THE ALCHEMIST OF HARRY POTTER

"Is there anyone sitting here?" The Black boy gestured to the empty seat across from Albert and asked.

"No one, go ahead," Albert replied with a smile. "My name is Albert Anderson."

"Lee Jordan," the boy introduced himself, flashing a grin. He glanced at the book on the table with interest and remarked, "You seem like a Ravenclaw. I heard most book lovers end up there."

"As long as I don't get sorted into Slytherin, I don't mind," Albert said, fishing out a few chocolate-flavored sweets from his pocket. "Want one?"

"Thanks, I love chocolate," Lee said, unwrapping a piece and popping it into his mouth.

"Help yourself," Albert offered, placing an assortment of sweets on the table. Sharing food was always a good way to make friends.

It was a trick he had used many times before.

"I think I'll be in Gryffindor. I heard it's the best house. Professor Dumbledore was a Gryffindor, you know—greatest wizard of our time." Lee spoke enthusiastically, his mouth full of candy.

His chatter was interrupted by a knock at the compartment door.

A pair of identical red-haired boys stood there, looking slightly sheepish.

"Mind if we squeeze in?" one of them asked. "We were late, and everywhere else is full. The girls don't seem to want us in their compartments."

Before Albert could answer, the other twin grinned and said, "I'm George, George Weasley."

"If I were you, I'd dry off first," Lee Jordan advised, eyeing their damp robes. "I'm Lee Jordan."

"Albert Anderson," Albert added, closing his book and gesturing to the seat next to Lee.

"See you in a bit, George," the other twin said, turning away.

Moments later, he returned, dragging his suitcase.

The Hogwarts Express compartments could fit four comfortably—though they were meant for six—but students usually grouped with friends, making it difficult for latecomers like the Weasley twins to find a spot.

"This is Fred, my twin brother," George said, plopping down.

"Obviously," Lee said, grinning. "You two should mark yourselves so people can tell you apart."

"Want some candy?" Albert offered again.

"Cheers—Mum says we eat too many sweets." The twins each took one, unwrapped it, and popped it into their mouths.

"Tastes brilliant," Fred said appreciatively.

"That your owl?" George asked, reaching out, but the bird gave him a warning look. He quickly withdrew his hand.

"She's not fond of strangers," Albert explained. "Try offering a nut—she might let you pet her."

Lee gave it a shot, but the owl ignored him, keeping her eyes closed.

The train started moving, picking up speed as it left Platform 9¾.

"What's the wizarding world like?" Albert asked. "You're all from wizarding families, right?"

"How'd you guess?" Lee asked, surprised.

"Your clothes," Albert said, nodding toward their robes. "Muggles don't dress like that—only wizards unfamiliar with Muggle fashion would."

"Brilliant deduction," Lee admitted, giving him a thumbs-up. "By the way, something's at the window."

Albert turned to see an owl outside, tapping against the glass. He opened the window, letting the damp bird flutter in, shaking off water droplets.

His owl hooted in displeasure, hopping onto his shoulder, clearly upset that the intruder had stolen one of her nuts.

"Don't be mad—it's just a nut," Albert said, scratching the back of her head soothingly. "I'll get you more later."

Lee watched with interest. "You don't act like a Muggle-born. Most don't know much about owls. Mind if I take a look?"

Albert lifted his owl off his shoulder. He preferred not to have her perched there—she was heavier than she looked.

"Any news?" he asked as Lee unfolded The Daily Prophet.

"Minister of Magic Millicent Bagnold announced her retirement in 1990," Lee read aloud. "There's speculation Dumbledore might be next in line."

"My dad says if Dumbledore wanted the job, he'd have taken it ages ago," Fred said, unconvinced.

"Who do you think will win?" George asked, skimming the article. "Oh, look—The Daily Prophet is running a betting pool."

Albert already knew who the next minister would be. "How does the betting work?"

"If you guess right, you win a prize. Loads of people have won before," George explained. "There are fifteen candidates. Fudge has four-to-one odds—not the favorite, though."

"The favorite rarely wins," Albert mused. "They're usually just a distraction."

He took out a quill, scribbled his name on a slip of parchment, and marked Cornelius Fudge as his choice. Then, he counted out twenty-five Galleons and placed them in an envelope.

The three boys gawked as he counted the money. Twenty-five Galleons was a fortune to them.

When Albert's owl snatched the envelope and disappeared into the rain, they still hadn't recovered.