The deal was struck with a handshake that left Fred and George looking like they'd just won the Quidditch World Cup, inherited a dragon, and been told detention was cancelled forever.
"So, just to clarify," Fred said, clutching the heavy bag of Galleons as if it were a newborn Niffler with abandonment issues. "You fund the research, the development, and the inevitable hospital wing bail-outs..."
"...and we provide the results," George finished, grinning so wide his ears actually moved. "Alister, you are a gentleman, a scholar, and quite possibly the best thing to happen to this family since Dad made that flying car."
Alister answered with a smirk, standing up and brushing an imaginary speck of lint from his robes. "I expect a return on investment by your fifth year. And try not to get expelled before you invent the Portable Swamp. That one sounded promising."
"We wouldn't dream of it," the twins chorused, then paused. "Wait, expelled?"
Cho laughed, shaking her head as she stood to join him. "You're enabling them, you know. Molly is going to send you a Howler so loud it'll peel the paint off the Great Hall ceiling."
"I'll frame it," Alister replied smoothly, because of course he would. He gestured to the door. "Come on. I should check on Astra. I can't leave her alone with your brother for too long. Last I checked, he was explaining wizard's chess with the strategic depth of someone who thinks 'checkmate' is a type of biscuit."
The four of them—Alister, Cho, and the twins—spilled out into the corridor like a particularly well-dressed flood. The train was beginning to slow, the sky outside darkening to a deep, bruised purple as evening crept in. Lanterns flickered to life along the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that made everything look vaguely ominous and considerably more atmospheric.
They made their way back through the train, the twins flanking Alister like over-enthusiastic personal bodyguards who'd just been given expense accounts.
"So, your sister," George asked, dodging a second-year student who ran past like his robes were on fire. "Is she like you? Quiet? Terrifying? Prone to funding our entrepreneurial ventures?"
"She's... kinder," Alister said, his expression softening in a way that would've been touching if it wasn't immediately undercut by his next words. "But she has a temper. And she bites."
"Metaphorically?" Fred asked hopefully.
"We'll see."
As they neared the rear carriage, the ambient noise of the train was cut through by a sharp, drawling voice that could only belong to someone whose family tree was less of a tree and more of a telephone pole.
"...scruffy looking lot, aren't you? My father told me all the Weasleys have more children than they have brain cells. Which, judging by the hair, tracks."
Fred and George went rigid, their entire demeanor shifting like someone had flipped a switch labeled "PROTECTIVE BROTHER MODE."
"That voice," Fred growled with the kind of menace usually reserved for people who fold book pages instead of using bookmarks.
"Malfoy," George spat the name. "I've half a mind to turn his hair into actual ferrets."
"Save half for me," Fred muttered darkly.
They rounded the corner and stopped dead in a way that would've been comedic if the situation wasn't about to get very interesting.
The door to Astra's compartment was wide open like someone had forgotten what privacy was. Inside, Ron had dropped his Chocolate Frog and was standing up, his face achieving a shade of red. Hermione was on her feet too, bristling with the kind of righteous indignation that suggested she'd been reading up on exactly how many ways this was against school policy.
But blocking the doorway, like the punchable roadblock, were three boys.
In the center stood Draco Malfoy, all pointed features and family money, looking like someone had given a ferret a trust fund and delusions of grandeur. Flanking him were Crabbe and Goyle, two boys who looked less and less like students.
"You'll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter," Malfoy was saying, turning his cold grey eyes toward Astra with all the charm of a tax collector at a funeral. He held out one pale, aristocratic hand like he was bestowing a great honor. "You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
The air in the corridor grew heavy with tension.
Fred and George stepped forward as one, their wands dropping into their hands with identical, dangerous fluidity.
"That little ferret," Fred hissed, his eyes narrowing to slits. "I'm going to turn his nose into a—"
"I'll hex him so hard his grandchildren will be born dizzy and wondering why they can't walk straight," George added, actually taking a step toward the door with clear intent.
"Wait."
Alister's voice cut through the moment. He simply reached out and clamped a hand on each of the twins' shoulders with a tight grip.
"Alister, let go," George muttered, straining against the hold like a dog on a leash. "He's insulting our family genetics. That's a sacred hobby reserved only for us."
"I know," Alister said with a calm voice. He wasn't looking at the twins, nor at Malfoy. His gaze was fixed, on Astra.
Inside the compartment, Astra was staring at Malfoy's extended hand. Slowly, deliberately, she looked up at his face.
She didn't look scared.
"Look at her," Alister murmured to the twins, tightening his grip slightly when George tried to lunge forward again. "She doesn't need us to fight her battles."
"But—" George started, sounding genuinely distressed at the concept of not hexing someone who desperately deserved it.
"Watch," Alister commanded, his voice taking on the kind of authority that made it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Trust me. She can handle it."
Fred and George exchanged glances, then reluctantly settled into watchful positions, though their wands remained very pointedly in their hands.
Inside the compartment, the air seemed to crystallize.
"You're Draco Malfoy," she said, leaning back in her seat with studied casualness. "Alister told me about you."
Malfoy preened slightly, clearly taking this as a compliment.
"He said your family is the reason the Ministry had to invent the word 'lobbying' to avoid saying 'bribery in expensive robes.'"
The corridor erupted in barely suppressed sounds of glee. Ron made a noise like a choking owl that had just witnessed something beautiful. Hermione's jaw dropped so far it was in danger of hitting the floor. Behind Alister, Fred had to literally bite his fist to keep from cackling.
Malfoy's pale face flushed a violent, splotchy pink that clashed magnificently with his hair. "He—he said what? My father is—"
"Rich. Influential. Ancient," Astra recited, ticking the points off on her fingers with the mock seriousness. "Possibly related to half the portraits in the castle, definitely related to some questionable political decisions, and absolutely the sort of person who thinks a surname is a substitute for a personality."
She dropped her hand and met his gaze with sudden, piercing intensity that made Alister proud.
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks. And I don't need a guide who has to buy his friends." She gestured vaguely but unmistakably to Crabbe and Goyle, who looked confused about whether they should be offended.
In the corridor, George whispered reverently, "I want to adopt her."
"Get in line," Fred whispered back.
Malfoy's face was now doing interesting things with color, cycling through shades of red and white like a demented traffic light. "You'll pay for that, Potter!" he snarled, his face cracking into what could only be described as a pout. "Hand over the sweets. We're hungry, and I'm sure the Weasleys haven't seen sugar since the last century!"
It was, objectively, a terrible comeback. Even Crabbe looked disappointed.
Goyle, operating on what could generously be called instinct and accurately be called 'two brain cells fighting for third place,' reached toward the pile of Chocolate Frogs on the seat next to Ron.
Ron, to his credit, didn't hesitate. "Get off!"
What happened next would go down in Weasley family history as "That Time Scabbers Finally Did Something Useful".
Goyle let out a yell that could've shattered glass. Scabbers—Ron's fat, grey, perpetually useless rat—was hanging off Goyle's knuckle like a furry, vengeful ornament, his sharp little teeth sunk deep into the flesh with what could only be described as enthusiasm.
"GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!" Goyle shrieked, flailing his hand.
Crabbe and Malfoy stumbled backward as Goyle swung his hand wildly in increasingly frantic arcs. Scabbers held on with grim determination until he was sent flying into the window with a dull thud that made everyone wince.
"GO!" Malfoy shouted, looking genuinely panicked and more than a little disgusted. "JUST GO!"
But as they turned to flee the compartment in a tangle of robes and teenage humiliation, they ran face-first into what could only be described as a wall of "you done messed up."
Alister was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, blocking the exit with the kind of casual confidence. Fred and George stood behind him like matching bookends of menace, cracking their knuckles with identical, anticipatory grins. Cho watched from the side with the expression of someone enjoying dinner theater.
Malfoy froze mid-step. He looked up—and up—at Alister, as recognition dawned.
Every pureblood first-year knew about Alister Potter. The prodigy. The creator of memory metal. The person you absolutely did not want to antagonize if you had any sense of self-preservation.
Malfoy, evidently, was currently running on fumes in the self-preservation department.
"Going somewhere?" Alister asked, his voice silky smooth. His eyes, however, were cold enough to freeze fire.
"We—we were just leaving," Malfoy stammered, actually shrinking back.
"Excellent idea," Alister said pleasantly, not moving a single inch. "But a word of advice for your first year at Hogwarts, Mr. Malfoy: If you're going to threaten my sister, at least try to be a bit more original. The 'my father will hear about this' line is terribly overplayed. I've heard it from better villains in worse situations."
Malfoy looked like he'd been slapped with a wet fish.
Alister stepped aside, just enough to clear a narrow path of escape. "Run along now."
"Before the rat comes back for seconds," Fred added cheerfully, wiggling his fingers in a little wave.
"Or we do," George said, and he was not joking.
Malfoy didn't need to be told twice. He practically scrambled past them, his robes flapping, with Crabbe and Goyle stumbling after him like confused ducklings following the world's palest, most unfortunate duck.
Alister watched them go with the satisfaction of a job well done, then turned his attention back to the compartment.
Ron was busy checking on Scabbers, who appeared to have survived his brief career as a projectile with nothing more than a slightly dazed expression. Hermione was staring at Alister with wide, awestruck eyes like he'd just solved a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation.
Astra, however, was grinning.
"I told you," Alister said to the twins, stepping into the compartment and nodding approvingly at his sister. "She handles it."
"That," Fred said, clapping his hands together with genuine delight, "was brilliant."
"'I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself,'" George quoted, actually wiping a fake tear from his eye. "Poetry. Absolute poetry. We need to write that down. Frame it. Send it to the Daily Prophet."
Astra's bravado melted slightly into something sheepish. "I might have stolen most of those lines from you," she admitted to Alister, not quite meeting his eyes.
"I thought it sounded familiar," Alister said, reaching out to ruffle her hair as she swatted at his hand, but she was smiling.
He glanced at the others. "You alright, Weasley? Granger?"
"Fine," Ron squeaked, still cradling Scabbers like the rat was a war hero.
Hermione just nodded, still looking slightly starstruck.
"We're almost at Hogsmeade, Alister," Cho's voice cut in from the doorway. "We need to get back to our compartment to change into our robes."
Alister nodded, then looked at Astra one last time. "If Malfoy or anyone else comes back to bother you... well, you remember everything we practiced, don't you?"
Astra's eyes lit up with the kind of dangerous enthusiasm. "You said I wasn't allowed to use those spells at school."
Alister's smirk was wicked, matching the gleam in his green eyes perfectly. It was the kind of expression that made Fred and George look like amateur troublemakers. "Consider the ban lifted for special occasions. And Malfoy? He's a special occasion."
"Alister!" Hermione gasped, looking properly scandalized. "You can't encourage her to—"
"Welcome to Hogwarts, Granger," Alister interrupted smoothly, shooting her a wink.
He turned on his heel, his robes billowing dramatically (he'd definitely practiced that too), and strode back into the corridor.
Fred and George followed, already whispering excitedly about what spells Alister might have taught his sister and whether they could convince him to teach them.
Cho paused in the doorway, looking back at the first-years with an expression of fond exasperation. "For what it's worth, you handled that well. All of you." Her gaze landed on Ron's rat. "Even Scabbers."
Then she was gone, leaving first years to process what had just happened.
Ron was the first to break the silence. "Your brother is amazing," he said to Astra, still looking at the doorway.
"He's something," Astra agreed, flopping back in her seat with a grin, already planning how to use her newly lifted spell restrictions.
Hermione, ever practical, was already reaching for her bag. "We should really change into our robes. We'll be at Hogwarts soon and—" She paused, frowning at Astra. "What spells did he teach you, exactly?"
Astra's grin widened. "Wouldn't you like to know."
(END OF CHAPTER)
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MYTH: Christopher K Wright