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 weighed several more pounds than it really did. The Featherlight enchantment made it feel empty, though he'd packed a combined small library and wardrobe. 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. 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 soldier stand. What else was he going to do? Explain that he was actually a wizard transfer student from western Massachusetts? The officer gave him another 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 adorned with a stern-looking king rather than presidents. He had a small coin purse of assorted British magical currency (Sickles mostly with a handful of Knuts) locked away securely in his trunk, but that was for after he got to London.
He emerged from the customs hall onto the street and back into the damp Liverpool morning, next to two newsboys trying to out-shout 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 Liverpool football match against Aston Villa (1-3): “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 as Jack frantically made an undignified scramble across the street. 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.
Jack broke into a relieved smile, sticking out his hand. "Jack Semmes, pleasure to meet you sir."
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... 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…"
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
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 important buildings and sharing some stories that ran off of Jack’s ears like water off waxed paper. The fog and drizzle clung to everything, muffling distant noises and causing Jack’s shoes to slip on the cobbles more than once.
At one point, Mr. Carmichael paused mid-sentence, his eyes flicking to their shared reflection in a shop window. For a split second, Jack glimpsed a man in a dark coat and hat behind them before the crowd swallowed him. Roland’s right hand went into his coat pocket, but he continued walking without missing a beat, picking up his story about his first trip to Liverpool right where he'd left off. His hand on Jack’s shoulder applied a bit 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.
Jack felt a prickle of unease. Was someone following them? He glanced around surreptitiously but saw nothing out of the ordinary in the throng of people. Roland seemed to have shrugged it off, so Jack did his best to do the same, focusing on the promise of a good breakfast and the excitement of the journey 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. The cargo nets above them slipped their davits. Falling crates started to rain from the sky, crashing thunderously to the ground. Men fled in all directions, shouting in alarm, some unlucky ones pitching 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.
"Who are those guys?" Jack whispered.
“Former associates of Mr. Grindelwald, I suspect." Mr. Carmichael’s blasé manner was reassuring, in spite of the circumstances. "Unknown parties have been canvassing disembarkation points for American wizards for the past few months. 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 had he gotten himself into?!
"Keen," Jack muttered, his palms starting to sweat. "First day over here and I'm already in a spy movie."
"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…oh Merlin, they’re coming back, must be using a Tracking Charm."
Their pursuers had indeed doubled back, moving with purpose. They paused for a moment on the street outside their hiding place, then the leader pointed directly at the counter they were hiding behind. As one they walked into the department store, wands drawn.