The creepy dude led Cohen out of the Great Hall.
The creepy dude took Cohen up two flights of stairs.
The creepy dude brought Cohen into an office on the third floor.
The creepy dude left Cohen and went over to the bookshelf.
The creepy dude started undressing—
Cohen blinked a few times.
"No, don't like it, Mr. Norton…?"
Quirrell's fidgety little hands rubbed together into a fist near his throat, awkwardly waiting for Cohen's response.
If this were some white-haired, red-eyed 2D loli, Cohen might've felt a bit more at ease…
Cohen stared at the copy of *Metamorphic Theory* on the table, along with a stack of *Transfiguration Today* magazines from the past few days.
Where was the evil plan to overthrow Hogwarts?
The order to assassinate Harry Potter?
The map to steal the Philosopher's Stone?
At the very least, how about some dark magic indoctrination?
This was like finally scoring a date, getting into the room, and instead of handing your girlfriend a Durex, you shove a Kevin Durant basketball poster in her face!
What, were they supposed to discuss which baller had the slickest steals?
"Oh, I like it. I *love* it," Cohen said dryly.
"Haha, g-good, glad you like it," Quirrell stammered, letting out a nervous, twitchy laugh.
Then, claiming it was too late, Quirrell hustled Cohen out of the office—even though it wasn't yet past the curfew for wandering the castle.
"M-Mr. Norton… th-this book, d-don't, uh, open it in front of your friends," Quirrell stuttered. "I'm w-worried they'll, uh, g-get jealous."
Looks like Voldemort, shattered into crispy crumbs, wasn't *that* much of a clueless straight guy. He was playing a game of cat and mouse—this book he'd given Cohen definitely wasn't legit.
"Don't worry, I'll keep it under wraps."
And then… Cohen plopped down in the common room and cracked open *Metamorphic Theory* right then and there.
Aside from Hermione and Percy, no Gryffindor would care about a book—not even if it was titled *The Secret Affairs of the Pink Marsh Witch and the Minister of Magic*.
Hermione was probably holed up in an empty classroom studying, and Percy was likely patrolling somewhere. The only familiar faces in the common room were Harry and company.
The fire crackled warmly in the hearth. Cohen cozied up in an armchair near it—if this book was cursed, he could chuck it straight into the flames.
"Cohen, what book did Professor Quirrell give you?" Ron asked, leaning over from his chess game with Harry. But the moment he saw the dense wall of text inside, he recoiled like the words were soul-sucking demons.
"*Metamorphic Theory*. He's clearly got the wrong idea about me," Cohen replied, flipping through the pages.
Quirrell didn't seem to have hexed the book with anything shady—Cohen felt fine so far.
But he also hadn't slipped the real *Metamorphic Theory* under this cover.
It was a dark magic tome, packed with sinister spells like necromancy and Fiendfyre.
And Cohen finally got why dark magic was so despised in the wizarding world—the entry bar was practically nonexistent. Even a dimwit like Crabbe who couldn't read could cast these. Their power scaled with magical input and the intensity of negative emotions.
In other words, it was a pile of deadly guns any kid could use, and every wizard had ammo.
Great power paired with extreme negativity could warp a person's mind, turning them step-by-step into a heartless monster—
So, naturally, Cohen dove right into memorizing the spells.
Warp his mind? That had nothing to do with Cohen—he wasn't even human! What dark force could out-evil a Dementor?
Saved a ton of Sin Points he'd have spent buying spells from the shop. Thanks for the rocket boost, Professor Quirrell.
But the book wasn't complete—it cut off right in the middle of a spell called the "Soul-Expelling Charm," leaving the casting method and effects dangling.
No kidding, why imitate web novels with a cliffhanger?
Cohen snapped the book shut and stuffed it back into his bag.
Quirrell's intent was obvious—he was playing the long game.
Let Cohen get hooked on these dark spells, then hit him with a cliffhanger. When Cohen, itching like a cat, came begging for the rest, Quirrell would know if he had the makings of a dark magic soldier…
Quirrell—or rather, Voldemort—might've sensed some evil vibe or soul in Cohen, but they clearly hadn't considered one thing—
Cohen's body wasn't housing some confused kid's soul that'd easily fall to dark magic's allure or start chanting "Heil Voldemort" and taking on the whole wizarding world just because he got a dark magic starter kit.
By around ten o'clock, the little witches and wizards in the common room started yawning. Hermione climbed through the portrait hole, arms loaded with library books. Harry and Ron wrapped up their final chess match.
Back in the dorm, Cohen curled up under the covers.
Tonight, he didn't sneak out in soul form to snoop. He was stressing over his soul integrity stalling at 15%.
Maybe after hitting 15%, those puny Ashwinder souls couldn't help him anymore—made sense. You couldn't piece together a full person from just fragile little animal souls.
Looked like Cohen needed to hunt for some stronger, group-living souls to grind levels.
Or stir up trouble in the castle—nothing too crazy, just Weasley-twin-level pranks, as long as he didn't cross Dumbledore's line. Earn some Sin Points, buy soul fragments.
The latter was less efficient but safer—1,000 points for 1%.
If he did both at once, Cohen leaned toward grinding in the Forbidden Forest first. Once he ran out of animal souls to boost him, he'd splurge his saved-up Sin Points for a big jump.
Drifting off to sleep, Cohen had a dream.
A weird one. He was inside a smooth, round bottle, surrounded by the shrieking of souls and a fog so thick he could barely see anything else.
He gorged on the souls until their screams faded, the bottle shattered, and he woke up.
The dream warped and faded fast upon waking, leaving only a few vague impressions.
Like his origin story—the dark magic lab that created "Cohen." Should he find a chance to check it out?
"Cohen, hurry up! I'm definitely eating breakfast today!" Harry called, urging him along. He and Ron were up extra early—probably because McGonagall had chewed them out yesterday.
No McGonagall class this morning, though.
Tuesday's first period was Quirrell's Defense Against the Dark Arts.