With beef and cornbread for my food, and brewing, warding, drilling,

  I’ve got as thin as twice skimmed milk and scarcely worth the killing;

  And now I'm used to gentler hands, I’m tough as dragon leather,

  I do guard duty cheerfully in every kind of weather!

  Hold your head up, fellow tacks, don’t shake your knees and faint, oh

  It’s no time to dodge the War, brave wizards, don’t you think so?

  - The Brave 6th Grader, Ilvermorny Marching Song (sung to the tune of ‘Yankee Doodle’)

  Evening study period found Jack and Ashley in the Ilvermorny library. Its vaulted white ceilings soared twenty feet overhead, crisscrossed with intricate plasterwork, magical formulae and alchemical symbols, gleaming with phosphorescence in the light of floating brass chandeliers that never actually needed polishing but the upperclassmen made the tacks do it anyway.

  Towering mahogany shelves lined the walls as if on parade, ranks and files packed with knowledge magical and No-Maj. Ancient grimoires bound in dragonhide shared space with pristine new editions of "Magical Theory in the Industrial Age" and “Essentials for Combating Dark Magic”, their spines engraved with titles in English, French, Latin, Greek, and others that Jack didn’t have the slightest clue about. Some books whispered to themselves, while others remained still, either normal books or (as Jack’s sore finger attested) lying in ambush. Even the library's smell spoke of singular purpose - aged leather, parchment, ink, and the faint ozone smell of protective enchantments.

  The enormous arched windows were framed by panels of dark American walnut, tinted glass enchanted to filter any sunlight that might damage the precious volumes within. By night, as now, they let in sheets of cold moonlight that striped the polished oak floors like prison bars.

  Jack was positive that this effect wasn't accidental.

  At the far end of the main hall, a bronze bust of Edgar Allan Poe (Horned Serpent, 1834) stood mounted above the dark-paneled doorway leading to the Archives and Special Collections. The wizarding poet's weathered gaze surveyed the studious assembly below with what Jack swore was wry amusement.

  The study tables were long, unyielding slabs of oak, their surfaces worn smooth by generations of quills and elbows. Despite the librarians' best efforts, the wood was etched with tiny artifacts of history - initials of long-graduated cadets, the occasional scorch mark from a miscast spell, and what looked like tooth marks on one corner. A Benjamin swore they were from a seventh-year's transfiguration project gone wrong back in 1887.

  Stiff-backed wooden chairs, their seats polished by decades of restless students, creaked softly under the weight of cadets bent over their work. The quiet scratch of quills on parchment formed a constant undertone, punctuated by the occasional rustle of turning pages or muffled cough. Speaking was permitted only in whispers, and then only for academic consultation. The librarian, Mr. Graves - a wizard so old that the cadet rumormill claimed he'd helped Benjamin Franklin with his thesis research - patrolled the aisles like a revenant, appearing whenever conversation threatened to rise above a murmur.

  This was no haven for idle reading or flights of fancy. Recreational books were strictly regulated for tacks - no fiction unless it had direct magical educational value. Adventure stories, romance novels and (Franklin forbid) comic books were contraband, treated with the same severity as forbidden potions or cursed magical artifacts. The library was a temple dedicated to serious study and intellectual rigor.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The Deep Stacks lurked below the subterranean Archives in an iron-bound vault door, its contents hidden behind layers of protective spells. Only cadets from the Upper School with special permission could access its depths. Jack had heard talk of books bound in hideous materials, some that screamed when opened, and others that could only be read by candlelight at midnight. But for now, he and his fellow tacks were limited to the main collection on the ground floor - which was more than daunting enough.

  Brass reading lamps with green glass shades cast pools of light onto each workspace, their arms fully adjustable to eliminate any excuse for poor posture or eye strain. These lamps were enchanted to turn off automatically if a cadet's head began to droop. Specially labeled ‘tack models’ augmented the dimmer switch with a nasty slap across the sleeper’s face with their brass arm. Upperclassmen reserved those seats especially for boys from the Lower School.

  Here in this sanctum of learning, under the stern gaze of Mr. Graves and the enigmatic smile of Poe, tacks began their long journey toward magical mastery. Every recitation, every examination, every academic triumph or failure was born in these hours of rigid study, surrounded by the accumulated wisdom of three centuries of American wizardry.

  "Six straight days of torture," Jack sighed, looking at their weekly schedule. "Then Sunday’s off."

  "Off is a relative term," Ashley replied in an undertone, not looking up from his algebra homework. "We still have formation, chapel, and all the deviling they do to us in the barracks."

  “I hate this place,” Jack whispered.

  “So quit.”

  “To hell with that.”

  Their world shrunk to the few buildings they were allowed to access and the paths in between - the barracks, academic building, gymnasium, and library. The parade ground might as well have been an ocean, separating them from the mysterious College across the way and the civilized world beyond. Even the paths along the forested slopes of Mount Greylock were off-limits to them.

  "You know what I miss?" Ashley asked as they prepared for bed that night. "Walking. Not marching or double-timing or that stupid skip that Strait makes us do when he’s deviling us."

  Jack grinned around his toothbrush, “I thought you johnny rebs ‘strolled’ everywhere?”

  “That’s not what y’all were saying when Stonewall kicked your Yankee tails up and down the Shenandoah in two weeks,” Ashley replied, carefully lining his shoes up under his bed.

  “Don’t make me invoke Sherman, Main.”

  Ashley’s eyes narrowed, "You call him up, Semmes, and I swear by all the biscuits in Dixie, I’ll hex you so bad your great-granddaddy will feel it in his portrait."

  "Sorry. You know what I miss? I miss my watch," Jack rinsed out his mouth and changed the subject. "Never thought I'd have to tell time by the sun like some kind of voyageur."

  "At least we're becoming wizards of character," Ashley yawned and carefully stretched out on his cot. "That's what my papa says."

  "Is that what this is? Feels more like they're trying to break us down into slime molds."

  The night guard's footsteps passed their door - right on schedule, like everything else in their new life. Tomorrow would bring another day of classes, exercise, inspections, and endless drills. But they were adapting, slowly learning the intricate routine of life at America's premier magical finishing school for boys.

  "Hey Main," Jack whispered into the darkness.

  "Yeah?"

  "Think we'll ever get used to this?"

  "The Benjamins say by Christmas we won't even remember what life was like outside."

  Jack groaned into his pillow, "We're never gonna make it."