"Is this seat taken, or are you just keeping it warm for an invisible friend?"
Albert looked up from his book. Standing in the doorway of the compartment was a boy with dark skin and a grin that seemed to take up half his face. He was pointing at the empty bench directly across from Albert.
"It's all yours," Albert said, offering a polite smile. "I'm Albert Anderson."
"Lee Jordan," the boy replied, sliding into the seat and tossing his trunk into the overhead rack with practiced ease. His eyes immediately locked onto the thick volume Albert was holding. "Whoa, reading for fun on the first day? You're a brave soul, mate. Let me guess—Ravenclaw? My uncle says the hat just takes one look at a bookworm and screams 'Blue and Bronze' before it even touches their hair."
"As long as I'm not rooming with the next generation of Dark Wizards in Slytherin, I'm not picky," Albert joked. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a handful of chocolate-covered hard candies he'd picked up at a specialty shop in London. "Want one? They're better than the stuff you get at the grocery store."
"Cheers, don't mind if I do." Lee unwrapped one and popped it into his mouth, his eyes lighting up. "Good choice. Chocolate is basically the only food group that matters."
"Glad you like them. There's plenty more where that came from," Albert said, casually spreading a small pile of various flavored sweets on the table between them. He knew the value of "sugar diplomacy." In his previous life, and even earlier in this one, he'd learned that a shared snack was the fastest way to turn a stranger into a source of information.
Lee leaned back, chewing happily. "I'm aiming for Gryffindor myself. Everyone knows it's the place to be. Dumbledore was a Lion, and he's practically a god in the wizarding world. If it's good enough for the greatest wizard of all time, it's definitely good enough for Lee Jordan."
Lee's monologue about the glory of Gryffindor was abruptly cut short by a rhythmic thumping at the compartment door. A pair of identical red-haired boys were standing there, looking slightly bedraggled but brimming with energy.
"Pardon the intrusion," one of them said, putting on a mock-serious face and clasping his hands together like a repentant choirboy. "We're late, we're damp, and the girls in the other carriages seem to think we're a public health hazard. You wouldn't happen to have room for two more outcasts, would you?"
"If you value your sanity, you'll say no," the other twin added with a wink. "I'm George, by the way. George Weasley."
"I think your priority should be drying off before you start a puddle on the floor," Lee Jordan said, chuckling. "I'm Lee."
"Albert Anderson," Albert said, marking his page and tucking the book away in his trunk. He gestured to the space next to Lee. "Make yourselves at home."
"Be right back, George," the first twin said, vanishing back into the corridor to fetch their luggage.
The compartment, originally designed for six, was now occupied by four. It was a cozy fit, but far more comfortable than the overcrowded cars further down the train. Many students were protective of their space, but Albert preferred a lively atmosphere—especially when that atmosphere included the infamous Weasley twins.
"And this is Fred," George said as his brother returned, panting slightly as he shoved a battered trunk into the rack. "My better half, though only by about three minutes."
"Could've fooled me," Lee said, looking between them. "You two are like a mirror image. You should probably wear name tags, or at least get different haircuts, so the rest of us stand a chance."
"Where's the fun in that?" Fred asked, sitting down.
"Care for a sweet?" Albert offered, pushing the pile toward the newcomers.
"Blimey, yes please," Fred said, grabbing a lemon-flavored drop. "Mum's been on a health kick lately. Says sugar rots the magical core or some such nonsense. Usually, we have to sneak these past her."
"This is top-tier stuff," George added, tasting a caramel one. "You've got good taste, Anderson."
George noticed the owl cage sitting near Albert. "Beautiful bird you've got there. Snowy owl? Must have cost a few Galleons." He reached out a hand to stroke the feathers, but Shera let out a sharp, warning hoot and snapped her beak near his fingers.
"Easy there, girl," Albert muttered. "She's a bit of a snob with strangers. If you want to get on her good side, you'll need to offer her some of those owl nuts in the jar. She's very susceptible to bribery."
Lee Jordan tried his luck with a nut, but Shera simply closed her eyes and tucked her head under her wing, radiating an aura of pure indifference.
As the train began to chug out of the station, leaving the waving parents and the steam-filled platform behind, Albert decided to steer the conversation toward his favorite subject: information gathering.
"So, give me the insider's scoop," Albert said, leaning forward. "What's the wizarding world actually like? You three grew up in it, right?"
Lee looked startled. "How'd you spot that so fast? Was it the owl?"
"The owl helped," Albert said, pointing at their mismatched sweaters and slightly-too-short trousers. "But it's the clothes. You're dressed like people who have heard of 'Muggle fashion' but haven't actually seen a catalog in twenty years. It's a dead giveaway. We Muggle-borns are easy to spot because we look too normal; you lot are easy to spot because you look like you're wearing a costume."
"Sharp as a needle, this one," Fred laughed, nudging his brother.
"Look!" Lee pointed at the window. A grey owl was flapping frantically against the glass, looking soaked and miserable in the sudden rain. Albert quickly unlatched the window, and the bird tumbled inside, shaking itself vigorously and sending a spray of cold water over everyone.
Shera was not amused. She shrieked at the intruder, who had immediately hopped over to her food bowl and started scavenging.
"Don't worry, Shera, I'll get you a fresh batch," Albert comforted his owl, scratching her under the chin until she calmed down.
"You're surprisingly calm for someone who just found out magic is real a few months ago," Lee remarked, spreading out a soggy newspaper the grey owl had been carrying. "Most Muggle-borns spend the first week just staring at the moving stairs. Anyway, check this out. Big news."
The headline of The Daily Prophet blared: MINISTER BAGNOLD TO STEP DOWN BY 1990.
"Rumor has it Dumbledore is the frontrunner," Lee said, tapping a photo of the Headmaster waving from the page. "The paper says he's the only one who can steady the ship after the war years."
"Rubbish," Fred scoffed. "My dad says Dumbledore's turned down the job three times already. He likes his school too much to deal with the vultures at the Ministry."
"Then who's it going to be?" George asked. "The Prophet is running a betting pool. Look, 'Predict the Premier'—top prize is a sack of Galleons and a year's supply of ink."
Albert's ears perked up. He knew exactly who the next Minister would be. In fact, he knew the political history of the next decade better than anyone on this train. If there was a way to convert his "meta-knowledge" into cold, hard currency, he wasn't going to pass it up.
"How do you enter?" Albert asked, pulling the paper closer.
"Gambling's a slippery slope, mate," Lee warned, though he looked intrigued. "There are fifteen names on that list. It's a sucker's bet."
"It's only gambling if you don't know the outcome," Albert said smoothly. He pulled out his vine wand, holding it vertically on the table. "Ollivander told me this wand was a lucky one. Let's see if he was right."
He let go of the wand. It wobbled for a second before falling perfectly flat, its tip pointing directly at a name halfway down the list: Cornelius Fudge.
"Fudge?" George made a face. "He's a mid-level bureaucrat. The odds on him are 4 to 1. He's not even in the top five favorites."
"The favorites are usually the ones with the most enemies," Albert said, already pulling a piece of parchment and a quill from his bag. "I like the dark horse. Besides, Fudge looks like the kind of man who would fall into a promotion just by being in the right room at the right time."
The twins and Lee watched in stunned silence as Albert drafted his entry. He didn't just put down a silver Sickle or two. He opened his money bag and carefully counted out twenty-five glittering gold Galleons.
The sound of the gold clinking onto the table was the only noise in the compartment. To the Weasley twins, who often had to share a single Galleon between them for school supplies, this was a king's ransom.
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