A pair of impeccably shined black dragon-leather shoes stopped in front of Jack. Hand-tooled in Paris, if he wasn't mistaken. He could see himself in their reflection. They belonged to a set of slender legs clad in a knee-length skirt and...dark nylon stockings? How did she get those? Weren't those still rationed?
He looked up - cigarette forgotten - past blue-trimmed school robes into a face sculpted like a classical statue, right down to the disdainful expression. She was about his age, but her features were refined and aristocratic: high, elegant cheekbones, a graceful jawline, and a small straight nose. The kind of beauty that didn't need embellishment. Her white-gold hair was plaited into an intricate crown braid, the kind of hairstyle that probably required house-elf assistance.
Everything about her uniform screamed bespoke, from the knife-sharp pleats of her skirt to the immaculate knot of her silver-and-blue tie. A gleaming badge sat on her right breast, opposite her house crest, which was azure, an eagle displayed sable.
But it was her eyes that trapped his attention. A striking shade of violet, too intense for her age, both mesmerizing and a little scary as they bored into him.
She reminded him of Vivian Leigh, complete with the attitude of Scarlett O'Hara.2
"This platform is for Hogwarts students." Her accent could have sliced diamond. "Only students, staff, and faculty are permitted aboard. And I don't believe you're any of the above." She put her hands on her hips. "Please leave or I shall summon the guard."
After the morning he'd had—dodging curses and dark wizards—being accosted by the Hogwarts welcome committee felt like the punchline to a bad joke. A strangled giggle escaped before he could stop it, then another. Her expression flickered from haughty disapproval to indignation, which only made it worse.
"I fail to see what's so funny," she snapped, her pale cheeks flaming.
"I'm sorry," Jack managed between chuckles, not even caring anymore that everyone around was watching him. "It's just... I am a student. From the States. Ilvermorny."
"An American? Impossible." The violet eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I've not heard of any such transfer. Show me your letter of admittance."
Jack started to stand up and reach for his trunk latches, then paused. Something in her commanding tone needled his natural rebellious streak—only slightly tamed by five years of Ilvermorny discipline.
Who even was she to talk to him like that? They weren't at Ilvermorny. He wasn't going to jump just because this dame said so. Everyone was watching, after all.
He needed to make a statement about who he was, who Americans were.
He straightened up, meeting her gaze head on. "Sure. How about you tell me who you are first?"
She drew herself up—tall, though still a head shorter than him—and inhaled like she was about to issue a royal decree.
"Cassandra Hightower. Sixth-year Ravenclaw Prefect."
She delivered her name with the kind of expectation usually reserved for kings and war heroes. Jack bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
This girl must think she's royalty or something. What a country!
He stood up, unleashed his most charming smile, and extended his hand. "James Semmes, but call me Jack. Pleased to meet you."
She pointedly ignored his hand, crossing her arms underneath her breasts and drawing herself up like the photos of the Admiralty Guards in Jack's No-Maj Guide to Great Britain.3 "Your letter, Mr. Semmes," she prompted icily. "I won't ask a third time."
A growing crowd gathered, drawn to the spectacle. Jack rapidly calculated that this wasn't a battle he was likely to win, at least not without causing an even bigger scene. And who knew what this spunky doll was capable of? She carried herself like someone important.
How powerful were prefects here? Were they like student officers?
Jack turned to his trunk and flicked his wand (12 ¾ inches, sugar maple, thunderbird feather core, slightly springy). The latches popped open, and his admittance letter floated up.
He could have handed it over like a gentleman. But where was the fun in that?
With a lazy wrist motion, he sent the parchment zipping straight into her chest.
She fumbled it, glaring at him as she unfolded the parchment and began to deliberately read.
"Is everybody in this country this friendly?" Jack asked blithely, plucking his cigarette from his lips. "Or is it just you?"
He tapped his wand against the tip, igniting it with a faint hiss. Inhaled slow. Exhaled slower. Pure, effortless cool.
Cassandra ignored him, scanning the letter with purposeful slowness. Jack took another drag, watching her and the crowd. A few students were whispering behind their hands. One yellow-trimmed boy winced like he was bracing for an explosion. A girl covered her mouth, barely concealing a smirk. Three older boys in red-trimmed robes grinned, enjoying the show.
"Well, Mr. Semmes," she said, voice as cool as the North Sea. "It appears that you are who you say you are."
With a flick of her wand, the parchment shot back into his trunk like a missile.
Another flick and—BANG. The lid slammed shut. "Congratulations and welcome to Hogwarts. Do adhere to the dress code in future."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the front of the train, leather soles clicking on the pavestones. The crowd dissolved like morning mist, a few students sneaking curious glances at Jack. He barely noticed.
His attention was on the way her robe flared behind her and the flash of stockinged ankles below her skirt.
Franklin's stove, he thought, blowing smoke upward with an exaggerated exhale, why are the prettiest girls always either taken or terrors?
He'd known dames like that back at Ilvermorny - old magical families from the Northeast, Essex County or the Philadelphia Main Line, with overprotective fathers, more gold than Gringotts, and their way or the highway.
Still, he mused, flicking his ash on the ground, none of them had managed that particular combination of untouchable beauty and devastating intimidation.
Must be the accent.
"ALL ABOARD!" The conductor's magically amplified voice echoed through the platform. "Hogwarts Express, departing in five minutes! All aboard!"
Jack left his luggage on the platform as bidden, heading towards the open door of the worn, wood-paneled carriage in front of him along with a flood of his future classmates. The Hogwarts Express was no Yankee Doodlebug, that's for sure, he noted as he squeezed into the passageway and into the first empty compartment he saw.
The car smelled of coal smoke and wood polish. It bore the quiet scars of the war - brass fittings dull despite careful polishing, cracked leather seats patched over with magic, a spiderweb fracture in his window that no spell had quite managed to fix.
He slid the door closed with a rattle and a bump, settling into the forward-facing corner. Arms sprawled, legs stretched out—body language clear: no room here. No one tested it, though a few younger kids annoyingly peered wide-eyed through the window.
Jack stubbed out his cigarette in a handy ashtray (he still couldn't figure out how to get the damn window open), loosened his collar, and pulled his cap low over his eyes. He waited.
The whistle blew. The train lurched forward.
Jack was on his feet before they'd even cleared the station, readjusting his uniform as he made for the club car. He left his cap behind as a placeholder.
The rhythmic clack of the train wheels filled the air, underscored by muffled chatter from the compartments he passed.
In the space between cars, three red-trimmed boys stood smoking in the open air - the same three from the platform. The one in the middle, broad-shouldered and a few inches shorter than Jack, had sandy hair and an easy smile. He tapped his friends, wordlessly making space.
"Thanks," Jack said appreciatively as they squeezed around each other, the train's wheels clattering loudly over the tracks below.
"No worries. That bit with Hightower, bloody brilliant," the boy replied with a grin, jerking his thumb toward the next car. "Pullman is just there, if that's where you're headed."
"That's it," Jack replied, pushing open the door to the club car.
Plush seats upholstered in deep burgundy velvet lined the sides of the car, drenched in sunshine. Through the large windows, the lush, rolling hills of Hertfordshire passed by in a blur of brown and green.
The club car was alive with students in all four house colors, some nibbling on pastries and sipping hot beverages, others gazing out the large windows at the passing countryside. The tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked bread wafted through the air, hitting Jack like a warm embrace. His stomach rumbled. His scanty breakfast on the ship felt like a lifetime ago.
Jack slipped through the crowd to the counter, where a kindly-looking witch had just finished serving a pair of redheaded sisters.
"What'll it be, dear?" she asked warmly.
"Coffee, milk and sugar. Three club sandwiches," Jack said, fishing out a few Knuts.
The witch nodded with a smile, quickly assembling his order and handing over his change.
Jack balanced his sandwiches and steaming coffee, scanning for a seat. Nothing on this side, and no one looked eager to squeeze with the odd Yank in the odd uniform.
He sighed and maneuvered past the bar line, heading for the far end of the car.
Near the back, a lone figure sat by the window. A thin boy in green-trimmed robes, dark brown hair combed away from an aquiline nose, pale skin with an olive cast. Brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, unreadable and still as a marble bust.
He looked like the last of the Julii.
Perfect, thought Jack. The brooding type, excellent company for guys like me. With a lopsided grin, he approached his unsuspecting quarry, clearing his throat loudly. "Hey there. I'm Jack. Mind if I join you?"
The boy's dark eyes flicked toward Jack—sharp, assessing. For a brief moment, Jack felt weighed, numbered, and found wanting.
"I suppose," the boy replied, voice clipped. He flicked a vague gesture toward the seat.
Jack dropped into it without hesitation, balancing his coffee between his knees.
He quickly unwrapped one of the sandwiches and took a large bite of chicken, lettuce and tomato, his hunger temporarily overriding his desire for human connection.
Jack chewed, glancing sideways at his seatmate. The guy hadn't moved—just kept staring out the window, brow furrowed in deep contemplation.
Or constipation.
"So, you got a name?" Jack asked, voice muffled around a mouthful of sandwich.
The boy shut his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose—annoyed, but resigned. Then he turned, pinning Jack with another swift, dissecting stare.
"Cyprian Venge."
And just like that, he was back to looking out the window.
"Cool name." Jack nodded, swallowing hard. "I'm Jack. Would shake hands, but, well—" He waggled his sandwich in one hand, his coffee in the other. "Bit occupied."
There was a pause as Jack took another huge bite and finished the first sandwich, washing it down with half of his coffee. His spirits were returning in fine order. "Nice scenery huh?" he asked his seatmate cheerfully, unwrapping sandwich number two and devouring it in four bites.
"It's even nicer when it's quiet," his taciturn companion replied without turning his head, the passing landscape flickered across his glasses like a no-Maj movie projector.
Undeterred, Jack settled back with his last sandwich. "So, you're a Slytherin, huh? The green looks good with the black. Snazzy."
Cyprian closed his eyes momentarily, as if he was hoping to wake from a nightmare where a loudmouthed foreigner had just sat down next to him. "Thank you," he replied.
"Read in Hogwarts: A History that you lot live under the lake. Big window, whole underwater thing. Does it get drafty? You guys have dehumidifier charms or just really good cloaks?" Jack asked around another mouthful.
"We manage," Cyprian replied.
"Ain't that just what we can do," Jack finished his food, then drained his coffee. This Venge kid was no fun. Jack was getting bored—and sleepy. Two weeks on the liner had wrecked his sleep schedule, and Venge wasn't exactly thrilling company.
"See ya 'round, buddy." Jack hopped up like a jackalope, dropping his empty mug onto a passing tray before squeezing through the club car and heading back to his compartment.
Once there, he made himself comfortable on the bench seat, placed his hat over his eyes, and slipped into a dreamless sleep after a few minutes, lulled by the gentle rocking of the carriage. When he finally stirred, the sun was low in the west, painting the crags of the Scottish Highlands in regal shades of purple and gold through his window.
His compartment was still empty save, either his unusual appearance was keeping people away, or British magical students were more courteous about disturbing sleeping strangers than their American counterparts.
Through the window, mountains marched past under a darkening sky, then vanished into blackness as the train plunged into a tunnel. Somewhere ahead lay Hogwarts, and whatever reception they had planned for their first transfer student in decades.
Jack scrubbed a hand over his face. Whatever it was, he just hoped it involved a hot shower and a warm bed. And that they kept the hazing to a minimum.
He wouldn't mind seeing Cassandra again, though. Preferably after she'd had an attitude adjustment. Probably just first-day-of-school stress.
She couldn't possibly be like that all the time.
Right?