Encountering Trouble

Then, Caesar's gaze swept lightly over the thick book in Hermione's arms—Selected Important Historical Events of the 20th Century—his tone calm, betraying no ripple: "It's a good habit to like history. But next time you're immersed in it, you'd best spare some attention for your surroundings."

Hermione followed his line of sight and looked down, only then realizing how deeply absorbed she'd been in her reading. Her cheeks flushed faintly, and she instinctively hugged the book tighter, as if it could shield her from the slight embarrassment of the moment.

"We really must thank you properly," Mrs. Granger stepped forward as well, her voice thick with lingering fear and gratitude. "If it weren't for you, we might never have noticed the loss at all—and even if we had, we probably wouldn't have gotten it back."

"You're too kind." Caesar inclined his head slightly, his gaze brushing past Hermione once more with casual intent before shifting away.

This small interlude was soon swallowed by the greater anxiety permeating the carriage. The stagnation brought on by the strike settled like an invisible, damp blanket over everyone. Complaints, sighs, and the impatient cries of children mingled together, the air heavy and almost stagnant. People's attention drifted from the brief "chase and recovery" drama, sinking back into the endless wait.

The Grangers exchanged a glance, both reading clear regret on each other's faces. "We should never have come on this trip..." Mr. Granger muttered under his breath, rubbing his brow. The original plan had been so lovely: taking advantage of Hermione's birthday to bring his history-obsessed daughter to Exeter, to visit the newly excavated Roman ruins and surprise her. Who would have thought they'd arrive full of excitement, only to be met with cold barricades and "No Entry" signs? The disappointment of returning empty-handed was bad enough, and on the way back they'd nearly lost a meaningful family heirloom pocket watch. Now this sudden strike had stranded them halfway. This chaotic, stifling carriage made him long for that leisurely afternoon last weekend—sunlight streaming through the window at home, a cup of rich coffee in hand, the quiet peace of it all.

Unlike her parents' irritation, Hermione found it hard to tear her attention away from the figure by the window. She kept stealing glances, her gaze slipping through the noisy crowd to settle on that slender young man. Caesar had somehow already returned to his seat by the window, as if the swift, panther-like interception had never happened. Now he sat quietly, turned sideways to gaze at the equally still scenery outside, the dim light outlining his calm profile, a stark contrast to the restlessness around him. A strange feeling—a mix of curiosity, gratitude, and an indescribable urge to probe—lingered in Hermione's heart. This young man's composure, so far beyond his years, was unlike anyone she knew. That unflappable calm under pressure, those clean, decisive movements, and those eyes of his. As she recalled, those eyes, whether looking at her, at the thief, or now at the view outside, all carried a similar, almost detached clarity, as if he could see through the surface chaos to the threads beneath.

Caesar could clearly feel that probing gaze, warm with curiosity, occasionally landing on his back. But he didn't turn around. Instead, he used the faint reflection in the window to watch the blurry silhouette of the little girl clutching her book. His fingertips tapped lightly on his knee, rhythmic and silent, as if calculating something, or simply passing the time.

Time crawled on in the stifling heat, and the situation outside the window didn't ease—it took a sharp turn for the worse. The railway workers' strike rally grew more intense. Their scattered complaints coalesced into a dense, dark crowd, firmly occupying the tracks on both sides and the station square ahead. Placards stood tall, scrawled with crude letters demanding wage increases and welfare protections.

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Caesar's gaze passed over the restless crowd, calmly fixing on a point further away. There, a negotiation that had clearly reached an impasse was unfolding. He could see a man in a decent suit, looking like an official, arguing heatedly with several worker representatives, his gestures frequent and forceful. After a moment, the official shook his head violently, his face ashen, turned away, and stopped trying to persuade. Instead, he retreated quickly. What happened next made every passenger who happened to be watching—including many pressed against the windows—widen their eyes in shock. The negotiator didn't retreat behind the police car line everyone had expected, but into a cavalry formation that had silently assembled, as if stepping out of a history painting.

"So that's how it is..." Caesar understood, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly—a subtle arc between mockery and interest. He recalled a historical scene from this era, described in textbooks with a cool pen. After World War II, under Labour leadership, Britain aggressively pushed nationalization and social welfare policies, trying to build a "cradle to grave" safety net to appease the public and win votes. But by the 1970s, the specter of "stagflation" loomed over Europe and America—economic stagnation and inflation raging simultaneously, unemployment rising, government finances strained. By the time Mrs. Thatcher took charge of Downing Street, the neoliberal she championed began drastic austerity reforms, first targeting the bloated welfare spending seen as dragging down economic efficiency. Conflict erupted sharply. The traditionally powerful British unions would never sit idly by as their rights were cut. Strike waves surged one after another, from coal mines to railways, spreading nationwide. And the "Iron Lady's" response, beyond tough negotiations and legal measures, included, at critical moments, a more direct show of force—such as reviving and deploying a deterrent with a heavy historical stamp. Simply put, suppression. In the name of order, crushing everything beneath.

"Sss—" A faint, pleased crack sounded by Caesar's ear, contrasting with the muffled noise outside. He had somehow taken a can of Butterbeer from his luggage, hooked his finger through the ring pull, and opened it easily. Golden foam surged from the bottle's mouth, releasing a faint, sweet malt aroma. At that very moment, he saw the officer bearing the royal insignia at the front of the cavalry column raise his riding crop and, with calm finality, swing it toward the dense crowd ahead.

The movement was slight, yet it felt like an invisible switch had been flipped.

In an instant, the once-boiling tide of protest below was severed as if by a blade, plunging sharply into a chaotic, discordant roar.

The first rank of cavalry, like the tip of a wedge, drove into the edge of the crowd without the slightest hesitation.

The collision struck.

The crowd, which had been trying to hold its ground, shattered into disorder. Shoving and trampling became inevitable.

"They're going to kill us!"

"Run! Scatter!"

"Fall back! Fall back!"

Panic, like the most virulent plague, erupted among the masses. The instinct to survive overwhelmed every original purpose of the protest.

Some workers, desperate to escape the advancing wall of steel and flesh, began madly charging toward the nearest objects that seemed to offer shelter.

For instance, those silent, massive train carriages lying across the railway tracks.

Chaos, like an out-of-control tsunami, swept wildly along the rails.

Bang! Bang! Clatter—!

The doors of each carriage were violently forced open, and more terrified people squeezed inside with all their might, trying to use these steel shells as temporary sanctuaries.