The Prisoners of Hogwarts

Chapter 353 My Journey on the Train (4.5K) (2/2)

It wasn't accompanied by the sounding of war horns, but rather as a gift of "trying to change".

A faint, almost self-deprecating smile lingered at the corner of his mouth for half a second before vanishing.

So be it.

Plans can never keep up with changes, especially when your opponent—or rather, this particular "ally"—is Albus Dumbledore.

There's no point in dwelling on sunk costs.

Importantly, the outcome is shifting in his favor, and the magnitude and timing of this shift are even better than his own plans, which still require time to develop.

The return of the wand will be brought forward, in a more formal and impeccable manner.

Dumbledore's proactive release of clear conciliatory signals opened up more room for future actions.

The unbreakable vow remains, but the work of breaking it is also progressing steadily.

Lin Qi's gaze returned from the void to his raised forearm.

The skin beneath the cuffs of his suit appeared normal, but he could almost "see" the invisible chains coiled there, formed from powerful magic, rooted in his blood and binding his soul. Dumbledore's act of returning the wand today was more like loosening a link in that chain, but far from touching the core lock.

"I'm sorry, Headmaster Dumbledore." A cold and clear thought, like a tempered steel needle, pierced through the complex sigh that had just arisen from the news about the wand.

"I don't have that much time to slowly play that game of 'gradually gaining your trust'."

Lynch understands, and even appreciates to some extent, Dumbledore's cautious approach of "gradually probing and limited opening up."

It was an almost instinctive defense and guidance strategy developed by a centenarian sage during his long career of struggle. But his path was never one of waiting for recognition or guidance. His timetable and his list of goals did not allow for such a slow and uncertain process of "building trust."

The return of the wand is an unexpected bonus, a strategic resource recovered ahead of schedule, which he will make good use of.

But Dumbledore was trying to use this as an opportunity to guide towards a deeper level of "mutual understanding" or "a new model of cooperation under constraints"—this was not the core of his plan.

He had already started the engine on another track.

Preparations to break that unbreakable oath never ceased because of the apparent "alliance," but instead accelerated in secret.

Dumbledore gave his "first step".

Lynch calmly accepted the gift, but it wouldn't change his already set course.

He will use this slightly more relaxed space to advance his agenda more efficiently. As for whether there will be future conflicts, or whether today's "easement" will be in vain, that is not a cost he needs to consider now.

You have your own pace, Principal.

Lynch lowered his arm, the cuffs drooping down to cover the seemingly ordinary skin again.

I have mine too.

Once the thoughts are clear and the pros and cons are weighed, the situation becomes clear.

The last trace of deep ripples in Lin Qi's eyes returned to absolute calm, a calmness that quickly archived the unexpected episode and refocused on the main course.

He slowly stood up, his movements without the slightest hesitation or pause.

The afternoon breeze ruffled his hair, and the distant city's hustle and bustle continued, but all of that seemed irrelevant to him.

He didn't look at the bench again, nor at the pigeons.

She simply straightened her cuffs slightly, as if brushing away a wisp of non-existent dust.

The next moment, the air made a soft "pop" sound, like a dream shattering.

The bench was now empty.

The startled pigeons took flight, stirring up a few fallen leaves that swirled in place before slowly drifting down.

It was as if no one had ever sat down there, and no one had ever sighed or chuckled, as the London twilight approached.

The roar of the steam engines and the clamor of the crowds blended into a familiar din on Platform 9¾ at King's Cross Station.

Harry dragged his suitcase through the seemingly solid wall and finally stepped onto the crimson floor of the Hogwarts Express. Finding an empty compartment, he placed Hedwig's cage on the luggage rack and sat down by the window. The feeling of confusion and slight frustration that had lingered in his heart since the end of summer vacation finally surfaced more clearly with the slight swaying of the train as it started to move.

He spent the rest of the summer vacation in his humble abode.

When the terrifying riots of the Quidditch World Cup took place that night—the Death Eaters' procession, the terrifying Dark Mark—the three of them were strictly ordered by Mrs. Weasley to remain in the tent, only able to hear the chaos outside until everything calmed down.

Although he was safe, the sense of powerlessness he felt facing unknown dangers through a canvas and the shock of hearing all sorts of horrifying rumors afterward still left a mark on his mind.

Upon returning to the humble abode, the atmosphere became tense.

Bill and Charlie both took time off from their work to rush back and confirm that their family was safe.

Mr. Weasley and Percy were almost never seen. They would go to the Ministry of Magic before dawn every day and return late at night exhausted, always talking about "emergency meetings," "progress in the manhunt," and "interrogations by the International Wizarding Federation."

The end of summer was shrouded in a busy and oppressive atmosphere, with the aftermath of an event still lingering.

What gave him some comfort was that Sirius Black had visited a few times.

The gloom in his godfather's eyes seemed to be somewhat diluted by a busy, lively energy. They would walk together in the fields near the Burrow, Sirius would ask him about his studies, listen to his trivial troubles, and occasionally recount anecdotes from his father's school days. Each meeting warmed Harry's heart.

But what disappointed him most was that whenever he suggested with anticipation, "Perhaps I could go to Number 12 Grimmauld Place? Even just for a day?", a fleeting, unnatural look would cross Sirius's face, before he would quickly change the subject or vaguely say, "It's not a suitable place to entertain guests right now, Harry. It's still—well, tidying up, yes, doing a thorough cleaning. Some things aren't quite safe—"

At first, Harry thought it was real.

The second time, he understood that it wasn't the house that was the problem; Sirius didn't want him to go.

Why?

Sirius had warmly invited me to live with him before, so why did I suddenly become unable to go?

A mixture of resentment and confusion stemming from a lack of complete acceptance gnawed at him. He looked into Sirius's eyes, which avoided his gaze, and ultimately didn't ask a third time. He told himself to be understanding; Sirius must have his reasons. Perhaps there were still dangerous dark magic artifacts in the Black family mansion, or perhaps the Ministry of Magic was monitoring him—he desperately tried to find excuses for his godfather, but the subtle pain and bewilderment of rejection still weighed heavily on his heart, becoming an unspeakable somber undertone in this seemingly lively summer vacation.

"Don't you find that strange?" Ron's voice interrupted Harry's somewhat dejected thoughts. He had just swallowed the last bite of pumpkin pie, but his brow was still furrowed, clearly not focused on the food.

"What is it?" Hermione looked up from her thick book, "A Revised Outline of the Medieval Codex of Magic," where she seemed to have spent the entire summer fascinated by various legal documents.

"Right on the platform," Ron said in a low voice, even though there were only the three of them in the box. "Bill put his arm around me and said, 'Guys, this year's Hogwarts might be especially fun. I'm even thinking of asking Gringotts for a few more days off to come back and see what's going on.' Charlie grinned beside him and said, 'You bet! If some of the traditional shows are back, that'll be amazing. I'll have to find a chance to sneak back and check them out too.'"

Harry recalled that when Bill and Charlie said those words, there was indeed a glint in their eyes that was different from usual.

It carried a hint of mystery and anticipation, not like a simple joke.

“That’s what they said, and it’s really funny,” Ron mimicked his brothers’ tone, “a traditional event,” “which doesn’t sound like they’re talking about ordinary student pranks or Quidditch matches.”

"That's certainly unusual," Hermione said thoughtfully, tapping a page with her fingertip. "Bill's been incredibly busy at Gringotts, especially lately; he's mentioned several times that the special item inventory is a demanding task. Charlie's been taking care of the dragons in Romania, so getting time off isn't easy for him either. And the fact that they both mentioned coming back specifically to see the excitement at Hogwarts"—this seemed more like an implication.

"What does it imply?" Harry asked, his personal annoyance temporarily replaced by curiosity. "Is something special going to happen at Hogwarts? What could be more exciting than the Quidditch World Cup? They haven't even come back for the Quidditch World Cup!"

"I don't know," Ron shook his head, his face a mixture of confusion and a hint of excitement from his brothers' mysterious attitude. "But they certainly wouldn't say that for no reason. I have a feeling—something big is about to happen."

The three looked at each other, unable to fathom the truth behind the older brothers' ambiguous words.

There was a moment of silence in the compartment, broken only by the regular clatter of the train.

"Oh well, we'll find out when we get to school anyway." Ron finally waved his hand, seemingly deciding to put aside what he couldn't figure out for the time being, and changed the subject, "Speaking of the Quidditch World Cup, do you think Viktor-Krum went back to his school after the World Cup? Next semester is his final year, right?"

"They should be heading back by now. Durmstrang and Hogwarts should start at the same time," Hermione interjected, her tone carrying a complex mix of emotions—a respect for other schools coupled with unease about some less pleasant rumors she knew about the school. While she found it unlikely that a school would openly teach Dark Arts, it had been mentioned in more than one book, so it wasn't just a baseless rumor.

"Durm-Strong?" Harry repeated, his pronunciation a little hesitant. It was the first time he'd heard the school's name. "What kind of place is that? Another magic school?" His eyes widened, suddenly realizing how little he knew about the rest of the wizarding world besides Hogwarts.

A school specifically for training wizards who know how to properly use their powers, Potter.

A drawn-out, familiar yet unpleasant voice suddenly cut in from the doorway of the private room.

Draco Malfoy was standing there, one hand on the doorframe, his pale face bearing a deliberately indifferent expression. He had clearly overheard their conversation outside.

"Located in Northern Europe, exact location confidential," Malfoy continued, suppressing his usual sharp sarcasm directed at Harry and the others, replacing it with an almost factual tone, which made him seem somewhat unnatural.

"They only accept pure-blood students, or at least—students with sufficiently strong backgrounds. My father once considered sending me there; the headmaster, Igor Karkaroff, is said to be very effective, teaching things far more practical than some of Hogwarts'—childish—methods. He emphasizes dueling and the application of power, rather than wasting time protecting Muggle property or studying mud..."

The origins of Muggles.

He glanced at Hermione's instantly flushed face and Ron's clenched fists, but unusually refrained from using the insulting word, instead somewhat abruptly steer the conversation back to Durmstrang itself: "Their students all wear blood-red robes, and the school is probably built in a castle or fortress, certainly not like here—some places are so loose. The fact that Krum has made it there at least shows they value truly talented people."

After saying this long speech, Malfoy seemed to have completed some task and shut his mouth. His gaze swept over the three people in the box—Harry was completely stunned, Ron had a mixture of anger and disbelief, and Hermione's face was full of doubt and wariness.

Crabbe and Gore peered out from behind him, their faces showing only utter bewilderment.

Damn it—Malfoy felt a surge of irritation.

If his father hadn't returned from the World Cup and solemnly ordered him to "stop those open, childish hostility, especially towards Porter, and maintain a friendly state—at least one where dialogue is possible," he wouldn't be standing here like a tour guide saying all this.

Malfoy felt a surge of frustration when he recalled his father's expression when he mentioned "the situation is complicated," "powerful figures," and "we need more eyes and ears, instead of making enemies everywhere."

It's already difficult enough to initiate a conversation with Porter, let alone have to provide information?

It felt like bowing down to Weasley.

But an order is an order.

Moreover, to be honest, what bothered him even more than this was that his mother, for some reason, fully supported his father's decision and strictly demanded that he get along well with Potter.

"Hmph," Malfoy snorted quickly to mask his inner turmoil and extreme unease, raising his chin even higher and glancing at the carriage ceiling. "Don't think I'm trying to be helpful in educating you, Potter. It's just pathetic that you don't even know such basic things. After all, for a—famous person—to act like a guy who just crawled out of a secluded cave is rather unsightly."

This additional "explanation" sounded dry and unconvincing, and only highlighted his insincerity.

He clearly realized this as well, and before Harry and the others could muster any effective response to this huge anomaly—whether it was angry shouting or pressing questions—he quickly took a step back.

"Let's go, there's nothing to see here," he said gruffly to his two henchmen, then hastily slammed the sliding door of the private room shut.

The footsteps faded quickly into the distance, carrying a sense of hasty retreat.

An eerie silence fell over the private room once again.

"—Was he possessed by something just now?" Ron finally found his voice, his tone filled with disbelief. "Or is this yet another new, incomprehensible form of insult?"

"The information is mostly correct, though clearly biased." Hermione bit her lip, her eyes sharp as she thought. "But why would he tell us this? It's completely out of character for Malfoy."

Harry shook his head, equally puzzled. Malfoy's awkward and half-baked "friendly" attitude made him feel more confused and uneasy than direct mockery.

Suddenly, a thought flashed through his mind: if he were to name anyone he knew who could make him do something so strange, it would definitely be Uncle Lin Qi!

After all, Malfoy's father had shown great respect to Uncle Lynch at the Quidditch World Cup box that day.