It's Time for Some Small-Scale Practical Applications

Just as the Golden Trio had preliminarily assembled and the atmosphere in the compartment was balanced on a delicate point of "awkwardness mixed with novelty, arguments blended with unity," with Harry and Ron studying Chocolate Frog cards and Hermione beginning to rattle off interesting excerpts from A History of Hogwarts, the already battered compartment door was, for the fifth time that afternoon and in the most discourteous manner yet, yanked open with a loud "whoosh."

This batch of visitors had far more swagger than the previous ones.

Leading them was a boy with platinum-blonde hair. Every single strand lay perfectly in place, gleaming with an expensive, cold light under the afternoon sun streaming through the window. His chin was tilted at a flawless angle, and his face wore an expression of haughty disdain mixed with boredom and pickiness, as if he hadn't come to ride a train but to inspect his own back garden.

Behind him, like ghosts, followed two lackeys built like overgrown calves.

They flanked him left and right, blocking the already narrow corridor solidly like two soulless stone door gods. Their faces were blank, but their dull eyes, full of pure physical intimidation, swept back and forth over everyone in the compartment like searchlights.

Draco Malfoy, along with his two personal "henchmen," Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, made their grand entrance.

"So it's true," Malfoy's drawling, lazy voice—the kind that instantly made you want to punch him—rang out in the small compartment. Every word dripped with undisguised mockery and superiority. "Everyone's saying Harry Potter is in this compartment. I came specifically to see if it's true."

His gaze lingered for a second on Harry's messy black hair and old clothes, then, as if spotting mud stuck to an expensive leather shoe, he deliberately and slowly swept his eyes over Ron beside him with undisguised disgust.

"Ha, that glaring red hair, the freckles all over, and those clothes... dug out of your father's wardrobe, are they?" Malfoy's lips curled into an extremely contemptuous sneer. He didn't even bother to look at the second-hand textbooks in Ron's hands. "No doubt about it, you must be a Weasley."

Ron's face flushed bright red instantly, like a boiled lobster. But this time, it wasn't from shyness or embarrassment—it was pure, public humiliation and rage. He clenched his fists, and the broken wand, wrapped round and round with shiny magical tape, creaked under the strain in his trembling hand.

Harry stood up immediately. Though he was shorter than Ron, he instinctively stepped in front of his friend, staring straight at Malfoy with a cold, fearless gaze. "Is there something you want?"

"Oh? Potter, I'm just kindly reminding you to be careful about who you make friends with." Malfoy completely ignored Harry's hostility, instead doubling down, speaking with the condescending air of an experienced aristocratic tutor instructing a country bumpkin. "You'll soon find that some wizarding families are naturally, inherently nobler than others. You don't want to hang out with 'the wrong sort' and drag down your own status, do you? In this regard, I, Draco Malfoy, can help you."

As he spoke, he extended a well-manicured hand, pale and delicate as a girl's, toward Harry, his face wearing an expression of charity that screamed, "I'm giving you a chance to hang with me—it's the greatest honor of your life."

Harry glanced at that clean, outstretched hand, then at Malfoy's insufferably smug face, and without a second thought, refused in the crispest, most decisive tone: "I think I can tell who the wrong sort is myself. Thank you."

Malfoy's smug, confident face froze instantly. He clearly hadn't expected that Harry Potter—this legendary figure raised in the wizarding world, who should understand "how things work"—would so mercilessly reject his "kindness" right in front of his lackeys.

His complexion cycled from white to red, then red to green, as colorful as a chameleon.

"I'd advise you to watch your mouth, Potter," he said slowly, withdrawing his hand. The laziness in his voice was gone, replaced by a cold, viperous venom. "Unless you want to end up like your stupid parents. They didn't know how to read the room either. Hanging around with Mudbloods and Weasleys never leads to anything good."

The word "Mudblood" made Hermione's face go pale as well.

And "your parents" lit a fire under both Harry and Ron.

"Say that again!" Ron finally snapped, rising like an angry lion cub, ready to draw his wand, which was liable to backfire at any moment.

Hermione also stood up, indignant. Though she might not fully grasp all the malice in Malfoy's words, she could feel it was a grave insult. "Hey! How can you talk like that! You should apologize to them!"

It looked like a three-on-three gang fight among Hogwarts first-years was about to erupt bloody in this poor, cramped compartment. Harry and Ron combined probably couldn't take on the other three—mainly because Crabbe and Goyle's mountain-like physiques were just too intimidating; just standing there made it hard to breathe.

Just as the tension was at its peak, the air ready to freeze solid.

Lin Yuan, who had been sitting quietly as if above it all, let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh.

He had really, truly just wanted to read in peace, study the basic laws of this world, and prepare thoroughly for the upcoming academic life.

After all, the path to immortality was long; every second should be spent on the great endeavor of "analyzing the world and making it my own."

Not watching a bunch of eleven-year-old brats play some childish aristocratic house game.

"What a hassle," Lin Yuan muttered to himself, but his face remained as calm as ever, wearing that "you do you, I'm just background" expression.

He slowly closed his copy of Standard Book of Spells.

"Looks like theoretical research will have to pause for now. Time for a little... practical application."