Cohen never said who he was loyal to—loyalty to himself counts as loyalty, right?
After passing through Flitwick's trap, they stepped into an even bigger room. It had been pitch black at first, but the moment they entered, it lit up like a Christmas tree.
The entrance led to a giant black-and-white chessboard, flanked by towering, faceless chess pieces that looked like they belonged to giants.
Professor McGonagall's handiwork—checkmate was the only way to the next stage.
But these transfigured pieces, infused with magical pseudo-souls like the teacup bird McGonagall once gave Cohen, were fair game for him to "eat."
**[Soul Strength: 5]**
"I've studied chess—" Quirrell took a deep breath, "I can win this."
"You're not seriously going to *play* it, are you?" Cohen asked, barely holding back a laugh. "Where's your villain energy?"
Cohen strode straight onto the board.
"McGonagall's magic is—"
Quirrell tried to stop him, but what happened next sent a chill down his spine.
The moment Cohen, the rule-breaking intruder, stepped onto the board, the chess pieces drew their weapons in unison and swung at him. But as they got within two meters, wisps of translucent, ghostly essence peeled off them and flowed into Cohen's body.
What the heck was he doing?!
Weren't these just Transfiguration creations? Why did it feel like Cohen was sucking out their souls?
"What… what kind of magic is this?" Quirrell gulped.
"Keep up… hurry…" Voldemort's voice rasped from the back of Quirrell's head. "Stop babbling…"
Quirrell scrambled to follow—but he kept his distance now.
If this kid looked like a Dementor *and* acted like one…
Maybe he really *was* a Dementor.
Ever since he'd started serving Voldemort, Quirrell couldn't cast a Patronus anymore. He'd tried once, but the spell had nearly gotten him eaten by black maggots it summoned instead.
If a human-conscious Dementor that didn't feed on happiness but craved souls decided to turn on him, how was he supposed to fight back?
The next challenge was Quirrell's troll—a pregnant one, which made it extra cranky.
Quirrell had hoped to prove himself to Voldemort here—but Cohen beat him to it again.
The troll, its soul siphoned away, now wandered aimlessly like a zombie, no longer a threat to anyone.
For the first time, Quirrell felt real fear—worse than anything he'd felt facing Voldemort.
Voldemort might torture or kill him.
If Quirrell groveled enough, he could maybe linger as a ghost.
But if Cohen got ticked off and took him out… it seemed like even becoming a ghost wouldn't be an option.
How did Dumbledore let this *thing* into Hogwarts?!
Quirrell's legs shook as he kept a solid four-meter gap between him and Cohen.
He'd originally thought someone had run some dangerous magical experiment on Cohen, giving him weirdly powerful traits—like a Dark Lord's magical mutation or something.
Now, it seemed the Burke family's experiments had dipped into way more forbidden territory… How did they fuse a Dementor with a human?!
Quirrell already thought the Dementor theory was wild, but the Dark Lord stuck to the back of his head was practically radiating desire.
To Voldemort, Cohen was a treasure—a useful, darkness-craving treasure.
"Why are you lagging so far behind?"
Cohen turned, noticing Quirrell had fallen way back, and called out impatiently.
"Hurry up! Once we grab the Stone, you've got to help me stage that fake murder scene. If we drag this out, Dumbledore's going to show up."
Quirrell awkwardly trailed behind—following a first-year kid as a grown wizard felt… way too bizarre.
The next challenge was Snape's potion puzzle.
As they entered the room, magical flames flared up at both exits: black fire blocked the way forward, purple fire sealed the way back.
In the center sat a long table with seven oddly shaped bottles and a scrap of parchment.
Seven bottles: three poisons, two nettle wines, one to pass through the black flames, and one to retreat through the purple flames.
Cohen had half a mind to figure it out…
"Nah, can't read it, not bothering."
He realized they didn't need to play the riddle game.
Shifting back into Dementor mode, Cohen stopped holding back the bone-chilling aura that came with his true form. Normal fire couldn't hurt a non-physical being like that—especially since it wasn't conjured by a Patronus.
Bundling a shivering Quirrell along, they crossed through the flames and reached the final treasure room.
The Mirror of Erised stood alone in the middle of the empty space—the Philosopher's Stone was hidden inside.
This whole setup was like a gauntlet game. Sure, the professors' magic wasn't something a typical wizard could brute-force, but if Voldemort himself showed up, these obstacles wouldn't stop him for a second.
Even without Cohen, Quirrell wouldn't have gotten stuck—Voldemort would've barked solutions if he got desperate.
This felt more like a trial designed for Harry and his crew.
Cohen casually asked:
"Last time, I saw my Dementor empire in there. Is the Stone hidden inside it?"
"P-probably…" Quirrell muttered, feeling utterly useless. To Voldemort, he was just a meat puppet holding a soul.
Cohen had stolen all his thunder!
And he didn't even dare badmouth the kid—Cohen could just as easily off him too.
They stepped up to the mirror.
"Let me see…" Voldemort's voice slithered from the back of Quirrell's head.
Quirrell obediently unwrapped his turban.
That noseless face pressed close to the mirror.
"I see the Stone… Take it…"
Voldemort stared hungrily at something in the reflection, but he couldn't grab it. So he turned to Cohen:
"Cohen… can you get it…?"
"Move over, let me check again."
Cohen shoved Quirrell aside and took his place in front of the mirror, brushing his hand across its surface to stir up an image.
This time, the reflection shifted a bit.
"It's my Dementor empire again, but now I'm holding the Stone," Cohen said. "Ugh, should I just smash this thing?"
"Don't rush…" Voldemort hissed. "There's a way… I can feel it…"
He wasn't wrong—the Boy Who Lived burst through the flames and into the room right after he finished speaking.
Harry froze, stunned by the scene in front of him.