The June morning was warm and clear as the Semmes family's Ford Model 18 wound its way through the backroads of western Massachusetts. Jack sat in the back seat, watching the small town of Adams emerge from the morning mist. The car, modified with magical enhancements his father said were "just for emergencies," purred contentedly as it navigated the narrow streets.
A large banner stretched across Main Street, its letters bold against the weathered buildings: "Welcome New St. Benjamin's Students!" Jack noticed several boys his age being herded onto a bus at the train station, their parents fussing over collars and ties. His father caught his eye in the rearview mirror and winked.
"No-Maj cover," Thomas Semmes explained, steering past the commotion. "They think it’s a normal boarding school. Real pillar of the community. Been there longer than Adams, technically speaking."
Elizabeth Semmes reached back to squeeze her son's hand. "Nervous, sweetheart?"
"Nah," Jack lied. He had been too nervous to eat breakfast that morning at the motel they had stayed at. His mother's dark eyes crinkled with knowing affection.
The car turned onto an unpaved mountain path, climbing steadily through dense forest. They passed a weathered wooden sign: "Mount Greylock State Park" with "St. Benjamin's School for Boys and Girls" beneath it in smaller letters. The air shimmered around them like heat waves off summer asphalt. The car shuddered slightly, and the dirt track transformed into pristine granite pavers.
"Here we go," his father said.
They approached a wrought iron gate, usually kept firmly closed but today standing open. Two upperclassmen stood at attention, their midnight blue uniforms immaculate, high collars starched, coats gleaming with silver buttons and cranberry piping. They greeted Thomas Semmes with easy familiarity.
"Welcome back to Ilvermorny, sir," the taller of the two said, touching his cap. "Administration Building is ready for new cadet processing. Please follow the signs, sir."
As they drove through, Ilvermorny revealed itself, nestled on a granite shelf below Mount Greylock's summit. The morning sun caught the edges of the Beaux-Arts buildings, their pale stone glowing against the backdrop of dark pines. At the heart of the campus lay a parade ground as big as a football field, its manicured surface smooth as green glass.
Ilvermorny was compact and precise – a testament to American efficiency. The buildings formed a perfect half-square, their ornate facades blending elegance and functionality.
"It’s impressive," his father said, pride evident in his voice. "See the old manor house, that’s just over there.” He pointed to an enormous mansion surrounded by gardens opposite the parade ground, then pointed to a towering seven-story square white edifice in front of them, pierced with archways at ground level and perfectly symmetrical windows all around. “That right there is the Barracks. Rebuilt in 1854 after Superintendent Flayer’s reorganization. Modern magical education for a modern magical nation."
Jack pressed his face to the window, taking in every detail. Whatever nervousness he'd felt was transforming into excitement.
The car came to a stop before the Administration Building's marble steps. The sound of a bugle call echoed across the parade ground, clear and bright against the summer sky.
As Jack stepped out into the clean mountain air, he found himself part of a sea of boys around the parade ground. They poured from buses and cars of every description – some gleaming and new, others held together by magic, duct tape, and hope. Boys from every corner of America mingled together: tall lanky farmboys from Kansas standing next to sharp-dressed city kids from Chicago, round-faced sons of Louisiana planters beside wiry coal miners' sons from Pennsylvania.
An upperclassman's voice cut through the chaos with practiced authority: "New boys, please bid your families farewell. Parents, Professor Huntington will escort you to the Superintendent's reception. This way please."
Jack's mother pulled him into a tight embrace, "My brave boy," she whispered, "Don't forget to write!" She straightened his collar one last time. His father stood maintaining his composure through formality.
"Make us proud, Jack," Thomas Semmes said, his voice gruff with suppressed emotion.
Jack grabbed his small suitcase – containing only his wand, spare underclothes, and wristwatch – and turned quickly away before the tears threatening his eyes could fall. He joined the stream of boys heading toward the row of tables outside the Administration Building, not daring to look back until he reached them.
When he finally did turn, he could just make out his parents' distant figures being led away towards the mansion with the other adults, his mother's flowered dress a tiny spot of color against the pines beyond.
"Surnames A through E, first table! F through K, second table!"
Jack found his place in line and reached the S-Z table. His hand trembled slightly as he signed next to "Semmes, James T." in the heavy leather-bound registry. The ink gleamed momentarily before sinking into the page, making it official – he was now an Ilvermorny student.
"Treasurer's table next," the upperclassman directed. His voice was deceivingly mild.
Jack joined another line where a stern-faced clerk carefully counted and logged every Dragot the new boys possessed. "For safekeeping," he explained as he noted down Jack's modest sum. "No currency permitted on campus."
Finally, Jack stood with a growing cluster of processed others, all clutching their meager belongings, trying to look brave and failing. Another upperclassman appeared, his shoes and buttons blindingly bright in the morning sun.
"Follow me, Poor Richards," he commanded, leading them off the main avenue towards the huge stone building Jack had seen when they first arrived. They walked through an archway into a vast courtyard. Jack's neck craned back as he took in the seven-story cloister that surrounded them on all sides, its covered walkways stacked like the gundecks of a great marble warship. The Ilvermorny Barracks.
They found themselves facing a line of upperclassmen, their presence simultaneously impressive and terrifying.
"So," a precocious boy down the line asked, "are we tacks now?"
The corporal's head snapped around like a rattlesnake. He covered the distance to the speaker in three steps, steel heels clicking against the stone courtyard.
"You, Mr. Magoo, are nothing," he said, voice pitched to carry to every trembling boy in the courtyard. "You, sirs, are less than nothing. You are not a tack. You are not a cadet. You are a Poor Richard, which puts you several evolutionary steps below a flobberworm."
The boy stared straight ahead, regretting his question. Another naive newcomer piped up from the line:
"Where are the girls?"
The corporal's eyes gleamed with delight.
"You will never speak that word again, Mr. Magoo," he said, stalking over to his new victim. "Girls do not exist. They do not exist for such imbecilic blockheads as you, Mr. Magoo. They especially do not exist at an institution dedicated to creating wizards out of whatever sorry excuse for raw material has been dropped at our doorstep."
He paced the line now, addressing all of them. "Let me make this abundantly clear for your marble-filled craniums. There is no such thing as a girl in your world. Not for the next three years. Not until you prove yourselves worthy of being actual human beings, let alone gentlemen. The Only Thing that exists for you is obedience, drill, study, and the endless path toward becoming something marginally more valuable than the dirt beneath our shoes."
He stopped in front of the second speaker. "And if I catch even a whisper of that forbidden word again, Mr. Magoo, you will spend so much time doing push-ups that your arms will evolve into tree trunks. You will do so many squat thrusts that your legs will become steel pistons. You will run so many laps of this courtyard that you will wear a trench deep enough to strike oil. And then, Mr. Magoo, once you have done all that, you will do it again until the very concept of the opposite sex has been permanently erased from whatever you call that collection of rocks rolling around between your ears."
He surveyed the now perfectly silent line. "Do I make myself clear?"
There was a murmur of confused assent.
“What was that?” he roared.
"Yes sir!" the boys chorused.
That was how Jack learned about the two Ilvermornys: the Academy for boys, where they stood now, and the College for girls, who wouldn't arrive until August for their own, distinctly more genteel version of magical education.
Jack Semmes did not place eyes on an Ilvermorny College drag (the word “girl” was strictly forbidden) until August. He didn’t get to talk to one until 1944.
The two Ilvermornys sat barely 200 yards apart, yet they might as well have been on different continents. The Academy, with its spartan Barracks, housed the male cadets. Just across the parade ground (forbidden for cadets to walk on unless on parade) stood Ilvermorny College for Young Witches, the most prestigious secondary school in the country, its Victorian mansion and rose gardens a refined contrast to the Academy's fortress.
The separation was maintained with rigid magical and social barriers. Enchanted hedges marked the boundary, shifting and rearranging themselves to prevent unauthorized crossing. Detection wards alerted the College staff to any attempted fraternization. Even the path between the schools was charmed to redirect wandering feet back to their proper side of campus unless they were escorted by faculty or carrying a permission slip.
In August, Jack watched from the barracks windows as carriages arrived at the College, bringing the mysterious female students he and his fellow cadets wouldn't be allowed to meet until they were in the Upper School. Glimpses were rare and precious – chapel on Sundays, a distant group crossing their lawn for herbology classes, or filing into their own dining hall for meals. They were ethereal, more rumor than reality.
The rules were explicit and unyielding. No communication was permitted between Academy and College students until 9th grade. Any attempt at magical communication triggered immediate disciplinary action. Eye contact across the divide was strictly discouraged. Even letters were forbidden until 9th grade, when unchaperoned group dates were permitted into Adams.
"The young ladies are pursuing their own course of magical education," the Detail corporals sternly reminded the boys of the Lower School. "They are not here for your entertainment or distraction. If you wanted that, you could have gone to Lost Cove or Monterey."
The College was over a century older than the Academy. Boys weren’t allowed to attend Ilvermorny until 1747. It had its own traditions, as different from the Academy's as could be imagined. Ilvermorny College for Young Witches combined rigorous magical education with classical liberal arts. The professors taught classes at both College and Academy. While domestic magic was part of the curriculum, it was far from the focus. The girls there wore no uniforms, instead a wide variety of elegant and practical dresses.
The separation extended to magical practice itself. The College emphasized theoretical understanding and academic excellence. Many graduates went on to careers in magical research, civil services, or advanced healing. Others became influential figures in magical society, using their education to navigate complex sociopolitical spheres. The separation wasn't about limiting either group but rather about optimizing education for different roles in society. The College produced researchers, diplomats, and healers, while the Academy prioritized training aurors and magical engineers. This was reflected in the houses. Although all four houses were represented at both schools, the militant Thunderbird and Wampus houses dominated the Academy, while the more cerebral Pukwudgie and Horned Serpent ruled the College.
This rigid separation made the few authorized interactions all the more significant. Upperclass cadets spoke of the regularly scheduled dances with the reverence of religious ceremonies. Every detail was precisely regulated – from the proper distance between dance partners to the approved topics of conversation. A wrong step, literal or social, could result in the loss of all future privileges.
For Jack, throughout his first year, the girls of Ilvermorny College remained as foreign and wonderful as the creatures in his bestiary textbook. He would not attend his first chaperoned social event until May 1942, and even then, the experience was so carefully controlled and formal that it hardly seemed real.
The system reflected both tradition and social norms, creating an environment where young wizards and witches could develop their abilities without the complications of co-education. Whether this actually prevented romantic entanglements was debatable – if anything, the enforced separation and mystery made each side all the more intriguing to the other.
The Ilvermorny chapel was booked solid every June through December with Academy boys marrying College girls, leading one weary professor to observe that they might as well start saving time and pass out rings along with diplomas.
But for the boys of the Lower School, the rules were clear and the consequences for breaking them severe. So Jack, like generations of Ilvermorny cadets before him, focused on his studies and inspections, while the mythical, lovely figures across the parade ground flitted about in his imagination like elves.
----------------------------------------
> Room 321, Thunderbird Wing
>
> Ilvermorny Academy, Mount Greylock, Massachusetts
>
> 2335 Hours, 19 September 1946
The lights were officially out in the barracks and the curtains of their third-floor room were shut tightly. Jack lay on his bed, hands behind his head, while his roommate Ashley Main sat at his desk, vainly trying to finish an American History essay by carefully concealed wandlight.
"Semmes," Ashley whispered, abandoning all pretense of completing his paper on the Ghost Dance, "you ever wonder what they do over there all day?"
"The drags?" Jack kept his voice low. After four years, they were experts at unheard after-hours conversations. "I heard from Jed that his sister says they have tea every afternoon. Formal tea with cups and saucers and everything."
"Tea?" Ashley's voice carried Southern skepticism. "While we're doing close-order shielding in the rain they're having tea parties?"
"And they learn more advanced transfiguration and charms work than we do. Plus all these useful spells on top of that. Things like how to enchant a room to clean itself, make dinner cook on its own..."
"Heck, I’d kill for a charm like that, it would save us at least 30 minutes every day instead of having to clean by wand." Ashley paused. "Having tea every day might be nice, if it's with drags. Better than the coffee in the mess hall. I bet they wear fancy dresses too. Debutante ball style, like at our dances."
Jack rolled onto his side. "You think those dolls have to march like we do?"
"Lord, no. My cousin Emma – she goes to Salem – says they're taught to 'glide.' Moving gracefully. Actually have classes for it."
"Gliding?" Jack snorted. "Not double-timing?"
"Can't very well expect a drag to double-time in those shoes." Ashley's chair creaked as he leaned back. "Don’t you see them at Sunday chapel? The way they all float in like a flock of tropical birds?"
"Hard not to notice when we're stuck standing at attention for twenty minutes while they file in." Jack grinned in the darkness. "Though I guess that's the point – making sure we notice."
"My mama would say that's exactly the point." Ashley's drawl got thicker when he mentioned his mother, as it always did. "A proper lady should always be noticed, while never appearing to seek attention."
"Sounds complicated, Main."
"That's because you're a Yankee, Semmes. You don't understand important things."
"Main, what's the difference between a damnyankee and a Yankee?" Jack rolled over in his bunk, grinning at their familiar routine.
"Why, that's simple arithmancy even a Hobokenite should understand," Ashley drawled, setting aside his textbook. "You're a Yankee because you stay up north here where you belong. Damnyankees are the ones who come down South, buy up all our land for Sprinks, tell us how to farm it, and then stay forever telling us how much better things are up North."
"Doesn't that make you a damnrebel then? Coming up North instead of Lost Cove, taking a spot at Ilvermorny, complaining about our coffee?"
"No Semmes," Ashley replied with dignity. "It makes me a prisoner of conscience, temporarily detained in enemy territory for the purposes of magical education. Also, it's expected of me. The Mains have attended Ilvermorny since before the Revolution. The food here may be good but the mess hall cooks can’t make coffee to save their dang lives."
"You nearly exploded when the tack at our breakfast table put sugar in his grits. I thought that was a Southern thing."
"Heck naw. That’s some Louisiana nonsense," Ashley shook his head. "Grits get salt, pepper and butter. Nothing else. My mama would disown me if I said otherwise.”
"Your mama would disown you if she knew half the things we do here," Jack pointed out. "Like when we had to belly-crawl through that magical swamp down the valley during the snipe hunt?"
"I had to write home and tell her I'd ruined my best undershirt doing 'advanced magichemical experimentation.'" Ashley sniffed.
"I noticed you still ate three helpings of yankee meatloaf at supper."
"Building bridges between our two nations," Ashley replied solemnly. "Can't let all that Reconstruction go to waste. Y'all wouldn't know proper fried chicken if it flew up and pecked you."
"Y'all?" Jack repeated with a snicker. "Your hick accent gets thicker every time you mention food."
"And yours gets more barbaric every time you try to pronounce 'coffee' or 'water.' It's not 'cawwfee' and 'wader,' Semmes."
"Maybe down in Georgia."
"Especially in Georgia. We didn't lose the war of words, even if our poor No-Maj lost the other one."
They fell silent as footsteps passed their door – the night guard making his rounds.
"You think they talk about us like this?" Jack whispered. “The drags?”
"Probably not," Ashley replied. "Drags are more mature than we are at this age. I’d bet they’re busy studying."
“And having pillow fights,” Jack sighed dreamily.
"And gliding," Ashley agreed. "Franklin. I need to finish this essay before I have to explain to Bancroft why I was too busy contemplating the mysteries of femininity to complete my homework."
Jack grinned. "Yes, honey.”
A few minutes passed.
"You know who's a real killer-diller?" Jack whispered. "Vivien Leigh."
“From That Hamilton Woman?” Ashley pretended to be obtuse.
“No, you stupid Reb, Gone with the Wind!”
"Well, obviously," Ashley drawled, glad for any excuse to not keep writing. "She’s practically perfect. And not just because she reminds me of home. I prefer Olivia de Havilland though, better wife material, more to your speed too. A Yankee like you could never handle Scarlett O’Hara in real life."
"Sure I could!”
Ashley turned around and stared at him, “No you couldn’t.”
“It's how she carries herself, you know? All proper and controlled, but with all that fire underneath. Like she’ll hex you if you step out of line." Jack shifted onto his elbow, undeterred. "Plus I like them willowy. Slender, but not skinny, with...you know..."
"Good posture?" Ashley offered.
"You’ve got a way with words, Main." Jack giggled. "What about you? Besides de Havilland."
"Rita Hayworth," Ashley replied without hesitation. "All that red hair, curves like-"
"A Comet 43?"
"I was going to say a country road, but trust a New Yorker to crassly compare a woman to a broomstick." Ashley caught the sound of footsteps and paused for a moment. "Some of the drags have started styling their hair like hers."
"How would you know? We never get close enough to see their hair."
"Binoculars charm during Drawing class," Ashley winked.
"Of course." Jack stared at the ceiling and sighed. "I bet there's one over there right now, probably sitting at her desk writing a letter home. Blonde, or light brunette maybe, kind of tall for a dame, but not too tall. Good at school but not too much of a dork. The type who follows every rule but secretly wants to break ‘em all..."
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
"You've given this way too much thought, Semmes."
"Yes I have, Main." Jack rolled over. "What else are we supposed to think about during formation drills?"
"Your stance? Your wandwork? The actual drill?" Ashley suggested. "Instead of some imaginary drag who probably doesn't exist?"
"She exists," Jack said with conviction. "Somewhere. Maybe not at the College, but somewhere. And I bet she’s thinking about a boy like me right now too."
"Franklin's kite, you're a stupid romantic under all that Northern practicality." Ashley gave up on his essay and started getting ready for bed. "Don't let the Ps catch you lusting like this. They'll have you scrubbing the Court until you forget what drags look like altogether."
"Too late for that," Jack yawned. "Between all this marching and studying, I don’t remember what anyone looks like who isn't wearing midnight blue and a perpetual scowl."
"According to Prof Huntington, it does get better after we graduate from this place,” Ashley finished brushing his teeth and laid down carefully onto his bunk so as to not rumple the sheets.
“Yeah, well, we’re stuck in it now,” Jack said, tucking himself underneath his comforter.
“When you’re going through hell, keep going,” Ashley agreed.
Both boys fell silent. In Ilvermorny fashion, they were asleep in moments.
----------------------------------------
Back on his first day, Jack Semmes’ revelation about girls was quickly forgotten as an electric tension swept through the group. Before them stood the members of the Detail – upperclassmen whose midnight blue jackets seemed painted onto their muscular frames, their black trousers with red stripes creased sharp enough to draw blood. These were the young men tasked with transforming "Poor Richards" like Jack into proper Ilvermorny cadets.
"Stand up now, all along the line!" A corporal's voice cracked like a whip. Jack and his fellows scrambled to comply, their movements clumsy and uncoordinated.
"Snap into it—you on the left there!" Another voice joined the first. "Hold up your heads! Pull those shoulders back! More!"
"Drag in your chins! You, there, in the clown trousers!"
"Put that hat on straight! Throw your chest out! Suck up those guts! Harder! Harder!"
Jack felt sweat trickling down his back as he tried to maintain the unnatural posture. The Detail circled them like sharks, their faces masks of controlled disgust at each imperfection they discovered.
The scene was interrupted by the arrival of two late newcomers. The Detail descended upon them with predatory efficiency.
"You man, there, slouching into the Court! What's your name?" A corporal zeroed in on a short, rotund boy peering through thick tortoise-shell glasses.
The boy stared in fascination at the corporal's pristine uniform jacket, seemingly oblivious to the danger.
"Do you hear me talking to you? Take your slimy eyes off me and look to the front!"
Beside him, a tall, lanky boy in an expensive suit and audacious green tie received similar treatment.
"How do you do?" the boy smiled pleasantly. "My name is Marino."
"Your name is Mister Marino, SIR," the cadet officer thundered. "Mister Marino, you get that?"
"And you too, Mr. Magoo," he turned to the bespectacled boy. "Don't you forget to put a Sir on the end of your name!"
The two latecomers joined their ranks and the transformation began immediately. Green ties disappeared, trouser cuffs were turned down, coats buttoned up, and all traces of civilian identity were stripped away.
They surrendered their "contraband" at the orderly room – playing cards, dice, and books all disappeared into the Treasurer's custody. Jack didn’t have any, although he had an odd desire to have something in order to put it in the box and perhaps please the Detail that way. He was then assigned to his room, where he met his roommate and future friend, Ashley Main, a Georgian whose calm demeanor seemed impossible under the circumstances. Jack's own hands wouldn't stop trembling.
The barber shop came next, reached at a dead run – Poor Richards weren't allowed the luxury of walking. A single harried barber wielded his wand deftly, and dozens of regulation haircuts manifested simultaneously. Jack watched his dark locks fall away with the others.
Then came the Cadet Store, where black flannel trousers and belts were issued with mechanical efficiency. The basement yielded bedding and mattresses, which each boy carried back to his quarters on the seventh floor, muscles straining. Back and forth they ran, collecting clothing and supplies, their newly-shorn heads waiting for the issued caps and hats that would complete their transformation.
Every movement was scrutinized, every action timed, every step monitored by the ever-present Detail. The metamorphosis from civilian to cadet proceeded with the inexorable precision of a well-oiled machine. Jack felt himself being swept along in the current, his old identity washing away with each new command, each new requirement, each new demand.
The sun was setting when they were marched to the mess hall, their ragged formation drawing winces and barked corrections from the corporals and sergeants. The long hall was enormous, designed to seat all four hundred cadets at once at tables of twenty, though now it felt cavernous with only one hundred summer residents – the new sixth graders and their Detail tormentors from the eleventh and twelfth grades.
Steam rose from platters of homestyle cooking – chicken and dumplings, collard greens, cornbread. But there was no time to savor it. They ate in rigid silence while the upperclassmen prowled between the tables, looking for infractions. The food was good, Jack realized, if only he could taste it through his exhaustion.
After dinner came showers, then back to their rooms with an ominous promise that made Jack's stomach clench: "Early day tomorrow, Poor Richards. Very early."
In their room, Jack and Ashley finally had a moment to breathe. His roommate sprawled on his hard bed with the easy grace of a boy born into privilege.
"Semmes," Ashley said, using Jack's surname with the peculiar intimacy that marked Ilvermorny friendships, "I do believe this has been the longest day of my life."
"Main," Jack replied, testing the address, "I can’t think of anything worse."
They talked quietly in the growing dark. Ashley's home was an actual plantation in Georgia, complete with white columns and Spanish moss, but he spoke of it without pretense. Just another boy far from home, trying to make sense of this new world they'd been thrown into.
The next morning brought new terrors. During formation, Corporal Strait – a lean, sharp-faced upperclassman with cruel eyes – fixed on Jack with predatory interest.
"Well, well," Strait mused, circling Jack like a coyote. "What do we have here? Bit dark for a proper wizard, aren't you, Mr. Magoo? What’s your name, half-breed?"
“This Poor Richard’s name is Semmes, sir.” Jack replied in the approved formula.
"Mr. Semmes is it? Your father may be MACUSA, but that doesn't quite wash out the Patuxet, does it?"
Jack stared straight ahead, jaw tight.
"You know, Mr. Main," Strait addressed Ashley without taking his eyes off Jack, "your people fought wars against his people. Good American wizards died protecting settlers from warraids. My own grandfather was at the Battle of Wounded Knee, when MACUSA finally put down the last of the medicine men."
Ashley's face carefully blank. "Yes sir."
"Any forbidden magic passed down, Mr. Semmes?" Strait continued, "Does your mother still practice the old ways? Any reason we should be concerned about having you here at Ilvermorny? After all, it wasn't that long ago that your mother's people were trying to burn this very school to the ground."
"No sir."
"Main here comes from one of the finest American families in Georgia.” His eyes flicked between Jack and Ashley. "Half-breed and the perfumed planter. Perfect setup, really. North and South. White and... well, redskin enough. Why don't you boys give us a re-enactment? Battle of the Washita. You know how it goes. Indians lay an ambush for MACUSA, I want to hear your war-whoops, Chief Semmes.”
Jack felt his face burn, but kept his eyes forward. Beside him, Ashley remained perfectly still.
"Not brave enough to volunteer?" Strait's voice rang with false disappointment. "Then I guess we'll have to find another way to educate you Poor Richards about magical history. Down! Both of you – dipping exercises!"
What followed was a blur of torment in the mounting summer heat. Air squats until their legs trembled. High-stepping with arms extended like scarecrows. And finally, most humiliatingly, crawling on all fours, making train whistle sounds while Strait laughed.
"Choo choo, Poor Richards! Show me how MACUSA brought civilization to the Wild West! You see, this is what happens when we let standards slip. First it was letting in half-breeds, then the Irish…"
Jack's vision was starting to go black in his periphery, his uniform soaked with sweat, when salvation arrived in the form of a cadet sergeant.
"That's enough, Strait," the sergeant's voice cut through Jack's haze. "You’re wasting our time. Get these boys some water and move on."
As they gulped down water from a dipper, Jack caught Ashley's eye, an understanding forged in shared degradation.
Summer fell into relentless rhythm. Each morning at 6:20, the sunrise gun's report echoed across the mountain, followed instantly by the savage rattle of drums and the bugle's piercing call. The sound would haunt Jack's dreams for years to come – not that he got much chance to dream during those first months.
Dozens of Poor Richards quit before summer ended, opting for more civilized wizarding schools around the country. Each dropout was marked by vulgar whoops of celebration from the Detail.
The days blurred together in an endless cycle of activity. Morning calisthenics left Jack shaking and sweat-soaked before breakfast, but they were just the beginning. Each week brought focus on a new sport, with both theory and grinding practice. Quodpot, Quopro, track and field, boxing, aerial gymnastics, broom racing, and magical dueling – the Academy believed in building both magical and physical prowess.
Every spare moment was filled with instruction. They memorized the Academy regulations until they could recite them in their sleep. Parades demanded endless practice – the precision of movement, the proper handling of wands during review, the exact angle of their heads during salute. The first spell they learned was the Shield Charm.
"The Shield Charm is the first, and greatest of all spells," the Detail drilled into their heads.
The initial magical curriculum was brutally simple:
* Shield Charm (Protego) - drilled until it became as natural as breathing
* Basic Levitation (Wingardium Leviosa) - not just for lifting objects, but themselves during physical training
* Illumination Charm (Lumos) - essential
* Simple Cleaning and Bleaching Charms - because magical cadets had to maintain their quarters and uniforms
* Simple Bandage Charm - for cuts and scrapes
Everything else could wait for proper classes. These spells were hammered into their muscle memory through endless repetition, usually combined with physical exercises:
"Shield up! Down for push-ups! Shield stays up! Levitate! Shield still up! Back down! What part of 'shield stays up' was unclear, Mr. Magoo?"
The Poor Richards quickly learned that dropping a spell during drills meant starting over - with weight charms added.
As a friendly corporal explained: "If you can cast while we're smoking you, you can cast them while someone's actually trying to kill you."
No one was supposed to be actually killed during summer training, but Jack wasn't entirely sure.
Then there came dancing instruction in Alumni Hall. Jack had dreaded it, but the Academy approached waltzing the same way as everything else. "A wizard must move with grace in all situations," their instructor declared. They practiced basic steps over and over until even the clumsiest Poor Richard could manage a passable box step. Jack earned his "proficiency" after three weeks, grateful to be excused from further lessons.
The culmination of their summer training came in August – the Poor Richard hike. For five days, they circumnavigated Mount Greylock, carrying full packs with no featherlight charms and making camp each night in different locations. They learned to set up magical wards, to find safe water sources, to navigate by stars both magical and mundane. Despite the physical challenges, these days proved surprisingly enjoyable. Away from the constant scrutiny of the Detail, the Poor Richards began to form friendships.
Around campfires at night, they shared stories of home. Jack learned that Ladd Marley’s father was one of the biggest cattle ranchers in Oklahoma, that Sonny Marino from southern California knew how to surf, that Ashley Main could hold his breath for three minutes. Even some of the Detail relaxed slightly, showing glimpses of humanity beneath their exteriors.
The instructors used the hike to evaluate their charges more naturally. They watched, made notes, and had quiet conversations about individual Poor Richards. Everything – from how a boy handled exhaustion to how he treated his fellows when sharing limited supplies – was carefully observed and recorded.
"They're not just making us miserable, you know," Ashley commented one evening as they set up their tent. Jack had just made a discouraged comment about transferring to Monterey where there were white beaches and girls. "They're building us into something."
"What's that?" Jack asked, using his wand to drive in a peg.
"Gentlemen," Ashley replied, his accent making the word sound grand. "Or trying to, at least." He flicked his wand clumsily and the tent shot up too fast, accidentally knocking Jack on his behind.
The Poor Richard hike ended where it began, back at the parade ground. The boys that had endured it were different now – tanned, toughened, standing straighter. No longer just a collection of scared kids from across America, but the beginnings of a cohesive group. The Detail's strict discipline had served its purpose.
As they marched back through the gates and fell out back to their rooms for showers, Jack caught a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His haircut had grown out just enough to need another trim, his uniform was trail-worn but carefully maintained, and his eyes held a confidence that hadn't been there six weeks ago. For better or worse, he was growing up quickly.
The Detail had a peculiar sense of humor, as Jack discovered through what they cheerfully called "sight-seeing trips." These tours of campus were conducted with all the ceremony of a formal parade and none of its dignity.
"Squad, halt!" The corporal's voice rang across the parade ground. "Left face!"
Jack stood rigidly in the front rank, eyes locked forward. The corporal announced with gravity: "Alumni Hall."
"Right face! Forward, double-time, march!"
If he was lucky and quick, Jack might catch a half-second glimpse of the building before being whisked away to the next landmark.
"Squad, halt! Left face! Library. Also the Mess Hall. Also the Academic Hall. Right face! Forward, march!"
Some sights didn't even rate a full stop. As they quick-stepped past a viewpoint, the corporal barked: "Eyes left! That's the No-Maj town of Adams down in the valley. Front!"
And that was Adams, population 522, seen and dismissed in the space of a breath. Jack thought of writing home about these tours but couldn't figure out how to describe them without making his mother worry.
But the "sight-seeing trips" were nothing compared to the clothing formations. These were the Detail's favorite form of entertainment during their precious few rest periods, turning Poor Richards into reluctant performers in absurdist theater.
The orders would come without warning: "Poor Richards! Formation in five minutes! Uniform of the day: Full dress hat, white gloves, puttees, regulation underwear. That is all!"
They would then be drilled as if parading in full dress instead of their underwear. The Detail maintained perfect poker faces as they inspected the formations, checking that gloves were spotless and hats properly aligned, while carefully ignoring the fact that their charges were practically naked.
"Mr. Semmes!" a corporal barked. "That hat brim is precisely one-eighth inch too low. Such sloppiness reflects poorly on Ilvermorny!"
Jack learned to maintain rigid military bearing while standing at attention in his drawers, which he supposed was a lesson in itself. Ashley theorized it was meant to strip away their dignity so thoroughly that nothing in their future careers could possibly embarrass them.
"After you've done close-order drill in your underwear," Ashley pointed out, "giving a speech to the Magical Congress won't seem scary at all. That’s got to be how Senator Longchamp does it so well."
“I don’t want to imagine Senator Longchamp in his underwear, Main,” Jack shuddered.
These bizarre ceremonies were conducted with such straight-faced seriousness that they transcended mere hazing, becoming sacred traditions – albeit traditions that no one outside Ilvermorny Academy would ever understand or believe. The Detail clearly took as much pride in crafting these peculiar torments as they did in their regular duties.
The Poor Richards learned to dread the gleam in a corporal's eye that meant he'd thought up some new variation.
At least these theatrical productions were confined to the relative privacy of the barracks. Though this was small comfort when Jack found himself perched on the guardrail of the seventh floor balcony at dawn, flapping his arms like a chicken.
"Louder, Mr. Semmes!" Corporal Strait demanded. "How do you expect to wake your future house with such a halfhearted cock-a-doodle-doo? I’ll have you cast down with the Pukwudgies!"
Jack belted out another crow as if this were the most natural thing in the world. As if every proper wizard had always greeted the sunrise from a balcony railing, playing rooster.
The corporal unceremoniously shoved Jack off the balcony. Jack plummeted seven stories towards the Court below, dully thinking that if he splattered hard enough maybe it wouldn't hurt.
Strait caught him a few feet above the ground with a sharp levitation charm that almost dislocated his shoulders.
The Detail's creativity was boundless. One afternoon was devoted to the funeral of a deceased beetle, with Jack and Ashley assigned the roles of chief mourners. Poor Richards were drafted as pallbearers, musicians, and even a chaplain who delivered a solemn eulogy about their "fallen comrade's dedication to bugginess, his beetling brows, his passion for beets, and devotion to six-legged duty."
The funeral procession wound its way around the Barracks Court with full military honors. Jack walked behind the matchbox coffin, his face a mask of grief for the dearly departed insect. The ceremony concluded with a Poor Richard shrilly singing taps, while the Detail watched with eagle eyes for any crack in the Poor Richards' somber expressions.
The slightest hint of a smile brought swift correction.
"Mr. Semmes! Wipe that smile off your face!"
Jack quickly raised his hand to his face and mimed erasing the offensive expression.
"Throw it on the ground!"
His hand dropped, releasing the imaginary smile.
"Now step on it!"
He ground it into the dirt with his shoe heel, face now properly blank.
"Don't ever smile in ranks again," the warning came, delivered with the same direness as if it were one of Ilvermorny’s most sacred regulations.
Jack learned the art of the empty expression – eyes focused on infinity, face showing nothing, no matter how ridiculous the situation. It was a skill that would serve him well in years to come, though he couldn't have known it then.
Life on the seventh floor of the barracks gave Jack and his "wife" (roommate) Ashley plenty of light and air, although the climb was punishing after a long day. The Academy's rigid hierarchy was reflected in the architecture – seniors claiming the ground floor, with each subsequent year stacked above them like a layer cake of authority. As Poor Richards and future tacks, they occupied the topmost tier, quite literally at the top of (and thus the bottom) of the pecking order.
Their room offered no opportunity for personal expression. Everything was standardized, regulated, and precisely positioned according to written instructions that might as well have been carved in granite. The iron beds, whether single or double-decker, were identical throughout the barracks. Metal clothes lockers, wooden desks, and straight-backed chairs might have come off an assembly line, they were so perfectly uniform.
The bare floors and blank walls emphasized utility over comfort. No rugs softened footsteps, no pictures brightened the white walls. Their possessions were regulated down to the smallest detail – from the exact number of shoes permitted under the bed (two, arranged toes-out, of course) to the precise arrangement of toiletries on the washstand.
"Look here," Ashley had shown Jack their first night, pointing to the detailed diagram posted inside their door. "Even the toothbrush has an assigned position. Three inches from the right edge of the shelf, bristles up, handle perfectly parallel to the wall."
The reasoning behind this obsessive standardization was twofold, as their inspecting upperclassman politely explained while Jack and Ashley were doing push-ups for daring to ask the question. First, these arrangements had been proven by experience to be sufficient for a Ilvermorny boy's needs – no more, no less. Second, any deviation from the pattern stood out immediately to inspecting officers, making their jobs easier and infractions harder to hide.
Jack learned this lesson the hard way during his first week as room orderly. Each Sunday night, they would alternate this duty, posting their names in the card rack by the door to identify who was responsible for maintaining these exacting standards. The role brought with it the constant threat of demerits – "skins" in Ilvermorny parlance – for the smallest infractions.
"Mr. Semmes!" The inspector barked. "Would you care to explain this dust on the underside of your lampshade?"
“No, sir.”
Jack couldn't explain it, of course. One didn't explain at Ilvermorny; one accepted responsibility and punishment. The demerits accumulated in his record, each one a reminder that no detail was too small to escape notice.
Ashley proved to be a meticulous roommate, his upbringing having prepared him well for this level of household precision. "My mama would skin me alive if she saw dust anywhere in her house," he explained while demonstrating the proper way to make hospital corners on their beds. "This isn't so different, except now it's the officer doing the skinning."
Together, they learned to maintain their standardized domain to the Academy's exacting specifications. Their room became a reflection of Ilvermorny's larger philosophy – that discipline in small things built character for bigger challenges, that uniformity bred unity, and that attention to detail was not just virtue but a way of life.
Jack hated it. But he refused to quit, because that would have been even worse.
Then he got used to it.
But he never enjoyed it, like some of his certifiably insane classmates claimed to.
Even the view from their seventh-floor windows was regulated – they were only permitted to look outside during designated periods, and Heaven help any Poor Richard caught daydreaming during study hours. But on clear days, when they were allowed, they could see all the way to the No-Maj town of Adams in the valley below, a reminder of the world they were being trained to protect, even if they couldn't live in it anymore.
The transition from Poor Richard to tack (sixth grader) at the end of summer brought its own set of peculiar customs. Jack found himself ascending and descending the seven flights of stairs two steps at a time, forbidden to touch walls or banisters for support. More than once, this resulted in him and his classmates practically flying down the stairs into the Court, much to the amusement of passing upperclassmen.
His wrist watch was confiscated – such luxuries being reserved for upperclassmen only. A tack had to know the time by the sun and the clock outside the guard room. His overcoat cape had to be worn closed in front, except during formations. He had to march everywhere. Every tack was required to write home on Mother's Day, a rule Jack suspected was less about discipline and more about ensuring no mother was forgotten.
The rules were arbitrary.
Questioning them was unthinkable.
"Down on your faces, tacks!" the corporal barked. "Standard hovering position!"
Jack and his fellow tacks dropped into push-up position, then muttered the levitation charm that left them floating six inches off the ground. Holding the charm steady while maintaining proper form was brutal - drop too low and you'd face plant, too high and you'd trigger the corporal’s ward that would dump you back down.
"Floating push-ups! Begin! And I better hear those incantations crisp and clear!"
Each push-up required a precise hover charm. Jack's arms trembled as he tried to maintain both physical form and magical focus. Beside him, a classmate lost control of his charm and crashed face-first into the stone floor, triggering a cascade of blue sparks.
"Pathetic, Mr. Magoo! Report to the Reversal Chamber for practice! The rest of you - shield charms up while continuing push-ups! Protection spells stay active or the Stinging Hexes start flying!"
They struggled to maintain their meager 6th grade shield bubbles while continuing their floating exercises. The corporals paced between them, sending mild but annoying hexes at anyone whose shield flickered. Jack felt his concentration splitting between physical effort, hover charm, and shield spell - exactly the kind of multiple-focus Ilvermorny demanded.
"Now translate the Academy motto from Latin while maintaining all spells! Mr. Semmes, begin!"
"Through... duty..." Jack gasped, his shield wobbling, "Per officium..."
A Stinging Hex caught his shoulder as his shield slipped. The corporal's voice cut through the chaos: "Your shield fails in combat, you don't get a second chance! Again!"
Later, they were lined up for “poise correction" - forced to maintain perfect posture while their uniforms were enchanted to become progressively heavier. The magic started at their shoes and worked up, adding pounds of invisible weight with each passing minute.
"A wizard stands straight under any pressure!" the corporal lectured as they struggled. "Your ancestors held formation while the Ministry’s storm giants attacked Charleston! Grindlewalders are training RIGHT NOW to kill you and you can't even handle a simple Weight-Increasing Hex?"
Those who slumped triggered the secondary enchantment - a blast of icy water that shot upward, leaving them sputtering and even more miserable. The corporals had picked up a few tricks from the Pukwudgies who maintained the grounds.
"Now the dueling position! Perfect formation! And if I see one wand out of angle, you'll all be jumping from the seventh-floor!"
"Remember," the corporal's voice carried across the courtyard, "every great American wizard started exactly where you are! Ben Franklin maintained a Shield Charm over the entire Continental Army at Valley Forge for two weeks! Hamilton Gerard apparated across three states to save a MACUSA wagon train from a Lakota war party! The Expeditionary Brigade held the line against Grindelwald's forces in La Rochelle while outnumbered 3 to 1! And here you can't even manage a simple weighted march without looking like a herd of drunken Erumpents!"
Jack focused on keeping his wand at the proper angle while fighting the magical weight that now felt like he was marching underwater. A Poor Richard ahead of him stumbled, his wand slipping. The corporals descended like hammers.
"Disgusting! Everyone in the Reversal Chamber! Time to practice Shield Charms upside down!"
The mess hall became a zoo with the return of the other cadets. Jack and his fellow tacks at his table were required to prepare entertainment – skits, dialogues, and performances – for the upper classmen's amusement. A successful performance earned the privilege of eating "at ease," a luxury not to be underestimated. The 7th and 8th graders of the Lower School found tacks from their home states and adopted them, sneaking them sweets and good advice.
But the slipperiest tradition was the August Tack Athletic Meet, held in the basement bathrooms, or "sinks," the week before school began. The highlight was the infamous soap sliding competition, where tacks, covered only in enchanted lather, tobogganed across the soaped floor at high speed. It was utterly undignified, completely ridiculous, and quintessentially Ilvermorny.
The night before classes began, the entire Academy from Lower to Upper School assembled in the Barracks Court. There was no fanfare, no magical artifacts, no speeches. Just four walls of cadets standing at attention, watching as the tacks were formed into a square in the center.
Names were called out. One by one, tacks were directed to the four houses, arranged along the cardinal directions of the Barracks. Thunderbird the north wall, Wampus the south wall, Horned Serpent the east, and Pukwudgie the west. When Jack's name was called, he executed a step forward, a left-face, and marched to join the Thunderbird formation. Minutes later, Ashley joined him. The whole process took less than thirty minutes – exactly what you'd expect from an institution that treated breakfast like putting fuel in an automobile.
They moved their room to their new house barracks on the seventh floor of the north cloister. After a few minutes of settling in, all the new tacks were called out into the hallway, standing at attention along the wall. Jack caught the attention of one of his new seniors, Cadet Captain Tanning.
"Sir, permission to speak?"
"Granted, Mr. Semmes."
"Sir, how exactly did we end up here? I mean, there wasn't any form we filled out or anything…"
Tanning grinned. "You think we haven't been watching every move you've made since you got here? Every professor, every instructor, every Detail member, every senior cadet has been evaluating you. How you handle stress, how you work with others, how you think on your feet. It's all been noted, analyzed, and calculated. The sorting is a science.
“You’re lucky, tacks,” grinned Tanning’s roommate. “Wampus puts their new boys on the ground floor and makes them fight all the way up to the seventh. No wands.”
“Permission to speak, sir?” asked Ashley .
“What is it, Mr. Main?”
“Do we do anything like that?”
The lights snapped out along the hallway, leaving them in complete darkness.
“Welcome to Thunderbird, tacks,” Tanning’s voice announced pleasantly. “You have thirty minutes to get to the summit of Mount Greylock. Time starts now.”