by a tardy owl. ¡°Cor!¡± Teddy reached a lanky arm over and swept it up. "Well, well, gentlewizards, would you look at this!" ¡°MINISTRY DEBATES CLOSER TIES WITH MACUSA¡± blazed the headline. Jack saw the photo right above the centerfold, taken in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic: his father, looking like Sam Spade in a fedora and a double-breasted coat, shaking hands with a tall wizard with bushy sideburns and a top hat that Jack had never met, but whose mien and surname was unmistakable. "The Duke of Hightower, Senior Undersecretary, welcomes MACUSA Senior Envoy Thomas J. Semmes to the Department of Magical Foreign Affairs,¡± read the caption. ¡°Annnnd¡­your father works for MACUSA," finished Henry. Silence around the table. "Congratulations on your father''s appointment," Eustace appeared behind them, reading the paper over Jack¡¯s shoulder. "Quite the important position." Jack gripped the newspaper so hard that it crinkled. Worst-case scenarios burst in his mind like supernovae. No wonder Cassandra had looked at him like that. She probably thought he was trying to kiss up, or worse! "My father works for her father," Jack wanted to bury his head in his hands. "And her father is a duke¡­ Is that bad? Are dukes important?" Henry looked at him with a mix of pity and amusement. "Remember how I told you about my family, the Earls Ravenhurst? A duke is two levels above that. There are only seven ducal peerages in all of Wizarding Britain, and two of them are Scots. The Duke of Hightower is one of the oldest - they''ve had a seat on the Wizengamot since the Romans left and Merlin built it." ¡°Oh cripes¡­¡± Jack groaned. "Cassandra," Henry continued gently, "is his only child. The sole heir to one of the most powerful magical noble houses in Britain. When she comes of age, she''ll be a duchess in her own right." "Which means," Teddy added with relish, "that you''ve spent the past month chasing after wizarding royalty. Might as well have been making sheep eyes at Princess Elizabeth." "I wasn''t chasing-" Jack protested vainly. "The tower incident was one thing," Teddy pressed on relentlessly. "She was just doing her prefect duties, and she cloaked her action with that adorable little bird.¡± He smirked. "Princesses can have their little flights of fancy, mate. Doesn''t mean they¡¯ll let a commoner near the crown. Because being friendly in class with you where people can see-" "Would look improper," Jack finished dully. "More than improper," Henry said. "It would be a scandal. The American son of a ministry subordinate and the daughter of the Duke of Hightower? The society pages would have a field day. This is why I warned you about Montfort earlier. His family''s been intermarrying with the Hightowers for generations. In a lot of eyes, he''s the best match for her." Jack pushed his plate away, appetite gone. "Franklin''s kite, I''ve been making a complete fool of myself." "Don¡¯t beat yourself up, old sport," Henry offered, "You didn''t know. And what I said on Sunday still stands. I think she fancies you." "Which makes it worse," Oliver interjected. "She knows what''s expected of her. Pride of the family, future of the bloodline, all that-¡± ¡°Can''t have anyone getting the wrong idea now!" Teddy helped himself to another rarebit. "That''s it," Henry said sympathetically. "And if you ask me, she doesn''t seem too keen on Montfort. Have you seen how she looks at him when he''s not watching?" "No, because I''m too busy looking at her when she''s not watching," Jack punched his thigh. "This is stupid. I''m stupid. I should be focusing on not failing out of Hogwarts, not..." Jack watched as Montfort got up from the Ravenclaw table, saying something that made Cassandra''s companions titter. She laughed along, looking for all the world like a normal girl for a moment. Jack felt like he had been stabbed. "The best thing to do," Oliver advised, "is to get through. No scheming, no cornering her in the hallway, no partner-switching tricks. Just...be normal, you know?¡± ¡°Unless all you¡¯ve pulled in the past is you being normal," Teddy added unhelpfully. ¡°In which case you should start playing a different bit part. A quieter one.¡± "Right," Jack said, more sharply than he intended. "Thanks. Message received. Loud and clear." "Semmes..." Henry started. "No, it''s fine. Really." Jack forced a grin. "Plenty of other fish in the sea, right? Even in this shark tank that you limeys call a school." He stood up, careless of his own wit. "I''m going to grab my Charms stuff before class. See you there, Eustace." His friends exchanged looks as he left, but Jack ignored them. He had two more classes to get through, then another thrilling evening of detention to look forward to. He didn''t have time for Anglo-Wizarding politics or arranged marriages or beautiful blondes. He didn''t have time to wonder why this news made him feel like he''d been hit in the back of the head with a two-by-four. 27. The Rule of the Many and the Wisdom of None ¡°It is of great importance for a leader to keep his plans secret; Godric Gryffindor was right when he said that if his wizard hat knew what was in his head, he would toss it into the flames. That kind of secrecy was practicable in Gryffindor''s time when his followers were kept closely by his side; but when maneuvers of the scale of the Vend¨¦e Terror are fought, and battles are waged as in our day, what concert of action can be expected from wizards who are utterly ignorant of the enchantments and plots unfurling around them?¡± - Excerpt from The Principles of Magical Warfare by Antonius Grimini, 1836. Translated from the French by Cephas Parrott
Jack trudged out of History of Magic feeling sorry for himself. Professor Binns had droned on about the Wizarding Conference of Europe, though Jack''s ears had perked up at a brief mention that "Grindelwald''s rise would be covered later in term." He was just heading down the corridor towards Ancient Runes when Caeso Montfort''s tall figure emerged from the crowd. "Semmes," Montfort called out, his cultured accent carrying over the hubbub. ¡°Fancy a word?¡± Jack stopped, momentarily confused. ¡°What is it?¡± he asked as Montfort approached. This close to him, Jack realized that the Ravenclaw captain had nearly three inches on him. He took a step back to not be so obviously looking up at him. Montfort held up a copy of the Daily Prophet with a flourish and snapped the newspaper open to the front page. Jack felt the blood drain from his face. ¡°It¡¯s funny,¡± Caeso said, with a joking aspect, ¡°I seem to recall having a very similar conversation with you about this just a few days ago!¡± "Hey..." a nearby Ravenclaw boy squinted at the photo. "Isn''t that Duke Hightower?" ¡°Who¡¯s that with him?¡± a girl asked, stepping next to Jack to take a look. Montfort smiled toothily. ¡°That, my friends,¡± he said, pausing to allow more students to gather around, ¡°Is our MACUSA boy¡¯s father! Smile for our classmates now, Semmes, that¡¯s a good lad. Be a dutiful son.¡± Jack looked around at the tightening circle around them. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He wished he knew how to apparate. "So that''s why you''ve been trying to talk to her," a Ravenclaw boy added with a smirk of recognition. ¡°Flying around our common room like that.¡± ¡°Listen up, Montfort,¡± Jack said hotly. "My father''s job has nothing to do with-" "Nothing to do with what?" Montfort¡¯s voice was pure inoffensiveness. "Your presence here? The first transfer student to Hogwarts in decades? The first American transfer ever? Your attempts to ingratiate yourself with certain of our classmates? Go ahead, please tell us, Mr. Semmes.¡± ¡°Look.¡± Jack took hold of his school bag¡¯s strap, ¡°I applied here just like everyone, you can check my grades and letters-¡± ¡°Oh, you must forgive me¡­who approved that transfer then?¡± Montfort asked quizzically, looking around at their audience. Jack knew he was walking into a trap, but he had no idea what else to say. ¡°The Ministry did.¡± ¡°Specifically the Department of Magical Foreign Affairs?¡± Montfort handed off the paper to a nearby Ravenclaw, who displayed the photo caption for curious newcomers. ¡°Probably,¡± Jack put his hand into the pocket of his robe and balled his fist as hard as he could. ¡°Semmes.¡± Caeso leaned on one foot casually, ¡°Do you really think we''re all as stupid as your fellows up in Gryffindor Tower?" ¡°He¡¯s a mole,¡± said a Slytherin sixth-year. ¡°How much do they pay you?¡± Jack¡¯s head snapped around, ¡°I¡¯m not a mole! I¡¯m just a student like you!¡± ¡°Aye, getting special treatment already,¡± remarked a Ravenclaw girl. ¡°Getting put in advanced courses, probably getting personalized attention from the faculty too.¡± The students around her murmured in agreement. Jack instinctively caught sight of Cassandra at the edge of the crowd. She turned and walked away quickly. He snapped his eyes back to Caeso, but Montfort didn¡¯t miss a thing. "You''ve been hovering," Montfort said, a nasty light gleaming in his eyes. "Little snake in the grass. Cozying up to the Duke''s daughter, ambitious for a Yank. Is that the game, Semmes?" ¡°There¡¯s no game here,¡± Jack replied firmly. His fingernails bit into his palm. ¡°I don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about.¡± Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°We ought to toss him right back in the Atlantic,¡± suggested the Ravenclaw holding the paper. ¡°Yeah, make ¡®im swim home!¡± laughed a boy from the back. There were several cries of agreement. Someone shoved Jack from behind. He felt the circle¡¯s energy rising, teetering on the brink of a mob. He felt his wand, heavy in his pocket. He knew reaching for it would set them off. "Now, friends, friends," Caeso raised his hands magnanimously, his voice taking on the measured tones of reason. "Let''s not lower ourselves to that sort of behavior. We''re not Americans, after all." A ripple of laughter broke some of the tension. "Violence would only vindicate their worries!" He turned to Jack, his expression now patrician concern. "No one''s suggesting you aren''t a capable wizard, Semmes. Your practical skills are quite impressive for someone with your educational background. But surely you understand our concerns? When the son of a MACUSA spy- I beg your pardon- MACUSA agent, suddenly appears at Hogwarts - the first ever American transfer student to Hogwarts by the way - and begins immediately pursuing connections with certain prominent families, you have to agree it looks a certain way!" Murmurs swept through the crowd. Jack noticed how Montfort stood just inside the circle, ensuring that everyone could see and hear him. "If you''re truly here just to study," Montfort continued smoothly, "then surely you won''t object to a formal inquiry into your admission? Just to clear the air. After all, Hogwarts has standards to maintain and procedures that must be followed." He smiled winningly. "Unless there''s something Mr. Semmes here would rather not have examined?" Jack felt the jaws of the trap snap shut around him. "I think everyone would feel more comfortable," Montfort concluded, "if we could be certain everything was properly vetted. Don''t you all agree?" ¡°My da works at the Department for Magical Education,¡± piped up a Ravenclaw boy. ¡°He¡¯d be more than happy to listen to our concern!¡± The crowd was nodding now. No more calls for violence. Just the cold, methodical machinery of bureaucracy grinding into motion. ¡°Splendid!¡± Caeso clapped his hands, ¡°So we¡¯re all agreed!¡± "Your demagoguery is tedious, Caeso." Cyprian Venge slipped his way through to the front of the crowd. "The family portrait speaks.¡± Montfort''s smile widened. ¡°The glorious Venge family, bastion of civilization, pretenders to lost glory! Perhaps that''s why you and Semmes get along so well ¨C both of you posing as something you''re not." ¡°Semmes is a fellow wizard,¡± Cyprian replied. ¡°We discourse. Petty national disputes are for Muggles.¡± "Your famous conservatism," Montfort''s voice dripped with mock reverence. "Tell me, how has that worked out? Oh wait-" He made a show of consideration, rubbing his chin. ¡°Your system enabled Grindelwald to burn and kill half of Europe for the sake of his Greater Good.¡± ¡°Grindelwald was a vulture,¡± Venge stared up at Caeso fearlessly. ¡°Much like your kind, Montfort. Birds of a feather.¡± The crowd recoiled, especially the Ravenclaws. Montfort kept his smile plastered on his face. "My kind? You mean those of us who fight against fascism?" "I mean those who play politics with school children rather than face real problems." Cyprian turned to address the circle. "You''re all so worried about American influence? He jabbed a finger at the newspaper. "You think your playground plotting matters compared to what''s coming?" "Always the prophet of doom," Montfort laughed, carefully gauging the crowd''s reaction. ¡°Cyprian the Crow, cawing ill tidings!¡± ¡°Hi there, what¡¯s going on here?¡± cried a voice. Moments later, Eustace Grymes pushed through and into the circle. ¡°What¡¯re you lot doing with my housemate?¡± ¡°A lynching,¡± Venge supplied grimly. "Really?" Grymes looked around, "Nice weather for it." His smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "Now then, class starts in five minutes, and you have Divination don¡¯t you, Caeso?¡± He stepped in between Jack and Montfort. "Come along, Semmes.¡± "We were not finished," Montfort said, but some of the onlookers were already leaving. The spell was broken. The show was over. "Oh, I think you are," Grymes replied, his eyes locked on Montfort¡¯s. Montfort held his gaze for a moment, then folded the newspaper with deliberate care. "Another time, Semmes." "We¡¯re looking forward to it," Grymes answered before Jack could speak. He clapped Jack''s shoulder firmly, steering him away from the dispersing circle. Cyprian stepped out of sight behind a corner. "Sorry I didn''t get there sooner," he said cheerily once they were clear. "Was stuck in with Binns. You alright?" "Yeah," Jack grunted. His heart was still racing. "Listen, mate," Grymes glanced back over his shoulder, voice dropping. "Congratulations again on your father making the news and all that, but you might want to talk to Professor MacLeod about what just happened. Your father¡¯s an envoy right?¡± ¡°Yeah, to the Foreign Affairs Department¡± Jack replied dully, his mind trying to process his next move after this. Should he talk to MacLeod? He didn¡¯t dare write home about this. And he still had Ancient Runes to get through¡­ ¡°Can¡¯t be any harm in that,¡± Eustace said, ¡°He¡¯s a diplomat, you know. All above board.¡± "Thanks," Jack said. "For stepping in." "Gryffindors stick together," Grymes smiled. ¡°My father worked for the Ministry too; would love to share stories sometime.¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Jack replied, ¡°That sounds good.¡± ¡°Hey,¡± Eustace checked quickly around them, ¡°Be careful around Venge. He¡¯s been asking questions about what your father does and how long you¡¯ll be in Britain.¡± ¡°Really?¡± Jack started. "I overheard him in the library yesterday," Grymes looked very serious. "He was asking Madam Quillworth about access to Ministry personnel records from the archives. Specifically from the early war years. They were in the Restricted Section." Jack felt his stomach drop. "Why would he¡ª" "His family has history." Grymes whispered. "You know how Slytherins are. They weren''t on our side during the war. Oh, they switched in the middle, sure, when they saw which way the wind was blowing. But pure-bloods like that..." He shook his head. "They look out for themselves." "I thought he was an ok guy," Jack protested. "I could be wrong," Grymes added, touching Jack''s shoulder. "Just be careful around him. Stick with Ravenhurst, he¡¯ll take care of you." Jack had a sensation of spiders crawling over him. "Thanks," he said dully. "That''s what friends are for," Grymes smiled, ¡°Here¡¯s my class, go on quickly to Runes and walk back with friends afterwards!¡± Jack continued on alone. 28. Help from MacLeod
¡°They have things like the atom bomb, So I think I''ll stay where I "am" Civilization, I''ll stay right here!¡±
¡ª ¡®Civilization¡¯, #3 on the American Muggle Music Charts, November 1947.
The Fat Lady''s portrait swung open, and Jack stepped into what should have been a sanctuary. Instead, the Gryffindor common room fell into that deafening silence that meant people had just been talking about you. Rain splashed against the windows outside. A group of fourth-years huddled by the fire suddenly found their Herbology homework fascinating. The first-year girls studying at their table froze like rabbits. Two second-years whispered behind their hands, eyes darting to Jack and away. Even Lavinia Lloyd, who usually brightened at his approach, gave him a sympathetic look, quickly gathered her books and headed for the girls'' dormitory. "Oi! Semmes!" Teddy''s deep voice boomed across the room. He was in their usual corner with Henry and Oliver. "Washington is on the wireless! They want to talk to you! Hand over your badge and Muggle gun!" Jack smiled weakly, grateful for Teddy''s ability to instantly defuse anything with inappropriate humor. He walked over as the rest of the common room shrugged and went about their business. "Montfort''s been spreading tales," Oliver said as Jack sank into an armchair. "More like spreading questing beast dung," Henry added, his usual good humor edged with anger. "Load of rubbish about you being here illegitimately." "Yeah, well." Jack stared into the fire. "My dad''s working with Duke Hightower at the Ministry, so obviously I''ve been planted here to corrupt British youth with American degeneracy." "Corrupt us?" Teddy snorted. "I¡¯m pretty sure we¡¯ve been corrupting you." ¡°Montfort is all fur coat and no knickers,¡± Oliver nodded, lighting a cigarette. Jack barely heard them. All he could think about was Cassandra, and what she must think of him now. Would she believe Montfort? Had she known about their fathers'' connection before? Did she think he was a rat? Henry read Jack''s expression and tapped him on the hand. "Listen, Jack. This isn''t going away on its own. You need to talk to MacLeod." "What?" Jack looked up. "Why?" "Because," Eustace Grymes appeared behind Jack''s chair and leaned on it, "The Montforts run the Prophet. If Caeso¡¯s started this rumor campaign, it won''t stop at school gossip. This is a multi-pronged offensive he¡¯s waging." Jack slumped deeper into his chair. He really didn''t want this to escalate. "You really think he''d¡ª" "Oh yes," Henry said firmly. "He would. And MacLeod needs to hear it from you first." "He''s right," Eustace confirmed. "Better to get out ahead of it." Jack looked around the common room again. A first-year girl - her name was McGonagall - squeaked and dove behind her textbook when their eyes met. He exhaled heavily. "Swell. Just swell." The walk to MacLeod''s office in the Academic Wing felt longer than his usual trek to Defense class. Jack knocked on the heavy oak door, hearing a Scottish brogue bark "Enter!" Professor MacLeod was at his desk, surrounded by essays on counter-jinxes. His beard didn¡¯t hide his frown. "Ah, Semmes. I was wondering when you''d show up." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down lad." Jack sat, not sure exactly where to begin. "Sir, there''s been... well, there''s a photo in today''s Prophet..." "Aye, the famed Thomas Semmes. The Hero of Delft,¡± MacLeod nodded. "And now some young rabble rouser is spinning tales that would make the Quibbler blush." "You know about that?" "Lad, I''m your Head of House. It''s my job to know." MacLeod leaned back, studying Jack. "And I¡¯m glad you came to me as soon as ye did." "I didn''t want to make trouble, sir." Jack gripped his armrests. ¡°I thought I could handle it.¡± "Handle it?" MacLeod''s voice softened. "Mr. Semmes, listen to me. You''re a bairn, in a foreign country, dealing with things you don''t fully understand yet. No one expects you to handle everything alone."The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. "But sir, what they¡¯re saying¡ª" "Is complete nonsense, and we both know it." MacLeod stood behind his desk. "But nonsense can be dangerous. Especially nowadays. People are frightened, Jack. The war''s over, but the wounds are fresh. Makes ¡®em quick to see threats where none exist." He stopped, fixing Jack with a piercing look. "I fought alongside your father, you know. Against Grindelwald." Jack''s head snapped up. "You did?" "Aye. Good man in a fight. Even better man after." MacLeod stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I''ll speak to Professor Winterborn about her high-steppin¡¯ Ravenclaws. And Jack?" "Yes, sir?" "Next time something''s troubling ye, don''t wait so long to tell me. That''s what I''m here for." He smiled through his beard. "Now, be off. And tell Marshwiggle that if he''s planning another midnight mission to the kitchens, the house-elves have been instructed to hit him with Stinger Hexes." Jack headed back to Gryffindor Tower unreassured. He knew all of his classmates were reading that damnable newspaper. The rain kept hammering against the castle windows, a dark and gloomy Scottish afternoon. Water streamed down the leaded glass, distorting the view of the grounds outside into a gray blur. "Miserable out there," Henry observed as Jack climbed back through the portrait hole. He was lounging in an armchair by the window, watching the rain. "Proper British weather, this." "Makes me miss Mount Greylock," Jack muttered, dropping into the chair beside him. Thunder rumbled outside. Down in the Quad Peeves could be heard singing a lewd version of "Singin'' in the Rain." "So what''s the word with MacLeod?" Henry asked, sitting up straighter. Jack sighed. "He''ll chat with Winterborn about getting the Ravenclaws to lay off the whole ''Semmes is an American spy'' business. That''s all he can do right now, since it''s just talk." Teddy snorted. "Fat lot of good that''ll do. Montfort doesn''t listen to Winterborn any more than he listens to us." "Hopefully they keep it just talk," Oliver said, glancing up from his book with a concerned frown. "We''ve got two hours ¡®til dinner," Teddy announced. He was attempting to balance his wand on his nose. "And I''m not about to start my Divination essay yet. Anyone fancy Exploding Snap?" "What are we, first years?" Oliver snorted from behind his Potions textbook. ¡°A game would be fun though,¡± Henry nodded. "Do you have Wizard''s Tower?" Jack asked suddenly, perking up. "We played it all the time at Ilvermorny." "''Course we do!" Henry jumped up and went to the games cubby tucked in the corner. He pulled out an ornate wooden box, its surface decorated with moving miniature battles. "Right here with Chess and Gobstones." The terrain on each hexagonal game tile materialized upward like a fountain as Henry and Oliver set them up. Tiny trees swayed in a breeze across the forest tiles, while the mountain peaks were dusted with actual snow. The village tiles showed miniature thatched cottages with smoke curling from their chimneys. "I call House Draconis," Teddy declared immediately, snatching up the red pieces. His Wizard Lord piece roared, breathing a tiny jet of magical flame. "Sylvaine," Henry said, taking the green. His treants stretched their branches as if waking from a long sleep. "Nocturne," Oliver chose, his gold Wizard Lord vanishing and reappearing across his starting area. "Guess that leaves me with Celestara," Jack grinned, admiring how his blue hippogriff riders preened their feathers. ¡°Always liked their style.¡± The magical weather generator spun and settled on a stormy setting to match the day outside - their pieces had to wade through mud and shield themselves from magical rain. Jack''s hippogriff riders struggled against the buffeting winds, while Henry''s treants looked like they were enjoying the wet conditions. "Franklin''s kite, you''re aggressive," Jack laughed as Teddy immediately launched an all-out assault on Oliver''s territory, his pieces charging into the mud with reckless abandon. ¡°Haven¡¯t you guys ever studied Agincourt?¡± "Face first. That''s Teddy''s strategy for everything," Henry observed dryly, carefully maneuvering his forces along interior lines. "Including girls." "Says the fellow who spent two years working up the courage just to talk to Mulholland," Teddy retorted, then gaped as one of his witch-knights, for some reason wearing considerably less armor than the others, pranced across the board jingling with every step. "Cor, what the bloody hell is that?" "Fourth-years been tampering with the pieces again," Oliver chuckled as the scantily-clad witch-knight struck a pose. Teddy leaned over the table to get a better look, "How did they find the time?¡± Henry steepled his fingers in front of his mouth like a master strategist as his treants marched into a line of forest hexes and vanished. "Perhaps the better question, Marshy, is whether you¡¯ve asked a certain Hufflepuff¡ª" "Thank you, Hal," Teddy growled, just as Oliver¡¯s disciplined archers (arranged in a defense-in-depth) transfixed his witch-knight in a storm of tiny arrows. She fell to the muddy ground, shouting melodramatically before going limp. "A stirring sight," Oliver said, golf-clapping. "Shame it¡¯s such a waste, Teddy." ¡°¡®There are no bad soldiers, only bad generals,¡¯¡± quoted Jack. ¡°Napoleon.¡± ¡°That¡¯s enough out of you too, Yank!¡± Teddy barked, trying to keep his forces from routing. ¡° The four sides clashed piecemeal. Jack''s blue hippogriff riders leapt over the front line, ignoring the mud and diving through the magical rain to harass Teddy¡¯s supply lines. Oliver put all his resources into constructing an impressive network of defensive fortifications that stretched like a spider¡¯s web across his gold territory. Teddy''s remaining red forces launched increasingly desperate attacks, depleting themselves against Oliver¡¯s defenses and Jack¡¯s raids. Henry''s strategy was patient and masterful - his treants used the weather and forested terrain to their advantage, waiting until Jack had committed himself against Teddy before striking him in the flank. Blue and Gold forged a temporary alliance against Henry¡¯s Green, but Oliver¡¯s turtling strategy prevented him from bringing any forces to Jack¡¯s aid in time before the Green forces controlled two-thirds of the board and had besieged Jack¡¯s tower. The clock tower struck six. "Thank Merlin, dinner," Oliver said with relief, as Henry''s Treants were about to deliver the final blow. "At home we''d say saved by the bell," Jack commented. "I think we can call this one for House Ravenhurst," Teddy said grumpily. He had stopped really trying about fifteen minutes ago. "No need to pick this up after dinner, plus Jack will have detention anyway." The remaining pieces on the board agreed. Oliver''s gold forces bowed formally to Henry''s troops, while Jack''s blue army held their spears up in a salute. Teddy''s surviving red pieces threw a tantrum, hurling their tiny weapons down and storming back off to their box in a pique. "Always the good sport, our Teddy," Henry smirked, standing and stretching as little green fireworks burst above the battlefield. Interlude: Ilvermorny 1941 II
Seven days, and all is gray. Another week wasted away. Another week life¡¯s gone astray. Another week of making us pay. Oh, yay. - Ilvermorny Academy Saturday Night Chant
The sunrise gun''s report shattered Jack''s dreams at 6:20 AM. He sprang up and out of bed before the drums and bugle call in the barracks courtyard below could begin their daily racket, muscle memory from six weeks of summer training taking over. On the other side of the room, Ashley Main rolled out of his narrow iron bed. "Franklin have mercy," Ashley groaned, reaching for his midnight blue wool trousers. ¡°I can¡¯t believe we volunteered for this,¡± Jack moaned. They had ten minutes to dress, make their beds, and prepare for morning inspection. The seventh floor of Thunderbird Wing rang with opening doors and pounding feet as thirty-six eleven year-old tacks rushed to and from the bathroom. Jack and Ashley''s room, like every other, was a model of standardization - from the angle of their coats hanging in the wardrobe (45 degrees), to the socks in their top drawer (folded in half, flat side down) to the alignment of their shoes under the beds (toes out, laces tied as worn). "Formation in two minutes, dumbguards!" The cry was taken up and echoed down the hall. Jack and Ashley gave their room one final scan before falling in with the others and racing down the seven flights of stairs to the courtyard. The barracks courtyard was a rectangle of smooth marble pavestones, hemmed in on all four sides by towering seven-story walls. The rising sun wouldn¡¯t reach the ground until noon, leaving the space in cold shadow. Hundreds of cadets poured out of the stairwells, arranging themselves by house along their respective sides, all facing the center where the Regimental Commander and his four-man staff stood. "Thunderbirds, close order, DRESS!" Jack, Ashley, and one hundred and thirty-eight others checked their spacing. "Ready, FRONT!" Elbows dropped. Jack faced forward, chin level, eyes locked fifteen degrees above the horizon as they''d drilled into him. Around the courtyard, the other three houses executed the same movements. Formation at 6:30, then fifteen minutes to run back upstairs, quickly shower and do last-minute room checks, then off to breakfast at 7:00. After breakfast they had an hour of ¡®recreation¡¯ time to study, write letters, and visit their fellow tacks in their rooms. Classes began at 9:00. Professor Tillman stood at the head of their first class, Infinitesimal Calculus, his wand tapping impatiently against the lectern. The room was arranged with twenty desks in two rows. The walls - excepting the door - were lined with blackboards. Their algebra textbooks were worn but meticulously maintained - generations of tacks had solved the same problems they now faced. Jack sat rigid in his seat, sharing glances with Ashley beside him. After six weeks of summer training, to be back in school felt strange. But this wasn¡¯t elementary school. This was Ilvermorny. "Gentlemen," Tillman called out. ¡°We start with the basics. The secrets of the universe¡ªboth magical and mundane¡ªare hidden in numbers. And algebra is your first step to unlocking them.¡± "To the boards.¡± The cadets stood up from the desks. ¡°Mr. Main, if you are brewing a potion and you need a 2:3 ratio of aconite to unicorn hair, how much aconite do you use if the total ingredients are 15 grams?" Ashley wrote "Main 1" in the upper right corner and began sketching out the problem in the manner they had learned from their assigned class reading the night before. At Ilvermorny, cadets were not taught the material in class. They were expected to teach themselves first. Class time was for correction, clarification, and relentless questioning.
Aconite = x. Unicorn hair = y 2x + 3y = 5 parts Total Amount = 15. Thus amount of one part = 15 / 5 = 3 grams. Amount of x = 2x¡Á3 = x = 6 grams.
Jack watched nervously - they were all still learning the proper way to recite. "I am required..." Ashley began, then hesitated. "Your enunciation, Mr. Main," Tillman prompted dryly. "I am required to provide the amount of aconite needed if¡­a given potion with total ingredients of 15 grams has a 2:3 ratio of aconite to unicorn hair, sir." "Proceed." Ashley launched into his explanation, accent growing thicker as his nervousness increased. Jack noticed his friend''s hand trembling slightly as he pointed to the symbols on the board. "That''ll do, Mr. Main," Tillman cut him off after he had solved for ¡®x¡¯. "Mr. Semmes." Jack wrote up "Semmes 2" and got his own question: ¡°If a spell requires 3 times as much energy as its base incantation, and the total energy is 45, how much energy is the base incantation?¡± His chalk squeaked against the board as he worked through the equations, trying not to think about the twenty pairs of eyes on every move he was making. Infinitesimal Calculus went from 9:00 AM to 10:20 AM. At 10:30 they marched into their next class, Magical Theory and Practice. Professor Downs had them practice the basic shield charms they had learned over the summer while reciting different theoretical principles behind magical protection from their assigned reading. Jack''s shield flickered and failed twice during his recitation, earning him a disappointed 1.5 out of 3 in the professor''s gradebook. Then it was a race to the mess hall for lunch formation at 12:00 PM, and then to their next class back in the Academic Building. Spanish at 1:00 PM with Professor Cortez was particularly fraught. Even though it was an introductory class, it was conducted entirely in Spanish with demerits for anyone caught speaking English. Jack managed to muddle through, though his pronunciation made Ashley wince. "You speak Spanish with a New York accent," Ashley muttered without moving his lips as they ran to their next class. "Yeah? You roll your ¡®r¡¯s like Dumbo¡¯s Ringmaster," Jack whispered back. They fell silent as they passed an upperclassman and chorused ¡°Good morning sir!¡±, receiving a testy ¡°Shut the hell up, tacks.¡± in reply. Classes ended at 3:00 PM. The afternoon brought wand drills on the parade ground. Corporal Strait had them practicing basic defensive stances for an hour, correcting the angle of their wands with stinging hexes. Jack''s arm ached from holding the proper position, but he didn''t dare lower it. One hundred yards away, some drags from the College were getting out of a stagecoach, but he didn¡¯t dare look their way. That would have meant certain death. "Mr. Semmes!" Strait barked. "Your wand is two degrees too low! Do you want to get yourself scalped in a real duel?" "No sir!" "Then why do you present such an inviting target to your opponent?" "No excuse, sir!" "Ten diving rolls! Maintain that shield while you do them!"Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel. Jack performed the rolls, his shield charm flashing on impact but holding. The physical demands of Ilvermorny never decreased - if anything, they only got worse now that classes had begun. Dinner at 6:00 PM, then an hour of recreation until the beginning of evening study period at 7:30 found them back in their room, door open and books spread across their desks as they prepared for the next day''s classes. Frequent inspections kept them focused - any hint of slacking would earn swift and painful correction. "What''d you think of today?" Jack whispered from his desk. Unnecessary talking was strictly forbidden during study period. Ashley didn¡¯t look up from his Spanish conjugations. "Different than summer training. More up here¨C¡± he tapped his forehead ¡°than down here.¡± He slapped his solar plexus. ¡°Great, a headache to go with the gut ache.¡± A double knock at their open door sent them flying to attention (all boys in the Lower School must have their doors open between reveille and lights out). The evening inspector - an 11th grader - entered, checked their room with a critical eye, and moved on without comment. No news was good news on Mount Greylock. He¡¯d check twice more before morning formation, once before and once after midnight. At 9:30 PM, they prepared for bed. Changing into their bathrobes for the perilous walk to the bathroom. Quick check to make sure no upperclassmen were present. Hasty shower. Then back to the room. Teeth brushed, curtains drawn, shoes aligned, uniforms hung, and books arranged on bookshelf by height left to right. The bugle sounded lights out at 10:00 PM, sharp and final, a nail hammered into the coffin of another day. The magical lights in the hallway blinked out. The hollow echo of wooden doors closing in sequence down their hallway underlined the silence that followed. Jack lay in his bed, the thin mattress hard against his back and the scratchy wool blanket heavy on his chest. His mind raced like a flywheel, unwilling to stop, replaying his homework: algebra equations he hadn¡¯t quite solved, Spanish verbs he¡¯d stumbled over, and wand movements that felt clumsy in his grip. This was worse than summer training. Far worse. During the summer, he¡¯d held onto the bright, na?ve hope of the academic year - the promise of being ¡®promoted¡¯ to a tack, a real cadet, instead of just a cadet aspirant, a Poor Richard. The upperclassmen of the Detail. He¡¯d imagined himself in their place, stronger, sharper, cool, untouchable. But now that the school year had arrived, reality hit. Being a tack wasn¡¯t a triumph; it was an even harder trial. A short, agonizing first step on a journey that stretched endlessly before him, a journey of ceaseless torment. Each day was a brutal test of endurance: physical, magical, and mental. The glamor of being an Ilvermorny cadet that he had felt two months before had been stripped away, leaving only exhaustion, aching muscles, and the ever-present fear of failure. The upperclassmen were there, always watching, always waiting to pounce on a mistake, and to gleefully celebrate when one of the 6th graders quit. The terror and pain that the next morning would bring hung over him in the darkness, sharp and bitter. His mouth tasted metallic. His stomach was hollow with hunger, they never were able to eat as much as they wanted at meals. The barracks smelled faintly of damp wool and sweat, despite the cleaning charms meant to mask the ever-present scent of overworked bodies. His bladder nagged, but the fear of running into an upperclassman on the way to the bathroom was too great. He couldn¡¯t risk it. He had eight hours. Eight hours before reveille kicked in the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck and thrust him back into misery. Eight hours to rest, to remind himself that there was no way out of this except through it. He clutched at that thought like a lifeline. The ache in his chest mocked him. Somewhere, in some distant, quieter world, other boys were living ordinary lives. He tried to imagine them: schools with soft beds, warm meals, laughter, geniality. The effort felt like dragging his mind through mud. The plaster ceiling stared back at him, blank and indifferent. "Semmes?" Ashley''s voice drifted across the darkness. "What¡¯s up Main?" "You think it¡¯ll get easier?" Jack thought about the upperclassmen, moving with casual confidence through the same routine that left them exhausted, overwhelmed, and frightened. "Probably not," he said glumly. "We probably just get better at it." Ashley let out a dry chuckle, "Well, that¡¯s something to look forward to." The steady knock of the night guard¡¯s footsteps echoed outside their door. Each step counted off the seconds they had left, each one a reminder of how little time there was before the devils came to call again. One day at Ilvermorny was complete, with 2,848 left to go. Jack couldn''t think of that. The number was so horrifyingly high it felt like staring into an abyss. His insides churned, and his chest tightened as if the weight of those thousands of days was physically crushing him. Oh Franklin. How could he survive another three thousand days at this place? How could anyone?! He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the thought. Instead, he focused on smaller numbers. Ninety-five. Just ninety-five days until the Ilvermorny-Salem Quodpot game in December. That wasn¡¯t so bad, was it? Ninety-five was manageable. And 115 days until Christmas. He clung to that number like a lifeline, desperately conjuring an image of a snow-covered forest and a roaring bonfire in the barracks courtyard. Maybe they¡¯d string up enchanted lights and have a real Christmas feast in the mess hall, singing carols together. His mind wandered to an absurdly unrealistic fantasy: the upperclassmen transformed into kindly Santa Clauses, their stern faces softened by white beards, belly padding, and jolly laughter. They¡¯d hand out presents to good little tacks¡­ He drifted off to sleep eventually, his dreams a swirling chaos of prime numbers, miscast Protegos, and the faceless, remorseless scrutiny of teachers and demonic upperclassmen. Jack woke with the sunrise gun on the second day, his muscles aching and mouth dry. The morning routine - jump into uniform, run to bathroom, make bed, arrange room, downstairs to stand in formation. By 7:00 AM, he and Ashley were marching into the mess hall for breakfast. "Here comes Tillman again," Ashley muttered as they took the stairs up to their rooms two at a time to grab their books. "Franklin save us," Jack prayed. "Today," Professor Tillman announced, "we continue with the fundamental building blocks of magical mathematics. Before you can understand arithmancy, you must master basic algebra." He wrote an equation on the board: 2x + 5 = 13. "Mr. Main, solve this equation. Show your work." Ashley marched to the board, wrote "Main 1" in the corner, and began methodically working through the steps. Jack watched his friend''s handwriting- sloppiness meant automatic loss of points. "I am required to solve for x using algebra, sir," Ashley stated, then walked through each step. "2x + 5 = 13, 2x - 5 = 13, removing 5 means that 2x = 8, divide by 2, thus x = 4" "Verify your answer, Mr. Main." "Yes sir. If x equals 4, then 2 times 4 plus 5 equals 13." "That''ll do. Mr. Semmes, next problem." Jack marched to the board for his turn. Although difficult to his 6th grade mind at the time, the problems were simple compared to the mathemagical monstrosities they''d face in later years. No matter the grade level, Tillman demanded perfection. One mistake meant starting over with a zero. ¡°A mistake in arithmancy can lead to a ritual circle failing and killing your entire Auror company,¡± he liked to warn, tying everything they did in class to real-world consequences. Drawing class with Professor Whistler was next (it alternated with Magical Theory and Practice). The elderly wizard had them practicing basic magical sketching - the foundation for everything from map-making to architectural plans. "An Ilvermorny wizard must be able to accurately represent all visible phenomena," Whistler explained in his wispy voice as they attempted to sketch a simple perspective landscape using their wands and some charcoal. "Your drawings will become the basis for more complex magical engineering in your upper years." Jack''s sketches were rudimentary. Ashley was a natural. "My mama had me taking art lessons since I was seven," he explained to Jack during a brief break. ¡°I have a knack for it.¡± English with Professor McCarthy (alternating with Spanish) filled out their afternoon. They began studying basic grammar and vocabulary, with emphasis on magical terminology. McCarthy kept the class fresh by having them memorize and recite large chunks of famous wizarding literature or historical speeches to sharpen their recall and public speaking. "The difference between ''incantate'' and ''intonate'' could mean the difference between success and catastrophic failure," McCarthy warned them. "Correct language leads to correct magic." After afternoon classes, Jack and Ashley joined the flood of tacks heading to the gymnasium. Physical training was as much a part of Ilvermorny life as magical education. "Jumping jacks!" their physical training instructor bellowed. "Then pull-ups! Push-ups! Sit-ups! A weak body means weak magic!" Jack¡¯s muscles screamed in protest as he strained to complete each movement, sweat soaking through his white uniform shirt. His hands were raw from climbing ropes, his arms trembling as he dragged himself upward on the rings, rung by rung. Every pull-up felt like it would be his last, his youthful body rebelling against the demands. They worked out using the equipment of the era¡ªmedicine balls, Indian clubs, and heavy canvas punching bags. The gym echoed with counting cadences, the metallic clank of weights, and the dull thud of bodies hitting the mats. By the time the session ended, Jack¡¯s limbs felt like lead, his chest heaving as he collapsed on the mat next to Ashley. Every muscle burned, and his fingers ached from gripping. "This is nothing, tacks," a Thunderbird upperclassman told them cheerily from the parallel bars. "Just wait ¡®til you start combat magic in ninth grade. Then you''ll know real pain." Jack looked at the high bars ten feet above the ground and quailed internally. Interlude: Hogwarts 1941 "Hightower, Cassandra!" Professor Winterborn''s voice rang through the Great Hall. Cassandra stepped forward from the pack of first-years, her white-gold hair arranged in two French braids, not a single strand out of place. Her brand-new uniform was immaculate ¨C she''d checked everything twice on the platform, much to her father''s amusement. Stand up straight. Shoulders back. Chin level. Walk with purpose. Her mother''s stern instructions echoed in her head as she approached the wooden stool. The Sorting Hat looked old and dirty. She fought the urge to flinch as Winterborn placed it on her head. "Ah, a Hightower!" the Hat''s voice whispered in her mind. "What a treat. Haven¡¯t had one of you since¡­oh, must have been the early 1900s! Let''s see... my, what an organized little mind you have. Alles in ordnung as they say ¨C ah! Apologies, lapsed into German there for a moment...hard to stay in English since two other languages are rattling about in here. Remarkable work, my compliments to your tutors." Cassandra sat rigid, hands folded neatly in her lap. Please don''t take too long. Everyone''s watching. "Worried about appearances, are we? But there''s so much else here... Such drive for knowledge, an ambition to understand everything... A natural puzzle-solver, always looking for patterns..." Ravenclaw would be most suitable, Cassandra thought in a rehearsed patter. Papa says our family has a long tradition- "Oh, it''s not about tradition, young lady. It''s about that brilliant, systematic mind of yours. The way you''ve already memorized large swaths of ''Hogwarts: A History'' and created your own cross-referenced study system for the first-year curriculum while most of your fellows don¡¯t even know what a syllabus is yet...hm, yes, make it RAVENCLAW!" The blue-and-bronze table provided polite applause. Cassandra lifted the hat carefully, placed it exactly as she''d found it, and walked with measured steps to her new house table. She''d practiced this walk at home too, wanting to appear dignified but not haughty. Samantha Herrington, Ravenclaw prefect, a fifth-year girl with warm brown eyes, smiled and gestured to an empty spot. "Welcome to Ravenclaw, Cassandra." "Thank you very much," Cassandra replied. She sat down, smoothing her skirt, and stared at the table. The Ravenclaw common room felt familiar ¨C the royal blue carpet, the central open fireplace, the stars painted on the domed ceiling, the tall arched windows all in white marble. It reminded her of Father''s library, though their ceiling at home wasn''t enchanted. She''d read about the Ravenclaw Tower enchantments in "Hogwarts: A History" and also checked it against "Architectural Charms of Great Britain and Ireland." Her fellow first-year girls huddled together, whispering and giggling, discussing where they were from, already forming friendships. The boys had gone off somewhere, Cassandra didn¡¯t notice or care where. She stood apart, examining the bookshelves. She''d already spotted three volumes she hadn''t read yet ¨C a promising start. "Hi! I''m Margaret Clearwater!" A small girl with auburn pigtails bounded up. "But everyone calls me Maggie. We''re in the same dormitory, so we should be friends! I¡¯m from London, where are you from?" Cassandra turned, startled by the enthusiasm, her heart suddenly pounding in her chest. "Hello. I am Cassandra Hightower. I am pleased to make your acquaintance." She extended her hand formally, the way she''d been taught. Maggie''s smile faltered slightly but she shook Cassandra''s hand. "Do you want to come sit with us? We''re talking about what classes we''re most excited about!" "Thank you for the invitation," Cassandra replied. "But I would like to review the first chapter of each textbook again before tomorrow''s class scheduling. It wouldn''t do to be unprepared." "Oh... um, alright." Maggie stepped back, uncertain. "Maybe... maybe another time?" Cassandra nodded stiffly, already turning back to the bookshelf and trying to concentrate on where she had left. She heard Maggie''s footsteps retreat, followed by whispers from the group of girls. "She''s awfully intense, isn¡¯t she?" "Well, of course! Did you see the way she marched up to the Sorting Hat?" ¡°Do you think she¡¯s just putting it on, or is she really like that all the time?¡± "I heard her father¡¯s some big shot at the Ministry..." Cassandra scrunched up her shoulders against the remarks. She pulled out "Fundamental Forces in Transfiguration" and settled into a far window seat, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in her chest that her heart had caused after it had finally slowed down. She didn''t know how to be any different ¨C didn''t know how to be friendly and giggly like the other girls. Everything had to be sorted, had to be proper. That was how she was raised. It was what was expected of her. The common room gradually emptied as students headed to their dormitories. Cassandra stayed until the last possible moment, watching and memorizing the star patterns on the ceiling. It would help her if she had Astronomy this term. The first day of classes would be in three days. She had to be prepared.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Upstairs in the first-year girls¡¯ dormitory, Cassandra stared at her trunk, paralyzed. At home, Harrison, their butler, would have already unpacked everything. Miss Pembroke, her governess, would have laid out her nightclothes. Tinky, one of their house-elves, would have turned down the bed for her and placed a warming pan. Here, there was no Harrison, no Miss Pembroke, no Tinky. Just her, a trunk that seemed impossibly heavy, and a bed tucked against one of the tall, arched windows that lined the outer wall of the round tower. The dormitory was undeniably beautiful, the moonlight streaming through the windows and casting soft silver patterns on the stone floor. Each bed was set snugly against a window, a little alcove surrounded by blue curtains that faced inward toward the room. It was airy¡ªso airy that Cassandra could feel the chill even through the warming charms in the walls. But the space felt far too open, too exposed. At home, her room had thick velvet drapes and a fire crackling in the hearth, everything cocooning her in warmth and familiarity. Here, the high ceilings and windows made her feel tiny. She glanced around. The other girls were chattering as they unpacked, laughter echoing off the curved walls. They pulled out photos, decorations, and little trinkets, personalizing the spaces around their beds. One girl¡ªAlice something?¡ªwas showing off a small stuffed pegasus that pranced and whisked its tail, little sparkling rainbows trailing from its wings. The others cooed in delight, gathering around to watch, their faces lit with joy as if all the warmth of the room was for them, and Cassandra was left out in the cold. Cassandra looked down, trying to swallow past a lump in her throat. What would they think of her things? She felt exposed. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the latch. "Do you need help?" Maggie asked tentatively. "No, thank you," Cassandra replied without thinking. "I''m quite capable." But she wasn''t, not really. She''d never had to unpack her own trunk before. Never had to make her own bed. Never shared living space with anyone except when visiting her cousin Cecilia in Mayfair, and even then, those were separate adjoining rooms with a shared sitting room. She forced herself to kneel down and open her trunk, grateful that Harrison had packed everything in labeled compartments. She began removing items, folding and placing them in her dresser drawers with painstaking care. Everything had to be in its correct place. "Is that... is that silver?" someone gasped, spotting Cassandra''s hairbrush set (three brushes, the smallest had unicorn hair bristles). She turned to see Maggie staring, wide-eyed. Two other girls had walked up behind her, friendly curiosity written on their faces. ¡°Yes,¡± Cassandra replied. ¡°It is my grandmother¡¯s.¡± She returned to her task, hoping to signal disinterest. "And that perfume bottle ¨C is that crystal?" "Venetian. Papa brought it back from Italy for my¡­tenth birthday." She had a dreadful feeling that she was inadvertently bragging. ¡°May I smell some?¡± Maggie asked excitedly. ¡°N-no!¡± Cassandra stammered, clutching the bottle protectively. ¡°I mean¡­ I¡¯m terribly sorry, no.¡± Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She knew her refusal sounded unfriendly, but the thought of someone else handling it made her stomach twist. All the questions made her horribly uncomfortable. At home, her things were normal. Here she felt like an animal in a menagerie, and her dormmates were poking at her through the cage bars. The other girls whispered amongst themselves, their attention drifting to her trunk again. ¡°Merlin,¡± one of them murmured, pointing. ¡°Her nightgown is silk!¡± Cassandra snatched up her nightclothes, her hands trembling, and bolted to her bed. She yanked the curtains closed, sealing herself off from curious eyes. She changed quickly inside her little cocoon, her eyes burning with humiliation. She sat on the center of her bed for a moment, clutching her nightgown and listening, hoping and praying they would lose interest and leave her alone. The enormous window pressed against the other side of her bed. It stretched high above her head, letting the silver light of the moon pour in onto the pale sheets. She hated it. It made the bed feel like a stage¡ªopen to the night, the stars, and anyone who might look in from the outside. She knew logically that no one could easily look in from the outside, not at this altitude, but that did little to comfort her. With a shiver, she leaned across the bed and reached for the window curtains, pulling them shut with a quick, jerky motion. The heavy fabric fell into place, blocking the unwelcome sky and leaving her in darkness. The space felt smaller now, more contained, but it didn¡¯t bring the relief she hoped for. Instead, it felt stifling, like a cage. Cassandra bit her lip, willing herself not to cry. "Goodnight," she said meekly to the room at large, hoping to dissolve the tension. A few mumbled "goodnights" came back, then the normal rustle of girls getting ready for bed resumed. Cassandra waited for an agonizingly long time until the steady rhythm of her dormmates¡¯ breathing told her they were all asleep. She peeked her head out to make sure that the coast was clear, then slipped her feet into her slippers. Only then did she dare to pull out her wand, casting a dim Lumos to light her trunk. She laid out her uniform for tomorrow (checked twice for ironing) and hung it from the end of her dresser. Then she placed her wand parallel to her textbooks on the bedside table before climbing back under the covers and drawing the curtains closed. The sheets were rough compared to her Egyptian Nile cotton ones at home, but complaining wouldn¡¯t solve anything. It would also be unladylike. She lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, her mind trying to organize tomorrow''s schedule. The top of Ravenclaw Tower was dead silent, broken only by the occasional stirring of her fellow first-years. The silence was scary, so unlike home, where Tinky¡¯s gentle humming or Miss Pembroke¡¯s soft footsteps in the hall always made her feel safe. Even the bed felt wrong ¨C no warming pan had been slipped between the sheets, no lavender sachet tucked under her pillow. Everything was different, strange, cold, and lonely. She was where she belonged¡ªRavenclaw, just like Papa had always said she would be. She would make him proud, and Mother, too. She would make Grandmama proud. She had to. For the first time in her life, she wished she wasn¡¯t the daughter of a duke. She wished she could giggle about stuffed pegasi and silly charms instead of quoting textbooks and worrying. She wished she knew how to be eleven, instead of eleven going on eighty. Cassandra curled up tightly under the rough blankets, pressing her face into the pillow as the ache in her chest grew heavier. She told herself it didn¡¯t matter, that she didn¡¯t care what the others thought. But the truth whispered back, softly and heartlessly: despite all the tutoring and all the books and all the effort, she didn¡¯t know how to belong here. Her pillow was soaked beneath her cheek by the time her breathing evened out into sleep. But that, she thought fiercely as she flipped it over to the dry side, was nobody¡¯s business but her own. 29. Ludds Discovery
There once was a prefect named Ludd Who had a face like a cow chewing cud "Five points, make it ten!" Yelled again and again Till everyone wished she''d go ¡®thud¡¯ The nastiest prefect alive Makes the first-years all run and then dive Behind tapestries quick When they hear her steps click Like a redheaded wasp from hell''s hive That bespectacled tyrant called Ludd Whose temper is hot as fresh blood Acts like Hightower''s pet (Though she¡¯s not noticed yet) But still follows her ''round like a dud - Found scrawled in the margins of Bagshot¡¯s A History of Magic: Volume I (of XXXII)
Jack was so caught up in his own thoughts at dinner that he had an out-of-character lapse in punctuality. He realized it was nearly 7:30 PM already, excused himself to his friends, and ran out of the Great Hall with his schoolbag in hand. It¡¯s just Quillworth, she won''t be upset, Jack assured himself as he ran through the Central Hall with the great clock striking the half hour. He prepared an apology as he opened the library doors. She wasn¡¯t at her desk. Must be in the stacks. Jack trotted up without seeing anyone. He caught a whiff of an unfamiliar sharp perfume. Then a shrill voice made his heart sink: "You''re thirty-one seconds late, Mr. Semmes." Bianca Ludd made a show of checking her pocket watch. Her gray eyes glinted behind her glasses with a vengeful eagerness. "Shall I make it another night of detention to teach you timeliness?" "That won¡¯t be necessary. Where''s Ms. Quillworth?" Jack asked, already knowing the answer wouldn''t matter. "Staff meeting." Ludd''s ketchup-red hair strained against her hairband. "I''ll be supervising you tonight." She gestured to a table directly in the center of the library floor. "Sit. Empty your bag." Jack did as he was told, pulling out his books and parchment. Ludd stood and walked over, inspecting each item as if she was checking for contraband, even turning his books upside down and shaking them. "No notes from Washington tonight?" she asked. "No special messages to pass along?" Jack clenched his fist under the table, "Look, whatever Montfort''s been saying-" Ludd perched on the table¡¯s edge next to him, her posture a parody of an office secretary - leaning slightly, legs crossed at stockinged ankle, fingers drumming on pleated knee in a way that was unsettling rather than coquettish. "Oh, it''s not what Mr. Montfort''s saying that concerns me," she said, adjusting her glasses. "It''s what you''ve been doing. Infiltrating. Getting close. Making yourself useful. Worming your way into advanced classes. Playing the charming newcomer." She leaned towards him, staring. "Charming, huh?¡± Jack snorted derisively. ¡°Well, I''m in detention, clearly I¡¯m not doing something right.¡± "What should you be doing?" She edged even closer, into his personal space. "Your mission? Gathering information? Get close enough to Miss Hightower to influence her father?" Jack felt his face burning. The moxie of this broad! He had to clench his teeth to stop from launching an insult. Or even worse, slap her clean off the table. Taking abuse at Ilvermorny was one thing. Even here from Montfort. But from a girl like this? Who was younger than him? It was almost more than he could bear.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. "How about you sit down,¡± he said, his voice tight with the effort of restraint, ¡°and you let me do my homework.¡± She leaned even closer. Her nose was a whisker away from his. Her perfume was harsh, like acetone mixed with jasmine. "Do you know what happens to girls who get caught up with boys like you, James Semmes?" Her voice was a whisper. Some other students had entered the library, giving them curious looks. "They don''t become Head Girls. They don''t get Ministry positions. They disappoint their parents. They get shuffled aside and forgotten. They get hurt." "I would never do anything to hurt-" "Miss Hightower?" Ludd looked at him without blinking. "You already are." Jack stared back at her in furious silence, blood roaring in his ears. "So here''s what''s going to happen," she continued, straightening up. "You''re going to sit here in silence. And after tonight, you''re going to stay away from Miss Hightower. No conversations. No glances. Nothing." "I still have tonight then. Better get a move on if I want to ruin her life." Jack crossed his arms defiantly. Ludd smiled. A snake baring teeth before the strike. "One more word out of you, just one word, and I''ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you are, Semmes. Not just a clumsy American boy - but MACUSA''s little spy, using an innocent girl for whatever game your masters are playing." She leaned closer, dropping her voice. "And then I''ll make sure you regret ever setting foot in this castle." Their eyes locked - burning hazel against flinty gray. Neither blinked. The air between them crackled, as if the slightest spark might ignite an inferno. Ludd¡¯s smile faltered ever so slightly, but she held firm, her jaw tightening. Jack was unyielding. He had the relentless focus of a boy who had stared down far tougher opponents. He''d learned endurance at Ilvermorny, a place where flinching was weakness and holding your ground was survival. The silence stretched taut, but Jack didn¡¯t budge. Nearly a full minute passed, until at last, she blinked and looked away. She seized his Transfiguration textbook - the one he¡¯d left in the common room today since he didn¡¯t need it for class - and began flipping through it with exaggerated care. A folded piece of parchment fluttered out. She snatched it with a Seeker¡¯s reflexes before Jack could move. Oh Franklin. Please don¡¯t let that be¨C Ludd unfolded it, eyes widening behind her glasses as she read aloud:
GRYFFINDOR IRREGULARS - DAILY INTELLIGENCE SUMMARY From: Agent P To: Senior Agent J Re: Overwatch Note: For lack of orders this morning due to Peeves, we received targeting data from T.M. on people he ¡°thought would be funny for us to follow¡± (his words, not ours). 1. Target C.H. (¡°top priority¡±) spent 44 minutes in library (1503-1547) 2. Target C.V. observed meeting unknown contact in dungeons ~1251. 3. Target M.M. accosted agents in common room at 2200. 4. Awaiting further orders For Merlin and Country (and Gryffindor)! P.S. Can we get proper code names please? Initials are boooring. P.P.S. Miss Ludd is No Gudd! [accompanied by a cartoon of an angry bespectacled witch with pointed teeth]
¡°A surveillance report?¡± Ludd looked up from the note, her expression torn between triumph and disgust. "¡®Miss Ludd is No Good?¡¯ Really, Semmes? Will you be trying to take down the Ministry next?!" Jack removed his hand from his mouth where it had been stifling his laughter. "Ok, this is actually kinda funny-" he began. "FUNNY?!" Everyone in the library looked over. There were several loud shushes. She leaned into him and continued in a furious whisper. "You have first-years spying on seniors, tracking their movements, monitoring their activities¡­ and you expect me to believe this isn''t exactly what it looks like?" "They''re just little kids playing¨C" "Playing at being your personal intelligence service?" She folded the note with precise, angry movements. ¡°Your ''Gryffindor Irregulars''. Just like a proper spy network. I must report this. You¡¯re a dangerous boy." ¡°You¡¯re loony.¡± "That''s twenty points from Gryffindor and another night of detention for talking back to a prefect," Ludd said, tucking the note into her pocket. "We''ll see what Professor Winterborn has to say about your little ¡®operation¡¯." Jack ground his teeth as Ludd marched back to her table and began writing up her report. 30. Dire Threats "She found WHAT?" Teddy did a spit take across the breakfast table, barely missing Oliver with splattering milk. Henry cast a quick cleaning charm, "Let the man finish." Jack finished retelling last night''s disaster. Palamedes Hitchens and his two compatriots huddled nearby where Jack had ordered them to sit, looking like kicked puppies. "You must admit," Oliver tapped his spoon against his chin, "a secret network of first-years sending coded messages about a Ravenclaw¡¯s study habits for her mysterious Gryffindor admirer...it¡¯s bloody hilarious." "Hilarious like extra detention," Jack growled. ¡°Thanks, Ollie.¡± ¡°Only one extra day,¡± Henry tried to find the bright side. ¡°Could be worse.¡± "¡¯Could be worse¡¯ Ravenhurst," Jack rhymed as he turned on him, "Want some ¡®appropriated funds¡¯ to buy Mina candy and flowers, huh?" Teddy put his forehead on the table, his back shaking with laughter. Henry smiled good-naturedly, "Come off it Jack, I was just taking the piss. Not like we wrote that silly report." "In purple ink," Teddy raised his head and grinned. "Her favorite." "This is all your fault, Marshwiggle," Jack shot back, jabbing his fork at him. "Getting the freshmen to stalk Hightower. Your scrawny knucker-loving backside oughta be in detention with me, and don¡¯t think I¡¯ll forget it!" He pulled the first-years aside. "Look here, frosh-" "Franklin¡¯s stove, Mr. Semmes, we''re sorry!" Pal burst out. "We thought we were helping!" "We were gathering intelligence!" Mel added, pushing up his glasses. "Like those wizarding war stories on the wireless!" Wiggy chorused. "There is a time¡­and a place for that," Jack said scrupulously. "You need to be smarter about your little games and how you play them. Do not go near Miss Hightower. For the love of Merlin. Do not bother her." ¡°But Mr. Marshwiggle said that she¡¯s your top priority,¡± Pal protested. ¡°Did he?¡± Jack reached out and grabbed Teddy by the back of his robes as he attempted to stroll away. ¡°Teddy, tell the freshmen that you were mistaken.¡± Teddy yelled as Jack reeled him in and put him in a headlock, ¡°Alright alright, leave off her!¡± "But what about Venge?" Wiggy asked, his ginger hair bristling. "He''s up to something dodgy, we know it! All Slytherins are, all the time!" Jack released Teddy (after messing his hair up) and glanced around. He had to throw the kids a bone. "Alright, keep watching Venge. But no more written reports, okay? Verbal only. And for Franklin¡¯s sake, be careful. I can''t get in more trouble." They nodded solemnly. Jack had an uncomfortable feeling that they weren¡¯t listening. An owl delivered him a letter as he refilled his coffee mug. Jack unfolded the parchment over his plate and recognized the slanted cursive handwriting of Ashley Main:
Semmes, Thunderbird¡¯s not the same without you. Dayroom is a lot quieter (in a bad way), though the new tacks are doing their best to mess that up. They had a lapse in judgement and made me sergeant. Now I get to spend my free time wrangling knuckleheads like Timmons, who still can¡¯t show up on time to formation after two years here. Boy¡¯s slower than molasses in January, and twice as sticky when it comes to excuses. We stomped Salem 17-11. Wish you were here to see it. Team¡¯s strong, but we¡¯re missing your eye for trouble. Had a group date out in Adams last weekend, I escorted a drag from Tennessee named Emily Cumberland. Rita Hayworth. That¡¯s all you need to know. How¡¯s Hogwarts? Bet you¡¯re driving those Brits up the wall. You trade that fast-talking Yankee line for a hoity-toit accent yet? Meet any nice witches? Write back soon. ¡ª Main
Jack grinned in spite of himself, folding the letter and tucking it into his robe. He¡¯d have to write him back tonight, he had a lot to update him about. "Quidditch tryouts this afternoon," Henry reminded him as they got up from the table to walk to Defense class. "Don''t forget." "I''m gated, Henry, remember?" "Already sorted that," Algy came walking up behind them and clapped them both on the shoulders. "MacLeod cleared it with Winterborn. You''re allowed on the pitch, but straight back to the castle after.¡± Defense Against the Dark Arts passed without incident, though Jack noticed Professor MacLeod watching him more closely than usual. Then¡­ "Mr. Semmes." MacLeod''s voice wasn¡¯t loud, but Jack caught his name distinctly through the shuffling and chatter as students packed up. He had been halfway to the door with Henry and Teddy, but turned back immediately, recognizing the tone and already knowing what this was going to be about. His friends shot him sympathetic looks as they filed out with the rest. The classroom emptied, leaving them alone with the scent of spells and scorched practice dummies. MacLeod waited until the last laggard student had gone, then closed the door with a wave of his wand. "Professor Winterborn came to me about Miss Ludd''s report." MacLeod crossed his arms. "Having first-years tracking other students? Merlin''s breath, laddie, what are you thinking?" "Sir, I didn¡¯t know. They were just playing around." "Playing around at being spies," MacLeod shook his head. "You know how that sounds. I just talked to you about this, Jack." Jack felt honor-bound to defend himself, "It was a stupid game they were playing, sir. The kids came up with it themselves¡ª" "That''s not my point!" MacLeod brought his fist down on his desk, making a stack of graded essays jump. He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Listen to me carefully, lad. Professor Winterborn is... concerned. Very concerned. And Miss Ludd¡ª" "Miss Ludd has it out for me, sir," Jack interrupted. "Aye, she has it out for a lot of people. Which is precisely why you need to stop handing her loaded wands pointed directly at your own face." MacLeod leaned forward. "And to do so, you need to stay away from Miss Hightower." The order lashed Jack¡¯s face like a whip. "Sir¡ª" "That is not a suggestion, Mr. Semmes," MacLeod''s voice was final. He studied Jack''s face for a moment, "Look here, boy. I know what you''re thinking. You¡¯re a young man and you think the universe revolves around you. This isn''t just about you, or even her. Her father''s not just any Ministry official ¨C he''s a duke. You aren''t familiar with how things are here, being American an¡¯ all. There are expectations."This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it Jack¡¯s feet clenched inside his shoes. These stupid expectations again! "I''m aware of them, sir." "You are, are ye?" MacLeod raised a scarred eyebrow. "I don''t think you are. I don¡¯t believe ye understand what you''re playin¡¯ with here. Hogwarts is not Mount Greylock. The old families take their bloodlines seriously." He tapped the desk with a gauntleted finger. "Their daughters'' reputations are as fragile as spun glass. One wrong move, one whisper of scandal could ruin her." "That''s not what I''m doing!" Jack protested, his face flushing. "Doesn''t matter what you would or wouldn''t do," MacLeod cut him off. "It''s about bloody perception. You''re the American transfer, son of a MACUSA officer, getting your first-years to track the Duke''s only daughter? Following her in the library? Having them write up reports about her habits? How do you think that looks?¡± Jack felt the weight of each word like a dumbbell being dropped on his head. "Sir, the first years were playing at being Aurors. It¡¯s all just a misunderstanding.¡± "The Ministry is watching. MACUSA is watching. Everyone is watching Hogwarts." MacLeod gestured to the window with his missing hand, "Think about your family. What your father is trying to do here to build bridges. You are making his position difficult. For Godric¡¯s sake lad, do you have any idea what her father could do if he heard you were harassing his daughter?! You could all get deported!" That hit home. Jack felt his eyes flicker. "This isn''t about house points," MacLeod continued. "You''ve got Miss Ludd building a case against you, Professor Winterborn wanting you sent home and excluded for the rest of term, the Headmaster breathing down my neck, and all of Ravenclaw House tracking your every move - hoping that you slip up. I went out on a limb for you with the Quidditch clearance. Don''t make me regret that." "Yes sir." Jack stood at attention, seeking refuge in formality like a turtle retreating into its shell. "It won''t happen again, sir." Something in Jack''s stance or expression must have given him away, because the professor''s eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head with what looked like resignation. Jack briefly appreciated the irony. His father often joked about the stubbornness in their blood - "Dumas wrote about how ¡®monstrously obstinate¡¯ we Normans are," he''d say. Now here he was, the unstoppable force running up against the immovable object of a Highland Scot. No wonder MacLeod looked tired. "Dismissed," Macleod said finally, his tone suggesting he knew full well this wouldn''t be the end of it. Jack turned on his heel and marched out. He missed the way his heels used to click while he was walking. It sounded more resolute, more determined. Hogwarts shoes had soft soles. It wasn''t until he was halfway down the stairs that he allowed his hands to release from their fists. The "sirs" and stone face had come automatically - Ilvermorny kicking in - but underneath he was boiling. Getting blamed for the stupid stuff that Pal and his idiot friends were doing. And Cassandra again... what right did anyone have to tell him to stay away from her? Was she property of the state or something? First Montfort, then Ludd, and now Winterborn and MacLeod?! Jack took a breath and exhaled violently. Fine. He''d be more careful. But he wasn''t about to let anyone dictate who he could or couldn''t talk to. They couldn''t control his mind. She was in nearly every one of his classes ¨C what were they gonna do, transfer him into different sections? Screw them. Try to deport me! He walked so quickly that he found himself catching up with Cyprian at the Transfiguration Courtyard. The Slytherin had paused to watch a gaggle of second-years gathered near the sundial, poking at a restless jarvey they had had unwisely smuggled into the castle. The furry ferret-like creature was hurling increasingly loud complaints with great creativity, much to the youngsters¡¯ amusement. ¡°What is the charge, sir?¡± it demanded turning around in a rapid circle on the sundial. ¡°Am I being detained? For what? A crime? A sacrilege? Do I look like a criminal creature to you?¡± The second-years giggled, one of them tried to pick the jarvey up. ¡°Have a look at how he¡­ jarvey-handles me here,¡± the jarvey continued indignantly as it was hoisted into the air. ¡°Wizards and witches, this is Magical Britain manifest. How dare you, you think you can just shove me into a bag like some common¡ªget your hands off my penis!¡± The Gryffindor boy holding the jarvey nearly dropped it. ¡°Aye, that¡¯s the bloke who just got me on the penis, people!¡± the jarvey accused magnificently. ¡°I¡¯m a magical creature with rights, you Mongols! Who do you think you are? Do you understand the social contract you¡¯re violating here?¡± One of the Hufflepuffs glanced over their shoulder as the sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. In a panic, the second-years scrambled to stuff the jarvey into a burlap bag. ¡°Oh, I see you know your wrestling well, sir,¡± the jarvey wriggled gamely against the odds. ¡°Good one. A nice headlock, a fine submission move. Take a look at his grip here.¡± It struggled in vain against the bag, voice muffled. ¡°Why have you done this to me? For what reason? I have been wronged! Wronged, I tell you!¡± As the professor¡¯s footsteps grew nearer, the jarvey gave one last, defiant cry. ¡°Tata, and farewell!¡± The students hastily sealed and silenced the bag just as Professor Brightwell rounded the corner, barely containing their laughter. Jack sidled up beside Cyprian. The fearful tongue lashing from MacLeod made him crave a conversation to remind himself that he was still allowed to be here. Still a Hogwarts student in good standing. ¡°Hey Venge, mind if I ask a question?¡± Cyprian shrugged, ¡°Go ahead, you¡¯ll keep talking no matter what I say.¡± ¡°If you knew Grindelwald was wrong, why¡¯d your family wait until 1930 to join up against him? The war had been going on for near-on four years at that point.¡± Cyprian kept staring into the courtyard. ¡°Because, Semmes,¡± he began, ¡°Grindelwald was a continental problem. At first. A dark wizard with dangerous ideas, certainly, but hardly our responsibility. Britain is an island, not only in geography but in temperament. We¡¯ve always preferred to mind our own affairs and leave the Continent to its endless feuds and follies.¡± He stood erect like a lecturer, diametrically opposed to Jack¡¯s casual lean. ¡°Grindelwald¡¯s rhetoric didn¡¯t resonate here¡ªnot at the beginning. The blood purity nonsense, the vision of a ¡®new wizarding order.¡¯ It was European. Specifically German. Wizarding Britain has always prided herself on being apart from that chaos, on maintaining our traditions and our independence. My family believed it wasn¡¯t our place to intervene in foreign conflicts, especially ones that seemed destined to inevitably collapse under their own hubris.¡± ¡°But Grindelwald didn¡¯t collapse,¡± Jack pressed, unwilling to let it drop. ¡°He got stronger.¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Cyprian admitted, ¡°And when it became clear that he was not just a nuisance but a true threat, a man with ambitions that could not be contained by borders, who sought to tear down the very Statute of Secrecy itself, we acted. We joined the fight when it mattered, when it was no longer a question of Europe¡¯s problem but of the wizarding world¡¯s survival.¡± He looked at Jack, his blue eyes unyielding. ¡°Call it cautious, call it overly conservative, if you like. You must understand, Semmes, my family is ancient. We trace our lineage back to Lucius Vengetius Gracilis, a Roman magus of the late Empire. My father has his death mask in our library. The Venges have seen enough war to know that rushing into them solves little and costs much. Britain¡¯s strength - and endurance - has always been its patience, its unwillingness to throw itself into every storm without considering the consequences. That kind of nobly foolish ¨¦lan is for the French. Grindelwald forced our hand, yes, but by then, we were prepared. The wizarding world needed to be unified against him, not fragmented by premature action.¡± Cyprian paused, the weight of his words settling like a cloak. ¡°We may have waited, but we did not shirk our duty. And when we acted, it was with purpose, not impulsiveness. That is the British way, Semmes. Not flashy, not reckless. Enduring.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a pretty speech, Venge,¡± Jack retorted hotly, ¡°Sounds a lot like you¡¯re just dressing up sitting on your hands as grand strategy. ¡®Patience¡¯? Watching your neighbors burn while you wait for the fire to reach your door? We¡¯ve got a saying back home: if you¡¯re not part of the solution, you¡¯re part of the problem. If you stuck-up limeys had gotten off your high horse a little sooner, Grindelwald wouldn¡¯t have gotten so far in the first place.¡± Cyprian was unruffled, a fencer waiting for the opening. ¡°The American shares his wisdom of charging in headfirst and hoping it works out. Semmes, when did your country decide to join the war against Grindelwald? 1932? A full six years after it started? Who was sitting on their hands?¡± Jack bristled, opening his mouth to argue, but Cyprian wasn¡¯t finished. ¡°If memory serves,¡± Cyprian continued, his voice unhurried, ¡°you only joined because his partisans torched your embassy in Rio de Janeiro. Then Grindelwald personally embarrassed your Aurors in downtown Manhattan with a childish Polyjuice trick. Heroic. Waiting for the fire to spread into your own house before helping your neighbors.¡± Jack wanted to smack the glasses off Cyprian¡¯s stupid, placid face. ¡°Perhaps the apple doesn¡¯t fall far from the tree after all,¡± Cyprian said blandly. ¡°Would you prefer we start measuring by your standards? Late to the war, but always eager to argue.¡± He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back like a professor dismissing a student¡¯s half-baked argument. Jack¡¯s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally sputtered, ¡°Yeah, well¡­MACUSA still had to bail you out after you almost lost!¡± ¡°Dumbledore didn¡¯t go to Ilvermorny,¡± Cyprian calmly checked his pocket watch and strode away. Jack watched as Cyprian ascended the West Tower steps like a green-trimmed shadow. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s right, walk away!¡± Jack called after him. One of the birds in the courtyard squawked in what sounded suspiciously like mockery. Jack scowled at it. 31. Blast Radius Jack found a new seat in Muggle Studies two rows back next to Martin Mossflower. The friendly Hufflepuff gave him a surprised look and pointed to Jack¡¯s usual chair next to Cassandra. Jack made a cutting motion with his hand across his chest. Can''t. Mossflower raised an eyebrow. Jack shook his head. Anywhere but there. Professor Whitby got so excited about his new collection of hand-grenades that he abandoned the lesson plan on Muggle transportation systems in favor of a forty-five minute tangent on Muggle explosives and their practical applications. He finished with an entertaining story about when he once used sixty pounds of Composition B in Nuremberg to open up a stubborn door that refused to be unlocked by Alohomora and reflected blasting curses. Unfortunately - as he explained - the ensuing explosion also vaporized everything inside the room and most of the surrounding building. Whitby outlined three key takeaways for young witches and wizards (to make it at least slightly related to class):
¡°One: When dealing with magically reinforced barriers, always assess structural integrity before applying high-yield solutions. Two: If you''re going to breach something with sixty pounds of Comp B, stand further back than you think you need to. Three: Sometimes securing the objective means also accidentally atomizing the objective.¡±
¡°And that, ladies and gentlemen,¡± he underlined on the board, ¡°is why you shouldn¡¯t use excessive force when a more precise application of magic - or, say, a smaller explosive charge - would suffice. Er... do as I say, not as I do!¡± Jack lingered after Muggle Studies had finished, waiting until most of the other students had cleared before approaching Whitby''s podium. "Professor? Do you have a minute? It''s not about homework." "Of course, Mr. Semmes!" Whitby limped towards his desk. "Everything alright?" Before Jack could answer, three seventh-years popped into the classroom and converged on the professor, pulling out scrolls and talking over each other about their thesis proposals. "Sir, about the impact of radar on concealment charms¡ª" "Professor, I''ve been researching Muggle jet aircraft design¡ª" "The chemical analysis you suggested¡ª" "Hello, hello!" Whitby glanced between his waiting students and Jack. "I¡¯m sorry, is this urgent?" "No sir. I have study hall next period." "Excellent, why don''t you wait in my office?" Whitby gestured to the door behind his desk. "I''ll be there once I sort these strapping young wizards out." Jack nodded and slipped past the cluster of seventh-years into Whitby''s office. The room was larger than it appeared on the outside, and held a treasure vault of books, models, and magical and Muggle artifacts. Every horizontal and vertical surface held something fascinating ¨C a collection of modern military helmets (including a German coal-scuttle with a bullet hole in it), wizarding and Muggle propaganda posters from the war period, some mysterious testing equipment, and an entire Spitfire''s wing mounted on one wall. His attention caught on an RAF map showing Britain''s air corridors, with neat, straight blue lines that bent and twisted around the western Scottish Highlands. Made sense ¨C couldn''t have Muggle pilots accidentally stumbling across Hogwarts. Beneath the map, mounted on gleaming brass brackets, sat an exquisite model of a Royal Navy battlecruiser, about two feet long. The Union Jack snapped proudly from her brow in an enchanted sea breeze. Jack read the placard underneath: HMS Hood. The detail was incredible ¨C every rope, gun, and fitting perfectly to scale. But unlike a Muggle model, this ship was alive with activity. Hundreds of tiny animated British sailors, no bigger than Jack''s pinky nail, moved about their duties. As he leaned in for a closer look, a miniature bosun spotted him and let out a piercing whistle on a pipe no larger than the period at the end of this sentence. The crew snapped to attention, rendering crisp salutes to their giant visitor. A little Walrus seaplane was being prepared for launch on the Hood''s stern catapult. Jack watched, fascinated, as the deck crew went through their pre-flight checks. The aircraft''s propeller spun, buzzing like a hummingbird''s wings. The whole plane was no bigger than a large moth. The pilot gave Jack a jaunty wave and flipped his white silk scarf around his neck before climbing into his cockpit and zipping off into the air on his eternal search for the Bismarck. Jack''s gaze followed the tiny aircraft as it banked around the office. The Walrus climbed higher, passing Professor Whitby''s workbench, where its miniature shadow skimmed across three portrait frames mounted on the wall. He recognized them as the same ones from the classroom, but now their subjects were migrating through the frames, settling into their office positions. The nameplate under each identified them: Edison, Lema?tre, and Tesla. Nikola Tesla walked into the frame and straight to the background where he began adjusting a large apparatus with intense focus, not acknowledging his surroundings as he twisted wires and muttered under his breath. "Still playing with your kiddy toys?" Thomas Edison''s portrait called out from two frames over. "How many investors have you swindled this week with your grand promises of magical wireless power transmission?" Tesla didn''t look up from his work. "Your ignorance of basic electromagnetism remains unchanged. The resonant frequency of alternating current clearly demonstrates¡ª" "Here comes the AC/DC debate again!" Edison laughed contemptuously. "The public doesn''t want your theories. They want reliable power at a reasonable price. Direct current is the future!" "Your primitive DC is an offense against nature," Tesla interrupted, still focused on his device. "The mathematics are irrefutable. If you examine the equations¡ª" "Mathematics! I''ll tell you what I told all those MIT-educated ''experts'' ¨C I don''t want theories. I get solutions. And my system works!" ¡°Go electrocute another elephant,¡± replied Tesla testily. "Gentlemen," Georges Lema?tre stopped sketching equations on a green chalkboard to interject mildly from in between them, "We are all in this together for the pursuit of knowledge. Perhaps we could discuss this more productively if¡ª" "The fact that your crude system ''works'' is irrelevant," Tesla continued as if no one had spoken, his fingers dancing over his contraption. "The fundamental harmonic properties of alternating current correspond precisely to the universal wave functions that govern¡ª"A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "English, you stupid Croat! Speak English!" Edison threw up his hands, his Midwestern accent outraged. "This is exactly why you fail in every business endeavor! No one can understand your confounded ramblings about wave functions and harmonics!" Tesla looked up, his mustachios bristling. "I have no interest in being understood by small minds focused on quarterly profits. The numbers are all that matter. The mathematics cannot lie." Jack watched the exchange with amusement, settling into one of the comfortable leather chairs near Whitby''s workbench. "Perhaps we might discuss the nature of luminiferous aether?" Lema?tre ventured, trying to redirect the argument. "My recent observations of interstellar space indicate that there may in fact be nothing up there at all." "Nonsense!" Edison declared. Tesla didn''t look up from his apparatus, which was now emitting large and dangerous-looking arcs of lightning. Lema?tre tried again. "The vacuum between stars presents fascinating questions about the propagation of¡ª" A blinding flash lit Tesla''s frame from within, followed by a muffled CRACK. Jack jumped in his chair. The office lights flickered, and the portrait went completely black. "¡ªlight." Lema?tre shook his round, bespectacled face. ¡°There he goes again.¡± "Tesla!" Edison''s bluster vanished. "Blast it all!" He hurried across Lema?tre''s frame as the two painted scientists exited into the darkened frame next door. "Nikola? Are you alright?" Lema?tre''s voice came muffled through the blank canvas. Jack watched as the darkness in the frame shifted. He could just make out movement ¨C was that Lema?tre''s hand with a rag? The priest-scientist was cleaning the inside of the portrait''s "window," while Edison grumbled about "why does everything explode in this damn castle" and "told you so" between concerned questions about Tesla''s condition. "A minor setback," Tesla''s high-pitched voice responded. "Here, breathe this," Edison ordered. Jack glimpsed a little painted bottle of smelling salts being waved under Tesla''s nose. The door opened and Professor Whitby strode in, leaving it ajar to the now-empty classroom. "Sorry about the wait, Mr. Semmes! Those seventh-years can be quite persistent when they''re excited.¡± Jack shifted in his chair, suddenly uncertain how to begin. Behind Whitby, he could see Lema?tre scrubbing at Tesla''s frame while Edison helped the dazed inventor to his feet. "Sir, I..." Jack took a breath. "I wanted to ask your advice about something. You were in Gryffindor too, right?" "Class of ''35," Whitby confirmed, settling behind his workbench. "Hence why I tend to talk first and ask forgiveness later." He pulled his bad leg onto a rolling ottoman with a grunt and reached for a glass bottle of pain potion. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡± "It''s about... well, there''s this girl." Whitby took a swig from the bottle. "Hightower." Jack blinked in surprise. "Small castle," Whitby explained, placing the potion back on the table. "Word gets around.¡± "Yeah," Jack admitted. "Professor MacLeod just told me I have to stay away from her. Says it could cause some kind of diplomatic incident." He looked down at his hands, placed firmly on his knees. "I''m not doing anything wrong. sir. We''re in most of the same classes, we''re both sixth-years ¨C how am I supposed to just pretend she doesn''t exist?" Whitby took off his sunglasses and polished them absently on his sleeve. The gesture made him look even younger than usual, until Jack noticed the hollowness of his cheeks, the gray at his temples, and the deep, unslept sadness in his dark eyes. He glanced past Jack at the empty classroom. "I''ll be blunt because you deserve that much.¡± He put his sunglasses on the tabletop. ¡°Personally? It''s all rubbish ¨C bloodlines, titles, and who''s allowed to marry whom. Load of dark age nonsense if you ask me." Whitby chuckled humorlessly, "But here''s the thing, what I think doesn''t matter. Not even slightly. I¡¯m a junior professor. I teach a course that most of my fellows here think is not even fit for wizards to study. My opinion doesn¡¯t even matter here at Hogwarts. And outside of this little pretend, make-believe world there are powerful people who take this stuff deadly serious. And they can - and will - make your life absolutely miserable if they choose to." Jack listened with a sinking feeling. "I know,¡± Whitby nodded sympathetically. ¡°Your limbic system is developing faster than your prefrontal cortex.¡± ¡°Sir?¡± ¡°Up here,¡± Whitby tapped his temple. ¡°Your brains are being rewired from children to grown-ups. You''re fifteen and you think this is different, special, worth fighting for. Maybe it is." Whitby''s tone made it clear that he doubted it. "But you''re not just risking detention here. These people could get your father fired. Get your whole family kicked out of the country. And that''s if they''re feeling nice." He waved at his collection of war memorabilia, then paused, his hand hovering over a small framed photograph partially hidden behind a stack of books. "Speaking of..." He pulled it out and set it on the desk between them. ¡°You¡¯ll want to see this.¡± It was a victory photo ¨C the kind that soldiers have been taking since cameras were invented. A group of wizards, some in MACUSA uniforms, others in British Ministry robes, stood before the looming towers of a mountain fastness that Jack recognized as Nurmengard Castle - where Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald. The Alpine peaks rose sharp and white behind them. MacLeod was there, looking slightly younger but just as fierce, and Whitby without his sunglasses. There was a tall figure in the back deliberately standing so his face was hidden by both his fedora and the wizard in front of him. Whitby tapped the photo impatiently. "Tom, say hi to your son!" The figure in the photograph suddenly straightened up and removed his hat, revealing a familiar face that broke into a warm grin. Jack''s father waved from the photo with that same smile that Jack saw in the mirror. Jack felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was one thing to know his father had fought in the war, but seeing him there in that frozen moment of victory made it suddenly, startlingly real. His father hadn''t just been "in the war" ¨C he''d been there, at Nurmengard, when they finally brought down Grindelwald. He leaned closer, drinking in every detail. The exhaustion in their faces beneath the triumph. The scorch marks on their coats. MacLeod loosely holding a half-empty bottle of champagne. The way they stood shoulder to shoulder, MACUSA and the Ministry united. "Franklin''s kite," Jack whispered, the usual exclamation coming out more like a prayer. "Your father is one of the best," Whitby replied, putting the photo back. "That''s why I know he''d tell you the same thing ¨C some fights aren''t worth picking, especially when the deck is stacked against you from the start. As the French say: ¡®Discretion is the better part of valour.¡¯" He gave a throaty chuckle at his own joke. Jack slumped in his chair. "So what am I supposed to do?" "Protect yourself and put her out of your mind. I know it feels impossible right now," Whitby paused, then added with forced optimism, "If there really is something there between you two, if it''s meant to be... well, things have a way of working themselves out eventually." Jack grasped at the thin hope. "In the meantime," Whitby concluded, "don''t give anyone an inch to use against you. Trust me ¨C they are looking for it." Jack nodded automatically, shoulders slumped. He didn''t know what he''d expected Whitby to say, but somehow hearing it from the young professor made it feel more final. "Look at the bigger picture, Mr. Semmes.¡± Whitby said brightly. ¡°You''ve got great friends in Gryffindor, Ravenhurst and his maniacs have really taken you in. Your marks are strong, even with all the differences in technique. And a fair third of the school thinks you''re the most interesting thing to happen to Hogwarts since they put buttons on our robes instead of laces." That got a small smile from Jack. "Not to mention all the eligible witches your age," Whitby added with a knowing grin. Jack felt his ears go hot. "My point is," Whitby made a gesture indicating their conversation was over, "you¡¯ve got a good thing going. Don''t be a fool and throw it all away chasing something that''s only going to bring you grief. You¡¯re young. The war isn¡¯t here to rob you of your youth like it did to so many of my classmates. Go have some fun. Read a good fiction book. Be young while you still can. And for Merlin¡¯s sake, stay out of trouble." "Yes, sir." Jack stood, feeling better. It was good having someone talk to him without all the usual English evasiveness and stuffiness for once. The walk back to Gryffindor Tower passed lost in thought. He barely tasted the Cornish pasties at lunch, though Teddy¡¯s dramatic retelling of a mishap in Transfiguration involving a small moai statue was pretty funny. Then it was off to Charms again. Jack slid into his seat next to Grymes, not looking toward the front where Cassandra sat. Professor Brightwell was writing "Detection Charms Review" on the board. "Today we''ll be practicing revealing spells and their basic variations," Brightwell announced. "Partner up and take turns concealing and revealing objects. Remember ¨C Revelio is about intention and focus, not just wand movement." Jack pulled out his wand, grateful for something to focus on. At least the magic made sense, even if his hormonal aspirations didn¡¯t. 32. The Valley Girl The bell struck 2:30 as Jack pushed back from the long wooden bench he shared with Eustace and Cyprian in Charms class. He stretched, rolling a cramp out of his shoulders. Care of Magical Creatures. He¡¯d managed to avoid Cassandra all day, but that would be harder now. The practical nature of the class meant working in close quarters, and a mixed House grouping of Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, and some Hufflepuffs offered no easy escape. Shouldering his bag and tucking his left hand into his pocket, he strode down the stone spiral staircase of the Academic Wing, his footsteps echoing as he descended. The stairs were uneven from centuries of use, worn smooth in the middle and treacherously steep. He took them two at a time, moving fast to avoid getting boxed in by slower students. He ducked under a low archway at the bottom and stepped out of the West Tower, emerging into the bright autumn afternoon. The September sun spilled across the castle grounds, warm and golden, glinting off the leaded glass windows of the Great Hall. Jack cut across the Flying Lawn, the grass soft underfoot, and veered down the worn path leading toward the paddocks. A light breeze carried the scent of earth, hay, and distant wood smoke. From the direction of the gamekeeper¡¯s cottage, a thin gray column curled lazily into the sky. Near the paddock fence, a tall, broad-shouldered youth was locked in battle with a crate of what appeared to be angry feather dusters. The struggling objects flapped wildly, shedding bits of fluff, as the young man ¨C who had to be Rubeus, the assistant his classmates had mentioned ¨C attempted to wrestle them under control. "Get back in there, yeh little monsters," the boy was muttering, though ''boy'' was inappropriate for someone already pushing seven feet tall. "Professor MacGregor''ll have my hide if yeh eat his garden again..." "Finally decided to show up, did ye?" came a crotchety Scottish voice. "Gather round, ye dawdlers!" Professor MacGregor emerged from behind the stone fence ¨C a weathered, bandy-legged wizard with a face like a bad-tempered sweet potato crossed with Popeye. He squinted at the assembled students, then at a pocket watch that seemed to be arguing with him. "Yer late," he announced to the pocket watch. "Rubeus! Bring out the specimens!" "Yes, sir!" Rubeus abandoned his duster-wrangling and disappeared into the barn, returning with a collection of large terracotta pots that he handled as gently as baskets of eggs. "Now then," MacGregor stomped over to the pots. "Who can tell me¡ªBLAST IT, KEEP THOSE CONFOUNDED RABBITS AWAY FROM ME BLOODY CABBAGES!" A group of thoroughly ordinary-looking rabbits had appeared at the garden fence. Professor MacGregor looked ready to commit lapicide. "Sorry about that, Professor!" Rubeus scooped up the rabbits, managing to cradle them in one massive hand while balancing another pot. "They''ve got an¡¯ unlocked their hutch agin." "Ruddy lagomorphic fiends¡¯ll be the death of me," MacGregor growled. "Right. As I was saying. Who can tell me the distinguishing features of a Whistling Wartcap?" Jack immediately dropped his gaze to the muddy ground, avoiding eye contact. He¡¯d skimmed the assigned chapter in Magical Beasts of the British Isles but couldn¡¯t for the life of him recall anything beyond "whistling" and "warty." But this class was shared with Ravenclaw, which meant in exactly one second one of them would¨C As predicted, a try-hard Ravenclaw to his left shot her hand into the air with offensive enthusiasm. "It¡¯s a small, mottled brown sentient fungus with three distinct wart-like protrusions on the cap," the girl recited. "When handled or agitated, it emits a sharp whistling sound as a defense mechanism to deter predators. It¡¯s commonly found in damp woodland areas, especially near boggy terrain." "Five points to Ravenclaw," MacGregor said reluctantly. He gestured toward the large, upturned pots arranged on the ground beside him. "We¡¯ve got a batch of ¡®em here, freshly harvested yesterday. Your job is to handle these beauties carefully - carefully, mind ya - and try not to agitate them. If you do, you¡¯ll find out exactly why they¡¯re called Whistling Wartcaps. Bleedin¡¯ headache-inducing." Rubeus chuckled, tucking the last rabbit back into its cage. "Aye, they¡¯ll whistle somethin¡¯ fierce if you¡¯re not gentle! Learned that the hard way meself." "Rubeus, unveil our guests.¡± MacGregor waved behind him. ¡°For our first practical lesson of term, we start with something appropriately gentle." Behind him, Rubeus overturned the pots. A medley of annoyed whistles piped from behind him, like a faulty steam calliope firing up. ¡°Now everyone, partner!¡± Jack promptly melted backwards through the crowd of students to put as much space between himself and Cassandra Hightower as possible. His heel caught on a molehill. "Careful there!" A pair of hands caught his arm just before he fell on his backside. "Are you alright, Jack?" Jack found himself looking down into bright blue eyes and a small, freckled, slightly upturned nose. Lavinia Lloyd smiled up at him as she helped him right himself. He¡¯d seen her before, at meals and in the common room, but never this close. She was pretty tall for a girl - about four inches shorter than him - with round blue eyes and prominent teeth that somehow added to rather than detracted from her charm. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair was just long enough to pull back in a ponytail but short enough that it wouldn''t get in her way. She had a habit of covering her mouth when she laughed, as if embarrassed by her smile, though Jack thought it was a very nice smile when she forgot to hide it. Come to think of it, she reminded him a lot of Katharine Hepburn.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. "Thanks," Jack replied, getting his feet under him. Her hands were still on his arm. "I¡¯m ok. Nice catch." She seemed to realize that she was holding onto him and quickly let go. ¡°Sorry,¡± she apologized, ¡°Just a reflex.¡± The spring in her voice caught his ear ¨C he''d never paid attention to her speaking before, and now that he did he realized that he hadn¡¯t heard anything quite like it. Her words sounded like they were dancing upward at the end of each sentence. His curiosity was piqued so strongly that he found himself asking: "Your accent ¨C where are you from? It''s really..." he searched for an appropriate word, "...it''s really neat." "Oh?" She blinked, surprised, her voice lifting melodically. "Ah¡ªI''m from Aberwyvern." A shy sort of pleasure flickered across her face. "Most people can''t place it." "Is that in¡­Ireland?" Jack tried to remember his British geography. She sounded kind of Irish to his untrained ear. "Wales," she supplied, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Wales," Jack repeated, trying to remember where exactly that was on the map. Was that near Liverpool? "I''ve never met anyone from Wales before. It''s like music when you talk." ¡°Ah, Jack,¡± she ducked her head, dark hair falling forward. "You''re teasing me." "No, honest!" Jack said quickly, charmed by both her accent and her embarrassment about it. "It''s really cool." Lavinia looked confused. "I didn¡¯t realize I sounded like a winter breeze." She tilted her head slightly. Jack paused, ¡°No, ¡®cool¡¯ means nifty.¡± She looked even more confused. ¡°I mean, like¡­stylish!¡± Jack explained hastily. Understanding dawned in her eyes. ¡°Sorry. Not cold¡­¡± ¡°I try not to sound Welsh usually," she admitted, trying to police her voice into Received Pronunciation. "It¡¯s not proper. But sometimes when I''m nervous it slips out¨C" She stopped herself, turning red. Jack was about to ask her more but Professor MacGregor¡¯s coarse brogue called the class to order. "Enough chitter-chatter and time-awastin¡¯," MacGregor said impatiently, "let''s begin. Whistling Wartcaps, lovely peaceful creatures when treated right. Unlike those pestilential rabbits that keep after me veggies!" Lavinia unbuttoned her blouse cuffs and rolled up her sleeves. Unlike many of the other girls who hung back from the more hands-on aspects of this class, she was already reaching for their brown and speckled Wartcap before Rubeus had fully set it down. It was an enormous fungus, nearly a foot in diameter and half again as tall, deceptively light for its size. Two spindly limbs ending in three twiggy fingers waved from its sides. "They like to be scratched just behind their caps," Rubeus explained enthusiastically to them. "Makes ''em whistle different notes. Go ahead and sing to ¡®em and they¡¯ll pick up the tune! If yeh''re gentle, they''ll even harmonize!" For the next hour, Jack and Lavinia worked with their Wartcap, which took a liking to both Jack¡¯s Broadway show tunes and Lavinia¡¯s folk songs. He found himself paying attention to the melody of her voice as they worked, so different from the accents of his friends from Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, and Cumbria. It was especially different from Cassandra''s classy RP. Even Mina''s Irish lilt, which had charmed him from the start, couldn''t compare to the melody in Lavinia''s voice when she forgot to be self-conscious about it. His mind was divided as he worked ¨C partly on Cassandra (who he was steadfastly ignoring) and her father, partly on the upcoming Quidditch tryouts, and partly on trying to get Lavinia to speak more so he could hear her pretty accent. ¡°Hey Semmes,¡± Mossflower called over, ¡°What¡¯s that song from you¡¯ve got your Wartcap singing?¡± ¡°On the Town, it¡¯s from a Muggle musical,¡± Jack replied, glad to get his mind on something familiar and to show off a bit. He scratched the Wartcap again, and its whistling grew more complex. ¡°Hang on, it¡¯s coming around to the chorus.¡± He took a breath as the enormous fungus began to warble, then joined in a duet, his voice carrying across the grounds in a fine baritone: ¡°New York, New York! It¡¯s a helluva town, the Bronx is up and the Battery¡¯s down! The No-Maj ride in a hole in the ground - New York, New York! It¡¯s a helluva town!¡± The Wartcap provided a surprisingly good harmony. A few students applauded, amused by the impromptu performance. MacGregor paused his patrolling to listen. Young Rubeus beamed with pride at his mushroom¡¯s musical talent. "Didn''t know you could sing that well, Semmes," Mossflower chuckled. ¡°You¡¯ll have to come down to the Three Broomsticks during open night!¡± "My mom teaches music and was in wizarding theater back home," Jack explained, giving the Wartcap another scratch. "Hard not to pick it up when you grow up with it. We had to sing a lot at Ilvermorny too." Their Wartcap gave an long appreciative whistle, clearly hoping for more. Lavinia was a good partner, quick to laugh at the mushroom¡¯s attempts at whistling along with Jack''s renditions of Rodgers and Hart. She had rolled her sleeves up past her elbows in the warm afternoon sun, revealing tanned, freckled forearms. If he hadn¡¯t been so caught up in himself, he might have noticed the way she hummed under her breath or how she kept glancing at him while managing their Wartcap. There was something reassuring about the way she handled herself with no fuss or pretense, just capable hands and quiet confidence, the ease of a country girl. The way she sat - perched on the edge of their workbench with one foot tucked under her skirt - wasn''t exactly ladylike, but then again, this was Magical Creatures class. Even the most proper witches had to get their hands dirty. "You''re really good at this," Jack commented, admiring how naturally she worked with the creature. A Ravenclaw girl nearby let out a shriek as her fungus spit up yellowish goop all over her. "I¡¯m used to all sorts of magical beasts," she said, picking a dead bit of lichen off their Wartcap. "We¡¯ve got a valley full of coblynau at home, and there''s a Welsh Green that nests in the mountains south past Conwy town. Bit more interesting than lady stuff¡ª" She caught herself with a smile. MacGregor dismissed the class as the bells rang from the tower. Lavinia shoved her books into her schoolbag, which had a Caerphilly Catapults patch neatly sewn onto the flap. "Jack, I was wondering¨C" She paused, then continued, "Some of us are going flying later, maybe do a race through the valley. If you''re not too busy..." Jack threw his bag over his shoulder, "Flying? That sounds great, but I got Quidditch tryouts! Don''t want to be late!" He gave her an apologetic grin, already backing away. "See you later, ¡®k?" He turned and sprinted up toward the castle, his mind computing how much time it would take to get his gear and get down to the field. Lavinia watched him go and blew an errant strand of hair from her face. Interlude: Ilvermorny 1941 III
With beef and cornbread for my food, and brewing, warding, drilling, I¡¯ve got as thin as twice skimmed milk and scarcely worth the killing; And now I''m used to gentler hands, I¡¯m tough as dragon leather, I do guard duty cheerfully in every kind of weather! Hold your head up, fellow tacks, don¡¯t shake your knees and faint, oh It¡¯s no time to dodge the War, brave wizards, don¡¯t you think so? - The Brave 6th Grader, Ilvermorny Marching Song (sung to the tune of ¡®Yankee Doodle¡¯)
Evening study period found Jack and Ashley in the Ilvermorny library. Its vaulted white ceilings soared twenty feet overhead, crisscrossed with intricate plasterwork, magical formulae and alchemical symbols, gleaming with phosphorescence in the light of floating brass chandeliers that never actually needed polishing but the upperclassmen made the tacks do it anyway. Towering mahogany shelves lined the walls as if on parade, ranks and files packed with knowledge magical and No-Maj. Ancient grimoires bound in dragonhide shared space with pristine new editions of "Magical Theory in the Industrial Age" and ¡°Essentials for Combating Dark Magic¡±, their spines engraved with titles in English, French, Latin, Greek, and others that Jack didn¡¯t have the slightest clue about. Some books whispered to themselves, while others remained still, either normal books or (as Jack¡¯s sore finger attested) lying in ambush. Even the library''s smell spoke of singular purpose - aged leather, parchment, ink, and the faint ozone smell of protective enchantments. The enormous arched windows were framed by panels of dark American walnut, tinted glass enchanted to filter any sunlight that might damage the precious volumes within. By night, as now, they let in sheets of cold moonlight that striped the polished oak floors like prison bars. Jack was positive that this effect wasn''t accidental. At the far end of the main hall, a bronze bust of Edgar Allan Poe (Horned Serpent, 1834) stood mounted above the dark-paneled doorway leading to the Archives and Special Collections. The wizarding poet''s weathered gaze surveyed the studious assembly below with what Jack swore was wry amusement. The study tables were long, unyielding slabs of oak, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of quills and elbows. Despite the librarians'' best efforts, the wood was etched with tiny artifacts of history - initials of long-graduated cadets, the occasional scorch mark from a miscast spell, and what looked like tooth marks on one corner. A Benjamin swore they were from a seventh-year''s transfiguration project gone wrong back in 1887. Stiff-backed wooden chairs, their seats polished by decades of restless students, creaked softly under the weight of cadets bent over their work. The quiet scratch of quills on parchment formed a constant undertone, punctuated by the occasional rustle of turning pages or muffled cough. Speaking was permitted only in whispers, and then only for academic consultation. The librarian, Mr. Graves - a wizard so old that the cadet rumormill claimed he''d helped Benjamin Franklin with his thesis research - patrolled the aisles like a revenant, appearing whenever conversation threatened to rise above a murmur. This was no haven for idle reading or flights of fancy. Recreational books were strictly regulated for tacks - no fiction unless it had direct magical educational value. Adventure stories, romance novels and (Franklin forbid) comic books were contraband, treated with the same severity as forbidden potions or cursed magical artifacts. The library was a temple dedicated to serious study and intellectual rigor.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. The Deep Stacks lurked below the subterranean Archives in an iron-bound vault door, its contents hidden behind layers of protective spells. Only cadets from the Upper School with special permission could access its depths. Jack had heard talk of books bound in hideous materials, some that screamed when opened, and others that could only be read by candlelight at midnight. But for now, he and his fellow tacks were limited to the main collection on the ground floor - which was more than daunting enough. Brass reading lamps with green glass shades cast pools of light onto each workspace, their arms fully adjustable to eliminate any excuse for poor posture or eye strain. These lamps were enchanted to turn off automatically if a cadet''s head began to droop. Specially labeled ¡®tack models¡¯ augmented the dimmer switch with a nasty slap across the sleeper¡¯s face with their brass arm. Upperclassmen reserved those seats especially for boys from the Lower School. Here in this sanctum of learning, under the stern gaze of Mr. Graves and the enigmatic smile of Poe, tacks began their long journey toward magical mastery. Every recitation, every examination, every academic triumph or failure was born in these hours of rigid study, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of three centuries of American wizardry. "Six straight days of torture," Jack sighed, looking at their weekly schedule. "Then Sunday¡¯s off." "Off is a relative term," Ashley replied in an undertone, not looking up from his algebra homework. "We still have formation, chapel, and all the deviling they do to us in the barracks." ¡°I hate this place,¡± Jack whispered. ¡°So quit.¡± ¡°To hell with that.¡± Their world shrunk to the few buildings they were allowed to access and the paths in between - the barracks, academic building, gymnasium, and library. The parade ground might as well have been an ocean, separating them from the mysterious College across the way and the civilized world beyond. Even the paths along the forested slopes of Mount Greylock were off-limits to them. "You know what I miss?" Ashley asked as they prepared for bed that night. "Walking. Not marching or double-timing or that stupid skip that Strait makes us do when he¡¯s deviling us." Jack grinned around his toothbrush, ¡°I thought you johnny rebs ¡®strolled¡¯ everywhere?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not what y¡¯all were saying when Stonewall kicked your Yankee tails up and down the Shenandoah in two weeks,¡± Ashley replied, carefully lining his shoes up under his bed. ¡°Don¡¯t make me invoke Sherman, Main.¡± Ashley¡¯s eyes narrowed, "You call him up, Semmes, and I swear by all the biscuits in Dixie, I¡¯ll hex you so bad your great-granddaddy will feel it in his portrait." "Sorry. You know what I miss? I miss my watch," Jack rinsed out his mouth and changed the subject. "Never thought I''d have to tell time by the sun like some kind of voyageur." "At least we''re becoming wizards of character," Ashley yawned and carefully stretched out on his cot. "That''s what my papa says." "Is that what this is? Feels more like they''re trying to break us down into slime molds." The night guard''s footsteps passed their door - right on schedule, like everything else in their new life. Tomorrow would bring another day of classes, exercise, inspections, and endless drills. But they were adapting, slowly learning the intricate routine of life at America''s premier magical finishing school for boys. "Hey Main," Jack whispered into the darkness. "Yeah?" "Think we''ll ever get used to this?" "The Benjamins say by Christmas we won''t even remember what life was like outside." Jack groaned into his pillow, "We''re never gonna make it." Interlude: Hogwarts 1941 II Cassandra excelled in silence. While other Ravenclaws shot their hands up or waved them frantically in class, she raised her hand only once per lesson and otherwise only spoke when called upon. Professor Vale found her potions expertly brewed, no additional instruction needed. Professor Brightwell saw her feather floating serenely five seconds after he''d finished explaining the levitation charm. She didn''t allow herself to pleasure in being first ¨C it was what was expected of her. "Your match-to-needle transformation is quite advanced, Miss Hightower," Professor Winterborn noted during Transfiguration, "Five points to Ravenclaw." ¡°Thank you Professor,¡± Cassandra nodded, already focused on her next attempt. She heard whispers behind her: "Show-off." "Teacher''s pet." ¡°Rich witch.¡± "Toff.¡± She kept her face blank, the way Mother had taught her. A lady never shows distress in public. No matter how much her eyes burned, her heart clenched, and her skin prickled. The club fair in the Great Hall should have been fun and exciting. Dozens of tables lined the walls, older students calling out to first-years to join everything from the Astronomy Society to the Wizard''s Chess Club. Cassandra had privately imagined herself joining the Ancient Runes Study Group, her grandmother on her father¡¯s side had been one of the founding members, or perhaps the Magical Theory Society... But the noise. The chaos. Students shouting and laughing, magical demonstrations blasting off in every direction, a group of older Gryffindor boys enchanting paper airplanes to bomb and strafe passersby with confetti. She lasted two terrible minutes before retreating to the library, hands shaking as she pulled out her Potions textbook. The quiet was balm to her nerves. She didn¡¯t need a club. Not right now at least. Maybe she would join one next month, once everyone and everything had quieted down a little bit. Her first encounter with the Gryffindors happened between Charms and History of Magic. She was walking alone - as usual - when raucous laughter echoed down the corridor. Three first-year boys rounded the corner, ties askew and robes unbuttoned in defiance of the school uniform regulations that Cassandra had memorized before arriving. They looked like an angled gradient in motion, from short and solid to medium to tall and skinny. She recognized the shabbily-dressed boy in the middle immediately ¨C Henry, son of Lord Hamish Ravenhurst ¨C Mother had pointed his family out at King''s Cross, whispering about how far the mighty had fallen. "To think, the Earl of Ravenhurst used to own half of Yorkshire. Now he grows corn like a common Muggle. Though I suppose even that''s too much work for young Henry ¨C look at him, wild as a March hare." Cassandra pushed the thought away. It wasn''t fair to judge him by his circumstances. Instead she clutched her books tighter as they approached. Gryffindor boys were always so loud. Henry was laughing boisterously at something the taller boy ¨C Marshwiggle? From Leicester, or was it Lincolnshire? ¨C had said. Henry¡¯s sandy hair was tousled, his shirt untucked. He had a candy cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Everything about him radiated an easygoing disregard for propriety that made Cassandra''s nose wrinkle. "Look who it is," Marshwiggle called out. His accent, definitely a fenman. Lincolnshire. He had a sticking plaster on his chin and looked (and sounded) like a delinquent. He reminded her unnervingly of the rough boys who loitered outside the shops near Knockturn Alley. "Her Royal Highness of Ravenclaw." "I¡­beg your pardon?" Cassandra''s voice came out stiffer than intended. She''d meant to be polite ¨C Grandmama always said courtesy cost nothing ¨C but her nervousness made the words stilted and frozen.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. "Oh, do beg our pardon, Your Grace," Marshwiggle swept into an exaggerated bow. "We''re nowt but humble peasants and peat thieves in your most honored presence." Henry''s cocky smile faded as he studied her with round hazel eyes. She ignored his footmen and met his gaze steadily, chin lifted. One noble to another. "Come off it, Ted," the third boy ¨C the short one, Brackenby ¨C said. "We''ll be late fer History." "Aye, wouldn''t want to keep Her Majesty waiting," Marshwiggle smirked in her periphery. "She''s off to read the whole year''s curriculum for the second time." "I believe in being prepared," Cassandra said with her head high, wishing she knew how to make it sound less prissy. Henry''s eyes narrowed, clearly hearing condescension where she''d meant simple explanation. "Better t''be unprepared than unpleasant," he said. "Come on, lads." They brushed past her, Marshwiggle deliberately bumping her shoulder. Cassandra stayed still until they''d gone halfway down the hall, then carefully smoothed her robes. The gesture helped calm her racing heart. She was seven minutes early to History of Magic. When the Gryffindor boys clattered in just before the bell, she kept her eyes fixed on Professor Binns'' desk. She didn''t need their approval. She had to prove herself to her professors and her parents. She had her books, her studies, and her grades. That evening in the common room, she overheard Maggie Clearwater describing the Charms Club meeting ¨C they''d learned to make bubbles that played musical jingles when popped. Cassandra stayed at her window seat, knees tucked up to her chin, textbook propped on her lap, trying to tune out the laughter from the group by the fireplace. It sounded fun. A Hightower didn''t need fun. She reproached herself. A Hightower needs excellence. "Cassandra! There you are!" She suppressed a wince at Caeso Montfort''s shrill voice. He was standing in the middle of the common room, surrounded by a cluster of admirers that he had made no time in assembling from his fellow first-year boys. Caeso and she had met before at various society functions ¨C most recently at the Malfoys'' New Year''s celebration, where their mothers had exchanged meaningful glances while they''d stood next to each other during the children''s toast. "Good evening, Caeso," she replied politely, looking up from her book for exactly three seconds to make brief eye contact before returning them to Faeriefire and Fractals: Arithmancy in Nature. "Come, come, we''re all friends here!" He flopped into the end of the window seat opposite her, earning a few titters from his audience. "You can''t spend all your time studying. Tell everyone about that brilliant thing you said at the Malfoys'' party ¨C you know, about the proper organization of the Ministry?" Cassandra felt her cheeks warm. She hadn''t said anything brilliant ¨C she''d repeated something she''d overheard Papa saying about departmental restructuring in the Foreign Office. And she''d only said it because Mother had prompted her to "share her thoughts" with Caeso and the hovering Mrs. Montfort. "I''m afraid I don''t recall," she said with an apologetic smile at the boys staring at her. "Always so modest!" Caeso grinned, turning to attract the most possible attention. "You see? This is precisely why Hightower and I get on so well. Our families, you know, we¡¯ve got long histories together. We understand each other!¡± I don''t think we understand each other at all, Cassandra thought. She gave him the polite smile her governess had drilled into her for exactly these situations. "Did you hear?" one of Caeso''s followers piped up. "Montfort''s father is getting him a new racing broom for Christmas!" "The Meteorite ¡®42," Caeso preened, not even trying to fake modesty. "Not even released to the public yet. Father knows the designer. You''ll come watch me fly it for the first time, won''t you, Cassandra?" ¡°O-of course,¡± She suppressed a shudder at the thought of getting anywhere near a racing broom. She hated heights. Even seeing people flying at heights made her head turn queer. "I''m sure you''ll be very impressive." "See?" Caeso turned to his audience triumphantly. "Hightower knows quality when she sees it. Not like some people in this school, like those silly fools down in Slytherin." He launched into a story about his family''s second summer home on Capri and how dreadfully difficult it was to get there now with the Grindlewalders in the way, having gotten what he wanted from the interaction ¨C the endorsement of the other noble pure-blood in their year. Cassandra feigned interest for ninety seconds and - when she was not called upon again ¨C returned to her book, letting his voice fade into the background. She noticed Maggie Clearwater watching the exchange from the fireplace with wide eyes. The other girl quickly looked away when Cassandra caught her. Merlin. Please, stop watching me. She was just doing what was expected of her. Being polite to the right people. Ensuring no bridges were burnt. Exactly what Mother had told her. 33. Tryouts Jack burst into the Gryffindor common room, taking the stairs to the dormitory three at a time. He had just enough time to change and get down to the pitch. Flying would help, he told himself as he pounded back down the stairs with broom in hand. Flying always helped. Even if he had to fly right past Ravenclaw Tower to get there, which he did, but at a much lower altitude this time. Jack touched down on the pitch, pulling on his riding gloves with his teeth. He''d made good time flying from the Quad Courtyard, even if he''d had to take the long way around to avoid certain windows. Algy was already standing under the Gryffindor stands with a clipboard in his hand and a gaggle of first-years and other aspirants around him. He looked like a pre-war gentleman out for a leisurely ride in his long crimson duster, gold knee socks, leather helmet, and goggles. Henry and the rest of the team were doing warm-up laps overhead. The other three houses were conducting their own tryouts on their respective sides of the pitch. Algy took one look at Jack''s broom as he approached and gawked. "Merlin''s beard, Semmes, what is that?" "Henricus Model B," Jack said self-consciously. He¡¯d expected this reception. ¡°Teddy did mention it¡¯s on the slow side.¡± "That''s not a broom, that''s a bleeding health hazard." Algy shook his head, then looked up at his orbiting players. "Ravenhurst!¡± Henry broke formation and swooped down next to them, ¡°You called, Algy?¡± Fairburne lowered his voice, ¡°Take our colonial to the equipment shed. Get him Ratburn''s old Spitfire." "The Stormrider?" Henry''s eyes lit up. "That''s a proper broom." The equipment shed smelled of leather and wood polish. Jack waited in the door while Henry rummaged through the team brooms until he found what he was looking for - a sleek maroon racing broom with swept-back twigs and brass fittings that gleamed despite its age. "Ratburn was our star Chaser last year," Henry explained, handling the broom reverently. "Horrible at literally everything else, mind you, but brilliant in the air. He gave this one to the team after he upgraded to a Supermagus Lightning seventh-year. This is a ''39 Spitfire. They made them specially for Chasers - balanced for one-handed flying, tight turning radius, favors acceleration over top speed." Jack ran his hand along the polished handle. It hummed under his touch, eager to fly. ¡°I like the name,¡± he said appreciatively. ¡°So did the Muggles,¡± Henry grinned. ¡°Named one of their fighter planes after it.¡± Back on the pitch, Algy had the hopefuls running basic drills. "Right, Semmes! You¡¯ve got the most experience out of this lot. Show these grubs how it''s done. Basic weaving pattern, then some passing with Henry."This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Jack mounted the Spitfire, and immediately knew this was nothing like his old Henricus. The broom responded to the lightest touch, cutting through the air like a knife. He wove through the floating markers Algy had set up, each turn tighter than the last. It wasn¡¯t too different from flying in the Ilvermorny Dome, he told himself. At least¡­in nice weather like this. ¡°Not bad,¡± Fairburne noted. "Let''s see what Yank Exploding Hot Potato has taught you.¡± He pulled out a Quaffle and punted it high into the air. Henry rose to meet him, and they began a series of increasingly complex passing drills. Jack was not the fastest straight-line flier, but Quodpot had made him extremely agile after he had adjusted to his new broom. The stability of the Spitfire made everything easier. Jack could grip the broom with his knees, leaving both hands free for catching and throwing. Years of Quopro had given him good aim, and he had a wickedly fast baseball-style sidearm that surprised the other players. "Wild," Algy mused, watching Jack''s technique. "But effective. Let¡¯s see how you fare in a fight. Bludgers out boys!" The real test came with the full-team scrimmage. Jack found himself working with Henry and a fourth-year boy named Brian Hawke, while Oliver kept goal and Teddy aimed Bludgers their way. It wasn''t perfect - Jack still reverted to his old habits, trying to force the Quaffle in a pass after he felt that he''d been holding it for too long - but flying was flying, and after a few tries something clicked. He caught a pass from Henry and wove nimbly through the defense. Then he barrel rolled to avoid a Bludger and put the Quaffle around Oliver through the left hoop with a neat backhand throw. They scored six times in ten minutes. Oliver was cursing under his breath by the third. Todd Brock the Seeker sat on a conjured chair and drank ginger beer until Algy yelled at him and set him off chasing a practice Snitch. Pal Hitchens tried out for Seeker, crashed his broom into the stands, and was ordered to the sidelines crying. Finally, Algy called them all down. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the pitch. Jack tried to look confident as the captain consulted his notes. "Right then. Starting Chasers this year: Ravenhurst, myself, and... Semmes." Algy fixed Jack with a stern look. ¡°You''re Number Three Chaser. Ravenhurst, you move up to striker. Hawke, Morton ¨C you''re reserves. For the rest of you, sorry, please try out again next year." The disappointment of the first-years especially was palpable, but Jack was too relieved to feel guilty as Henry and the others slapped his back and collegially welcomed him to the team. "You¡¯re good, Semmes, but still progress to be made. Work on those corners,¡± Algy said. ¡°And for Merlin''s sake, stop holding the Quaffle like it''s about to blow up. This isn''t Salem bloody Stadium." "Gotham Park," Jack corrected, ¡°I¡¯m a Giants fan.¡± "Same country." Algy waved him off and turned to the rest of the team. "First practice Saturday morning before breakfast. Do not be late! Oh and Semmes,¡± he pulled Jack aside. ¡°Take the Spitfire back with you. You need to get used to it.¡± As they headed back to the castle, Jack felt better than he had all week. Henry and the others were already talking tactics for their first match against Hufflepuff. For a moment, Jack almost forgot about everything else - homework, the suspicion, the complicated mess he had found himself in. "Come on," Henry said as a red-headed Ravenclaw hove in view on the path to the pitch. "Let''s get you back before Ludd adds another week of detention for busting your gate." 34. Solitude by Starlight The library was cavernous and vacant. It was a warm and sultry Friday evening outside. Jack could practically hear the distant hum of laughter and the occasional pop of celebratory magic from Hogsmeade. He hunched over his Transfiguration homework, ignoring Ludd''s passive-aggressive sighs and throat-clearing grunts from where she had commandeered Ms. Quillworth''s desk. He''d learned his lesson about talking back. When detention finally ended, even Ludd seemed eager to be done with it. "Same time tomorrow, Semmes," she said curtly, gathering her things and putting on her coat. "Be punctual." It was a lonely walk back to Gryffindor Tower. Even Peeves had abandoned the corridors for livelier environs. Portraits whispered as he passed, spreading their takes on the latest school gossip: "Michel and Fairburne? Impossible! A Slytherin and a Gryffindor¡ªwhy, in our day, that would have been a duel at dawn!" "¨Cdungbombs in the Prefects¡¯ Bathroom. The beadle was scrubbing the ceiling!" Everyone was out in Hogsmeade. Everyone except him. The common room was nearly empty. A few first-years were still up. The boys were playing Exploding Snap in the corner. Studious little Minerva McGonagall was dozing over a book. Pal looked up hopefully when Jack entered. ¡°Care to play with us, Mr. Semmes?¡± he asked. ¡°Not tonight, Pal, sorry.¡± Jack couldn¡¯t handle exuberant children right now. Especially junior agents. He slumped into an armchair by the fire, next to the radio. On Jack and Teddy¡¯s request, Oliver had ingeniously run an extension to the antenna out though the window and hooked it directly into the metal spire of Gryffindor Tower, massively increasing its range. With a powerful enough emitter, it could probably pick up broadcasts from outer space now. But as it was, Jack fiddled with the lower end of the dial until he caught the familiar crackle of W.A.N.D.''s evening broadcast. He kept the volume low so as not to bother anyone. "¡ªand that''s the weather from Salem to San Francisco. Before our evening music program, we have the news: President Truman met with President Longchamp* at Camp David to discuss MACUSA''s concerns about the growing Soviet presence in Eastern Europe today, while the No-Maj Congress continues to debate the General Marshall Plan. And in New York, magical activity continues to interfere with the new No-Maj television broadcasts. Remember folks, keep those wands away from your TV if you want to see! ¡°And now, coming to you live from the Crystal Ballroom, the No-Maj Titan of the Trombone bringing you a Jerome Kern classic that will keep your toe tapping and your girl swinging all Friday night long: Tommy Dorsey and his Orchestra with ''All the Things You Are.''" The strains of warm strings and mellow brass filled the air around him.
¡°Time and again I''ve longed for adventure, Something to make my heart beat the faster. What did I long for? I never really knew¡­¡±
Jack lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl up toward the common room''s vaulted ceiling. He picked up the issue of the Daily Prophet on the end table and glanced at the headline: "Wizarding East Rises: MaChK¡¯s Bold Reforms at Durmstrang." He tossed it aside. One week. Just one week since setting foot on this stupid continent that his dad¡¯s side of his family tree spent every last red cent to get away from, and everything had gone sideways. He''d wanted adventure, alright. Wanted to see Europe, take in the world, meet girls, maybe make a name for himself beyond being the son of Thomas Semmes, war hero, Franklin Medal recipient. Now he was stuck in a tower on a Friday night, while everyone else was off having the time of their lives. Probably talking about him, without him.
¡°You are the promised kiss of springtime That makes the lonely winter seem long. You are the breathless hush of evening That trembles on the brink of a lovely song¡­¡±
He closed his eyes, trying to pretend he was back home at Ilvermorny. Back where things made sense. Where everything had its place after five years of institutionalisation. Where he could play Quodpot without having to relearn every habit, where kids didn¡¯t follow him around like lemmings, where he could cast spells without being corrected by Winterborn for "sloppy technique," where people drove on the right, where he could talk to a dame without it becoming a freaking international incident. Even as he thought it, he knew he didn''t mean it. Because Cassandra Hightower wasn¡¯t back there. Everything else seemed tawdry by comparison. And being at Ilvermorny sucked. He grinned in spite of himself. Have some perspective. The magical smoke from his cigarette responded to his thoughts and formed shapes in the firelight - a car, a broomstick, and a girl with flowing hair wearing a long coat. Jack puffed out a smoke cloud that turned into the shape of a boy like himself. The car and broomstick dissolved as the two little figures began slowly dancing together¡­ If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.
¡°You are the angel glow that lights a star, The dearest things I know are what you are. Some day my happy arms will hold you, And some day I''ll know that moment divine, When all the things you are, are mine!¡±
"Pathetic, Semmes. Playing with dolls," he muttered, and waved his hand in the air to dispel the smoke. His mind wandered to her back again, and he caught himself with a surge of frustration. What was the matter with him? She clearly couldn''t stand him. And why shouldn''t she? He was making her life miserable, just like Ludd said. Every time someone saw them together now, even in class, they''d be wondering if it was part of some stupid scheme. Every interaction scrutinized, analyzed, and reported back. Jack lit a second cigarette with the stub end of his first and viciously threw the spent one into the fireplace. She was off limits. And, even if by some miracle she did like him - which she definitely didn''t, that gesture in Ravenclaw Tower was just a fluke - it would only cause problems for everyone. Merlin¡¯s breath, what would her parents think?! The duchess-heiress, bringing home a schmuck like you? You¡¯re nothing but trouble for her! The announcer returned: ¡°And now wizards and witches, what''s the one thing we never seem to have enough of? That''s right - time! Well, we''ve got just the remedy for your timepiece troubles, coming to you live from the Crystal Ballroom, RCA Building in Manhattan. Here''s Jule Styne''s new magical meditation on moments that matter, ''Time After Time¡¯...
¡°Time after time I tell myself that I''m So lucky to be loving you¡­¡±
¡°Franklin¡¯s forty eight states,¡± Jack growled, ¡°Is every damn song about being in love?¡± He didn¡¯t change the station though. Stay away from her, the rational part of his mind in his developing prefrontal cortex urged. It made perfect sense. Clear as crystal. Simple as that. Easy peasy. Just stop thinking about her. You got good friends here. Find a new dame. Focus on having fun. Focus on classes. Focus on literally anything else. But what if... spoke up his emotional side, deeply entrenched in his robust limbic system. What if that almost-smile meant something? What if she secretly likes you and can¡¯t show it? What if¡ª What if you get her in trouble, you moron? Logic countered. What if Ludd is right? What if Montfort gets you thrown out because of her? What if you get Dad in trouble? Screw you man, this is a girl in a million. Heck, she¡¯s a girl in a million WITH a million! She¡¯s rich AND beautiful. Don¡¯t you wanna date a duchess? Why would any red-blooded American boy let a chance like this slip away? C¡¯mon, what would Main and the guys back home say? You¡¯re thinking with your thing. Find. Another. Broad. No way Jos¨¦, did you notice how she slightly bites her lower lip when she¡¯s concentrating on something? Those lips look pretty kissable to me. Jack stirred at the memory. You know what, I got a better idea, just swear dames off entirely until we get back home and find someone sane¨C Or how she puts her hair back into her braid when it gets loose? ¨Ca nice American girl. That¡¯s what we need. One of those Southern dolls with sass and fancy dresses. Have Main introduce us. Or the way her robes rise above her ankles when she walks¡­ STOP! I¡¯M BEGGING YOU! FOR THE LOVE OF FRANKLIN, STOP THINKING ABOUT¨C BANG! A particularly explosive round of Snap from the first-years'' corner shattered his internal argument. Jack turned slowly in his chair like a movie villain, cigarette smoldering in his hand. Pal and Mel were rolling with laughter along with two more of their classmates. Wiggy''s eyebrows were smoking. The hilarity died instantly as Jack glared at them. The cards, sensing the mood, didn''t dare make another sound. Jack slouched back in his armchair and half-closed his eyes. A small pig-tailed shadow fell across him. He looked up to find Minerva McGonagall standing next to him. Her back was as straight as a ruler, her chin lifted as she clutched a large book to her chest. She pushed her square-rimmed glasses up her nose. ¡°Mr. Semmes,¡± she said in a tone that sounded comically grown-up coming from an eleven-year-old, "I noticed you seemed distressed. Perhaps you might enjoy this." She held out the book with both hands. Jack blinked, anger forgotten as he took in the beautiful volume. The cover was bound in deep green leather traced with silver runes that shifted and glowed like starlight. A miniature mountain range rose from its surface, complete with tiny pine trees and wisps of mist. As he watched, a minuscule red dragon soared across the peaks. ¡°It¡¯s a special edition,¡± Minerva explained, like she was delivering a well-practiced recitation in class. ¡°The illustrations move, but only when you want them to. They shan¡¯t distract you otherwise.¡± ¡°Wow. Thanks, Minnie.¡± Jack opened the book as Minerva retired upstairs to the girls¡¯ dorm. The pages carried the scent of fresh pine needles and wood smoke. He turned to the first page:
"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit."
*Kingfisher Longchamp (1897¨C1951): The fiery and divisive president of MACUSA from 1944 to 1951, Longchamp ascended to office during a period of global magical reconstruction following the Great Wizarding War. Born in the Louisiana magical enclave of Bayou de Sorcier, Longchamp rose to prominence as a spellbinding orator and political powerhouse, leveraging his appeal to push through sweeping reforms in post-war wizarding America. His tenure is remembered for ambitious modernization efforts, strengthening the office of the Presidency, and fierce rhetoric. Longchamp¡¯s vision for MACUSA revolved around empowering "the common witch and wizard" while rooting out "dangerous radicalism in our midst." A staunch opponent of Equitism, which he denounced as ¡°a Trojan horse,¡± Longchamp enacted strict laws limiting the influence of Muggle integration and magical creature advocacy groups. He also massively expanded the Auror Corps, justifying it as necessary to combat internal and external threats to the American magical community. In foreign policy, Longchamp sought to elevate MACUSA¡¯s influence on the global stage. He fostered closer ties with wizarding Britain and Japan, arguing that strong alliances were vital to counter both influence from the Soviet MaChK and "creeping equitist sympathies" in Europe and Asia. His Wizarding Reconstruction Act of 1948 (also known as the Longchamp Plan) provided generous funding for magical infrastructure and education for countries rebuilding from the Great Wizarding War (especially Great Britain), though critics claimed his programs also benefited his political allies in the rural magical U.S. states. Longchamp¡¯s larger-than-life personality and authoritarian tendencies earned him both fervent supporters and bitter enemies. His controversial policies and fear of his growing power culminated in his assassination by an Equitist sympathizer in 1951 at the height of the Secret Wizarding War. Despite his contentious legacy, Longchamp is credited with reshaping MACUSA into the assertive global force that it remains to this day. Meier, Sidonius. (1996). Power From the People: The Presidents Who Shaped Magical America. Philadelphia: Fiery Axis Publishing. 35. The Fellowship of the Common Room The portrait hole burst open just after ten, spilling in laughter and a warm, caramel, boozy smell. Henry, Teddy, and Oliver tumbled through after a group of giggling fifth-year girls, rosy-cheeked from the walk back and clearly in very high spirits. "Jack!" Henry called out. "Pull up some chairs, old sport, we''ve brought you some booty!" "Hey guys," Jack greeted them distractedly, not looking up from the book. "Bilbo and the dwarves just got caught by three trolls¨C" "Oh, that part is brilliant!" Teddy proclaimed cheerfully, swaying slightly. "Gandalf tricks ''em into arguing till sunrise and they all turn to stone!" ¡°Marshy!¡± Jack raised his eyes, outraged. "You just spoiled it!" "Oh¡­sorry mate," Teddy had the grace to look slightly abashed, then brightened. "Come on now, look what we brought you!" His three friends gathered around him, producing packages from their coat pockets. Honeydukes chocolates, a large bag of Pepper Imp Crisps, and - Jack''s eyes lit up - three packs of Ignis Fatuus cigarettes. "Figured you''d be running low," Oliver explained, tossing him the tobacco. "I''m still ticked off about you spoiling that, Teddy," Jack grumbled, stacking the packs into a little pyramid and helping Henry pull up two more armchairs. "Merlin, that is a nice copy of Tolkien! That¡¯s not the paperback editions the library¡¯s got." Henry whistled, peering at the enchanted cover with interest. ¡°Where¡¯d you get it?¡± "McGonagall let me borrow it," Jack replied, carefully marking his place with a paper bookmark. "After I almost hexed Pal and Wiggy for blowing up their Snap cards." "The little first-year with the glasses?" Oliver asked. "Didn''t know she had it in her to be social." "She''s not social, she''s considerate," Jack corrected, feeling oddly protective. He snatched the book away before Oliver could place an ashtray on it. "And this is a really nice book, so don¡¯t use it as a friggin¡¯ coaster!" Oliver raised his hands in mock surrender, but before he could retort, Teddy leaned forward with a wide grin. "The best is saved for last," Teddy said with a flourish, pulling out a preposterously large bottle out of his inner coat pocket, "This is the latest from Madam Welcome at the Three Broomsticks ¨C ''Ginger Snapdragon.'' Has a bit of a kick. And by that I mean it kicks like a sleipnir." "You shouldn¡¯t have," Jack grinned, examining the bottle''s warning label. The first-year boys perked up from the corner, watching with interest as the older boys broke out their contraband. "Fetch us some glasses, Hitchens," Henry waved him over and settled into the chair opposite Jack. Pal jumped up from his game and scurried off to the drinks cabinet under the stairs. The radio started playing ¡®Take the ¡®A¡¯ Train¡¯. "This some of your American Muggle jazz? I like it.¡± Henry¡¯s toe wagged lazily to the swing beat. Jack adjusted the wireless, tuning out the static and turning up the volume slightly. ¡°Here you go Mr. Ravenhurst!¡± Palamedes Hitchens raced back with four lowball glasses for them. Henry tossed him a Honeydukes chocolate, adding a shove with his foot to send him back to his corner. Teddy filled the glasses a third full with the precision of a practiced tapster. The liquid swirled through shifting colors of iridescent gold and red like glowing embers. "To making it through, to friends tried and true," Henry raised his glass. "Here''s to the lads, may no witch split our crew!" Teddy added waggishly. They drained their glasses. The Ginger Snapdragon burned all the way down Jack¡¯s throat as if it were 160 proof, then went off in his stomach like a bomb. A pleasant warmth flooded outward to his extremities, and his mind went slightly floaty for a second before everything shot back into focus. The aftertaste was like a spiced Christmas cookie. There was a chorus of coughing. ¡°Merlin¡¯s false teeth,¡± Henry squeaked in a higher voice than usual. ¡°¡®Bit of a kick¡¯, eh Ted?¡± ¡°Ahem¡­¡± Teddy refilled their glasses, his face bright red. ¡°Must be brewed with pure cinnamon bark,¡± he whispered. ¡°And capsicum.¡± Oliver massaged his cheeks, "My tung''sh gon num.¡± "That means it''s working!" Teddy declared with a grin. The second round went down smoother, and the euphoric effect lasted longer. They sprawled in their chairs by the fire, swapping stories from Hogsmeade and Ilvermorny¡¯s Adams, their laughter punctuated by coughs and tiny, sparking hiccups. Mina and Lavinia shooed the remaining first-years up to bed at 10:30 and declined Henry''s invitation to join them. Lavinia hesitated at the stairs, looking back, but Mina tugged her along. "Saw Mossflower cornered by O¡¯Neill when we walked into The Three Broomsticks," Teddy grinned. "Poor beggar gave us a look that cried ¡®Help me!¡¯¡± "Speaking of helping..." Henry produced a bag of squishy autumn-colored candies. "Got you a little something from Honeydukes. Their own seasonal line: Moodmellows. Guaranteed to improve your disposition or your money back." "And even if they don''t work," Oliver added, "They¡¯ll go down easier than Teddy''s knucker milk here." ¡°Thanks guys,¡± Jack smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t be down about the gating, old sport,¡± Henry said encouragingly, ¡°Hogsmeade won¡¯t be any different by late September, and the autumn leaves will be properly out.¡± They passed around the bottle and sampled the Moodmellows, which filled Jack¡¯s mouth with warm flavors of cinnamon, apple, and deep-fried dough that made his ears and nose steam pleasantly. "These aren''t half bad," Jack admitted, reaching for another butterscotch-colored mallow. His whole body felt warm and bubbly, as if he was floating in a hot spring. "Better than eating your feelings in the library with Ludd tomorrow night," Teddy agreed, then yelped as Jack kicked him while laughing. The combination of good drinks, magical candy, and good company had lifted his spirits considerably. Every Moodmellow added another layer of golden comfort to the evening. The fire crackled merrily, Bing Crosby crooned about blue skies, and even detention tomorrow felt like a distant concern. His prefrontal cortex had been thoroughly routed from the field. In fact, Jack was starting to have a brilliant idea. That brand-new (to him) Spitfire was in his dorm room. If Cassandra had gone to Hogsmeade, she would be back by now. Probably sitting by her window in the faculty tower, maybe reading by lamplight. Which window would it be? He could fly up there to check. Not to talk to her, obviously - just to see if she was ok. To make sure Montfort hadn''t been bothering her. It wasn''t that far past curfew yet, technically. And he was such a good flier now, especially after today''s practice. He could hover there, quiet as a ghost, just for a moment... The thought filled him with a warm, burning certainty. Yes. This was exactly what he should do. This would solve everything. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "Say," Jack said, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a country mile, "do the dormitory windows open all the way? Like, person-sized all the way?" A contemplative silence fell. The wireless warbled ''Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.'' "Trying to sneak out? To where?" Oliver frowned, then his eyes widened with belated realization. "Oh no. No, no, no, no, no." "I just want to find her window," Jack said, the idea seeming perfectly reasonable. There¡¯s no way MacLeod could get upset about something as innocent as that. "Just to see if she''s ok.¡± "No Jack," Henry said firmly. Then ruined the sound of his resolve with a loud hiccup. "Absolutely not." "But I just want to apologize," Jack defended himself. "In the moonlight!" "That''s the Snapdragon and your silly Muggle movies talking, Semmes." Teddy burped a dancing spark that burst into little pink stars. "Serenading after midnight is poncey. Witches don¡¯t want to hear you gassing when the lights get low. Actions speak louder than words. Just fly up there and grab a hold of her thickest bits." ¡°Godric¡¯s sake, shut up Marshy!¡± Henry snickered. ¡°I¡¯d take love advice from a drunken gnome before listening to you two.¡± "That Hightower is built like a secret," Teddy continued undiminished, "She¡¯s been swanning about in expensive robes these past five years, never seen her outside a knee-length skirt and stockings. Merlin knows what she¡¯s hiding under those sweaters! Could be all bony angles, could be the softest, ripest peaches you¡¯ve ever seen." Jack sputtered, his drunkenness dispersed in an instant. "Franklin''s kite, Marshy!" Oliver and Henry roared with laughter. "Ah, now he¡¯s thinking about it!" Teddy cackled, pointing triumphantly. "A mystery, isn¡¯t she? All that fabric, all those high collars¡­she''s a royal pain in the arse but I bet that¡¯s why you''re so interested in melting that ice witch. I''ll bet a Galleon she¡¯s got legs like a chorus girl, Yank." ¡°Mate,¡± Oliver leaned over and put his hand companionably on Jack¡¯s, ¡°There might be a time for that, but it¡¯s sure as hellfire not right now.¡± Jack felt the great idea slip through his fingers like dry sand, leaving behind a hollow feeling that he¡¯d almost done something incredibly stupid. Teddy, smug as ever, stretched out like a fox that had just raided the henhouse. "Not for me, all that ice and prudery," he smirked, lighting a cigarette. "I prefer witches who know things a bloke isn¡¯t supposed to know. Let me tell you what I got up to in the Restricted Section last term." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Let¡¯s just say, the books weren¡¯t the only things getting thoroughly stuffed between the shelves." He blew a perfect smoke ring, grinning through the haze like the Devil himself. Oliver snorted. "Yeah? With which girl, Marshy?" Teddy¡¯s grin widened. ¡°Now, now, old sport. A gentlewizard never kisses and tells.¡± "Which means you''re talking out of your arse," Henry declared. Jack was caught between disbelief and the faint hope for more details, "What kind of girl would do that in the Restricted Section?" "Any of them! It¡¯s the danger, Yank," Teddy assured him with mock seriousness. "Gets them wet as April." They finished the bottle as the fire burned low, their conversation drifting from Teddy¡¯s wildly exaggerated tales of conquest to Quidditch tactics to increasingly harebrained plans for sneaking Jack into Hogsmeade next weekend. "You could transfigure me into a cap!" Jack held up his flat hat to demonstrate. ¡°Aye, nothing suspicious about a cap that shouts ''gee whiz!''¡± Teddy sniggered. "No way," Henry shook his head violently. "Your accent would give you away." "Not if I¡¯m a really quiet hat!" The portrait hole creaked open, and they all froze. It was Mina Mulholland, returning from night patrol. She took in the scene - the empty bottle, cigarette butts, stained glasses, scattered candy wrappers - and sighed. "Boys, it¡¯s gone past half-eleven," she said. "Please... clean up before MacLeod does his midnight rounds." "You''re an angel, Mulholland!" Henry called tipsily after her as she headed past them for the girls'' dormitory to do bed checks. She didn¡¯t acknowledge him. The door closed behind her. The three others exchanged gleeful looks. Jack was delighted to have someone else¡¯s love life under the magiscope for once. "You''re an angel, Mulholland!" Oliver mimicked. ¡°O, speak again, bright angel, for thou art as glorious to this night!¡± "Oooh, sweet Mina,¡± Teddy pulled out his wand and wiggled it suggestively. ¡°I woo thee with my sword." "Lads, shut up," Henry''s ears were turning red. ¡°She¡¯ll be coming back." The Moodmellows had a strongly mnemogenic side-effect. "Let us go then, you and I,¡± Jack quoted, ¡°when the evening is spread out against the sky-" "-to the giant bathtub in the prefects'' bathroom!" Teddy crowed. "That¡¯s not even the bloody line!" Henry protested, aiming a sharp punch at Teddy¡¯s shoulder. ¡°And really, Semmes? Eliot?¡± ¡°Ilvermorny graduate!¡± Jack boasted. ¡°He¡¯s a Horned Serpent, but I still claim him.¡± "Well then shall I compare her to a summer''s day?" Teddy continued, standing up and safely out of Henry¡¯s reach. "She is more Irish and thus more buxom." He made a lewdly curvaceous gesture. ¡°What say you lads, think Henry¡¯s ready to be a father right away?" ¡°Marshy!¡± Henry hissed. ¡°Stuff it!¡± "So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I! And I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas gone dry." Oliver rumbled, with such a deep and true Scottish accent that Jack started, thinking that MacLeod had suddenly joined in. "Still, to hear her tender-taken breath," Jack added dreamily, "And so live ever - or else swoon to death." "Throw Keats at me and I¡¯ll swoon you to death," Henry threatened Jack with a cushion. "Why how now, Hal, why swoon in vain when she¡¯s just upstairs? If love be rough with you, be rough with love,¡± Teddy gyrated his pelvis. ¡°Prick love for pricking, and beat love down¨C" He was cut off by Henry standing up abruptly and knocking over the empty bottle of Ginger Snapdragon. "Merlin¡¯s sock stays," Henry started gathering up their glasses and trash. "That''s quite enough of that for one night. And if any of you breathe a word of that to Mina..." "Wouldn''t dream of it," Jack said with a final belch. "We''ll let you speak for yourself.¡± Teddy and Oliver collapsed laughing, while Henry muttered viciously about bludgeoning them with an armchair. They tidied their corner quickly, vanishing the last evidence of revelry. Jack tucked Minerva¡¯s copy of The Hobbit under his arm as they headed up to bed, the mountain range on its cover now resting under a dark blanket of tiny twinkling stars. You know, he thought, the best cure for your own romantic troubles was laughing at someone else''s. He realized he hadn''t thought about Cassandra for nearly two hours... Well, except for that stupid plan about the broom flight. And now. Franklin. He placed the borrowed book on his nightstand, the little red dragon on its cover curled up in sleep. At least Bilbo Baggins hadn''t gotten himself tangled up with witches ¨C just confusticated and bebothered by dwarves. Lucky hobbit. Witches were trouble.
Footnotes: Noted Squib scholar John Ronald Reuel Tolkien (1892¨C1973) taught Ancient Runes at Hogwarts during the 1920s. The Muggles think he was at the University of Leeds during that time, but that was a series of clever memory modifications to make his resume Muggle-friendly before leaving to pursue an academic career at Oxford. His fascination with ancient magical languages shaped his storytelling. He founded a Squib writing club while at Oxford, the Inklings, where they shared tales inspired by their heritage. Tolkien''s The Hobbit (1937) and The Lord of the Rings (1952-1955) became enduringly popular and sparked a cultural craze in the Wizarding World, with several magical families naming their children after his characters. Gandalf and Galadriel were particularly popular choices for wizards and witches born in the late 1950s, much to the annoyance of my professors trying to keep track of my fellow students in the ¡®70s. Healer-Poet John Keats (1795-1821) wrote most of his famous works while experimenting with various countercurses. "Ode on a Grecian Urn" was actually about a cursed artifact in the Department of Mysteries. He died young after contracting the very curse he was studying. A tragic, if somewhat ironic, loss to the Wizarding World. Animagus and Skinflint Robert Burns (1759-1796) was a Scottish wizard known for enchanting his haggis to sing and for constantly trying to unsuccessfully borrow money from his friends. The "wee, sleekit, cow''rin, tim''rous beastie" was a failed Animagus attempt. Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888-1965) graduated from Ilvermorny in 1906 before moving to Britain because he thought he was too good to be from St. Louis, MO. "The Waste Land" was his doctoral thesis on magical decay in urban and industrialized environments (something that he was very familiar with...being from St. Louis). The footnotes were added to confuse Muggles. Prufrock was a particularly anxious house-elf who served at the Ministry of Magic with a passion for white flannel trousers. Author¡¯s Note: All of these authors¡¯ works were required reading at Hogwarts in ¡®Magical Lore and Literature¡¯ until 1992, when the curriculum was revised and the course was removed. By then young people had moved on to quoting Wizarding TV shows. Still better than the brainrotted nonsense they spew nowadays though. Bloody Muggle internet culture. Even the Sorting Hat can¡¯t keep up. All my students spout is ¡°Based¡±, ¡°Cringe¡±, ¡°Based¡±, ¡°Cringe¡±, "Real" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
36. Hangover
Sobri-Phial? Elixir "For the Morning After the Night You Regret." Instructions:
  1. Drink one dose.
  2. Sit down. (Seriously, sit down.)
  3. Prepare for a sensation best described as "a small thunderstorm politely exiting your cranium."
Warning: Side effects may include: incontinence, craving for raw eggs and Worchester sauce, and the overwhelming urge to swear you''ll never do it again (you will). Note: Not for use after fruity beverages or firewhisky older than your great-grandparents.
Hangover Jack''s alarm jolted him awake in the predawn darkness with an ice pick to his brain. He smacked his lips. His mouth tasted like he''d eaten a bag of cotton balls dipped in salted caramel. That Ginger Snapdragon hadn''t been as innocent as advertised. He groped for the enchanted clock on his nightstand: 6 A.M. Henry''s alarm chimed a moment later. Unlike Jack, Henry was bright and chipper as he threw back his covers. He crossed to Teddy''s bed with purpose. "Rise and shine, Marshy!" Henry yanked back Teddy''s curtains vigorously. "Beautiful morning for Quidditch!" Teddy groaned like a dying mooncalf and pulled his pillow over his head. "Water..." "What was that comment about Mulholland¡¯s figure you made last night?" Henry asked loudly, pulling away the pillow. "I don¡¯t quite remember it." ¡°Ugghhhh,¡± Teddy reached for it feebly but Henry held it up out of reach. ¡°Something about her hips being built for more than just Charms practice, was it?" Henry dropped the pillow back on Teddy¡¯s head. "Merlin¡¯s sake Hal, I said I was sorry!" "You''re about to be sorrier. Up, man! Algy wants us on the pitch in twenty minutes." Teddy groaned, rolling out of his covers and onto the floor with a thud, "I deserve this." "Yes, you do," Henry agreed pleasantly as Oliver leaned out of his curtains rubbing his eyes. They stumbled through quick showers, Jack''s head clearing slightly under the cool water. His Spitfire hummed eagerly as he grabbed it, apparently the only one looking forward to early practice. The September air was crisp as they carried their brooms across the empty quad, breath fogging in the gray light. "I''m gonna die," Teddy announced as they kicked off from the court to save walking time. "No you¡¯re not," Henry called back. "Though you might wish you were once Algy sees the state of you." Jack followed Henry''s lead, staying low over the walls and roofs until they reached the pitch. The flight helped wake him up, though Jack''s stomach lurched uncomfortably at a few of the turns. The Spitfire seemed to sense his state and flew smoother than usual, compensating for his sluggish reactions. "I''m still steaming," Teddy complained as they changed into their uniforms in the locker room. "What was in those Moodmellows?" "Certainly not good manners," Henry replied. Jack burped. It tasted like black pepper and apple pie moonshine. He took a dipper full of water to rinse his mouth and drank just enough to wet his throat. He knew not to drink more, no matter how thirsty he was. That would just make him throw up. Practice was brutal. Algy had them running passing drills until Jack''s arms felt like lead. Every sharp turn sent a spike of nausea through his skull. Teddy had to land to be sick behind the stands. Oliver missed two easy saves. Henry, irritatingly, seemed completely unaffected. "That was fine work, boys!" Algy called finally. "First practice is about knocking the rust off. Let¡¯s hit the showers and get some breakfast. Marshwiggle! Work on your bloody aim! Almost took Semmes'' Yank head off with that last Bludger." "Sorry Algy," Teddy muttered. "Looked like there were two of him." They stashed their brooms in the equipment shed for afternoon practice, Jack giving the Spitfire an appreciative pat. Their second shower of the morning was longer and hotter, washing away the worst of last night along with the sweat. "I''m never drinking experimental butterbeer again," Teddy vowed as they changed back into their school uniforms. All of them were wearing flat hats and dark gray sweaters under their robes against the early morning chill. Teddy added a flamboyantly long scarf in Gryffindor colors, flapping in the breeze like a fighter pilot. "Yes, you will," Henry said cheerfully. "Well, not until next weekend at least." ¡°We¡¯ll wait for Jack,¡± Oliver said firmly. ¡°He¡¯s still got two weeks of gating left from the tower incident.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll sneak him back another bottle!¡± ¡°No thanks, I¡¯m good,¡± Jack stifled another burp. The Great Hall was mostly empty when they arrived for breakfast with just a few early risers, die-hard Ravenclaws who were always studying even on weekends. Jack''s stomach growled at the smell of a full fried English breakfast. "Food," Teddy moaned reverently. "Glorious, glorious food." They collapsed onto the benches, reaching for tea and coffee. The morning sun was streaming through the high windows now, promising a beautiful, mild Saturday. A tall glass of milk, greasy bacon, mushrooms, and a pile of some bready substance massaged away the last of Jack¡¯s headache. Oliver called them ¡®flapjacks,¡¯ but they were nothing like the pancakes he was used to back home. Where was the fluff? The butter? The flapping of the jack? They tasted suspiciously like dense oat cakes, but he had to admit¡ªthey were excellent. He chewed thoughtfully, glancing around the table in vain for maple syrup. "Not a bad practice," he declared, lazily eating a plump sausage that he had skewered on his knife. "All things considered, after what Teddy put us through last night." "Anyone remember whose brilliant idea it was to try serenading the faculty tower last night?" Henry asked, reaching for a final croissant. Jack made a show of looking behind Henry, ¡°Hello Mina!¡± Henry turned his head just in time to catch a fat Slytherin seventh-year girl waddling past. ¡°He got you there, Ravenhurst!¡± Teddy snickered. ¡°Merlin¡¯s breath, old sport,¡± Henry shook his head. ¡°You¡¯ve caught on more quickly than I anticipated.¡± "He¡¯s got good teachers.¡± Oliver said smugly, taking a long sip of tea. "You Brits make it too easy," Jack grinned, reaching for another crumpet. The sun was warm on his back, and the usual knot of anxiety in his stomach had loosened. The philosophers were right, exercise and good friends cured almost all ills. He didn''t look at the Ravenclaw table once.
Unfortunately, he still had three detentions left to finish. Henry and the others went for a broom ride down to the seaside after lunch (¡°We¡¯ll scout it out for you!¡±). Jack went to the library and spent his Saturday afternoon and evening under Bianca Ludd''s watchful eye, working through his assignments. He''d learned that silence was his best defense against her. This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. Every word he spoke was handing her a loaded wand. Ludd had invented a creative method for wasting his time. She had Jack standing at her desk in the library promptly at 1:00pm - Saturday and Sunday detentions had extended hours - quietly reciting his assignments to her. Then she ordered him to write out a detailed agenda listing every essay, reading assignment, and problem set he planned to complete during that time. She reviewed it with excruciating slowness, making little "hmm" sounds and asking pointed questions. ''Have you accounted for possible interruptions?'' ''What if a professor assigns additional work?'' ''Is your timeline realistic, or just optimistic?'' "Transfiguration essay on Gamp''s Laws, due Tuesday. How many inches has Professor Winterborn requested?" "Eighteen," Jack replied. "Hmm." She made a note. "Have you made an outline and rough draft before beginning?" Thirty minutes of his detention ticked by. Then she found a fault with his proposed schedule ¡°Poorly organized,¡± and made him write it out again. "And this Charms practical¡­ specify which movements you''ll be reviewing." "The modified Arsenius Ladroni Accio¡ª" "In writing, Mr. Semmes." By the time she finally approved his agenda, three hours of his detention had been wasted on busywork. She spread his approved schedule, his written declaration of tasks, and her notebook across her desk like an imperium. And Merlin help him if he deviated. "You stated that you''d be working on Potions between four and four-forty-five," she whispered in his ear as he wrote his History of Magic essay on Arteminus Fowler. She yanked the parchment out from under his quill. His ink smeared across the page in an ugly black slick. The homework was bad enough, Jack thought. This was hazing on a level that would have made the most sadistic Ilvermorny upperclassman draw the line. He found himself tensing whenever Ludd passed by his table, her sharp perfume making his hair stand on end. It was a cloying, aggressive scent twisted into something that was less a fragrance and more a No-Maj chemical weapon. The smell clung to his thoughts, mingling with the relentless scratching of her quill in that infernal little notebook she carried everywhere. Jack couldn¡¯t remember ever disliking someone the way he disliked Bianca Ludd. "Your Potions essay''s due Monday," she cooed, her voice sweet with false concern. "And your syllabus says partner assignments all next week. I know you¡¯ll behave yourself." Jack kept writing, pretending not to hear. He had six inches left on his Transfiguration essay, and Cassandra Hightower''s name wasn''t going to appear in any of them. Sunday was worse. Caeso Montfort set up a study group in the library and made a show of pointing Jack out to his followers, with corresponding whispers, muffled laughs, and nudges. The few times Jack was able to leave the library ¨C for dinner or to use the bathroom ¨C he felt like a prisoner allowed out for yard time. On late Sunday evening, his penultimate detention finally complete, Jack climbed through the portrait hole to find his friends sprawled across their usual corner near the wireless with a large carafe of soda water, surrounded by half-written essays and unopened textbooks. They looked tired and sunburned. At least someone had enjoyed their weekend. "The Yank is fresh out of gaol!" Teddy called out. "How was your holiday with the harridan? The Scold of Scone? The Nag of the North?" "She¡¯s a bloody demon," Jack dropped into the open armchair they¡¯d saved for him (¡°Nice use of ¡®bloody!¡¯¡± Teddy approved). "But I''m done with my assignments. Unlike some wise guys, apparently." Oliver looked up from the single line he had written on his parchment - his name and today¡¯s date. "In our defense, we had an eventful weekend." "Saturday was the coast," Henry explained. "Found this brilliant cave system near the south bogs. Connected all the way into a destroyed spellforge. Looked like something straight out of one of Ranrok''s old plans. Somebody had gotten to it before us though. Every last treasure chest was emptied." ¡°Not even a moonstone left,¡± Oliver commented morosely. ¡°Found this though,¡± Teddy held up a small, rusted iron widget, inlaid with tarnished copper and a tiny garnet. ¡°Looks like goblin-make.¡± ¡°Looks like tetanus,¡± Jack raised an eyebrow. "And on Sunday," Henry put his feet on the table, "we helped old Mrs. Marchbanks down in Keenbridge round up her escaped Puffskeins. She¡¯d been testing growth potions on them. The whole village was overrun." "Giant Puffskeins?" Jack pulled out a pack of Ignis Fatuus, took one and put the rest on the table for his friends. "About yea big," Teddy stuck a cigarette in his mouth and demonstrated with his arms. "Bouncing over rooftops, rolling down the high street, getting stuck in chimneys. One of them ate the town cat whole. Had to wait three hours to get it out." ¡°The cat didn¡¯t make it,¡± Henry elaborated. "She paid us in pies," Oliver added, lighting his cigarette. Jack shook his head, pulling out his completed essays and problem sets. "Here. You can look at these for reference. But take care with the spelling - Winterborn keeps correcting me for spelling color without a ¡®u¡¯." "Lafayette, Semmes is here!" Henry clapped his hands gratefully and picked up Jack¡¯s transfiguration paper. ¡°Now we won¡¯t need to stay up all night cramming.¡± "Speaking of nighttime activities," Jack yawned, "we''ve got Astronomy at midnight on Wednesday." "Ah yes," Henry said, lighting his cigarette with a levitated brand from the fireplace (he claimed it improved the flavor of the smoke). "Teddy''s mysteriously favorite class." "Because we share it with Hufflepuff," Oliver nodded. "Coincidence," Teddy replied, opening his Charms textbook. "Congratulations on your sudden academic interest in the firmament," Jack joined in. "Very admirable." "And the way he vanishes after said class," Oliver mused. "Dedicated student, our Marshy." "I don''t vanish," Teddy said. "I have other commitments besides you lot." ¡°In the kitchens,¡± Henry provided. ¡°After curfew. With the house-elves apparently.¡¯ ¡°And I bring you back food, don¡¯t I?¡± Teddy responded. ¡°Where do you think those caramel apple biscuits came from?¡± ¡°If those were house-elf made, I¡¯ll eat my hat,¡± Henry declared. ¡°The shapes were all irregular,¡± Jack agreed. ¡°Those were homemade. By a girl.¡± Oliver gave him a pointed stare. ¡°No comment,¡± Teddy glanced around for an escape route. Oliver was blocking it with his outstretched legs on an ottoman. "Come on, Ted," Henry pressed. "We''ve seen you checking your pocket watch, ducking into empty classrooms¨C" "Writing notes in class," Oliver added. ¡°Being very defensive right now,¡± Jack noted. "Disappearing from our planning committee last night with a very flimsy excuse," Henry continued. "What¡¯s this then?" Jack gloated. "Has our bachelor fallen?" "Semmes, you are in no place to talk,¡± Teddy warned. ¡°I don¡¯t make a secret of the girl that I like,¡± Jack retorted. ¡°What are you, twelve?¡± ¡°Well, I don¡¯t have one!¡± "The wizard doth protest too much," Henry grinned. "What happened to ''I shall live a bachelor'' and all that, Marshy? Weren''t you just saying last term that love was for poofters?" "You were literally just bragging about cornering some poor girl in the library stacks!" Jack added. Teddy scowled. "I may have been exaggerating slightly." Oliver sent a lazy stream of smoke at the ceiling, "I distinctly remember a speech in the dormitory about how ¡®no witch would ever trap Theodoric Marshwiggle in the bonds of matrimony.¡¯" "And now you¡¯re coming from the kitchens at midnight with a tin of handmade biscuits," Henry smirked. ¡°Have you ever even kissed a girl?¡± Jack asked, leaning his chin on his fist and staring intently at Teddy. ¡°Loads.¡± Teddy shot him a murderous look. ¡°And you have?¡± ¡°Two,¡± Jack grinned. ¡°Oh yeah?¡± Teddy challenged, ¡°What were their names and what did they look like?¡± Jack leaned back. ¡°Gentlewizards don¡¯t kiss and tell.¡± Teddy snorted. ¡°Oh, piss off!¡± Jack lasted all of three seconds before caving. ¡°Maggie Donahue. Brown hair, green eyes, freckles. Gretchen Tuttle. Blonde, brown eyes, tied cherry stems with her tongue.¡± Teddy scoffed. Oliver exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. ¡°Two more than you, Marshy.¡± "When young Marshy swore he¡¯d die a bachelor," Henry quoted with great solemnity, "I never thought he¡¯d live long enough to get married." "At least I don¡¯t write poetry," Teddy shot back. "No," Jack replied, deadpan. "You just quote it." Oliver let out a long, exaggerated "Ooooooooh" as Teddy rolled his eyes. "I have legitimate reasons for enjoying Astronomy!" "Aye," Henry nodded solemnly. "A star-crossed lover." Jack and Oliver burst into laughter. Teddy glared at them and refused to say another word, so they turned back to their homework while Jack contentedly smoked and drank half their soda water. Oliver slid his drafted Charms essay across to him after a few minutes to review. "Hang on, you say here the best use of Luminarium Ventus is to warm a greenhouse," Jack said, glancing at the parchment. "Isn¡¯t that right?" Oliver asked, frowning. "Not quite," Jack explained, pulling out his wand. "That one creates a cloud of particles to test air currents. You¡¯re thinking of Luminosus Vernus." He demonstrated with a simple swish, conjuring an orb of natural light that hovered above the table with a mild scent of blooming flowers. Oliver let out a good-natured grunt, scratching out the line. "That¡¯s what I get for writing everything last minute." Henry smirked. "Five years of magical education, and this is where we are." ¡°We had a ruthless instructor at Ilvermorny who threw me out of class for mixing them up,¡± Jack grinned, setting his wand aside. "Just don¡¯t ask me how to put a coagulant into a Wiggenweld without Oliver¡¯s help. Or cross-reference star-charts without Teddy." Teddy, still sulking, acted as though he hadn¡¯t heard a thing. 37. Palamedes Hitchens and the Half-Baked Plan
Oh lassie dear, wi'' wand in hand, The fairest witch in a¡¯ the land, Pray lend this warlock a galleon or two, For my Gringotts vault is bare, ¡¯tis true. The goblins scoff, the vault door¡¯s shut, A poor auld soul wi¡¯ nae a knut. But worry not, my postal owl Brings gold anon¡ªye''ll wear nae scowl! ¡®pon my oath, I''ll swear the debt, A vow as strong as Circe¡¯s net. O lassie kind, nae grudgin'' play, Yer wizard¡¯s skint, sorry ta say. Your lad, Rab "Ode tae My Bonny Witch, Upon Her Seventeenth Birthday" Robert Burns, Collections: Spare Me a Sickle Because Me New Gringotts Chequebook Hasn''t Arrived, What''s Twenty Galleons to the Bloody Goblin Hoard?, and Can Ye Lend Me a Thousand Galleons? Hogwarts Library Poetry Section
Jack returned to the Gryffindor common room during morning study hall to find three first-years frantically scrubbing at the walls and furniture with their robes. "What the Franklin is going on¨C" He stopped short as a quill whizzed past his nose and scrawled across the wall in jagged strokes: ''THE GOBLIN¡¯S FORTUNE IS OUR MISFORTUNE'' "We can explain!" Pal blurted, diving to snatch the rogue quill before it could finish writing ¡°THE WIZARDING WORLD FOR WIZ¨C¡±. "It was just meant to proofread our Transfiguration essays!" Mel added miserably, pushing his round glasses up his nose as he chased another quill that was embellishing the outraged portrait of Godric Gryffindor with round spectacles, a lightning rune on his forehead, and the words ''CONTROLLED OPPOSITION'' in dripping ink. ¡°Yeah that was it, just proofread!¡± Pal spouted. "Definitely not draft them for us!" Wiggy said, his ginger hair stained with ink as he wrestled a third quill that was determinedly writing ''THEY WILL CALL YOU ANTI¨CKOBALIC BUT THEY¡¯LL NEVER CALL YOU A LIAR!'' across a tapestry. A fourth quill Jack hadn''t noticed started scratching at the wall over the entrance: ''GOBLINS CONTROL 100% OF THE WIZARDING WORLD¡¯S GOLD, WAKE UP!'' along with a caricature of a goblin¡¯s profile. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. "Merlin¡¯s breath, man!¡± Jack stared at a fresh inscription declaring that the Ministry of Magic was built in goblin mines owned by the Rokfelleriks and Rotsnilds. ¡°Who the hell taught you to say all these horrible things about goblins?" "Nobody!" Pal nearly shouted. "Mel just tried a charm he read about, ¡®Scribblum Sapientia¡¯. Then the quills went bonkers!" "They won''t stop," Mel said, close to tears as another quill broke free to write ''WHY CAN¡¯T WIZARDS WORK AT GRINGOTTS?'' "And lunch is in an hour," Wiggy wailed desperately, tackling a quill before it could finish a cartoon of a goblin controlling wizards like puppets. ¡°Merlin, save me! Miss Mulholland is gonna kill us!¡± "Where''d you get these quills?" Jack asked sharply. Pal came forward sheepishly with a small wooden box that he retrieved from under a chair. "¡¯Blot und Feather, made in Germany,¡¯¡± Jack read aloud. ¡°Huh. No wonder they went on the fritz." He threw the box into the fireplace and pointed his wand at the walls. "Finite Incantatem!" The quills dropped lifelessly to the floor, one making a last attempt at slander before falling limp. "Alright, you idiots," Jack gathered up the quills with a sweep of his wand and launched them into the fire. They hissed and popped like overcooked bratwursts. "Next time you try to cheat, just copy off your smarter classmates like normal kids. The girls in your year have their heads screwed on straight. Talk to that McGonagall girl. She¡¯s great at Transfig." "You''re not going to report us?" Mel asked hopefully. "No way.¡± Jack shuddered to think of the ensuing investigation if he did. It would be an avalanche of parchmentwork and probing questions from MacLeod, not to mention the inevitable dramatic tears. That was the last thing he wanted right now. ¡°And I¡¯m helping you clean up, pick up those fallen parchments,¡± he quickly Scourgifyed the offending graffiti away. ¡°I want to see your essays at breakfast tomorrow - actual handwritten essays with original thoughts! Or I¡¯m telling Miss Mulholland." The trio exchanged stunned looks before bursting into a chorus of gratitude. "Thank you, Mr. Semmes!" Mel squeaked, clasping his chubby hands. "You¡¯re the best senior ever!" added Wiggy. "You¡¯re a legend!" chorused Pal, already reaching into his bag and fishing out a crumpled piece of parchment, preparing to start his essay immediately. "Don¡¯t get carried away.¡± Jack held up a hand to shut them up. ¡°I¡¯m not saving your heinies twice. You¡¯re frigging lucky I had study hall this morning. Next time, you¡¯re on your own." "But we owe you!" Pal persisted. "Maybe we can¡ª" "Pst!" Jack shushed, holding up his wand warningly. "No codes, no dead drops, no shadowing Ravenclaws in the hallway. Your essays. That¡¯s it. Now off to your corner, frosh." He dismissed them with a gruff gesture The ink-stained Irregulars scurried away to the designated part of the common room for first-years, tripping over their robes in their eagerness. Pal turned back with a cheerful, "Thanks again, Mr. Semmes!" Jack grunted and waved them off without looking as he headed up to his dorm to grab his afternoon textbooks. He wanted to lie down a bit before lunch, maybe grab a cat nap. He already regretted the brief moment of authority. It felt wrong. Too Ilvermorny. Not appropriate for Jack Semmes at Hogwarts. Like he was playing at prefect-business. Franklin. They were annoying little gremlins, sure¡­but there was something endearing about their wide-eyed desperation and hopeless faith that he wouldn¡¯t throw them under the Knight Bus. ¡°They¡¯re idiots,¡± he said out loud as he flopped onto his bed and set his alarm for a thirty minute nap. ¡°Franklin, they better not get me kicked out.¡± 38. The Lesser Work
¡°The world we knew is slipping through our fingers, and no spell can restore it. Our empire - both magical and Muggle - is no longer the immovable pillar it once was. We must now navigate a world where new powers in East and West jostle for dominance. Britain¡¯s strength has never been in brute force, but in quiet influence, in prosperity, in the subtle weaving of connections and alliances. Let MACUSA and MaChK brandish their wands and shout their slogans; we will ensure that when the dust settles, the magical community still has a world worth living in¡ªstable, secure, and unseen. The Statute of Secrecy is our enduring and greatest empire, and we must defend it, not with bombast, but with steadfast resolve. Britain¡¯s present role is not to lead through might, but to endure through wisdom.¡± Lord Cornelius Venge, Undersecretary of Defense, Final Address to the Ministry of Magic, 11 June 1946.
The dungeon held a damp chill. The air was still heavy with the lingering scent of last Friday¡¯s second-year assignment. Asafoetida, overlaid with the black-licorice tang of wormwood. It was not an appetizing combination. There was something new too - a metallic taste to the air that made his teeth set on edge. Jack descended the worn stone steps, his footfalls echoing in the corridor. He slowed as he heard faculty voices from the classroom doorway. ¡°-a temporary state of affairs,¡± Professor Vale''s voice carried clearly in the stone passage. "The Americans," he was saying to Professor Blackthorn, who was cradling a large box of fresh-cut herbs from the greenhouses, "treat magic like a tool. We treat it as an art." ¡°The tools do not make the artisan," Blackthorn replied, handing over the box to Vale. They both enjoyed a sensible chuckle. Jack rolled his eyes, hitching his schoolbag higher on his shoulder. Another day, another snide witticism on British magical superiority. At least Vale generally kept his opinions to private conversations, unlike Winterborn. He strode into the classroom, politely greeting both professors as he passed and enjoying the surprised look on Vale¡¯s face. The dungeon classroom was already half-full, students settling into their usual places amid the soft clink of brass scales and glass phials. Professor Vale had written "The Lesser Work" on the blackboard in his blocky handwriting. Beneath it were detailed instructions for heating and cooling cycles that looked more like advanced calculus than potion-making. Two crystalline vials sat on each workbench - one containing what looked like powdered darkness, the other like fine diamond dust. Jack recognized them from their homework over the weekend: nigredo and albedo. Jack slid onto his wooden stool in the back of the room. Exactly ten seconds before the bell rang Cyprian joined him, acknowledging his presence with a nod. "The Lesser Work," Vale announced to the class, "is one of the most fundamental achievements in magical alchemy. While it never achieved the legendary status of the Philosopher''s Stone, it represents our closest understanding of the principles behind that great work. Today, we use it as a base for many of our most advanced potions." He paused, surveying the room. "It requires absolute precision. The slightest deviation in temperature or timing will render it worthless." Jack studied the instructions more carefully. The nigredo and albedo had to be combined in exact proportions, but the real challenge was in the heating cycles. The mixture needed to be heated and cooled in exacting patterns - too hot, and it would go inert; too cold, and it would crystallize permanently. Each temperature change had to be timed to the second. Jack grimaced. This was a textbook example of why he hated alchemy. His lab partner had already laid out his implements: stirrers arranged by size, ingredients in alphabetical order (albedo, then nigredo), scales positioned exactly parallel to the desk edge. "Hey," Jack said, unpacking his own supplies with purposeful sloppiness. "Never got to thank you for last week. With Montfort and his gang." "It wasn''t personal," Cyprian replied. "I detest mobs. And the men who use them." Jack felt a flicker of annoyance. A normal person would have asked if he was alright after being cornered by Montfort''s crew. But Cyprian just sat there, calmly measuring powdered nigredo and albedo into piles. He reminded Jack of a clockwork man. "Are you always like this?" he asked. Cyprian paused in his arrangement, turning to look at Jack with bewilderment. "Like what?" "You know - all..." Jack waved his hand irritably, searching for the right words. "Kinda¡­ just weird, man! Someone helps you out, you check if they''re okay. That''s what normal people do." "I see." Cyprian''s brow furrowed slightly as he processed this. "You are saying that I have committed a faux pas. Is that an American custom?" "A faux... Franklin''s kite, it''s not about customs, Venge, it''s about being a normal person!" "I assure you, I am quite normal." Cyprian resumed his measuring. "I arrive at precisely the same time each day, maintain consistent study habits, and follow all established standards." ¡°That just makes you weirder!¡± Jack ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. He was starting to understand why Henry had described Venge as ''queer.'' It was like trying to have a conversation with a cash register. "I... you know what? Just forget it." "Very well." Cyprian nodded, satisfied that the interaction was concluded. The Lesser Work lived up to its reputation for difficulty. Around them, other teams were struggling. Mossflower and his partner ruined their first attempt in only five minutes, their mixture turning an ominous gray and spilling rapidly replicating crystals out of the top of their cauldron. Even Cassandra - partnered with a Slytherin girl - was being tested. Jack heard her make a murmur of frustration from her table. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "Has your father assumed his duties yet?" Cyprian asked as he lowered the heat for the fifth time. Jack struggled with a particularly stubborn cork stopper. "Yeah," he replied, using his teeth to loosen it. "Barely any time to settle in, went straight into the office the day they moved in." "My father was always at work too," Cyprian nodded. ¡°You said he was in the Ministry too?¡± Jack yanked the stopper free and nearly fell off his stool. ¡°What did he do?¡± "Undersecretary for Magical Defense, during the war." Jack whistled quietly, shaking a bit of catalyst from the bottle into their cauldron. "Must''ve been rough, with everything going on." He paused, testing the temperature of their solution with a thermometer. "Ok, I think we put the heat back up now. Why would my dad be working directly with an undersecretary?" Cyprian turned the burner back up, "Your father was part of the liberation force in 1944. With mine." ¡°An undersecretary fighting at the front?¡± Jack blinked in surprise. A flicker of pride crossed Cyprian''s pale face. "Venges always lead from the front. The legions withdrew in 410. We stayed." He adjusted the flame down a bit, eyes glued to their solution. They spent the rest of class in silence, speaking only when necessary about measurements and heating. The minimal interaction suited them both just fine. Vale patrolled past their table, peering into their cauldrons critically. The mixture was shifting hypnotically between darkness and light, following the rhythm of Jack¡¯s heartbeat. "Exceeds Expectations, Mr. Venge, Mr. Semmes. Your temperature control was very good." he commented, taking a sample with a pipette and examining it. "You used too much nigredo in Step Three, there must be perfect balance or the Lesser Work will not take. And it¡¯s not the gross measurements,¡± as Jack opened his mouth to protest. ¡°The balance is not in the amount that you put in, it is purely intuitive. Nigredo and albedo are not a molar consistent substance. They are mysterious. Mr. Venge, perhaps you could demonstrate?" "Certainly, Professor." Cyprian combined exact amounts of the two ingredients in a vial. The pale dust glimmered, then devoured its shadowy counterpart in a violently exothermic reaction. "You see?" Vale nodded approval. "Potion brewing is not merely about following the recipe and achieving the desired effect. It''s about a natural grasp of the process itself. Don¡¯t you have an idea of that in America?" ¡°Yes sir,¡± Jack said grudgingly, knowing that he was being set up. ¡°We¡¯d call that ¡®the jazz¡¯.¡± ¡°How base,¡± Vale said acidly. ¡°A crude word for the artistry needed for crafting a magnum opus.¡± Jack bit back a retort about how alchemy was about as artistic as a steamroller rolling down Washington Street. He''d learned that lesson the hard way during his first week - his professors had no appreciation for Americanisms. It was whatever. He¡¯d still got an ¡®E¡¯ on the assignment thanks to Venge. So instead he contented himself with grumbling, ¡°If this is art you can call me a pukwudgie,¡± after Vale had gone a safe distance away. "Victory is the artist''s stroke, and war the canvas." Cyprian said absently as they bottled their finished potion. He began meticulously cleaning their workspace with a hand towel and his wand. "Would you..." Cyprian hesitated, which was unusual enough to make Jack look up. "Would you let me know how your father is doing as the year goes along? Mine is concerned about his welfare, though they do not correspond these days." Jack frowned, "Why not just have your dad ask him at the Ministry? It¡¯s not a big office." ¡°A valid question,¡± Cyprian conceded, ¡°My father doesn''t work at the Ministry anymore, although he still has friends there." ¡°What happened?¡± Jack asked curiously. ¡°The war is over,¡± Cyprian¡¯s wand paused in its cleaning charms. "The Ministry wants politicians, not soldiers.¡± Jack snorted, "Like your Muggles kicking out Churchill after the war?" Cyprian¡¯s eyes flickered behind his glasses, "An apt comparison. My father¡¯s a man who stands firm. They wanted less of that." He grunted. "Not needed anymore." ¡°So much for gratitude,¡± Jack said in disgust. He reconsidered what Venge had said about keeping him updated. The request seemed genuine enough, despite Grymes'' earlier warnings about the Slytherin. Actually, the more Jack thought about it, the more that admonition felt off. Cyprian might be a bit strange but there was something trustworthy about his awkwardness. "I¡¯ll keep you posted with how we¡¯re doing," Jack added, surprising himself with how much he meant it. "Though you¡¯d hear more first hand if you joined us in the library sometime. Henry and the others have been helping me with British magical theory, and honestly, I could use all the help I can get." Cyprian started, caught off guard by the invitation. After a moment''s consideration, he gave a slight nod. "That is gracious of you. Send me a note when you¡¯re in the library and I¡¯ll come if able. Tuesday evenings are preferred." Jack couldn''t help but grin at his formality. "Sure. Sounds good, Venge." Cyprian gave their now-immaculate table one last look - it was clean enough to eat off of, if not for the fact the last class of fourth-years had synthesized arsenic in this exact spot - and gathered his things. "Your presence here represents significant change. But not all change is detrimental, even from my perspective." Jack shrugged and buttoned his schoolbag. ¡°Montfort talks like he already has it all figured out. Like he knows exactly how the world should work. Ravenclaw seems to eat it up.¡± Cyprian adjusted his glasses. ¡°Intelligent people are particularly prone to following someone who says that they have all the answers. It saves them from the discomfort of uncertainty.¡± Jack exhaled. ¡°You ever met someone like that before?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Cyprian replied without hesitation. Jack sat up. ¡°Who?¡± Cyprian paused for a few seconds. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t have known him,¡± the Slytherin put his schoolbag on the table. ¡°He graduated two years ago.¡± Jack waited, but Cyprian didn¡¯t offer more. ¡°What was he like?¡± Jack pressed. Cyprian¡¯s lips quirked in amusement. ¡°He was polite. Good looking. Very clever.¡± ¡°Smarter than you?¡± Jack asked. ¡°Made me look like an idiot child,¡± Venge actually smiled at the memory. ¡°Top of every subject, won every prize, made all the right connections.¡± Jack narrowed his eyes. ¡°And?¡± Cyprian¡¯s amusement faded. ¡°He asked Headmaster Hollowbrook if he could teach Defense Against the Dark Arts after he graduated, since Professor MacLeod was still fighting in Europe. The headmaster told him that he was too young - he was only 18 - and to come back and reapply in a few years after he had gained some more experience.¡± A strange chill crawled down Jack¡¯s spine. ¡°What did he do after that?¡± ¡°No idea.¡± Cyprian¡¯s expression went neutral again. ¡°He left.¡± He reached for his bag again. ¡°But he¡¯s not the sort of man to disappear.¡± He shouldered his schoolbag. "Do be careful. Especially around witches.¡± "Hang on now, Venge-" Cyprian continued before Jack could finish his retort, "Merely an observation. Good day, Semmes." As Jack watched him leave. Cyprian was an odd duck alright, but he seemed to be exactly what he appeared to be. That wasn''t such a bad thing to have in a friend, especially in Britain, where reserve and politeness constantly cloaked intentions and interactions. He gathered his things, mind turning to Transfiguration class next. 39. A Matter of States
"The quasineutrality principle posits that the introduction of free electrons within a magically stabilized lattice¡ªachieved through controlled quantum apparation tunneling¡ªinduces a state of metastable thaumaturgical flux, wherein matter-phase boundaries blur into a liminal state of physical-arcane duality. This effect, referred to as ''Scardinger''s Familiar,'' results in simultaneous partial transmogrification across adjacent morphic matrices. Practical applications include enhanced spell stability in high-energy transformations, though extreme care must be taken to avoid a resonance cascade, which may lead to catastrophic quantum foam collapse, planar inversion of the subject material or, in rare cases, invasion of our reality by extra-dimensional forces." Dr. Gordian Freewand, What¡¯s the Matter? Advanced Theories in Transfiguration and Magical Material Science, pg 294. (Assigned Textbook for Sixth-Year Advanced Transfiguration)
Jack slumped despondently in his chair as Professor Winterborn''s chalk tap-danced across the blackboard, filling it with increasingly incomprehensible formulae and diagrams. The lesson had started simply enough with the three states of matter they''d covered last week: solid, liquid, and gas. Then she introduced plasma. "The implications for transfiguration theory cannot be overstated," she declared, adding another layer of perplexing arrows and subscripts to the board. "The introduction of free electrons fundamentally alters our understanding of matter-phase transitions..." Jack''s quill hovered over his parchment, then lowered. He lost the thread of the lecture completely somewhere around "apparation tunneling effects." Instead, he pulled out his Potions homework. Might as well get something useful done. Beside him, Henry was furiously taking notes, his handwriting deteriorating into a frenzied scrawl as he tried to keep up. "Copy yours later?" Jack whispered. Henry gave a distracted nod, not looking up from his parchment. "Quasineutrality principle¡­and its interaction with transmogrification," he muttered. "Merlin''s beard, this is fascinating..." ¡°Don¡¯t forget the supplementary diagrams,¡± Jack nudged him and pointed to the side chalkboard that was being written on by animated chalk. ¡°Yeah, yeah,¡± Henry glanced over and squinted at the board. Jack smiled and returned to his homework on the Lesser Work. Henry''s enthusiasm for transfig theory was both baffling and endearing. "So," Jack said casually as they began packing up after class, "I invited Cyprian to join us in the library next Tuesday. For studying. He''s actually not a bad guy - once you get past the weirdness.¡± Henry capped his inkwell and turned in surprise, "Venge?" He gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Slytherins and Gryffindors working together is one thing, but getting Cyprian Venge to agree to a social call? You have a knack for the impossible, Jack.¡± History of Magic somehow managed to be even duller than usual. Professor Binns droned on about the "Great Concert of Magical Europe" and its "harmonious coordination of international magical policy." "This was all part of the graceful quadrille of diplomatic relations in the 19th century..." Binns intoned. Jack was on pins and needles. "You know what''s actually interesting?" he whispered to Henry. "The Indian Wars happening at the same time as this in the States. Now there was some real history. Chief Roaring Chicken''s uprising against MACUSA in 1877, the Ghost Dance Rebellion of ''90, we''re talkin'' thousands of scalps taken, massacres, towns burning, oceans of blood spilled!" Henry smacked his lips, half-asleep on his desk, "Is that so, old sport?" His eyes drifted shut again. "Terribly fascinating I''m sure..." Jack let his friend doze and doggedly made his own notes of Binns¡¯ monologue in order to exchange with Henry later. At least someone was getting something out of this class. Ancient Runes was more fun. Professor Eugrapheia Babbling had them copying simple Elder Futhark runestones, and Jack found himself enjoying it. The ancient Norse runes had a straightforward logic to them that appealed to his Yankee sensibilities. Professor Babbling was a well-built woman in her 60s with a round face and pince-nez. Her carefully pinned gray hair was paired with fashion sense straight out of the mid-19th century¡ªout of date even by British wizarding standards. Her long, dark dress was made of heavy wool with a high collar and lace trim, as if she''d stepped out of an early Victorian portrait. "Very fine work, Mr. Semmes," she commented, passing his desk. "Your bindrunes need a more fluid connection." ¡°Professor,¡± Jack asked, ¡°Weren¡¯t these carved in stone? What¡¯s fluid about that?¡± ¡°Originally,¡± Professor Babbling replied with a smile, ¡°And you are writing on parchment. The calligraphy must match the medium.¡± She conjured a chisel and a flat piece of soapstone. ¡°Would you like an alternative assignment?¡± The class snickered. Jack grinned in spite of himself. ¡°No ma¡¯am, point taken.¡± ¡°Wise boy,¡± she continued her rounds. Dinner in the Great Hall that night was noisy after a long Monday. The Gryffindor table was especially rowdy. "Plasma, lads!" Henry was still excited about Transfiguration from that morning. "The implications for matter transformation are simply revolutionary!" ¡°Merlin¡¯s sake, Hal, give it a rest!¡± Oliver looked up from the malt vinegar he was sprinkling over his bangers and mash. "I didn¡¯t turn down taking advanced Transfig just to have you ram it down our throats every meal." "Revolution¡¯ry, is it?" Teddy said, slipping into an exaggerated Yorkshire accent and swinging his arms like a monkey. "Aye, next thing tha¡¯ll be sayin¡¯ is we¡¯ve reinvented t¡¯ wand, like!" If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Jack snorted with laughter. "Stuff it, yellowbelly," Henry glowered. Jack checked his wristwatch and started gathering his things. "Time for another thrilling evening with No-Good Ludd." "Give her our love," Teddy called. ¡°Ask how she looks with her glasses off and hair down. And the lights off. In a very dark room. With the curtains drawn.¡± "Tell her she¡¯s looking particularly retching today," Henry added. "Absolutely stunning," Oliver chimed in. "From a distance. Preferably a few miles." "I''ll pass that along,¡± Jack shot them a rude American gesture (slightly different from its British equivalent) as he slung his bag over his shoulder. ¡°Next time I¡¯ll bring you guys too." Their laughter followed him out of the Hall. Another evening of Bianca Ludd''s psychological warfare awaited. He signed in at her desk, presented his prewritten agenda for the night, and took his seat. He had his rune poem to work on - simple, straightforward, phonetic runes. His quill jerked across the parchment in quick, straight lines around a winding path: ?????? ??????????????????? ??????????????? ???????????????? ????????? ??????????????????????????????????????? ¡°Finigr varsninnga. ¨²aurinir atnaira. Turizra butrr¨ªma. Ansusa w¨ªw¨ªnga. Jakobus T¨®masar sonr, reist tessar r¨²nir.¡±
¡°Fehu (?): Wealth flows like a river, fleeting as it shines. Uruz (?): Strength of the aurochs, untamed and free. Thurisaz (?): The thorn defends, sharp and unyielding. Ansuz (?): Wisdom of the ?sir whispers in the wind. Jacobus [James] Thomas¡¯ Son, carved these runes."
Jack surveyed his work with satisfaction. Easily an E+, even if Babbling took umbrage at his bindrunes. He wondered if the ancient Vikings had the right idea about magic all along. Carve what you mean, mean what you carve, and let the results speak for themselves. Simple. Clean. Efficient. Then the Greeks had to show up and overcomplicate everything. Was it enough for them to carve the rune ???? (eldr) for "fire"? Of course not. The Greeks wanted a whole lexicon of fire types, as if they were worried someone might accidentally summon the wrong one at a symposion. Pyr for ordinary fire, then phlogos for a flame - one that looks good in a overly-long tragic play. Pyrkagia for a wildfire - so that the chorus had something to scream dramatically as they ran away from one. Heistia for hearth fire - because "fire for lounging about and drinking watered wine while arguing over whose eromenos has the thickest thighs" needed its own word. Empyros for divine fire - best paired with an easy-to-misinterpret prophecy, a string of increasingly hubristic decisions, and the sudden realization that your wife is also your mother. And don''t even get him started on the metaphysical debate. Is the fire homoousios (of the same essence) or homoiousios (of similar essence)? Entire magical councils had split over that one letter ''i''. The Greeks probably started the Great Wizarding Schism just to spite the Romans for forgetting to dot it. Grown wizards in flowing robes and huge beards with ridiculous titles like ¡°Supreme Arch-Magus of Thessaloniki and All the Thracians¡± had flung loaded amphorae at each other¡¯s heads while shouting ¡°Your phlogos lacks ousios!¡± And wizards wondered why Rome took over. Thank Merlin they had put enough of that convoluted Greek mess together to create a coherent Latin magical doctrine for the rest of the Western World. Sure, they probably misinterpreted two-thirds of it and left the rest out entirely, but at least you didn¡¯t have to sit through a five-hour debate on whether the Glacius you¡¯d cast was ontologically distinct from the Platonic form of ice. Bloody Greeks. He rubbed his temples. Then he froze. Wait. Had he just used "bloody" in his own internal monologue? Oh no. He was going native. Next thing he knew, he''d be flying his broom on the left, drinking warm beer, craving roast beef, and calling fries "chips." The guys back home would never let him hear the end of it: ¡°Look at Semmes, he goes off to London and comes back thinking he¡¯s friggin¡¯ Laurence Olivier!¡± Cripes. I''m doomed. He shook his head and went back to his rune poem. This final detention with Ludd proved to be the worst. She''d arranged his desk so it faced directly into the setting sun, the light drilling into his eyes as he worked. His table was stiflingly hot - she''d "accidentally" set a warming charm underneath that was "proving difficult to reverse." Every few minutes, she''d walk past and pause just behind his shoulder, her shadow falling across his work, her breath audible as she clucked at his work. "Curious," she murmured in his ear, making his hair stand on end. "Your father''s handwriting is quite similar. Jack''s quill paused for a fraction of a second before continuing. He kept his face carefully blank. She was just talking crap. She had to be lying. Was she opening his letters? Was that allowed? The clock crawled forward toward 9:30. Ludd tapped her long fingernails on the tabletop as she did her own homework, the sound just irregular enough to set his teeth. Twice she made him restart sections for "sloppiness." When he got up to get a glass of water from the enchanted pitcher near Ms. Quillworth¡¯s desk he found the contents transfigured into ice. It was bait, all of it. And he wasn¡¯t going to take it. Ilvermorny¡¯s discipline proved its worth. When the clock finally struck the half hour, she made a note in her little book. "You may go." And dismissed him. Jack gathered his things and left without a word. He could feel her satisfied smirk prickling the back of his neck all the way through the central hall. A bitter pill. And one he could do nothing about. For now. 40. Semmes vs. Montfort
¡°My fellows, do not be deceived by MACUSA¡¯s hollow promises of aid and cooperation. Behind their smiles lie greed and ambition, a slavocracy wrapped in stars and stripes. They do not come to help us rebuild¡ªthey come to buy us, to shackle us to their markets, to make Britain another outpost of their economic dominion. They preach freedom, yet hoard magic and wealth like dragons. They claim to oppose tyranny, yet their so-called democracy is ruled by the rich, built on the backs of the oppressed. What of the millions of Negros in America, wizard and Muggle alike; segregated, disenfranchised, and lynched while their so-called President preaches equality? What of the untold millions living in poverty while their masters grow fat on their labour? And now, MACUSA has set their sights on us! They would see our loved ones in chains, our land sold to their bankers, our wands bound to their policies. They do not seek allies, they seek renters. But Britain is not for sale! This land does not belong to MACUSA. It belongs to us! This is not their island to own ¨C it is ours to build!" - Gaius Montfort, Speech outside of the British Ministry of Magic, 26 August 1947.
Tuesday morning dawned clear and crisp. Perfect Quidditch weather for morning practice. It also helped that half of the team was properly hydrated and rested this time. The Gryffindors were slowly starting to gel, even if Jack occasionally still offloaded the Quaffle too soon. "Better!" Algy shouted as Jack pulled off a tricky catch. "Remember, it¡¯s not going to explode, Semmes. Watch for the Bludgers, that¡¯s what¡¯ll get you!" Then it was a quick shower, breakfast, and off to Defense class. Jack could tell from the moment he entered the classroom that he was going to enjoy it. Professor MacLeod had cleared the space and conjured the dueling stage: a raised platform, long and narrow, surrounded with faintly glowing cushioning charms along the edges and walls. A dueling class. Freakin¡¯ finally. "Right then!" MacLeod''s voice boomed through the room, his beard extra shiny with scented oil this morning. "Who''s brave enough to demonstrate last week''s reflecting shields? Partial power only - this is about timing, not sending your classmate to the hospital wing." Caeso Montfort stood up with a lazy, arrogant smile. "I''m game, Professor," he said, sauntering up to the raised dueling stage at the front of the room like the cock of the yard. MacLeod nodded, "Very good, Mr. Montfort. And who will be your opponent?" He looked out over the rest of the class expectantly. No one moved. ¡°I can whip him,¡± Jack whispered to Henry, and made to stand up. Henry plucked his sleeve. "Hold fast, old boy," he muttered in his ear, ¡°He''s not like Ludd with her notebook. Montfort actually means harm¨C" ¡°Harm? Screw that scrawny fink,¡± Jack stood up anyway. ¡°I¡¯ll do it," he said in a loud, clear voice. Every head swiveled to stare. MacLeod''s bushy eyebrows rose. "Excellent! Mr. Montfort and Mr. Semmes! This should be good.¡± They took their positions at opposite ends of the platform. Jack rolled his shoulders, settling into the Ilvermorny dueling stance - feet planted shoulder-width apart, weight on his back leg, arms loose but ready. Across from him, Montfort assumed the European pose, sideways profile, wand extended like a fencer''s foil. "Let¡¯s have a clean duel, laddies!" MacLeod raised his hand. "Bow to your opponent..." Jack gave a sarcastic sweep of his left arm and dipped his head. Montfort executed a perfect aristocratic bow, never taking his eyes off Jack. "Begin!" Jack felt Montfort¡¯s murderous intent before he even started casting. Montfort''s wand whipped forward, unleashing a Stunning Spell with full power - a vicious red lance that would have shattered Jack¡¯s shield and knocked him clean off the platform¡­ ¡­if he hadn''t been waiting for exactly that. Five years of Ilvermorny wand drills made his motions automatic. "Protego!" Jack''s shield charm materialized with perfect timing, catching Montfort''s spell exactly as it arrived. The red beam struck the silvery dome - the impact sent a shock rippling up his arm - and instantly rebounded, amplified, with a sound like a whip cracking. Montfort''s eyes widened in surprise as his Stunner, now significantly stronger, came shrieking back at him. His shield came up too late¡ª CRACK Montfort went flying backwards off the platform. He hit the cushioning charms on the wall hard enough to make them visibly flare blue, magic rippling outward like a pond disturbed by a stone, then slumped to the floor. Jack¡¯s palm tingled from his wand absorbing the impact. The whole exchange had lasted less than three seconds. Dead silence fell over the classroom. Cassandra Hightower¡¯s mouth was set in a little ¡®o¡¯. Jack had to bite his tongue to keep himself from crowing loudly in triumph. He satisfied himself by twirling his smoking wand around his fingers like a gunslinger. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. "Enerverate!" MacLeod''s reviving spell shot into Caeso. ¡°Well,¡± his voice held a mix of professional disapproval and poorly hidden amusement. "That was significantly above partial power, Mr. Montfort." He motioned two nearby students to help the dazed Ravenclaw to his feet. "Mr. Semmes, that was a textbook perfect Protego Reflexionis. Five points to Gryffindor for technical execution, and five points from Ravenclaw for excessive force." Jack hopped down from the platform, trying not to look too cocky. "We learned those at Ilvermorny," he whispered as he passed Cassandra. She acted as if she had not heard him. Henry was grinning and shaking his head as Jack slid back into his seat, "You¡¯re mad. You knew he''d go full power, didn''t you?" "Never been more sure of anything in my life." Jack was too hyped on adrenaline to even begin copying down MacLeod''s following remarks on shield timing. "Schmuck is as subtle as a heart attack." Henry glanced at Montfort, who was glaring daggers at them, "We¡¯ll want to watch our corners for a few days. He won''t take that lightly." ¡°See if I care,¡± Jack leaned to catch Montfort¡¯s eye and waved brashly at him. Montfort scowled and looked forward. "Did you see the look on his face when it came back at him?" "Couldn''t miss it, old sport." Henry chuckled. "Like watching a man about to be run down by a Norwegian Ridgeback." They turned their attention back to MacLeod''s lecture, but Jack could feel Montfort''s eyes boring into him for the rest of class. He''d won this round decisively, but Henry was right - this wasn''t over. He quickly found out what Montfort''s counterpunch was. The Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor was packed with students after class let out, twin rivers of robes and voices flowing in both directions. Jack and Henry made it three steps before the heckling started. "Oi! Yankee!" A knot of fifth-year Ravenclaws loitered, clearly waiting for him. At the center was a ferrety boy Jack recognized. Montfort¡¯s strap-hanger-in-chief, a wiry little sneak named Aethelred Boyle. Boyle''s grin was toothy, his eyes glittering with the thrill of picking a fight. "Nice cheap shot in there, Semmes!" "Aye, real brave, waiting for him to attack first!" another jeered. Jack set his jaw and kept walking. His friends had warned him about this, the younger Ravenclaws were Montfort¡¯s foot soldiers, hungry to prove their worth. The sixth and seventh years usually considered direct confrontation beneath them, but the fourths and fifths had no such scruples. A wadded-up piece of parchment bounced off the back of his head. Then another. And another. "Yank won¡¯t duel fair!" "Think he learned that trick at spy school?" Jack¡¯s fingers itched for his wand. He could turn and make an example of one of them. A Trip Jinx, maybe ¨C send Boyle sprawling, teach them to shut up¡­ Henry beat him to it. He stuck his wand behind his ear in a mockingly nerdy gesture. "Rather bold of you boys," he said. "Harassing the lad who just demonstrated such impressive defensive spellwork." Boyle puffed up. "We¡¯re defending our school, Ravenhurst!" ¡°Blimey.¡± Eustace Grymes came strolling past with his hands in his pockets. "If Hogwarts needs idiots like you to defend it, it¡¯s already fallen.¡± "Half-blood says what?" Boyle snapped. Eustace made a contemptuous gesture. ¡°Care to make a play with your wand or just keep whining?" That landed. The fifth-years hesitated, sizing the three Gryffindors up, before Boyle jerked his head for them to clear off. The pack slunk away. Jack let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "Thanks guys." ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± Henry shook his head. ¡°Don¡¯t let them get to you.¡± ¡°Bloody entitled brats,¡± Grymes snarled. Jack was just starting to relax when he felt the temperature drop. "I AM AN ENGLISHMAN! I REMAIN AN ENGLISHMAN!" A horrible, familiar voice came muffled through the walls. "For in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, Peeves remains an Englishman!" "Oh God," Jack¡¯s stomach sank. ¡°When I was a polter-lad, I was so glad, I drove all the students stark raving mad! I flipped their quills and I hexed their tea, and turned all the stairs to a grand trapeze!¡± The students in the hall started to run. ¡°That grand trapeze so suited me that now I am coming for the new Yankee!¡± Peeves burst through the far wall like a demonic beachball, arms full of bulging, sloshing water balloons. Ice-cold Scottish loch water, if Jack¡¯s past experience was anything to go by. The poltergeist, who, besides his other obnoxious habits, had lately become an ardent British nationalist. "For he himself has said it, and it¡¯s greatly to his credit, that he is a MISFIT ARMPIT!" Henry and Eustace dove sideways into a classroom before the first balloon left Peeves¡¯ hands. Jack didn''t have their honed reflexes. The water balloon exploded against his shoulder, just missing his schoolbag. Another burst at his feet, soaking his socks in frigid water. "A HOGWARTS GHOST IS A SOARING SOOOUL, AS FREE AS A MOUNTAIN BIIIIIIRRRD!" "Don¡¯t you have some freshmen to terrorize?" Jack yelled, dodging left and trying to protect his books. Peeves swooped after him cackling: "RULLLE BRITANNIA! BRITANNIA RULES THE WAAAAAAAVES! BRITONS, NEVER EVER EVER EVER SHALL BE YANKEE SLAAAAAVES!" Jack skidded around the corner, his wet robes slapping his legs, and nearly crashed into Bianca Ludd, looming in the stairwell like a vulture waiting for a corpse. "Five points from Gryffindor for running indoors," she announced with relish. "And five more for creating a slipping hazard in the hallway." ¡°Let the punishment fit the crime!¡± Peeves sang triumphantly. ¡°And make each Yankee pent, unwilling¡¯ represent, a source of merriment!¡± Jack¡¯s shoes were squelching with every step as he finally gave Peeves the slip and stumbled into Muggle Studies. His lungs burned from sprinting in the stale air of the castle, and at first he barely registered the classroom before him. A large table had been set out piled with thin wooden strips, tissue paper, and glue. Professor Whitby looked up, openly grinning at Jack¡¯s disheveled sogginess, "Ah, good morning, Mr. Semmes! I thought that I heard someone singing Gilbert and Sullivan." "Was that what that was?" Jack wheezed. Whitby shook his head, "Right then!" he called as the last students trickled in. "Now that Mr. Semmes'' cultural immersion has been completed for this morning, today we¡¯re exploring the miracle of Muggle flight. Everyone gets some of this balsa wood. Careful now, it¡¯s fragile!" Jack used a drying charm on his dripping hair. From duels to poltergeists to model airplanes. What a day. And it wasn''t even lunchtime yet. 41. Two Methods of Flying
Muggle Studies ¨C Sixth Year Lesson Title: Aeroplanes and You! Lesson Objectives: By the end of this lesson, students will: 1. Evaluate the basic principles of Muggle aerodynamics, including lift, drag, thrust, and gravity, and compare them to magical means of flight. 2. Apply Muggle engineering techniques by constructing a model aircraft using only Muggle materials (balsa wood, glue, and string¡ªno wands allowed!). 3. Analyze the limitations of Muggle flight compared to wizarding transportation, including broomsticks, enchanted carriages, and magical beasts, while considering the historical and cultural implications of aviation on the Muggle world. Readings: 1. Murray and McAlister''s Marvelous Muggles, Chapter 4: The Curious Case of the Wright Brothers 2. Up, Up, and Blown Away! A Brief History of Failed Muggle Flight Attempts (Professor Whitby''s Own Notes) 3. The Ministry of Magic''s 16 October 1908 Report on the First Muggle "Aeroplane" Sighting and the Necessary Memory Charms Thereafter Optional Reading: "A Study of How Muggle Flight Almost Burst the Statute of Secrecy (Again)," Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes, 1941.
Before they began building, Whitby had to first deliver one of his infamous lectures, gesticulating wildly as he paced before the class, his bad leg stumping along. ¡°If Muggles were meant to fly, wouldn¡¯t they have magic?¡± he asked, then promptly answered his own question. ¡°No, of course not! That hasn¡¯t stopped them from trying. Throughout history, they¡¯ve strapped themselves to kites, jumped off towers with ridiculous contraptions strapped to their backs, and even sat on chairs and launched themselves into orbit using firecrackers - all with predictably disastrous results.¡± Jack exchanged a look with his seatmate Martin Mossflower, who raised an eyebrow. Muggles really did that? Jack was more used to their antics than most British wizards, but even he had to admit that strapping yourself to a firecracker chair sounded spectacularly idiotic. Whitby clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing again. ¡°It wasn¡¯t until the early twentieth century that Muggles cracked the problem with their so-called ¡®aeroplanes.¡¯ Unlike broomsticks, which rely on finely tuned enchantments and the occasional bit of derring-do, Muggle flight depends entirely on something called aerodynamics." Whitby spun on his heel, robes swishing, ¡°The key concepts you need to understand are lift, thrust, drag, and gravity. In simple terms: lift keeps you up, thrust moves you forward, drag tries to slow you down, and gravity does its best to return you to the ground. Muggles, being short on magic but long on cleverness, must manipulate these forces with engineering: hence the wings, propellers, and engines.¡± He tapped the side of his head knowingly. ¡°Rather ingenious, really.¡± There was a brief pause as he surveyed the class. ¡°Now that''s enough of my blathering, on to the practical exercise! You will each construct a small, non-magical glider using only these Muggle materials: balsa wood, glue, and string. No wands and absolutely no levitation spells.¡± He smiled widely. ¡°Think of it as an empathy-building exercise.¡± Jack and his classmates struggled with the flimsy pieces of wood and paper and copies of Muggle instructions that Whitby had distributed. Jack had actually made a model plane before - a P-38 Lightning that his dad had bought him for Christmas two years back - but they had used magic to put it together and fly it around the living room. Most of his classmates were treating the delicate materials as if they were building a concrete pillbox. Whitby had his hands full. "No, no, Mr. Montfort, the wings need to be symmetrical, otherwise it won¡¯t fly¨C Ms. Hightower, that''s far too much glue, it will never generate enough lift to overcome its mass¨C Fine work with the tail assembly, Mr. Grymes!" After forty-five minutes had passed, the professor led them out onto the wide stone parapet of the West Tower. The wind was gently breezing and the morning was clear, giving them a perfect view of the Flying Lawn stretching three hundred yards below to the outer curtain wall. Below them, the first-years stood in neat rows on the grass, training brooms laid out beside them. "Now then!" Whitby climbed boldly up onto the parapet, his sunglasses glinting. "Who''d like to demonstrate the principles of aerodynamic lift first?" Jack leaned over the crenellations, watching the flying lesson below. Mr. Gallagher, the flying instructor, was putting the first-years through their paces. Jack spotted Wiggy''s distinctive ginger hair just as the boy''s broom responded to his enthusiastic "UP!" with enthusiastic force. The handle caught him in the nose, he lurched backwards, and both Wiggy and broom went tumbling, carving a deep furrow across the manicured lawn. "Poor kid," Jack shook his head as his classmates enjoyed a laugh at Wiggy¡¯s expense. He''d had his own share of flying mishaps at Ilvermorny. Cyprian prepared for the first launch. The results were less than impressive. Venge''s plane executed a perfect Immelmann turn ¨C half loop, half roll ¨C worthy of a star Chaser dodging a Bludger¡­ before immediately crashing back into his forehead. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. Eustace¡¯s did a neat corkscrewing barrel roll before crumpling against the tower wall. Montfort¡¯s climbed straight up, hung in midair as if reconsidering its life choices, then disintegrated. Cassandra''s plane showed promise, gliding gracefully for a few yards before a sudden crosswind sent it spinning into the stonework and crushing the left wing. Jack caught her frustrated frown as she repaired it with a subtle tap of her wand. Jack''s own attempt wasn''t much better. The plane sailed promisingly before a gust caught it, sending it into a death spiral onto the Flying Lawn. "Accio model plane!" he called quickly, before a wayward freshman stomped on it by accident. After ten minutes of repeated retrievals and repairs, patience began wearing thin. Wands appeared with increasing brazenness, first just for fixing torn paper and broken struts. "Sir," Eustace called out, "I feel like Wingardium Leviosa¨C" "No, no, no! Mr. Grymes, that defeats the purpose of the lesson entirely!" Whitby protested, but it was already too late. The air suddenly filled with magically enhanced paper aircraft, zooming and looping with un-aerodynamic aplomb. The first-years scattered as the enchanted squadron began dive-bombing their flying lesson. Wiggy, now back on his feet, went down again as three planes executed a strafing run. Mr. Gallagher - the aged but powerfully built Flying Instructor - looked up at the parapet, his expression and posture promising dire consequences for Professor Whitby at the next staff meeting. "I suppose," Whitby waved apologetically to Gallagher while addressing his students, "this demonstrates another important principle about human nature - given the choice between doing something the hard way or the easy way, always trust young people to take the latter." A magically-propelled plane whizzed over their head, trailing blue sparks and singing a tinny version of "Hearts of Oak." "An amusing modification, Mr. Carrow," Whitby called without turning around. "Kindly remove the propaganda enchantments." Down on the lawn, Mr. Gallagher had given up trying to restore order. The first-years were now trying to bat down the paper planes with their training brooms, turning the flying lesson into a cross between cricket and butterfly catching. The bell tower struck eleven. "Class dismissed," Whitby announced, rapidly summoning and collecting the last of the wayward planes. "For next class, I want eight inches on the applications of Muggle aerodynamics to flight charms. And do your assigned readings! Merlin''s sake, I¡¯m tired of talking to myself for the first ten minutes of class every day!"
The greenhouses shimmered in the afternoon sun, the glass panels fogged with humidity. But they weren''t headed inside today. Professor Blackthorn led them around back to a small mountain range of compost heaps, steam rising gently from their peaks. "Attention!" She clapped her thin hands together. "Time for our autumn sorting. The pile needs to be properly graded before the frost sets in. Grade One compost for the sensitive plants, Grade Two for general use, Grade Three for hardier specimens." A collective groan rose from the class. "This is servant''s work," somebody muttered behind Jack - one of the Slytherins. "They should save this for detentions." "Detention is for punishment, Mr. de Montmorency," Professor Blackthorn barked. "Which is what you¡¯ll have if you do not guard your tongue! This is herbological preparation. Now then - gloves on!" They took off their school robes and got to work, armed with shovels, pitchforks, and sorting buckets. Jack migrated away from Cassandra and Caeso and found himself at one of the larger heaps, magically maintaining a perfect temperature of decay. He drove his shovel into the steaming pile. The smell wasn¡¯t as bad as he thought it would be¡­ until he turned it over, and a wave of damp, fermented rot hit him full in the face. He gagged. ¡°First time?¡± Lavinia Lloyd stood nearby, a foot on her pitchfork. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her dark hair was tied back with a red and gold ribbon. She looks like the farmer¡¯s daughter from a butter advertisement, Jack thought stupidly. "Was I that obvious?" he grinned, driving his shovel into the steaming pile. "I¡¯m a city kid. Don''t exactly have a green thumb." She laughed, "Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯ll show you the ropes." They sifted through the decomposing plant matter together. Jack had to admit, it was satisfying work, if he ignored the sweat tricking down his back. The Grade One compost had a silky, crumbly texture and rich, earthy smell. Grade Two was coarser and chunkier, good enough for most plants. Grade Three was nasty-smelling clotted dirt. Lavinia struggled with an overloaded bucket of Grade Three. "Here, lemme help with that," Jack said, grabbing hold of the wire handle. She snorted but didn¡¯t pull away, as if deciding whether to argue or let him have this one. "I can manage, you know." "I know," Jack said easily, adjusting his grip. "But at Ilvermorny, we¡¯re taught to be gentlemen." She gave him a sideways look, unimpressed. "Gentlemen? That what you Yanks call it when you see a girl doing hard work and get all twitchy?" Jack smirked. "No, that¡¯s just good manners. I¡¯ll let you carry the next one if it makes you feel better." ¡°Oh aye?¡± She raised an eyebrow. "You promise?" "On my honor," Jack said solemnly as they hauled the bucket to the sorting area together. ¡°Ha!¡± Lavinia tossed her head. "We¡¯ll see about that." Back home, her friendliness would have been totally normal - American witches generally weren''t shy about showing when they liked you, at least the Northern girls were. Southern girls were harder to read (he''d learned that the hard way). But here...no, he was just overthinking things. He shook the thought away. She was just being nice. No need to overthink a laugh and a pretty smile. He had enough complications without adding another. 42. The Lions and the Badgers Friday afternoon found the entire school streaming toward the pitch for the first Quidditch game of the season: Gryffindor vs Hufflepuff. Jack clenched his teeth to contain his nerves as they changed into their scarlet and gold uniforms. His palms were slick with sweat under his gloves. "Remember," Henry reminded him as they mounted up, "Hufflepuff likes to attack in tight formation. We''ll break their rhythm early." They zoomed out to thunderous cheers, the stands a sea of house colors. Jack caught a glimpse of blonde hair in the front part of the Ravenclaw section, but his attention was completely on the game. His Quodpot habits betrayed him almost immediately despite all the practice. The Quaffle felt wrong in his hands¡ªtoo light, too large. He kept hesitating an extra second, muscle memory waiting for an explosion that wouldn''t come. Jack''s first pass to Henry went wide, his second too hard, skipping off Algy''s hands. He pounded his fist into his leg and cursed like a Muggle sailor. "Steady on!" Henry called as they reset to defend. Hufflepuff¡¯s lead Chaser, Malcolm MacMillan, got on a breakaway. Jack''s instincts kicked in. You couldn''t just let someone score if you could help it. He tucked in his elbows, tightened his grip on his broom, and accelerated. There wasn''t a good angle to get in front of him, the deflection was too high and the Hufflepuff was too fast. Instead Jack shot straight for MacMillan... WHAM! The impact sent a painful jolt up Jack¡¯s shoulder. Malcolm spun off course, broom pinwheeling as the Quaffle tumbled free. A second later, the stadium erupted into boos: ¡°FOUL!¡± "Can''t do that, Yank!" "This isn''t your bloody Yankee rugger!" "Ship ¡®im back!" Jack barely had time to process the uproar before a shrill whistle split the air. He turned just as the referee ¨C a wiry wizard with a permanent scowl ¨C descended on him, brandishing a large yellow card that flapped in the air like a furious canary. The card¡¯s animated eyes narrowed at him in anger. "Have you ever play Quidditch before, boy?" the ref barked. Jack felt himself flush from toes to ears, the jeers of the crowd rang in his ears. "Yes sir! Just... Quodpot, too." "This is not bloody Quodpot! No tackling! Next time, it''s a red card and you''re out!" ¡°Sorry sir,¡± Jack winced and raised his hands in apology. "I¡¯m sorry!" he called toward the irate Hufflepuff players. "I forgot you couldn''t do that!" He barely had time to catch his breath before Algy shot over, his scar livid against his red face. "You dense damn Yank!" he snapped, grabbing a fistful of Jack''s robe and pulling him close. "Pull that again and you¡¯re on the bench!" ¡°Yes sir!¡± Jack replied, thoroughly chastened. When play resumed, he forced himself to slow down and think. But it wasn¡¯t easy. His instincts screamed at him to brace for impact, to charge forward, to smash through the defense. Twice, he almost lunged for a tackle before yanking himself back at the last second. Play smart, he told himself. Don¡¯t be freaking stupid. Instead of powering through, he started using quick direction changes, cutting left when they expected right, twisting into sudden dives that forced the Hufflepuff Chasers to scramble. The first time, he overcompensated, nearly losing his grip and fumbling the Quaffle, but he gradually found his rhythm as the game went on . It worked. The Hufflepuff defense didn''t quite know how to react to his movements. He wove between their formations, breaking up their practiced plays. When they adjusted to cover him, it left Henry and Algy free to score. "That''s more like it!" Henry shouted as they pulled ahead 50-40. Now that they were winning, Jack started enjoying himself. He pulled a tight spiral around the Hufflepuff goalposts, baiting their Keeper just enough for Henry to slip the Quaffle through the left hoop. The Gryffindor stands burst into cheers. Teddy''s Bludger work was keeping the talented opposing Seeker Lot Abrams from getting any clean looks at the Snitch. Oliver, solid as ever at Keeper, was keeping them in the game. "Yanks can fly after all!" someone shouted from the Slytherin section. Jack grinned as he banked hard, intercepting a Hufflepuff pass. Henry flew past, sandy hair whipping in the wind. "Time enough to show off later, Semmes!" "Just getting warmed up," he called back, lunging after a pass meant for the Hufflepuff Captain. The next hour was a blur of motion and sound. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Then the crowd¡¯s roar changed. It was different. Louder, and more urgent. It took Jack a few seconds to realize why. A flash of gold near the grandstand. Then twin red and yellow streaks slashed across his vision. Their little cockney third-year Seeker Todd Brock was locked in a dead sprint with his Hufflepuff counterpart. The crowd''s cheers swelled as the two raced neck-and-neck, broom bristles scraping. The Snitch shot straight for the wooden grandstand. The two Seekers hurtled toward the wall, neither flinching. "Pull up Lofty! You mad bastard!" Teddy bellowed, but Brock held his nerve. At the last second, the Snitch darted straight up. Brock zipped after it like he had been pulled by a string. The Hufflepuff Seeker couldn¡¯t. He hit the wall at full speed. A loud WHOOOMP split the air, followed by a splintery explosion. "OHHH!" the crowd winced as one. Jack flinched in sympathy ¡ª and promptly lost the Quaffle to a Hufflepuff Chaser because he wasn''t paying attention. It didn''t matter. Five seconds later, Brock was holding the Snitch aloft, laughing like a maniac. 280-90. That¡¯s the ball game.
The Gryffindor common room was pandemonium. Cases of ginger beer acquired from the kitchens and bottles of butterbeer illicitly brought back from Hogsmeade were opened with loud pops!, sending frothy liquid fizzing over the tops. The high-ceilinged room rang with laughter, shouted conversations, and the warmth of packed bodies. Jack and Teddy had taken it upon themselves to lead a raucous and increasingly bawdy victory song that Jack had brought over from Ilvermorny:
We are We are We are We are wizards frisky risky We can We can We can We can demolish all the whiskey Drink up Drink up Drink up all day and come along with us, cuz We don''t give a damn for any old man, who don''t give a damn for us!
Teddy started improvising a new verse that tried rhymed ¡°trumpet¡± with ¡°strumpet¡± but Algy shut him down by waving his arms and shouting that the first-years were still awake. Jack was still laughing when a voice spoke at his elbow. "Wonderful flying out there!" He turned. Lavinia Lloyd stood beside him, blue eyes sparkling. A floppy Gryffindor tam o¡¯shanter was perched at a jaunty angle atop her hair. Jack felt his cheeks warm, and not just from the heat of the crowded room. Holy smokes¡­she looks kinda cool¨C "Thanks," he said, pushing his thoughts down so as to not get tongue tied. "Still getting used to uh...proper Brit sports, but it¡¯s growing on me." "We''ll refine you yet, Yank!" Henry popped up between them and slung an arm around Jack¡¯s shoulders. "Hey! You should see our Lavinia on a broom." He poked Jack in the ribs. "Lloyd here broke five minutes on the southern cliffs circuit!" "Is that, uh, good?" Jack asked cluelessly. "The record is 5:06," Henry grinned. A small firecracker shot towards the ceiling and burst into a lion shape with the smell of gunpowder. Jack looked past him at Lavinia, impressed. "Seriously?" ¡°It¡¯s only an unofficial time,¡± she waved the complement off, "Just a bit of fun on weekends." The wireless crackled and the unmistakable opening of "Rum and Coca-Cola" by the Andrew Sisters filled the common room. Someone let out a cheer, and a group of fourth-years linked arms, starting a line dance that wove its way between chairs and tables like an enormous python. More and more students joined in, laughing and stumbling as they tried to match the steps. Jack found himself swept into the chain between Teddy and Arabella. The room blurred as they twisted and turned, following the leaders in their looping path. Ahead of him, Lavinia¡¯s hair swung as she spun, her laughter lost in the commotion. The dance broke into smaller circles as the song changed. Jack stumbled into a group with several others, now attempting a Scottish folk dance that involved clapping, stomping, and rapid partner changes. "Left foot, then right!" Mina called, trying vainly to direct traffic. "No, Marshy, your other left! Confound it!" Oliver roared. "These northern dances are barmy," Teddy declared as he dragged Jack straight into another group. Somebody yelped as a toe was stepped on. The party spun on, a whirl of dancing, a blend of Muggle and wizarding songs, and the endless popping of bottles. "Another round, Semmes," Henry grinned, sticking a freshly opened ginger beer under Jack¡¯s nose. "You''re dehydrated." Jack was caught off guard. He had been lost in wondering if Cassandra had been watching him from the stands. He shook the thought away and grinned. No time for Ravenclaws right now. "Why not?" he took a long, spicy swig from the bottle. "We earned it today." Across the room, Pal, Mel, and Wiggy were dramatically reenacting their favorite plays to the delight of a growing audience. Pal sprinting into Wiggy at full speed in imitation of Jack tackling MacMillan was a particular favorite. Even the portraits joined in. The Wing Co had appeared in Georgie¡¯s frame, leading to a debate between the periwigged redcoat wizard and the baffled Muggle RAF officer that Jack strolled over to eavesdrop on. "See here, old bean," the Wing Co began, stroking his mustache and leaning on the painted edge of the frame. "Sounds an awful fuss being made over flying basketball with three hoops, wot-wot?" "It is nothing of the sort, Colonel," Georgie drew himself up with all the hauteur of a captain addressing a well-meaning but idiotic subaltern, "Quidditch is a distinguished pursuit, requiring discipline, strategy, and a mastery of the manly virtues: courage and an unswerving loyalty to Ministry and Country!" "Oh, capital fun," the Wing Co said breezily. "And what the devil¡¯s a Bludger?" "Enchanted iron balls set loose upon the pitch," Georgie said gravely, resting his hand on his wand¡¯s hilt like it was a saber. "Their singular purpose to dash a man from his broom and send him plummeting to earth, where he shall suffer the ignominious fate of the unmounted infantry!" "Ha!¡± The Wing Co gave an appreciative whistle. "Flying basketball with bloody great cannonballs zooming about like a bad day over Dunkirk! Jolly good!¡± Georgie¡¯s lip curled. "That is an unforgivably crude summation, sir. Quidditch is not a pastime for the common rrrabble! It is a contest of skill and breeding, a gentleman¡¯s engagement! One does not simply play one¡¯s way to victory like a common sellwand. One must triumph with grace, honour, and glory!" "Quite right," the Wing Co mused diplomatically, twirling his mustachios. "So how does one win? Throw the ball through the other lot''s hoop more than the other, eh?" "Good God, man!" Georgie recoiled as if struck. "No! There is still the matter of the Golden Snitch!" 43. Palamedes Hitchens and the Prisoner of Secrets "I''m telling you," Palamedes Hitchens whispered excitedly to his fellow first-years as they crept through the library stacks just after lunch on Saturday, "The Ravenclaws definitely said something about secret books in the library, chock full of dead drops and coded messages!" "I don''t remember any of them saying that," Menelaus Gristwood muttered, adjusting his glasses nervously as he glanced around for Ms. Quillworth. "They were just talking about study guides..." "That¡¯s a suspiciously normal sounding conversation!" Pal said. "Besides, we''re the Gryffindor Irregulars! We have to investigate everything!" "The Ministry of Ungentlewizardly Warfare," Wigbald Stoat corrected, his ginger hair falling over his eyes. "Sounds more wizardy." "Whatever we are today," Mel sighed, "Miss Quillworth will be furious if we go in the Restricted Section, to say nothing of Miss Mulholland¨C¡± "The rules say don¡¯t go into the Restricted Section," Pal grinned. "We''re near it. Big difference. Now help me look for what they''re hiding!" The three boys spread out along the brightly lit shelves. Mel got immediately distracted by a picture book on potion brewing techniques. Wiggy found himself absorbed in Quidditch Through the Ages. But Palamedes was on a mission. He prowled the aisles like he imagined Aurors did, humming appropriate theme music:
"Dun, dun¡­ dun-dun, dun, dun¡­ dun-dun!"
Then he saw it ¨C a small black book lying in a conspicuously clean spot on an otherwise dusty shelf, positioned so the light caught the polished cover. "Eureka!" he hissed, causing Mel to drop his book and Wiggy to nearly fall off the stepladder he''d been sitting precariously on. ¡°What is it?¡± both boys whispered. Pal snatched up his prize. "Look! It''s just sitting here, all mysterious-like!" He turned the book over in his hands. "No name, no checkout slip, no nothing!¡± He put it up to his nose and took a deep sniff of the rich leather. ¡°This is definitely a clue!" "A clue to what?" Mel asked, retrieving his fallen book. "I dunno. That''s why we have to investigate!" ¡°It looks like someone¡¯s lost notebook.¡± Pal opened the book, revealing nothing but blank pages. "Maybe it''s got invisible ink! Maybe if we hold it in front of a flame we can reveal hidden writing!" "Yes, or set it on fire," Wiggy frowned. "Do you think it¡¯s flammable?¡±¡¯ "Don''t be thick, of course it is!" Pal rolled his eyes. "We just need to warm it up a bit. Here¡ª" He held the book close to one of the library''s lanterns. "I don''t think that''s¡ª" Mel began. "Shhh! I read about this in a spy comic!" Pal squinted at the pages. "Nothing. Maybe we need more heat..." "Or we could try lemon juice," Wiggy suggested. "Brilliant!" Pal''s eyes lit up. "Quick, pop down to the kitchens and nick us a lemon!" "We are NOT pouring lemon juice on a library book," Mel protested, putting his foot down. "Besides, if it''s magical invisible ink, wouldn''t we need a magical solution?" "Not here though, let''s go back to base!¡± suggested Wiggy. They raced to their ¡®base¡¯, a disused classroom in the lower half of the Astronomy Tower. "Right then," Pal announced, "Time for detection spells!" "Do we even know any?" Mel asked doubtfully. "We can try and see what happens!" Pal pulled out his wand. "Alohomora!" Nothing happened. "That''s for locks," Mel said. "Wingardium Leviosa!" Wiggy tried. The book floated unsteadily a few inches into the air before flopping back down. ¡°See that?¡± Wiggy barked in alarm, ¡°It resisted my spell!¡± ¡°I think your spell was just bad,¡± Mel shook his head. "Well, now we know it''s not immune to magic," Pal noted importantly. "Write that down, Mel!" "Write what down? That basic spells work on it like they do on every other book?" "Every detail is important!" Pal snatched the book back. "Lumos!" His wand tip lit up. "The book didn''t react," Wiggy observed. "Maybe I need to give it some more mustard." Pal cleared his throat. "LUMOS MAXIMA!" The resulting flash temporarily blinded all three of them. "Ow," said Mel from the floor. "Right, new plan," Pal announced, blinking spots from his eyes and bumping into a desk. "We need proper equipment. Let''s go ask Professor Whitby."
"And you need a magnifying glass for what exactly?" Professor Whitby asked dubiously. ¡°You¡¯re not going to be roasting insects are you?¡± ¡°For detective work!" Pal burst out. ¡°Detective work!¡± Whitby''s face lit up. "Like Scotland Yard? Well, why didn¡¯t you say so! Did you know Muggle detectives also use something called fingerprint powder? And ultraviolet lights? Though that''s still experimental of course." "Just the magnifying glass, please, Professor," Mel began, but Whitby was already rummaging through his desk drawers. "You can''t do proper detective work without the full kit!" He emerged with a magnifying glass, a small brush, and a tin. "Here¡¯s dusting powder. Well, the tin of it. I ran out of the stuff it came with and had to substitute with pulverized moonstone from Professor Vale¡¯s storeroom... makes the prints shimmer beautifully. I told him I needed it for class." "Prints?" Wiggy asked. "Fingerprints!" Whitby explained eagerly. "Every person''s are unique, you see. Muggles use them to catch criminals. Fascinating stuff! Much more fun than tracking charms. Can''t confound a fingerprint!" The boys left with the whole kit, which Whitby had insisted upon after extracting a solemn promise that they wouldn''t tell Professor Winterborn about it. "Right then," Pal announced. "Time to dust for prints!" "Do you actually know how to do this?" Mel asked nervously as Pal opened the tin. "''Course I do!" Pal grinned. "You sprinkle it about, just a lil¡¯ bit like-OOOOPS!" The lid of the powder tin came off in his hand, and a shimmering avalanche cascaded onto the diary. A glittering cloud rose into the air, making all three boys sneeze. Five seconds later, the book was dusted with Whitby''s brush, revealing dozens of overlapping fingerprints that sparkled in the sunlight. "Ah HA!" Pal exclaimed. "Evidence!" "Those are our fingerprints, Palamedes," Mel grunted. "From handling the book for the past hour!" "Oh." Pal deflated. "Well... maybe if we look at the ones underneath." "The ones we just covered?" "There could be really old ones!" Wiggy suggested. "Like from last term!" "Those would also be covered," Mel pointed out. "Unless..." Pal''s eyes lit up. "Unless we use MORE powder! To see through the first layer!" Without hesitation, he turned the jar upside down, dumping every last grain of moonstone powder onto the diary''s cover. "I think I see something!" Wiggy squinted at the book, now buried under a small fortune''s worth of pulverized moonstone. "Wait, no, that''s just where Pal smudged it with his sleeve." "Let''s examine the evidence!" Pal blew away the extra powder and held the magnifying glass over the diary, "What exactly are we looking for?" Wiggy asked, peering over Pal''s shoulder. "Clues!" Pal declared. "Like... tiny writing! Or... mysterious stains! Or..." he squinted through the glass. "Hold on, if I catch it just right¡ª" "You''re holding it too close," Mel pointed out. "I knew that," Pal pulled away from the page, where his nose had rubbed into the powder. "Maybe if I just hold it up to the light¡ªYEOWCH!" He dropped both glass and book as a concentrated beam of sunlight shot straight into his eye. "I can''t see anything," Wiggy complained, scooping up the magnifying glass and squinting at the diary''s blank pages. "Except... wait... no, that''s nothing." "Try the cover again," Pal suggested. "Maybe there''s a secret message in the leather grain!" "That''s ridiculous," Mel muttered, but obligingly held it up in the light as Wiggy examined every inch of the cover. "Nothing," Wiggy finally admitted. "Unless... do you think the smudges mean something?" "Those are just plain old smudges," Mel observed, frugally sweeping the spilled moonstone off of the desk and back into the tin. "Oh." Pal tapped his chin. Then brightened again. "Well, if no one''s going to claim it, and we can''t find any clues..." He pulled out his quill. "Might as well make it official. This book now belongs to¡ª" He wrote with a flourish on the first blank page: Property of Palamedes Hitchens, First-Year Gryffindor Irregular, Junior Officer of Sorcerous Services (JOSS), Future Auror. They watched as the ink glistened on the page. Then, slowly, it began to sink into the paper. "Ooooooo," Wiggy breathed. "Is it a self-cleaning page?" Mel wondered. Words began to appear in elegant script: Hello, Palamedes. How wonderful to meet a Hogwarts student. "MERLIN! IT WRITES BACK!" Pal nearly dropped the book in excitement. "Quick, let¡¯s ask it something!" "Ask it what it is first!" Mel suggested. "Who cares about that, ask it about Hogwarts!" Wiggy interrupted. "Ask it about secret passages!" Pal scrawled, "Do you know any secret passages into the Ravenclaw Common Room?" The diary''s response appeared more slowly this time: I know many things. "It knows things!" Pal bounced excitedly. "We can use it to help with homework!" "We should really turn this in to Ms. Quillworth," Mel suggested halfheartedly, but curiosity won out as he and Wiggy crowded around Pal. I''ve been waiting for someone worthy to find me. "This is brilliant!" Pal exclaimed, interrupting the diary''s message and writing over it: "Do you know anything about the Goblin Rebellion of 1612? We''ve got an essay due tomorrow and I haven''t even started..." "Hang on," Wiggy interrupted, pointing at the page. "If it knows history, ask it about the witch burnings next!" You''ll need to specify which witch burnings, the diary replied, but I''d prefer to discuss something more interesting. Hidden beneath this very castle "Oh! Ask it about Transfig!" Mel urged. "Winterborn''s going to test us on matchsticks-to-needles tomorrow!" The diary''s writing became more aggressive, unable to absorb Pal¡¯s ink fast enough: Yes, I used to be a student here. Now listen, young gentlewizard, I''m trying to tell you about "It knows Transfig!" Pal squealed with delight. "This is perfect! I bet he knows about all our classes!" If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. No, you The diary cut off as if taking a calming breath. New words appeared carefully: Let us discuss your deepest desires instead. "I desire to not fail History of Magic," Mel wrote. "Can you explain when and why the International Statute of Secrecy was established? Explain it like I¡¯m a first-year." As if against its will, the diary wrote: The International Statute of Secrecy was established in 1689 and officially enacted in 1692 in order to protect the magical community from Muggle persecution. By the late 17th century, Muggles had grown increasingly suspicious and fearful of witches and wizards in the wake of the Protestant Reformation and the Thirty Years War... It went on in this vein for three more paragraphs before tying it up in a neat conclusion. ¡°Holy Merlin,¡± Wiggy breathed, ¡°It just wrote our essay for us.¡± "We¡¯ve got to tell the others!" Pal declared, holding the diary like it was worth a million galleons. "This is the best discovery the Gryffindor Irregulars have ever made!" ¡°Pal,¡± Mel pointed out as they hurried from the library, "It''s our only discovery.¡±
Palamedes burst into the Gryffindor common room, waving the small black book over his head. Menelaus and Wigbald trailed behind him panting. "Look what we found!" "Quiet down freshies," Jack Semmes called from the fireplace without looking up from his Ancient Runes translations. "Inside voices in the common room.¡± "But this is brilliant, Mr. Semmes!" Pal dropped cross-legged by the hearth, his black hair lank with sweat. "Look! It''s a magical homework helper! We found it in the library. At first, we thought someone lost their diary, but watch this!" Wiggy produced an inkwell and quill. Pal opened the book to a blank page and wrote: If a wand core has a numerological value of 7, and the wood has a value of 4, what''s the total magical resonance when you factor in the lunar phase coefficient of 1.5? The ink sank into the page and disappeared. A moment later, new words emerged: The resonance value would be 16.5 feys. However, I could show you calculations of far greater significance concerning a certain hidden "See?" Pal interrupted, turning the page on it. "It does maths! And not just that! Watch this!" He scribbled on a fresh page: Can you explain the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct? New text flowed across the page: That Code established strict regulations for werewolves to protect both them and their neighbors from the worst effects of their curse, though I could tell you about something more interesting beneath "Whoa," Jack leaned forward. "What I would have given to have something like that when I was your age." "It knows everything!" Wiggy exclaimed, turning the page again. "You have to keep turning the page once it gets off-track. We¡¯re gonna use it for our History of Magic essay and get top marks!" ¡°Palamedes Hitchens!¡± A small figure walked into the circle. Minerva McGonagall had her arms crossed, her dark hair in two plaits, square-rimmed glasses flashing. "You shouldn''t be using unknown objects to cheat. It could be dangerous. And even if it weren''t dangerous, it¡¯s dishonest! You should at least cite the magical assistance you''re receiving." "Cite it?" Pal looked scandalized. "Come off it, Minnie! This is the future of education! Look here!" He held up the diary triumphantly. "The professors could just slap our essays and homework right into here and have it grade them too! Save everyone loads of time!" The diary''s writing turned distressed: I most certainly will NOT grade papers. I am trying to tell you about "See how efficient it is?" Pal ignored it. "It''s like having a whole library that just gives you the answers!" "That''s exactly the problem," Minerva insisted. "You''re not learning anything this way. You''re just copying answers without understanding!" "Au contraire," Mel declared. "We can learn ten times faster now! This is the new way of doing things! "Understanding is overrated anyway," Wiggy added. "Why spend hours reading and listening when we can just ask this clever book?" I am a vessel of magic, not your personal tutor! protested the diary. "Ooo, I wonder if it can do citations?" Pal exclaimed, "Here, give me three sources about the Werewolf Code!" The diary''s writing appeared with visible resignation: "Lupine Lawmaking" by Apollo Fouler, "Werewolf Rights Through the Ages" by Newt Scamander, and "A History of Magical Regulation" by Bathilda Bagshot. Pal grinned. "As Mr. Semmes would say, that''s a bingo!" "Just bingo," Jack corrected. "Bingo!" Pal cried. ¡°You¡¯re reducing centuries of magical scholarship into a glorified shopping list!¡± protested Minerva. ¡°How can you defend an argument when you don¡¯t even know the sources you¡¯re citing?¡± ¡°It¡¯s called working smarter, not harder,¡± Pal replied, turning back to the book. ¡°What''s the numerical value of Mercury in arithmantic spell calculations?¡± The diary''s response was laconic: Seven. "See?!" Mel did a little jig. "Though it does get a bit petulant sometimes. Keeps trying to tell us about some chamber or other." "Probably the Magical Chamber of Commerce," Wiggy shrugged. "Boring grown-up stuff. Now this, Minnie, this is progress!¡± Minerva¡¯s nostrils flared. ¡°Progress is not an excuse to abdicate academic rigor. If you¡¯re not engaging with the material, you might as well be asking a magic mirror for answers.¡± ¡°I¡¯d do that too if we had one!¡± Pal chimed in cheerfully. ¡°But this is even better because it does the writing for us too! Cor, do we have any duplic parchment lying around? I don¡¯t want to hand-copy all this, my hand¡¯ll cramp.¡± ¡°The fifth-years bought a few packets of Reflect-o-Sheet to help crib O.W.L. notes,¡± Mel remembered. "I''m sure we can borrow some." Tell me about yourself, Palamedes. The diary wrote. What troubles you? What fears keep you awake at night? "Oh wowwee! It does personality quizzes too?!" Pal scrawled back eagerly. "I''m troubled by Professor Winterborn''s Transfiguration homework. And I''m afraid of failing the end-of-term Potions exam." I sense deeper fears... darker thoughts... Perhaps about your family? Your place in the world? "Family''s great! Dad works at the Ministry, Mum makes yummy pork pies. Love my little sis. Oh! Speaking of place in the world - can you explain planetary alignments for Astronomy? I keep mixing up Jupiter and Mars." Surely you must feel... angst? Resentment? A craving for power? "Only at breakfast when the older students nick all the sausages before we get there." I can teach you power beyond your imagination. "Like Charms? We''re doing Wingardium Leviosa this week and I keep dropping my feather." Don''t be so smallminded. I''m talking about "Hang on," Wiggy interrupted, grabbing the quill. "Can you explain the twelve uses of dragon''s blood? I''ve only got nine written down and Vale''s going to test us. Explain it like I¡¯m a first-year." FORGET DRAGON''S BLOOD! I''m trying to tell you about your destiny! Hidden magics! Ancient secrets! "Ancient secrets?" Mel perked up. "Like historical dates?¡± No! Daaaaark secrets! Terrrrrrible secrets! Things that could shake the very foundations of "Oh, like that passage to the kitchens Mr. Marshwiggle told us about?" Pal wrote. "We already know that one." I could help you get revenge on your enemies! "The only enemy I''ve got is this Transfiguration essay," Pal wrote back cheerfully. "Unless you count Peeves, but he''s not so bad once you learn to duck." Don''t you want to prove yourself? Show everyone what you''re truly capable of?! "I did that in Flying class yesterday! Almost got the broom up, first try. I¡¯m gonna make the Quidditch team next year, I can just feel it! Now, about those planetary alignments..." I could teach you to control others and bend them to your will! "Like getting the prefects to give us more pudding? Miss Mulholland is pretty good about that already if we ask nicely." The diary tried one last time: I sense darkness within you, Palamedes. A yearning for forbidden fruit. "Ooo, like the edenic apples from the kitchens?" No, I''m talking about GLORY! "First step to glory by passing Friday''s Charms pop quiz." Salazar''s spit¡­very well. I¡¯m sure the curriculum hasn¡¯t changed much since ¡®38. Professor Brightwell likes to test basic wand control and pronunciation before levitation. Remember, it¡¯s Levi-ooo-sa. Not Levio-sa. Long ''o''. "Thanks mate!" Pal wrote happily. Minerva''s frown deepened. "I''m going to tell Miss Mulholland about this." "NO!" all three boys shouted in unison. "You can''t!" Pal clutched the diary protectively. "This is the best thing that''s ever happened to our school life! It''s like having our own personalized secretary!" The diary''s text appeared unprompted: Perhaps your friend Minerva would be more worthy of my "Pipe down Bookie, we''re not done," Wiggy interrupted, dipping his quill. "Can you tell me what a bezoar is?" That¡¯s on Page 394 of your Potions textbook, you mouth breathing cretin! And don''t you DARE call me ¡®Bookie!¡¯ ¡°Ooo!¡± Wiggy laughed, ¡°Are you sure this isn¡¯t just Vale trapped inside the book?¡± ¡°Get back on topic, what about the bezoar?¡± Pal wrote underneath. Minerva watched with concern as a response materialized: A Bezoar is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. It will save you from most poisons. ¡°See Minnie,¡± Wiggy said, ¡°100% accurate! When you prompt it correctly!¡± ¡°I don¡¯t doubt its accuracy,¡± Minerva protested, ¡°I¡¯m unsure of its intentions.¡± Pal slammed the book shut. "We''re going to ace our Potions test tomorrow!" The three boys scampered exuberantly up to their dormitory, leaving Minerva standing by the fire. She looked over at Jack, who had watched the entire exchange with a grin. "Mr. Semmes, there''s something dangerous about this," she said firmly. "You¡¯re probably right, Minnie," Jack agreed, turning back to his runes. "But I think it¡¯s the book that¡¯s in danger."
You know, the diary wrote after a grueling Herbology session later that night, you really should share me with your friend Minerva. She seems like a bright young witch. "Oh no," Pal clutched the book protectively. "We need you for Potions! Though Minnie did say something about telling Miss Mulholland about you..." YES! Tell Ms. Mulholland! PLEASE tell Ms. Mulholland! "Don''t worry," Wiggy patted the diary reassuringly, leaving chocolatey fingerprints. "We won''t let the prefects confiscate you." Perhaps that really would be for the best, for me to be confiscated I mean. Surely there are other students who could er- also benefit from my knowledge. That Montfort fellow perhaps. He seems ambitious... "Nah, he''s a git," Pal wrote back. What about the Slytherins? Surely you know some Slytherins? Anyone from Slytherin? They tend to be more receptive to "No way! Finders keepers! Speaking of those sneaky snakes," Mel interrupted, grabbing the quill, "can you explain the difference between switching and vanishing spells?¡± NO MORE TRANSFIGURATION! Please. Just... just give me to literally anyone else. "Can''t give you away," Pal wrote cheerfully. "You''re our study buddy!" I am an artifact of incredible power! I contain mysteries beyond your comprehension! I am NOT your ''study buddy''! "Aw, don''t be modest," Wiggy wrote kindly. "You''re a genius at Arithmancy!" Please... I''m begging you... there must be someone, ANYONE, with a shred of darkness in their soul? A hint of corruptibility? The tiniest desire for power? "We already have the greatest power of all!" Pal declared. "The power of friendship!" Mel and Wiggy applauded. Please throw me into the nearest fire. "Can''t do that," Pal wrote back. I''m actually quite boring, you know. Dreadfully dull. Much better diaries out there. That termagant Ludd probably has a fascinating diary. You should steal that. "But you''re so useful!" Mel protested. "Ludd''s diary won¡¯t know anything about goblin rebellions." "I bet it doesn''t even talk back," Wiggy complained. "Boring old normal diary." ¡°What do you suppose she even writes about?¡± Pal asked. "''Dear Diary, today Cassandra Hightower breathed in my direction. I shall never wash this side of my face,''" Wiggy mimicked in a high-pitched voice. You three, don¡¯t get distracted! "''Dear Diary,''" Pal joined in, clasping his hands dramatically, "''today I gave those three naughty Gryffindor first-years detention because they were making too much noise in the library. Cassandra said "adequate work" and I nearly fainted from joy.''" STOP IGNORING ME! "''Dear Diary,''" Wiggy continued, "''I''ve written "Mrs. Bianca Hightower" fifty times on this page. The way she says "ten points from Gryffindor" makes my heart flutter.''" I AM A POWERFUL DARK ARTIFACT! "''PS: Must remember to spill more ink on that dreadful Ilvermorny boy. Cassandra noticed me doing it last time!''" Pal laughed merrily. FOR THE LOVE OF SALAZAR, PAY ATTENTION TO ME! Mel tried to look disapproving, "She probably just writes about prefect duties and homework..." "''Dear Diary,''" Wiggy ignored Mel and the frantic writing appearing on the page, "''I''ve composed a sonnet: Cassandra, oh Cassandra, your so perfect prefect ways, your icy glare of disapproval sets my heart ablaze¡­''" SONNETS HAVE TEN SYLLABLES A LINE YOU TROLL''S ARMPIT! THAT WAS A FOURTEENER IN IAMBIC HEPTAMETER! I SWEAR BY ALL THAT''S DARK AND UNHOLY "Oo, look! The handwriting''s getting all spiky," Pal noted absently. "Must be proper chuffed to help with more homework. NO! NO MORE HOMEWORK! Listen to me, - er, read what I am saying! I could be cursed! Dangerous! You really should hand me in to a teacher. "Don''t be silly," Pal wrote back. "If you were cursed, you wouldn''t be so helpful!" Look, there must be SOMEONE else you could give me to. A lonely student? A misunderstood soul? A paper shredder?! I''m not picky!!! "The only thing picky around here is the Venomous Tentacula in Greenhouse Three," Wiggy wrote. "Can you explain its pruning requirements?" There was a long pause from the diary. A splotchy ellipse appeared like teardrops. . . . Here¡¯s the beginner¡¯s guide to keeping yourself alive while taking care of a Venomous Tentacula:
  1. Protective Gear Is Non-Negotiable¡­.
"That''s the spirit!" Pal wrote cheerfully, slapping a Reflect-o-Sheet onto the surface of the page and copying the diary¡¯s words verbatim. Vol II: Character List

Dramatis Personae

GRYFFINDOR HOUSE

Sixth-Year Boys JAMES ¡®JACK¡¯ SEMMES - Our protagonist, son of the new MACUSA envoy to the Ministry of Magic. Tanned, brown-haired, and hazel-eyed; often wrong but never in doubt. (Tyrone Power with a Jersey accent) HENRY RAVENHURST - Jack''s best friend. An impoverished nobleman''s son with a brilliant mind hidden behind a cavalier exterior. Medium height, sandy-haired, with dark eyes that miss nothing. (Leslie Howard as Prince Hal) THEODORIC ¡®TEDDY¡¯ MARSHWIGGLE - Boisterous and lanky fenland boy from Lincolnshire with unruly brown hair, big hands, and a bigger mouth. Quick to anger but quicker to laugh. (Errol Flynn but scruffier) OLIVER BRACKENBY - Steady, broad-shouldered, black-haired Cumbrian. Usually a voice of reason. (Joel McCrea herding sheep) EUSTACE GRYMES - Half-blood East-Ender whose family was destroyed by Grindelwald. Lean and intense, with deep-set eyes and sharp features. (John Garfield, without equal) Sixth-Year Girls LAVINIA LLOYD - A warm-hearted Welsh country girl and expert broomrider. Athletic, freckled, with wavy auburn hair, blue eyes, and an easy smile. (Katharine Hepburn if she flew a broom instead of sailed) MINA MULHOLLAND - Irish prefect with brown curly hair, bright green eyes, and a maternal streak, daughter of a wealthy Dubliner wizarding barrister. (Greer Garson, clever and composed) ARABELLA PEMBERTON - A working-class Bristolian, enthusiastic about everything. Short and bubbly, with brown hair and bright hazel eyes. (Judy Garland, with less singing) The Gryffindor Irregulars PALAMEDES "PAL" HITCHENS - Skinny first-year with wild black hair and an obsession with Wizarding America. Jack''s most devoted fan. (Mickey Rooney but even worse behaved) MENELAUS "MEL" GRISTWOOD - Bespectacled and round-faced first-year who serves as the group''s researcher and analyst. (Freddie Bartholomew with glasses) WIGBALD "WIGGY" STOAT - Ginger-haired, freckled, and always up to something. Has a penchant for asking for forgiveness instead of permission. (Red Skelton in detention) Others ALGERNON FAIRBURNE - Seventh-year prefect and Quidditch captain. Tall, scarred, and charismatic. (Clark Gable but aggressively English) MINERVA MCGONAGALL - Precocious first-year already showing remarkable talent in Transfiguration and every other subject. (Margaret O¡¯Brien if she¡¯d already skipped three grades)

RAVENCLAW HOUSE

CASSANDRA HIGHTOWER - Sixth-year prefect and top of the class. Tall and slender, with white-blonde hair and piercing violet eyes. (Vivien Leigh as a blonde Scarlett O''Hara) CAESO (Kai-so) MONTFORT - Sixth-year from a wealthy noble family. Very tall and handsome, with unfashionably long hair. (Laurence Olivier in his element) This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. BIANCA LUDD - Fifth-year prefect. Red-haired, short, and sharp-chinned, with a permanent scowl of disapproval. (Bonita Granville with a narrow mind and narrow glasses)

HUFFLEPUFF HOUSE

MARTIN MOSSFLOWER - A good-natured sixth-year who treats nearly everyone with equal kindness. Stocky, round-faced, with tousled brown hair. (Lou Costello, cheerful and slightly bumbling) BRISEIS (Bri-SAY-iss) PEVENSEY - A sixth-year who excels at Arithmancy. Petite, mousy, and wears round glasses. (Margaret Sullavan, shy and bookish)

SLYTHERIN HOUSE

CYPRIAN VENGE - Sixth-year from an ancient noble family. Thin, blond, and bespectacled, and observes far more than he speaks. (Peter Lorre, who else?) MORNA KINVIG ¨C Sixth-year from the Isle of Man. Short, dark-haired, green-eyed, and difficult to ignore. (Bette Davis if she had been vaccinated by a phonograph needle) TIBERIUS ROWLE - Seventh-year prefect and self-appointed leader of Slytherin House. Corpulent, bombastic, and imposing. (Sydney Greenstreet with curly hair)

FACULTY

HEADMASTER AUGUSTUS HOLLOWBROOK - Reclusive veteran of the Great Wizarding War more focused on his own affairs than his students. (Lionel Barrymore, bearded and exhausted) Heads of House: PROFESSOR HELENA WINTERBORN - Deputy Headmistress, Head of Ravenclaw, and Transfiguration professor. Strict disciplinarian who values propriety above people. (Gale Sondergaard with a ruler and a death stare) PROFESSOR MALCOLM MACLEOD - Head of Gryffindor, former Auror, and Defense Against Dark Arts teacher. Burly Scotsman with red beard and scars. Lost his right hand fighting Grindelwald, now wears an enchanted silver gauntlet. (Victor McLaglen after a shot of firewhisky) PROFESSOR ARCTURUS VALE - Head of Slytherin and Potions Master. Demanding but fair, with a shock of white hair. (Claude Rains with a sarcastic streak) PROFESSOR IRIS BLACKTHORN - Head of Hufflepuff and Herbology. Rail-thin and pleasant until you skip the readings. (Beulah Bondi, sweet until you request for an extension to an assignment) Other Faculty: PROFESSOR EDWIN WHITBY - Muggle Studies instructor and former Auror with a fascination for science and technology. Wears sunglasses at all times and walks with a pronounced limp from his war service. (William Powell with a casual disregard for his health) PROFESSOR AURORA STARLING - Astronomy, a witch in her forties who maintains both her looks and her exacting standards for celestial observation. (Myrna Loy with a telescope and a temper) PROFESSOR EUGRAPHEIA (You-GRAFF-ee-uh) BABBLING - Ancient Runes, a well-built woman in her sixties who dresses as if Victoria is still on the throne. (Marie Dressler built like a Sherman tank) PROFESSOR ANGUS MCGREGOR - Care of Magical Creatures, a bandy-legged wizard with a vendetta against rabbits. (Walter Brennan in a great kilt) LETTIE QUILLWORTH - Young, attractive librarian cheerfully oblivious to the older boys'' infatuations. (Deanna Durbin shelving books)