Hogwarts, i am Dementor

Quirrell wasn't the type to casually reply, "Oh, what a coincidence, huh?" 

Even as he fled, he didn't forget to whip out his wand, ready to hit Cohen with a Killing Curse— 

"Avada—" 

"Stop, you idiot!" 

Voldemort's low growl was loud enough for even Cohen to hear—with both ears, no less. 

"He's useful… remember him…" 

Cohen wasn't fazed by the Killing Curse. After all, it was supposed to rip a soul from its body, killing both flesh and spirit at once. But Cohen's soul could pop in and out of his body whenever he pleased, and when it left, his body would just flop over like a corpse anyway. 

He'd already braced himself to eject his soul early if needed—because "you can't kill a body that's already dead." 

[*Cohen is unaffected*] 

What did Voldemort mean by "he's useful"? Did he want the naturally evil Dementor brat Cohen to join his side? 

Great! 

Awesome!! 

Fantastic!!! 

Was it finally happening? 

Cohen had been itching for a faster way to rack up Sin Points at Hogwarts—littering and snatching lollipops from first-years was getting old. 

Pretend to help a doomed villain, then flip the script at the last second—wand pressed to Quirrell's skull, delivering a cool line like, "Voldemort, give it up. Dumbledore's got the place surrounded." Just thinking about that kind of plot twist got his adrenaline pumping! 

Then, under everyone's gaze, pocket the Philosopher's Stone, beat Quirrell to his knees, drag him home as— 

*Whoosh—* 

A freaky gust of wind, conjured by a flick of Quirrell's wand beneath his cloak, blew Cohen's hood right off. 

No surprise there—Quirrell saw Cohen's face. 

But since Cohen hadn't attended a single Defense Against the Dark Arts class yet, Quirrell couldn't place him. 

Still, it was enough. As the only living Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts right now, tracking down a student by their face would be a piece of cake for Quirrell. 

The black-hooded figure memorized Cohen's features, then veered off into the opposite edge of the Forbidden Forest while they were both hightailing it toward the exit. 

Guess Quirrell knew a hooded black robe in broad daylight on Hogwarts grounds would look suspicious as hell. Probably planning to sneak off somewhere, cast a Disillusionment Charm, and head back to teach his next class. 

"Busy guy—teaching classes *and* hunting unicorns for Voldemort…" Cohen muttered, clicking his tongue in mock pity as he watched Quirrell disappear. "Plus shaving his whole head…" 

Well, might as well help him out later—set him free, so to speak. Even cool-on-the-outside Cohen had a warm, squishy stomach deep down— 

"Cohen?" 

From behind Hagrid's hut, Harry spotted Cohen—robe dusted with dead leaves and mud—and called out in a hushed tone. 

What? Already three o'clock?! 

*Dong—dong—dong—* 

The long toll of the castle bells echoed over, signaling that some students had classes to get to. Cohen's group only had Herbology that afternoon, right before dinner, so there was no rush. 

"Harry? What're you doing out here?" 

Ron poked his head out from the back door of Hagrid's hut, also catching sight of Cohen emerging from the forest. 

"Is that your friend Cohen?" 

Hagrid's gruff, huffing voice rumbled from inside. Cohen darted over to the vegetable patch, pretending he'd been admiring Hagrid's pumpkin seedlings—not just chased out of the Forbidden Forest by centaurs. 

After laying on a thick layer of emotional flattery—"Your pumpkin seedlings are amazing, Hagrid, can you teach me gardening?"—any lingering suspicions Hagrid had about Cohen wandering into the forest melted away. 

Hagrid was a good guy. 

Once Harry reintroduced Cohen to Hagrid—and mentioned that Cohen was the "only friend" he'd told Hagrid about from his pre-Hogwarts days—Cohen scored a haul of rock cakes and toffee so sticky it could double as glue. 

Hagrid, sniffling through tears, even tossed in a beast-hide satchel to carry the "snacks." The hide looked suspiciously like something straight out of Edward's old copy of *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them*… 

"Is this Erumpent hide, Hagrid?" Cohen asked, sensing a small fortune waving at him. "I thought they lived in mountainous areas—" 

"Oh… yeah," Hagrid said, a bit sadly. "Gruff used to live in the mountains, but he got too old and was driven out…" 

"If you don't like Erumpent, I've got a deer-hide bag too—" 

Hagrid thought Cohen might have a problem with it, but no way was Cohen swapping Erumpent hide for deer skin. 

This stuff was tougher than dragon hide—most spells couldn't even scratch it. 

Cohen already had plans: hit up the kitchens, get the house-elves to turn it into a vest—bam, instant magical bulletproof armor. 

Perfect! 

Afternoon tea time flew by. Reluctantly, they left the cozy hut and made it to the Herbology greenhouse just in time. 

The first Herbology lesson was all theory. The weird and wonderful magical plants in the greenhouse were strictly look-don't-touch ("Watch that wand in your pocket, Mr. Finnigan! It's sparking!" Professor Sprout shouted. "Those dried nettles hate fire!"). 

Cohen wasn't thrilled with the class—not because of Professor Sprout or Herbology itself, but because of those magical plants. 

Some could squeak and wriggle in their pots like animals, yet Cohen couldn't see a single [*Soul Strength: X*] tag on them! 

Why didn't plants have souls?! (Annoyed) 

Cohen wanted to speak up for the plants. 

[*Am I alive? Am I *really* alive?!*] 

After class, covered in mud, Cohen and the others trudged back to the castle. To avoid Filch sniffing them out and slapping them with detention, they had to shower and change first. 

By the time they finished and made it to dinner, most people were nearly done eating. 

As the feast wrapped up, Cohen was about to head back to the dorm with Harry and Ron for some well-earned downtime after a hectic day— 

"N-Norton… Mr. Norton…" 

Quirrell, stammering as always, stepped in front of the trio. His gaze lingered on Harry for a split second but stayed mostly fixed on Cohen. 

Harry and Ron, clueless about what was going on, assumed Cohen had skipped lunch to sneak into the Forbidden Forest and gotten caught. They promptly shuffled a foot away from him. 

"You don't have to ditch me *that* fast…" Cohen muttered through gritted teeth. 

"I h-heard from P-Professor McGonagall… th-that you, you did really w-well in T-Transfiguration…" 

Quirrell rubbed his hands together nervously, looking like an office worker groveling after a screw-up. 

"I've g-got some books on Transfiguration… I th-thought you might l-like them…" 

Quirrell's spiel made Cohen feel like he could dig a Hogwarts-sized hole beneath his feet from secondhand embarrassment. 

What, was he just some creepy guy staring at goldfish now? 

(*End of Chapter*)