Then Caesar's gaze swept lightly over the thick volume of Selected Important Historical Events of the Twentieth Century in Hermione's arms, his tone so calm it betrayed no ripple:
"It's a good habit to like history. However, next time you're immersed in it, you should also spare a bit of attention for your surroundings."
Following his line of sight, Hermione lowered her eyes and only then realized how engrossed she had been in her book moments ago.
Her cheeks couldn't help but grow slightly warm. She instinctively hugged the book tighter, as if it could hide her hint of embarrassment.
"We really must thank you properly,"
Mrs. Granger stepped forward as well, her words filled with lingering fear and gratitude. "If it weren't for you, we probably wouldn't have even noticed the item was missing. And even if we had… it most likely would have been impossible to get it back."
"You're too kind." Caesar gave a slight nod, his gaze once again sweeping over Hermione seemingly inadvertently before shifting away.
This small interlude was soon drowned out by the greater anxiety permeating the train carriage.
The stagnation brought by the strike was like an invisible, damp, heavy blanket covering everyone.
Complaints, sighs, and the impatient cries of children mingled together. The air felt so oppressive it almost congealed.
People's attention shifted away from the brief "chase-the-thief" drama and was once again trapped in endless waiting.
Mr. and Mrs. Granger exchanged a glance, both seeing clear regret in the other's eyes.
"We shouldn't have come on this trip…" Mr. Granger muttered under his breath, rubbing his forehead.
The original plan had been so wonderful: taking advantage of Hermione's birthday, they would bring their history-obsessed daughter to Exeter to visit the newly excavated Ancient Roman ruins as a surprise.
Who would have thought that after rushing there eagerly, they would only be met with cold police tape and "No Entry" signs?
Returning disappointed was frustrating enough.
Nearly losing the heirloom pocket watch with its sentimental value was another blow.
And now they were pinned halfway by this sudden strike.
This chaotic, oppressive carriage made him long intensely for the peaceful afternoon last weekend — sunshine just right, a cup of rich coffee in hand, everything quiet and stable.
Unlike her parents' agitation, Hermione found it difficult to completely detach her attention from the figure by the window.
She occasionally stole glances, her gaze skimming over the noisy crowd before returning to the slender young man.
Caesar had, at some point, already returned to his seat by the window, as if the swift, leopard-like interception had never happened.
Now he simply sat quietly, turned slightly to watch the equally stationary scenery outside.
The dim daylight outlined the calm lines of his profile, standing apart from the surrounding restlessness.
A peculiar feeling — curiosity, gratitude, and a hint of ineffable inquisitiveness — lingered in Hermione's heart.
This young man's composure, which seemed beyond his years, was utterly different from anyone she knew.
That calmness in the face of danger.
Those crisp and efficient movements.
And his eyes.
Hermione recalled that when those eyes looked at her, at the thief, and even now at the scene outside the window,
they held a similar, almost detached clarity — as if he could see through surface chaos to the underlying threads beneath it.
Caesar could clearly feel that warm, inquisitive gaze landing on his back from time to time.
But he didn't turn around.
Instead, he used the slightly blurred reflection in the train window to observe the little girl clutching her book.
His fingertips tapped lightly on his knee, rhythmic and silent, as if calculating something — or simply passing time.
Time crawled slowly in the anxious atmosphere.
And the situation outside not only failed to ease, but took a sharp turn for the worse.
The railway workers' strike rally intensified.
What had been scattered complaints coalesced into a dense, dark mass of people, entrenched on both sides of the tracks and in the open space ahead near the station.
Signs stood like a forest, scrawled with rough lettering demanding wage increases and welfare protections.
Caesar's gaze calmly moved over the restless crowd, focusing further ahead.
There, negotiations had clearly reached a deadlock.
A well-dressed man who looked like an official was engaged in heated discussion with several worker representatives, his gestures frequent and forceful.
A moment later, the official shook his head sharply.
His face turned ashen.
He stopped persuading and retreated quickly.
What happened next made the pupils of everyone watching — including many passengers leaning against the windows — contract sharply.
The negotiator did not retreat behind police cars.
Instead, he withdrew into the ranks of a cavalry unit that had quietly assembled at some point, as if stepping out of a historical painting.
"So that's it…"
Understanding dawned on Caesar.
The corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly — a subtle curve between mockery and interest.
He recalled a historical moment from this era, described in textbooks with cold detachment.
After World War II, Britain, under Labour leadership, vigorously promoted nationalization and social welfare policies, attempting to build a cradle-to-grave security system.
But by the seventies, the specter of stagflation loomed over Europe and America.
Economic stagnation and inflation raged simultaneously.
Unemployment rose.
Government finances tightened.
When Margaret Thatcher entered Downing Street, she began sweeping austerity reforms.
The first to bear the brunt were the massive welfare expenditures seen as dragging down economic efficiency.
Conflicts erupted sharply.
The traditionally powerful British trade unions would not sit idly by while their rights were eroded.
Strike waves surged one after another.
And the response of the Iron Lady — besides negotiation and legal measures — at critical moments included a more direct display of power.
Simply put:
Suppression.
In the name of order.
Performing the act of crushing.
"Pssst—"
A faint, crisp sound rang in Caesar's ear, oddly pleasant against the rising clamor outside.
At some point, he had taken out a can of soda from his bag.
Hooking the pull-tab with his finger, he opened it easily.
Foam fizzed up immediately.
And at that very moment, he saw the officer wearing the royal insignia at the front of the cavalry line calmly swing his riding crop toward the dense crowd ahead.
The motion was not large.
But it was like pressing an invisible switch.
Instantly, the roaring protest seemed severed by a blade, collapsing into chaotic screams.
The first row of cavalry, like the tip of a wedge, embedded itself into the edge of the crowd without hesitation.
The impact came.
The crowd, which had tried to hold its ground, instantly lost order.
Shoving.
Trampling.
"They're going to kill people!"
"Run! Scatter!"
"Back! Get back!"
Panic spread like a virulent plague.
Survival instinct overwhelmed protest.
Some workers, trying to escape the advancing wall of steel and flesh, rushed desperately toward the nearest objects that seemed to offer shelter.
Such as these train carriages lying across the railway lines.
Chaos swept along the tracks like an uncontrolled tsunami.
"Bang! Bang! Crash—!"
Doors of various carriages were violently forced open as panic-stricken people forced their way inside, trying to use these steel shells as temporary refuge.