Trouble

Then Caesar's gaze casually swept over the thick Selected Important Historical Events of the 20th Century in Hermione's arms. His voice was so calm it betrayed no emotion.

"Liking history is a good habit. Still, next time you get absorbed in a book, it's best to keep half an eye on your surroundings."

Hermione followed his gaze downward and only then realized how engrossed she had been in her book.

Her cheeks warmed slightly. She instinctively hugged the book a little tighter, as if it could hide some of her embarrassment.

"I really must thank you,"

Mrs. Granger stepped forward too, her words full of lingering fear and gratitude. "If it weren't for you, we might never have noticed anything was missing. And even if we had... we probably wouldn't have gotten it back."

"You're very kind." Caesar gave a slight nod. His gaze passed over Hermione once more, seemingly by chance, then moved away.

The small interruption was quickly swallowed up by the greater anxiety filling the carriage. The standstill caused by the strike hung over everyone like an invisible, heavy, damp blanket.

Complaints, sighs, and the impatient wails of children blended together. The air was so stifling it seemed almost frozen.

People's attention shifted from the brief "thief chase" to the endless wait that had trapped them all over again.

The Grangers exchanged a glance, each seeing unmistakable regret on the other's face.

"If only we hadn't come..." Mr. Granger muttered, rubbing his brow.

The original plan had been so lovely: for Hermione's birthday, they would take their daughter, who had always been fascinated by history, to Exeter to see the newly excavated Roman ruins and surprise her.

Who could have guessed that after rushing there full of excitement, all they would find were cold barricades and a "No Entry" sign?

The disappointing trip home had been miserable enough. Then they had nearly lost the family heirloom pocket watch, which held so many memories, and now this sudden strike had stranded them halfway to their destination.

The chaotic, stifling carriage made him long for last weekend's peaceful afternoon at home, when the sun had shone warmly and a rich cup of coffee had been waiting at his side.

Unlike her parents, Hermione couldn't quite tear her attention away from the figure by the window. Every so often, she stole a glance, her eyes skimming over the noisy crowd before settling again on the slender young man.

Caesar had returned to his window seat at some point, as if his swift, leopard-like interception had never happened.

Now he simply sat in silence, turned toward the motionless scenery outside. The dim daylight outlined his composed profile, setting him apart from all the commotion around him.

A strange feeling—part curiosity, part gratitude, and part something she couldn't quite put into words—lingered in Hermione's heart.

The young man's composure, far beyond his years, was unlike anything she had seen in anyone she knew.

His calm in the face of danger, his quick and decisive movements, and those eyes of his.

Thinking back, Hermione remembered how those eyes had looked at her, at the thief, and even at the view outside the window now.

They all held the same almost detached clarity, as if he could see straight through the surface and discern the tangled currents beneath.

Caesar could clearly feel the warm, inquisitive gaze that occasionally fell on his back.

But he didn't turn around. Instead, using the faint reflection in the window, he watched the indistinct figure of the little girl holding a book.

His fingertips tapped lightly on his knee, steady and soundless, as if he were calculating something—or simply passing the time.

Time crawled by in a haze of anxiety, while events outside the window grew worse instead of easing, taking a sudden turn for the worse.

The railway workers' strike rally was escalating.

Their scattered complaints had coalesced into a dense, dark crowd, which had taken up position along both sides of the tracks and in the open area ahead of the station.

Placards filled the air, their rough lettering demanding higher wages and guaranteed benefits.

Caesar's gaze passed over the restless crowd and settled calmly on the distance. There, negotiations were clearly at a deadlock.

He could see a neatly dressed man who looked like an official speaking heatedly with several worker representatives, his hands moving emphatically.

A moment later, the official shook his head sharply, his face livid. He turned away, no longer trying to persuade them, and quickly retreated.

The next sight made the eyes of everyone who happened to be watching—including many passengers leaning against the carriage windows—shrink with shock.

The negotiator didn't retreat behind a line of police cars, as everyone had expected. Instead, he withdrew into a cavalry unit that had silently formed at some point, as if it had stepped out of a historical painting.

"So that's how it is..." Caesar understood. The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly in a subtle expression somewhere between mockery and interest.

He recalled a historical episode unfolding in this era, one that textbooks had once described in cool, detached prose.

After World War II, under Labour Party leadership, Britain had vigorously pursued nationalization and social welfare policies, attempting to build a system of support "from cradle to grave" to appease the public and win votes.

But by the 1970s, the specter of stagflation had come to haunt Europe and America. Economic stagnation and inflation ravaged the country at the same time, unemployment rose, and government finances were stretched thin.

When Margaret Thatcher took up residence at Downing Street, she began sweeping austerity reforms in keeping with her neoliberal beliefs. The first to face the axe were the vast welfare expenditures seen as a drag on economic efficiency.

The conflict grew fierce. The powerful British unions were hardly going to sit by while their rights were stripped away. Strikes erupted one after another, spreading from the coal mines to the railways and across the country.

The "Iron Lady's" response went beyond tough negotiations and legal measures. At critical moments, she also resorted to a more direct show of force—reviving and employing a form of intimidation steeped in history.

In simple terms, it was suppression.

Crushing people in the name of order.

"Hiss—"

A faint, cheerful pop sounded beside Caesar's ear, in contrast to the distant clamor outside.

At some point, he had taken a bottle of Butterbeer from his luggage. Hooking a finger around the pull tab, he opened it with ease. Golden foam surged from the bottle, releasing a sweet, malty aroma.

At that very moment, he saw the officer bearing the royal insignia at the head of the cavalry line calmly and decisively swing his riding crop toward the dark mass of people.

The gesture was small, but it was as if an invisible switch had been flipped.

In an instant, the deafening roar of protest below seemed to be cut off at a stroke. It dropped sharply, dissolving into a noisy confusion.

The first rank of cavalry, like the point of a wedge, pushed without hesitation into the edge of the crowd.

The collision came.

The crowd, which had been trying to hold its ground, immediately lost all order. Shoving and trampling were unavoidable.

"They're going to kill us!"

"Run! Get out of here!"

"Back! Get back!"

Panic erupted through the crowd like the most virulent plague. The instinct to survive overwhelmed every reason they had come to protest.

Some of the workers, trying to escape the advancing wall of steel and flesh, began frantically rushing toward the nearest objects that seemed as if they might offer shelter.

For example, the silent, massive train carriages standing across the tracks.

The chaos swept along the railway like a tsunami out of control.

"Bang! Bang! Crash—!"

Doors on the train carriages were battered open. More terrified people desperately squeezed inside, trying to use the steel shells as temporary shelters.