Alastair's POV
"So," I said mildly, shutting the compartment door behind me.
"What's going on here?"
Fred and George stared at me.
Then they looked at each other.
Then back at me.
Then they grinned—wide, identical, and unmistakably intrigued.
"Oh," Fred said brightly, leaning back against the seat.
"Nothing at all."
"Just," George added, mirroring him perfectly,
"trying to figure out who you are."
"And how," Fred continued, ticking points off on his fingers, "you managed to make our mum hug you."
"And whether," George finished solemnly, "you can teach us that candy trick."
Blake, who had been sitting by the window trying very hard to pretend she wasn't listening, turned slowly to look at me.
Her eyes said: You are explaining everything. Now.
I raised an eyebrow.
Then smiled.
"Well," I said calmly, setting my bag down and taking the seat opposite them, "first—I'm Alastair."
Fred blinked.George blinked.
"…That's it?" Fred asked. "No dramatic pause? No titles?"
"Sorry to disappoint," I replied lightly.
"Huh," George muttered. "We were expecting at least three."
I continued before they could spiral.
"As for your mum—she was a close friend of my mother. A real one. The kind you trust with your life and your secrets."
Blake's posture softened immediately.
The twins stilled—not completely, but enough to show they were listening.
"And," I added, "she also asked me to keep an eye on two particular troublemakers."
Fred straightened.
George straightened.
"…Which two?" Fred asked innocently.
I smiled wider.
"And," I went on, "to send her letters about your shenanigans."
Silence.
Then—
Fred burst out laughing. George followed half a second later.
"Oh, we like you," Fred declared.
"Very much," George agreed. "But you're not getting anything interesting in writing."
Blake crossed her arms. "You underestimate how detailed he can be."
They both looked at her.
"…Are you on his side?" George asked.
"I live," Blake said flatly, "with him."
That shut them up.
For about three seconds.
Then George leaned forward again, eyes gleaming.
"Alright," he said. "Third point."
Fred snapped his fingers. "Candy."
I sighed quietly, but there was no real annoyance in it.
"Sure," I said. "I can teach you."
Both twins froze.
Blake blinked. "Wait—what?"
Fred gasped. "You hear that?"
George clutched his chest. "I think my heart just grew three sizes."
"But," I added smoothly, "why?"
They stared at me.
Fred opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. "Well—"
"You have literal magic," I said calmly. "Wands. Spells. Transfiguration. Charms. Why bother with a muggle trick?"
That actually made them pause.
George frowned thoughtfully. Fred tilted his head.
"…Because," George said slowly, "no one expects it."
Fred's grin returned—sharper now.
"And because," he added, "it works where magic isn't allowed."
I studied them for a moment.
Really studied them.
Beneath the jokes, the noise, the chaos—there was intelligence there. Sharp, inventive, endlessly curious.
Dangerous in the best possible way.
Blake was watching me now, too, clearly trying to decide whether she should be worried.
I chuckled.
"Fine," I said. "I'll teach you."
The twins practically vibrated.
"But," I continued, raising a finger, "only if you promise me one thing."
They leaned in.
Fred whispered dramatically, "Name it."
"You do not-" I said evenly,
"-use it to get cause trouble for Mrs.Weasly."
Their faces fell instantly.
"What about Percy?" George asked.
"Maybe."
"Ginny?"
"Absolutely not."
Fred sighed. "You're very restrictive."
"I'm alive," I replied. "That tends to make one cautious."
Blake laughed under her breath.
The train whistle sounded outside—long and loud—echoing through the platform.
The Hogwarts Express lurched slightly as it began to move.
We were on our way.
Fred stretched his arms behind his head.
"Well then, Alastair," he said cheerfully,
"looks like we're cabin mates."
George nodded. "And possibly co-conspirators."
Blake glanced at me. "I blame you."
I leaned back in my seat, feeling—oddly—at ease.
"Get used to it," I said lightly.
"This year is going to be… interesting."
Outside the window, London began to blur into countryside.
Inside the compartment, laughter rose—loud, chaotic, alive.
The rest of the journey to Hogwarts passed in a way I hadn't quite expected.
Peaceful.
No raised voices echoing down the corridors. No sneering comments about blood status. No haughty pureblood heirs posturing like peacocks the moment they spotted someone new.
If anything, the train felt… light.
Fred and George carried most of that weight themselves. They told stories—exaggerated, ridiculous, and clearly half-fabricated—about pranks gone wrong, pranks that should have gone wrong but mysteriously hadn't, and plans for pranks so ambitious they bordered on madness.
Blake laughed.
At first, it was cautious—polite smiles, small chuckles. But as the minutes passed, she leaned in more, asked questions, teased them back. Her eyes sparkled when George described turning Percy's ink permanently pink, and she nearly snorted when Fred swore it was an "educational experience."
They were jolly. Unrestrained. Warm in a way that didn't demand anything in return.
And slowly, Blake warmed to them.
I watched it happen from my seat by the window.
I didn't quite fit into that energy.
I answered questions when they were directed at me, smiled at the right moments, laughed when something was genuinely funny—but there was a gap between us. Not hostility. Just difference.
I was already thinking three steps ahead while they lived comfortably in the moment.
At some point, Fred flopped sideways onto the seat opposite Blake.
"So," he said casually, "We've done introductions, but not proper ones."
George nodded. "It's important. Builds trust."
Blake hesitated, then straightened slightly.
"I'm Blake," she said. "Blake Lyra Black."
The effect was immediate.
Fred froze.
George blinked.
Then both of them stared.
"…You," Fred said slowly, "are from the Black family?"
George leaned closer, squinting. "I thought there weren't any heirs."
Blake didn't flinch.
"There weren't," she said calmly. "Before me."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was stunned.
Fred leaned back. "Blimey."
George let out a low whistle. "That explains a lot."
Their attention turned to me almost in unison.
"And you?" George asked.
I sighed inwardly and decided there was no point delaying it.
"Alastair Caelum Salvius–P," I said.
This time, the reaction was louder.
Fred's mouth actually fell open.
George slapped the seat. "No wonder Mum hugged you!"
"She used to tell us stories," Fred added quickly, eyes bright. "About the Salvius family. And the P family. About how they didn't shout about power—but everyone listened anyway."
George nodded. "Proper old-school noble stuff."
I shrugged lightly. "Most people haven't spoken those names in years."
"Still," Fred said, grinning, "this cabin's getting very exclusive."
Blake rolled her eyes. "Don't let it go to your heads."
The stories continued after that—but something subtle shifted. There was no awkwardness, no distance, just… understanding. They didn't treat us differently. If anything, they treated us more openly, as if secrets had a way of smoothing rough edges.
Eventually, the countryside outside changed—rolling green hills replacing fields, lakes appearing in the distance like mirrors of sky.
"Alright," George announced, standing. "Robes on. First impressions and all that."
We changed quickly, black fabric settling over shoulders and sleeves. My adjusted robes moved exactly as intended—no drag, no restriction. Blake's flowed naturally, elegant without being stiff.
The train slowed.
A whistle echoed.
And then—
Hogsmeade Station.
We stepped down onto the platform, night air cool and crisp, the castle looming above us in the distance like something pulled straight from myth. Lights glimmered in its windows, reflected faintly in the dark waters below.
A familiar, booming voice cut through the chatter.
"First years! First years over here!"
Hagrid.
Gentle giant. Wild hair. Kind eyes.
He herded us together with practiced ease, lantern swinging as he led us down the path toward the lake.
Fred and George peeled off ahead, climbing into a boat with Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson, already laughing about who'd tip who into the water first.
Blake and I ended up in a different boat.
With Cedric Diggory.
And Adrian Pucey.
The boat rocked slightly as we settled in.
Cedric smiled easily. "First years?"
"Yes," Blake said.
"I'm Cedric," he offered. "Diggory."
"Blake," she replied. "And this is Alastair."
Adrian gave a polite nod. "Adrian Pucey."
Introductions passed smoothly.
My name barely registered for either of them—and I wasn't surprised. It had been years since Salvius or P had been spoken aloud in public. To them, it was just another surname.
But when Blake spoke again—
"Blake Lyra Black."
Cedric stiffened.
Just slightly.
His eyes widened a fraction before he recovered. "Black?"
Adrian reacted faster—and differently.
He straightened immediately, posture shifting into something more formal. Not cold. Not distant.
Respectful.
"The Black family has an heir," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Blake met his gaze without shrinking. "Yes."
Adrian inclined his head. "I hope Black family has a resurgence in your hands."
There was slight fear in his tone. No arrogance.
Just acknowledgment.
Cedric glanced between them, processing, then smiled again—this time a little more carefully. "Well. That's… unexpected."
The boats glided across the lake, the castle growing larger with every stroke of the oars.
Finally, we disembarked.
Stone steps.
Towering doors.
Torchlight flickering.
We were herded inside and arranged in rows.
The Great Hall doors loomed before us.
Somewhere beyond them waited four houses, ancient magic, and a ceremony that would define our first place in the wizarding world.
Blake stood beside me, shoulders squared, eyes steady.
I took a slow breath.
Whatever came next—We were ready.
The doors began to open.