A slate-gray overcast sky hung heavy overhead as the SS Mauretania, pride of the Cunard-White Star Line. glided her stately way up the River Mersey, her sleek black hull cutting a frothy wake through the brown waters of the estuary. A steel forest of rust-colored cranes jutted up from the docks, swinging artfully netted loads onto the decks of waiting cargo ships. Columns of inky smoke poured from the stacks of factories further inland, rising to mingle with the low ceiling of clouds. Closer to the shore, people gathered along the quay, their figures blurred by drifting steam and smoke. Women in headscarves, children in woolen sweaters too big for them, a few men in caps and coats with their hands shoved deep into their pockets. They stood, some waving, most just watching, their faces marked by weariness and English reserve as they waited for the liner to make fast. To the young man standing alone at Mauritania's bow, Liverpool looked like a city held taut between past and future, ruin and renewal.
Jack Semmes eagerly leaned over the ship's railing, his wand safely tucked away in a specially-designed inner pocket of his colorfully checked sports coat. He pulled his flat cap down low over his fashionably parted black hair to keep the sea breeze from taking it out to sea. He was a wiry sixteen year-old, tall for his age, with a ruddy, sunburned complexion from more time spent outdoors than in. His lively hazel eyes inquisitively darted about the view spread out below his feet, from people to buildings, with the inherently insatiable American interest in all things No-Maj. In that moment, an onlooker could have mistaken him for a young Tyrone Power, all dash and roguish casualness that belied his current nervous energy. 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 into froth. 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, cut with the tang of unwashed bodies and garbage. Smells like New Jersey, he thought ruefully.
Two years after the end of the greatest war ever to shake the foundations of the world, the city still bore the wounds. Gaping holes marred the rows of brick warehouses lining the waterfront. Burnt-out shells of buildings dotted the city blocks, many still lying in rubble. Scaffolding and tarpaulins enveloped structures in various states of reconstruction. Jack wondered idly how much of the damage had been caused by German bombs and how much had been caused by desperate street fights between Grindlewald’s radicals and the opposing forces of conservatism and tradition. The wizarding war had been particularly hot in Britain.
“Long way from home,” he said to himself as he fingered the letter in his pocket – 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 MACUSA 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 position in the U.K Ministry of Magic’s Office of International Cooperation. The combination of a new Minister for Magical Education and a well-timed suggestion of “cementing the special relationship” worked wonders. The whole thing felt surreal. 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. His gaze lingered on the towering cathedral spire, blackened by fire. It was a good feeling though, something new, straight out of an adventure book, the thrill of seeing foreign lands, and of stepping into unknown territory.
Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.
He realized that he was fidgeting as the crew made fast the lines and started to run out the gangplank. He reached into the pocket of his coat opposite his wand and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and matches. He lit the match with a practiced motion honed by two weeks of strict abstention from all magic. Inhaling the smoke and standing aloof from the other passengers made him feel older and wiser than the scared teenager lying just underneath his carefully maintained surface. The tension in the British passengers had been palpable all the way during the week-long trip across the Atlantic, especially to a young man raised in the relative safety of the United States during the war years. These No-Majs had lived through six years of bombs, raids, and rationing, and far from being relieved they now watched the newsreels with growing unease as former allies drew new battlelines across Europe and old empires disintegrated. Jack had read enough to know that the wizarding world wasn't immune to these divisions either. Grindelwald might have been defeated, but his decades-long reign of terror had left deep scars.
"This is a crucial time, Jack.” His father's words popped into his mind, “The magical and No-Maj worlds are both rebuilding. What we do now will shape the next century." Easy for him to say, Jack thought to himself, Thomas Semmes would be spending his days in the comfortable subterranean offices of the Ministry of Magic, coordinating MACUSA's support for postwar reconstruction in the U.K. and Europe. He wouldn't have to navigate a whole new school, trying to make new friends in the midst of unknown traditions, established cliques, and unintelligible accents.
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. He grinned fiercely around his cigarette. The sorting at Hogwarts might place him somewhere entirely new - he'd read all about the houses in Hogwarts: A History during the past week crossing the Atlantic - but who he was wouldn't change…it couldn’t. He was a Semmes, and Semmes are stubborn, or so his mother kept telling his father. He sent the glowing end of the cigarette pirouetting into the Mersey with a practiced flick.
The liner's horn bellowed as the gangplank ran out, startling a flock of seabirds into flight. The passengers began to file out toward the large fishing warehouse that still served as a customs hall since the Luftwaffe had creatively redecorated the official one a few years back. 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. He hoisted his charmed featherlight trunk onto his shoulder, picked up the guitar case that carried his broom and joined the stream of travelers eager to head ashore. The sky decided to start raining.
Welcome to England, Jack thought with a flicker of annoyance.