“An empty compartment wouldn’t knock on its own, would it?” Ron’s hand hovered in front of the handle.
Harry dragged his trunk forward, looked at the door, then turned back to Lynn.
“Maybe someone’s inside?” “Someone knocking without saying a word?” Ron muttered.
“That sounds more like something Fred and George would do.” Lynn stared at the faint gray handprint on the doorframe.
Five slender fingers, a broken line across the palm.
The Prince remnants had mentioned something similar: the Memory Echo Placement Technique.
Compressing an emotion into an object, waiting for a person to touch it and trigger the effect.
In the original story, Harry shouldn’t have encountered this on the train.
Either it had always been there, unnoticed, or after Lynn inherited Vault Seven of the Prince family, someone had pulled trouble onto this very train.
“Didn’t you just say Scabbers was over here?” Ron asked.
“I said it was possible.” “Is there a big difference?” “On the Hogwarts Express, it’s best to take every word literally.” Lynn took a step forward, blocking Ron.
Harry reached into his pocket for his wand.
“You think there’s something wrong with this door?” “I think for your first day going to school, it’s best not to open a door that knocks on its own,” Lynn said, looking at Ron.
“Of course, if that’s a Weasley family tradition, you can pretend I didn’t say anything.” Ron immediately shook his head.
“No way.
Our family tradition is getting tricked by the twins into opening doors, only to end up with feathers growing out of our faces.” Harry let out a small chuckle, relaxing slightly.
“Should we find another one?” “Sure.” Lynn answered quickly.
Yet just as Harry hauled his trunk, another knock sounded from inside the compartment.
Closer and clearer this time.
Ron drew his hand back.
“I fully support finding another one now.” Harry, however, didn’t budge.
“What if someone’s really inside?” Ron looked at him.
“Trapped in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express?” “I don’t know.” Harry pressed his lips together.
“But if someone needs help, wouldn’t it be wrong for us to just walk away?” Lynn cast a glance at him.
This wasn’t mere bravery.
Harry had only just left Privet Drive.
He knew better than anyone what it felt like to be behind a door while no one opened it.
That was why he paused.
And why, if such a trap latched onto him, it would be all the more troublesome.
“Mr.
Potter, do you have a wand?” Harry pulled out his holly wand.
“Yes.” “Do you know how to use it?” Harry hesitated.
“Not yet.” Ron raised his worn-out wand.
“I know a bit.
Fred taught me a spell.” “What does it do?” “Turns a rat yellow.” Even Ron sounded unconfident.
“Never worked, though.” Lynn nodded.
“Situation clear.
Two bold enough to open the door, one who vaguely knows better.” “So?” Harry asked.
“So I’ll do it.” Lynn grasped the handle.
“Lest bravery and family tradition send us all to the hospital wing.” Ron protested, “I just wasn’t ready!” “If you were ready, it might be even more dangerous.” Harry watched him.
“Are you sure?” “I have no interest in danger.” Lynn pressed his palm against the door handle.
“I just want to know why danger insists on sitting in this compartment.” The gray handprint slid down the frame, wrapping toward his fingertips.
Lynn didn’t pull back.
He calmed his mental focus, observing without directly clashing.
The entity was stuffed with irritation, fear, resentment, and a severed residue of memory.
It wasn’t meant to kill; rather, it seemed designed to drag out the absolute worst feelings trapped within a victim’s heart.
An ordinary first-year might suffer a bad nightmare at most.
Not Harry.
He carried old scars, lingering traces of Dark Magic, and the tightly wound trauma left by the Dursleys.
If that residual malice latched onto him, the consequence wouldn’t just be a mild headache.
The thing might not have been targeted at Harry specifically.
Yet Harry had almost been the first person to touch the door.
Lynn blanketed the handle with his mental energy, isolating the gray handprint.
Following the cracks in that emotion cluster, he gradually smoothed away its chaos.
He didn’t destroy it.
He simply made it forget why it was supposed to grab anyone.
The gray handprint shrank back to the frame; the broken line on its palm flared briefly, then dimmed out.
A trace of chill seeped into Lynn’s palm.
Instead of shaking it off, he sealed it with his mental shield and suppressed it to the edge of his consciousness.
Hold onto it for now.
Once at Hogwarts, he would consult books to unravel it.
Ron was fidgeting anxiously.
“Maybe we should get my brother.
Percy’s a prefect—he’s dead annoying, but at least he acts like he knows what he’s doing.” “Or ask someone on the train?” Harry suggested.
Lynn turned the handle.
“Too late.” Ron blinked.
“Too late for what?” “I’ve already opened it.” The compartment door slid open.
Nobody inside.
Worn seats, a small table, windows, luggage racks—everything normal.
No trapped students, no dark wizards.
Ron poked his head in, looking around for a long moment before breathing a sigh of relief.
“Blimey, that scared the life out of me.” Harry was still staring at the door.
“What about the knocking, then?” “Probably just the carriage joints,” Ron offered right away.
“My brother said this train is ancient.
Old things always creak and bang by themselves.” Lynn asked, “Which brother?” Ron choked up.
“If it was Percy, that might be believable.” “And if it was Fred and George?” “Then I ought to check under the seats for fireworks.” Harry let out a laugh.
The gray handprint on the frame had vanished, leaving behind only specks of dust.
Lynn withdrew his hand, the cool sensation lingering on his palm.
The notebook had warned him not to sit in the Savior’s compartment.
Evidently, the warning had been spot on.
However, now that he had touched the trap himself, staying away wouldn’t necessarily guarantee safety.
Remaining here would at least let him see clearly who reached out next.
Ron hauled his trunk inside.
“Well, since nobody’s here, let’s take this one.
Harry?” Harry looked at Lynn.
“Do you want to join us?” “If you don’t mind.” Lynn pushed his trunk into the compartment and took a seat by the window.
From here, he could watch the reflection in the corridor glass while keeping an eye on the door.
Harry helped him set down his owl cage.
“What’s your name?” “Lynn Grey.” “Harry Potter.” Harry waited after speaking, expecting Lynn’s expression to change.
Lynn simply nodded.
“I know.” Ron chimed in, “Who doesn’t?” An awkward look washed over Harry’s face.
Lynn sat down and slipped the brass compass into his pocket.
“Knowing a name isn’t the same as knowing a person.
For instance, I know the Weasleys have twin brothers, but that doesn’t mean I can tell who’s who.” Ron brightened immediately.
“That’s completely normal—even Mum gets them mixed up sometimes!” Harry’s awkwardness dissipated smoothly.
The train chugged to life, and the platform began pulling back.
Ron pressed against the window, waving energetically.
“Mum!
Ginny!
I’ll write!” Harry sat without moving.
He had no one to wave to.
Lynn noticed, but remained silent.
Comfort delivered at the wrong moment only served as an unwelcome reminder.
Ron pulled back into his seat, tugging at the frayed edges of his sleeves.
“Did your parents come see you off too?” “To the outside of the wall,” Lynn said.
“My father seriously considered using a frying pan to test the entrance.” Ron asked at once, “A frying pan?
Is he a Muggle?” “Yes.” Harry asked, “No wizards in your family?” “There were,” Lynn replied succinctly.
“The line was broken for a long time.
So my family’s understanding of the magical world is probably on par with your knowledge of Muggle subways.” Ron looked blank.
“What’s a Muggle subway?” Harry explained, “A kind of train that runs underground.” Ron’s eyes widened.
“Underground?
Why would they put trains underground?” “Probably because the sky is already full of owls,” Lynn remarked.
Ron thought about it seriously for a moment.
“Makes sense.” A short while later, a round-faced boy holding an empty toad box passed by, nearly in tears.
“Have you seen a toad anywhere?
Named Trevor.” Ron shook his head.
“No.” Harry said, “Sorry, no.” Lynn cast an eye over the empty container.
“If it wants to live until the Welcoming Feast, it had better steer clear of the trolley cart.” The round-faced boy froze.
“Why?” “First-years can easily confuse things that hop with sweets.” The boy looked even more devastated.
Harry quickly piped up, “He’s joking!
We’ll tell you if we see it.” The boy nodded, hugging his box as he hurried away.
Ron lowered his voice.
“You sure have a way with comforting people.” “I’m good at making people forget why they were upset in the first place.” Harry glanced down the corridor.
“Maybe we should help him look for it.” Ron instantly began checking his pockets and rummaging through his trunk.
“Hang on, let me make sure Scabbers is still here first.
He was here a minute ago.” Lynn looked at the battered cage.
Here it comes.
Scabbers.
Peter Pettigrew.
Lynn knew exactly who the rat was.
The issue was never whether it was Pettigrew, but whether Pettigrew had realized that an unexpected intruder was sitting in the compartment.
Ron complained while rummaging, “Scabbers is Percy’s old rat.
He’s really old, useless for anything besides sleeping and eating.” “Does he run off?” Harry asked.
“Not usually.
He’s too lazy to run.” At last, Ron pulled a fat gray rat out of his robe pocket.
“Found him!” The rat sprawled across his hand, missing a toe, its fur dull and scruffy.
Harry leaned in close.
“He doesn’t look very lively.” “He’s always like this,” Ron said, putting it back in the cage.
“Sometimes I wonder if he’s not old, just too lazy to be alive.” Lynn stared at Scabbers.
Scabbers gave him a brief glance, then quickly ducked his head.
That tiny reaction was enough.
It was hiding.
Not the dull apathy of a pet toward a stranger, but a long-hidden man gauging how close danger was drawing.
Lynn wasn’t surprised.
He merely confirmed one thing: Pettigrew was alert and had already sensed that something was off about him.
“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.
“Nothing.” Ron shoved the cage toward the middle of the table.
“Do you think he’s really ugly too?” “Not particularly ugly,” Lynn said evenly.
“He just looks like he has a lot of stories.” Scabbers shrank back into the rags.
Ron glanced at the rat.
“Him?
Stories?” “Who knows,” Lynn looked out the window.
“Things that live too long always harbor secrets others would rather not know.” Scabbers didn’t move again.
Good.
It understood.
Lynn suppressed the trace of chill in his palm while committing Scabbers’ reaction to memory.
He couldn’t expose him.
No evidence, no means, no standing.
A first-year pointing at the Weasleys’ pet rat and claiming it was a wizard missing for years would only drag himself center stage.
He didn’t need to shout out the truth.
He needed to make the truth into something no one could deny.
Another knock sounded on the compartment door.
Normal this time.
A girl’s voice drifted in: “Excuse me, has anyone seen a toad?”