The basilisk burst out of the wall!
It had its back to Lockhart and Cohen!
The basilisk locked eyes with Mrs. Norris!
Mrs. Norris was about to die—
Wait, no, she didn't.
Cohen watched the whole thing unfold. The basilisk popped out in a slightly off spot, so it didn't quite manage to make direct eye contact with Mrs. Norris.
They were close to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, so the floor was perpetually damp. The second the basilisk emerged, Mrs. Norris—just by pure dumb luck—looked down. Not exactly normal for a cat, but in a magical world? Totally plausible.
She caught the basilisk's eyes through the reflection in a puddle.
A moment later, her body started stiffening up fast. Within a second, she was basically a statue. Since she'd turned to stone, the basilisk's glare couldn't do any more damage.
"So… that's the attack done, right?" Lockhart muttered, trying to convince himself. As long as Voldemort was satisfied, maybe he wouldn't have to do anything too horrible. He didn't want to be a murderer—especially not in Dumbledore's school.
"Hiss—hiss hiss… (Alright… next time we strike, head back for now…)"
Lockhart hissed out the third phrase Voldemort had taught him, slamming his eyes shut as the basilisk turned its head.
Cohen shut his eyes too. He wasn't sure if the basilisk's stare would work on him, but he wasn't about to risk it. If he turned to stone now, twenty minutes later, his whole identity would be at Lockhart's mercy.
Once he heard the basilisk slither back into the wall, Cohen peeked open one eye, shifting his view.
Lockhart finally started moving too, though he still wasn't sure if the snake was really gone.
The target was just a cat, and it didn't even die—so, mission accomplished, right? That's how Lockhart saw it. A cat getting hit was a prank; a person getting hit would've been murder.
While most people were still chowing down in the Great Hall, Lockhart hurriedly grabbed some paint and scrawled a message on the wall next to Mrs. Norris:
**[The Chamber of Secrets has been opened]**
**[Beware, enemies of the Heir]**
"Seriously? Is he playing dumb or just *that* dumb?" Cohen thought, baffled, after Lockhart scurried off.
What kind of criminal leaves their own name at the crime scene?
This wasn't just a smear—it was an insult to Cohen's intelligence!
The more he thought about it, the madder he got.
Lockhart wanted to humiliate him? Fine—two could play that game!
Without wasting a second, Cohen waved his wand, vanishing his own name with a Disappearing Charm and replacing it with another:
**[The Chamber of Secrets has been opened]**
**[Beware, enemies of the Heir]**
Villain infighting is always this simple and petty. It's not about taking each other out—it's about screwing with each other. No one would seriously believe the culprit would write their own name, but rumors still sting. That's all Cohen wanted, and he figured Voldemort's goal was probably the same.
By the time Cohen got back to the Great Hall, students were just starting to filter out. He slipped in beside Harry and Ron under an invisibility spell, popping back into view once it wore off.
"Cohen?!" Harry yelped. "When'd you get back? Weren't you off to see Professor Lockhart?"
"Lockhart wanted to mess with Filch's cat," Cohen said casually. "He asked if I'd join him, but I figured one person doing it was enough, so I didn't tag along. Filch only has one cat, after all."
Smooth as silk—Hogwarts' resident troublemaker knew how to keep his hands clean.
"Mess with Filch's cat?" Ron said, shocked. "Lockhart's got it in him to be *that* nice?"
"Probably 'cause that cat scratched up one of his portraits or something," Cohen nudged the story along. "No clue why he'd ask me, though—I don't wanna be on Filch's radar."
"Maybe it's 'cause you made a name for yourself last year," Hermione chimed in. She wasn't as starry-eyed about Lockhart anymore—not after that class where wild pixies nearly bit Neville's ear off and the professor bolted first, leaving them to deal with it. "You're the only first-year to snag a Special Award for Services to the School."
"Yeah, and it didn't even come with a cash prize…" Cohen grumbled, digging up old grudges. "My life's worth one lousy trophy I can't even take home! I'll never forget Dumbledore owes me a thousand Galleons…"
They followed the crowd upstairs, heading right past the corridor where Mrs. Norris was.
A Ravenclaw girl at the front of the pack screamed—red writing blazed on the wall, and Mrs. Norris looked like a stiff, frozen corpse.
"Move aside, please!"
Lockhart and the other professors heard the scream and eagerly pushed forward with the group. His office was just downstairs, but he'd tagged along anyway—obviously hoping to bask in his handiwork and watch Cohen get fingered as the "culprit."
His smug grin froze the second he spotted Cohen in the crowd.
Cohen gave him a little wave and a sweet, innocent smile.
Lockhart's face went from smug to horrified—color draining fast.
Cohen hadn't shown up early like the letter said. No… wait. The students should've seen the wall by now—why was Cohen so calm after seeing his own name? Happy, even?
*Did he figure it out?!*
Lockhart shoved past the gawking students in a panic, elbowing his way to the front.
Where "Cohen" should've been, the wall now read "Lockhart" in bold letters.
"Professor? Did… you do this?" the Ravenclaw girl who'd screamed first asked hesitantly.
"Of course not!" Lockhart snapped, but his face was as pale as marble—like *he'd* been the one stared down by the basilisk instead of Mrs. Norris.
"What's going on? What happened? Out of the way!"
Filch huffed and puffed his way through the chaotic crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris.
He stumbled, barely keeping his balance, clawing at his face in panic.
"My cat! My cat!" Filch let out an unholy screech. "What happened to Mrs. Norris?!"
His wild eyes darted around for clues—then landed on the wall, and that fancy, cursive signature.
"Lockhart…" he mumbled under his breath, lips trembling.
He turned stiffly, glaring at Lockhart, who'd already shrunk back into the crowd.
Filch wanted to explode—but Lockhart was a proper professor, and he was just a Squib. What could he do? Stab the guy?
All his confusion and rage poured out through his eyes. Filch looked like he was about to cry.