The compartment they'd found was one of the larger ones toward the middle of the train—designed to seat eight comfortably, with plush burgundy seats arranged in two facing rows and a wide window that offered panoramic views of the Scottish countryside beginning to roll past in golden afternoon light. Peter had claimed the window seat on the left side with the kind of strategic positioning that suggested he'd been planning optimal viewing angles since approximately the moment they'd boarded, while MJ had settled across from him with her sketchbook already open, clearly intending to document every mile of their journey to Hogwarts.
The trunk storage had been accomplished with the kind of organized chaos that had become their group's signature over the past several months—Gwen directing the process with military precision, Ned providing enthusiastic but occasionally counterproductive assistance, and Felicia offering commentary that was equal parts helpful and mildly sarcastic. Felix had perched himself on the luggage rack like a tiny, color-changing supervisor, cycling through what appeared to be approval colors as each trunk found its designated spot.
Now they were settled in, watching the London suburbs give way to increasingly rural landscape through windows that seemed larger and clearer than they should have been—another small magical enhancement that made everything feel slightly more extraordinary than ordinary train travel.
"This is actually happening," Peter said for approximately the fifteenth time since boarding, his face pressed against the window glass like a kid on his first airplane ride. "We're actually on the Hogwarts Express. The actual, literal, magical train to wizard school. This is the most incredible thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of incredible things happening."
"Peter," MJ said without looking up from her latest sketch—this one capturing the way the afternoon light streamed through their compartment window, "if you fog up that glass with your overexcited breathing, I'm going to have to draw you passed out from oxygen deprivation instead of enjoying scenic magical countryside."
"I'm not overexcited," Peter protested, though his voice cracked slightly with enthusiasm. "I'm appropriately excited for the magnitude of this experience. There's a difference."
"The difference being?" Felicia asked, examining her reflection in the window while somehow managing to make even casual primping look like performance art.
"Approximately three octaves," Gwen observed dryly, consulting the color-coded schedule she'd prepared for their journey. "Though I have to admit, his enthusiasm is kind of infectious. I'm actually excited about Transfiguration, and I don't even know what that involves yet."
"Transfiguration is the magical art of changing one thing into another thing," Ned said solemnly, clearly quoting from one of the many magical textbooks he'd memorized over the summer. Felix squeaked from the luggage rack in what sounded like agreement. "Professor McGonagall—who we met, remember?—she's supposed to be absolutely brilliant at it. Felix thinks we're going to learn how to turn teacups into tortoises."
"Why would anyone want to turn teacups into tortoises?" MJ asked, pausing in her sketching to give Ned a look that suggested she was genuinely curious about the practical applications of such magic.
"I don't know," Ned admitted cheerfully. "But doesn't it sound cool? Like, here's your regular boring teacup, and then BAM—tiny tortoise. Instant pet upgrade."
"What if you accidentally drink from the tortoise?" Peter asked with genuine scientific concern. "Like, what if the transformation isn't complete and you end up with tortoise-flavored tea? Or worse, what if the tortoise retains some ceramic properties and you chip a tooth?"
"Peter," Gwen said with the patience of someone who'd spent months learning to redirect his anxiety spirals before they reached critical mass, "maybe worry about successfully completing basic transformations before you start calculating the health risks of partial transfiguration accidents?"
"But the safety considerations are important!" Peter insisted. "What if—"
The compartment door slid open with the kind of perfectly timed interruption that suggested the universe had been waiting for exactly the right moment to introduce new variables into their group dynamic.
Three boys stood in the doorway, all of them clearly first years based on their age and the fact that they were still wearing their regular clothes instead of Hogwarts robes. Two of them were obviously twins—identical red hair that looked like it had been personally crafted by mischief itself, matching grins that suggested they'd been plotting something since approximately the moment they'd been born, and the kind of synchronized energy that made them seem like they were operating on shared brain wavelengths.
The third boy was Black, with dark skin and close-cropped hair, and he had the kind of easy confidence that suggested he'd never met a social situation he couldn't navigate successfully. He was grinning just as widely as the twins, which somehow made the whole group look even more like they were up to something interesting.
"Excuse me," one of the twins said, his accent carrying that distinctly British politeness that somehow managed to sound both formal and completely irreverent, "don't suppose there's room for three more in here? Everywhere else is either full or occupied by people who look like they might report us to the prefects for breathing too loudly."
"Or existing in general," the other twin added helpfully, his grin identical to his brother's in every way except for a small scar above his left eyebrow that was the only physical difference between them. "Some of these upper years look absolutely miserable. Like they've forgotten that magic is supposed to be fun."
The dark-skinned boy stepped forward with a theatrical bow that would have made Aurora Sinclair proud. "Lee Jordan, at your service. And these two troublemakers are Fred and George Weasley, though good luck figuring out which is which—they've been confusing people since birth, and they're proud of it."
"It's a gift," both twins said in perfect unison, which was either incredibly impressive or mildly disturbing, depending on how you felt about supernatural sibling coordination.
Peter immediately perked up, his nervous energy shifting into enthusiastic welcome mode. "Oh, absolutely! There's plenty of room! We're the American exchange students—well, five of them anyway. I'm Peter Parker, and this is MJ Watson, Gwen Stacy, Ned Leeds, and Felicia Hardy. Also Felix." He gestured toward the luggage rack where Felix was currently cycling through curious shades of green and gold.
"Felix?" Fred asked, following Peter's gesture until he spotted the color-changing Pygmy Puff. "Blimey, is that a Pygmy Puff? Haven't seen one of those in ages."
"Academic consultant," Ned corrected seriously, as Felix preened and turned a dignified shade of royal blue. "He provides strategic advice and emotional support for optimal academic performance."
"Academic consultant," George repeated slowly, grinning even wider. "I like it. Very professional. Does he charge by the hour or work on retainer?"
"Premium snacks and optimal perching privileges," MJ said without looking up from her sketchbook, though her tone suggested she was finding the conversation entertaining despite her focus on capturing the changing light through the window. "Felix has very reasonable rates for magical consulting services."
Lee Jordan laughed—a warm, infectious sound that immediately made the compartment feel more welcoming. "Mind if we join you? These two have been planning to meet the famous American exchange students since their dad told them about the program."
"Famous?" Felicia asked, raising an eyebrow with the kind of casual interest that suggested being famous was simply another Tuesday in her life. "We're famous already? That's either really good or really concerning, depending on what we're famous for."
"The exchange program," Fred explained, sliding into the compartment with practiced ease while George grabbed their trunks from the corridor. "Dad works at the Ministry—he's been following all the international magical education initiatives. Said the American students were specially selected for exceptional magical potential and academic achievement."
"Also," George added, heaving his trunk up onto the luggage rack next to Felix, who immediately began cycling through welcoming colors, "he specifically instructed us to make you feel properly welcomed and display some genuine British hospitality. Exact words were 'make sure those American students know they're among friends.'"
"Your dad sounds lovely," Gwen said, closing her color-coded schedule and giving the newcomers her full attention. "Though I have to ask—are you two actually as synchronized as you appear, or is this some kind of elaborate performance art?"
The twins exchanged one of their patented looks—a wordless communication that lasted exactly 2.3 seconds and somehow conveyed an entire conversation's worth of information.
"Performance art," Fred said solemnly.
"Definitely performance art," George agreed with equal gravity.
"We've been rehearsing this act since we were about three years old," Fred continued.
"Though to be fair, most of it comes naturally," George added. "Hard to avoid being synchronized when you share a room, most of your thoughts, and an identical appreciation for creative chaos."
Lee settled into the seat next to Peter, immediately gravitating toward the window with obvious interest in the passing countryside. "Don't let them fool you—they really are that coordinated. I've known them since we were seven, and it's genuinely supernatural sometimes. They can finish each other's sentences, plan elaborate pranks with just eye contact, and they have this thing where they always know when the other one's in trouble."
"Twin telepathy?" Ned asked with scientific fascination, Felix cycling through intrigued shades of purple. "Like, actual psychic connection, or just really good behavioral prediction based on years of shared experience?"
"Probably the second thing," Fred said, though he looked pleased by the question. "Though sometimes it feels like actual telepathy."
"Especially when we're planning something particularly brilliant," George added. "It's like our brains sync up and suddenly we're operating as a single mischief-generating unit."
"Mischief-generating unit," MJ repeated, finally looking up from her sketchbook to study the twins with artist's interest. "That's either the best band name ever or the most accurate description of your personalities."
"Both," Lee said cheerfully. "Trust me, you'll understand after you've known them for about five minutes. They've got mischief down to a science."
"Mischief is an art form," Fred corrected with wounded dignity. "Science implies boring methodology and predictable results."
"Whereas art implies creative vision and unexpected outcomes," George continued seamlessly. "Much more accurate description of our operational philosophy."
Peter's eyes lit up with the kind of excitement that usually preceded either brilliant discoveries or small explosions. "But science and art aren't mutually exclusive! Creative vision can absolutely inform systematic methodology, and unexpected outcomes are often the most scientifically valuable—"
"Peter," Felicia interrupted with fond exasperation, "are you seriously about to explain the intersection of science and art to people you met thirty seconds ago?"
"I'm facilitating productive academic discussion!" Peter protested.
"You're doing the thing where you turn social interaction into a lecture series," Gwen pointed out. "Again."
"But it's an interesting lecture series," Ned said supportively. "And educational. Felix approves of educational discussions."
Felix squeaked what sounded like agreement, though he might have just been commenting on the quality of the afternoon sunlight streaming through the compartment window.
Lee grinned, clearly delighted by the group dynamic he'd just walked into. "Oh, we're going to get along just fine. Fred and George love turning everything into either a philosophical debate or a practical experiment. Usually both at the same time."
"Practical experiments are the best kind," Fred said with enthusiasm that matched Peter's academic intensity. "Why just theorize about something when you can test it directly and see what happens?"
"Assuming what happens isn't explosion, property damage, or detention," George added pragmatically. "Though to be honest, those outcomes can be educational too."
"That's a concerning attitude toward academic safety," Gwen observed, though she sounded more amused than actually worried.
"Everything about magic is concerning from a safety perspective," MJ said, returning her attention to her sketchbook where she was now adding what appeared to be quick character studies of the twins. "We're going to spend the next seven years learning how to manipulate fundamental forces of reality. Safety is probably more of a guideline than an actual rule."
"Exactly!" Fred said with approval. "Someone who understands the philosophical framework of magical education."
"Though we should probably mention," George added with theatrical seriousness, "Mum would have our heads if she heard us talking about safety being optional. She spent twenty minutes this morning lecturing us about the importance of following school rules and not getting into unnecessary trouble."
"Are you planning to follow her advice?" Felicia asked with the kind of smile that suggested she already knew the answer.
The twins exchanged another look, this one lasting approximately 1.7 seconds and somehow conveying even more mischievous intent than the previous one.
"Define 'unnecessary,'" they said in perfect unison.
Lee laughed. "That means no, they're going to ignore absolutely every piece of parental advice they've ever received, and somehow they'll manage to make it look like accidental heroism instead of deliberate rule-breaking."
"It's not rule-breaking if you're technically following the spirit of the regulations while creatively interpreting their practical application," Fred explained with the kind of logic that suggested he'd been practicing this argument for years.
"Plus, most rules are really more like suggestions anyway," George added. "Especially when you're dealing with magical education in an ancient castle full of secret passages and mysteriously convenient loopholes."
"Secret passages?" Peter asked with immediate interest, his Tom Holland curiosity overriding any concern about rule-breaking. "There are actually secret passages? Like, architectural features designed for stealth navigation, or just structural inconsistencies that happen to create concealed routes through the building?"
"Both, probably," Fred said with a grin that suggested he was looking forward to providing comprehensive answers to this question through direct demonstration rather than theoretical explanation.
"Hogwarts has been accumulating secret passages for over a thousand years," George continued. "Some were built intentionally, some developed naturally through magical architectural evolution, and some were probably created by previous generations of students who got creative with their practical spell-work."
"And you two know about these passages because...?" Gwen asked with the systematic curiosity that characterized her approach to any new information that might be academically or practically useful.
"Research," Lee said with a completely straight face. "Very thorough, hands-on research. These two have been preparing for Hogwarts since they were old enough to understand what it was."
"Preparation is the key to academic success," Fred said piously.
"Knowledge is power," George added with equal solemnity.
"And power is the ability to disappear whenever authority figures start asking uncomfortable questions about who might have been responsible for whatever just exploded in the dungeon," Fred concluded with a grin.
MJ looked up from her sketchbook again, this time with obvious appreciation for the twins' approach to educational philosophy. "You know what? I like you two. You've got style."
"Style is important," Felicia agreed, though her tone suggested she was reserving final judgment about whether their style met her personal standards. "Though I'm curious—what's your operational success rate? Because planning creative chaos is one thing, but executing it without getting caught requires genuine skill."
The twins' grins widened simultaneously, reaching levels that probably violated several laws of physics and possibly a few local ordinances about public displays of smugness.
"Never been caught," Fred said with quiet pride.
"Never been successfully blamed," George corrected with precision that suggested this distinction was important.
"There's a difference?" Ned asked, Felix cycling through confused shades of orange on the luggage rack.
"Oh yes," Lee said with the air of someone explaining a fundamental principle of applied mischief theory. "Getting caught means they have evidence. Getting blamed means they have suspicions. Fred and George have elevated plausible deniability to an art form."
"We prefer the term 'strategic ambiguity,'" Fred said modestly.
"Sounds much more professional," George agreed. "Like a legitimate academic discipline rather than elaborate excuse-making."
Peter was taking mental notes with the kind of focused attention he usually reserved for advanced physics problems, clearly fascinated by the systematic approach to rule-bending that the twins represented.
"So you're saying that successful mischief requires not just creative planning and precise execution, but also comprehensive contingency strategies for blame avoidance and evidence management?"
"Now you're getting it," Fred said with approval.
"Though we should probably mention," George added with theatrical concern, "that discussing our methods too explicitly might compromise our operational security."
"Trade secrets," Lee explained solemnly. "Professional mischief-makers need to protect their intellectual property."
"Plus," Fred continued, "if everyone knew how we did things, it wouldn't be nearly as impressive when we pull off something particularly brilliant."
"Mystery is half the fun," George concluded.
The train was beginning to pick up speed now, the Scottish countryside rolling past their window in golden afternoon light that made everything look like it belonged in a painting. The rhythm of the wheels on the tracks created a steady background beat that somehow made their conversation feel more intimate despite the fact that they were essentially strangers sharing increasingly detailed discussions about academic rule-breaking strategies.
"You know what?" Gwen said, closing her notebook with a decisive snap and giving the newcomers her full attention. "I think we're going to fit in just fine at Hogwarts. You three seem to understand that magical education is supposed to be an adventure, not just a series of classes you attend."
"Absolutely," Ned said with enthusiasm, Felix cycling through agreement colors on the luggage rack. "We've been preparing for this for months, but everything we learned was about spells and theory and safety protocols. Nobody mentioned the philosophical approach to creative rule interpretation."
"That's because most adults don't want to encourage that kind of thinking in first-year students," Felicia observed with the kind of insight that suggested she'd been analyzing authority figure psychology for years. "They prefer to ease you into the concept of flexible regulations gradually."
"Whereas we prefer the immersive approach," Fred said cheerfully. "Jump straight into the deep end and figure out how to swim before you drown."
"Or before you get expelled," George added pragmatically.
"Has anyone ever actually gotten expelled from Hogwarts?" MJ asked, looking up from a sketch that appeared to be capturing Lee's profile while he gazed out the window at the passing landscape.
"Rarely," Lee said thoughtfully. "You'd have to do something genuinely dangerous or deliberately malicious. Most professors are pretty understanding about student creativity, especially if you can demonstrate that whatever you did was educationally valuable."
"Define 'educationally valuable,'" Peter asked with scientific interest.
"Did you learn something new?" Fred suggested. "Did anyone else learn something new? Did the results contribute to the general advancement of magical knowledge or practical spell-work?"
"If yes to any of those questions, it's educational," George continued. "If yes to all of them, it's practically a public service."
"That's a remarkably optimistic interpretation of academic standards," Gwen observed.
"We prefer 'creatively constructive,'" the twins said in unison.
The compartment had settled into a comfortable rhythm now—conversation flowing easily between topics, everyone contributing their own perspectives and experiences, the natural chemistry that happened when the right group of people found each other at exactly the right time. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, casting everything in warm golden light that made even the most ordinary moments feel significant.
Outside, the Scottish landscape was becoming increasingly dramatic—rolling hills giving way to more rugged terrain, patches of forest that looked ancient and slightly mysterious, and the occasional glimpse of what might have been magical activity in the distance (though it was hard to tell if those were actually unusual phenomena or just the kind of ordinary countryside activity that seemed magical when viewed from a train window).
"So," Felicia said, breaking a comfortable lull in the conversation, "what House do you think you'll be sorted into?"
The question hung in the air for a moment, carrying the weight of something that had probably been on all their minds but hadn't been directly addressed yet.
"Gryffindor, probably," Fred said without hesitation. "Whole family's been Gryffindor for generations. Dad was, Mum was, all our older brothers—it's practically a family tradition at this point."
"Though to be fair," George added, "we haven't actually been sorted yet. The Hat makes the final decision, and apparently it sometimes surprises people."
"The Hat?" Peter asked with immediate curiosity. "Like, an actual hat? That makes decisions? How does that work exactly?"
"The Sorting Hat," Lee explained with the air of someone who'd grown up knowing these things were normal. "Ancient magical artifact that can read your personality, your potential, your values—basically everything that matters for determining which House would be the best fit for your educational and personal development."
"It talks," Fred added helpfully. "Actually holds conversations with you while it's making the decision. Some people get sorted immediately, others take a few minutes of deliberation."
"What if it can't decide?" Ned asked, Felix cycling through worried shades of yellow on the luggage rack. "Like, what if your personality doesn't fit neatly into any of the House categories?"
"That's called a Hatstall," George said seriously. "Takes more than five minutes of deliberation. Pretty rare, but it happens. Usually means you've got qualities that would work well in multiple Houses."
"Which would actually be a good thing," MJ observed, still sketching while listening to the conversation. "Means you're well-rounded instead of being narrowly defined by a single set of characteristics."
"True," Lee agreed. "Though most people prefer quick sorting. Less anxiety, less time sitting on a stool in front of the entire school while a magical hat debates your psychological profile."
"What are the Houses like?" Gwen asked, clearly preparing to take comprehensive notes about institutional culture and social organization. "I mean, I know the basic descriptions—brave, smart, loyal, ambitious—but what are they actually like to live in?"
"Gryffindor's loud," Fred said immediately. "Lots of energy, lots of passion, people who care deeply about things and aren't afraid to show it. Common room's always busy, lots of discussion and debate and friendly arguments about everything from Quidditch to politics."
"Ravenclaw's thoughtful," George continued. "Love learning for its own sake, always working on interesting projects, great conversations about basically any topic you can imagine. Their common room has the best view in the castle."
"Hufflepuff's warm," Lee added. "Really supportive community, people who believe in helping each other succeed, excellent at creating inclusive environments where everyone feels valued. Plus they're right next to the kitchens, so the food situation is optimal."
"And Slytherin's ambitious," Fred concluded. "Strategic thinkers, people who know what they want and aren't afraid to work for it, strong network connections that last long after graduation. They get a bad reputation sometimes, but most of them are just focused on success."
"They all sound pretty good," Felicia said thoughtfully. "Different approaches to the same basic goals—learning, growing, becoming the kind of person you want to be."
"Exactly," George said with approval. "The House system isn't about creating division—it's about putting you with people who think like you do, so you can challenge each other and learn from each other more effectively."
"Plus," Fred added with a grin, "inter-house competition keeps things interesting. Nothing like a good rivalry to motivate academic excellence and creative problem-solving."
"Speaking of creative problem-solving," MJ said, closing her sketchbook and giving the group her full attention, "what exactly are you two planning to do once you get to Hogwarts? Because I get the feeling you've got some kind of master plan."
The twins exchanged another look—this one lasting approximately three seconds and somehow conveying enough information to plan a small revolution.
"Learn everything we can," Fred said with simple honesty that was somehow more convincing than any elaborate explanation would have been.
"About magic, about the castle, about how everything works," George continued. "Knowledge is the foundation of all successful mischief."
"Plus," Fred added with renewed enthusiasm, "we want to leave our mark. Make sure that when we graduate, people remember Fred and George Weasley as the students who made Hogwarts a more interesting place."
"Ambitious," Peter said approvingly. "I like it. Though I have to ask—what kind of mark are we talking about? Academic achievement? Innovative spell-work? Spectacular pranks that become legendary?"
"All of the above," the twins said in unison.
"We're nothing if not comprehensive," Lee added with obvious fondness for his friends' approach to educational goal-setting.
The train was slowing slightly now, and through the window they could see increasingly dramatic landscape—mountains rising in the distance, forests that looked genuinely ancient, and streams that sparkled in the afternoon light like someone had scattered diamonds across the water. The magical world was beginning to feel real in a way that went beyond simple belief, settling into their bones like knowledge that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
"You know what?" Ned said suddenly, Felix cycling through decisive shades of bright blue, "I think we're going to have the best first year in Hogwarts history."
"Why?" Gwen asked, though she was smiling as she said it.
"Because," Ned continued with building excitement, "we've got Peter's scientific curiosity, MJ's artistic vision, Gwen's organizational skills, Felicia's strategic thinking, Fred and George's creative mischief expertise, and Lee's..." He paused, searching for the right description.
"Social coordination abilities," Lee supplied helpfully. "I'm good at making sure groups of people work together effectively instead of accidentally sabotaging each other."
"Exactly! Plus Felix provides emotional support and color commentary on everything that happens."
Felix squeaked proudly and cycled through rainbow colors that somehow managed to look smug.
"That's..." Peter paused, his analytical mind working through the implications of their combined skill sets. "That's actually a really comprehensive range of abilities. Academic excellence, creative problem-solving, strategic planning, social dynamics, artistic documentation, organizational management—"
"We're like a magical education dream team," MJ said with growing realization.
"The most overprepared first years in Hogwarts history," Gwen added.
"This is going to be legendary," Fred said with absolute certainty.
"Absolutely legendary," George agreed.
The train began to slow even more, and through the window they could see signs of their destination approaching—more magical activity, stranger landscapes, and in the distance, just visible through the evening mist that was beginning to rise from the valleys, something that looked like...
"Is that Hogwarts?" Felicia asked, pointing toward what appeared to be towers rising from a forested hillside, their windows glowing with warm light in the gathering dusk.
"That's Hogwarts," Lee confirmed with quiet satisfaction, as though he was personally responsible for the castle's existence and was pleased with how impressive it looked from a distance.
They all pressed closer to the window, eight faces reflected in the glass along with the magical landscape beyond, watching their destination grow larger and more real with each passing moment.
The adventure was about to begin.
—
The compartment door slid open again, but this time it revealed something far more magical than even three new friends—a plump, cheerful witch pushing a cart loaded with the most extraordinary collection of sweets any of them had ever seen.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?" she asked warmly, her voice carrying the kind of practiced cheer that came from years of making young witches and wizards happy with sugar and wonder.
Peter's eyes went wide as he took in the display. "Are those... are those chocolate frogs? Actual chocolate frogs? That move?"
"Oh yes, dear," the Trolley Lady beamed. "Fresh batch today. Though mind they don't hop away—they're quite clever, these ones."
Fred and George exchanged a quick glance that Gwen caught—the kind of look that suggested they wanted something but weren't entirely sure about the financial logistics. She'd noticed their robes were well-maintained but clearly hand-me-downs, and their trunks, while functional, had the lived-in appearance of items that had served multiple brothers.
"This is fascinating," MJ said, closing her sketchbook to examine the magical confections. "Candy that moves, changes, probably has entirely different properties from regular sweets. It's like edible art installation."
Felicia, who'd also picked up on the twins' hesitation, stepped forward with casual elegance. "You know what? This is a celebration. First day of magical education, new friends, the whole adventure ahead of us." She pulled out her money with the kind of easy confidence that made it seem completely natural. "Trolley Lady, could we get a selection of everything? I want to try it all."
"Felicia," Fred protested, "you don't need to—"
"Oh please," Felicia waved him off with a grin. "My dad always says experiences are the best investment. Consider it research into magical culture." She winked. "Plus, I have excellent taste in everything, so obviously I have excellent taste in new friends too. This is just proper celebration protocol."
Gwen smoothly stepped up beside her, adding her own money to the pile. "Academic research," she said with mock seriousness. "We need to understand the complete magical educational experience, and apparently that includes magical candy consumption. Very thorough preparation."
Lee grinned, clearly recognizing the diplomatic gift-giving happening. "You two are brilliant. Absolute naturals at Hogwarts social dynamics."
The Trolley Lady loaded them up with an impressive array: Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, Fizzing Whizzbees, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, and several items with names that sounded vaguely dangerous but deliciously tempting.
"Right then," George said, settling back into his seat with obvious gratitude and excitement, "prepare yourselves for magical candy education. First lesson: Chocolate Frogs."
"They only have one good jump in them," Fred explained, carefully opening his package, "so you've got to catch them quick. Plus, each one comes with a Famous Witch or Wizard card—collect the whole set if you're into that sort of thing."
Peter watched in fascination as his chocolate frog made a valiant leap toward the window before he managed to catch it. "The animation charms must be incredibly sophisticated," he mused. "Temporary magical consciousness in confectionery form—"
"Peter," everyone chorused.
"Right, sorry. Just... it's really cool chocolate," Peter grinned, taking a bite.
"Now for the real adventure," Lee said ominously, holding up a box of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans. "Fair warning—they mean every flavor. And some of them are genuinely horrible."
"How horrible?" Ned asked nervously, while Felix cycled through cautious yellow colors.
"Let's just say," Fred said with a wicked grin, "someone once got spinach, and it was actually one of the better options."
As they settled in to sample magical confections and share stories, the train continued its journey toward Hogwarts, carrying eight new friends toward adventures they couldn't yet imagine.
---
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