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> ‘The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
> Go oft astray,
> An’ leave us nought but grief an’ pain,
> For promis’d joy!”
> ― Robert Burns, Wizarding Poet
> To a Mouse or Ode to a Failed Transfiguration.
>
> “Do any of us understand what we are doing? If we did, would we ever do it?”
> ― George Bernard Shaw, Muggle Playwright
> Pygmalion
> Hogwarts Library Poetry Section
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The September dawn crept through the tower windows, finding Jack wide awake and miserable. His neck ached from hunching over his desk through library detention last night, and his eyes felt like they'd been rubbed with sand. He stumbled to the showers before his dormmates stirred, letting hot water blast life back into him.
Some habits from Ilvermorny died hard, like waking up with the morning sun. He still had occasional urges to jump to his feet in class when called upon by a teacher, ‘recitations’, they had called it back on Mount Greylock. Agerius Flayer, Ilvermorny headmaster from 1847-1891, developed an eccentric obsession with West Point after a chance visit there in 1852 to visit a Squib friend there. Whereupon his return to Ilvermorny he promptly introduced a uniform and regimen to ‘break course with European Wizarding stick-in-the-mud-ism’ and ‘build discipline in a disparate student body’.
Ilvermorny certainly had a disparate student body. Representatives of all 48 states plus territories attended: staid and conservative New England Yankees with puritanical senses of propriety, obnoxious Chicagoans, hot-tempered Appalachian spell-slingers as wild and unpredictable as the mountains they called home, practical and salt-of-the-earth Midwesterners, proud and stubborn Southerners as quick with dueling spells as they were with summoning breezes and ice on hot days, Cajun mystics from Louisiana, and eccentric West Coasters trying to ride broomsticks like surfboards.
Flayer’s reforms had been enduring and transformative, if occasionally ridiculous. One thing even the Ilvermorny Board of Visitors had to admit, making all the new 6th graders arrive two months early and endure a magicalized military-style matriculation did wonders for esprit de corps. Also, the girls of Ilvermorny College (and their mothers) were quite taken by the boys' new uniforms while on parade. Thus the new style of Ilvermorny Academy endured.
By the time he returned, toweling his hair, Henry was stretching and Oliver was fumbling for his pocket watch. Teddy's snores still rumbled from behind his bed curtains.
"Morning," Henry yawned. "You're up early."
"Lots of work to do," Jack pulled out his Potions text, trying to refresh his mind for today’s lesson while he waited for the others. He was unsuccessful. All his eager energy from the first day of school was gone. The first quarter-mile was done. It was time to settle in for the marathon.
He hated running.
“All I gotta say,” he half-joked to Henry as his friend returned from the washroom brushing his teeth. “Is that in ten years, I better be really rich and really happy after graduating from this place. Or I’m going to be really angry.”
The walk to breakfast was a bleary parade of yawns. Even the ceiling's brilliant sunrise did little to improve their mood. Jack was halfway through a scone and his second cup of coffee when a paper airplane swooped down the length of the table and nose-dived into his mug.
“Gah!” Jack barked unconsciously, coffee splashing on the table. He stood up from the bench abruptly, looking for the culprit. “Who the heck did that?”
Jack looked suspiciously at the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables. He couldn’t see any likely suspects. All his classmates were busily occupied with breaking their own fasts. Montfort wasn’t here yet. He saw Cassandra and Ludd arriving from the west entrance, walking with some official-looking parchments.
"Let's see that then," Henry reached over and withdrew the improvised aircraft, unfolding it to reveal a crude, coffee-stained crayon drawing.
It showed a terrified stick figure with an American flag for a body being chased by several abstract shapes with angry eyes. Written beneath in spiky handwriting were the words "YANKEE GO HOME!"
"Uh oh," Teddy said. Oliver got up and moved three places down the table away from them.
“What is it?” Jack asked, sitting back down. “Montfort?”
“No,” Henry said, placing the parchment down and blithely pouring a cup of tea. “Poltergeist.”
Jack was confused, “The one you were telling me about? Peeves?”
As if summoned by his name, a cackling sing-song rang out above them.
"OOOOOOOH WHAT A BOOTIFUL MOOOOOOOOOOOOORNING,
OHHHHH WHAT A BOOOOTIFUL DAAAAAAAAAAAY!”
Peeves the Poltergeist materialized upside down over the Gryffindor table wearing a battered Uncle Sam top hat and brandishing a fife like a swagger stick. A wicked grin stretched literally from ear to ear as he floated down towards them.
“IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII’VE GOT A BOOTIFUL FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELIIIIIIIIING!
THAT SOMETHING BAD’S COMING YOUR WAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!”
“Hello,” Jack said, uncertainly. The poltergeist had a more menacing aura than anything else he had faced at this confounded school yet. “Was that…Rodgers and Hammerstein?”
“OH! A CONNOISSEUR OF THE MUGGLE ARTS?!” Peeves trilled in sadistic delight. “Why, you're a lucky fellow, Mr. Smith!” the ghost flipped right-side up and brandished the fife. “Would you like to hear another song?”
“Ignore him-” Teddy warned, but Jack had already started talking.
“My name’s not Smith, it’s Semmes-”
BRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIT!
The fife shrilled an appallingly sharp double-high C. The Great Hall collectively winced. Peeves cleared his throat:
“YOU'RE BLUSHING RED, WHITE AND BLUE, BUT, BUDDY, THAT'S ALL RIGHT TOO
BECAUSE THOSE COLORS LOOK GOOD ON YOOOOOOOU,
YOU'RE A LUCKY FELLOW, MR. SEMMES!”
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"Run," Henry said. "Now."
Jack didn't need telling twice. Tiredness forgotten, he snatched up his bag and bolted for the great doors. Peeves' maniacal laughter and singing zoomed around his head like he was being strafed by a fighter plane. Bits of colored red, white, and blue chalk exploded into dust on the floor as the ghost pelted him with calcium carbonate missiles.
"YANKEE DOODLE, KEEP IT UP, YANKEE DOODLE DANDY!
MIND THE SUITS OF ARMOR NOW, THEY'RE FEELING MIGHTY RANDY!"
Jack sprinted down the corridor towards the Grand Stairs as animated suits of armor began stepping off their pedestals, attempting to snag him with their gauntlets. Peeves’ singing - amplified by the stone walls - belaboured his ears.
“MINE EYES HAVE SEEN THE GLORY OF THE COMING OF THE PEEVES!
HE IS TRAMPLING OUT THE TRANSFERS AND THE TRASH, THE SCUM, THE THIEVES!”
He nimbly ducked under one animated armor’s grabbing hands and leapt over another's attempt to trip him with a halberd, before catching a third’s mailed fist in the side of the head, sending him sprawling.
Jack scrambled to his feet, his ear ringing from the impact. No spells, Henry had been quite clear on their tour, that just made things worse. He had to keep running.
“ONE IF BY LAND, TWO IF SEA, THREE IF IN A CASKET! WHEEEEEEEEE!”
Peeves swooped in front of him, cutting him off while hitting him right in the chest with a cloud of chalk dust. Jack cut right and skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a group of startled Slytherins. "Sorry! Watch out for the armor!" he called back as he ran towards the central hall.
He finally reached the dungeon stairs, taking them down two at a time and tripping in his haste. Behind him, he could hear the clanking of pursuing armor growing fainter. Peeves' voice echoed distantly before fading behind the thick stone walls, "AWWW, NO FUN! NO JOY! COME BACK AND PLAY, ILVERMORNY BOY!"
Jack burst into the Potions classroom twenty minutes early, doubled over and gasping for breath. His ear was bleeding, his tie was askew, his twisted ankle throbbed, his robes were covered in chalk dust, and his hair was sticking up in all directions. Professor Vale poked his head out of his office at the commotion, one white eyebrow raised.
"Mr. Semmes. A very energetic entrance this morning."
“Sorry Professor,” Jack gasped. “Peeves.”
“A rite of passage,” Vale observed unsympathetically. He closed the door and left Jack alone.
Jack fixed his tie and attempted to clean himself up. His ear smarted and burned.
“Partner work for today: Wiggenweld Variations”, proclaimed the chalkboard, with a double column of names underneath.
Partner work? Hope sparked in Jack’s chest as he rapidly scanned the list. James Semmes was paired with Desdemonia O’Neill, Cassandra Hightower with Martin Mossflower.
Nuts.
Oh well, it was only a 12% chance of it happening anyway in a 16-student class, Jack thought commiseratingly to himself.
Then a sly idea came to him.
He looked down the empty hallway outside, then strolled towards the front of the class. A final check at Vale’s closed office door, then Jack’s wand was out, making a swirling motion around ‘Jack Semmes’, and invoking the charm that was the bane of the 8th grade English teacher at Ilvermorny.
“Plagiarismo!” he whispered.
The chalk words leapt off the board in a perfect duplicate. He stashed the name in the air, then repeated it for Mossflower. Two gentle cleaning charms eliminated the originals, leaving room for him to quickly swap in the duplicates - Jack with Cassanda, and Martin with Desdemonia.
“Imitatio Manus!” He swept his wand carefully over the chalkboard. The uneven spacings with the different length names were immediately smoothed out. Even up close, it was perfect, no evidence of tampering. Easy. Jack grinned, put his schoolbag down at the table in the front and fetched his cauldron and ingredients from the side cabinet, whistling.
This was a swell opportunity, he told himself, wild fantasies flying through his head. Good chance to get a high grade in Potions too. So why were his hands shaking?
He had just conjured a comb from his wardrobe back in his room and was in the process of fixing his hair when the first of his classmates began to arrive.
“Morning Semmes,” said Martin Mossflower, a bluff, friendly Hufflepuff who sat behind Jack in Muggle Studies. “Saw you tearing out of breakfast early this morning. My sympathies. Rough start to a Wednesday.”
“Well, I’m awake now,” Jack nodded his head, trying not to nervously laugh as Mossflower examined the board.
“Brilliant, I’m with O’Neill…” Martin grumbled as he went to collect his things. “She’s been trying to get me to go to the Halloween Dance with her since Easter.”
"What's the matter with that?" Jack asked absently, vanishing the comb and watching the door. His heart did a little jump as Cassandra entered. He didn’t hear Martin’s response.
She checked the board, did a slight double-take, then made her way to Jack's table like she was picking up the mail. "Mr. Semmes."
"Mornin'," Jack’s larynx hurt from his forced casual tone. His tongue felt swollen and clumsy. "How's your week going?”
"Adequate, thank you." She set her bag down, "You have blood on your collar."
“Oh, thanks,” Jack sponged at his ear and performed a quick Ilvermorny special bleaching charm on his shirt. “Suit of armor got me. They move surprisingly quickly.”
“Plate armor is designed for mobility,” Cassandra walked over to the supply cupboard and returned with her share of the ingredients and her cauldron. “We will use my cauldron this morning.”
“Ok,” Jack replied, putting his offending pot underneath the table. He checked his watch, three minutes before class started. Now was his chance.
He stood next to her and started laying out the ingredients: horklump juice, dittany, mistletoe berries, chimera saliva, solution of celandine in alcohol, pinch of powdered unicorn horn, and fluxweed.
"Hey, ah…" he said quietly as he scooped out dried dittany flowers onto the cutting board, "I wanted to say sorry for last week. On the train platform. And the boats thing. That was rude of me. And I never properly thanked you for the tower thing…It was really nice for you to do that." The words came out far faster than he had planned.
"It was a practical solution," she replied, laying out measuring tools. "Nothing more. Pass the celandine, please."
"Sure,” Jack handed over the ceramic bottle. “Um...The detention preps have been really helpful with my coursework too." This was only half true - they were also mind-numbingly boring - but he pressed on. "Still getting used to Hogwarts methods and all, you know? So many unwritten rules…"
"I'm glad the punishment is serving its intended purpose, Mr. Semmes." She pointed to his cutting board. "Lay out the stirring rod on the top of the board, not the bottom."
"Right.” Jack corrected the wayward stirring rod, feeling deflated. “Sorry."
Vale emerged from his office thirty seconds after Cyprian had arrived and five seconds before class started. He gave a brief lecture about the importance of proper Wiggenweld preparation, reminded them they had to produce a pain-killing variation (hence the celandine and mistletoe), and turned them loose for the whole double block.
They worked in increasingly awkward silence. Jack kept trying to find openings for conversation, but Cassandra responded with increasingly clipped, formal answers until he eventually gave up. Their potion turned out a perfect shade of shadowy emerald green by the end of class. Jack's mood was as dark as their decoction.
"Excellent work, Miss Hightower, Mr. Semmes," Vale commented as he examined their cauldron a few minutes before the bell rang. "Though perhaps a touch more horklump juice next time."
Praise like that in Alchemy normally would have sent Jack over the moon. Now though he was too busy watching Cassandra pack up their unused ingredients and wondering how he'd misread things so badly. Yesterday she'd almost smiled at him, and even engaged in conversation. Today she could barely look at him. And Montfort was nowhere around!
Dames, Jack thought sullenly as he cleaned their cauldron. Specifically, English dames. No, scratch that - specifically Cassandra Hightower. One minute she's letting you off easy for breaking rules, the next she's treating you like trash that just blew in across the Hudson River from Albany.
She flounced past him toward the door. Jack caught a faint hint of juniper and lavender again over the smell of heated metal and boiled dittany. Great. Just great. He should have just left Mossflower with her. Let him take her to that stupid dance or whatever it was. Now he was going to have her perfume on his mind again all day.
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