Malfoy was holding a book with a dark purple cover featuring the silhouette of a black dog, and the title printed in silver lettering.
It is Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (Part 1).
The book was open; he held the spine with one hand and pressed the index finger of his other hand on a certain page.
Malfoy's gaze swept around the box before settling on Harry.
Harry was sitting on the floor, with Ron crouching beside him, supporting his arm. Harry's face was much paler than usual, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.
Malfoy's expression changed for a moment.
His slightly anxious expression froze for a moment, then instantly transformed into the arrogant look that Harry had known since the first year.
"Oh," Malfoy drawled, tilting the book in his hand to the side so the cover faced up.
" Potter." He spun the name on his tongue, as if he'd tasted something unpleasant. "I heard you fainted on the train?"
His tone was deliberately lighthearted, as if he were talking about something particularly ridiculous.
"Scared to death by a Dementor? Is that all the Chosen One is capable of? That thing can't even scare my cat."
Crabbe and Goyle let out two low, muffled laughs behind him, like two toads being choked.
Ron jumped to his feet, his hand already reaching for his wand.
Hermione reached out from behind and grabbed his wrist.
" Malfoy, what are you doing here?" Ron's voice was low, but every word was clearly laced with anger.
Malfoy ignored him.
His gaze shifted from Harry's face to Ron's, then back to Harry's, as if confirming something.
"It's nothing," Malfoy said in a nonchalant tone, closing the book and tucking it under his arm.
"I just came to take a look. After all, it's written very clearly in that book--"
He paused, as if considering his words.
" --Potter fainted, scared unconscious by the Dementor."
"I just wanted to confirm if what's written in the book is true." Malfoy turned back to look at Harry.
"It seems it really is true." He chuckled.
"You came all this way just to say this?" Hermione asked, her voice as cold as a lake in winter.
"Hmph, I just happened to be passing by and stopped by." Malfoy shrugged, turned around, and led Goyle and Crabbe out of the box.
The door closed behind him, and the private room was quiet for a moment.
"There's not a single good person in the Malfoy family," Ginny said, her voice low but her tone firm.
She stood behind Neville, arms crossed, staring at the doorway as if to confirm that the three men were really gone.
He never had any good intentions from beginning to end.
"Exactly." Ron was still standing there, his chest heaving, as if he hadn't swallowed his last breath.
"You really went all the way here just to see Harry make a fool of himself, that's something else."
Hermione didn't speak, but her face was also full of anger, clearly not believing that Malfoy's actions just now were anything but well-intentioned.
Harry leaned back in his seat and let out a long sigh.
He felt his strength returning little by little, as if something was slowly filling the hole in his body that had been emptied by the Dementor.
Ron sat down next to him, took his backpack off the shelf, and rummaged through it.
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked as he flipped through the pages.
"Much better," Harry said.
Just then, something moved in the side pocket of Ron's backpack.
The movement was very subtle, like something tiny inside struggling to crawl out.
Ron glanced down, then suddenly reached out and pressed down on the opening of the side pocket of his backpack.
" Scabbers!" He reached in and pulled out a drab gray mouse.
The mouse was very fat, almost round like a ball, with a bulging belly and dull gray fur that looked like it hadn't been properly groomed in a long time.
It was held in Ron's hand, its four legs kicking in the air, its left front paw missing a toe.
"Why are you running?" Ron put Scabbers on his lap and pressed his fingers against its back.
Scabbers's beard twitched, his small eyes darted around, and then he shrank back into Ron's hand, looking as if he had been frightened by something.
"It's all those Dementor' fault," Ron muttered irritably, "They scared Scabbers."
"It almost jumped out of the bag just now." He patted Scabbers's back with his thumb. "It's alright now, the Dementor is gone."
The Scabbers beard twitched again, then quieted down, nestled motionless in Ron's palm.
Harry looked at the fat mouse and felt it seemed more nervous than usual.
The train continued on its way, and the fields outside the window slowly receded in the afternoon sunlight.
Meanwhile, in another corner of Great Britain, a completely different kind of excitement was unfolding.
At the Diagon Alley, in a quiet alley that is usually deserted, a new bookstore has opened.
The bookstore wasn't large; the doors were dark brown, and a few old books were displayed in the window as decoration.
Above the door frame hangs a wooden sign with the words " Ferret Bookstore " engraved on it.
But this unassuming little bookstore had a long, winding queue outside.
The line stretched from the shop entrance all the way to the alley entrance, then turned a corner and continued for dozens of meters along the sidewalk of the main street.
The group included men, women, and children of all ages. Wizards dressed in robes of various colors clutched Galleon and craned their necks to look ahead.
"How much longer until it's my turn?" An old wizard in a worn robe stood on tiptoe, peering ahead.
"It's still early," the young witch in front of him said without turning her head. "You've only been in line for less than ten minutes, while I've been standing here for almost an hour."
Why is this bookstore suddenly so popular?
"You don't know?" The witch turned and looked at him as if he were a savage who had just come out of a cave.
"It's said that this store has ties to the Ministry of Magic, and they have a special supply channel in the Muggle world."
What channel?
"They're publishers from the Muggle side. They get their books directly from Muggle bookstores and then ship them here to sell. They're much more reliable than those unauthorized resellers."
"No wonder." The old wizard nodded, then lowered his voice and asked, "And the price?"
"It's a little more expensive than the original price, but much cheaper than those resellers."
The witch gestured forward with her chin, "And the books in this shop are guaranteed to be genuine, unlike some people who just pick up a random book from Muggle and call it ' Harry Potter '."
The line moved forward slowly, each movement causing a commotion.
"Don't push, don't push, I'm not going to run away," someone at the front of the line shouted back.
"Who pushed you? It was the person behind me who pushed me!" the person behind immediately retorted.
Such conversations echoed throughout the group, but no one got angry.
Meanwhile, the Leaky Cauldron was already packed with people.
Tom stood behind the bar, watching the wizards walk in carrying books with brand-new purple covers, his expression a mix of helplessness and habit.
"Are you here to drink or to read?" he muttered.
By the window, a young wizard was engrossed in reading " The Prisoner of Azkaban," his hot tea beside him having gone quite cold, but he didn't even glance at it.
At the table next to them, two witches huddled together, looking at the same book. Their heads were almost touching, and they would occasionally point to a line on a page.
"Look at this part," one of them said, " Harry... he actually—"
"Don't say it!" another quickly covered her mouth. "I haven't seen that area yet!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry."
Further inside, in the corner, three people sat around a large table with a book open on it, all three pairs of eyes fixed on the book.
" Firebolt!" the man on the left whispered.
"The world's best flying broomstick! Someone sent Harry a Firebolt!"
"Who sent it?" the woman next to him asked.
"It wasn't mentioned in the book; it only said it arrived around Christmas time, and it wasn't signed."
"Could it have been sent by Black?"
"I don't know, but Hermione seems to suspect so."
"Very likely." The older wizard on the right raised his glass and took a sip. "It just doesn't make sense that an escaped convict would give that boy a broom."
"But what if it's not him?"
"Who else could it be? Dumbledore?"