"Mr. Voldemort, do you *have* to turn this into some kind of suspense thriller?"
The Earl muttered in his sleep, "The killing methods have definitely gotten a lot more polished…"
"Shut up and drink your wine," Cohen snapped, clearly annoyed.
Taking advantage of the moment when Lockhart's supposed plan seemed to flop and he headed back to his office, Cohen left his body in the Room of Requirement. His soul detached and floated straight toward the third floor.
Lockhart was already back in his office, and Cohen trailed behind him, keeping watch. Maybe Lockhart had a little mirror with Voldemort's soul attached to it, or perhaps he'd stashed a snake-faced, ugly baby version of Voldemort in a box somewhere.
Cohen lingered there until the school's dismissal bell rang, but Lockhart didn't do anything shady. Sure, his hands were shaky, his face pale as a ghost—like a guy who'd botched a job and was about to get chewed out by the boss—but otherwise, he acted normal. He wrote fan mail replies, picked out a gaudy robe for the feast, and admired his own handsome photos.
Man, what a narcissist.
Lockhart's behavior was definitely off, but Voldemort hadn't shown up yet. Cohen figured they might be plotting something at night—villains always love hashing out their secret plans after dark.
So, Cohen decided he'd come back to snoop later that evening.
After Herbology class ended, it was time for the feast. On the way to the Great Hall, Cohen ran into Harry and the gang.
"He seriously thinks we drove to school just to steal the front page of the *Daily Prophet* from him," Harry grumbled about Lockhart's knack for stirring up trouble over nothing.
"But you *did* end up on the front page because of it," Hermione pointed out, playing devil's advocate. "From an outsider's perspective, it kinda looks that way—" She stopped mid-sentence when she spotted Cohen blending into the crowd. "Cohen! Where've you been? You vanished for a whole class!"
"I had to use the bathroom," Cohen said with a shrug. "Skipping class is basically a rite of passage for every student. But anyway, that's not the point—were you guys just talking about Lockhart?"
"We were talking about why Lockhart's so obsessed with Harry," Ron chimed in. "We think he's got a crush on him, and Hermione's jealous. That's our theory—"
"Ron!" Hermione cut him off, exasperated. "I just think we should give the new professor a little trust!"
"Yeah, 'trust,'" Ron said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'd bet he's all talk and no substance. We'll find out once he teaches his first class."
"Don't be ridiculous, Ron. You've all read his books—think about the incredible things he's done!" Hermione still clung to some unrealistic hope about Lockhart.
"I'm starting to feel like I shouldn't get involved…" Harry muttered, sidling up to Cohen. Cohen had already put some distance between himself and Ron and Hermione's bickering.
"Just watch from the sidelines and dodge the crossfire," Cohen advised. "I bet Ron's about to drag you into a comparison with Lockhart next—"
"Harry could totally teach better than him!" Ron declared. "Fame, skill—Lockhart's got nothing on… Harry…"
"That's absurd!" Hermione stormed off in a huff.
"Are you a Seer or something?!" Harry asked Cohen, wide-eyed.
"Why're you guys standing so far back—did you hear what she just said?" Ron craned his neck, looking for Cohen and Harry. "It's like Lockhart slipped her a love potion! I don't get why girls are so crazy about him…"
"Some guys like him too," Cohen said matter-of-factly, nodding toward a fourth-year student who'd just passed by, clutching a stack of Lockhart posters.
Cohen recognized him—last year, that same kid had taken him to the Headmaster's office, which ended up scoring Cohen a free pass from flying lessons.
"I mean, we *are* in Britain, so I guess it kinda makes sense…" Cohen mused with a nod.
"Merlin's underpants…" Ron's face twisted in disgust.
"Gross" could also describe Lockhart at the feast. He'd decked himself out in a multicolored, feather-covered outfit, looking like a peacock desperate for a mate.
None of the professors at the staff table looked happy about it. Cohen got it—pure embarrassment by association.
He wasn't sure about the other tables, but over at Gryffindor, the boys could barely stomach their food.
"I can't take it," Ron said, dropping his knife and fork.
"I'm full," Harry added, pushing away his plate after one last sausage.
"I'm heading back to sleep," Cohen said. All he wanted now was to figure out what Voldemort was up to.
The three of them left early together. Back at the common room, Cohen made a beeline for the dorms while Harry and Ron decided to hang out and play. Harry had picked up a new set of Gobstones over the summer—the kind that squirt a nasty-smelling liquid in the loser's face.
Cohen flopped onto his bed, letting his soul drift toward Lockhart's office.
"I refuse to believe I can't catch you, you noseless freak," he thought grimly.
After the feast, Lockhart practically skipped back to his office. Cohen watched his every move.
He'd expected to stake out the place for hours, but things moved faster than he'd anticipated.
Lockhart shed his feathered rainbow robe and pulled out Voldemort—literally. He lifted a self-portrait off the wall behind his desk, flipped it over, and set it on the table.
Where the back of the painting should've been blank, a face appeared. Voldemort really had a thing for sticking himself to random objects.
**[Soul Strength: 40+10]**
Quirrell's stolen soul strength was still clinging to Voldemort's soul. Cohen hadn't expected that.
"I didn't see the diadem… You didn't get in…" Voldemort hissed, his voice menacing. "You know what happens when you fail…"
"I did what you told me!" Lockhart pleaded, panic creeping into his voice. "You can't—you wouldn't actually hurt me, would you? I'm a Third-Class Order of Merlin recipient…"
"Who cares about your stupid awards, you useless fraud!" Voldemort spat. "Fooling idiots is one thing—do you think you can fool yourself too? If my plan fails, everything you have—your fame, your fortune, your *life*—it's all gone."
"But if I pull it off—"
"You'll be rewarded…" Voldemort dangled the bait. "Those powers you wrote about in your books, the ones you can't prove—I can teach you…"
"Fine, fine…" Lockhart muttered, convincing himself to keep going. "I ran into that Cohen Norton again today… He's weird. First he skips class, then he's wandering around the eighth-floor corridor. You worked with him before—why can't I tell him you're here this time?"
"Because he's part of the plan…" Voldemort said, his voice low and calculated.
*What the—Voldemort's a Wallfacer now?* Cohen nearly lost it.
Say what you will about Voldemort, the guy was full of ideas. Cohen was dying to hear what he'd cooked up this time.
"Is it because he's taken over that room?" Lockhart asked suspiciously. "How does he even know about the Room of Requirement?"
"He's a talented little monster—way smarter than you," Voldemort said, unfazed. "He's important to me. Since we can't get the diadem, it's time for the next step…"
"We're going to open the Chamber of Secrets. I'll show you how…"
"After the basilisk attacks… write Cohen's name on the wall…"
Cohen's eyes nearly popped out of his head.
*Hold up—what did I ever do to you?*
This was a setup! A blatant frame job! Little Voldy's hands—and mouth—were dirtier than ever.
Sure, Voldemort's plan had that suspense vibe going for it.
But too bad for him—Cohen was one step ahead. Voldemort had no clue he was being eavesdropped on.
If this were just some school-wide "mudblood purge" plan, Cohen might've played along, humored Voldemort a bit for the emotional payoff.
But now that Voldemort was messing with *him* and turning this into some goofy suspense plot?
Cohen wasn't having it. The guy had gone too far down a dead-end road, and Cohen was ready to jump in and stir the pot.
They were both unkillable freaks—bring it on. Time to rip some hair out—
Oh, wait. Voldemort didn't have any.