Hagrid didn't even hesitate when Cohen asked him to look after Norbert. He jumped at the chance, swearing up and down he'd take great care of the dragon—he'd spent the whole summer plotting out a big food supply for him.
"I'm gonna raise a bunch of Knarls for Norbert," Hagrid said. "They breed fast, and they're not hard to keep. Only thing to watch out for is not mixing 'em with real pigs—they'll spark a plague in the herd…"
"As long as the sheep and unicorns are fine, I don't care," Cohen said. "Just build a sturdy pen so they don't run wild everywhere."
Cohen had read about Knarls in *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them*. They looked like stunted little pigs—long legs, stubby tails, squinty eyes. Ugly as sin. He didn't want them anywhere near his place.
Besides Norbert, there was also Ally to sort out.
"The unicorns in the forest really want Ally back with the herd…" Hagrid said, scratching his head. "But me and the centaurs don't think it's a good idea."
"It's not," Cohen agreed. "And Hagrid, whatever you do, *don't* give her alcohol. She's got some withdrawal stuff going on—lying, playing dead, acting cute, threatening people. This is make-or-break. She *can't* keep drinking. One day her blood's gonna be pure high-proof liquor—the kind that explodes with a single spark."
Cohen wasn't sure if Hagrid would take that warning to heart, but whatever—if Ally blew up, that was on her. He had bigger fish to fry.
Like figuring out where Voldemort was hiding in this massive school.
In his free time, Cohen started poking around the castle's shadowy corners. All he had to do was follow the soul-strength tags—Voldemort's 40+10 combo stood out like a sore thumb in a school full of students.
But no dice. By the time Herbology rolled around that afternoon, he hadn't found a trace.
The school was too big, and the crowd of students didn't help—their random soul tags were cluttering up his vision.
"Cohen, Cohen, can the Earl *really* write homework?"
Ron pounced on him the second he showed up, practically bouncing as they headed to the Herbology greenhouse.
"Can we borrow him? Then we could—"
"Ron! You can't just mooch off Cohen's owl to slack off!" Hermione cut in. "If you don't do your own homework, you and Harry won't touch a textbook all year—I *know* you two…"
"But Cohen gets the Earl to do his," Ron shot back.
"Cohen still reads and practices magic on his own—you don't," Hermione said, sounding like a worried mom. "Do you really want another Howler from Mrs. Weasley at the end of the year?"
"Five Sickles?" Cohen offered, dangling the bait.
Ron's eyes lit up—he was *tempted*.
But the deal fell apart. Ron realized if he flunked his finals, his mom's Howlers would blast him three or four times a day. He'd go deaf.
Herbology class was in the greenhouse near the Black Lake, down at the castle's lower edge.
Professor Sprout had just come back from the Whomping Willow, trailed by the blonde buffoon, Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Oh, hello there!" Lockhart beamed at the students. "I was just showing Professor Sprout how to treat a Whomping Willow's wounds! Not that I'd want you thinking I'm better at Herbology than she is! I've just happened to encounter a few of these plants on my travels…"
"Third greenhouse today!" Sprout snapped, her usual cheery vibe replaced with a scowl.
Lockhart had officially ticked off the first professor he'd dealt with since starting the job.
Sprout pulled a hefty ring of keys from her belt and unlocked the third greenhouse.
That one housed the more dangerous, interesting plants—always locked to keep students from sneaking in and getting hurt.
Lockhart, shameless as ever, asked Sprout if he could borrow Harry for a quick chat.
"What's he want with Harry?" Ron asked, confused.
"They're both famous—probably passing on some tips," Cohen said, then put on a mock-serious tone: "'Little Harry, flying a car to school will get you on the *Daily Prophet* front page, sure—but fame's tricky waters, kid, and you can't handle it. Leave that to me!'"
"Hahahaha!" Ron snickered under his breath.
Hermione nudged them—either she didn't want them ganging up on Lockhart, or Sprout was glancing their way.
"Today, we're repotting Mandrakes," Sprout said, standing behind a table in the middle of the greenhouse. "Now, who can tell me about their properties?"
About twenty pairs of colorful earmuffs were stacked on the table. Harry slipped back in just then, looking like he'd finally escaped Lockhart's clutches.
Hermione's hand shot up, no surprise there.
"Mandrakes, or Mandragora, are powerful restoratives," she recited like a textbook. "They're used to return transfigured or cursed people to their original state."
Like folks petrified by a Basilisk, Cohen thought.
If he had Basilisk blood in him, why hadn't he inherited the death-stare trick?
Maybe it was venom instead? He'd never tried biting anything alive—no venom glands or snake fangs to speak of, though.
Plus, venom was already covered by the nightmare side of his lineage. Nightmare blood was nastier than regular snake venom—snake bites gave you time for phoenix tears, but liquid curses? Fawkes would need to binge a dozen sob stories to cry fast enough to save you in ten seconds.
While Cohen's mind wandered, a familiar soul-strength tag popped up.
**[Soul Strength: 40]**
Outside the greenhouse?
Cohen's eyes lit up, locking onto the tag beyond the glass walls.
No other souls out there…
"Norton, Miss Granger's already answered," Sprout said, thinking Cohen's raised hand was for the question.
"No, Professor, my stomach's killing me," Cohen said, clutching his gut and hamming it up.
The ultimate ditch-class move: *"Teacher, I need the bathroom."* No sane teacher would risk calling your bluff and dealing with a mid-class mess.
Under everyone's stares, Cohen hunched over and shuffled out of the greenhouse.
Time to see what bright idea King Voldemort had cooked up now.