What? Since when did Rose and Edward say he couldn't take flying lessons?
Cohen didn't recall this morning's letter from home mentioning anything about skipping flying lessons.
It must be some trick from that old man in Nantong. As a kid, you've got to protect yourself—especially around old, white-bearded guys…
And this white-bearded guy was even the head of the school…
Cohen followed a senior named Smith into the castle, up the stairs to the eighth floor, stopping in front of a gargoyle statue.
Along the way, Cohen kept trying to bond with the senior—but Smith seemed shy, giving vague answers to most of Cohen's questions.
"Senior, do you have a girlfriend?"
"Senior, why are you hanging out with Professor Dumbledore?"
"Senior, do you like them older or younger?"
"Senior, I'll let you in on a secret—Professor Dumbledore's single right now—"
"Lemon Sherbet…" Smith, his face darkening, muttered the password to the amused gargoyle. His fists were clenched tight.
"Liking ice cream isn't a bad choice…" Cohen analyzed seriously.
"It's cool and refreshing, good for calming down. I think it's at least better than an attack helicopter or a Walmart shopping bag—mmph!"
Smith clamped a hand over Cohen's mouth and shoved the chattering first-year onto the spiral staircase behind the gargoyle.
Cohen wiped his mouth. That senior had nearly gone too far—Cohen almost sucked out Smith's soul in one gulp.
At the door to the headmaster's office, Cohen paused. The spell Quirrell had cast on him was still active; he could feel it.
Cohen also knew there was no such thing as a "Delayed Avada Kedavra," but "Cohen" didn't have to know that. It gave him a perfect excuse to cause trouble under Quirrell's name.
Who'd blame a wretched, death-threatened, freshly enrolled little Dementor?
*Knock, knock, knock—*
Dumbledore's aged voice sounded steady, as if he were seated behind his desk.
Cohen eased the door open, peeking inside first—though he'd already seen the place once before in soul form.
On the circular office's walls, portraits of former headmasters snored away—but Cohen caught a few of them sneaking a peek through slitted eyes.
Was he *that* scary? These paintings didn't even have souls for him to suck out…
"Cohen, come, take a seat."
Dumbledore magically pulled a chair over, smiling kindly at him.
"Okay, Professor Dumbledore." Cohen shuffled over and plopped down.
He noticed the fiery red bird nearby—Fawkes, the phoenix.
Darn it, other people's birds were big and gorgeous!
Why was his bird so creepy and perverted?
[*Maybe the bird takes after its owner.*]
Cohen swore he could hear Earl's voice haunting his ears.
"Phoenixes are indeed fascinating and wondrous creatures, Cohen," Dumbledore said, introducing the bird. "I have a copy of *A Detailed Guide to Extant Mythical Creatures*. If you'd like, I can lend it to you—unlike the library, you can keep it for a while. I recall the last student who borrowed a book from me took over twenty years to return it because his bookshelf needed space for a set of Gilderoy Lockhart's bestsellers…"
Caught up in the moment, Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his long beard.
"Oh, almost forgot—would you like some tea?"
The tea set on Dumbledore's desk hopped over to Cohen.
"Milk? Or pumpkin juice?"
"I'd like milk tea—" Cohen thought for a moment, craving something sweet. "You know, that mix of milk and tea. It's really popular in the Muggle world."
"Oh, of course." Dumbledore beamed at Cohen's fondness for Muggle drinks. "I enjoy it too. It's a shame other wizards can't set aside their prejudices against Muggles to appreciate the simple joys in life."
The teapot poured a full cup of light brown milk tea, a blend of black tea and fresh milk.
A stack of sugar cubes appeared on the table too—Cohen dumped in quite a few.
Kindred spirits often clicked over shared tastes—Dumbledore's diet was heavy on sugar too, so the more he looked at Cohen, the more he saw a good kid.
But some necessary education still had to happen.
"Let's get to the point, Cohen," Dumbledore said, clapping his hands after Cohen took a big sip of milk tea. "First, about flying lessons. I need to clarify something. Your mother, Rose, wrote to me requesting an exemption for you."
Cohen's surprise this time wasn't fake.
Why the sudden ban on flying lessons? Had Rose found out he could turn into a flying Dementor, so she figured he didn't need them?
"Rose mentioned in her letter that you're a bit afraid of heights. Hogwarts doesn't force students to do things they can't handle," Dumbledore explained. "Whether you take flying lessons is up to you. Maybe in a mother's eyes, a child is always just a child…"
Dumbledore winked at Cohen over the rims of his half-moon glasses.
So Rose just thought tiny Cohen was scared of heights and worried he'd fall off a broomstick…
Wait a second—Dumbledore had said all this just to talk about skipping flying lessons?!
"And one more thing—I heard you visited Professor Quirrell twice this week. Are you struggling with Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes seemed to X-ray Cohen—
But Cohen blocked it all.
A little Legilimency? Cohen was immune!
"Uh?" Cohen lowered his head, feigning fear. "Professor Quirrell asked me to come… he… he…"
"What did he say to you?" Dumbledore asked gently.
"Um… I… he gave me a book, *The Theory of Degenerative Transfiguration*…" Cohen replied. "Then the second time, I went to return it…"
"Cohen, don't be afraid," Dumbledore soothed. "At Hogwarts, nothing will harm you."
"But I have to ask, Cohen, is there anything you'd like to tell me?" Dumbledore said warmly. "Anything at all."
Cohen tried trembling—but overdid it. The teacup slipped from his hands and shattered on the floor.
"No, Professor." Cohen used the spilled tea to trace a word on the table.
"Alright, Cohen. Maybe you should head outside and enjoy the afternoon sun with your classmates." Dumbledore waved his wand, and the office door swung open.
"Okay, Professor Dumbledore. Thanks for the milk tea."
"He's lying!" Phineas Black's portrait barked after Cohen left.
"I know, Phineas," Dumbledore said calmly, walking around the desk to where Cohen had sat. "But he's just a child. Fear and anxiety can lead him to make poor judgments…"
With the spilled tea, Cohen had smeared out a single word.
"It seems Tom has taken an interest in Cohen," Dumbledore murmured to himself.
"He's placed a tracking spell on Cohen—perhaps he tricked Cohen into thinking it'd harm him if he spilled any secrets…"
"Aren't you going to explain that to the kid?" Phineas Black snorted through his nose. "What if he really sides with that Dark Lord—"
"Cohen's a good kid," Dumbledore said, shaking his head. "He won't truly align with Quirrell. For an eleven-year-old, leaving that word here despite the 'threat to his life' shows courage beyond death."
"Are you moving your plan up—?" Phineas asked.
"Sometimes, too much protection keeps someone cradled in comfort. Only a storm can make a tree grow stronger."