Hogwarts, i am Dementor

The train rumbled forward, and it wasn't long before a boy with fiery red hair and a freckled face slid open the compartment door. There was a smudge of dirt on the tip of his nose—though he didn't seem to notice it himself.

"Anyone sitting here?" he asked, pointing to the seat next to Harry and glancing at both Harry and Cohen. Cohen had Earl's birdcage placed beside him. "Everywhere else is full."

"Uh—" Harry wasn't sure what Cohen thought and looked over at him for a cue.

Cohen shrugged.

"Nobody's here. Go ahead and sit."

[*Ding! Kindness Points +1*]

Too kind.

Cohen felt his self-assessment had always been spot-on.

Ron sat down, stealing a quick glance at Harry before looking away, pretending nothing had happened.

"Looks like a Crush…"

Cohen clicked his tongue but didn't say it out loud. Instead, he decided to flip open his *Encyclopedia of Positive Spells*.

Honestly, the title of this book was so lame—"Encyclopedia of Good Spells"? What kind of genius came up with that? If you pulled this out in public, people would probably laugh their heads off.

But Cohen figured the two eleven-year-old wizards in front of him probably couldn't even tell the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite, so they likely wouldn't pay much attention to the title of his book either.

And he was right. Ron and Harry were staring at Cohen with something akin to awe—like he was some kind of superhero. At their age, anyone who'd rather bury their nose in a book instead of chatting or goofing off was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

After the Weasley twins, Fred and George, popped in for a quick visit, Ron seized the moment. With a classic eleven-year-old opener—"Are you really Harry Potter?"—he launched into the kind of friendship ritual where "once we're buddies, we're friends for life."

They chatted about everything from Harry's fame to wizarding families. Finally, they noticed there was another person in the compartment.

"Cohen. Cohen Norton," Cohen replied, looking up when Ron asked his name.

Of course, he wasn't looking up to see Ron or Harry—he was trying to catch a glimpse of the snack trolley through the window.

Man, where's the food already?! I'm starving!

That was the downside of being in the last compartment—the snack trolley always took forever to get there.

If it didn't show up soon, Cohen might just start eating someone.

At last, after Cohen's silent prayers, the snack trolley lady slid open the door.

"Anything from the cart, dear?"

Harry leapt up immediately—he hadn't eaten a thing all morning.

Cohen stayed calmly in his seat. He knew he wouldn't have to pay for anything—Harry was about to flex his cash.

"I'll take it all," Harry declared.

Ron stared as Harry hauled the pile of snacks back into the compartment and dumped them onto the small table in front of them.

"You hungry?"

"Starving," Harry said, grabbing the nearest pumpkin pasty and taking a huge bite.

Ron pulled out his own sandwich but, after some back-and-forth with Harry, dropped the polite act and dug into Harry's stash.

"Cohen, want some?" Harry mumbled, mouth full, turning to include him.

But Cohen was already ahead of him, practically diving into the snack pile.

"What?"

_(:3」∠)_

Emerging from the heap, Cohen bit the heads off two chocolate frogs in one go.

It felt oddly like swallowing a live frog, but the burst of chocolate in his mouth was undeniably delicious.

Once they'd eaten their fill, most people might start thinking about less wholesome distractions.

But with only two eleven-year-old wizards and a half-Dementor in an eleven-year-old body, they found other ways to pass the time.

Like watching Ron try some magic.

The moment Ron pulled out Scabbers—Peter Pettigrew in rat form—Earl let out an eager coo, as if he'd just spotted dinner.

Clearly, a magical owl capable of seeing through Cohen's true nature could also see through an Animagus disguise.

But Cohen wasn't planning to nab Pettigrew just yet. The guy's soul was already down to a measly 11 points of strength.

Exposing him now wouldn't earn Cohen many Kindness Points—Pettigrew was just a fugitive hiding from Sirius Black, after all.

But if Cohen turned in a villain trying to resurrect Voldemort? The Kindness Points from that would be off the charts.

And if Cohen himself were secretly behind Voldemort's revival only to betray him midway…?

Tsk tsk tsk. He couldn't even imagine how many Sin Points and Kindness Points he'd rack up.

At the very least, if he waited until Sirius Black escaped Azkaban and earned Dumbledore's trust before catching him, he could at least outshine that spineless Minister of Magic. Fudge would never admit the Ministry had locked up the wrong guy for over a decade.

*Creak—*

Just as Ron raised his wand, the compartment door slid open.

Neville stepped in—this was his second visit. Earlier, before Cohen had eaten, the round-faced, teary-eyed boy had come looking for his lost toad.

This time, though, he had a girl with bushy brown hair and prominent front teeth by his side—Hermione Granger.

After another fruitless inquiry about the toad, Hermione noticed Ron casting a spell and stayed to watch the whole ineffective performance.

After thoroughly bruising Ron's ego, she rattled off a torrent of words about Sorting and changing into robes before leading Neville out of the compartment.

"Whichever House I end up in, I hope she's not in it…" Ron grumbled, tossing his wand onto his trunk.

Harry asked about Ron's older brothers and their Houses, expressing some pessimism about his own upcoming Sorting.

When Ron turned the question to Cohen—

"Me?" Cohen thought back to what Rose had said before he boarded the train, twitching his mouth. "My mom said she'd kill me if I ended up in Slytherin—at least, that's what her lips seemed to say. So Gryffindor's probably the safest bet…"

Speaking of which… the Sorting Hat would probably recognize him, right? A Dementor's soul versus a young wizard's soul was pretty distinct—especially when Cohen looked at his own. It was textbook Dementor.

But Dumbledore must've warned it. Otherwise, the Hat would probably yell "Azkaban!" instead of a normal House during the Sorting.

"Your mom?!" Harry exclaimed. "Your mom's a wizard too?!"

"My dad is too, actually," Cohen said casually. "But they kept it from me until I got my Hogwarts letter—since I'm adopted, they thought I was a Muggle kid."

"If only I'd been adopted by Mr. Norton too…" Harry sighed.

Talk about a gap between lives. Cohen got to grow up spoiled by his adoptive parents, while Harry spent his childhood in a cupboard.

The heavy topic didn't last long, though. The two in front of Cohen quickly shifted to other subjects.

Ron and Harry bounced from Houses to Charlie in Romania, then from Gringotts' vaults to Quidditch, showing off the full breadth of their knowledge.

Of course, there was a tiny hiccup along the way.

"Is it true?" Draco Malfoy asked, standing in the compartment doorway. "The whole train's buzzing—people say Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, huh?"

"Yeah," Harry said, clearly not a fan of this guy.

Ron let out a small snicker, which promptly earned him a pointed critique from Malfoy.

After a few rounds of "I, Draco Malfoy, noble pureblood, want to be your friend, so say yes already" and "Sorry, I, Harry Potter, love saying no to smug jerks," it escalated.

"Want to fight?" Malfoy sneered.

"Not unless you leave right now," Harry shot back, standing up with more bravado than confidence.

When Malfoy's goon, Goyle, reached his chubby hand toward Cohen's snack pile, Cohen had had enough.

"Go, Earl!" Cohen flung open the birdcage.

Chaos erupted. Earl spread his massive wings—big enough to smack three kids' faces at once—and charged. Malfoy and his cronies screamed as the owl barreled toward them, tripping over each other in a frantic scramble to escape.

Earl even managed to drop a few "gifts" on their heads.

Harry and Ron burst into laughter.

"Run, or I'll claw your little eyeballs out!" Earl growled menacingly.

The moment Earl spoke, the air went dead silent.

Even Harry and Ron, who'd been laughing, froze in their seats.

Malfoy and his crew were the first to snap out of it, shrieking as they bolted—who'd want to lose their eyes to a talking owl?

Earl strutted back to his cage, throwing a smug glance at Harry's owl, Hedwig.

"An owl… can… can… can talk?" Harry gaped.

"Something's off…" Ron said, suddenly wary. "Even in the wizarding world, talking owls are rare. Cohen—my dad says if you can't see where its brain's hiding, never trust anything that thinks for itself—"

"Want me to rip off my feathers so you can peek through my earhole and see where my damn brilliant brain is?!" Earl snapped furiously at Ron's theory.

"Owls do have brains, Ron," Cohen said, rubbing his forehead. "And there's a magical bond between owls and wizards. He's just…"

Cohen paused, trying to figure out how to define Earl.

"Maybe he's some kind of hybrid with another magical creature."

"You're the damn hybrid! Your whole family's a bunch of—!"

Earl bounced around in his cage, fuming, which actually reassured Harry and Ron a bit.

At least he wasn't attacking them in his tantrum.

As the train neared Hogwarts, Harry and Ron changed into their school robes.

The Scottish Highlands were a lot chillier than London, and many young wizards sneezed the moment they stepped off the train, caught off guard by the sudden cold.

Cohen didn't feel much himself—he only minded heat, not cold.

Following Hagrid across the Black Lake by boat, Cohen caught sight of a massive creature beneath the water's surface.

[*Soul Strength: 50*]

Bushgamon? Are you some kind of boss?

Even Voldemort's soul fragments only had a strength of 40!

Clearly, there was something mysterious about Hogwarts' giant squid.

But it definitely wasn't something Cohen could investigate right now. The squid was so big he couldn't swallow it in one bite.

By comparison, Hagrid's soul strength of 30 seemed much more normal—probably due to his half-giant heritage. It surpassed most ordinary wizards.

First-year students had soul strengths of just 7 or 8, adult wizards ranged between 15 and 40, and those ridiculously powerful ones…

Cohen got his answer soon enough.

Professor McGonagall.

[*Soul Strength: 50*]

As expected, the gap between some people was bigger than the gap between humans and pigs. That was the calm confidence of an older Hogwarts professor, effortlessly shattering the soul strength ceiling Cohen had observed among the second- and third-rate wizards in Diagon Alley.

After Professor McGonagall explained the Sorting and the House Cup, it wasn't long before the group of young wizards was led into the Great Hall.

While waiting, Ron gave Harry and Cohen an exaggerated description of "what Fred told him about the Sorting Ceremony," making Harry think he'd have to wrestle a troll—even though Harry had no idea what a troll was.

"Don't stick your wand up a troll's nose, trust me, you'll thank me later," Cohen kindly warned Harry.

Finally, the Sorting Ceremony began.

At the far end of the hall, Professor McGonagall placed a four-legged stool down and set a pointed wizard hat on top of it.

The hat was tattered, patched up, and filthy.

Then, under everyone's gaze, it twitched, splitting open into a mouth-like seam.

And it began to sing:

[*You might not think I'm pretty,* 

*But don't judge me by my looks,* 

*If you can find a hat finer than me,* 

*I'll eat myself, no kidding, folks.* 

*…* 

*…* 

*…* 

*Put me on! Don't be afraid!* 

*No need to panic or fuss!* 

*In my hands (though I've got none),* 

*You're safe, no need to discuss.* 

*For I'm a thinking Sorting Hat!*]

When the hat finished its song, the hall erupted in applause.

It bowed to each of the four tables in turn before sitting still on the stool.

Harry and Ron visibly relaxed.

Cohen relaxed too.

The professors in the hall didn't have soul strengths that spiked into terrifying territory—most ranged between 45 and 50. Tiny Professor Flitwick edged out McGonagall by a single point. Dumbledore, of course, was an exception.

That guy was like the old nerd who scores 99 on a 100-point test—his soul strength was a blinding 99.

Those numbers are getting out of hand! It didn't even feel human anymore!

Good thing Dumbledore wasn't a Dementor. Soul strength just represented how tough he'd be for Cohen to handle.

"Wait, why would I even need to handle Dumbledore? Shouldn't I just pick the right side and safely farm experience points?" Cohen smacked his forehead, confused by his own thoughts.

By now, though, he felt he'd figured out the pattern of wizards' soul strengths.

Ordinary wizards fell between 15 and 40. Some exceptional ones went above 40, but the cap probably didn't exceed 60.

Dumbledore was an outlier among outliers. Who knows what he'd done—either way, the old man topped the charts with a terrifying 99.

But no matter how high your soul strength, it couldn't stop a Killing Curse. In the original story, Dumbledore still fell to Snape's "Avada Kedavra."

"When I call your name, put on the hat, sit on the stool, and wait for your Sorting," Professor McGonagall announced.

"Hannah Abbott!"

A rosy-cheeked girl with blonde pigtails stepped forward.

Too bad Cohen wasn't into foreign kids this age—or rather, he felt like he wasn't into humans as a species at all.

But he kept convincing himself it was just because he was still young.

Surely he wouldn't end up marrying a gorgeous Dementor later, right?

"Hufflepuff!"

There we go—solid Hannah landed in her loyal Hufflepuff.

"Susan Bones!"

"Hufflepuff!"

"Terry Boot!"

"Ravenclaw!"

…

Cohen waited boredly for the alphabet to reach "N."

He was after Neville and Malfoy.

Once Neville was sorted into Gryffindor and Malfoy into Slytherin, it was finally…

"Cohen Norton!"

Cohen felt Harry was more excited than he was—Harry was practically shaking like a leaf.

Cohen sat obediently on the stool, and Professor McGonagall placed the very reluctant Sorting Hat on his head.

…

…

…

The hall was dead silent.

The Sorting Hat didn't speak. Neither did Cohen.

There wasn't a sound in his head or near his ears.

"Is this some kind of freeze-tag game?"

The Sorting Hat's motionless, playing-dead act left Cohen utterly baffled.

Hadn't Dumbledore given it a heads-up?

Was it trying to remember how to spell "Azkaban"?

This standoff with a first-year wizard was getting awkward, Hat Uncle.

Cohen decided to break the silence, whispering a little reminder to the hat.

"You're not broken, are you? I'm really good at patching up souls—want to give it a try? Zero bad reviews, I promise."

(*End of Chapter*)