Alan and Vivian exchanged a brief, knowing look before leaning back against the cool glass of the compartment window, silently watching the escalating drama unfold on the platform below.
"Do you honestly think they're going to start throwing hexes at each other right here in the station?" Vivian asked, her green eyes practically sparkling with the eager anticipation of someone who thoroughly enjoyed a good spectacle.
"Highly unlikely," Alan replied, his tone remaining perfectly level as his eyes scanned the perimeter. "Haven't you noticed the perimeter guards? The Aurors are already moving in to establish order and secure the sector."
Right on cue, the tense gathering was swiftly dispersed. Heavily cloaked Ministry Aurors, alerted by the rising shouts, forcefully pushed their way through the dense sea of students and parents. They efficiently separated the two hostile factions who had been aggressively shouting and seemingly preparing to draw their wands.
"Well, that was a massive letdown. I genuinely thought we were about to witness a proper duel. I didn't expect them to just stand there throwing empty threats at one another. How incredibly boring," Vivian sighed dramatically, watching the dispersing crowd with an expression of profound disappointment.
Alan looked at the young girl and couldn't help but internally compare her to a nosy theatergoer safely tucked away in a balcony seat. She seemed entirely content to sit back and watch the world burn purely for her own entertainment, completely detached from the very real, lethal consequences of the war playing out before them.
"So, changing the subject," Vivian began idly, drumming her fingers against her knee. "Which of the four houses do you think we'll actually be sorted into? Historically speaking, the main Bulstrode line almost exclusively ends up in Slytherin, so I'll more than likely be wearing green and silver by tonight."
"I am not particularly invested in the house rivalries," Alan responded pragmatically. "However, from a purely academic standpoint, Ravenclaw would definitely be the most optimal outcome. I've gathered intelligence that Ravenclaw possesses its own extensive, private library within its common room." For Alan, the priority was simply securing a quiet, highly resourced environment to advance his combat and theoretical studies.
"Ha! Honestly, just by looking at your incredibly serious face, I can tell Ravenclaw would suit you perfectly," Vivian laughed. "The absolute second you stepped into this compartment, you buried your nose straight into a textbook. Word in the high-society circles is that Ravenclaw students are all frighteningly intelligent."
"If you are indeed sorted into Slytherin, you will need to be exceedingly careful," Alan warned, his dark eyes locking onto hers to deliver a sincere, tactical caution. "The wizarding world is in a state of violent chaos right now. It is a well-documented fact that a significant number of radical purists who actively worship You-Know-Who operate directly out of the Slytherin house."
"That's not necessarily an absolute truth, you know," Vivian countered nonchalantly, waving her hand dismissively. "In reality, a substantial number of the ancient families sorted into Slytherin actively maintain a strict, politically neutral stance, precisely like the Bulstrodes do. Many of the older, wealthier patriarchs simply do not believe the Dark Lord has the logistical or political capability to win this war in the long run."
"Is their hesitation primarily due to Albus Dumbledore's presence on the board? I've repeatedly heard that he is considered the single greatest, most powerful wizard of our current era," Alan noted. He wasn't particularly invested in the internal political squabbles of Slytherin house, given that as a Muggle-born, the statistical probability of him being sorted into the snake pit was virtually zero anyway.
"It's far more complicated than just fearing Dumbledore," Vivian explained, leaning in closer to share another piece of confidential high-society gossip. "Our current patriarch firmly believes that the Dark Lord's fanatical pure-blood ideology is entirely too extreme to be sustainable. He's violently determined to eliminate all wizards of Muggle descent. But the deeply hidden, unspoken truth is that many of these so-called 'pure' families have extensive, highly profitable business dealings hidden within the Muggle world. Furthermore..." she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper, "many of these ancient pure-blood families have actually secretly intermarried with Muggles over the centuries. If they hadn't occasionally infused their bloodlines with fresh genetics, those ancient families would have completely died out from severe genetic stagnation a long time ago."
Alan's pragmatic, scientific mind had logically deduced this biological reality long ago. If isolated populations continually engaged in generations of severe inbreeding, the resulting offspring would inevitably suffer from crippling mental degradation or catastrophic physical defects.
"I strongly advise you not to loudly broadcast that specific biological theory while sitting in the Slytherin common room, or you will undoubtedly invite a massive amount of violent retaliation upon yourself," Alan noted dryly, genuinely speechless at how casually this young girl leaked explosive political secrets.
"Don't worry about me, Alan. I'm not entirely stupid," Vivian replied with a confident smirk.
Right at that moment, their intense political discussion was abruptly interrupted. A sharp, polite knock echoed against the sliding glass door of their compartment.
"Excuse me, do you mind if I squeeze in here with you two?" a young boy asked, offering a friendly, slightly nervous smile as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Every single one of the other compartments down the train is completely packed."
"Of course not, there is still plenty of space available in here. Please, come in," Alan offered politely, gesturing to the empty seats. A standard Hogwarts express compartment was designed to comfortably accommodate up to six students, so adding a third person wouldn't compromise their tactical spacing in the slightest. "What is your name? I am Alan Wilson, and this is Vivian Bulstrode."
"Charles," the new arrival introduced himself, his smile turning slightly shy. "My name is Charles McKinnon."
Alan quickly performed a visual threat assessment of the boy. Charles was notably tall—possibly even holding a slight height advantage over Alan himself—but his physical build was significantly leaner and lacked the dense, muscular conditioning Alan had forged over the years.
The absolute second the surname 'McKinnon' left the boy's lips, Vivian's light green eyes widened comically. She immediately began shooting Alan a series of intense, highly exaggerated winks from across the compartment. Her silent, frantic signaling was glaringly obvious: *This is a direct member of the exact same McKinnon family we were literally just watching argue on the platform.*
Alan shot Vivian a stern, warning glare, silently ordering her to maintain operational security and calm down. He smoothly stood up and utilized his wandless telekinesis to help Charles effortlessly levitate his heavy trunk up onto the overhead rack. The very moment Charles took his seat, Vivian enthusiastically launched into a barrage of friendly, rapid-fire small talk.
Thankfully, the conversation remained strictly confined to harmless, mundane icebreakers. Alan had harbored a very real, tactical fear that the gossipy Vivian would completely lack a conversational filter and directly ask the boy, *"So, was it your relatives who were just about to start a massive blood-feud brawl out there on the platform?"* Alan could only grimly imagine how suffocatingly awkward the atmosphere within the enclosed compartment would become for the remainder of the long journey if she dropped that conversational bomb.
"Hey, have either of you been keeping up with the news?" Vivian asked, dramatically pulling a crumpled, moving copy of *The Daily Prophet* from her robes and holding it out for the two boys to see. "Word on the street is that the current Minister for Magic, Harold Minchum, is on the verge of being forced to step down from office. Everyone in the high-society circles says he's accomplished absolutely nothing except blindly positioning more and more Dementors around Azkaban Prison. He's completely failed to stop the Dark Lord from rapidly amassing power. Recently, the Death Eaters have been growing increasingly brazen and rampant. I even heard a terrifying rumor that they actively ambushed Sirius Black right in the middle of Diagon Alley last month!"
*It was actually deep inside Knockturn Alley, not Diagon Alley,* Alan corrected internally, holding back a weary sigh. He was rapidly discovering that Vivian Bulstrode functioned exactly like a highly sensitive, albeit slightly inaccurate, intelligence-gathering radar. She seemed to possess fragmented, insider knowledge regarding virtually every single major political event occurring in the country. Her sheer connectivity and access to rumors meant she would be absolutely perfectly suited for a career as a ruthless, investigative gossip journalist in the future.
"A change in Ministry leadership is long, long overdue," Charles interjected. His previous shyness instantly vanished, replaced by a fierce, burning anger that hardened his features. He clearly harbored a deep, personal hatred for the terrorist faction. "Maintaining a purely passive, defensive strategy against these monsters will only lead to more needless, innocent casualties. Those damned Death Eaters are entirely ruthless, utilizing every dark, underhanded trick in the book to spread terror."
"Try not to let it consume you. Their rampant reign of terror won't last for much longer," Alan offered in a calm, surprisingly reassuring tone. Although his memories regarding the specific, detailed plotlines of the *Harry Potter* universe were heavily fragmented and blurred, his tactical mind still retained one absolutely crucial piece of overarching intelligence: the dark wizard Voldemort was destined to meet his catastrophic downfall shortly after the birth of the Potter child.
Charles McKinnon absorbed Alan's stoic words, clearly interpreting the statement as merely a polite attempt at friendly comfort rather than a factual prediction. He offered Alan a tight, awkward smile in return. "My family has always been firmly committed to actively fighting You-Know-Who's forces," Charles explained, his voice thick with frustration. "Several of my older relatives have proudly joined the Ministry Auror ranks. In fact, those cowardly Death Eaters specifically targeted and ambushed my uncle just a short while ago, brutally shattering one of his legs with a dark curse. He is still undergoing intensive magical rehabilitation at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He is absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain that one of the masked Death Eaters who viciously attacked him was a member of the Travers family. But the Ministry of Magic officially declared there was 'insufficient concrete evidence' to proceed and refused to even launch a formal investigation into the Travers estate. It is truly, sickeningly infuriating."
As Charles continued to bitterly vent his deep-seated frustrations regarding the severe incompetence of the Ministry and the cruelty of the Death Eaters, Alan's analytical mind rapidly processed the new intelligence. He logically deduced that the Ministry of Magic was severely compromised, likely suffering from massive internal political fracturing and heavily divided loyalties. This bureaucratic paralysis was exactly why the governing body was entirely failing to mount a unified, effective resistance against Voldemort's forces. It seemed highly probable that the impending, forced resignation of the current Minister for Magic was a direct consequence of this severe operational failure.
"That is absolutely terrible!" Vivian gasped, her green eyes wide with genuine disbelief and sympathy. "Your uncle literally looked the Death Eater in the eye while the crime was being committed, and the Aurors still couldn't secure an arrest warrant?"
"The harsh tactical reality is that the vast majority of active Death Eaters strictly utilize heavy, enchanted bone masks to conceal their identities during field operations," Alan interjected smoothly, explaining the cold military logistics to the sheltered girl. Having personally engaged in brutal, close-quarters combat with two fully masked Death Eaters, he understood the legal loophole perfectly. "From a purely legal standpoint, even if a victim can positively identify an attacker based on their voice, height, or specific spellcasting signature, without seeing their actual face, the Ministry simply doesn't have the actionable proof required to legally convict them in a court of law."
Charles nodded slowly, silently agreeing with Alan's grim but highly accurate assessment of the flawed legal system. However, the lanky boy couldn't help but shoot the stoic Muggle-born a curious, questioning glance, silently wondering exactly how a first-year student possessed such a deep, hardened understanding of Death Eater combat tactics.
Before Charles could voice his suspicions, a massive, shuddering jolt ran through the floorboards. With a sharp, piercing blast of the steam whistle, the heavy locomotive finally began to slowly pull away from the crowded platform.
"Finally, we're actually moving," Vivian muttered, dramatically slumping back against the plush velvet seat. "I overheard my grandfather say that this train ride takes several long, agonizing hours to actually reach the castle in Scotland."
*Several hours?* Alan's brow furrowed in genuine, tactical confusion. He simply couldn't comprehend the logistical reasoning behind this. In a highly advanced magical society that actively utilized instantaneous, teleportation-based travel networks like Apparition and Floo Powder, why on earth would they intentionally subject hundreds of students to a painfully slow, outdated, and highly vulnerable Muggle-style steam locomotive for an extended cross-country journey? Unable to deduce a logical strategic answer himself, Alan turned his intense gaze toward his two new companions and voiced his pragmatic question.