Clearly, compared to Gryffindor's house points, Hermione valued practical, tangible knowledge far more.
Kane gestured toward the notebook in his hand. "Are you talking about this?"
Hermione nodded slowly.
"Oh, it's Professor McGonagall's personal notes. If you guys need them, I can lend them to you for transcription once I'm finished reading."
Hermione pursed her lips until her face resembled a very speechless, grumpy kitten.
For the longest ti, she had believed that the only "Light" at Hogwarts was Professor McGonagall—the paragon of absolute selflessness, fairness, and justice.
Points were deducted when they deserved to be; detentions were served when they were earned.
Even Headmaster Dumbledore had to yield to her stern authority. To the average student, she was the final bastion of order.
And now? Kane Heiss goes on a midnight stroll, hangs two Slytherins from the ceiling until they're practically wind-dried jerky, and spends less than ten minutes in McGonagall's office the next morning.
Not only were zero points deducted from Gryffindor, but he walked out with the Professor's private academic journals?
"Wait, what about the two Slytherins?" Harry and Ron's focus was less on the existential crisis of school justice and more on a question Hermione was too afraid to ask.
"Oh, Snape sent them back to scrub the Slytherin public washrooms. Said they were getting detention too," Kane said casually, turning a page.
Harry and Ron shared a look of pure schadenfreude over the Slytherins' tragic fate. Hermione, anwhile, stared out the common room window at the brilliant sun lting the snow, her face pale.
The sun is out... but the sky at Hogwarts has gone completely dark.
Kane glanced at Hermione's shifting expressions. While most of Hogwarts thought he was the crazy one—the "cross-dresser" who used weird magic and spoke in riddles—in Kane's mind, Hermione was the true enigma.
Most people had no idea what was going on in her head before her expression suddenly flipped, or she started self-deprecating, or the "pearls" started dropping.
Sigh. A girl's mood is like a slot machine in the Constant; you never know what abstract horror is going to pop out when you pull the lever.
Ti flowed forward, steady and relentless. Professor McGonagall was a woman of her word; since she said no one would bother Kane, no one did.
Perhaps she'd had a very pointed "heart-to-heart" with the senior students behind closed doors.
The notes were returned after being copied four tis. They were imnsely beneficial to Kane, though, given his current level of knowledge, he couldn't yet unlock their full potential.
Curiously, after the lesson on Shadow Surge, Professor Quirrell flaked on the following Wednesday's private lesson! Rumor had it that no one saw the Professor all day.
When he finally reappeared the next morning, he looked so haggard it was as if he owed Death two hundred years of life on a high-interest loan.
The "tutoring" resud the following Wednesday, and from that point on, Voldemort's teaching pace accelerated violently. It was a "painfully joyful" experience. Every session was packed to the brim with information.
Kane actually visited Dumbledore to ask why. This was supposed to be a simple transaction; Voldemort could have phoned it in and Kane wouldn't have complained.
Why was he working so hard? And it wasn't just rushed cramming; Voldemort was genuinely, ticulously building Kane's magical foundation.
"Mhm. Perhaps Tom simply enjoys the feeling," Dumbledore said, sipping his black tea.
"Enjoys it?" Kane frowned.
"Indeed. The year Tom graduated from Hogwarts, he applied to stay on as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Perhaps being a teacher was a path he truly desired. For a talented student, he really is quite an exceptional instructor."
Kane looked at Dumbledore with curiosity. "Tell then—do you regret not letting him stay? Maybe the Wizarding World would be one Dark Lord shorter."
"I do not regret it. We must believe that everything is for the best. Tom's inner malice could not be suppressed by a re title. Even now, while you are his student, he is likely calculating exactly how to kill you."
Dumbledore peeled an orange and handed a segnt to Kane.
"True enough. It's Wednesday again. Tom's gaze has been getting weirder lately. During class, I feel like Quirrell isn't even 'logged in' anymore; it's like Tom has completely taken over the account."
"In any case, Kane," Dumbledore warned, "I have a premonition. Be careful today. Adapt, survive. Safety is the priority."
"Mm-hmm. I will."
Kane left the Headmaster's office and knocked on the door to the DADA office.
Knock, knock, knock...
"Enter."
Kane walked in to find Professor Quirrell putting on his traveling cloak. He looked ready to head out.
"Ah, Kane. You've arrived at the perfect ti. I believe it is ti for a practical application lesson. Don't you agree?" Voldemort's voice had a slight, chilling lilt.
"Practical application? With you? Where?" Kane asked, playing dumb even though he knew exactly what ga was afoot.
"I'll take you to a special location. We can treat it as our... training ground."
Voldemort practically ushered Kane down to the forbidden third-floor corridor. When Kane saw the door to the secret chamber, his heart skipped a beat.
Dumbledore was right. Is Dumbledore's plan actually reliable? If not, I'm switching to the backup plan—shoving Voldemort into Maxwell's Door and calling it a day. Dumbledore said safety first, after all.
While Kane was brainstorming his escape, Quirrell pushed the door open.
"Let us start with the first trial. Although Professor Dumbledore forbade students from coming here, we shall treat this as an unofficial exam."
Quirrell pointed at the three-headed dog, which was currently baring its teeth and snarling. "Find a way past this beast. It has a high resistance to conventional magic, such as the Full Body-Bind."
"Understood, Professor." Kane drew his wand, clearing his mind. The plan is set. If things go sideways... my Amulet is ready for a 'surprise' play.
Kane cast a lody spell from his wand, and the once-vicious Cerberus instantly fell into a deep, baby-like slumber.
Voldemort's expression didn't change; this was expected. Kane had created the Pan Flute; it would be weirder if he couldn't use sleep magic.
Voldemort levitated the dog aside and yanked open the trapdoor, revealing the writhing, grasping tentacles below.
Just as Kane was waiting to see how Voldemort would handle the "Devil's Snare," the Dark Lord turned and beckoned him forward.
"Take a look at your handiwork, Kane."
Kane: "???"
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