He did run away—and man, he bolted fast.
"Is the Philosopher's Stone still with you?" Voldemort asked.
He figured the question was pointless—Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel had surely taken it by now.
"Yeah, it is," Cohen said. "Nicolas Flamel gave it to me."
Voldemort stared at Cohen, completely baffled.
Was this even English?
Nicolas Flamel handed over the Philosopher's Stone—the thing he used to stay alive—to some shady dark magic experiment who'd been tailing the Dark Lord and stealing stuff at school? What kind of dream was this?
"Gave it to you?" Voldemort's voice was a mix of shock and greed.
"Because you bailed!" Cohen snapped, clearly annoyed. "Was I supposed to let the stone I worked so hard to get fall into their hands? No way! So I grabbed it and refined it on the spot—"
"So the stone's…" Voldemort's mood was sinking fast. Today was turning into an emotional rollercoaster.
"Gone. I ate it up," Cohen said, sounding pretty ticked off. "But it didn't do much for me. I can't die anyway."
"Didn't Nicolas Flamel try to melt you down or something?" Voldemort asked.
He knew his way around magic—alchemy included. How could a master alchemist like Flamel let a dark hybrid like Cohen, who'd just scarfed down his precious stone, walk away?
"That's what I told you before—learn to play nice," Cohen said, like he was schooling a newbie. "In my position, everyone wants me on their side. If I hadn't set up that little loophole last year where you and Quirrell could 'kill' me, they wouldn't have let the stone go so easily. When you're still growing, you've got to keep your edge hidden…"
Who's the Dark Lord here?!
Voldemort's head was spinning watching Cohen act like some wise mentor—well, if he had a head, it'd be spinning.
That last bit especially—why did it sound like something that old geezer would say?
"Look, this way we've got one in the light, one in the shadows. No matter what, we come out on top," Cohen went on. "But your little war-criminal escape act caused me a ton of headaches. Now I've got to figure out how to pull the stone's magic out of my blood and whip you up a body…"
You could tell Voldemort was genuinely touched by Cohen's wholehearted dedication to reviving him—so touched he couldn't even speak.
"But that's all down the road. Flamel's inheritance won't come through till the year after next," Cohen said, shaking his head. "If you want a body made from my blood, you're looking at over a year's wait."
"A year's nothing. I've waited eleven already—what's one more?" Voldemort's eyes gleamed with unhidden longing at the idea of a body infused with Cohen's blood. "But… you really want to bring me back that bad?"
Cohen had him doubting himself now. Unreal.
Time to lay on some extra brainwashing, Cohen figured.
"Of course! Your name carries weight," Cohen said, like it was obvious. "Think about it—what kind of chaos could we stir up in the wizarding world? A Dark Lord who terrorized Britain for years, teamed up with an immortal Dementor? The whole world's ours for the taking. I want to free my Dementor buddies—over the summer, I tracked down Azkaban like you said. Checked in on my kind. They're living way too rough. I can't stand it."
"If it was just me, some no-name Dementor with zero clout, I couldn't pull this off," Cohen continued. "But with you, Mr. Voldemort? That's a game-changer. You show your face again, and all my plans fall into place. In a chaotic era, shaking up the old guard's rule is easy. Once you're back, the wizarding world's going to freak out. They'll be desperate for a ruler who can make them feel safe…"
Cohen was right—and Voldemort wasn't against it. They each got something out of it. That's what set him apart from the sanctimonious, hypocritical Ministry in Cohen's eyes.
As for after his revival… Voldemort had his own plans.
Wizards draw power from blood and soul. With a body mixed with Cohen's blood, how could Dumbledore stop his comeback?
And then there was Cohen—this loyal little monster who couldn't even be taken out by a Killing Curse. Dumbledore, that old fool, still thought Cohen was on their side. Hilarious!
Just picturing Dumbledore's face when he returned had Voldemort practically giddy in his soul—
"So, back to business. Who're we killing today?" Cohen asked. "I say we go for a kid of some big-shot wizard—like a Ministry official's brat. That'll speed up Dumbledore's downfall. No one's gonna want their kid at a school where people drop dead. Too bad the current Minister's barren and can't have kids, or else…"
"You're rushing things…" Voldemort cut in quick.
"Too fast, and Dumbledore'll catch on…"
"Tomorrow then?" Cohen tilted his head. "It's the weekend. We could take out a whole dorm…"
Do you just love killing that much?!
Voldemort wanted to yell it at him, but he held back. Asking that might push Cohen to do something even crazier.
"Since Dumbledore trusts you… you can't get your hands dirty this time," Voldemort said low.
Dumbledore ought to thank him—otherwise, this little Dementor would wipe out the future of wizardkind.
"I'll keep using the Malfoy kid for the dirty work. You just make sure Harry Potter ends up in the Chamber after Dumbledore's booted from the school…"
"Easy. I'll drag Harry there myself," Cohen said. "I've already got him wrapped around my finger—he listens to me like crazy. Kids are the easiest to handle, you know? Especially since I'm a kid too right now."
Voldemort made his excuses—though he didn't prove much innocence—and took off. At least things were on track.
"Go for it, man. Whatever you do, it's normal for you…"
Back in the Room of Requirement, the Earl gave Cohen's "Voldemort collab plan" the most half-assed review possible.
Then, casually, the Earl tossed out a question.
"You're not actually gonna bring him back, right?"
"Why're you so quiet?"
The Earl, lounging in its nest, perked up nervously. Even a bird could tell something was off. "Say something! You're freaking me out—don't tell me you're seriously planning to revive that guy… right?"