In 1987, a new image format called GIF was created.
It allowed for animated images—essentially, moving pictures. In effect, it worked much like the cards that came with Chocolate Frogs.
By 1989, the format was updated to support real animation, making it, in some ways, even more advanced than the moving portraits in the wizarding world.
Sherlock's explanation left Harry and Ron once again stunned by the sheer breadth of his knowledge.
They exchanged a glance, both thinking the same thing: This guy knows everything.
But this was just a minor tangent.
Thanks to the Chocolate Frogs, Sherlock and Harry now had not only Dumbledore's card, but also those of Morgana, Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin himself.
Their luck was uncanny—each had even managed to draw a rare SSR card.
Ron was very envious.
These cards were practically a form of currency among Hogwarts students—some were so valuable they could be traded for a week's worth of homework.
Sherlock fell silent, a thoughtful look on his face.
It seems, in this regard, magical schools aren't that different from Muggle ones.
Ron then moved on to warn them about another iconic treat: Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.
"Every flavour really means every flavour," he explained seriously.
Sure, there were the usual tastes like chocolate, mint, and orange marmalade…
But there were also flavors like leather, paint, and dirt—things that had no business being in a jelly bean.
Worse still, you might even get a truly revolting one like bogey, earwax… or worse.
Sherlock paused in thought. With enough food science, even Muggles could probably make something like this… but honestly, why would they want to?
Still, the idea that magic and science might collide in such bizarre ways fascinated him.
As Harry screwed up his courage to try a strange grey bean that even Ron refused to touch, the compartment door slid open again.
This time, three boys stepped in.
The one in the center had pale blond hair, fine features, and a narrow chin. His face was rather pallid, but he stood tall and composed.
Flanking him were two burly, rough-looking boys—one tall, one short. They weren't much to look at, but both were solidly built, almost like bodyguards.
Their presence only made the central boy appear more refined by comparison. Even his sickly complexion seemed less obvious.
Like Sherlock, he had gray eyes.
Sherlock took one glance and knew who he was.
The Malfoy family.
Like the Weasleys, the Malfoys had a distinctive hair color—only theirs was platinum blond, not red.
Both families belonged to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the traditional pure-blood wizarding families of Britain.
And as it turned out, Sherlock wasn't the only one who recognized him.
Noticing Harry and Ron's reaction, Sherlock turned toward Harry in mild surprise.
"You know him?"
It made sense for Ron to recognize a fellow pure-blood family name.
But Harry?
Harry was just as puzzled. He wasn't sure how Sherlock had figured that out, but he nodded all the same.
Yes, he did know the pale boy with the blond hair.
They'd met briefly at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, back in Diagon Alley.
Harry hadn't liked him much—the boy had spoken arrogantly and belittled Hagrid.
And Hagrid, after all, had been Harry's first real friend.
The blond boy stepped forward.
"Everyone's been talking—saying Harry Potter is in this compartment."
Clearly, he recognized Harry from their earlier encounter, and now studied him with far more interest than before.
"So it is you, then, isn't it?"
Harry gave a slight nod, more instinct than thought.
Seeing that this was someone Harry already knew, Sherlock chose not to interfere.
But then, the blond boy's eyes swept the compartment—and stopped on Sherlock. His lips curled into a sneer.
"Didn't expect to find the famous Harry Potter sitting with the likes of filthy Mudbloods. What a shame."
Ron's expression darkened instantly.
The boy went on, his tone smug:
"The name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. These are Crabbe and Goyle. I came here to—"
He was abruptly interrupted by a low, scornful laugh.
Ron.
Malfoy turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing with unconcealed disgust.
"You think something's funny?
I don't even need to ask who you are—red hair, hand-me-down robes, freckles all over your face… and too many siblings to count.
My father says the Weasleys are a disgrace to pure-bloods everywhere."
Rage surged through Ron.
Sherlock had said similar things earlier, but the tone had been totally different—detached, analytical, emotionless.
Malfoy's words, on the other hand, were pure insult.
But before Ron could explode, Malfoy turned back to Harry and forced a smile, holding out his hand:
"You'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter.
You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort… I can help you there."
It was clear Malfoy was trying to be friendly, in his own arrogant way.
But years of entitlement made even his gestures of goodwill seem condescending.
If Hermione's pride was worn on her sleeve, Malfoy wore his on his face.
Worse still, he'd just insulted the two friends Harry had only just made.
So his offer was doomed from the start.
Already having a poor impression of him, Harry now had no reason to hold back.
He replied coldly:
"No thanks. I think I can tell for myself who the wrong sort are."
Malfoy's smile froze on his face.
The flush of embarrassment crept up his pale cheeks.
He slowly withdrew his outstretched hand and said, stiffly:
"Potter, if I were you, I'd be careful—unless you want to end up like your parents.
They didn't know their place either. Got themselves mixed up with the likes of the Weasleys and Hagrid.
Look where that got them.
The moment the words left his mouth, Harry shot to his feet.
Ron was right behind him, rising with clenched fists and a face as red as his hair.