The Hogwarts Express gave a particularly theatrical screech as it began its gradual deceleration, the sound reminiscent of a banshee who'd been forced to sit through Professor Binns explaining the goblin rebellions for the seventeenth consecutive hour. The wheels protested against the tracks with all the dignity of aristocrats being asked to perform manual labor.
A sharp, authoritative knock rattled Compartment 7C's door like a woodpecker with delusions of grandeur and a deadline to meet.
"First-years," came a drawling voice that managed to convey both supreme boredom and casual superiority in just two syllables—the vocal equivalent of watching paint dry while looking down on everyone who found paint-watching insufficiently intellectual. "We'll be arriving at Hogsmeade Station in approximately one hour. Please begin changing into your school robes. And do try not to make a complete hash of it, would you?"
The announcement hit the compartment like a Bludger to the collective consciousness. Their comfortable post-Malfoy-victory celebration dissolved faster than sugar in tea, replaced by the sharp, electric awareness that they were actually, finally, genuinely on the precipice of something enormous enough to warrant capital letters and possibly its own theme music.
Fifteen faces turned toward each other with expressions ranging from excitement to terror to the peculiar combination of both that usually preceded either spectacular triumph or spectacular disaster.
Hadrian rose from his seat with the fluid grace of someone who had been born understanding that leadership was less about commanding others and more about making the right course of action seem inevitable. His silver-grey eyes held that particular gleam that suggested he found the entire concept of nervous energy both amusing and strategically useful—like a general watching his troops psych themselves up for battle.
"Right then," he announced with the sort of calm authority that could have organized a revolution or a tea party with equal efficiency, his voice carrying just enough amusement to keep things light while maintaining the underlying steel that made people automatically straighten their postures. "Gentlemen—tactical withdrawal for uniform coordination. Consider it a strategic regrouping before the main engagement. Ladies—" He executed a small, perfectly calibrated bow that managed to be both respectful and slightly theatrical. "—the battlefield is yours for the next fifteen minutes. Use it wisely."
Sirius looked up from where he'd been sprawled across his seat like a particularly elegant cat, his storm-grey eyes dancing with mischief as he scooped up his robes with the careful reverence usually reserved for handling priceless artifacts or unexploded ordnance. "Tactical withdrawal," he repeated, his aristocratic features arranging themselves into an expression of mock solemnity that didn't quite hide his genuine amusement. "Hadrian, you make it sound like we're about to invade France. Or possibly start our own small war."
"We might as well be," Natalia replied smoothly, her voice carrying that particular combination of silk and steel that could probably cut through armor plating if properly directed. She flipped her auburn hair over her shoulder with the sort of precision that suggested the movement had been weaponized through extensive practice. Her emerald eyes sparkled with dangerous humor as she continued, "Every social interaction at Hogwarts is a battle, Black. The only difference is that you can't win this particular war with just your tragic cheekbones and inherited charm."
The words hit the compartment like a perfectly aimed spell, causing several people to snort with laughter while Sirius clutched his chest with dramatic flair that would have made professional actors weep with envy.
"Tragic—" he gasped, his voice climbing toward operatic heights as he pressed his hand to his heart like he'd been struck by actual arrows rather than verbal precision strikes. "My cheekbones are not tragic! They're aristocratic! They're a family legacy! They've been carefully cultivated over generations of strategic marriages!"
"Tragic," Natalia repeated with devastating certainty, her smile sharp enough to cut glass and twice as dangerous. "Like watching someone try to substitute genetics for personality. Very sad, really. One almost feels sorry for you."
"Almost?" Sirius squeaked, his voice rising another octave.
"Almost," she confirmed with the sort of serene satisfaction that suggested she was enjoying herself immensely. "But not quite. Self-pity ruins the aesthetic."
James burst into laughter, nearly falling off his seat in the process. "Bloody hell, that was absolutely savage! Sirius, mate, I think she just dismantled your entire sense of self-worth with surgical precision."
"That wasn't surgical precision," Lily interjected with obvious amusement, her emerald eyes bright with sisterly pride as she watched Natalia's systematic destruction of Sirius's ego. Her wild red curls caught the afternoon light streaming through the compartment windows, making her look like she was haloed in flame. "That was artistic brutality. There's a significant difference in technique and aesthetic appreciation."
"Artistic brutality," Remus repeated thoughtfully, his amber eyes crinkling with gentle humor as he considered the phrase with academic precision. "I like that. It suggests a level of craft and intentionality that elevates simple insults into something approaching performance art."
"She's terrifying," Peter whispered to Frank with obvious admiration, his blue eyes wide with the sort of awe usually reserved for witnessing natural disasters or particularly impressive magical displays. His sandy hair was already disheveled from running his hands through it nervously, and his voice carried genuine enthusiasm beneath the shock. "I mean that in the absolute best possible way. Like if a basilisk learned mathematics and decided to specialize in psychological warfare."
"We heard that," Lily called sweetly, though her voice carried the sort of dangerous undertones that suggested Peter's assessment was being filed away for future reference and possible strategic application.
"Good," Peter replied with surprising boldness, apparently having gained considerable confidence from their earlier group bonding exercises and mutual Malfoy demolition. He straightened his shoulders with the sort of determined dignity that suggested he was learning to own his observations rather than apologize for them. "Then you know that intimidation is part of your arsenal. That's useful tactical information for dealing with potential enemies and problematic social situations."
"Potential enemies?" Alice repeated with the sort of delighted laughter that could probably brighten rainy days and improve the general mood of entire populations. Her blonde hair bounced as she shook her head with obvious amusement, and her green eyes sparkled with the kind of optimistic energy that made everything seem more manageable. "Peter, we haven't even been sorted yet, and you're already conducting comprehensive threat assessments and strategic planning!"
"Strategic preparation," Peter replied with dignity that almost managed to mask his pleased surprise at being taken seriously rather than dismissed. "Always know your assets and your opposition's weaknesses. Basic intelligence gathering for optimal outcome achievement."
Severus gave a small nod of approval, his dark eyes brightening with genuine respect as he looked at Peter with renewed interest. "That's actually remarkably sound tactical thinking. Proper Slytherin methodology—comprehensive situation analysis before engagement."
"Or Gryffindor strategic planning," James interjected with characteristic enthusiasm, his hazel eyes dancing with competitive energy as he tugged on his jumper with the sort of dramatic flair that suggested he was already mentally wearing his House colors. "Courage informed by intelligence rather than blind bravery."
"Or Ravenclaw analytical frameworks," Remus added mildly, though his amber eyes held a sly spark that suggested he was enjoying the inter-House theoretical competition that was developing. "Knowledge applied to practical problem-solving scenarios."
"Or Hufflepuff loyalty-based alliance building," Frank put in earnestly, his warm brown eyes serious as he smoothed down his hair with nervous precision. The gesture somehow made his case stronger rather than weaker, suggesting that even his anxiety was thoughtfully considered. "Protective strategies based on mutual support and community defense."
"See?" Ted said with obvious satisfaction, his brown eyes bright with intellectual pleasure as he gathered his robes with methodical precision. Even at eleven, he possessed the sort of organized competence that suggested he approached everything with systematic efficiency. "We're already transcending traditional House boundaries through superior collaborative thinking and strategic coordination."
Xenophilius, who had been draped across his seat near the window like a particularly elegant scarecrow having philosophical thoughts about the nature of existence, blinked his pale eyes with dreamy focus. "Or we're forming a proto-political union that will systematically destabilize the existing Hogwarts power structure before breakfast tomorrow morning."
His voice carried that particular quality of someone who saw patterns others missed, delivered with the sort of casual certainty that made everything sound both perfectly reasonable and completely insane.
The compartment fell silent for a moment as everyone processed this observation.
"Why does that sound like an actual prophecy?" Frank asked nervously, his voice climbing slightly as he looked around at their assembled group with growing alarm.
"Because with Xenophilius," Andromeda replied with the sort of elegant precision that made even casual observations sound like diplomatic statements, "it probably is. He has a disturbing tendency to predict things that shouldn't be predictable."
Her dark hair caught the light as she gestured toward Xenophilius with aristocratic grace, and her brown eyes held the sort of intelligence that suggested she'd been analyzing their group dynamics with considerable thoroughness.
"Prophecy is just pattern recognition applied to temporal probability matrices," Pandora observed serenely, her ethereal features arranged in an expression of dreamy wisdom that made everything she said sound like ancient secrets being casually revealed. "Xenophilius simply sees the patterns more clearly than most people."
"Temporal probability matrices," Amelia repeated with the sort of precise articulation that suggested she was mentally filing the phrase away for future academic investigation. "That's either brilliant theoretical framework development or complete nonsense disguised as intellectual sophistication."
"Why can't it be both?" Hadrian asked with that devastating smile that suggested he found the entire philosophical debate both entertaining and strategically useful. "The best theoretical frameworks often sound like nonsense until they prove themselves practically applicable."
The boys began moving toward the door with the sort of coordinated efficiency that suggested they'd already developed natural teamwork patterns despite having known each other for less than six hours. The corridor beyond was alive with controlled chaos—several hundred children attempting to transform themselves into proper wizarding students while navigating limited space and competing for mirror access.
"Blimey," James muttered as they squeezed through the crowd, his hazel eyes wide with amazement as he took in the scope of their fellow passengers. "I keep forgetting we're not the only people on this bloody train. It's like discovering your private party is actually a public festival."
"We're just the most interesting people on this train," Sirius corrected with characteristic confidence, his aristocratic bearing allowing him to navigate the crowd with fluid grace while maintaining perfect composure. "Which is a heavy burden to bear, but one I accept with appropriate dignity and only minimal complaint."
"Dignity?" Remus repeated with gentle skepticism, his amber eyes twinkling with amusement as he watched Sirius nearly trip over a first-year's trunk. "You've stumbled over your own feet at least three times in the past hour. That's not typically considered dignified behavior."
"That was reconnaissance," Sirius shot back with wounded pride, his storm-grey eyes flashing with indignation. "Strategic assessment of potential mobility hazards. Completely different from simple clumsiness."
"Reconnaissance," James repeated with delighted disbelief. "Right, because testing the floor's structural integrity with your face is obviously advanced tactical planning."
"Mock me all you want," Sirius replied with aristocratic hauteur, "but when someone else trips over those same hazards, I'll be the one with superior situational awareness."
"Diplomatic incidents," Xenophilius murmured dreamily as they found an empty compartment they could commandeer for changing purposes, his pale eyes distant as though he was seeing events that hadn't happened yet. "That's what's coming next. The Malfoy encounter was merely the opening movement of a much larger composition."
"Opening movement?" Frank asked with obvious alarm, his brown eyes widening as he processed the implications. "You mean there's going to be more? More than public humiliation and political confrontation?"
"Much more," Xenophilius confirmed with serene certainty. "People like Malfoy don't forget public defeats. They adapt, they escalate, they recruit allies. The next movement will be considerably more complex."
"Unless he gets creative with his revenge strategies," Remus pointed out with characteristic gentleness, though his amber eyes held steel beneath the concern. "Humiliated aristocrats with family connections and political influence tend to respond with increased aggression rather than strategic withdrawal."
"Then we'll just have to be more creative in our counter-responses," Ted said with surprising firmness, his organized mind clearly already working through defensive scenarios and contingency planning. "We've already proven we can handle his particular brand of entitled stupidity. Escalation simply means we adapt our tactics accordingly."
"Adapt our tactics," Peter repeated with growing confidence, his blue eyes brightening as he realized he was part of a group that took strategic thinking seriously rather than dismissing it as anxiety. "I like that. It sounds so much better than 'panic and hope for the best.'"
"Panic and hope for the best is not a strategy," Severus observed with clinical precision, his dark eyes sharp with analytical intelligence. "It's barely even wishful thinking. Proper tactical planning requires comprehensive threat assessment and resource allocation."
Inside the commandeered compartment, what followed could only be described as controlled chaos with educational value. Fifteen minutes of eleven-year-old boys attempting to transform themselves from casual travelers into proper Hogwarts students resulted in a comedy of errors that would have made professional entertainers weep with envy.
Robes were wrestled with the determination of gladiators facing particularly aggressive opponents. Ties developed apparent consciousness and began actively resisting proper knotting techniques. Buttons engaged in what could only be described as guerrilla warfare against their intended holes.
"These buttons are definitely alive," Peter groaned, his sandy hair now thoroughly disheveled from running his hands through it in frustration. "I swear they're actively resisting me. They've developed opinions about my fashion choices."
"They're not resisting you," Sirius said with mock solemnity, his own struggles with collar arrangement having given his aristocratic features a slightly manic edge. "They're simply rejecting your approach to formal wear. There's a significant philosophical difference."
"That's rich coming from someone whose tie looks like it was arranged by particularly vindictive pixies," Peter shot back with surprising boldness, apparently having gained considerable confidence in his ability to engage in tactical banter.
"Touché," Remus murmured with obvious amusement, his amber eyes crinkling as he watched his friends' various fashion disasters with gentle entertainment. "Though I think we're all losing the war against formal wizarding attire. These robes were clearly designed by someone who had never actually worn clothing before."
"Or someone who enjoyed watching children struggle with unnecessarily complicated fastenings," James added grimly, having achieved a look that suggested he'd been wrestling with fabric and losing. "There has to be a better way to look scholarly and distinguished."
"Scholarly and distinguished is overrated anyway," Sirius declared with renewed confidence, having finally achieved something approaching proper collar arrangement. "I prefer 'rakishly competent with mysterious undertones.'"
"Mysterious undertones," Hadrian repeated with that devastating smile, his own transformation having been accomplished with the sort of efficient precision that suggested considerable experience with formal attire. "Is that what we're calling 'disheveled but confident' these days?"
"It's called 'strategic styling choices,'" Sirius replied with wounded dignity. "Some of us understand that perfection is boring. Controlled imperfection suggests depth of character."
"Controlled imperfection," Severus observed dryly, "looks remarkably similar to accidental incompetence from certain angles."
Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from their transformation chamber looking like they'd survived a minor war but had ultimately achieved something approaching victory. The results were mixed but generally positive—they resembled proper Hogwarts students rather than children who had been attacked by their own clothing.
Sirius's tie remained slightly askew but had achieved what could generously be called "rakish charm." James had rolled his sleeves in what he claimed was a "stylistic choice" but which looked more like practical concession to his ongoing battle with proper cuff links. Xenophilius had somehow managed to tie his robe belt in a manner that suggested monastic aspirations, while Peter had achieved basic competence through sheer determination and mutual assistance.
"Right then," Hadrian declared with obvious satisfaction, his silver-grey eyes taking in their assembled group with the sort of approval usually reserved for reviewing successfully completed military operations. "We look scholarly, mysterious, and appropriately dangerous. The perfect combination for making memorable first impressions."
"Appropriately dangerous?" Frank asked nervously, though his brown eyes held obvious appreciation for the assessment.
"The best kind of dangerous," Ted assured him with organized confidence. "Intellectually formidable but ethically sound. The sort of dangerous that people want on their side rather than opposing them."
"Plus," James added with characteristic enthusiasm, his hazel eyes bright with anticipation, "we look like we could handle whatever Hogwarts throws at us. Which is probably more important than perfect collar arrangement anyway."
"Perfect collar arrangement is overrated," Remus agreed with gentle humor. "Character is considerably more important than fashion compliance."
They moved back toward Compartment 7C with renewed confidence and the sort of group cohesion that suggested their brief separation had actually strengthened their bond rather than weakening it. The corridor seemed less chaotic now, or perhaps they were simply better equipped to navigate it after their own transformation struggles.
When they reached their door, Hadrian knocked with the sort of polite authority that suggested he expected immediate admission but was prepared to be civilized about the process.
"You may enter," came Andromeda's voice, carrying that elegant precision that made even simple statements sound like royal proclamations. "But prepare yourselves. The transformation has been... comprehensive."
"Comprehensive?" Sirius repeated with obvious curiosity and slight alarm.
"Just open the door, Black," came Natalia's voice, dripping with the sort of amused impatience that suggested she was enjoying their suspense far more than was strictly necessary.
When the boys slid the compartment door open, they collectively stopped dead in their tracks like they'd encountered a basilisk or witnessed something equally stunning and potentially dangerous.
The girls had been utterly, completely, magnificently transformed.
The plain black Hogwarts robes created a fascinating paradox—they made the girls look simultaneously younger and older, more innocent and more authoritative, like students from a moving portrait who had stepped into reality with their dignity and purpose intact.
Lily stood near the window like she owned not just the compartment but possibly the entire train, her wild red curls having been tamed into an elegant braid that made her emerald eyes seem to glow with inner fire. The formal robes had given her an air of scholarly authority that suggested she was already mentally composing essays that would revolutionize magical theory while simultaneously planning the systematic improvement of whatever systems she encountered.
Natalia, positioned with the sort of strategic precision that maximized both her visual impact and her tactical advantages, looked like she'd been born wearing Hogwarts robes. Her auburn hair fell in glossy waves that appeared both elegant and lethal, while her emerald eyes held depths of intelligence and determination that suggested she was already several moves ahead in whatever game they were all playing.
The Black sisters represented a masterclass in aristocratic perfection, each embodying different aspects of their family's legendary elegance and power. Bellatrix radiated dramatic intensity, her wild dark curls perfectly controlled but still suggesting barely contained energy, her dark eyes bright with passionate intelligence and the sort of fierce loyalty that could either save the world or burn it down depending on the circumstances.
Narcissa appeared to have been sculpted from moonlight and aristocratic breeding, her platinum hair arranged with impossible perfection, her blue eyes holding the sort of cool intelligence that suggested she could negotiate international treaties while mentally composing cutting observations about everyone else's inadequacies.
Andromeda embodied elegant wisdom, her dark hair perfectly arranged, her brown eyes warm with intelligence and compassion, her entire bearing suggesting a young professor who could lecture a hall full of students twice her age and have them hanging on every word.
Alice radiated wholesome competence, her blonde hair arranged in practical braids that suggested she was ready for whatever adventures awaited, her green eyes bright with optimistic determination and the sort of steady courage that made everything seem more manageable.
Rosmerta practically glowed with cheerful confidence, her golden curls bouncing with the sort of infectious energy that could probably improve the mood of entire populations, her blue eyes sparkling with natural charm and social intelligence.
Amelia appeared scholarly and formidable, her brown hair arranged with systematic precision, her dark eyes sharp with analytical intelligence, radiating the sort of competent authority that made people automatically assume she had already mastered whatever subject was under discussion.
Pandora seemed serene and mysteriously wise, her ethereal blonde hair catching the light like spun silver, her dreamy blue eyes holding depths of knowledge that suggested she could see patterns and connections that others missed entirely.
The collective effect was stunning enough to render their usually articulate group temporarily speechless.
Sirius was the first to recover, letting out a low whistle of genuine admiration. "Bloody—" He caught himself with visible effort. "I mean... you all look absolutely brilliant. Very scholarly. Very dignified. Very... Hogwarts-appropriate."
His storm-grey eyes held obvious appreciation mixed with slight intimidation, as though he was realizing that their female friends had somehow achieved a level of formal elegance that made his own "rakish competence" seem slightly inadequate by comparison.
"Thank you," Narcissa replied with crystalline composure, her voice carrying that pristine satisfaction that suggested she was pleased but not surprised by the positive assessment. "We do clean up rather well when the situation demands proper presentation."
"Rather well?" Bellatrix repeated with mock outrage, her dark eyes flashing with theatrical indignation as she struck a pose that somehow managed to be both ridiculous and genuinely impressive. "Cissy, please. I look absolutely magnificent. This is not 'rather well'—this is artistic achievement."
Her dramatic gesture encompassed not just herself but their entire group, as though she was presenting them all as evidence of superior aesthetic coordination.
"You look terrifying," James shot back, though his hazel eyes were bright with genuine admiration and his grin suggested he found her dramatic confidence absolutely delightful. "In the very best possible way. Like someone who could conquer small countries through sheer force of personality."
"Thank you," Bellatrix beamed, her smile sharp enough to cut glass but warm enough to suggest genuine pleasure. "Terrifying was exactly the aesthetic I was aiming for. Controlled intimidation with underlying warmth—very advanced emotional management technique."
"What about us?" Lily asked with amused curiosity, her head tilting slightly as she studied the boys' expressions with obvious interest. She gestured between herself and Natalia with elegant precision. "How do the Evans twins measure up to your exacting standards of formal presentation?"
"Formidable," Hadrian replied without the slightest hesitation, his voice carrying that calm certainty that made simple statements sound like official pronouncements. His silver-grey eyes moved over them with obvious appreciation and something that looked suspiciously like protective pride. "You look like people who are going to change things. Important things. Possibly everything."
"Change things for the better, I hope," Natalia said with that characteristic smile that was sharp enough to cut through armor plating and twice as dangerous as it looked.
"Obviously for the better," Hadrian returned with devastating certainty, his expression holding that particular combination of amusement and absolute confidence that made everything he said sound both reasonable and slightly terrifying. "Chaos may be your brand, but constructive chaos. There's a significant difference between revolution and destruction."
Natalia gave a small, regal nod, like a queen acknowledging a particularly astute observation from one of her more competent advisors. "I'm pleased you recognize the distinction. Not everyone appreciates the artistry involved in systematic improvement initiatives."
Sirius groaned dramatically, running his hands through his dark hair with obvious exasperation. "Can you two please not sound like you're negotiating the terms of world domination? You're eleven. Shouldn't you be worried about homework and making friends, not whatever this is?"
"Jealous?" Natalia asked with sweet precision, her emerald eyes sparkling with dangerous amusement as she tilted her head with predatory grace.
"Terrified," Sirius admitted with characteristic honesty, though his storm-grey eyes held grudging admiration beneath the mock fear.
"Still Tuesday," she replied with smug satisfaction, apparently having decided that this particular phrase was her new favorite weapon in verbal warfare scenarios.
Frank stared at them with obvious amazement. "Do they always do this? The verbal sparring thing? Because it's either incredibly entertaining or deeply concerning, and I can't decide which."
"Both," the rest of their group replied in unison, apparently having reached this conclusion through extensive observation and analysis.
"Right then," Lily said briskly, clapping her hands together with the sort of decisive authority that could organize military campaigns or academic conferences with equal efficiency. "Your turn, gentlemen. Fifteen minutes to achieve presentable scholarly dignity, and then we can all marvel at our collective transformation into proper Hogwarts students."
"Fifteen minutes?" Peter squeaked, his blue eyes widening with obvious alarm. "That's barely enough time to figure out which way the robes are supposed to face, let alone achieve anything approaching dignity!"
"Strategic time management," Alice said cheerfully, her green eyes bright with optimistic encouragement. "You'll be amazed what you can accomplish when properly motivated by deadline pressure."
"Deadline pressure is not motivation," Frank protested nervously. "Deadline pressure is panic with a timer attached."
"Same result, different psychological framework," Amelia observed with clinical precision. "The key is channeling the anxiety into productive activity rather than allowing it to become paralyzing indecision."
"Corridor reconnaissance time," Lily announced with obvious satisfaction, apparently having decided that their strategic planning discussions were sufficiently complete.
"Reconnaissance?" Peter repeated with obvious confusion, his sandy hair falling into his blue eyes as he tilted his head with puzzled interest.
"Intelligence gathering," she explained with matter-of-fact precision that suggested this should have been obvious to anyone with proper tactical thinking abilities. "Social dynamics observation, potential threat assessment, general situational awareness enhancement through systematic observation of our fellow passengers."
"In other words," Natalia added with her trademark surgical accuracy, her emerald eyes bright with anticipatory satisfaction, "we're going to conduct comprehensive surveillance of the rest of this train, identify potentially useful allies and dangerous enemies, assess the general social and political landscape, and compile detailed intelligence briefings for optimal Hogwarts integration protocols."
Her explanation was delivered with the sort of casual competence that suggested she'd been planning intelligence operations since childhood, which was probably more accurate than any of them realized.
Frank stared at them with obvious awe and growing alarm. "They're actually conducting legitimate military-style reconnaissance operations. On a school train. Before we've even arrived at school."
"Effectively terrifying," Alice confirmed cheerfully, patting Frank's shoulder with sympathetic understanding. "But the very best kind of terrifying. The kind that's on your side rather than working against you."
"I'm starting to think," Remus said with gentle amusement, his amber eyes crinkling as he watched their friends' strategic planning session with obvious appreciation, "that we're going to be the most prepared first-years in Hogwarts history. Possibly overprepared, but definitely not caught off guard."
"Overprepared is just another way of saying 'competent,'" Severus observed with obvious approval. "I'd rather have too much information than too little when navigating complex social and academic environments."
"Plus," Ted added with organized satisfaction, "systematic preparation tends to produce better outcomes than improvisation, regardless of how charming the improvisation might be."
The girls began moving toward the door with the sort of coordinated precision that suggested they'd somehow managed to develop military-level teamwork in the span of a single afternoon, leaving the boys blinking after them with expressions of admiration, intimidation, and resignation in equal measure.
"We're doomed," Remus sighed with fond exasperation, though his amber eyes held obvious affection for their terrifyingly competent friends.
"We're blessed," Sirius corrected with characteristic dramatic flair. "Blessed with friends who could probably take over small governments if they put their minds to it. But also possibly doomed, depending on whether we can keep up with their level of strategic thinking."
"Both can be true," Ted observed with philosophical acceptance as they prepared to begin their own transformation process. "The best friendships often involve elements of both blessing and doom."
"Especially," Hadrian added with that devastating smile, "when the friends in question are capable of conducting intelligence operations before their twelfth birthday."
As the compartment door closed behind their departing reconnaissance team, the boys were left to contemplate both their upcoming uniform struggles and the dawning realization that they'd somehow managed to ally themselves with what might be the most formidable group of eleven-year-olds in magical Britain.
Outside the window, the Scottish Highlands continued their eternal dance of purple heather and ancient stone, carrying them ever closer to their destiny at Hogwarts Castle. Inside Compartment 7C, eight eleven-year-old boys prepared to wrestle with formal robes while their eight eleven-year-old female counterparts conducted systematic intelligence gathering operations in the corridor.
The Sorting Hat was waiting somewhere ahead, Hogwarts loomed in their future, and whatever challenges lay ahead, they would face them as a unified force of fifteen minds working in coordination.
After all, they'd already proven they could handle third-year Slytherins with political connections. How difficult could magical school actually be?
---
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