The Patronus Charm was a bit too advanced for a Dementor—even though Cohen was trying hard to recall happy memories, the silvery mist he conjured wouldn't form any shape at all.
The mist didn't vanish either. It just lingered near the floor like regular fog.
Was this how the Patronus Charm worked? To Cohen, it felt more like… the thick fog other Dementors whipped up during an attack.
Except Cohen's fog was brimming with "happiness." He could clearly see the emotion sinking and drifting through the air.
He chalked this failure up to his constitution. His spell and emotions were spot on—there was no way he'd messed up the casting.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cohen caught Dumbledore's soul outline. The old man had been sitting on a table, but when Cohen cast the spell, he'd shifted his butt and stood up—only to sit back down now.
Looked like Cohen's botched Patronus Charm didn't surprise Dumbledore. Still, the fact that Cohen could produce *some* silver mist meant he wasn't totally steeped in dark magic.
Dark magic thrived on extreme malice—wizards drowning in it couldn't summon even a wisp of a Patronus.
"Cough—" Harry choked on the drifting mist and scrambled up from the floor. "Where'd this smoke come from?"
"Just testing a spell. Guess I flunked it," Cohen said. "I read about the Patronus Charm in a book last time. You use happy memories to summon a solid Patronus. I saw some cozy stuff in the mirror earlier, so I figured I'd try it with that memory."
Normally, Patronus mist shouldn't choke anyone, but Harry didn't know that.
"Must be pretty advanced…" Harry stared at the magical fog blanketing the floor like a forest haze, then something clicked. "This—"
"Sorry, Harry, I'm such an idiot—I made a mess of the room," Cohen said, scratching his head. "Why don't you head back to the mirror? I'll clear out the fog—"
Harry couldn't shake the feeling that Cohen's words just now were off somehow.
Then Cohen pointed his wand at the floor, and the mist from his spell sucked back into the tip.
An aged cough echoed through the room.
Dumbledore wouldn't choke on Cohen's mist.
So Cohen figured the old man was just tired and ready for bed, faking a spooky cough to scare him and Harry into scurrying off to sleep.
"What was that!?" Harry whispered sharply, immediately scanning the floor for his dropped Invisibility Cloak.
If Filch caught them, Gryffindor's house points would plummet into the negatives—they were down to just over eighty.
"Not Filch, is it?" Cohen frowned, feigning surprise. He'd already spotted Dumbledore heading for the door like some cool guy who never looks back at explosions.
"Quick!" Harry shook out the Invisibility Cloak like a bedsheet, urgently waving Cohen over. "If Filch catches us, we're toast!"
They hustled back the way they came under the cloak. Cohen noticed Harry's lips moving slightly, memorizing the route—poor kid was already planning to come back tomorrow night.
Just seeing his parents was a luxury for Harry, even if it was only their misty reflections in a mirror.
They ran into Filch on the way, but he couldn't see through the cloak. He just trailed Mrs. Norris (his cat), sniffing around their lingering scent.
Back in the common room, Harry and Cohen slipped into their beds amid Ron's snores.
Harry didn't sleep. His mind was still on that mirror.
Cohen didn't sleep either.
He'd lied earlier. He hadn't seen some happy family scene in the mirror.
What he saw were flashes of different scenes, like chopped-up movie clips speeding across the surface.
Cohen saw himself slurping down all of Voldemort's souls, the Ministry littered with corpses, dark creatures gnawing on the dead, and even his own evil Dementor empire…
Anyone else would've thought it was a horror flick.
Was he really some naturally evil bad seed? He'd never felt that way before!
But there was also a scene of him standing with his adoptive parents—proof his heart wasn't all doom and gloom.
And sure, those "deepest desires" looked bloody and brutal, but they weren't all bad.
Killing Voldemort? Definitely a good thing.
Taking out the corrupt, thuggish bureaucrats in the Ministry? Also good.
The Dementor empire might be the only part that clashed with society's norms—but to Cohen, that wasn't a downside.
Thinking it over, it all made sense…
Cohen stretched with satisfaction and rolled over to sleep.
Evil? Please. He was a savior. The actual Chosen One in the next bed was still playing tadpole-looking-for-mommy, while Cohen was already blueprinting a bright future.
The next morning, Cohen dragged himself up, bleary-eyed. Harry was nowhere in sight—probably hadn't slept a wink.
He'd drop dead at this rate, right?
But Cohen didn't have time to tag along with Harry to the mirror today. He needed to figure out the Patronus Charm mess and skim through the books he'd swiped from the Borgin manor basement.
Last night's Patronus attempt was a total flop, but casting it gave Cohen a hunch—the spell *could* work, just… not the right way.
It was hard to explain. Like juggling multiple character classes in a game, but only the mage could cast a fireball—so trying it as a warrior popped up an error message…
The empty common room showed no sign of Harry, but Cohen spotted the Earl outside the window.
Opening it, the Earl swooped in, shaking fine snow off its feathers and scattering cold crystals all over the carpet.
Good thing house-elves cleaned the common room. If it were Filch, he'd probably yell, "I'll skin you alive!" at the Earl and slap Cohen with detention.
"He's a few steps away but makes me deliver a letter like he's got no legs! If it weren't for that noseless stink-face glued to the back of his head, I'd claw every hair off his scalp!"
The Earl huffed, tossing a letter at Cohen.
It was from Quirrell.
It asked Cohen to swing by his office before lunch.
No reason given—probably worried Dumbledore might intercept it.
Was it time to kick off the Philosopher's Stone heist?
Cohen's hands were itching already—