“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—then 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—”

  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.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  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—likely within the shadowy forests or icy fjords of Scandinavia—has long been shrouded in mystery. Known for its austere teaching methods and emphasis on martial magic, the school has often been associated with a more... pragmatic approach to the Dark Arts, though its defenders would call this a matter of "broad magical education."

  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