“My fellows, do not be deceived by MACUSA’s hollow promises of aid and cooperation. Behind their smiles lie greed and ambition, a slavocracy wrapped in stars and stripes. They do not come to help us rebuild—they come to buy us, to shackle us to their markets, to make Britain another outpost of their economic dominion. They preach freedom, yet hoard magic and wealth like dragons. They claim to oppose tyranny, yet their so-called democracy is ruled by the rich, built on the backs of the oppressed. What of the millions of Negros in America, wizard and Muggle alike; segregated, disenfranchised, and lynched while their so-called President preaches equality? What of the untold millions living in poverty while their masters grow fat on their labour?

  And now, MACUSA has set their sights on us! They would see our loved ones in chains, our land sold to their bankers, our wands bound to their policies. They do not seek allies, they seek renters. But Britain is not for sale! This land does not belong to MACUSA. It belongs to us! This is not their island to own – it is ours to build!"

  - Gaius Montfort, Speech outside of the British Ministry of Magic, 26 August 1947.

  Tuesday morning dawned clear and crisp. Perfect Quidditch weather for morning practice.

  It also helped that half of the team was properly hydrated and rested this time.

  The Gryffindors were slowly starting to gel, even if Jack occasionally still offloaded the Quaffle too soon.

  "Better!" Algy shouted as Jack pulled off a tricky catch. "Remember, it’s not going to explode, Semmes. Watch for the Bludgers, that’s what’ll get you!"

  Then it was a quick shower, breakfast, and off to Defense class.

  Jack could tell from the moment he entered the classroom that he was going to enjoy it. Professor MacLeod had cleared the space and conjured the dueling stage: a raised platform, long and narrow, surrounded with faintly glowing cushioning charms along the edges and walls.

  A dueling class.

  Freakin’ finally.

  "Right then!" MacLeod's voice boomed through the room, his beard extra shiny with scented oil this morning. "Who's brave enough to demonstrate last week's reflecting shields? Partial power only - this is about timing, not sending your classmate to the hospital wing."

  Caeso Montfort stood up with a lazy, arrogant smile. "I'm game, Professor," he said, sauntering up to the raised dueling stage at the front of the room like the cock of the yard.

  MacLeod nodded, "Very good, Mr. Montfort. And who will be your opponent?" He looked out over the rest of the class expectantly.

  No one moved.

  “I can whip him,” Jack whispered to Henry, and made to stand up.

  Henry plucked his sleeve. "Hold fast, old boy," he muttered in his ear, “He's not like Ludd with her notebook. Montfort actually means harm–"

  “Harm? Screw that scrawny fink,” Jack stood up anyway. “I’ll do it," he said in a loud, clear voice.

  Every head swiveled to stare. MacLeod's bushy eyebrows rose.

  "Excellent! Mr. Montfort and Mr. Semmes! This should be good.”

  They took their positions at opposite ends of the platform. Jack rolled his shoulders, settling into the Ilvermorny dueling stance - feet planted shoulder-width apart, weight on his back leg, arms loose but ready.

  Across from him, Montfort assumed the European pose, sideways profile, wand extended like a fencer's foil.

  "Let’s have a clean duel, laddies!" MacLeod raised his hand. "Bow to your opponent..."

  Jack gave a sarcastic sweep of his left arm and dipped his head. Montfort executed a perfect aristocratic bow, never taking his eyes off Jack.

  "Begin!"

  Jack felt Montfort’s murderous intent before he even started casting. Montfort's wand whipped forward, unleashing a Stunning Spell with full power - a vicious red lance that would have shattered Jack’s shield and knocked him clean off the platform…

  …if he hadn't been waiting for exactly that.

  Five years of Ilvermorny wand drills made his motions automatic.

  "Protego!"

  Jack's shield charm materialized with perfect timing, catching Montfort's spell exactly as it arrived. The red beam struck the silvery dome - the impact sent a shock rippling up his arm - and instantly rebounded, amplified, with a sound like a whip cracking. Montfort's eyes widened in surprise as his Stunner, now significantly stronger, came shrieking back at him. His shield came up too late—

  CRACK

  Montfort went flying backwards off the platform. He hit the cushioning charms on the wall hard enough to make them visibly flare blue, magic rippling outward like a pond disturbed by a stone, then slumped to the floor. Jack’s palm tingled from his wand absorbing the impact.

  The whole exchange had lasted less than three seconds.

  Dead silence fell over the classroom.

  Cassandra Hightower’s mouth was set in a little ‘o’.

  Jack had to bite his tongue to keep himself from crowing loudly in triumph. He satisfied himself by twirling his smoking wand around his fingers like a gunslinger.

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  "Enerverate!" MacLeod's reviving spell shot into Caeso. “Well,” his voice held a mix of professional disapproval and poorly hidden amusement. "That was significantly above partial power, Mr. Montfort." He motioned two nearby students to help the dazed Ravenclaw to his feet.

  "Mr. Semmes, that was a textbook perfect Protego Reflexionis. Five points to Gryffindor for technical execution, and five points from Ravenclaw for excessive force."

  Jack hopped down from the platform, trying not to look too cocky.

  "We learned those at Ilvermorny," he whispered as he passed Cassandra.

  She acted as if she had not heard him.

  Henry was grinning and shaking his head as Jack slid back into his seat, "You’re mad. You knew he'd go full power, didn't you?"

  "Never been more sure of anything in my life." Jack was too hyped on adrenaline to even begin copying down MacLeod's following remarks on shield timing. "Schmuck is as subtle as a heart attack."

  Henry glanced at Montfort, who was glaring daggers at them, "We’ll want to watch our corners for a few days. He won't take that lightly."

  “See if I care,” Jack leaned to catch Montfort’s eye and waved brashly at him. Montfort scowled and looked forward. "Did you see the look on his face when it came back at him?"

  "Couldn't miss it, old sport." Henry chuckled. "Like watching a man about to be run down by a Norwegian Ridgeback."

  They turned their attention back to MacLeod's lecture, but Jack could feel Montfort's eyes boring into him for the rest of class.

  He'd won this round decisively, but Henry was right - this wasn't over.

  He quickly found out what Montfort's counterpunch was.

  The Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor was packed with students after class let out, twin rivers of robes and voices flowing in both directions. Jack and Henry made it three steps before the heckling started.

  "Oi! Yankee!"

  A knot of fifth-year Ravenclaws loitered, clearly waiting for him. At the center was a ferrety boy Jack recognized. Montfort’s strap-hanger-in-chief, a wiry little sneak named Aethelred Boyle. Boyle's grin was toothy, his eyes glittering with the thrill of picking a fight.

  "Nice cheap shot in there, Semmes!"

  "Aye, real brave, waiting for him to attack first!" another jeered.

  Jack set his jaw and kept walking. His friends had warned him about this, the younger Ravenclaws were Montfort’s foot soldiers, hungry to prove their worth. The sixth and seventh years usually considered direct confrontation beneath them, but the fourths and fifths had no such scruples.

  A wadded-up piece of parchment bounced off the back of his head. Then another. And another.

  "Yank won’t duel fair!"

  "Think he learned that trick at spy school?"

  Jack’s fingers itched for his wand. He could turn and make an example of one of them. A Trip Jinx, maybe – send Boyle sprawling, teach them to shut up…

  Henry beat him to it. He stuck his wand behind his ear in a mockingly nerdy gesture.

  "Rather bold of you boys," he said. "Harassing the lad who just demonstrated such impressive defensive spellwork."

  Boyle puffed up.

  "We’re defending our school, Ravenhurst!"

  “Blimey.” Eustace Grymes came strolling past with his hands in his pockets. "If Hogwarts needs idiots like you to defend it, it’s already fallen.”

  "Half-blood says what?" Boyle snapped.

  Eustace made a contemptuous gesture. “Care to make a play with your wand or just keep whining?"

  That landed. The fifth-years hesitated, sizing the three Gryffindors up, before Boyle jerked his head for them to clear off. The pack slunk away.

  Jack let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. "Thanks guys."

  “It’s alright,” Henry shook his head. “Don’t let them get to you.”

  “Bloody entitled brats,” Grymes snarled.

  Jack was just starting to relax when he felt the temperature drop.

  "I AM AN ENGLISHMAN! I REMAIN AN ENGLISHMAN!"

  A horrible, familiar voice came muffled through the walls.

  "For in spite of all temptations to belong to other nations, Peeves !"

  "Oh God," Jack’s stomach sank.

  “, I was so glad, I drove all the students stark raving mad! I flipped their quills and I hexed their tea, and turned all the stairs to a grand trapeze!”

  The students in the hall started to run.

  “That grand trapeze so suited me that now I am coming for the new Yankee!”

  Peeves burst through the far wall like a demonic beachball, arms full of bulging, sloshing water balloons. Ice-cold Scottish loch water, if Jack’s past experience was anything to go by.

  The poltergeist, who, besides his other obnoxious habits, had lately become an ardent British nationalist.

  "For he himself has said it, and it’s greatly to his credit, that he is a MISFIT ARMPIT!"

  Henry and Eustace dove sideways into a classroom before the first balloon left Peeves’ hands.

  Jack didn't have their honed reflexes.

  The water balloon exploded against his shoulder, just missing his schoolbag. Another burst at his feet, soaking his socks in frigid water.

  "A HOGWARTS GHOST IS A , AS FREE AS A MOUNTAIN BIIIIIIRRRD!"

  "Don’t you have some freshmen to terrorize?" Jack yelled, dodging left and trying to protect his books.

  Peeves swooped after him cackling:

  "RULLLE BRITANNIA! BRITANNIA RULES THE WAAAAAAAVES! BRITONS, NEVER EVER EVER EVER SHALL BE YANKEE SLAAAAAVES!"

  Jack skidded around the corner, his wet robes slapping his legs, and nearly crashed into Bianca Ludd, looming in the stairwell like a vulture waiting for a corpse.

  "Five points from Gryffindor for running indoors," she announced with relish. "And five more for creating a slipping hazard in the hallway."

  “Let the punishment !” Peeves sang triumphantly. “And make each Yankee pent, unwilling’ represent, a source of merriment!”

  Jack’s shoes were squelching with every step as he finally gave Peeves the slip and stumbled into Muggle Studies. His lungs burned from sprinting in the stale air of the castle, and at first he barely registered the classroom before him. A large table had been set out piled with thin wooden strips, tissue paper, and glue.

  Professor Whitby looked up, openly grinning at Jack’s disheveled sogginess, "Ah, good morning, Mr. Semmes! I thought that I heard someone singing Gilbert and Sullivan."

  "Was that what that was?" Jack wheezed.

  Whitby shook his head, "Right then!" he called as the last students trickled in. "Now that Mr. Semmes' cultural immersion has been completed for this morning, today we’re exploring the miracle of Muggle flight. Everyone gets some of this balsa wood. Careful now, it’s fragile!"

  Jack used a drying charm on his dripping hair.

  From duels to poltergeists to model airplanes.

  What a day.

  And it wasn't even lunchtime yet.