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"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.
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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.
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"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.