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 émigré think of our humble abode?” Henry asked, pride evident in his voice as Jack continued to stare.
“It’s….something.” Jack managed, spinning around slowly and gawking like an Ohioan tourist on Sixth Avenue. It sure beat the Thunderbird rec 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.
“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 Bugoyne. 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!”
“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 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.”
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. 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."
"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?”
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“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.
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."
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 try to get it in the pot at the other end of the field before it goes off. If it explodes while you're holding it, you're out and the other team gets the Quod."
“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!"
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.