"She found WHAT?" Teddy did a spit take across the breakfast table, barely missing Oliver with splattering milk.
Henry cast a quick cleaning charm, "Let the man finish."
Jack finished retelling last night's disaster. Palamedes Hitchens and his two compatriots huddled nearby where Jack had ordered them to sit, looking like kicked puppies.
"You must admit," Oliver tapped his spoon against his chin, "a secret network of first-years sending coded messages about a Ravenclaw’s study habits for her mysterious Gryffindor admirer...it’s bloody hilarious."
"Hilarious like extra detention," Jack growled. “Thanks, Ollie.”
“Only one extra day,” Henry tried to find the bright side. “Could be worse.”
"’Could be worse’ Ravenhurst," Jack rhymed as he turned on him, "Want some ‘appropriated funds’ to buy Mina candy and flowers, huh?"
Teddy put his forehead on the table, his back shaking with laughter.
Henry smiled good-naturedly, "Come off it Jack, I was just taking the piss. Not like we wrote that silly report."
"In purple ink," Teddy raised his head and grinned. "Her favorite."
"This is all your fault, Marshwiggle," Jack shot back, jabbing his fork at him. "Getting the freshmen to stalk Hightower. Your scrawny knucker-loving backside oughta be in detention with me, and don’t think I’ll forget it!"
He pulled the first-years aside. "Look here, frosh-"
"Franklin’s stove, Mr. Semmes, we're sorry!" Pal burst out. "We thought we were helping!"
"We were gathering intelligence!" Mel added, pushing up his glasses.
"Like those wizarding war stories on the wireless!" Wiggy chorused.
"There is a time…and a place for that," Jack said scrupulously. "You need to be smarter about your little games and how you play them. Do not go near Miss Hightower. For the love of Merlin. Do not bother her."
“But Mr. Marshwiggle said that she’s your top priority,” Pal protested.
“Did he?” Jack reached out and grabbed Teddy by the back of his robes as he attempted to stroll away. “Teddy, tell the freshmen that you were mistaken.”
Teddy yelled as Jack reeled him in and put him in a headlock, “Alright alright, leave off her!”
"But what about Venge?" Wiggy asked, his ginger hair bristling. "He's up to something dodgy, we know it! All Slytherins are, all the time!"
Jack released Teddy (after messing his hair up) and glanced around. He had to throw the kids a bone. "Alright, keep watching Venge. But no more written reports, okay? Verbal only. And for Franklin’s sake, be careful. I can't get in more trouble."
They nodded solemnly. Jack had an uncomfortable feeling that they weren’t listening.
An owl delivered him a letter as he refilled his coffee mug. Jack unfolded the parchment over his plate and recognized the slanted cursive handwriting of Ashley Main:
> Semmes,
>
> Thunderbird’s not the same without you. Dayroom is a lot quieter (in a bad way), though the new tacks are doing their best to mess that up. They had a lapse in judgement and made me sergeant. Now I get to spend my free time wrangling knuckleheads like Timmons, who still can’t show up on time to formation after two years here. Boy’s slower than molasses in January, and twice as sticky when it comes to excuses.
>
> We stomped Salem 17-11. Wish you were here to see it. Team’s strong, but we’re missing your eye for trouble. Had a group date out in Adams last weekend, I escorted a drag from Tennessee named Emily Cumberland. Rita Hayworth. That’s all you need to know.
>
> How’s Hogwarts? Bet you’re driving those Brits up the wall. You trade that fast-talking Yankee line for a hoity-toit accent yet? Meet any nice witches? Write back soon.
>
> — Main
Jack grinned in spite of himself, folding the letter and tucking it into his robe. He’d have to write him back tonight, he had a lot to update him about.
"Quidditch tryouts this afternoon," Henry reminded him as they got up from the table to walk to Defense class. "Don't forget."
"I'm gated, Henry, remember?"
"Already sorted that," Algy came walking up behind them and clapped them both on the shoulders. "MacLeod cleared it with Winterborn. You're allowed on the pitch, but straight back to the castle after.”
Defense Against the Dark Arts passed without incident, though Jack noticed Professor MacLeod watching him more closely than usual. Then…
"Mr. Semmes."
MacLeod's voice wasn’t loud, but Jack caught his name distinctly through the shuffling and chatter as students packed up. He had been halfway to the door with Henry and Teddy, but turned back immediately, recognizing the tone and already knowing what this was going to be about. His friends shot him sympathetic looks as they filed out with the rest.
The classroom emptied, leaving them alone with the scent of spells and scorched practice dummies. MacLeod waited until the last laggard student had gone, then closed the door with a wave of his wand.
"Professor Winterborn came to me about Miss Ludd's report." MacLeod crossed his arms. "Having first-years tracking other students? Merlin's breath, laddie, what are you thinking?"
"Sir, I didn’t know. They were just playing around."
"Playing around at being spies," MacLeod shook his head. "You know how that sounds. I just talked to you about this, Jack."
Jack felt honor-bound to defend himself, "It was a stupid game they were playing, sir. The kids came up with it themselves—"
"That's not my point!" MacLeod brought his fist down on his desk, making a stack of graded essays jump. He took a deep breath, calming himself. "Listen to me carefully, lad. Professor Winterborn is... concerned. Very concerned. And Miss Ludd—"
"Miss Ludd has it out for me, sir," Jack interrupted.
"Aye, she has it out for a lot of people. Which is precisely why you need to stop handing her loaded wands pointed directly at your own face." MacLeod leaned forward. "And to do so, you need to stay away from Miss Hightower."
The order lashed Jack’s face like a whip. "Sir—"
"That is not a suggestion, Mr. Semmes," MacLeod's voice was final. He studied Jack's face for a moment, "Look here, boy. I know what you're thinking. You’re a young man and you think the universe revolves around you. This isn't just about you, or even her. Her father's not just any Ministry official – he's a duke. You aren't familiar with how things are here, being American an’ all. There are expectations."
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Jack’s feet clenched inside his shoes. These stupid expectations again! "I'm aware of them, sir."
"You are, are ye?" MacLeod raised a scarred eyebrow. "I don't think you are. I don’t believe ye understand what you're playin’ with here. Hogwarts is not Mount Greylock. The old families take their bloodlines seriously." He tapped the desk with a gauntleted finger. "Their daughters' reputations are as fragile as spun glass. One wrong move, one whisper of scandal could ruin her."
"That's not what I'm doing!" Jack protested, his face flushing.
"Doesn't matter what you would or wouldn't do," MacLeod cut him off. "It's about bloody perception. You're the American transfer, son of a MACUSA officer, getting your first-years to track the Duke's only daughter? Following her in the library? Having them write up reports about her habits? How do you think that looks?”
Jack felt the weight of each word like a dumbbell being dropped on his head. "Sir, the first years were playing at being Aurors. It’s all just a misunderstanding.”
"The Ministry is watching. MACUSA is watching. Everyone is watching Hogwarts." MacLeod gestured to the window with his missing hand, "Think about your family. What your father is trying to do here to build bridges. You are making his position difficult. For Godric’s sake lad, do you have any idea what her father could do if he heard you were harassing his daughter?! You could all get deported!"
That hit home. Jack felt his eyes flicker.
"This isn't about house points," MacLeod continued. "You've got Miss Ludd building a case against you, Professor Winterborn wanting you sent home and excluded for the rest of term, the Headmaster breathing down my neck, and all of Ravenclaw House tracking your every move - hoping that you slip up. I went out on a limb for you with the Quidditch clearance. Don't make me regret that."
"Yes sir." Jack stood at attention, seeking refuge in formality like a turtle retreating into its shell. "It won't happen again, sir."
Something in Jack's stance or expression must have given him away, because the professor's eyes narrowed slightly, and he shook his head with what looked like resignation.
Jack briefly appreciated the irony. His father often joked about the stubbornness in their blood - "Dumas wrote about how ‘monstrously obstinate’ we Normans are," he'd say. Now here he was, the unstoppable force running up against the immovable object of a Highland Scot.
No wonder MacLeod looked tired.
"Dismissed," Macleod said finally, his tone suggesting he knew full well this wouldn't be the end of it.
Jack turned on his heel and marched out. He missed the way his heels used to click while he was walking. It sounded more resolute, more determined. Hogwarts shoes had soft soles. It wasn't until he was halfway down the stairs that he allowed his hands to release from their fists. The "sirs" and stone face had come automatically - Ilvermorny kicking in - but underneath he was boiling.
Getting blamed for the stupid stuff that Pal and his idiot friends were doing. And Cassandra again... what right did anyone have to tell him to stay away from her? Was she property of the state or something? First Montfort, then Ludd, and now Winterborn and MacLeod?!
Jack took a breath and exhaled violently. Fine. He'd be more careful. But he wasn't about to let anyone dictate who he could or couldn't talk to. They couldn't control his mind. She was in nearly every one of his classes – what were they gonna do, transfer him into different sections? Screw them. Try to deport me!
He walked so quickly that he found himself catching up with Cyprian at the Transfiguration Courtyard. The Slytherin had paused to watch a gaggle of second-years gathered near the sundial, poking at a restless jarvey they had had unwisely smuggled into the castle. The furry ferret-like creature was hurling increasingly loud complaints with great creativity, much to the youngsters’ amusement.
“What is the charge, sir?” it demanded turning around in a rapid circle on the sundial. “Am I being detained? For what? A crime? A sacrilege? Do I look like a criminal creature to you?”
The second-years giggled, one of them tried to pick the jarvey up.
“Have a look at how he… jarvey-handles me here,” the jarvey continued indignantly as it was hoisted into the air. “Wizards and witches, this is Magical Britain manifest. How dare you, you think you can just shove me into a bag like some common—get your hands off my penis!”
The Gryffindor boy holding the jarvey nearly dropped it.
“Aye, that’s the bloke who just got me on the penis, people!” the jarvey accused magnificently. “I’m a magical creature with rights, you Mongols! Who do you think you are? Do you understand the social contract you’re violating here?”
One of the Hufflepuffs glanced over their shoulder as the sound of footsteps echoed from the stairwell. In a panic, the second-years scrambled to stuff the jarvey into a burlap bag.
“Oh, I see you know your wrestling well, sir,” the jarvey wriggled gamely against the odds. “Good one. A nice headlock, a fine submission move. Take a look at his grip here.”
It struggled in vain against the bag, voice muffled. “Why have you done this to me? For what reason? I have been wronged! Wronged, I tell you!”
As the professor’s footsteps grew nearer, the jarvey gave one last, defiant cry. “Tata, and farewell!”
The students hastily sealed and silenced the bag just as Professor Brightwell rounded the corner, barely containing their laughter.
Jack sidled up beside Cyprian. The fearful tongue lashing from MacLeod made him crave a conversation to remind himself that he was still allowed to be here. Still a Hogwarts student in good standing.
“Hey Venge, mind if I ask a question?”
Cyprian shrugged, “Go ahead, you’ll keep talking no matter what I say.”
“If you knew Grindelwald was wrong, why’d your family wait until 1930 to join up against him? The war had been going on for near-on four years at that point.”
Cyprian kept staring into the courtyard. “Because, Semmes,” he began, “Grindelwald was a continental problem. At first. A dark wizard with dangerous ideas, certainly, but hardly our responsibility. Britain is an island, not only in geography but in temperament. We’ve always preferred to mind our own affairs and leave the Continent to its endless feuds and follies.”
He stood erect like a lecturer, diametrically opposed to Jack’s casual lean. “Grindelwald’s rhetoric didn’t resonate here—not at the beginning. The blood purity nonsense, the vision of a ‘new wizarding order.’ It was European. Specifically German. Wizarding Britain has always prided herself on being apart from that chaos, on maintaining our traditions and our independence. My family believed it wasn’t our place to intervene in foreign conflicts, especially ones that seemed destined to inevitably collapse under their own hubris.”
“But Grindelwald didn’t collapse,” Jack pressed, unwilling to let it drop. “He got stronger.”
“Yes,” Cyprian admitted, “And when it became clear that he was not just a nuisance but a true threat, a man with ambitions that could not be contained by borders, who sought to tear down the very Statute of Secrecy itself, we acted. We joined the fight when it mattered, when it was no longer a question of Europe’s problem but of the wizarding world’s survival.”
He looked at Jack, his blue eyes unyielding. “Call it cautious, call it overly conservative, if you like. You must understand, Semmes, my family is ancient. We trace our lineage back to Lucius Vengetius Gracilis, a Roman magus of the late Empire. My father has his death mask in our library. The Venges have seen enough war to know that rushing into them solves little and costs much. Britain’s strength - and endurance - has always been its patience, its unwillingness to throw itself into every storm without considering the consequences. That kind of nobly foolish élan is for the French. Grindelwald forced our hand, yes, but by then, we were prepared. The wizarding world needed to be unified against him, not fragmented by premature action.”
Cyprian paused, the weight of his words settling like a cloak. “We may have waited, but we did not shirk our duty. And when we acted, it was with purpose, not impulsiveness. That is the British way, Semmes. Not flashy, not reckless. Enduring.”
“That’s a pretty speech, Venge,” Jack retorted hotly, “Sounds a lot like you’re just dressing up sitting on your hands as grand strategy. ‘Patience’? Watching your neighbors burn while you wait for the fire to reach your door? We’ve got a saying back home: if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. If you stuck-up limeys had gotten off your high horse a little sooner, Grindelwald wouldn’t have gotten so far in the first place.”
Cyprian was unruffled, a fencer waiting for the opening. “The American shares his wisdom of charging in headfirst and hoping it works out. Semmes, when did your country decide to join the war against Grindelwald? 1932? A full six years after it started? Who was sitting on their hands?”
Jack bristled, opening his mouth to argue, but Cyprian wasn’t finished.
“If memory serves,” Cyprian continued, his voice unhurried, “you only joined because his partisans torched your embassy in Rio de Janeiro. Then Grindelwald personally embarrassed your Aurors in downtown Manhattan with a childish Polyjuice trick. Heroic. Waiting for the fire to spread into your own house before helping your neighbors.”
Jack wanted to smack the glasses off Cyprian’s stupid, placid face.
“Perhaps the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree after all,” Cyprian said blandly. “Would you prefer we start measuring by your standards? Late to the war, but always eager to argue.” He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back like a professor dismissing a student’s half-baked argument.
Jack’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally sputtered, “Yeah, well…MACUSA still had to bail you out after you almost lost!”
“Dumbledore didn’t go to Ilvermorny,” Cyprian calmly checked his pocket watch and strode away.
Jack watched as Cyprian ascended the West Tower steps like a green-trimmed shadow. “Yeah, that’s right, walk away!” Jack called after him. One of the birds in the courtyard squawked in what sounded suspiciously like mockery. Jack scowled at it.