After breakfast, Harry left the table with Wood and the others, while Hermione and Ron headed back to the common room—Gryffindor students were busy preparing banners and cheering props for the Quidditch match.
Cohen, meanwhile, was called to Quirrell's office.
"The Dark Lord has a plan…"
Quirrell shut the office door tight and cast a soundproofing charm before whispering to Cohen:
"We're going to team up to kill Harry Potter."
"Thank heavens, you've finally come to your senses," Cohen said, feigning relief. "So, how do we do it? There are tons of teachers and students watching today."
"Once he's on his broom, we'll both curse it—make it look like an accident with a flying broom. He'll fall to his death."
"Fair point. It's his first match—rookie mistakes are normal," Cohen nodded.
"Hold on," Cohen interrupted. He wasn't about to let Voldemort use him as a lackey so easily. "I've already put a lot of time and effort into helping you guys…"
Quirrell looked at Cohen, confused. He'd assumed Cohen would jump at the chance—after all, the gleam in Cohen's eyes when he killed small animals in the office was practically more Voldemort than Voldemort himself.
Cohen held out an open hand toward Quirrell.
Quirrell, puzzled, thought Cohen wanted a high-five or handshake and placed his hand on Cohen's.
"What are you doing?!"
Cohen shook off Quirrell's hand in disgust.
"I want payment—helping you comes with exposure risks. I've paid my tuition, after all. What if the other teachers catch me murdering a classmate? Who's covering my losses…?"
"It's just a small thing…"
Quirrell didn't quite get Cohen's weird logic, but it wasn't a big deal.
The Dark Lord's goals were worth far more than a few Galleons. This kid's ambitions were still too petty.
With a sigh, Quirrell pulled out three Galleons and placed them in Cohen's hand.
"Harry's my dearest friend, my brother… we even sleep together every night…"
Cohen sighed dramatically.
Three Galleons? Who was he kidding?
Hogwarts professors made at least 150 Galleons a month!
Quirrell couldn't believe his ears.
"Add more," Cohen pressed.
In the end, after extorting 180 Galleons from Quirrell, Cohen agreed to the plan to take out Harry.
Truth be told, the plan was doomed to fail. With so many teachers on the field, even if Harry fell, he wouldn't get seriously hurt.
Cohen suspected Voldemort's order was just to blow off steam—Harry had, after all, pulled a sneaky move at level one, countering him with a reflective shield and getting him killed.
"Did you memorize the spell?" Quirrell asked, still uneasy.
Cohen demonstrated on Quirrell's turban—the magically fastened scarf unraveled instantly, revealing the back of his head where Voldemort, startled by the sudden cold air, sneezed.
"If you don't believe me, I can show you again—"
Quirrell quickly stopped him, scrambling to rewind the turban before Voldemort lost his temper.
The sudden exposure of his bald head made Quirrell shiver too.
No wonder bald people wore hats in winter…
Cohen gave Quirrell's shiny scalp a pitying look—
And then Quirrell kicked him out.
Clutching a heavy coin pouch, Cohen returned to the Gryffinimmmdor common room with satisfaction.
The Gryffindor students were in full swing preparing for the match. Their supplies included, but weren't limited to: a banner made from a bedsheet soiled by Peter Pettigrew (Cohen suspected it was from a nightmare-induced bedwetting—gross), painted with "Potter Must Win"; a pile of red-and-gold "cheer sticks"; and some kind of cylindrical amplifying device (not every wizard knew the Amplifying Charm).
"Cohen! Check out Hermione's spell!" Ron waved the banner excitedly at Cohen. "The paint's moving!"
"No need to wave it—I can see it," Cohen dodged quickly. He had zero interest in touching a bedsheet stained with who-knows-what by a creepy, middle-aged rat man.
"Now Harry'll definitely see it—what's that in your hand?" Ron said, buzzing with energy, before noticing the coin pouch.
"Pocket money from working for a professor. All those weekends slaving away at Quirrell's weren't for nothing," Cohen shrugged. "When's the Quidditch match? Should we grab good seats?"
"Top tier's best—wider view," Cohen added.
Of course, it was really so he could keep an eye on Harry. Though he'd taken Quirrell's money, Cohen had no intention of actually helping.
With Snape, Quirrell, and Cohen all casting spells on Harry's broom, Quirrell wouldn't be able to tell what Cohen was up to anyway.
At Cohen's suggestion, the Gryffindors decided to head to the Quidditch pitch at 10:15 sharp to beat the Slytherins to the top seats—as if their seating choices could sway the game.
When they reached the circular stadium, a scattering of students had already arrived. The weather was nice, and everyone was curious about Harry, the first first-year in a century to join the Quidditch team as a Seeker.
"Hagrid? You're here early too?" Cohen spotted Hagrid already seated in the top row, looking a bit nervous.
"Of course—it's Harry's first match!" Hagrid rubbed his beetle-black eyes, his nose making a sniffing sound. "Just like his dad… ugh—want to sit here with me and watch?"
Besides Cohen, Ron, and Hermione, no other young witches or wizards dared sit next to Hagrid's massive frame.
It wasn't that Hagrid was scary—his wild gestures just made it easy to get elbowed if you sat too close.
Almost simultaneously, Cohen and Hermione pulled books from their bags within five seconds of sitting down.
"Wait—you two—it's Saturday!" Ron stared in disbelief at the two beside him, reading even at a Quidditch match.
"Waiting for the game to start is boring," Cohen said reasonably. "You know, we only get seven years at Hogwarts. Minus holidays, that's just 266 weeks left—time's running out."
Hermione hummed in agreement beside him.
"That sounds like something my distant cousin said after catching dragon pox. He's always moaning about not having much time left," Ron said, his mouth twitching. "We've got centuries until graduation—"
"Six and a half years," Hermione corrected without looking up from her book. "Not centuries, Ron. You need to take your studies more seriously."
Cohen didn't comment.
The 266-week excuse was just a cover—he didn't actually want to be a tryhard right now.
But he needed to cram the counter-spell for the "Disruption Charm" Quirrell had taught him. If Harry actually fell because of Cohen's involvement, he'd at least need to fake participation in front of Quirrell.