The house-elf Dobby quickly covered its eyes, but a second later, it realized it was still alive. Furthermore, the terrifying creature before it—radiating a dark, ominous aura—had just said something Dobby could understand.
Dobby let out a high-pitched squeak of surprise.
Were there Dementors that ate fried chicken and fries?
"Sir, you're not here to eat Dobby, are you?" Dobby asked nervously, peeking through the gaps in its fingers at Cohen.
This monster didn't have a pitch-black cloak, nor did it try to devoured Dobby's soul in one gulp…
"Have you ever seen a monster that eats house-elves start off by saying, 'Get me some fried chicken and fries'?" Cohen said, struggling to keep a straight face. "The moment I walked in, you all started screaming and running away on your own."
"Sorry, sir, we were so scared!" Dobby said, its voice trembling. "The other day, a ghost said there was a soul-eating Dementor in the school! So everyone's been terrified… We're bad elves—bad elves—"
As it spoke, Dobby instinctively began looking around for something to punish itself with.
It spotted a red-hot frying pan—
"Stop!" Cohen interrupted immediately.
There was only one house-elf left here. If it burned its hands or something, Cohen's dinner would be ruined.
The command worked far better than persuasion. Dobby instantly froze, halting the motion of slamming the frying pan into its own forehead, and stared at Cohen with its huge, bulbous eyes, looking like it might cry.
"Just get me some food, and I'll declare you the best house-elf at Hogwarts," Cohen promised.
That verbal praise was like a lit fuse. With a series of pops and bangs, the other house-elves who'd fled reappeared one after another.
"Sir! Pippin will make you fried chicken!"
"Sorry, sir! Your fries!"
"Sir, sir! Kobe's got lots of freshly fried drumsticks!"
Why was there a house-elf named Kobe?!
Cohen wasn't sure how he escaped the kitchen. In less than a minute, he was surrounded by towering piles of food—teetering stacks that kept being shoved toward him. He nearly got buried under a landslide of fried chicken and fries.
If they weren't house-elves, Cohen might've suspected someone was trying to stuff him to death. "Death by overeating" would certainly be a novel research topic for Dementors—at least no one had tried it yet.
Back in the common room, Cohen immediately spotted Harry, Hermione, and Ron huddled together, discussing something in hushed tones.
"Cohen! Where were you during dinner?" Harry asked curiously, noticing Cohen's return.
"Hermione even brought you some food—" Ron pointed to a big bag of food on the table. "Oh, and Hagrid said that black unicorn outside his hut was something you gave him. Just how many interesting things have you found in the Forbidden Forest? Take us with you next time!"
"The Forbidden Forest is dangerous!" Hermione warned Ron with clear disapproval. "I don't think we should—"
"Cursing Snape was dangerous too," Ron said, pretending to reminisce.
"That's different. That was to save Harry," Hermione retorted. "Cohen went to the Forbidden Forest with a professor. Professor Quirrell didn't show up to the feast either, right, Cohen?"
Ignoring the facts, Hermione's reasoning made sense.
"Uh, yeah," Cohen agreed, going along with it. He sat at the table and quietly used his system inventory to swap the cold food in the bag for freshly made fried chicken.
"That unicorn was something I found by the lake. It kept following me, so I left it with Hagrid," Cohen said, digging into his belated dinner. "It's back with the unicorn herd now."
It might even lead the whole herd to Hagrid's to demand butterbeer.
Cohen kept that part to himself. As long as Hagrid didn't go bankrupt buying booze, it'd be fine—the newly hatched dragon needed to be fed chicken blood brandy every half hour anyway. Hogsmeade's pubs were about to become Hagrid's bulk supply depot.
But if Hagrid sold off just a bit of his "estate," none of this would be a problem. After all, his hut was basically Hogwarts' largest stockpile of rare magical creature materials.
While Cohen wolfed down his food, the trio pulled him into their discussion about Hagrid raising a dragon. ("Hagrid could go to jail for this…" Hermione said worriedly.)
"Cohen, were you serious when you said there's a place to raise a dragon?" Harry asked, recalling Cohen mentioning it at Hagrid's hut.
"Of course it's real," Cohen replied, patting his full stomach contentedly after finishing his meal at lightning speed. "And I've already figured out the food situation."
Judging by the house-elves' stellar work ethic at Hogwarts, feeding ten dragons wouldn't even be an issue.
Cohen didn't plan to raise the dragon at his secret base. The Room of Requirement could probably transform into a dragon-breeding ground if needed.
He'd noticed that the Room only stayed in its "Cohen's Base" form when he, Earl, or Alexia were inside. Otherwise, it shifted into something else.
Cohen had tested it with plenty of other magical creatures—Puffskeins, fire salamanders, even a reluctant Acromantula.
None of them had the same effect as Earl or Alexia.
He figured the Room could only detect human—or human-like—intentions. Dragons, being more instinct-driven beasts, probably didn't count.
So Cohen could raise the dragon in a "dragon-breeding ground" version of the Room. That way, Hagrid, Harry, and the others could visit it while keeping his secret base private.
But he had no intention of exposing his base—especially with all those dark magic books inside. Way too suspicious.
The only issue might be whether Norbert would behave. If the dragon couldn't be tamed, Cohen planned to have Ron write to the Weasleys' dragon-researching brother, Charlie, in Romania.
"But we should have a backup plan. If it doesn't behave, we'll need to send it away," Cohen said conservatively. "Or…" He made a throat-slitting gesture.
"Hagrid would be heartbroken…" Harry guessed.
"Your first reaction isn't that it's too cruel?" Hermione frowned. "It's still—"
"Wait—hold on, I've got an idea!" Ron's eyes lit up. "I can write to my brother Charlie! He's studying dragons in Romania. He'd definitely help."
Ron's backup plan was solid, but at Cohen's request, they didn't write to Charlie right away.
A backup plan was just that—something to fall back on only if things went wrong.
Two relaxed days of school passed in a blur. On Thursday at noon, Hagrid sent a short note—its edges singed from the fire.
[*It's about to hatch.*]