> Seven days, and all is gray.
> Another week wasted away.
> Another week life’s gone astray.
> Another week of making us pay.
> Oh, yay.
> - Ilvermorny Academy Saturday Night Chant
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The sunrise gun's report shattered Jack's dreams at 6:20 AM. He sprang up and out of bed before the drums and bugle call in the barracks courtyard below could begin their daily racket, muscle memory from six weeks of summer training taking over. On the other side of the room, Ashley Main rolled out of his narrow iron bed.
"Franklin have mercy," Ashley groaned, reaching for his midnight blue wool trousers.
“I can’t believe we volunteered for this,” Jack moaned.
They had ten minutes to dress, make their beds, and prepare for morning inspection.
The seventh floor of Thunderbird Wing rang with opening doors and pounding feet as thirty-six eleven year-old tacks rushed to and from the bathroom. Jack and Ashley's room, like every other, was a model of standardization - from the angle of their coats hanging in the wardrobe (45 degrees), to the socks in their top drawer (folded in half, flat side down) to the alignment of their shoes under the beds (toes out, laces tied as worn).
"Formation in two minutes, dumbguards!" The cry was taken up and echoed down the hall. Jack and Ashley gave their room one final scan before falling in with the others and racing down the seven flights of stairs to the courtyard.
The barracks courtyard was a rectangle of smooth marble pavestones, hemmed in on all four sides by towering seven-story walls. The rising sun wouldn’t reach the ground until noon, leaving the space in cold shadow. Hundreds of cadets poured out of the stairwells, arranging themselves by house along their respective sides, all facing the center where the Regimental Commander and his four-man staff stood.
"Thunderbirds, close order, DRESS!" Jack, Ashley, and one hundred and thirty-eight others checked their spacing. "Ready, FRONT!" Elbows dropped. Jack faced forward, chin level, eyes locked fifteen degrees above the horizon as they'd drilled into him. Around the courtyard, the other three houses executed the same movements.
Formation at 6:30, then fifteen minutes to run back upstairs, quickly shower and do last-minute room checks, then off to breakfast at 7:00. After breakfast they had an hour of ‘recreation’ time to study, write letters, and visit their fellow tacks in their rooms. Classes began at 9:00.
Professor Tillman stood at the head of their first class, Infinitesimal Calculus, his wand tapping impatiently against the lectern. The room was arranged with twenty desks in two rows. The walls - excepting the door - were lined with blackboards. Their algebra textbooks were worn but meticulously maintained - generations of tacks had solved the same problems they now faced.
Jack sat rigid in his seat, sharing glances with Ashley beside him. After six weeks of summer training, to be back in school felt strange.
But this wasn’t elementary school. This was Ilvermorny.
"Gentlemen," Tillman called out. “We start with the basics. The secrets of the universe—both magical and mundane—are hidden in numbers. And algebra is your first step to unlocking them.”
"To the boards.” The cadets stood up from the desks. “Mr. Main, if you are brewing a potion and you need a 2:3 ratio of aconite to unicorn hair, how much aconite do you use if the total ingredients are 15 grams?"
Ashley wrote "Main 1" in the upper right corner and began sketching out the problem in the manner they had learned from their assigned class reading the night before.
At Ilvermorny, cadets were not taught the material in class. They were expected to teach themselves first. Class time was for correction, clarification, and relentless questioning.
> Aconite = x. Unicorn hair = y
>
> 2x + 3y = 5 parts
>
> Total Amount = 15. Thus amount of one part = 15 / 5 = 3 grams.
>
> Amount of x = 2x×3 = x = 6 grams.
Jack watched nervously - they were all still learning the proper way to recite.
"I am required..." Ashley began, then hesitated.
"Your enunciation, Mr. Main," Tillman prompted dryly.
"I am required to provide the amount of aconite needed if…a given potion with total ingredients of 15 grams has a 2:3 ratio of aconite to unicorn hair, sir."
"Proceed."
Ashley launched into his explanation, accent growing thicker as his nervousness increased. Jack noticed his friend's hand trembling slightly as he pointed to the symbols on the board.
"That'll do, Mr. Main," Tillman cut him off after he had solved for ‘x’. "Mr. Semmes."
Jack wrote up "Semmes 2" and got his own question: “If a spell requires 3 times as much energy as its base incantation, and the total energy is 45, how much energy is the base incantation?”
His chalk squeaked against the board as he worked through the equations, trying not to think about the twenty pairs of eyes on every move he was making.
Infinitesimal Calculus went from 9:00 AM to 10:20 AM. At 10:30 they marched into their next class, Magical Theory and Practice. Professor Downs had them practice the basic shield charms they had learned over the summer while reciting different theoretical principles behind magical protection from their assigned reading. Jack's shield flickered and failed twice during his recitation, earning him a disappointed 1.5 out of 3 in the professor's gradebook. Then it was a race to the mess hall for lunch formation at 12:00 PM, and then to their next class back in the Academic Building.
Spanish at 1:00 PM with Professor Cortez was particularly fraught. Even though it was an introductory class, it was conducted entirely in Spanish with demerits for anyone caught speaking English. Jack managed to muddle through, though his pronunciation made Ashley wince.
"You speak Spanish with a New York accent," Ashley muttered without moving his lips as they ran to their next class.
"Yeah? You roll your ‘r’s like Dumbo’s Ringmaster," Jack whispered back.
They fell silent as they passed an upperclassman and chorused “Good morning sir!”, receiving a testy “Shut the hell up, tacks.” in reply.
Classes ended at 3:00 PM. The afternoon brought wand drills on the parade ground. Corporal Strait had them practicing basic defensive stances for an hour, correcting the angle of their wands with stinging hexes. Jack's arm ached from holding the proper position, but he didn't dare lower it.
One hundred yards away, some drags from the College were getting out of a stagecoach, but he didn’t dare look their way. That would have meant certain death.
"Mr. Semmes!" Strait barked. "Your wand is two degrees too low! Do you want to get yourself scalped in a real duel?"
"No sir!"
"Then why do you present such an inviting target to your opponent?"
"No excuse, sir!"
"Ten diving rolls! Maintain that shield while you do them!"
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Jack performed the rolls, his shield charm flashing on impact but holding. The physical demands of Ilvermorny never decreased - if anything, they only got worse now that classes had begun.
Dinner at 6:00 PM, then an hour of recreation until the beginning of evening study period at 7:30 found them back in their room, door open and books spread across their desks as they prepared for the next day's classes. Frequent inspections kept them focused - any hint of slacking would earn swift and painful correction.
"What'd you think of today?" Jack whispered from his desk. Unnecessary talking was strictly forbidden during study period.
Ashley didn’t look up from his Spanish conjugations. "Different than summer training. More up here–” he tapped his forehead “than down here.” He slapped his solar plexus.
“Great, a headache to go with the gut ache.”
A double knock at their open door sent them flying to attention (all boys in the Lower School must have their doors open between reveille and lights out). The evening inspector - an 11th grader - entered, checked their room with a critical eye, and moved on without comment.
No news was good news on Mount Greylock. He’d check twice more before morning formation, once before and once after midnight.
At 9:30 PM, they prepared for bed. Changing into their bathrobes for the perilous walk to the bathroom. Quick check to make sure no upperclassmen were present. Hasty shower. Then back to the room. Teeth brushed, curtains drawn, shoes aligned, uniforms hung, and books arranged on bookshelf by height left to right.
The bugle sounded lights out at 10:00 PM, sharp and final, a nail hammered into the coffin of another day. The magical lights in the hallway blinked out. The hollow echo of wooden doors closing in sequence down their hallway underlined the silence that followed. Jack lay in his bed, the thin mattress hard against his back and the scratchy wool blanket heavy on his chest.
His mind raced like a flywheel, unwilling to stop, replaying his homework: algebra equations he hadn’t quite solved, Spanish verbs he’d stumbled over, and wand movements that felt clumsy in his grip.
This was worse than summer training. Far worse. During the summer, he’d held onto the bright, naïve hope of the academic year - the promise of being ‘promoted’ to a tack, a real cadet, instead of just a cadet aspirant, a Poor Richard. The upperclassmen of the Detail. He’d imagined himself in their place, stronger, sharper, cool, untouchable.
But now that the school year had arrived, reality hit. Being a tack wasn’t a triumph; it was an even harder trial. A short, agonizing first step on a journey that stretched endlessly before him, a journey of ceaseless torment.
Each day was a brutal test of endurance: physical, magical, and mental. The glamor of being an Ilvermorny cadet that he had felt two months before had been stripped away, leaving only exhaustion, aching muscles, and the ever-present fear of failure. The upperclassmen were there, always watching, always waiting to pounce on a mistake, and to gleefully celebrate when one of the 6th graders quit.
The terror and pain that the next morning would bring hung over him in the darkness, sharp and bitter. His mouth tasted metallic. His stomach was hollow with hunger, they never were able to eat as much as they wanted at meals.
The barracks smelled faintly of damp wool and sweat, despite the cleaning charms meant to mask the ever-present scent of overworked bodies. His bladder nagged, but the fear of running into an upperclassman on the way to the bathroom was too great. He couldn’t risk it.
He had eight hours. Eight hours before reveille kicked in the door, seized him by the scruff of the neck and thrust him back into misery. Eight hours to rest, to remind himself that there was no way out of this except through it. He clutched at that thought like a lifeline. The ache in his chest mocked him. Somewhere, in some distant, quieter world, other boys were living ordinary lives. He tried to imagine them: schools with soft beds, warm meals, laughter, geniality. The effort felt like dragging his mind through mud.
The plaster ceiling stared back at him, blank and indifferent.
"Semmes?" Ashley's voice drifted across the darkness.
"What’s up Main?"
"You think it’ll get easier?"
Jack thought about the upperclassmen, moving with casual confidence through the same routine that left them exhausted, overwhelmed, and frightened.
"Probably not," he said glumly. "We probably just get better at it."
Ashley let out a dry chuckle, "Well, that’s something to look forward to."
The steady knock of the night guard’s footsteps echoed outside their door. Each step counted off the seconds they had left, each one a reminder of how little time there was before the devils came to call again.
One day at Ilvermorny was complete, with 2,848 left to go. Jack couldn't think of that. The number was so horrifyingly high it felt like staring into an abyss. His insides churned, and his chest tightened as if the weight of those thousands of days was physically crushing him.
Oh Franklin. How could he survive another three thousand days at this place? How could anyone?!
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the thought. Instead, he focused on smaller numbers. Ninety-five. Just ninety-five days until the Ilvermorny-Salem Quodpot game in December. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Ninety-five was manageable.
And 115 days until Christmas. He clung to that number like a lifeline, desperately conjuring an image of a snow-covered forest and a roaring bonfire in the barracks courtyard. Maybe they’d string up enchanted lights and have a real Christmas feast in the mess hall, singing carols together.
His mind wandered to an absurdly unrealistic fantasy: the upperclassmen transformed into kindly Santa Clauses, their stern faces softened by white beards, belly padding, and jolly laughter. They’d hand out presents to good little tacks…
He drifted off to sleep eventually, his dreams a swirling chaos of prime numbers, miscast Protegos, and the faceless, remorseless scrutiny of teachers and demonic upperclassmen.
Jack woke with the sunrise gun on the second day, his muscles aching and mouth dry. The morning routine - jump into uniform, run to bathroom, make bed, arrange room, downstairs to stand in formation. By 7:00 AM, he and Ashley were marching into the mess hall for breakfast.
"Here comes Tillman again," Ashley muttered as they took the stairs up to their rooms two at a time to grab their books.
"Franklin save us," Jack prayed.
"Today," Professor Tillman announced, "we continue with the fundamental building blocks of magical mathematics. Before you can understand arithmancy, you must master basic algebra."
He wrote an equation on the board: 2x + 5 = 13.
"Mr. Main, solve this equation. Show your work."
Ashley marched to the board, wrote "Main 1" in the corner, and began methodically working through the steps. Jack watched his friend's handwriting- sloppiness meant automatic loss of points.
"I am required to solve for x using algebra, sir," Ashley stated, then walked through each step.
"2x + 5 = 13, 2x - 5 = 13, removing 5 means that 2x = 8, divide by 2, thus x = 4"
"Verify your answer, Mr. Main."
"Yes sir. If x equals 4, then 2 times 4 plus 5 equals 13."
"That'll do. Mr. Semmes, next problem."
Jack marched to the board for his turn. Although difficult to his 6th grade mind at the time, the problems were simple compared to the mathemagical monstrosities they'd face in later years. No matter the grade level, Tillman demanded perfection. One mistake meant starting over with a zero.
“A mistake in arithmancy can lead to a ritual circle failing and killing your entire Auror company,” he liked to warn, tying everything they did in class to real-world consequences.
Drawing class with Professor Whistler was next (it alternated with Magical Theory and Practice). The elderly wizard had them practicing basic magical sketching - the foundation for everything from map-making to architectural plans.
"An Ilvermorny wizard must be able to accurately represent all visible phenomena," Whistler explained in his wispy voice as they attempted to sketch a simple perspective landscape using their wands and some charcoal. "Your drawings will become the basis for more complex magical engineering in your upper years."
Jack's sketches were rudimentary. Ashley was a natural.
"My mama had me taking art lessons since I was seven," he explained to Jack during a brief break. “I have a knack for it.”
English with Professor McCarthy (alternating with Spanish) filled out their afternoon. They began studying basic grammar and vocabulary, with emphasis on magical terminology. McCarthy kept the class fresh by having them memorize and recite large chunks of famous wizarding literature or historical speeches to sharpen their recall and public speaking.
"The difference between 'incantate' and 'intonate' could mean the difference between success and catastrophic failure," McCarthy warned them. "Correct language leads to correct magic."
After afternoon classes, Jack and Ashley joined the flood of tacks heading to the gymnasium. Physical training was as much a part of Ilvermorny life as magical education.
"Jumping jacks!" their physical training instructor bellowed. "Then pull-ups! Push-ups! Sit-ups! A weak body means weak magic!"
Jack’s muscles screamed in protest as he strained to complete each movement, sweat soaking through his white uniform shirt. His hands were raw from climbing ropes, his arms trembling as he dragged himself upward on the rings, rung by rung. Every pull-up felt like it would be his last, his youthful body rebelling against the demands.
They worked out using the equipment of the era—medicine balls, Indian clubs, and heavy canvas punching bags. The gym echoed with counting cadences, the metallic clank of weights, and the dull thud of bodies hitting the mats.
By the time the session ended, Jack’s limbs felt like lead, his chest heaving as he collapsed on the mat next to Ashley. Every muscle burned, and his fingers ached from gripping.
"This is nothing, tacks," a Thunderbird upperclassman told them cheerily from the parallel bars. "Just wait ‘til you start combat magic in ninth grade. Then you'll know real pain."
Jack looked at the high bars ten feet above the ground and quailed internally.