"Sir, I am deeply embarrassed and greatly humiliated that due to unforeseen circumstances over which I have no control, the inner workings and hidden mechanisms of my chronometer are in such in accord with the great sidereal movement by which time is commonly reckoned, that I cannot with any degree of accuracy state the exact time, sir; but without fear of being very far off, I will state that it is approximately Y minutes after the X hour, sir!”

  – The approved response for an Ilvernormy tack being asked “What time is it?” by an upperclassman.

  § 3.12: Uniform Care and Presentation

  "Despite the enchanted cleansing charms woven into all standard-issue cadet uniforms, garments will be manually ironed and pressed to standard daily. Cadets are reminded that attention to outward appearance reflects inner character, and magic does not excuse sloth."

  – From the Ilvermorny Regulations

  His days settled into a relentless rhythm by October 1941. Jack found himself moving through each day mechanically, each hour allocated, each action measured.

  Wake at 6:20 AM.

  Uniform on and bed made by 6:25.

  Formation and uniform inspection at 6:30.

  Breakfast at 7:00.

  Ilvermorny ground on like an infernal steamroller.

  "I dreamed about algebra last night," Ashley whispered one morning as they quick-stepped into the Academic Building. "All the numbers were replaced by tiny Ben Franklins doing somersaults."

  "Better than my dream," Jack replied. "Strait was making me tap-dance on a balance beam in a forest surrounded by hide-behinds."

  Their hushed conversation died as they entered the classroom. Talking was forbidden for tacks while walking and in class.

  Professor Downs called Jack to the boards. He wrote "Semmes 4" in the corner and began working through a formula. His chalk squeaked against the slate as he detailed basic mathematical principles behind magical protection.

  "I am required to demonstrate the relationship between angle of deflection and magical energy expenditure in Protego, sir," he began, then walked through each step.

  Behind him, someone's stomach growled loudly - probably Frederick Peterson, who hadn’t had a chance to eat breakfast that morning due to the enthusiastic upperclassmen at their table demanding he balance a spoon on his nose while drinking milk. Several of his classmates struggled to maintain straight faces.

  "Mr. Peterson," Downs said without looking up from his gradebook, "hunger is no excuse for disrupting class. One demerit."

  The morning dragged on. In Spanish, Professor Cortez caught Tommy Marino passing a note and made him read it aloud - in Spanish. Tommy's halting pronunciation of "?Me prestas tus apuntes de Cálculo?" had the class biting their tongues to keep from laughing.

  The weekly grades posted in the barracks each Monday morning were a source of dread and occasional entertainment. Jack and Ashley scanned the board, looking for their names.

  “Let’s see,” Jack ran his finger down the ‘S’ surnames. “Sanders, Scott… There we go, Semmes James T: 2 in Calc, 2 in Spanish, 1.5 in Drawing, and 2.5 in English.” He grinned triumphantly. “They’re not kicking me out yet.”

  "Main, Ashley B... 2 in Calc, 2 in Spanish, 3 in Drawing, 2.5 for English..." Ashley muttered. "Not bad."

  "Better than Marino," Jack nodded toward their classmate, who was staring at his string of 1s and 1.5s with horror. "Think he'll get transferred down?"

  "If he doesn't stop trying to pass notes in class, he'll be lucky if they don't ship him to Lost Cove."

  The transfers and dismissals had already begun. Every month cadets were shuffled between sections based on their performance. Three of their original classmates were moved down to slower sections, while one - Chester Plank from North Dakota - was promoted to a more advanced group. The Thunderbird tacks threw him an impromptu "graduation ceremony" in the barracks, complete with a toilet paper diploma.

  Not everyone was so lucky. Two of Jack's fellow Thunderbirds were dismissed before Halloween for not maintaining high enough grades.

  The constant pressure wore on them all. The baby fat was boiled off of their bodies, replaced by lean muscle and whipcord tendons. Tommy Marino’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Frederick Peterson started sleepwalking and got severely punished for leaving his room after lights out. Jack started jolting awake from night terrors, flinching instinctively at the sound of steel heels on parquet. Even easy-going Ashley bit his fingernails until they bled.

  They survived on small moments of levity. Like when Ashley during Drawing class had to present his sketch of a marble Venus that he had made to look exactly like Betty Grable. Or when Jack's attempt at a Levitation Charm accidentally sent Professor Down’s coffee mug floating gently toward the ceiling, causing an explosion of very unprofessorly profanity and three demerits. Or when the Texan Dustin Roads stuffed a length of shoelace in his cheek for want of chewing tobacco and - when caught by an amazed 12th grader - explained that it was due to his “oral fixation.”

  Thanksgiving arrived like an oasis in the desert. The mess hall outdid itself, serving turkey with all the trimmings: cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, green beans, pineapple souffle, and huge loaves of fresh cinnamon bread. The upperclassmen laid off on the usual mealtime hazing in the spirit of the season and the tacks ate until they could barely move, then lurched through classes the next day in a food coma.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Mr. Semmes," Professor McCarthy called out in English class the next morning. "Diagram this sentence on the board."

  Jack stumbled to his feet, still half-stupefied by turkey. He stared at the sentence for a long moment before writing "Semmes 3" in the corner.

  "I am required to..." he began, then burped loudly. The class froze.

  McCarthy's eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. "Are you going to vomit in my classroom, Mr. Semmes?"

  Jack panicked and tried to hold his breath to suppress another belch. It gave him the hiccups. "No hic sir. I hic apologize for my hic bodily function, sir."

  "One demerit,” McCarthy glowered, “Next time you'll remember that gluttony, while traditional on Thanksgiving, does not excuse poor performance. Proceed with the diagram."

  Jack managed to complete his recitation despite the hiccups, earning a 1 since his work looked more drunken spiderweb than grammar analysis. Ashley earned a demerit for failing to maintain military bearing during class.

  But such moments were rare bright spots in the endless cycle of study and drill.

  They lived by the bells and bugles that divided their days. They were expected to iron their already magically clean uniforms. Recreation periods were too short to do anything more than catch their breath. Half-holidays on Sunday afternoons felt like brief glimpses of freedom before the machinery of Ilvermorny caught them up again.

  "I hate this place," Jack asked one Sunday evening as they worked on their mandatory letters home to their parents telling them how they were doing (heavily censored by the upperclassmen).

  “So quit,” replied Ashley in a practiced way.

  “To hell with that,” Jack set his chin.

  That was the fiftieth time they had shared this exchange. It had become a ritual, comforting in its familiarity. No matter how much Jack hated this place - and he did, with every fiber of his being - he wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction.

  The infamous Corporal Strait had a sixth sense for catching them in moments of weakness. One morning formation he found Jack’s jacket collar not properly fashioned.

  "Well, well," Strait exclaimed, cigarette-scented breath hot on Jack’s cheek in the predawn darkness. "Mr. Semmes appears to be having difficulty with dressing himself. You need practice!"

  For the next twenty minutes Jack had to sprint downstairs in uniform, then back up to his room, repeatedly putting on and taking off his class and dress uniforms before breakfast while Strait timed him. "Faster, Indian boy! I’ve seen papooses move faster!"

  Later that day, a friendly and very tall Benjamin 8th grader ironically named Shorthouse taught Jack and Ashley a trick - how to use two simple spells to detach and pin the white collar directly to the coat and skip the shirt entirely. "Saves two minutes every morning," Shorthouse explained, demonstrating how to fold the stiff collar lengthwise. "And two minutes is an eternity at reveille."

  They learned other survival techniques. Their midnight blue uniforms came without pockets - a deliberate design choice to keep hands out of them. The Benjamins taught them how to sew hidden wand sheaths into their left sleeves, carefully positioned for access while maintaining appearance.

  "Two inches above the wrist seam," Shorthouse instructed as he visited their room during their limited recreation time. "Any higher and it’ll stop you from bending your elbow. Any lower it might fall out when you’re doing push-ups."

  Strait caught them practicing quick-draws in their room one evening during study period.

  "Cute," he drawled. "Mr. Semmes and Mr. Main fancy themselves duelists."

  The next morning, they were on the parade ground before breakfast, performing wand draws while holding various impractical and uncomfortable positions.

  Wand-drawing drills during physical exercise were not part of the official Ilvermorny curriculum, but Strait was a firm believer in interdisciplinary instruction.

  "Come on now!" Strait barked as they balanced on one foot in the cold air. "A real dark wizard won't wait for you to find your wand, you dumbguards! "

  The first snowfall of the season brought an unexpected moment when Dustin Roads, the Texan tack from Dallas, saw snow for the first time.

  “What in the Sam Hill is this?” Dusty stepped out into the courtyard, face tilted up in wonder.

  The soft flakes melted as soon as they touched his outstretched hands.

  For a second, he looked like a kid seeing magic for the first time.

  “Mr. Roads!” Strait’s voice came down from the third floor like the hammer of God. “Why are you on the court without your headgear?”

  "I… I was observing the precipitation, sir!"

  "The precipitation?!" Strait was thunderstruck. "Perhaps you'd like a closer look? Down on your face! Snow angels! Make one!"

  The tacks peeped over the top balcony like baby birds, watching as Roads dropped into the snow facedown, arms and legs flapping stiffly as upperclassmen closed in on him like hungry sharks.

  Poor Dusty was soaked and shivering by the time he made it back to his room.

  “You tacks are like weeds!” Strait bellowed up at the seventh floor, where Jack and his friends were cowering. “Stupid! Ugly! Always where you’re not wanted!”

  They developed a system of silent signals to communicate during mandatory evening study period - tapping the appropriate textbook with their wands to ask for help with a given subject.

  Strait caught them at this too, naturally. "Since you kids are so interested in non-verbal communication, I will have you demonstrate silent movement. Bear crawls up and down every flight of stairs in the barracks. Not a sound from you, or you start again from the beginning."

  Strait punished mistakes. Strait punished curiosity. Strait punished silence.

  Strait punished everything.

  Their shoes evolved with use into two distinct pairs - the formal footwear required for classes and drill, and the broken-in "reveille-ers" with laces removed for quick donning at dawn. By mid-October Jack and Ashley could dress for morning formation in under two minutes.

  The tacks adapted, learned, and survived. They figured out how to maintain creases in their trousers by sleeping with them under their mattresses. They mastered the art of catching quick naps while appearing to study. They learned to move like ghosts during quiet hours, avoiding the creaky floorboards that would attract unwanted and painful attention.

  According to the regulations, snow was not an excuse to delay formation. Strait took that as a challenge.

  One particularly cold October morning, he found Jack, Ashley, Frederick, Tommy huddled together for warmth before formation.

  "How touching," Strait sneered. "Since you witches are so interested in keeping warm, some vigorous exercise is just what the medic ordered."

  Jack hated Ilvermorny. But he’d burn before it beat him.