Malfoy felt as though he had just been looked down upon—dismissed, even—by someone using the very notion that he was unworthy of the Malfoy family name as a reason to belittle him.
This was something Malfoy could not tolerate.
"You're a wh—Gaunt?"
When Malfoy finally registered Luke's face, he blurted out his name in shock.
Luke noticed Malfoy's expression, the way he seemed ready to explode but held himself back, and a mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "If you had managed to finish that sentence properly, I might have thought a bit more of you."
Malfoy wanted to lash out, but he knew better. The boy in front of him was someone his father had warned him about multiple times before school started—someone he should be careful around and treat with respect.
"What gives you the right to say that?!" Malfoy demanded.
He knew he couldn't use his usual methods of intimidation. Luke Gaunt's bloodline was even more ancient and prestigious than his own.
Nor could he mock Luke with the kind of financial jabs he usually reserved for Ron Weasley, because Luke had recently made headlines after inheriting a massive fortune, a story heavily publicized by the goblins.
For a while, people speculated about how much gold was actually stored in the Gaunt family vault.
Then, one day, both the goblins and the press went quiet on the subject. Ordinary folks simply shrugged it off, moving on to the next bit of gossip, but the upper echelons of wizarding society, along with the Ministry of Magic, understood the weight of that silence.
What Malfoy knew for certain was that his father, Lucius Malfoy, had sent an invitation to Luke Gaunt's family over the summer, hoping to host him for dinner. That invitation had been politely declined.
Since then, Lucius had been unable to get a clear read on Luke's intentions.
Before sending Draco off to school, Lucius had one piece of advice: Do not provoke Luke Gaunt. It wouldn't be proper.
However, Luke didn't offer any further response to Malfoy. Instead, Luke merely shook his head with a disappointed sigh. "It seems you still don't understand what it means to be a true pureblood."
With that, Luke turned his back on Malfoy and started chatting with Harry and Ron, his tone warm and filled with subtle humor.
Students who had poked their heads out of their compartments to watch the spectacle quickly realized there was nothing more to see. With a sense of disappointment, they retreated back to their seats. Of course, some still shot Malfoy a mocking or disappointing look before doing so.
It was as though Malfoy had done something deeply shameful.
He noticed every one of those looks.
This left Malfoy feeling deeply wronged.
He had merely acted the way he always did, so why was he now the target of everyone's ridicule and disdain? This time, he was even the victim.
Beside him, Crabbe and Goyle stood dejectedly, like two defeated roosters.
Malfoy wanted to lash out at Luke, but his father's warnings, combined with the precise control of that flame curse Luke had cast earlier, made him realize that confronting him recklessly would be unwise. Malfoy knew better than to engage in a fight he couldn't win—that wasn't what he'd been taught.
With a glare at his sulking lackeys, he angrily tossed his head and stormed back to his compartment.
Luke watched him leave, once again shaking his head in disappointment.
Harry noticed Luke's reaction and, confused, asked, "Luke, why do you care so much about Malfoy? You look... almost disappointed."
Ron had a vague idea but knew that his family wasn't particularly interested in such matters, so his understanding was limited.
"I'm only disappointed in Draco's lack of character," Luke replied, his expression serious but with a hint of mockery in his eyes. "I can see his father's shadow in him."
Hermione, sensing that they were still being watched by others, sighed and said, "Gentlemen, if you don't mind, I think we should continue this conversation seated."
"Right! Let's sit down and talk!"
Harry agreed, gesturing toward his and Ron's compartment.
Hermione followed, curious to see what was the state of their compartment.
Ron trailed behind her, looking thoughtful.
As Luke watched the trio walk away, a genuine smile crossed his face, and he took a step forward to join them.
Suddenly, a thought struck him—he had forgotten something.
Where was Booker?
He looked down at his feet but saw no sign of his cat. Panic washed over him. Had he gotten distracted helping Neville look for his toad and lost his own cat in the process?
How would he explain this to Luna when he visited her over the summer?
Inside the compartment, Booker had pinned a large, plump rat beneath his sharp, firm claws, ready to sink his teeth into it.
Moments ago, Booker had caught the scent of food and snuck into the compartment. What he found delighted him: a pile of snacks. But it wasn't the snacks that excited him—it was the fat rat at the top of the pile, its head buried deep in a bag of treats, obliviously gorging itself. The clever, adorable, and agile Booker had already marked the rat as his next target.
Though the rat seemed odd—not like the ones he had encountered in the shop or those Luna had brought in for him and his fellow cats to play with—Booker figured, 'a rat's a rat, and rats are meant to be eaten'. Since he wasn't short on food at the moment, he thought he'd kill it first and bring it to Luke as a gift to brighten his day.
Just as Booker was about to bite down, a bloodcurdling scream pierced the air.
"AAAHHHH!!! SCABBERS!!!"
Luke's smile froze on his face. Now he knew where Booker had gone...
Hurriedly, he caught up with Ron and quickly scooped the startled Booker into his arms before the situation got worse. Turning to Ron, he offered an apology.
"Uh, sorry, Ron. This is my cat. He might've been a little hungry."
Luke didn't elaborate further, gently soothing both Ron and his cat while casting a sharp glance at the rat Ron was now holding tightly. There was a glimmer of something unusual in Luke's eyes.
He knew that rat wasn't just a rat.
But now, he had to think carefully. Did this little secret offer any value to him? Or, knowing this, what kind of leverage could he gain?
With an apologetic expression on his face, Luke's mind started racing with possibilities.
Meanwhile, the rat—Scabbers, or more accurately, Peter Pettigrew—was being squeezed so tightly by Ron that he was nearly suffocating. On top of that, a cold shiver of dread swept through him, far worse than the lack of air.