To the others in the compartment, Hermione seemed to freeze for a moment upon seeing Kane. Then, as if some deep-seated logic had been triggered, she entered a state of absolute focus.
"Do you mind if I stay?" she asked with a calm, business-like expression.
"Not at all," Ron said, sliding over to make room.
Hermione sat down, pulled a thick book from her bag, and immediately began reading.
Harry and Ron exchanged a bewildered look. They felt like they were in the wrong seats; they probably should have swapped with the "Scholar King" across from them so they could huddle together and whisper in peace.
However, unlike Kane, who was currently burying his face in his textbook, Hermione still had a task weighing on her mind. Improving her knowledge was urgent, but her promise to help Neville find his toad was equally important.
"Have any of you seen a toad? A toad named Trevor?"
The moment the word "toad" left her mouth, Kane—who had been reading peacefully—jolted upright. His wand was out in a flash.
"Toad? Where? Is it an Evil Toad?"
The other three stared at him, their eyebrows twitching in unison. "So... you're afraid of toads?"
"Actually, there isn't one here. We're just looking for it," Harry added quickly.
Kane coughed awkwardly and retracted his wand. "Don't mind me. Just a bit of PTSD."
Harry and Ron didn't quite understand the term, but Hermione, well-read as always, was different.
"I know PTSD—Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Like being afraid of cars after an accident or loud noises after a war. But what on earth could a toad have done to you to make you..."
She gestured toward the shadow-blade wand tucked in his sleeve—the one with the golden studs pinning the handle's mouth shut.
"...React like that?"
Ron nodded. "I mean, they're ugly, sure, but with your skills, couldn't you just blast it?"
Kane slowly closed his book. "You really want to know?"
Three heads nodded in perfect synchronization.
"Where I used to live was a strange, nonsensical place. It was a wilderness with bizarre magical creatures and peculiar weather patterns."
"One of those patterns happened in the spring. In the afternoons, the sky would suddenly darken, and it would rain frogs.
The locals called it a Frog Rain. Hundreds of them would fall from the sky at once, and they acted like wilderness bullies. Anything that moved in front of them would get a disgusting lick from their long, sticky tongues."
Harry and Hermione didn't doubt a word of it. Having lived in the Muggle world, they were prepared to accept any level of magical strangeness.
Ron, however, having grown up in the Wizarding World, and Draco Malfoy—who was currently eavesdropping outside the door—were skeptical. Their world-view contained no such place, unless you counted the stories about Innsmouth.
The moment Malfoy let out an involuntary gasp of "Impossible!", the compartment fell silent. Hermione pulled the door open. "And you are?"
Malfoy saw Hermione's Muggle-style clothing and almost spat out "Mudblood," but then he remembered that neither he nor his father had managed to trace Kane's lineage yet. On paper, Kane was technically a Muggle-born too...
Focus, Draco, he told himself. Father said to make friends.
"My father told me my behavior at the ice cream shop was... beneath me. He told me to apologize," Malfoy said, sounding as though the words were being pulled out of him with pliers. He fished three beautifully wrapped chocolates from his pocket.
"Willy Wonka's Chocolate. My father went to great lengths to acquire these. For you." Malfoy placed the three bars on the table, resumed his characteristic look of arrogant superiority, and slid the door shut. This was exactly what Lucius had taught him: don't overdo it; just establish a positive opening.
As he walked away, Draco made a mental note of the "Frog Rain Wilderness." That's a lead. It must be the territory of some obscure, high-level magical family. I have to tell Father.
"Willy Wonka? What a strange name," Hermione muttered. Her eyes and hands remained glued to her book. Since the chocolate wasn't for her, she figured it was best not to look.
"Willy Wonka was the greatest confectioner in the wizarding world last century," Ron explained, eyes wide. "Chocolate Frogs, Cockroach Clusters, Lemon Sherbets—almost every magical sweet you see in Diagon Alley was his invention."
"But then his factory was apparently sabotaged by a business rival. He got discouraged, sold off his patents, and now he only runs a tiny workshop. He only makes a hundred bars a year!"
"Considering Malfoy's apology is this sincere, I think I can forgive him!" Ron ripped the wrapper off his bar and started gnawing immediately.
Harry did the same. You couldn't expect an eleven-year-old to share something this rare with someone he'd just met. If it were ordinary chocolate, maybe, but this was Wonka's...
Kane, meanwhile, simply ate his chocolate. There was no cliché drama where he offered half to Hermione, causing her to blush and sparking a whirlwind romance. He just ate it.
In that tiny compartment, three boys were synchronized in their chocolate-eating, while one girl buried her head in her studies. Those more talented than you are eating high-tier chocolate; now is the time to catch up! she thought fiercely.
As Kane finished the last bite, he felt a surge of vitality. His withered soul felt replenished; his Sanity had never been this full.
He reached up to remove the flower garland. As he did, Hermione—who had been observing him over the top of her book—finally spotted the accessory.
"So? Never mind. Everyone has their own aesthetic. And the garland actually looks quite nice on you."
Unlike Hermione's calm tone, the other two boys lost it again. They didn't want to be rude, so they ducked their heads, their shoulders shaking violently with suppressed laughter. Kane's temple throbbed.
By evening, Hermione finally put her book down to go find Neville's toad. Kane, after a whole morning of reading followed by a whole afternoon of napping, was finally nudged awake by Harry.
"Get your robes on, Kane! We're at the station. We're about to see Hogwarts!"
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