The improvised customs hall was a cavernous space of echoing footsteps and murmured conversations, still smelling faintly of fish. Jack shifted his magically lightened trunk to his other shoulder, pretending that it more than it did. The Featherlight enchantment made it feel empty, though he'd packed half his wardrobe and a personal library. His broom rattled gently inside its guitar case, and bumped against his hip as he shuffled forward in the queue, earning him curious glances from fellow passengers.
"Next!" barked a customs officer, his weathered face set in practiced suspicion. “Eh, you’re a tall one,” He took his passport and gave Jack a long look, taking in his height and bearing, standing several inches over the average British passenger in line. "Another Yank, you look like a West Pointer.7 Thought you lot were all headed home now that the scrap is over."
“Just here to see the sights, sir,” Jack responded politely, it was easier to let the assumption that he was a No-Maj officer stand. What else was he going to do? Tell him that he was actually a wizard transfer student from western Massachusetts off to Scotland? The officer gave him another searching look, stamped his papers with mechanical efficiency and waved him through.
The next stop was the currency exchange booth, where Jack traded his few remaining dollars for a handful of pounds sterling, the tired clerk barely looking up as he counted out notes, King George VI’s dour face replacing the familiar presidents of home. He had a small coin purse of assorted British magical currency1(Sickles mostly with a handful of Knuts) locked away securely in his trunk, but that was for after he got to London.
He stepped out into the damp Liverpool morning, blinking at the crush of noise and movement. A pair of newsboys jostled beside him, shouting over each other to sell their respective papers, loudly proclaiming numbers of No-Maj dead in India (millions), tomorrow’s temperature (15, whatever that meant), and the score of the recent football match (Aston Villa 3, Liverpool 1): “Read all about it!”
Ignoring them, Jack scanned the crowd. He felt slightly self-conscious about his brightly-colored coat and jaunty flat hat amidst the sea of drab demob outfits and work clothes.
Fortunately it didn't take long to spot his Ministry contact, an energetic looking man with a pencil mustache in his late-20s, standing across the street on the sidewalk facing the exit of the customs hall, clad in a single-breasted brown ration suit and black homburg hat. He was holding a sign over his head that read "J.T. Semmes" in a neat cursive script.
Jack looked left, and stepped out on the street directly into the path of an oncoming black omnibus, which nearly knocked him down. The driver and passengers considerately informed him of his mistake with a torrent of Liverpudlian expletives and menacing gestures. Heat crawled up Jack’s neck as he scrambled out of the way, resisting the urge to snap back. He’d barely been in the country five minutes and was already making an idiot of himself.
The Ministry man took in the sight with a wry smile, and started approaching before Jack had even made it to the sidewalk.
“First time over here?” the man said, watching Jack shake off the close call with the omnibus.
"Yes sir." Jack let out a breath, breaking into a relieved smile as he stuck out his hand. "Jack Semmes, pleasure to meet you."
The Ministry man shook his hand firmly, guiding him off the sidewalk and underneath a shop awning. "Roland Carmichael, Junior Undersecretary for Educational Affairs, His Majesty’s Ministry. Pleasure's mine," he replied crisply, making the sign disappear somehow while Jack wasn’t looking. "Nasty business, sailing. Would have rather arranged a Portkey, but there are shortages, and also immigration regulations these days...3 I trust you had a pleasant crossing regardless?” Jack nodded, and the man continued. “Shall we get out of this drizzle and find somewhere for a spot of breakfast before we catch your train? You must be famished.”
Jack agreed gratefully, feeling his spirits lift a little. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. “Yes please, Mr. Carmichael, they served some breakfast on the ship but I couldn’t eat much of it.”
Mr. Carmichael chuckled. “Well, now that you’re back on terra firma let's see if we can find you something a touch more appetizing, shall we? There’s a little place of ours just down the street that does a top notch fry up." He clapped Jack on the shoulder, steering him through the crowd down the street, away from the dockyards and towards what appeared to be a shopping district. "And after that, a quick Floo trip to London," Mr. Carmichael said cheerfully. "Little slower but safer than apparating with luggage, especially cross-country. The war left some nasty spatial anomalies that we’re still trying to clean up…"5
As they walked, Jack stared at the reconstruction that seemed to be going on all around him. Mr. Carmichael kept up a steady stream of chatter, pointing out landmarks and sharing stories that rolled off Jack’s ears like water on waxed paper. The fog and drizzle clung to everything, muffling distant noises and causing Jack’s shoes to slip on the cobbles.
Mid-sentence, Mr. Carmichael’s eyes flicked to their reflection in a shop window. Jack caught a brief glimpse of a man in a dark coat and hat just before the crowd swallowed him.
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His escort's right hand went into his coat pocket, but he continued walking without missing a beat, picking up his story right where he'd left off. His hand on Jack’s shoulder applied more force, causing Jack to pick up his pace into a New York walk as they wove through a makeshift path around debris where the street had once run straight.
A prickle of unease crept up Jack’s spine. Was someone following them? He stole a glance around, but the crowd looked ordinary enough. Roland hadn’t broken stride, so Jack forced himself to focus on the promise of breakfast and the excitement of what lay ahead.
But doubt lingered, and a prickling feeling in the soles of his feet warned him that things were not alright.
"Everything ok, Mr. Carmichael?" Jack asked.
"Quite, quite," Mr. Carmichael said lightly, then suddenly nudged Jack off the main street. "Though we need to take a small detour before breakfast, terribly sorry."
They turned down a narrow side street where scaffolding created a skeletal maze of shadows and light. Past a quiet bombed-out church whose empty rose window gaped like the mouth of a grave. Jack heard the ringing of hobnailed footsteps on cobblestones behind them, and fought the rising urge to turn around.
Mr. Carmichael read his mind. "Don't look back," he said pleasantly, like he was mentioning that the sun was about to come out. "We’ve picked up some unwanted attention. Keep walking normally."
Jack's hand itched for his wand, but they were surrounded by No-Majs going about their morning business. Even if international magical law allowed underage wizards to cast spells in self-defense, they couldn't risk the exposure. But what if the men following them cast first?
The footsteps grew closer. Jack and Mr. Carmichael emerged onto a broader street abutting the river where dock workers unloaded large crates off of the SS Barrett, from Halifax. Jack’s escort steered him through the longshoremen, then said something lost in the ambient noise.
Above them, cargo nets slipped their davits. Crates plummeted, smashing into the dock with thunderous crashes. Men fled in all directions, shouting in alarm, two unlucky ones pitched headfirst into the Mersey.
"In here," Mr. Carmichael skipped ahead around a corner and motioned Jack into a gutted department store. The grand display windows were gone, leaving theatrical frames around empty space. Small pieces of broken glass, missed by the sweepers, crunched underfoot. They crouched behind the scorched retail counter, about ten yards from the entrance, as two men in poorly-fitting dark No-Maj clothing strode deliberately past, trying too hard to look inconspicuous. One was short and rotund, the other tall and thin. Jack couldn't see their faces.
"Who are those guys?" Jack whispered.
“Former associates of Mr. Grindelwald, I suspect," Mr. Carmichael said, his tone breezy despite their situation. "Someone’s been canvassing disembarkation points for American wizards lately. Your father's appointment has caused a bit of a stir."
Mr. Carmichael’s dry formality softened the punch until Jack had reprocessed what he had said. Wait…Grindelwald?! Franklin’s kite, what the hell had he walked into?!
"Keen," Jack muttered, his palms starting to sweat. "First day over here and I'm already in a spy movie."6
"A what-what?" Mr. Carmichael looked at Jack quizzically. Jack stared back, did British wizards not watch those? "Never mind,” he spoke over Jack just as the boy was opening his mouth, “When I say run, head out the back door. There's a hidden entrance to the Floo network, a backup location...careful now, we should still have... Merlin, they’re coming back, must be using a Tracking Charm."
Their pursuers had doubled back, striding straight toward the store. One paused just outside, scanning the interior—then locked eyes on the counter. He lifted a hand. Pointed.
They walked into the department store, wands drawn.
1. American Wizards use a currency called Dragots, which are silver (until 1897 in gold) round coins. Unlike our nice sensible system of 17 Sickles to the Galleon, one Dragot has ten Sprinks.
2. The Partition of Muggle India was ongoing at the time of Mr. Semmes' arrival to England, as the Muggle British Raj collapsed into the new states of India and East/West Pakistan.
3. I was able to find from my archival research that the entire Ministry of Magic was officially in possession of only seven Portkeys in the summer of 1947. All of these were being used for classified purposes.
4. Mr. Carmichael's concerns were not ill-founded. Three wizards disappeared in apparition accidents from September 1945 to April 1946 before the Ministry placed a blanket ban on intercity apparition. The last of the anomalies were not declared clear until the early 1960s.
5. Franklin's Kite: This American minced oath, commonly used among Ilvermorny alumni, refers to Benjamin Franklin, the so-called Wizarding Founding Father of the United States. Franklin’s dubious legacy as a 'Muggle lover' remains a contentious topic in wizarding circles on both sides of the Atlantic. While undeniably a genius, he brazenly applied magical principles to Muggle inventions such as the lightning rod, bifocals, and the Franklin stove. These "gifts" to the non-magical world earned him accolades among Muggles but fostered resentment among wizards who saw him as recklessly blurring the Statute of Secrecy. Franklin’s, shall we say, PENCHANT for Muggle women further cemented his reputation as a scandalous figure, leaving behind an impressive number of illegitimate half-blood descendants - so much so that American Wizarding historian Barnabas Bancroft quipped that "half the wizards on the East Coast and in Paris have Franklin’s blood in their veins." Alternatives to this colorful phrase include Franklin's stove, Franklin's fire, and Franklin's hat.
6. Films like The Ministry of Fear (1944) and Notorious (1946) are staples of Muggle cinema from this period.
7. West Point, officially known as the United States Military Academy, is a prestigious Muggle institution located along the Hudson River in New York, 80 miles south of Ilvermorny. Established in 1802, it serves as the training ground for America’s military leadership, much like a Muggle version of the Auror Training Academy—though admittedly, with fewer spell duels and more emphasis on physical drills. During the 1940s, West Point gained particular renown for producing officers who played critical roles in the Second Muggle Big War. The academy’s strategic importance and strict discipline have long made it a point of inappropriate fascination for American wizards.
8. Gellert Grindelwald, infamous for his conquest over much of Europe in the 1930 and 40s, was a charismatic and dangerous wizard who sought to impose his ideology of "The Greater Good" through terror and subjugation. While his movement never gained significant footholds in Britain, his men launched frequent and highly destructive raids all the way up to Hogsmeade by 1944. His defeat in 1945 by Albus Dumbledore remains one of the most pivotal moments in wizarding history.
