Knock, knock, knock...
Following the sound of Lockhart's voice from inside the office, Kane pushed the door open and walked in.
"Kane! You—you've co at the perfect ti. I happen to have sothing to discuss with you." Lockhart was currently erging from the direction of his inner bedroom, resetting himself into his desk chair with a fresh sheet of parchnt in his hand.
He slid the parchnt across to Kane. The latter glanced down to find a formal proposal for sothing titled the Hogwarts Duelling Club.
"Erm... you? A duelling club? Against whom?" Kane read the title, then lifted his gaze to look up at Lockhart, his voice dropping into a low, deadpan murmur.
"Against the students, of course! I am rely acting as the grand facilitator and host. Though, admittedly, I will require a tiny bit of assistance from you." Lockhart offered an apologetic, brilliant smile. "When the ti cos, perhaps you and I will engage in a small, friendly demonstration match."
"Ah. I get it. Pull my punches a bit, right?" Kane asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No. Quite the contrary—I need you to give everything you've got," Lockhart stated, his tone radiating an absolute, unshakeable confidence.
"Huh?"
Seeing the profound doubt written all over Kane's face, Lockhart spread his hands smoothly. "Look, I've been taking quite a few private tutoring sessions from Dumbledore recently. Surely I must have made at least a little bit of progress."
Kane nodded slowly. It was true; Lockhart's recent performance in class didn't look nearly as hollow as it had during the sumr holidays.
But were Dumbledore's private lessons really that miraculously effective? How co Kane hadn't noticed?
Or perhaps...
"Is Dumbledore really the only one who's been teaching you those things lately?"
The mont the words left Kane's mouth, a single bead of cold sweat visibly rolled down Lockhart's temple.
"Uh... who else could it possibly be?"
Kane shrugged. Fine. It was glaringly obvious that Lockhart had so mysterious master guiding him from the shadows.
While he had no idea who this hidden expert was... whatever. Why should he waste his energy prying into other people's private business?
As for Lockhart's Duelling Club... if the man himself specifically requested that Kane go all out...
"Then why don't you duel the upper-year students? Is beating a bunch of second-years supposed to bring you eternal glory?"
"Oh, it won't just be you. I've decided to personally hand out a thorough thrashing to select representatives from the first years all the way up to the seventh years.
It's ti to show them that a professor is, after all, a professor!" Lockhart's grin looked so manic it crossed the border of sanity.
Kane's lip twitched, but he nodded. Since Lockhart had practically begged for it, Kane was more than happy to give him exactly what he wanted. With that settled, he brought up the true purpose of his visit.
"That black notebook you showed a while back—the one you confiscated from Ginny Weasley. Is it still in your possession? She ca up to at dinner today and asked if I could get it back from you. She ntioned it holds so deep sentintal value."
The mont Kane finished, Lockhart shook his head decisively. "Ah, that. I threw it into the scrap pile along with the graded autumn assignnts and sold the entire lot to Flourish and Blotts as scrap paper."
"Ah. That's a bit of a sha." Kane shrugged in resignation and took his leave.
Returning to the Gryffindor common room, Kane broke the news to Ginny that her notebook had been sold off to Flourish and Blotts.
Her expression collapsed instantly. She looked utterly wretched, as if her dearest friend had just been sold off to work in a remote deep-surface mine.
Kane, frankly, had no idea how to comfort soone in this specific scenario. Buy her a new notebook? That would hardly fill the emotional void left behind by a missing heirloom or diary.
For a crisis of this nature, he figured a good night's sleep wouldn't solve it either; it was best left to the slow healing of ti.
The very next morning, a formal notice regarding an extended holiday was pinned to the Gryffindor common room noticeboard.
It appeared Dumbledore had no intention of resuming regular classes until the protective eyewear was manufactured and delivered to Hogwarts.
The younger students, naturally, were thrilled. Their joy, however, lasted only a few days before Dumbledore received an express owl from Remus Lupin.
It was ti for Kane to move.
Summoned to the Headmaster's office by a floating paper crane, Kane was greeted by Dumbledore pulling a massive, thick stack of British Pounds from beneath his desk.
"Siss... Dumbledore, tell the truth. Does the Dumbledore family possess two separate vaults?" Kane asked, his eyes narrowing.
"This is rely the result of my personal thriftiness and careful budgeting," Dumbledore replied smoothly. "Please deliver this to Remus.
Since you've already claid that Codex Umbra, Remus naturally deserves proper compensation for his manufacturing costs. I highly doubt he would feel comfortable letting a young wizard cover the entire bill."
Dumbledore paused, hesitating slightly. "If he asks where the funds ca from, tell him it was a formal reimbursent from the Ministry of Magic. Do not connect it to . And rember the appointnt letter..."
Kane nodded. After taking the money, he summoned his broom—the Rock Wyvern—from Little Pumpkin's mouth, mounted it, and said, "Don't worry. I'm on it."
As a streak of dark light shot out from the Headmaster's window, Dumbledore smiled warmly, picturing the vibrant, thriving, and fiercely competitive atmosphere next term's Defense Against the Dark Arts classes would bring. The glorious future was practically within arm's reach.
In a secluded alleyway just outside the familiar Muggle manufacturing plant.
Kane pulled out a thick wad of Muggle currency and handed it over to a weathered, ragged-looking middle-aged man.
Accepting the money, Lupin reached into his worn jumpsuit and pulled out a cardboard box no larger than a palm.
"All three hundred pairs of goggles are in here. A simple Finite Incantatem will restore them to their proper size."
Kane nodded, then reached into Little Pumpkin to retrieve a sealed envelope, passing it to Lupin.
Lupin glanced at the seal and sighed. "I really shouldn't accept this. You might not know my personal circumstances, but Dumbledore certainly does. I am by no ans a fit candidate to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."
"Well... that part isn't my departnt. I'm just the delivery boy," Kane said easily. "Though I have to say, looking at the recent track record of Hogwarts professors, even if you're unqualified, how much worse could you possibly be?"
With that, Kane mounted his broom and vanished from the alleyway in a single, silent burst of speed.
Upon returning to Hogwarts, Kane and Dumbledore spent the afternoon unpacking the entire batch of protective eyewear. Thanks to the excellent craftsmanship of the factory workers, the finished product exceeded expectations.
Visually, they resembled classic, slightly wide and thick, elegantly designed sunglasses. Due to an unknown chemical coating or a specific thod of lens alignnt, they looked remarkably stylish.
Kane slipped a pair on to test them. He could distinctly perceive that everything he saw was a secondary—or even tertiary—reflection, yet his overall field of vision and clarity remained largely unaffected.
"In all honesty, they look pretty cool. I just wonder if the entire school is going to look like a magical mafia eting once everyone puts them on," Kane noted, finding the visual hilarious as Dumbledore adjusted a pair over his own crooked nose.
"That is a bridge we shall cross when we get to it. You may go, Kane. Prepare for the evening feast; we shall distribute them then." Dumbledore conjured a mirror in front of him, looking thoroughly pleased with the badass old man staring back at him.
Honestly, I should take a photograph of this and send it to the Daily Prophet just to give my old acquaintances a proper shock.
When dinner arrived, the students were escorted into the Great Hall by their respective Prefects.
This ti, Dumbledore wasn't sitting at the staff table. Instead, rocking a pair of incredibly old-school, mafia-esque sunglasses, he stood proudly behind his golden owl podium.
Kane didn't pay strict attention to the speech, catching only the broad strokes: the mysterious dark entity that had petrified Mrs. Norris had been identified.
A Basilisk.
A collective shiver ran through the student body and the staff table alike as the word echoed through the hall.
Yet, just as the majority of the pure-blood students began reaching for parchnt to beg their parents for an imdiate ergency leave of absence, Dumbledore dropped the good news.
By examining the precise manner of Mrs. Norris's petrification, the staff had successfully engineered a thod to nullify the creature's fatal gaze.
With a graceful wave of his wand, Dumbledore caused hundreds of sunglasses to fly from the side chambers, landing perfectly in front of every student and professor.
According to the Headmaster, wearing these specialized glasses would degrade the lethal magic of the Basilisk's gaze. If a student unhappily made eye contact, their fate would be altered from instant death to re petrification.
Hearing this, the students practically scrambled to put them on.
Within seconds, the entire atmosphere of Hogwarts shifted entirely.
Harry, seeing that Kane's face was still bare, was about to raise his hand to inform Dumbledore that he had missed soone.
Hermione, however, didn't even blink. Having played the fool far too many tis in Kane's presence, she knew exactly what kind of ridiculous stunt he was pulling.
Sure enough, as Kane smoothly pulled a pre-ordered, customized pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slipped them on, Hermione felt an odd, triumphant wave of satisfaction, like a student who had correctly guessed the exact question on an exam paper.
Perfect!
For a while, the mixture of terrible and wonderful news turned the Great Hall into a chaotic buzz. The bad news: a giant, lethal snake that could kill with a look was roaming the castle.
The good news: it couldn't kill them anymore; to actually end a life, it would have to resort to physical biting.
Consequently, every student ntally prepared themselves for an absurd contingency plan: if they ever encountered the Basilisk, their best survival strategy was to actively stare into its eyes, petrify themselves on purpose, and wait for rescue.
One had to admit, it was a very proactive approach to survival. The motivational speech Professor McGonagall had given at the start of the term paled in comparison to this.
The other two European magic schools? Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? Ha! Amateurs.
Could their Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum boast a hidden killer serpent inside their castle, turning daily life into a high-stakes battle royale where a single misstep ant being turned to stone?
As dinner concluded, Dumbledore announced that the three-day holiday was officially over. Classes would resu as normal tomorrow.
Then, under a barrage of intense, manic winks from Lockhart, Dumbledore added one final piece of news with a hint of resignation.
Their most dedicated, brilliant, and magnificent Professor Lockhart was officially establishing a Hogwarts Duelling Club. The inaugural eting was set for this Friday afternoon, and all students were strongly encouraged to attend.
Furthermore, the professor intended to personally select seven student representatives—one from each year—to engage in a series of live, one-on-one demonstration duels.
Having delivered the notice, Dumbledore returned to his seat with a thoroughly complex expression.
Whatever the professors thought, the students were universally thrilled. Lockhart's reputation shot up another few notches.
Regardless of Lockhart's actual competence, even if his early lessons had been watery and superficial, the quality of his teaching had steadily improved as the weeks rolled by.
Plus, he lacked the oppressive, terrifying aura that had surrounded Professor Quirrell the previous year.
To the younger years, a professor's raw academic mastery mattered far less than whether their classes were entertaining.
This was exactly why Lockhart was most popular among the first-years; who could turn down a week of classes that culminated in a live, imrsive theatrical performance?
Even for the second and third years, the curriculum was more than sufficient to keep them engaged.
When Friday afternoon arrived, it remained a mystery what kind of silver-tongued flattery or dark administrative bargaining Lockhart had used, but Dumbledore had canceled every single afternoon class.
The entire student body gathered in the Great Hall to support the grand opening of the Duelling Club.
The first order of business required every student to write down the na of the person they believed to be the strongest wizard in their respective year.
Following an anonymous vote, the winner of each year would step onto the raised platform to face Lockhart in a live 1V1 match.
Sitting at the staff table, Snape watched the proceedings with a cold, disgusted sneer. He utterly despised this superficial fraud's pathetic attempt to use children as stepping stones to polish his own public image.
At the sa ti, Snape was deeply looking forward to his seventh-year students giving Lockhart a brutal, unvarnished taste of actual Dark Arts.
Ever since he had learned about Lockhart's self-aggrandizing plans, Snape had gone out of his way to provide extensive, private combat drills for the upper-year Slytherins. He had been waiting precisely for today.
Soon enough, the selection proceeded exactly as Snape had anticipated. Although the order of the seven year-representatives had been randomized, by so stroke of fortune, the first student selected to face Lockhart was a seventh-year Slytherin.
"Amos. Do not disgrace the na of Slytherin," Snape murmured, compressing his voice into a tight, magical line that rippled directly into the seventh-year's ear.
Amos offered a slow, steady nod. Even if he wasn't sure if Snape could see it through his dark lenses, it was basic etiquette to acknowledge the boss.
The majority of the professors and upper-year students were fully aware of the disparity between the two contestants.
One was the highly talented heir of an old pure-blood line; the other was a fraud who only knew how to write fictionalized adventure stories.
Even if Lockhart had seemingly turned over a new leaf recently, it had only been a matter of months.
The outco was a foregone conclusion in their minds. This match was purely a formality—
BANG!
With a sharp, echoing crack, Amos was cleanly disard, tripped, and sent flying off the elevated duelling platform within three exchanges.
In an instant, the atmosphere of the Great Hall split into two radically different extres. The younger students erupted into a deafening roar of cheers.
anwhile, the upper-year students and the entire staff table collapsed into a profound, unnerving silence.
Sothing was wrong! This was deeply, fundantally wrong!
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