"Maybe you're just hungry," Nico suggested. "You said before the other Dementors always sensed hunger in you, even when you didn't feel it yourself. Maybe… they see more in you than you see in yourself."
"Hungry? That simple?" Cohen muttered. "Well, that's easy to fix..."
His gaze drifted toward the pile of carefully organized emotion canisters stacked in the study's trunk.
They were spoils from that summer after capturing the Chimera—silver-key property confiscated from a wizard who'd been studying how to extract emotions. The guy had amassed a massive collection of sealed emotional samples. Cohen took them all.
He popped open a canister labeled "Happiness" and took a sip.
A warm, full sensation surged through him—sweet, comforting... Wait—comforting?
Cohen blinked. He could actually feel the effects of the emotion.
No wonder the negative ones tasted awful. Eating emotions must literally let Dementors experience those feelings.
That's why happiness was sweet.
So he really was just hungry, and that's what had triggered the violent urges?
The logic tracked. If he were truly losing his humanity, he wouldn't feel something as human as frustration—he'd go straight for the kill, but that would be stupid and counterproductive to his goals right now.
Realizing that eating happiness could suppress those murderous impulses made Cohen relax. It was a manageable issue.
Better to eat joy than souls.
Plus, once Nico finished developing his bottled "humanity" serum, Cohen could manufacture both emotions and humanity on his own. No more worrying about emotional withdrawal.
Only problem? Most of the canisters were negative emotions—rage, fear, sorrow. There were only a few labeled "Happiness."
"How do you feel?" Nico asked with concern.
"Looks like he's feelin' real good," the Earl chimed in. "He's got that 'I-just-ate-ten-field-mice' kinda smugness."
"You couldn't stomach ten field mice if your life depended on it," Cohen replied flatly. "But yeah… I feel better. As long as there's a fix, it's under control."
A light tapping at the window caught Cohen's attention.
It was Mick, floating outside, tapping rhythmically on the glass with his long, bony fingers, asking to come in.
Cohen opened the window.
[What is it?] he asked as Mick floated inside.
The Dementor didn't say a word. It drifted close, then pulled from its robe a glowing, intricately woven ball of vibrant emotion—something only Cohen could see.
It looked like happiness, but denser, richer in color—more stable, more whole. Like a tightly wound ball of yarn, pulsing with warmth.
[Take it… eat it…] Mick projected a hopeful feeling.
Cohen had always known Mick wasn't interested in feeding on human joy. The little guy could even generate happiness himself. But Cohen had never thought of turning him into a personal joy factory.
[You should keep it,] Cohen said. He glanced at the sealed emotion jars in the box. [I've got plenty. You don't have to give me yours.]
Who knew—maybe this was the very source of Mick's joy. If Cohen took it, what would Mick be left with?
[...] Mick floated in a little circle, clearly downcast, but still didn't take the gift back. [I can make more… for you…]
He nudged the glowing ball toward Cohen again, then mimed a twisting motion—like he was spinning yarn.
[Wait… you made this? Out of nothing?] Cohen examined Mick again. Sure enough, there was no residual happiness in his aura except for the ball.
It looked like the little guy had scooped out the wellspring of his own joy.
When Cohen finally understood what Mick meant, the Dementor spun joyfully in the air—and Cohen saw it.
More happiness was already sprouting beneath Mick's cloak.
He could generate it. Just like that.
Before Cohen could say anything, Mick shoved the ball into his mouth.
Cohen gulped it down.
Mick spun with delight, clearly overjoyed that his gift had been accepted.
"I must be losing my mind," the Earl muttered. "I just watched a Dementor do aerial somersaults. My life's been weird ever since I started following you."
"What happened?" Nico asked. As a portrait, he couldn't see the Dementor. "I just see Cohen talking to thin air."
"His pet Dementor just fed him," the Earl said dryly. "Weirdly touching, if you ignore the species. Kinda soft for something that's supposed to be soul-sucking evil."
"You got something against Dementors?" Cohen asked after swallowing Mick's gift. "You freaky, sun-starved peacock who got outsmarted by a blond brat?"
"Why don't you go back to being your old self?" the Earl shot back. "You were better off as a heartless little soul-thief."
With Mick's joy-bomb giving him a serious boost, Cohen felt more himself than he had in days—even bantering with the Earl was kind of fun now.
"Cut the crap. You're just enjoying bullying me. That's not humanity, that's sadism!"
The Earl lost his cool when Cohen suggested he start sparring with Norbert to build experience—and maybe even step in for the First Task to help him create the legendary tale of a cat-owl defeating a dragon.
"I wouldn't even make a decent toothpick for a dragon!" the Earl snapped.
"Dragon taming's all about finesse," Cohen lectured. "The best trainers don't use brute force. It's all about gentle petting and shamelessly dirty food bribes—"
"I DON'T EVEN HAVE HANDS!"
The Earl roared. "And you want me to dangle meat in front of a dragon's face? Do you have any idea how much I look like a flying, fluffy entrée to that thing?!"
"That's a shame," Cohen sighed. "You could've become famous. But now I have to take the spotlight myself."
"What are you planning?" the Earl asked warily.
"There's a Daily Prophet reporter—Rita Skeeter—coming in a few days to interview the champions," Cohen said.
"Oh, I know her. Writes flashy gossip columns all the time," the Earl sneered. "Your dad used to tear her articles apart whenever they showed up."
"Let's hope she hasn't changed," Cohen said. "I just want the fame—so when I finally kill Voldemort in front of everyone, no one's going to say, 'Wait, who's Cohen Norton?'"
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