Late at night, shortly after curfew.
Despite Kane telling Hermione multiple tis that she didn't need the Invisibility Cloak—since Dumbledore had personally arranged these private lessons and no one would co looking for trouble—she seed to have a fundantal lack of trust.
Whether it was in him, Dumbledore, or Filch's eyesight, she remained stubbornly "sewn" into the cloak, refusing to erge until they reached their destination.
Thus, the duo arrived at the Headmaster's office without incident. Lockhart was already seated, looking rather stiff, with an empty chair beside him reserved for Kane.
Behind Dumbledore's desk, the usual cabinets had been temporarily transford into a large whiteboard.
Dumbledore himself stood there, wearing a knowing smile as he looked directly at the seemingly empty space behind Kane where Hermione was hiding.
Kane maintained his polite smile and patted Lockhart on the shoulder. "Lockhart, my friend, I need to tell you sothing. Promise you'll forgive first?"
Lockhart blinked his large, expressive eyes and nodded. "You've helped so much, Kane. As long as it isn't a matter of... principle, of course I forgive you."
"Well, for tonight's session, I brought a 'plus one'."
Kane reached out, grabbed a corner of the shimring fabric, and gave it a gentle tug. Coordinating with him, Hermione finally pulled the cloak off.
Lockhart's eyes widened even further, his brain clearly working overti to find a dignified excuse for his presence.
Hermione, anwhile, looked at Lockhart with intense curiosity, wondering why a world-famous professor was sitting in on a class for basic defensive spells.
Kane stepped in with a quick save for Lockhart's ego. "You see, Hermione, a true master always maintains the heart of an apprentice.
Even Professor Dumbledore told he still reads The Tales of Beedle the Bard before bed."
Dumbledore followed the lead with a graceful nod. "Indeed, a classic. Now, Miss Granger, please take a seat. We are about to begin." With a flick of his wand, a third identical chair appeared beside Kane's.
The three of them sat in a neat row like primary school students. Dumbledore excused himself for a mont to retrieve sothing from the inner office.
Seizing the gap, Lockhart leaned over and pulled a parchnt notebook from his robes. "That 'Infinite Record' notebook you had your eye on? I've... confiscated it for you."
Hermione, who had been trying to look stoic and professional, suddenly broke character. She whipped her head around to stare at the two of them.
She rembered Cade from Hufflepuff crying into his mashed potatoes two days ago. When she'd asked what was wrong, he'd told her his notebook had been confiscated. She had almost gone to report Lockhart for being a bully.
It turned out these two had run a "sting operation" just to get the notebook into Kane's pocket.
Hiss...
Dumbledore returned, carrying a box of chalk. It seed he preferred the tactile feel of writing by hand for teaching, even though magic was faster.
As Dumbledore's calm, magnetic voice filled the room, knowledge flowed like a river into their ears. Under his watchful eye, they imdiately moved to practice.
Lockhart was visibly nervous practicing in front of a student, but like a driver flooring it during the final second of a green light, he managed to push through and cast the spells correctly.
By the ti the session ended, the "liquid" knowledge in their minds had seemingly frozen solid. It wasn't going anywhere.
"A very successful first lesson," Dumbledore said warmly. He looked at the three of them—two "suns of tomorrow" and one "prodigal son" returning to the path. He felt like a truly excellent Headmaster.
"Right, we'll be off then," Kane said, gesturing for the others to leave.
Dumbledore cleared his throat significantly. "Ahem. Kane, aren't you forgetting sothing?"
Kane looked confused for a split second. Then he saw Dumbledore lift a small, exquisite cauldron from beneath his desk.
Right. The Mandrake Draught... or rather, the soothing tea. He'd promised to show off his brewing skills.
"You two go ahead. I have a bit of 'extra credit' to finish," Kane said with a sheepish grin, waving goodbye to Hermione and Lockhart.
Lockhart nodded and left, while Hermione, hidden once more under her cloak, gave a look that said, I knew it. She figured there was a "secret" tier of tutoring she wasn't invited to yet.
Still, she felt Kane had been a great friend just to get her this far, so she turned and followed Lockhart out.
"It is a sha," Dumbledore said sowhat wistfully, "that Mandrakes are only mature and edible for such a short window each year. Like the night-blooming cereus."
"Not necessarily," Kane said, rummaging through Little Pumpkin for so 'Forget--Lot' herbs.
"The Mandrakes I've processed through Shadow Transformation don't have those limitations. I could harvest a few thousand for you; that should last a while."
"Kane," Dumbledore said with a smile, "has anyone told you that you have a very... unique way with words? A human life is only about thirty thousand days. Exactly how long are you planning for to live?"
"Uh... no one's ntioned it," Kane replied, skillfully dodging the awkwardness of discussing a centenarian's remaining lifespan.
He grabbed a Forget--Lot, "borrowed" two spoonfuls of honey from Dumbledore's private stash, and filled the cauldron with water.
The portraits of forr Headmasters on the walls were pretending to sleep, but the ones who had been Potions masters were secretly peeking.
When they saw Kane's cauldron automatically transmute the ingredients into a perfect brew—and then witnessed the cauldron grow a cup out of its own rim—their eyes nearly popped out of the canvas.
They were a hair's breadth away from jumping out of their fras to demand what kind of abstract, logic-defying talent Kane had inflicted upon a poor, innocent cauldron.
Dumbledore took the cup and drained it. "Thank you, Kane. The effect is imdiate. I believe I should go to sleep now." He patted Kane's shoulder and wobbled toward his bedroom.
Kane turned to leave, but he noticed sothing strange: a shimring, transparent magical film had been placed over the wall of portraits.
Curious, he poked it with his wand. The film popped.
Instantly, a tidal wave of historical insults, complex Potions theory, and high-volu "trash talk" that sounded like a 19th-century version of Snape exploded into the room.
"Holy mother of—!" Kane bolted out of the office.
Inside the bedroom, Dumbledore, who had just managed to drift off: "???"
Kane rubbed his ringing ears all the way back to the Gryffindor dorms and collapsed into bed.
The next morning, he stretched, washed up, and t his friends in the Great Hall for breakfast. As the morning owls sward in, two heavy bags of Galleons dropped from the sky, shattering the plate in front of him with a loud clatter.
Accompanying the gold was a small paper crane, flying in from the direction of the High Table where Professor Sprout sat.
Kane unfolded the crane, read the note, and raised an eyebrow.
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