"You don't have to take this whole thing so seriously…" Cohen said. "Even if I don't bring him back, he'll figure out a way to resurrect himself. You think he made all those Horcruxes for eternal life just because he's bored and wants to float around as a ghost forever?"
"Really?" the Earl asked, sounding skeptical. "So your endgame's actually to take him out?"
"Nope," Cohen said without missing a beat. "I just want to mess with him a little. You didn't seriously think I'd use my own blood to build him a body, did you? Those liquid curses would wreck him."
"This time, I'm just dangling a big juicy carrot in front of him. I'm a Dementor, dude—have you ever heard of a Dementor keeping its word?"
Cohen said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"But the resurrection plan's real. I'm gonna spice up his new body a bit—make him a little more… cooperative."
Two more years. By then, Cohen figured he could bump his soul strength up to fifty. Once Voldemort came back, he'd definitely turn on him—and that's when Cohen would have two options.
Option one: take out Voldemort's main soul right then and there. No more headaches, plus a nice boost to his goodwill points. Downside? He'd be on his own, scrapping his way through the wizarding world from scratch.
Option two: control Voldemort through both soul *and* body, ride his influence to stir up some chaos—rack up a ton of sin points and goodwill points, clean out the shop, then off Voldemort and snag the Minister of Magic gig for himself.
Second option sounded way better, no contest.
"When he was around, even the owls had it rough," the Earl pointed out. "We'd deliver letters holding our breath, scared some psycho dark wizard might blast one of us out of the sky with a curse just for carrying mail—"
"You've got nothing to worry about," Cohen teased. "Just whip out your wand and duel 'em."
Right now, his focus was on the steaming basilisk blood in the flask. Looked like he'd managed to separate out the magical essence completely.
With a flick of his wand, Cohen guided the magic into two little clear vials, slapping labels on them: *Old Basilisk* and *Sisqo*. Next up was the trickiest part—
Splitting apart the chaotic mix of different magics inside and pinpointing the differences between the two blood samples.
It was like untangling a giant mess of colored yarn, pulling out each strand by color and laying them out neat and tidy.
By the time Cohen had sorted all the different magical strains into their own tiny bottles, it was nearly dinnertime.
Work could wait 'til tomorrow!
Skipping the feast at this point would look weird anyway. Voldemort had already fessed up, so Cohen wasn't getting framed this time.
Next up on the "frame game" chopping block? Harry!
"Harry's arm still not fixed?"
At the dinner table, Cohen tossed the question at a glum Hermione and Ron.
"Nope," Ron grumbled, fuming. "All Lockhart's fault. Harry's arm was just broken at first—then Lockhart hits him with some 'healing spell,' and poof, every bone in his arm's gone!"
"What kind of spell even is that…" Cohen scratched his chin. "Sounds like it's got some serious kick—imagine if you aimed it at…"
Wait, no bones there.
"He's just a show-off with a head full of hot air!"
Hermione's opinion of Lockhart was tanking fast. Ever since Cohen mentioned Lockhart dragging him along to deal with Filch's cat, her fangirl goggles had shattered.
"Madam Pomfrey could've fixed the bones in a second, but now Harry's stuck in the hospital wing all night!"
"And we still don't have a clue who Slytherin's Heir really is…" Ron channeled his rage into his appetite, chomping down chicken legs one after another, cheeks puffed out as he mumbled.
"Could actually be Lockhart," Hermione mused suspiciously. "Maybe all this bumbling idiot act is just a front so no one suspects him."
"Could be," Cohen agreed. "He doesn't exactly scream 'chill guy.'"
Over at the feast, Lockhart was yapping away about his theories on the Chamber—like how some student probably opened it and unleashed a rare eyeball monster that could petrify anything.
"He knows big-eyeball freaks are a Muggle fantasy, right?"
Cohen flashed back to that game cartridge Edward got him, with the underground eyeball monster that killed him four times in a row. He'd nearly stormed into the box himself to squash the ugly thing out of spite—
"He's half-blood," Seamus piped up, sliding over. "Like me—his dad's a Muggle too."
The convo spread to the other Gryffindors.
"No way a Slytherin heir would marry a Muggle, right?" Dean Thomas reasoned. "I heard they're all pure-blood nutjobs…"
A short Gryffindor first-year eagerly scooted closer to Cohen's group.
"You guys are Harry Potter's friends, right?"
Cohen recognized him—Colin Creevey. Camera nut, Harry stan, and if he remembered right, one of the basilisk's victims in the original story…
"Yeah, what's up?" Ron nodded.
"I—I want to get him some get-well gifts—" Colin said, practically breathless. "So, uh—what does he like?"
"No need to make it a big deal. Just hand us the stuff, and we'll pass it to Harry," Cohen said, reaching out.
"Some snacks'll do," Hermione added, smacking Cohen's hand down with an exasperated grown-up vibe. She shot him a stern look. "Can you act your age, Cohen…"
Acting your age kills the youthful vibe.
Cohen didn't buy Hermione's take. Twelve's the prime time to be a dumbass—gotta lean into it, annoy people while you're young, 'cause life's got plenty of chances to get annoyed later.
Drop the manners, embrace the chaos.
Colin didn't hand over the gifts. Probably didn't trust Cohen to actually deliver them to Harry.
Kid won't listen, huh…
Cohen shook his head.
After dinner, Sisqo showed up with fresh news.
Sisqo's voice came from inside the Room of Requirement's wall.
"How'd you even find the Room of Requirement?!"
Cohen was genuinely thrown off by Sisqo popping up here—
"You're here, aren't you?" Sisqo mumbled, confused. "I sensed you…"
"Weird—I thought the Room made its own separate space—guess it's just some kinda extension charm setup…" Cohen tapped the wall Sisqo was in. "Anyway, doesn't matter. Who're they targeting next?"
Voldemort really took Cohen's words to heart, huh? Said the attacks couldn't be too frequent—today and tomorrow were off-limits—and now he's suddenly flipped the script and greenlit one anyway.
"Some little Gryffindor kid—name's, uh, Cough-Cough-Wee or something…"
"Creevey, you mean…" Cohen rubbed his forehead. "Can you get a name right for once?"
"Think it's on the second floor…" Sisqo added.
"Hospital wing, got it," Cohen said. "Nice work. When?"
"When the school clock hits ten…"