“So, Harry Potter is in here?” The compartment door was pushed open.
Draco Malfoy stood at the doorway, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, the two boys completely blocking the exit.
Ron’s face fell instantly.
Harry looked up, his hand still resting on the edge of his wand box.
Lynn didn’t move.
He leaned back in the corner, *One Hundred Wizarding Jokes* on his lap, flanked by pumpkin juice and half a box of Every Flavor Beans.
Perfect.
Fate’s classic show was beginning.
Malfoy swept his gaze across the compartment.
His eyes landed first on Ron, disgust practically written across his face; then swept over Lynn without stopping; and finally fixed on Harry.
“I heard you were in this car,” he said.
“I’m Draco Malfoy.” He put heavy emphasis on the surname “Malfoy.” Ron couldn’t help himself and let out a snicker.
Lynn counted mentally.
One.
Malfoy’s face darkened.
“Think my name is funny?” He glared at Ron.
“No need to ask who you are.
Red hair, hand-me-down robes, family can’t afford anything new.
You must be a Weasley.” Ron’s ears turned red.
Harry frowned.
Lynn shifted the box of Every Flavor Beans half an inch toward the edge of the table.
Two.
Ron shot back sharply, “At least I don’t go around announcing my surname everywhere, afraid people won’t know it.” Crabbe and Goyle squeezed forward a step.
The compartment suddenly felt cramped.
Malfoy ignored Ron and looked back at Harry.
“Potter, you’ll soon find out that some wizarding families are much better than others,” he said.
“You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort.” He extended a hand.
“I can help you there.” Lynn looked at the hand.
Clean, pale, fingers held rigid.
That wasn’t friendliness.
It was selection.
Malfoy was still just a spoiled young master raised poorly by his family, who hadn’t truly seen the cruelty of Dark wizards, yet had already learned the rules of pure-blood circles.
Sort people into ranks first.
Then decide who deserves to stand beside him.
Lynn didn’t speak.
This scene couldn’t be interrupted by him.
Harry had to choose for himself.
Certain paths, once walked by someone else on your behalf, would lose their flavor later on.
Harry looked at the hand without taking it.
Ron held his breath.
Malfoy’s smile froze.
Three.
Harry said, “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself.” His voice wasn’t loud.
But clear enough.
Malfoy’s hand hovered in midair.
Goyle froze, looking as if he had never expected anyone to refuse Malfoy.
Ron’s eyes lit up.
Lynn lowered his head and took a sip of pumpkin juice.
Solid.
The original path hadn’t deviated.
Harry was still Harry.
Lacking affection, but not judgment.
Malfoy pulled his hand back, his face sour.
“You’ll regret this, Potter,” he said.
“I thought you were a bit smarter than this bunch.” “He’s already plenty smart,” Ron snapped back instantly.
“At least he didn’t shake your hand.” Malfoy snapped his gaze toward him.
“Shut up, Weasley.” Ron opened his mouth to talk back, but Harry had already sat up straighter.
He didn’t stand up, but shifted his body slightly in front of Ron.
A subtle movement.
Malfoy saw it.
His anger could no longer be contained.
Lynn put down his pumpkin juice, his fingers touching the box of Every Flavor Beans.
Scabbers crouched under the rag scraps in the cage, motionless.
It was afraid too.
No, to be precise, it was afraid of Harry drawing more attention.
Malfoy stepped forward.
“Maybe you need to learn some manners.” Goyle raised his fist accordingly.
Ron stood halfway up.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Harry gripped his wand box too.
Too slow.
Goyle wasn’t fast, but the distance was too short.
If he actually swung, the compartment would descend into chaos.
Lynn didn’t like chaos.
If things got chaotic, Scabbers might run.
Harry and Malfoy’s first conflict would also become messy to handle.
So he moved.
No drawing his wand.
No incantations.
He simply acted as if jolted by the train, letting his elbow bump the edge of the table.
The box of Every Flavor Beans fell.
*Clack.* The corner of the box struck right beside Goyle’s ankle.
Goyle stumbled, his swing veering off target as he grabbed the doorframe in pain.
Lynn raised his head and looked toward the corridor.
“The trolley attendant’s coming.” His voice wasn’t loud.
Just enough for the three at the door to hear.
Malfoy’s expression flickered.
Crabbe instinctively looked back.
Ron looked too; seeing nothing, he only heard the distant rumble of a cart rolling over the carriage joints.
“You’re lying,” Malfoy gritted his teeth.
Lynn looked at him.
“Feel free to continue.
When someone asks, I’ll just say you brought two guys to block our door and tried to pick a fight on the train.” Malfoy glared at him.
This time, he finally looked at Lynn properly.
Lynn didn’t stand up, nor did he reach for his wand.
His tone was as casual as commenting on bad weather.
“Of course, you could always explain it as aristocratic etiquette.” He paused.
“Expressing friendship with your fists is certainly…
distinctive.” Ron almost burst out laughing, quickly biting his lip.
Harry looked at Lynn too, trying to hold back a smile.
Malfoy’s face grew even uglier.
He wasn’t afraid of arguments, nor was he afraid of threatening people.
But he was afraid of losing face.
Especially afraid of getting remembered by professors for a train fight before even starting school.
Lucius Malfoy could clean up plenty of messes for his son, but he wouldn’t like his son rushing in like a brainless brute.
Lynn could tell.
Malfoy was calculating.
Fight on, and even a win would look ugly.
Leave, lose face, but still save some dignity later.
That was the flaw of minor aristocrats.
Wanting to push people around while keeping up appearances.
As long as you pushed the situation toward being “uncouth,” they would retreat first instead.
Goyle looked down at the spilled beans by his feet, still rubbing his ankle.
Crabbe asked, “Draco?” Malfoy took a breath.
“We’re leaving.” Before leaving, he looked at Harry.
“Potter, you’d better remember today.” Harry said, “I will.” Malfoy turned to Lynn.
“And you.” Lynn nodded.
“I’ll remember too—especially the sacrifice of the Every Flavor Beans.” Ron finally let out a loud laugh.
Unable to save face, Malfoy stormed off with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
Students poked their heads out from the corridor, only to be glared back by him.
The compartment door closed again.
Ron slammed back into his seat.
“I really hate him,” he said.
“Even more than I thought.” Harry released his wand box and looked down at his hands.
“Why did he act like that right from the start?” “Because he’s a Malfoy,” Ron said.
“His family’s always thought they were better than everyone else.” Lynn bent down to pick up the box of Every Flavor Beans.
The corner was dented, and a few beans had spilled out.
He glanced casually at where Goyle had been standing.
Heavy footprints.
Slow movements, but quick to follow orders.
If he clashed with them in the future, he couldn’t let someone like that get close.
Before young wizards learned enough spells, raw size was sometimes more effective than a textbook.
Harry looked at Lynn.
“Thanks…
for earlier.” Lynn set the box back on the table.
“Thank the Every Flavor Beans.
They bore the main risk.” Ron looked down at the box.
“Was that really a coincidence just now?” Lynn raised his head.
“What else?
You think I calculated him lifting his foot, Goyle stepping forward, and the box falling right there?” Ron thought hard about it.
“No.
That’d be too ridiculous.” Harry nodded too.
“Yeah, a bit ridiculous.” Lynn didn’t explain.
Perfect.
A reasonable misunderstanding; keep it up.
He didn’t need Harry and Ron knowing too much.
A peer they just met lending a hand during a confrontation was enough.
Any more, and it would easily turn into suspicion.
Not to mention Peter Pettigrew, the gray handprint, and that unexpected memory echo on this train.
Lynn didn’t want to be the most conspicuous person around.
Ron was still complaining about Malfoy.
“He’s definitely going to Slytherin.
My brothers said that house produced a lot of Dark wizards.” Harry frowned.
“Is Slytherin necessarily bad?” Ron hesitated.
“Well, not everyone is…
but Malfoy definitely fits right in.” Lynn closed his book.
“A house isn’t a verdict.” He looked toward the door.
“Though some people work very hard to prove everyone right.” Ron froze for a moment, then nodded.
“That’s so true.
He’s exactly that type.” Harry said softly, “I don’t want to end up in the same house as him.” Lynn glanced at him.
That line matched up as well.
Harry would reject Slytherin, draw closer to Ron, and make his choice during the Sorting.
Lynn didn’t fan the flames, nor did he put them out.
That was enough.
The train continued north.
The compartment fell quiet for a while.
Ron pulled out an Every Flavor Bean, as if celebrating their minor victory just now.
The moment he popped it into his mouth, his expression changed.
Harry asked, “What flavor?” Ron swallowed with difficulty.
“Like an old sock soaked in pumpkin juice.” Lynn moved the box farther away toward his side.
“That box of candy just served with honor.
You shouldn’t speak of its remains like that.” Harry laughed out loud.
Ron wanted to smile too, but looked down at the cage.
“Hey, Scabbers was quiet as dead just now.” Inside the cage, the gray rat was still curled under the scrap rags.
The smile on Lynn’s face faded slightly.
Pettigrew hadn’t taken advantage of the chaos to run.
Which meant he was afraid of the outside, and afraid of being exposed.
Right now, he didn’t dare leave the protection of the Weasleys.
Controllable for now.
But the confrontation just now proved another point.
As long as Harry was around, trouble would find its way to the door.
Malfoy was only the first.
But by no means the last.
Lynn shouldn’t have sat in the Savior’s compartment in the first place.
But now he had.
Not by his own choice.
It was that gray handprint that pushed him here.
That was very wrong.
Lynn lowered his gaze, his fingers pressing against the hawthorn wand hidden in his sleeve.
The notebook’s warning wasn’t simply telling him to avoid Harry.
Rather, there was something wrong with this compartment itself.
The gray handprint was gone.
The door had returned to normal.
But disappearing didn’t mean it was over.